Chapter 1:
The Big Day
Monday, 6:06 a.m.
Colt Residence
Brantford Township, New Jersey
I killed my mother.
Ian Colt tests the thought. He could do it. He should do it. He would do it.
But not yet.
After all she put him through, she deserves to see the end results of today first. Perhaps she’d do the entire world a favor and take herself out with those pills she loves more than anything.
Forcing himself to get up, Ian rips open a Pop Tart pack and eats the pair together, hardly taking the time to taste them. After brushing his teeth and throwing on some clothes, he straightens the bed and lays out his equipment. Undertakings like this sure involve a lot of stuff.
Look, Mom. See what I can do.
The silent words have a childish ring to them inside his head. He remembers saying them many times during the good days, the pre-Little-Miss-Perfect days. Most parents can deal with having two kids, but not Sandra Marie Colt. She swings from doting mother to raging maniac in a heartbeat. Over the years, Ian has adopted a strict avoidance policy when it comes to his mother. That works most of the time. At least it did before Thad entered the picture and started meddling. He’s usually all buddy-buddy, but Ian knows better. Thad doesn’t really care. He just needs a pet project to feel better about his sorry, fat, middle-aged self.
Twin surges of purpose and excitement course through Ian. He’s never felt more alive. More than two years of planning and preparation would pay off today. He’s probably bussed a thousand tables to earn the cash to build his arsenal. Maybe Thad’s endless ramblings about life goals and aspirations sank in after all.
That’s where his heroes went wrong.
Write nothing. Say nothing.
He can’t remember exactly when the fascination with school shooters started. Middle school, probably. Miss Danbury had asked them to write an essay about somebody they admired. Ian chose Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold of Columbine fame. That had earned a trip to the principal’s office, two lunch detentions, and a glorious freak-out from his mother.
Since then, he’s thought a lot but written very little and typed even less. He’s printed a few maps of the high school and marked out several routes, sketching stuff in the margins and on the back, but he plans to burn and flush the papers before beginning. Let them wonder about the reasons. He doesn’t plan on being around this lousy world long enough to care what they think of him.
That’s a lie.
He cares.
He cares very deeply.
They will remember him. That’s the point. He’s about to join a long history of school shooters, but he’s going to do it better. When the thought first entered his head, Ian had considered journaling about the experience, but he decided not to waste time with childish boasts and private rants. Instead, he’s become a model citizen. He is still a mediocre student, but somebody the case managers mention among their triumphs.
He doesn’t need bombs to make a lasting impression, just guns. Lots of guns. Guns are beautiful weapons. A bit loud and brash, but sleek and elegant too. They can be cold and calculating, but they are also perfectly neutral. They don’t judge like people do. They simply point in one direction and destroy upon command.
An AR-15 is lovingly packed into a lacrosse bag. A separate, identical bag gets stuffed into the first lacrosse bag. This bag will be used to transport the secret weapon to his gym locker. Several loaded handguns get stored in various pockets among his three backpacks. Spare magazines, power bars, and water bottles find their way into every conceivable crevasse.
Ian considers taking some videos of today to email his mother and Thad, but he resists, as he has so many times before. He also doesn’t have the time. He needs to get to school on time so they don’t call his mother. It wouldn’t be a big deal, but she’d call him to yell and he doesn’t need that kind of aggravation this morning.
He has a hit list, but only in his head. So many people deserve to die. He could start early and off Little Miss Perfect before she even wakes up, but that wouldn’t make the same sort of statement. Ian needs to look into her eyes the moment he pulls the trigger. She must see it’s him. That will turn her world upside down for whatever scant seconds she has left.
The Trio: Malcolm Jones, Curtis Ryman, and Max Kessler.
Those jerks have haunted Ian since elementary school. But in a way, he owes them. By excluding him, they prevented him from becoming a meaningless high school nobody. They have earned low spots on his hit list because they are hardly worth the bullets it will take to put them down. The bullets Ian intends to use—223 Remington 50 grain jacketed hollow points—might only cost about $0.50 a round, but that adds up quick.
So many questions still need answers. Ian wonders if he should be worried that he hasn’t settled on one of the plans yet. That makes the day more exciting, but also nerve-wracking. He enjoys knowing exactly what to do and when to do it. The endgame is fuzzier though because it depends on too many outside factors.
How quickly will the cops be called?
He has a plan to delay the inevitable, but nothing is perfect. His prized possession will only buy him time.
Ski mask or no ski mask?
Wearing the ski mask would improve the odds of him getting away. The cops will probably still figure out it was him, but he can be two states away in a matter of hours if he drives north. On the other hand, a ski mask might rob people of their last glimpse of him. They might die not knowing who saved them from their pathetic lives of mediocrity. That would be sad.
Kill myself? Let the cops do it? Or should I surrender?
Ian isn’t sure on the suicide part. How can he fully appreciate his actions if he’s dead? The entire world will soon know his name. That’s some heady stuff. But the idea of surrendering goes against everything he’s trying to accomplish. Maybe if he has the right hostages, he can get away. That would be ideal. Then he could watch the world burn from a safe distance.
What does he want to be remembered as?
Some lame-brain psychiatrist might profile him as depressed or maybe narcissistic, just because he doesn’t need their degrees to know he is better than them. They’d try to find a million excuses for what could send a young man to such “desperate measures.” They’d look so deep that they forget the obvious.
The fun. The challenge.
Human nature translates to competition in every endeavor. In an absence of true strife, humans find new causes to fight for. Ian considers writing an essay on the subject. That would really give the psych people something to drool over. He deserves a medal for bringing excitement to their tiny town. He’s going to put them all on the map.
Once everything is packed, Ian stares at the bags, knowing they will be heavy. He can leave them there or take one bag in today and the other two tomorrow, but he dismisses that idea immediately. He refuses to back down. He should have left more of the clothes at school, but he didn’t think about that until now. If the administration conducts a random locker search or does a drill with the local police department, they might accidentally stumble upon his stashes of weapons. He can’t take that risk.
Now or never.
Letting himself out of his room, he sneaks down to the kitchen and empties his mom’s secret “vacation” fund, the one he isn’t supposed to know about. She will blame Thad. Ian only regrets missing that blowout. Just holding a thousand dollars in cash makes him feel invincible. He’s surprised to find that much there. His mom goes through cycles where she “borrows” from the fund to fuel her pill addiction then puts it back when she gets paid. Ian doesn’t know how she holds down a job.
Maybe she’s just a good actress.
He shakes his head to rid his mind of thoughts of her.
This is his day.
A noise from upstairs makes him flinch. He needs to hurry, or Little Miss Perfect will be begging him for a ride to school. Inspiration strikes him, and he remembers the nasty taco meat from two weeks ago. Finding a Shoprite bag in the bin of bags to be recycled, Ian wraps the whole container in the bag and seals it as tightly as possible. Next, he grabs one of the packs of hot chocolate mix.
Treasures in hand, Ian dashes back up the stairs, unlocks the door to his room, and retrieves his bags. The weight upon his shoulders gives him a thrill of pride. He feels like he is going off to war, and in a way, it’s true. Today, he will war against their stupidity, their apathy, and their whole corrupt system. And he will win. That’s the best part. No matter what happens, if he enacts Phase One and Phase Two, the day can be counted as a win for him.
All right, who’s ready to die?
Chapter 2:
My Nutters
Monday, 6:15 a.m.
Naomi Harrison-Kensley’s Apartment
Emerson, New Jersey
Naomi watches the edges of the bagel gradually become crisper as the toaster does its job. When it springs, she swoops in and grabs the two halves so they don’t burn. Waving away the mild pain of touching the piping-hot bagel, she turns her attention to the rest of her morning routine. Lining up the daily pills, she notices one missing. Jogging to the bathroom, she grabs the Claritin-D thinking maybe that will clear her head. She doesn’t know if the fuzzy head stems from allergies or a cold. In theory, the potent allergy medicine should work either way, but it would be so much nicer to have definitive answers.
Jack would tell her to take the day off if she doesn’t feel good, but despite two years of marriage, he has yet to grasp the colossal amount of work it takes for a teacher to successfully take off for a sick day. Besides, Naomi always feels guilty for making her colleagues cover for her when she can still stand and talk.
The nutters can make it one day without you.
The thought comes complete with Jack’s charming British accent.
Yes, but they’re my nutters, and they need a little stability in their lives. Naomi silently argues with phantom Jack.
This year, she has two of the three levels of chemistry and a section of biology. She has taught college prep chemistry for the past decade, so that part is second nature to her, but the general chemistry class is new to her. Moody is a mild term for the students in that class. One day, they’re engaged in the lesson and reasonably compliant with rules and regulations. The next day, they’re pouting and throwing teenage tantrums, which usually involves headphones, a phone, and a hoodie pulled up around their ears.
By this point in the year, Naomi knows each student pretty well. Max from period 2 likes to say crazy things to get attention. Randy from the same period regularly loses or breaks pencils. A.J. from period 4 can’t get to a class on time if his life depended upon it. Mike Z. from period 6, Jess from period 2, and about half the other kids in Naomi’s classes have serious phone addictions. Every spare moment, and quite a few stolen ones, they listen to awful music at ear-shattering volumes. That’s not just her old, stodgy imagination. Enough headphone failures have given her the misfortune of listening to the filth first-hand.
Behind the love of f-bomb-dropping rappers, Naomi feels that the students long for a connection with people. They want to feel alive, loved, and appreciated. They don’t think adults “get” them, and they think they are the only ones in the world feeling that kind of pain.
Loneliness. Isolation. Inadequacy.
The effort to shield kids from discomfort caused society to inadvertently create a staggering number of crybabies with little to no coping skills. There were two extremes. Either parents got involved so strongly that their child could barely breathe, or they abandoned the kid to navigate life alone. Only a very narrow margin found that happy medium of caring for their kids without doing everything for them.
I love my job.
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