The Survivor Read Free

sprinted past the two dead gunmen, in between the huddles of terrified students, across the smears of fresh blood that now painted the floor. He raced up to the rear window and scanned the area beyond.
    Outside was the front of the school. In the parking lot, he saw Red Mask hop into a small green car. A mid-90’s Honda Civic, one of the many that dotted the parking lot. The engine started, and the vehicle accelerated down the driveway.
    ‘He’s mobile,’ Striker said.
    He raced out into the parking lot with Felicia fast in tow. Already the Civic was pulling onto the main road and turning north. Striker ran into the middle of the driveway. He took aim and opened fire, and the rear window of the Civic shattered. The car swerved all over the road, almost losing control and skidding into one of the storm ditches that flanked Pine Street, then it managed to navigate the slide and regain control.
    It straightened out and accelerated north.
    Striker ran after it, firing until he could no longer make out the licence-plate. Firing until the vehicle grew smaller and smaller, and finally disappeared from view behind the tall sweeping hemlocks and firs of the nature reserve. Firing until his magazine had run dry and all he heard was the click-click-click of a goddam empty magazine clip.
    And then, as quickly as the nightmare had started, it was over.
    Only a horrible silence filled the air.
    Without thinking, Striker automatically ejected the spent mag, let it fall to the wet asphalt of the roadway, and reloaded. A sheen of sweat masked his fair skin, and steam rose from his overheated body in the misty October air.
    Away, Striker thought. Jesus Christ, he got away.
    The gunman wanted to live – a highly unusual trait for an Active Shooter on a killing spree. To Jacob Striker, a ten-year Homicide Detective, that one action scared him more than anything else. It confirmed his greatest fear.
    This nightmare had only begun.

 
    Four
    Damp wind blustered through the bullet-smashed windows of the Honda Civic, its wails as loud as those of the murdered schoolkids. Red Mask drove on, his attention focused on the road ahead. Blood saturated the black cotton of his kangaroo jacket; it bled from the open wound in his left shoulder and ran down his arm, across the black leather glove. He angled his body, trying to leave no blood on the seat.
    When he reached the south lane of Ninth Avenue, he found what he was searching for – a narrow alley crammed with cars and garbage cans. The backyards lining it were padded with green sweeping trees.
    Red Mask cranked the wheel hard, his left shoulder tearing, and felt the Civic shudder when its rear-end collided with a row of garbage bins. Despite the coldness of late fall, perspiration dampened his brow. Not far away, sirens wailed.
    They would be here.
    Soon.
    Red Mask drove on down the lane. Halfway along it, he found a wider stretch of road that sat beneath the high overhang of a willow tree. He glanced at the tree. Backed by an ice-blue sky, the bark looked black.
    The tree was dying.
    Red Mask killed the thought. He forced his eyes away from the horrible tree, and backed the Honda up until the rear bumper banged into the tree trunk. His mind felt hot, overcooked, and a low hum buzzed in his ears – the leftover echoes of the shotgun blasts. Even his heartbeat sounded too loud, pulsing through his temples like a hammer on steel. He tried to think, but a mechanical grinding noise tore him from his thoughts.
    At the next yard, a garage door was rising.
    With his right hand, Red Mask snatched his Glock off the passenger seat. Pistol ready, he fought open the driver’s door and rolled awkwardly out of the Civic. He slipped in behind the willow tree.
    Watched.
    Waited.
    An engine started inside the garage, then a black Lexus backed out. An expensive model. Golden chrome, shaded rear windows, glistening black paint. The driver, a small old man, seemed oblivious of Red Mask’s presence. He was