Okay, fifty reviews in a span of mostly forty eight hours? Cheesus! Thank you all so much, and I'm glad you like it. I literally squealed. Seriously, I did.
Several things:
1) This is not the end chapter. Looks sort of like that, but it's not.
2) I'll probably update once a week, if possible. I was trying to hold out until Saturday but it's a day off and I couldn't wait to post this. Impatient. :)
3) Amanda is played by Hilarie Burton. Ah, irony at its finest.
4) Forgot a disclaimer. Own nothing mentioned in this fic, just for entertainment purposes, yada yada yada.
5) Not sure if I got procedures with the police and SWAT team correctly, but it sounds kind of right.
And finally, Glee was awesome. 'Nuff said (well, if Karofsky is so mean to Kurt because he's afraid of who he is, then maybe Quinn can too...). ;)
Enjoy!
Inside the bustling dining hall of Princeton University, a pretty blonde student sits chatting with her two friends over lunch. All three are pre-law, and despise their workload, but, in the end, they hope to make lives of future clients better as lawyers. The blonde technically was coerced into this school by her despotic father, but, she does want to dedicate her time to others. The blonde stops to check her cell phone, listening to a new voicemail, and chokes on her drink, while her friends stop speaking and question her.
"Mandy, are you okay?"
Amanda Fabray nods hastily, and presses the number four, repeating the message.
Quinn's stuck inside a lockdown, Judy had shrieked. There's a shooter on the loose in McKinley.
[Beep. Repeat message.]
"Mandy?"
Amanda pushes her tray away and digs through her bag for her keys.
"I've got to get home," she mumbles frantically. "My little sister—school shooting, I..."
Amanda stumbles blindly from the table, leaving her sympathetic friends behind and dashes to the airport, just several miles away by car and books a direct, one-way flight to Akron, Ohio, unable to stop her hands from shaking as she sits in her seat on the departing airplane, thoughts entirely concentrated on her younger sister.
Santana moves quickly and efficiently, hardly sparing a breath nor breaking stride in her search. She hasn't seen the shooter, and wonders if that's good news or bad news. She can feel her heart, beat for beat against her ribcage, and for the thousandth time, curses the lockdown codes. Yes, they were effective—she can see no one, nor hear any noise. It certainly keeps the idea of a deserted school, but does not help her search for Brittany. She had to find her. If something happened...
Santana Lopez doesn't get scared. She isn't frightened of anything, except for Brittany. She's afraid that this day will end with Brittany lost to her for good.
Santana was passing by Sue's office when a door squeaks, and she stiffens.
"Santana!" A voice hisses, and catching her breath, she looks left to see a beckoning, white-faced Ms. Pillsbury, eyes wider than usual (if that's even possible, Santana thinks).
Santana hesitates but acquiesces, hurrying inside, and hearing Ms. Pillsbury close the door.
"Nice to see you, Lopez."
Santana finds a proud yet somber Coach Sylvester, a grim Mr. Schuester, and two jittery, nervous glee clubbers—Tina and Artie. All eyes flicker automatically to the door and back, and Santana sits down. Ms. Pillsbury stands post at the door, her ear returning to the wood to listen for any noise.
"Coach," Santana acknowledges at last.
"What idiotic part of your brain decided that wandering the halls during a lockdown was a logical idea?" Sue asks pointedly, as if she actually cared. Santana grinds her teeth.
"I'm looking for Brittany," she answers in defiance. Sue sneers.
"Well, she's fine. You will stay here. No need for one of my Cheerios to get her head blown off."
"I don't think so," Santana snaps stubbornly. "I have to find her."
"It's too dangerous, Santana," Mr. Schue interrupts. "Sue's right."
"This is bullshit—" Santana yells before Tina clamps a warning hand over her mouth.
"You aren't bringing him back here," Tina snarls uncharacteristically, abandoning her usual calm demeanor under the tense circumstances. "Quiet."
Santana smacks her hand away, not intimidated in the least, and sulks. "I won't stay here forever."
"Yes, you will," Sue remarks rudely. "If you try to open that door past Esther over there" —Emma scowls— "I'll have to subdue you in a headlock and citizen's arrest."
"Have you heard from Rachel or Quinn?" Artie asks. "They're the two we don't know about."
Santana sighs. "I was with Quinn for awhile in a teacher's bathroom, but I convinced her to leave with me so I could look for Brittany. We found a cheerleader, by the way," she adds nastily to Sue, "Abby McDonald. Then we split up near the third floor stairs and went in opposite directions."
"You both left safety in a lockdown and then split up with a gunman walking around school?" Will exclaims quietly, aghast. "I can't believe this."
"For the last time," Santana growls, "Brittany is important to me, I had to."
"Enough to risk another friend?" Will demands.
Santana deflates, feeling as if someone slapped her. How could...she didn't even think. Quinn could be dead by now. She looks away from Will, too contrite to face him.
Tina texts while Artie turns to Santana. "Didn't we tell you? Brittany's been outside with her dad."
Santana just about weeps in relief at the news of Brittany's safety, and lets herself relax for several minutes before worrying about Quinn again.
"Who did this?" Santana asks, when she's recovered completely.
Sue grimaces. "Jacob."
"JewFro?" Santana hisses, disgusted. "Wow, I'm not even surprised."
Emma tuts in disapproval. "You know, Santana, that kind of behavior instigated this."
"Please don't antagonize my Cheerio, Eleanor," Sue chides, aloof. Emma rolls her eyes.
Santana feels guilt gnawing in her chest and tries to forget her shame. Yes, she did bully Jacob too. A lot. More than she wished to remember.
"Who else is safe, Artie?" Santana questions softly.
Artie leans closer to tell her.
Kurt Hummel sits silently on a bench in the boys locker room, where his gym class is cramped inside. Mike leans on a locker a foot away, while Sam sits beside Kurt.
Kurt?
Dad, I'm fine, Kurt replies, while Sam reads the conversation over his shoulder.
Thank God. You have no idea how good that sounds, Burt says.
My gym class is the locker room—we all ran at the first shot.
Have you heard from any of your friends? Some of their parents are close.
Kurt answers with a list of all known glee members. Sam frowns, upset at the news.
Who does that leave? Burt wonders.
Rachel Berry and Quinn Fabray, Kurt says. None of us been able to make contact.
All right, that's better than nothing. Hang in there, pal. Check back in with me in twenty minutes.
Kurt shuts his phone and leans into Sam's shoulder. In all of his days in school, he never imagined that a shooting would be part of his high school experience. It always happened to other schools, never yours. You sympathize and move on, but it doesn't sink in until it actually happens to you. Kurt could see awful scenarios, gruesome images of a bleeding Quinn and a screaming Rachel, and he wants to vomit. They were currently AWOL, and Kurt fears the worst.
Sam won't say or do anything now, as the football team, some present in the class with them, although removed (grudgingly) of judgement about Sam because he was an excellent player to their horrendously poor record, they wouldn't tolerate the two together in front of them. Instead, Sam just offers silent support.
Kurt has already lost his mother at a young age. He doesn't want to lose his friends as well.
"Santana showed up," Mercedes declares quietly. "She's with Tina and Artie."
"Good," Puck says, and Finn nods. "Anything from Quinn or Rachel?"
"No, unfortunately."
"Wait, how did Santana get there?" Finn realizes, frowning. "She was walking around?"
Puck curses under his breath. "She's an idiot. I didn't think she was that stupid."
"Well, she did say that she 'had to' because Brittany's important to her," Mercedes says slyly.
Puck growls. "She better show the whole school just how much. I'm sick of her hiding it."
"I know. It's so obvious."
"At least we know they're safe," Finn adds, optimistic as ever. "That leaves Rachel and Quinn."
"God, I hope they're okay," Puck mumbles fervently.
Quinn sits beside Rachel, letting the brunette lean on her slightly. Rachel hums lowly.
"What song is that?" Quinn whispers.
"'Tonight'," Rachel murmurs, her eyes closing. Quinn panics but Rachel assures her she's all right.
"West Side Story, right?"
"Yes, Maria sings it."
Quinn checks Rachel, seeing the blood seeping through Rachel's jeans and flinches.
"Does it hurt?" She asks rhetorically, immediately feeling stupid.
"A little," Rachel answers. "I feel numb, almost."
Quinn isn't used to this Rachel—defeated, barely talking, and humming, not singing. Rachel looks so tired and sad and Quinn feels her heart clench uncomfortably at the sight. The weird feelings from early summer and this morning surface, and all Quinn wants is to protect Rachel from everything, shield her from it all. She wants to apologize, just say sorry for all the things Quinn has done to her in the past, but she knows that Rachel has already forgiven her, oddly enough. Quinn suddenly gasps.
"Wait, wait, wait!"
"What?" Rachel inquires drowsily, blinking at the abrupt urgency in Quinn's exclamation.
"Take off your sweater!"
"This is from my grandmother!" Rachel insists. Quinn scowls until Rachel grumbles her defeat.
"Fine." Rachel raves, no doubt preparing a long-winded speech, pulling the fabric over her head, leaving her hair a tangled mess. Quinn snatches it from her hands without apology and rolls it up, twisting the sweater until it's taut and finally circling it around Rachel's leg, just below the knee but above the wound. She creates a tight knot.
"A makeshift tourniquet," Rachel nods grudgingly. "Impressive."
"I saw it on Lost," Quinn admits, embarrassed. Rachel laughs.
"It's intended to stop the blood, but I don't know if it'll still work," Rachel explains.
"Please refrain as if you're speaking from your deathbed," Quinn begs, surprising herself. Her brain questions the action, her heart avoids the truth. She doesn't want Rachel to die. She doesn't want to see Rachel die right in front of her, and what's worse, Rachel seems to accept it, like she's accepting a bad critique of her singing pitch.
Rachel has realized the probability of her survival, Quinn won't.
"I'm close to it," Rachel mutters.
"Stop it!" Quinn snaps angrily. "You can't just give up, Rachel. Stay awake, keep going."
"I won't be able to," Rachel warns, bitter. "Sooner or later—"
"This is just crap," Quinn interrupts as Rachel looks at her incredulously. "You sang to me last year, remember? Keep Holding On? You promised to support me. Now, I want to support you," she says, determination and anger strengthening her words, "and you're just giving up because you're tired. Hundreds of people have survived disasters worse than this. Hell, students have survived shootings like this, Rachel. Don't let this stop you. The Rachel Berry I know wouldn't quit—she'd be annoying and keep going strong just to prove she could. You said yourself that you're going to be a star once you get out of Lima. How can you be a star on Broadway if you're dead?"
Rachel's mouth opens and closes in shock, and she can't find a reply. Quinn sighs.
"Please, for me, don't give up."
Rachel is silent for a bit, and Quinn allows herself an internal congratulatory fist pump.
(It was her first inspirational, important pep-talk...speech, thing.)
"Okay," Rachel sighs pensively. "I won't let this beat me. For you."
Quinn doesn't remember being this relieved and triumphant in her entire life.
Chief Andrew Sullivan of Lima Police keeps an eye on McKinley High, while a frazzled secretary operates a laptop, after been ordered to pull up the security footage of the school. Sullivan has never had to deal with a school shooting before—he assumes Lima is too quiet of a town for such things. Except for this one kid who started the whole affair. Sullivan just wants this to end decently. Lieutenant Abrams stands stoic beside him. Both wish Jacob Ben Israel was never bullied.
A couple news stations hover like wasps, interviewing parents and agreeable officers. Cameras are fixed on different angles of the school, providing coverage for the reports.
The secretary can't access the video feed. Sullivan signals Captain Campbell, who nods.
Abrams is more worried, Sullivan notices. His wheelchair bound son is inside, and Abrams worries for his safety. But, they exchange text messages, so he is appeased slightly. Sullivan orders Abrams to address the parents, as the SWAT team prepares themselves nearby.
"Listen up," Abrams calls, and every parent focuses their attention on him with anxious eyes. "The suspect has held the school for just over two hours. We've been securing the perimeter and all entrances, and we'll begin to send men inside. This boy, Jacob, hasn't made a move for fifty minutes, and he's more than likely on an emotionally compromised search for victims, not a planned attack. He's angry, that's why he's doing this. He's been bullied by other students, and all of you must know this."
Some parents look confused, others look guilty and ashamed. They know how their children act.
"We will begin to send the SWAT team inside, and they'll start looking for him. Please stop irritating the officers," he adds to a scowling Shelby Corcoran, who crosses her arms, "they're just trying to work and keep everyone safe. Do not attempt to move past the barricades, they are placed there for a reason. No one is to play hero. Thank you."
Shelby grumbles under her breath and Judy Fabray chuckles, strained but genuine.
"It's all right," Judy assures her. "No one will remember that today."
Shelby and Judy stand in companionable silence for over a half hour, both fretting over their daughters. Judy wonders if she should inform Russell of the shooting, but she grimaces and decides against it. He left, therefore wouldn't be told anything anymore. Judy allows her gaze to drift from the doors and into the parking lot, and her eyebrow raises at the sight of a speeding Lexus, screeching to a halt and the door flung open. A familiar blonde sprints frenziedly for the group and Judy gasps in surprise.
"Amanda!"
"Mom!" Mandy wheezes as Judy squeezes her in a hug, before releasing her eldest child.
"Did you come all the way from school?"
"Of course I did," Mandy pants, clutching her side. Judy holds her forearm to steady her until Mandy can stand alone. "As soon as I heard, I jumped on a plane...flew to Akron, rented a car...sped all the way here, I might have broken the law a few times...I didn't even finish my lunch."
Judy stifles a hysterical, tired laugh and introduces Shelby to Mandy.
"Shelby, Mandy, Mandy, Shelby," Judy says. "Quinn's sister," she adds unnecessarily.
"Hi. I, er, adopted your niece," Shelby offers awkwardly. Mandy nods.
"Quinn told me," she acknowledges. "May I see a picture of Beth?"
Shelby offers her phone and the college student studies the image.
"She looks just like her," Mandy murmurs.
Judy prays silently Quinn will be able to see Beth again.
Another shot echoes to the lot—the first in a while—and parents shriek loudly in fear.
Jacob fires off another shot, just to rattle his external audience, reveling in the fear he instigated this morning.
He's been prowling in the hallways, and has lost count of all the bullets he's used. Jacob is jumpy and almost high off adrenaline. He spies a fallen football player and stands over the body, sneering. He knows every victim instantly regrets their actions, but you can't change the past. He believes they deserve it.
Jacob can see the emergency crews outside, and knows he has very little time left. He knows he will end this. All he needs a final, essential target.
After that, he'll take his own life. Most gunmen do anyway. Better that than juvie, a screwed up future and furious, vengeful parents intent on lynching him. Jacob doesn't regret his actions, but pities his mother and father. They'll be shamed in Lima forever, looked at with disdain for raising a child that did this, but he has to finish this endeavor.
He'll find the leader of all bullying at school. The one who could have stopped it, but didn't.
Head Cheerio, Queen of McKinley herself, Quinn Fabray.
He guesses baby Fabray will never, ever meet her mother after all. Pity.
"Rachel, hey, focus," Quinn orders, snapping the fingers of her free hand. "Tell me something else."
Somewhere along the line, Rachel intertwined their hands. (Quinn doesn't mind.)
"About what?" Rachel grouches petulantly.
"Barbra Streisand. I know you can't resist dropping tibits about her even if you are hurt."
Rachel pauses before agreeing. "True. Okay, she has eight Grammy awards."
"Fascinating. And don't you love her because of Funny Girl?"
"You listened," Rachel says, sounding exhausted but approving and mollified.
"I like to listen to you," Quinn blurts out honestly. Rachel's eyes watch her in speculation from her shoulder, and Quinn fights a blush from spreading up her skin. Why, why, why did her brain decide to spit that out? Rachel doesn't say anything, but a thoughtful look settles on her features. Quinn stares at the clock on a distant wall, and sometimes, hears the automatic bells ring, signaling a period change. It's been nearly three hours, Quinn realizes. How could three hours change so much? Three hours ago, she wouldn't be sitting with Rachel Berry, she's be suffering in class and dreading Cheerios practice. She wouldn't be baring a bit of her soul to Rachel Berry either.
She wouldn't be thisclose to admitting that she cared a lot about Rachel. It was at the tip of her tongue, and the heavy danger of the situation speeds up her heart and her brain. Her confusing feelings have accelerated into paralyzing fear that Rachel won't make it to the end of the day.
Rachel wonders something similar. She won't lie—she's noticed a kind hazel gaze sometimes following her during glee practice, and instantly averting when she looked up. Quinn had been a hundred times nicer than last year, listening to her conversations but doesn't say much in return, just offering small smiles. Rachel even remembers the angry glint in Quinn's eyes when Santana, Kurt, or Mercedes dropped a rude comment before she composes herself. It's different, and Rachel doesn't object to it.
She isn't blind either. Everyone knows Quinn is attractive. Quinn won't pretend, she knows it too.
Which makes Rachel question her thoughts—did she care of Quinn as a friend, or more? She's never had a real friend before, but...
Quinn, promising to support her through this, keeping her conscious with queries, and the unholy terror in the cheerleader's eyes at the thought of Rachel dying?
(She leans earnestly to the latter, perhaps too much.)
Her conclusions give her courage, and she thinks of something crazy.
"Quinn?"
"Hmm?"
"May I suggest something unorthodox?"
"I'm a regular Christian," Quinn jokes, and Rachel half-smiles.
"I know that."
"Well...what is it?"
"I think it will be an experience for me to have, because I am dying, and I'll probably won't be able to keep this up, hard as I'm trying," she adds hastily at Quinn's frown, "and I think, because of the very little time I have here today that maybe it will be an interesting idea if I am able to—"
"Spit it out, Berry," Quinn sighs. Rachel looks at her shoes before gathering her usual resolve.
"I think...I think that we should kiss," Rachel blurts out.
"Hold on, Peyton Sawyer!" Quinn yelps. "You want to kiss me? Why?"
"Bucket list quota, I guess," Rachel shrugs nonchalantly.
Quinn stops speaking and a hot blush burns a trail up her neck and ears—did the boiler room explode somewhere?—and her face blazes, surely enough to start a wildfire. Quinn instantly recalls glee practices, watching Rachel sing, lyrics to that infernal Katy Perry song, her own curiosity that escaped her rigid upbringing, and the damn amassed affection for Rachel that had only grown like a weed in her brain. It's not like these feelings are completely created today, they're just been...hidden, she supposes. Her blush deepens when she realizes that yes, she actually wants to, because, yeah, Rachel's always been cute, obviously, with those sweaters and pretty grin...
Brittany kisses girls all time and it doesn't mean anything. So this...won't mean anything either. It's just a kiss.
Right?
Quinn wonders why she hasn't examined at her thoughts in greater detail before, as she realizes that Rachel might not be thinking clearly. Maybe she's disoriented and confused from all the blood loss and it's addled her brain. She guesses that it's okay, she wants it too—and Rachel is in pain, so...it'll make it...better? She can see an apparition of her father screaming swears and profanities, promising she'll go to Hell if she does this. Quinn ignores it, noticing she doesn't care and hides her chagrin.
"Okay," she mumbles. Rachel snaps her head sideways so fast that it looks uncomfortable.
"Okay?" Rachel repeats disbelievingly—this was Quinn Fabray—and her eyes widen in surprise.
"Yeah," Quinn retorts. "Why not? It's just a kiss."
Rachel bites her lip and Quinn zeroes in unthinkingly on the action.
Please don't be awkward, Quinn silently begs and Rachel burst out laughing.
"No, of course not, Quinn."
"Wait, did I say that aloud?"
Rachel nods between giggles but is careful of her injury. Quinn broods.
"What, is this, Embarrass Quinn Day?" She grumbles. Rachel beams brightly.
"No, don't worry, I'm not making fun of you. I don't want things to be awkward either."
Quinn huffs as Rachel shifts slightly against the bookcase they're leaning on. Quinn leans forward a little, and the distance between them so unexpectedly heavy with tension that Quinn feels her stomach flip. She finds herself studying Rachel's face, with bronze skin and cute features, like a little doll. Her eyes aren't just a dull brown, but a mixture of dark hazel and coffee mixed together under long eyelashes. Quinn tries to remember why she disliked Rachel in the first place as Rachel's taking the initiative and moving closer and Quinn isn't nervous at all (really, she's not). Quinn closes her eyes, and waits.
When Rachel finally kisses her, she admittedly forgets everything, even her own name and her mind goes blank. She can't focus on anything except kissing Rachel back eagerly because it's so different and feels good and it's something she's never done before. Quinn vaguely remembers Puck telling Mike about how awesome Rachel is when they made out, and wholeheartedly agrees; Rachel's a fantastic kisser. It isn't something she used to and is so dissimilar from kissing Puck or Finn that she doubts she'll think of kissing the same way. Her head spins dizzily until Rachel pulls away, looking a little dazed herself.
"Uh...thanks for that," Rachel says, still in a stupor, and Quinn blinks lethargically.
"No problem," she manages, because, yeah, it totally rocked and wasn't a problem at all. "That's what friends are for," she adds lamely. Moron.
And it didn't mean anything—it didn't—so it's cool.
They don't have any more time to analyze it. The library door shakes and rattles like an earthquake until it's fully pushed open, and stomping steps pause before continuing inside. A horrible, spine-tingling grinding noise—Quinn suddenly identifies it as a chair scraping across the linoleum—and a louder crash breaks the silence until the steps start up again. Quinn meets Rachel's terrified gaze as Rachel's fingers squeeze the life out of her own. Quinn's positive her heart is about to force itself swiftly out of her throat and Rachel stifles a breath. Quinn is close enough to actually see tears of dread and hopelessness forming in Rachel's eyes. Both freeze up in alarm like prey listening for predators.
Quinn wants to punch herself in the face. Hard. They found a haven in the library, but she and Rachel forgot the most important part of a lockdown—silence.
They led the gunman right to them.
Quinn realizes in horror she won't be able to protect Rachel.
The steps advance until they stop.
It's too silent—exactly like the movies when the killer's literally about to jump and strike—and Quinn is certain if she doesn't die by gunfire, it'll be a heart attack.
When she hears the voice of the gunman, she almost faints. Rachel squeaks in fright.
"Hi Quinn, hi Rachel," Jacob Ben Israel just-about-giggles madly.
Quinn puts the pieces together—Jacob moved a chair to wedge the door closed from the inside, trapping them here.
(meanwhile)
Captain Campbell directs his team into the front door of McKinley High, where two officers start forward, the eyes and ears of the group. They had left the parking lot and a grim Chief Sullivan, exchanging terse nods. This wouldn't end until this kid was either caught or killed. Most parents would demand the first, so he can be tried and slammed into jail for years with no hope of parole. Others, angrier ones, would yell for his execution. Campbell won't instigate an attack unless the boy does first.
It isn't rocket science though. They have bulletproof vests. This Jacob kid has a few handguns, maybe.
If Jacob makes the first move, he goes down. If he surrenders, they won't fire.
The larger portion of Campbell's team hovers near doors outside, efficiently securing exits.
While waiting for the announcement, Campbell sees at least a dozen bodies of deceased teenagers, sporting a violent shade of red against their clothes. He sighs. Violence was never the answer to anything, and this boy wanted to solve his problems with a gun. Campbell doesn't sleep well in this line of work. He always remembers that part.
"Clear," one officer hisses, peering down the hallway. Campbell points.
"Three left, three right, two stay here by the door, and the rest with me. Once you clear this floor, return here and we'll start clearing the classrooms, one by one. Stay alert, do not engage the boy. Try to reason with him, and if he fires first, you have permission to respond. Is that understood?"
There's a chorus of 'yes sirs' and Campbell starts straight down the hallway with four other men.
It takes Campbell's team ten minutes to clear the first floor, and all reassemble near the front entrance of McKinley. Campbell digs out a badge and identification, and nods to his team. They approach the nearest door, an office, and Campbell carefully slides the items under the door. He hears a muffled gasp.
"For anyone in there, this is Captain Roger Campbell, SWAT. We're here to remove you from the building, the floor is cleared. You are safe to unlock the door."
Several beats pass, that's completely normal. Finally, the occupant opens the door slowly.
"It's safe?" The man asks. Campbell nods, recognizing the man from the attendance list and pictures. Principal Figgins.
"Follow Officer White, he'll escort you to the front door."
Campbell waits until White returns, retrieves his badge and identification from the floor, and with a jerk of his head, they wearily continue the process of liberating classrooms.
"What's going on?" Mandy whispers. Everyone holds their breath in unison, with fixed gazes on the doors.
"Someone's coming outside," Shelby answers, squinting. "Ah, Figgins."
"The principal?" Judy asks, and Shelby nods.
Figgins is almost assaulted with questions and pleas until police bat away the parents.
"I hope this goes quickly," Mandy worries. "This kid could be a ticking time bomb...er, forget I said that."
Classes in the first floor silently exit the front doors, and the parking lot is ordered to remain quiet. Any noise could redirect an attack to them. Students pass the barricades and reunite tearfully with their parents, and someone takes record of their names. Parents who haven't found their children refocus on the doors and some murmur vigorous prayers over and over again. Kurt, Sam, and Mike are the first of glee club to be escorted out. Burt Hummel has tears in his eyes as he hugs Kurt fiercely before Carole Hudson does to her (sort of) stepson, followed quickly by Brittany, who hugs all three boys with a bright smile. Mike's mother muffles her joyful wails and Sam's parents are converged around their son in a fashion similar to a football huddle. Kurt returns to Sam's side as they join the group waiting for the rest of McKinley to be rescued.
Several minutes pass and no more classes emerge. Everyone on the first floor is out.
Chief Sullivan stares. Shouldn't they be evacuating the second floor? Unless—
"Sullivan, this is Campbell," his walkie talkie crackles. "We've located the shooter."
"Jacob," Quinn responds. Rachel mumbles an apology to the blonde, saying she should have mentioned this before.
"Didn't expect to find you two here," Jacob returns pleasantly. "But, I guess you forgot what to do in a lockdown. You know, keep quiet and stay out of sight?"
Quinn grinds her teeth. She didn't like being mocked, even in this situation. Jacob smiles.
"I was actually looking for you, Quinn. Funny how that worked out?"
"I guess," Quinn says bitingly. Rachel clasps their hands tighter; a warning. Quinn resists it.
"I bet you're wondering why I wanted to find you."
"This whole villain-dramatic-pause thing during your speech is really aggravating me," Quinn snaps. "Get to the damn point."
Jacob looks angrier. Rachel whimpers pitifully. Quinn wishes she could rewind and say something else, or instead, have someone put a muzzle on her mouth.
"You're the reason I chose to do this," Jacob sneers. Quinn despises the nasally tone of his voice, always has, always will.
"Excuse me?"
"You run McKinley with an iron fist, Quinn! Not even Sylvester or Figgins has as much of an influence as you do. You let the football players and Cheerios slushie anyone they please and don't say a single thing about it. I'm one of the many who are bullied every day in this fucking school and no one bothers to care! You don't care about anyone!"
"That's not true!" Beth, Rachel, glee club, her Mom, her sister...Rachel...
"It's not? You got Santana kicked off the top of the pyramid so you could take her spot! You wanted something bad and you took it, no matter what the cost. You don't care about consequences. You let everything happen in your school and today, it all exploded in your face," Jacob scoffs.
Quinn tries to fight the inevitable remorse and shame, but Jacob's words are true. All of them.
"Quinn's different now," Rachel pipes up, looking paler than ever. "She's changed."
"Not enough. She isn't as hostile or nasty, but she never says a word to stop her minions."
Jacob forces a sour laugh and waves his gun around for emphasis as he speaks; Rachel's eyes follow it warily.
"What do you want me to do, Jacob?" Quinn barks. "Apologize?"
Jacob freezes and Quinn is certain he'll blast her right between the eyes. His mouth twists into an ugly scowl and she internally panics, because he's unpredictable here. Great—she shoots her mouth off again without thinking and makes the already crazy kid even crazier. Quinn wants to flee from the room, attack Jacob, do anything to stop this insanity, but she can't leave Rachel behind (as if she would). Jacob is quiet for a full minute, just staring at her so furiously that she breaks out in a cold sweat.
"No. I want you to watch. I want you to watch me kill Rachel, and I'll let you go free with survivor's guilt. Scout's honor."
Rachel cries out involuntarily in terror and Quinn fixes a steely glare on the boy.
"You're despicable. You'll have to go through me to get to her, and no, I won't leave."
"Is Quinn Fabray being noble?" Jacob pretends to ask. "Wow, I didn't see that coming."
"You're just a coward," Quinn goads foolishly. "You can't even hack high school, can you?"
Quinn knows she's crossing a line and is deep in dangerous, idiotic territory, bordering on rash and reckless behavior, but she couldn't stop herself from saying that. Quinn wishes she could see her life flash before her eyes before she dies, because things are quickly turning for the worse and she wants a cool recap of her existence. Jacob fumes.
"Excuse me?"
"You're a coward," Quinn repeats. "You're the one who's at fault here. You let the bullies get away with this. You let them bring you down and hurt you every day, and you can't even take it like millions have before you. Rachel was bullied by me, Santana, and Puck for God knows how long, and she just took it in stride and kept going. She held her head up after every single slushie or mean comment on her Myspace page, and found something that made her happy. Jacob, you could've talked to Ms. Pillsbury, joined a club, a sport, something to get you through and you didn't. High school isn't forever. You just hid behind your blog and became the coward who didn't stand up to them."
Somewhere in her head, Quinn hears a voice saying that she shouldn't make somebody with a weapon angry and demean who they are, but she doesn't really listen to it.
Jacob scowls. "I wouldn't have to stand up to anyone if they didn't bully me. Stop trying to justify your innocence, Quinn! You don't have any. I should just kill you now."
"Just don't hurt Rachel," Quinn challenges with new bravado, adrenaline rushing in her blood.
Jacob suddenly whips his head to the door, listening. "Great...the cops are finally here. Guess my time is up."
"Wait, what?" Rachel squeaks. Quinn covers her mouth, whispering for her to be quiet.
Jacob stands up. "Quinn, I'll kill Rachel unless you do something for me."
"What? Anything."
"I want you to watch me," Jacob snarls ferociously. "I want you to see the result of your terrible leadership and failure to be a better person. No closing your eyes, no turning away. You'll remember this for the rest of your life, and I hope it sticks on your conscious until you die. You'll remember junior year at McKinley High as the year you let over a dozen people die, and they'll remember you as the spark that lit the fire on my revenge. Everyone will blame you, Quinn, and you won't be able to show your face in Lima again, but, I won't be around to hurt anyone else. Face your consequences, Quinn and watch me, or I'll shoot Rachel right now, and I assure you, I won't miss."
"Quinn," Rachel croaks, and Quinn sees how little time Rachel actually has. Her skin was sallow and sweaty, her breath is too fast, and Quinn thinks that her 'attempt' to fix Rachel's leg failed. She isn't a doctor—her basis for wrapping the wound was from a canceled show. She has to do this, has to see this for the lockdown and horror to end. The faster she does, the faster Rachel can get medical attention. Rachel looks very close to fainting, and Quinn turns back to Jacob, with new purpose and determination.
"Okay," Quinn whispers. "Okay, I'll do it."
Jacob looks positively savage, if not deranged with her answer, and he offers a face-splitting grin. Quinn feels as if she's about to jump off a cliff. Pushed off, actually.
Quinn locks her jaw and saves her regrets and rapidly forming self-hatred for later.
"Close your eyes," Quinn warns to Rachel, who does. Quinn crouches in front of Rachel, blocking the view.
This won't be like a movie, Quinn thinks. There won't be a redo, another take, a cut. Jacob won't shake himself off and be able to walk away. He'll never write his blog again.
Quinn wonders, somewhat morbidly, what it'll look like, and wants to scream.
The door begins to shake again amidst shouts and warnings by the police, who peer at them through the window, and Jacob lifts the gun to his mouth. His teeth hold the metal barrel in place and Quinn feels her stomach turn over several times, like she's on a rollercoaster without a safety harness. Jacob's eyes narrow in threat, pointedly warning her to keep her eyes open and his finger twitches to the trigger, Quinn's heart begins to race loudly in her ribcage and up into her ears, when she desperately wishes she could redo this day over again, Jacob pulls the trigger in one quick, final motion, and Quinn clenches her teeth together, watching obediently as he had instructed.
CRACK!
"Hello?"
"Is anyone alive in there?"
"Can you hear me?"
Titanic quote? Quinn's brain remembers absently. Didn't think I'd actually hear that in real life. Weird.
She tries to form coherent speech, breathing deeply through her nose before calling back. "Yes!"
"What's your status?"
"Jacob's dead—the shooter's dead," Quinn answers. "My friend needs a doctor now."
"We can't get through the door, is there an obstruction?"
Quinn unglues her hand from a quivering Rachel's, and she lets Rachel keep her eyes closed. Quinn walks slowly to the door, averting her gaze from the motionless body—or, what was left of it—only two feet away and pulls the chair from the doorhandles where it was wedged below. She pulls the handle toward her and is greeted by about seven men, clad in black bulletproof armor and thick helmets, carrying weapons larger than her arm. Their eyes widen in shock and sympathy as they scrutinize her appearance.
"Jesus Christ," an officer mumbles before he can stop himself. His captain barks a reprimand before turning to Quinn.
"We'll take care of your friend," Campbell says kindly. One man strides past and scoops Rachel up in his arms, who looks frail and vulnerable in the officer's embrace. The officer carrying Rachel disappears into the hallway to bring her to an ambulance. Quinn sees dozens of SWAT members marching to classroom doors, leading students out.
Ambulance crews search for wounded kids and staff; coroners examine bodies on the floors.
Campbell offers his hand to Quinn, as if to lead her from the scene and everything in it. Quinn wishes it could be that easy. She'll never forget this day.
Touched by such an unexpected, fatherly action, Quinn swallows.
"It's all right," Campbell persuades soothingly. "You're safe. It's over now."
His expression betrays him, she observes. He looks slightly disturbed, even alarmed. Of her.
Quinn can't find her voice and just nods jerkily, like he expects her to, but refuses the hand and it's comfort.
It'll never be over, she thinks as she follows the captain down the hallway. Never.
Quinn pretends not to notice Campbell's face beside her—repulsed, stricken, as he stares at the grotesque condition of her and her uniform—and walks with him outside.