I wrote this story shortly after the Sandy Hook Massacre, though it could easily have been in response to any number of similar events, before or since. Each time, the idea at the centre rears its ugly head. Each time, the misshapen, mutated head breaches a little further, until we can see the eyes wide with fear, the mouth open in horror, the blood-stained hands. Each time, we roll the idea around in our head, like a suicidal depressive rolling a bullet between thumb and finger, learning the horrible shape of it a little better, before putting it down again, until the next time. With something like resigned surrender, we contemplate the maybe-inevitable. Just one small step further — a last, desperate act of great fear, chosen over the numerous optional acts of meager courage — and our final plunge into the black abyss of collective insanity will be complete.
SHEEPDOG
by Bren Lynne
The day Ben was Sheepdog began typically. After his mother dropped him off at school, he idled in the yard with friends while waiting for first bell. When it sounded, the approximately five hundred students of P.S. 114 assembled into class formations — a couple of dozen neat phalanxes in orderly arrangement on the sports field. The school’s exterior P.A. speaker led the student body through fifteen minutes of exercise, fifteen of self-defense drills. Each class then entered the school, starting with the little ones in primary, ending with the older kids in intermediate.
In homeroom, students stood beside their desks for prayer and pledge. They took their seats. Their teacher, Ms. Porter, read morning announcements — team tryouts, field trips, fundraisers — then took attendance. Alphabetically by surname, Ben’s name was last.
“Benjamin Wright.”
“Present.”
“Benjamin, you’re Carrier today.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Ben left his homeroom and went down the hall, past the office, to the Armory, which was located just inside the school’s main front entrance. There, he joined the line of today’s Sheepdogs from other classes, one per homeroom.
The line advanced in quick order towards the Armory counter. When Ben reached the front, he placed his right hand on the blue square, raised his left hand, and recited the lines of the Carrier’s Oath.
“I, Benjamin Wright, do solemnly swear to uphold the duties of the Student Carrier, and to defend and protect the student body of Public School One-One-Four against any who would do it harm, from within and without.”
Officer Phillips, the school’s Armorer, put a blue armband on the counter’s blue square. Ben fastened it around his left bicep using velcro. The Officer then produced a 9mm semi-automatic handgun, a loaded 10-round magazine, and a hip holster. The handgun’s slide was locked open, exposing its empty chamber. Ben took the holster and clipped it to his school uniform’s belt. Then he picked up the handgun, released the slide lock, and put the magazine in. A Carrier was not to chamber a round unless required for the execution of his or her duty. Ben holstered the handgun and secured it with the restraining strap. A Carrier was not to draw unless required for the execution of his or her duty.
Ben signed out the handgun, printing his name on the Armory form in neat, careful letters.
Benjamin Wright
Then, Ben returned to his classroom.
It was a funny thing, being Sheepdog. You forgot about the weapon on your belt, even though it weighed almost two pounds, loaded. Until you bumped it against a doorframe, or hooked it on a desk. It reminded you it was there, and with the reminder, all the weight of duty returned. In Ben’s estimation, that weight was more than a couple of pounds.
They weren’t supposed to use the term “Sheepdog”, though everyone did, informally, students and teachers alike. The correct term was “Student Carrier”. They weren’t supposed to use the term “weapon”, either, or even “gun”. The Carrier’s tool was a “firearm”.
Sheepdogs weren’t allowed to play during recess, so Ben strolled around the perimeter of his cohort’s recreation block, occasionally returning an errant basketball, or kicking the head off a dandelion. Abstinence from play was one of the restrictions of Carrier duty. Also, no bathroom breaks while class was in.
Ben tried to maintain the “situational awareness” that a Sheepdog was supposed to have at all times. A state of relaxed alertness. What Mr. Hsu, their self defense teacher, called zanshin. Ben tried, but his attention wandered; to the basketball game, to the kids on the monkey bars, to the clouds.
Recess was the most boring part of a Sheepdog’s day.
Nonetheless, Ben enjoyed his turns performing the duty. He enjoyed wearing the blue armband, which reminded him of the blue helmets and badges of the U.N. soldiers who patrolled his subdivision. He enjoyed the Active Shooter Incident drills that the school practiced once a quarter. He enjoyed carrying the weight, not just of the firearm, but also of the duty.
Afternoon found Ben struggling through a Math quiz. He was bent over his worksheet, tongue poking from the corner of his mouth, struggling to calculate the area of arable land required to support a community of seventy-five souls. It was 2:45 pm, and Ben only had about fifteen minutes to finish the quiz.
Ben’s concentration was broken. There had been a change in the teacher’s behaviour. When Ben looked up, Ms. Porter was standing near the closed door, her head tilted, listening intently.
From beyond came the faint sound of a man’s voice. Shouting. It sounded distant, down the hall. Then, a series of pop sounds that Ben recognized immediately from the ASI drills. They all recognized the sounds.
Ms. Porter checked that the classroom door was locked, then pushed a button on the intercom. “Office?”
A moment passed. There was no reply from the intercom.
Ms. Porter frowned. She pushed the button again. “Office! Mrs. Grant, are you there?”
Another moment passed with no reply from the intercom, though there were more distant pops from the hallway, and more faint shouting. Ben thought the man’s voice sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place it.
Then, a voice from the intercom. “This is Mr. Ford in Room Seventeen. The office isn’t responding.”
A woman’s voice asked, “Are we doing a drill today?” Ben thought it was Mrs. McKinnon, their music teacher. She sounded scared.
“No,” answered Mr. Ford. “I think we should assume this is real.”
Ms. Porter turned away from the intercom and said, “Move to the closets, class.” She was calm.
Instantly, twenty-two chairs scraped linoleum as the students stood. Ben’s classmates walked quickly to the classroom’s closets — four ten-by-ten concrete boxes at the back of the room. Ben’s classmates filed inside, each standing before their locker. When each closet was full, a student swung the heavy door closed with a solid thunk, followed by the click of the lock. As the doors closed, Ben caught glimpses of his classmates’ faces — some were wide-eyed and frightened, others were grinning and excited, most were grave and fixed. Ben hoped his was like those.
The alarm started. A piercing, repeating bell. Not the solid bell that meant evacuation, like they heard for fire drills. The other one, for lockdown.
Today, Ben was Sheepdog. He did not go into a closet, with its thick walls and heavy doors and locks that opened from the inside. He went into the classroom’s B corner — on the same wall as the classroom door, but furthest from it. This was the Student Carrier’s primary position. When he reached the corner, he drew the 9mm and chambered a round, then held the firearm in both hands, muzzle pointed at the floor. He had done this dozens of times in ASI drills, but this time Ben found his hands were sweaty and shaking.
Ms. Porter had returned to her desk and withdrawn her faculty firearm. Some teachers wore them all the time, though most didn’t. Nonetheless, she slid in a magazine and racked the slide, capable and confident. Her face was pale, her expression hard. It was an unusual expression for Ms. Porter, who was probably one of the school’s warmest teachers, who always dressed like a Fairy Princess at Hallowe’en, who often hugged her students, and had once even kissed Ben on the forehead after he’d fallen off the monkey bars. Now, her fierce expression both frightened and reassured Ben at the same time, somehow.
Mr. Ford’s voice on the intercom again. “Police are on the way.”
The sounds in the hall were hard to hear between the bursts of the alarm bells. Someone ran past their door — Ben could tell it was an adult from the long, heavy footsteps. There was more shouting — two male voices this time. More of the unmistakable pops. A man screamed in pain, making Ben jump. Two more pops. Then silence.
Ben’s stomach was rolling, and he couldn’t stop his hands from shaking.
“Stay calm, Benjamin,” Ms. Porter said. “We’re prepared.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Ben replied.
Now, Ben could hear sirens approaching outside. They sounded so far away.
“The police are coming,” Ms. Porter said. “This is almost over, Ben.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Agonizingly long moments passed, as the sound of the sirens drew closer.
There was a hard knock on the door. Ms. Porter raised her firearm quickly, pointing it at the door. There were three more hard knocks, then a pause, then two more.
Ms. Porter seemed relieved, and she lowered her firearm.
“It’s all right, Ben. That’s the faculty’s all-clear signal.”
Keys rattled in the door’s lock, and then it swung open.
A man entered. It took Ben a moment to recognize him. He was wearing a bulky black vest like the one Officer Phillips wore. The left side of his body was covered in blood, shoulder to foot. His hair was messy, his face was shining with sweat. In his right hand was a gun. It was Mr. Orson, the school’s Vice Principal.
Being a well-behaved student, Ben’s interactions with Mr. Orson were few. Ben had really only seen the administrator at assemblies, or heard him over the P.A. system. The older kids said Mr. Orson had been a soldier, once. He sure looked like one now.
Mr. Orson limped into the classroom.
“David!” Ms. Porter said. “What’s happening?”
“Hi, Kerry,” Mr. Orson replied. “I’m taking my stand.”
Mr. Orson raised his gun and shot Ms. Porter. She fell down behind her desk without a sound.
Ben fired three times. The gunshots were very loud, but Ben did not flinch. He had fired the Carrier’s tool many times on the school’s range.
Mr. Orson fell back against the open door, then slid to the ground and slumped over. Ben thought he had hit Mr. Orson at least once, but he wasn’t sure, so he approached very carefully.
Mr. Orson lay on his right side. A pool of blood was spreading across the floor. Mr. Orson’s hand still held his gun, but the slide was locked open. It was out of bullets.
Mr. Orson looked up at Ben. His face was white and wet, little dots of blood standing out like freckles. His eyes regarded Ben in a peculiar way, as if Ben was both familiar and strange at the same time. Mr. Orson’s breathing was raw and rapid. His lips moved, muttering something. Ben heard only a little between the alarm bells and over the sirens outside, now very close and loud.
“Oh, Creator,” Mr. Orson said, “can monsters exist in the sight of him who alone knows how they were invented…”
Ben thought, is he praying?
Ben leaned a little closer, and Mr. Orson made a sudden grab for him, grunting with pain. Ben jerked back, and Mr. Orson’s hand tore away from Ben’s arm with a velcro riiiiiip, clutching his Carrier’s armband. Mr. Orson’s hand fell to the floor, into his blood, which started soaking into the pale blue armband.
Ben took a step backwards. The pool of blood around Mr. Orson was getting really big.
Mr. Orson’s eyes glazed, and he stopped breathing.
Ben walked over to Ms. Porter’s desk. She lay behind it, on her back, eyes closed and arms at her side, looking very peaceful. A single crimson blossom ringed a hole in the centre of her floral blouse. Her hands were empty, the gun was gone, probably slid under her desk. It hadn’t looked right in her hands anyway.
Then the police sniper’s bullet came through the classroom window and entered Ben’s head above his left eye.
“Sheepdog” was originally published in Side Stories: Short Fiction by Game Developers.
