Harry Truman High School (outside)- 11:31 AM "Heads up!" Peter Benton and Mark Green both turned, expecting to see another group of 20 or so people running from the building. "What the...?" Mark sputtered as the 20 became 40, then 80, then more. Peter stared at the large group of people running toward the fire trucks, involuntarily ducking when he heard the gunshots begin. "No!" he yelled, starting toward the building. Mark grabbed his arm. "No, Peter! They won't let you in anyway!" The students and teachers that were running out now were screaming. No one seemed to have been injured inside. A few of them were limping, and every now and then one of them would fall down the stairs, or trip on a crack in the sidewalk. Peter and Mark put their own thoughts on hold for the moment and held out their arms, gesturing to the stampede, leading them between the trucks. The last of the screaming, frantic mass made their way out of the building and down the sidewalk, assembling with the rest in the street as the gunshots inside stopped. Peter and Mark joined them quickly, and Benton made his way to one of the teachers. "What happened?" he demanded. "I don't know! We were all just sitting there, waiting, and then this man started beating on the lockers, screaming at us to get out. We were almost out of the hallway when these two boys came out of the stairs and started shooting at him." "Shooting at him, or just shooting?" Mark asked, his mind reeling with the implications of what the man had said. "At him," the teachers answered, leaning over to catch his breath. "They weren't paying attention to us at all." "Mark...," Peter began softly. Both men's heads jerked toward the building as the firing began again, this time much more controlled. Benton counted five shots, spaced about ten seconds apart. He turned back to Mark slowly, his dark eyes full of apprehension. "They found him." Harry Truman High School (inside) - 11:33 AM Carter lay panting on the floor for a few more moments, trying to block the pain from his mind. It would be so easy to just give up. Just lie there and go to sleep. Then he thought of the kids that were still stranded on the second floor, and the injured that may have been left behind in the rush to evacuate as many as possible from the third, and he knew he had to get up. He had to keep going. And the only way he was going to do that was to make himself get out of that stall. He pulled himself out from under the door, half-crawling all the way to the sinks. Blinking through the tears of pain in his eyes, he reached up with his bloody left hand and grabbed the side of the sink bowl, pulling his left leg up under himself and forcing himself to stand. His right hand was pressed against the side of his leg, trying to staunch the bleeding. He gave himself a few seconds to get steady, then limped painfully to the door, dragging his right leg behind him. He reached out with his left hand as soon as he was within arms-reach of the door, and locked it quickly before he turned, pressing his back against the wall as he slid down it. He looked down at his leg, and saw the blood seeping between his fingers. This was no flesh wound. It was easy enough to locate the entrance wound. A single bullet had entered his right thigh from the outside, midway between his hip and knee. He was bleeding quite a bit, but not enough for the bullet to have hit or nicked an artery. He looked down along the inside of his leg, looking for the exit wound, but there wasn't one. With the location of the entrance wound, he guessed the bullet it had probably impacted with his femur, which would have stopped it. That would also explain the incredible amount of pain he was in. This one was bad, but it wasn't deadly. Not immediately anyway. With a groan, he pushed himself back to his feet again, and dragged himself to the automatic towel hanging on the wall beside the sinks. Using his teeth, he started a small tear in the edge, and ripped it the rest of the way with his hands. It took a few tugs to get it out of the box on the wall, and once it was he wrapped it around the hole in his leg, hoping that it would be enough to keep him from losing too much more blood. It wasn't the best bandage in the world, but at least it was somewhat sanitized. It was better than the dusty flag he had used to bandage his arm and hand. Carter realized that he was shaking, and willed it to stop. He turned the faucet on just a bit, and splashed some cold water on his face, hoping that it would help his mind to clear. In the process, he managed to catch the first glimpse of his own face since he had left his apartment earlier that morning. 'No wonder those kids are all so scared of me at first,' he thought to himself. "I look like hell." John jumped and spun his head, convinced that the words had come from behind him rather than out of his own mouth. He hadn't intended to speak, and didn't remember forming the words, but they had come out in his voice. Concentrating on bringing his heart back under control, he turned back to the mirror, his mind flashing back over the events of the past hour. His face, neck, and arms were covered in tiny cuts. The bleeding, what little of it there had been, had long since stopped, but each cut was covered with little streaks of dried blood. The bandage on his arm had soaked through, and the blood had stained his shirt a few inches above and below the edges of the strip of old flag. He held his left hand up in front of his face, and saw that the blood from the glass in the office door had soaked that bandage as well. Both of his old wounds seemed to have clotted now though, and he wasn't worried about any immediate danger from them. The fresh bite marks on the outside of his thumb were bleeding and beginning to ache, but they were minor. His leg had started throbbing now, each beat of his heart pumping more blood out of the severed blood vessels. He glanced down at it and saw the bandage he had applied to it was already a bright red. He looked back into the mirror again, staring intently at the pasty-grey face that gazed back at him. He had taken longer than he should have to assess himself. If the boys decided to come and recheck the restroom and found the door locked, they would know exactly where he was. He had to finish what he had stayed in this building to do, and then get the hell out of it himself. They had said that they were going to gather the entire second floor together in the library. If everyone was together in one room, that would leave no reason for the boys to go out on patrol again, unless they were out looking for him, which he hoped they would do. If they stayed in the library with their hostages, it would severely limit John's ability to help any more of them escape. The bright side to the situation, if there was such a thing, was that it would only take him a matter of seconds to get the uninjured out of the room, down the stairs, and out of the building. The possibility of injuries in the library was high, he knew, just as high as it was for every other room in the building, and he still had no idea how many injured had been left upstairs in his rush to evacuate the others. It was going too fast now. If he had just kept waiting them out, moving silently from room to room and moving them out one group at a time, he wouldn't be in this position now. He wouldn't have a bullet in his leg, and he wouldn't be facing an uncertain amount of casualties that he might have forced the others to abandon. Why had he ever stood on that landing, laughing at the children down below? Why had he ever just stayed there when he saw one of them heading his way? Why had he stayed in this child-made Hell in the first place? What did he think he was accomplishing? How many children were lying above him, alone, injured, frightened, dying, because of him? How many people had been hurt just because he had stayed? How many people had he killed? In all the turmoil and questions that swirled through his mind, John Carter was absolutely certain of only one thing. He had screwed up. And he had screwed up badly. He placed his hands on the edge of the sink and let his head fall. He had thought that he was saving them. He had thought that he could help. All he had done was make matters worse for them. He drew in a ragged breath and raised his head again. He had sworn to these kids that he would help them, and so far all he had done was endanger them. But he would make it right. He WOULD make it right. With a slight gasp of pain, he pushed himself away from the sink and limped slowly to the door. He unlocked it and pushed it open a few inches, just enough to look down the hallway. The library was right across the hall from him; he could see the three boys in there now, parading around with their guns slung across their shoulders. He knew that there was a branch in the hall that led to the front stairs, and hoped that there was a back door to the library there. Falling to the floor to avoid being seen should one of the boys turn around, he started crawling. County General Hospital - 11:35 AM The last three casualties to be brought in from the school were upstairs in surgery. The cheerleader and the other boy would be fine; the teacher was touch-and-go. The ER was eerily quiet now. Haleh and Jing-Mei were finally getting a cast on the rollerblader. The young mother had gone home. The rule-out MI had been admitted for angiography. And the doctors and nurses were again huddled around the television at the admit desk, waiting. They didn't know what it was they were waiting for; more casualties, word that the shooters had been apprehended, a glimpse of Carter coming out... "Dr. Weaver!" Randi cried out in alarm. "Dr. Weaver, look!" Kerry's attention had been a thousand miles from the hospital when she heard Randi's voice, and she jerked her head around to the television immediately. The distant shot from the helicopter flying above the school tightened, showing a large group of people running out the front door of the school. "Turn it up!" she commanded, and Randi complied. "Again, this is the scene at Harry Truman High School just moments ago," the announcer was saying. "A rush evacuation of the entire third floor of Building One resulted in another 247 students and teachers escaping. None of these escapees had been harmed during the seige. WGN has learned that the man helping the hostages to escape is a Dr. John Carter, an Emergency Services physician at Cook County General Hospital, who had been present in the building this morning for a college diversity recruitment drive. It has been said that Dr. Carter has already sustained injuries of his own, and it is being speculated that the gunmen are now searching the building for him. Immediately after this group of evacuees began exiting the building, shots were heard being fired on the third floor, and several of those WGN has been able to interview have reported that while they were ignored during their escape, two of the gunmen were firing at Dr. Carter..." "Dear God," Luka breathed. He glanced down at Abby, noticing that she had turned a very ghastly shade of white, and put his arm around her. Dave Malucci sat down very suddenly on the chair he had stood up from, his legs having grown too weak to support his weight. Kerry closed her eyes and placed her head in her hands, fighting down a sudden wave of nausea and praying for John's safety. No one spoke. The only sound in the room was the announcer's voice, saying that she was now going to a reporter on the scene at Cook County General. Dave looked up at the screen, immediately recognizing the ambulance bay and then looked out the doors. They were there; a reporter and a camera crew, assembled right in the middle of the bay, right in front of the doors, blocking the entrance of any ambulances that might need to come in. Frustrated, frightened, helpless, angry, and unable to contain himself any more, Malucci jumped up from his chair and stormed toward the ambulance bay doors. "Those sons of bitches!" he yelled. "Those damn, ignorant, inconsiderate sons of bitches!" "Dave!!" Kerry called after him as he slammed his way out through the doors. "I've got him, Kerry," Luka assured her, placing his left hand on her shoulder. With his right, he gave Abby a quick squeeze of comfort, and then jogged off in pursuit of the hot-headed resident. The reporter had just completed his story when Dave appeared beside him, shoving him forward. "Get the hell out of here!" The man simply snorted, turning his back on the angry doctor. "Freedom of the press, buddy. This is public property, and that Carter guy is one hell of a story. Almost stabbed to death a year ago, driven by the death of his own student..." Dave didn't say a word. His fist slammed into the side of the man's face before either of them realized what had happened. "He's not a story!" the resident screamed. "He's a person! He's a man, and a doctor, and my friend! He's not some goddamned story! Now get the hell out of here!!" The reporter turned back around, cradling his sore jaw in his hand. "Man, that's it. I'm calling the cops. That's assault!" "Please do call the police," said a quiet, thickly accented voice from behind them. "You will save us the trouble. You are blocking the entrance to an emergency medical facility, and if you and your cameras are not out of here in thirty seconds, you will be arrested." The reporter motioned for the camera crew to pack up and move back out into the street. "You'll be hearing from my lawyer!" he called to Malucci as they left the ambulance bay. "Asshole!" Malucci replied. "Dave?" Luka stepped forward, placing a comforting hand on the resident's shoulder, not surprised to feel it shaking. "What if he's dead, Luka?" Dave asked quietly, his voice broken by tears. "What if he's dead, and all they care about is what kind of prize they might win with him, or what kind of scoop they're getting by being here when they bring his body in, or..." He broke off, unable to continue. Luka didn't answer. He didn't know what to say, and had a feeling that Malucci didn't really want an answer. He simply stood, his hand on the younger man's shoulder, giving him what comfort he could. After a few seconds, Dave straightened, drawing in a ragged breath and hurriedly wiping the tears from his cheeks. "He's not a damn story," he repeated, turning and walking back to the doors. "No, he's not," Luka whispered at his back. "He's so much more than that."