Not a single word.
He was telling the story of his son doing something bad or not doing something he should have--because he'd been living for today and not tomorrow, which really was today. Hm. Did that mean--
Suddenly a loud bang, from somewhere outside the hall, shook the windows. Nearby.
Gasps from the audience. Everyone looked toward the lobby. The author fell silent, frowning with concern.
Now screams from outside too. Then another bang louder, closer.
That wasn't a backfire. Cars didn't backfire anymore. Ardel knew it was a gunshot. She'd been to a range a couple of times when her husband was alive. She hadn't wanted to fire a gun
, so she just sat back and watched the fanatics shiver with excitement over the weapons and talk shop.
Another shot--closer yet.
Words zipped around them. "Jesus what's going on did you hear that where's it coming from it's not gunshots fuck yes it is a gunshot!"
The manager, a paunchy man in a blue button-down shirt, hurried to a fire door, which he pushed open. A fast look out. He stepped back in fast, eyes wide.
"Listen! There's a guy with a gun. Outside. Coming this way!" He pulled the door shut but it swung open, thanks to the taped-down locks.
People were rising to their feet, a wave, grabbing purses and books they'd brought to be signed. Or abandoning them and turning toward the entrance. Folding chairs skidded aside. Some were knocked over.
Another shot, two more. More screams from outside.
"Jesus Lord," Ardel whispered. The two women were on their feet now, in roughly the middle of the hall.
"Ardie, what's going on?"
One man, a big guy with a graying crew cut, strode toward a window. Former military, it seemed. He too looked out. "There he is! He's coming this way. He's got an automatic!"
Cries of "No," "Jesus," "Call nine-one-one!"
Dozens of people, eyes wide, surged for the emergency doors. "No, not that way!" someone called. "He's out there. I think he's shooting people outside."
"Get back!"
A brilliant security light came on. No! Ardel thought. All the easier to see his targets.
A loud thunk inside the venue set off screams. But it wasn't a shot. The author dropped the microphone as he leapt up and pushed some attendees out of the way, running for the lobby. A dozen people ran after him. A clot of them jammed the doorway. One woman screamed and fell back, clutching a horribly twisted arm.
Another shot from the direction of the lobby. Most of those who'd run that way returned to the main hall.
Ardel, crying, grabbed Sally's hand and they tried to move away from the exit doors. But it was impossible. They were trapped in a sweating knot of people, muscle to muscle.
"Calm down! Get back!" Ardel cried, her voice choking. Sally was sobbing too, as were dozens of others around them.
"Where're the police?"
"Get back, get off me..."
"Help me. My arm, I can't feel my arm!"
Deafening screams, screams so loud they threatened to break eardrums. As the mass pressed back from the exit doors, several people stumbled--one elderly man went down under a column of feet. He screamed; his leg was clearly broken. Only through sheer strength, superhuman strength, it seemed, did two young men, maybe grandsons, manage to pry apart the crowd and get the man to his feet. He was pale and soon went unconscious.
Two more shots, very close to the exit doors now.
The crowd surged away from the doors and toward the windows. Everyone was insane now, possessed with fury and panic. Slugging each other, trying to move back, thinking maybe, if anybody was thinking at all, that if they were not in the front line the bodies in front of them would take the bullets and the gunman would run out of ammunition or be shot by the police before he could kill more.