In the remote, snow-swept mountain town of Tumbler Ridge, British Columbia – a tiny community of just 2,400 souls nestled in the foothills of the Rockies, more than 1,100 km from Vancouver – a peaceful Tuesday afternoon shattered into unimaginable nightmare.

At around 1:30 p.m. on February 10, 2026, the quiet halls of Tumbler Ridge Secondary School erupted into chaos when an 18-year-old former student, identified by police as Jesse Van Rootselaar, stormed the building armed with a firearm and opened fire.

What followed was one of the deadliest school shootings in Canadian history: eight people brutally slain, including six innocent children as young as 12, an educator, and the gunwoman herself, who turned the weapon on herself after the rampage. Another 27 were wounded, some fighting for their lives in hospital. Two more victims – the shooter’s own mother and 11-year-old stepbrother – were found dead at a nearby home, victims of the same killer who had begun her deadly spree there before targeting the school she once attended.

This marks Canada’s most devastating school massacre since the 1989 École Polytechnique tragedy in Montreal, and the bloodiest mass shooting overall since the 2020 Nova Scotia rampage. In a nation proud of its strict gun laws – far tougher than those south of the border – such horrors remain mercifully rare, making this attack all the more shocking.

Now, gripping first-hand accounts from terrified students trapped inside are emerging, painting a harrowing picture of panic, heroism, and raw survival instinct.

Darian Quist, a 17-year-old Grade 12 student, was heading to his mechanics class when everything changed in an instant.

‘I was walking down the hall like any normal day,’ Darian told media in an emotional interview alongside his mother, Shelley. ‘Everything seemed fine – kids laughing, teachers chatting. Then suddenly, a teacher yelled from the corridor: “Lockdown! Active shooter! Close the doors!”‘

At first, like many, Darian thought it might be a drill. ‘We’d had lockdowns before – sometimes for bears wandering too close to town,’ he recalled. ‘But this felt different. The voice was shaking. Urgent.’

As alarms blared and students scrambled, word spread like wildfire via frantic texts: this was no drill. Photos began flooding phones – images of blood pooling in hallways, chaos unfolding just meters away in the adjacent building.

Darian and his classmates didn’t hesitate. ‘We grabbed desks, chairs, anything heavy and barricaded the door,’ he said. ‘We stacked them high, wedged them under the handle. We were all whispering, “What if she comes here?” Hearts pounding so loud I thought everyone could hear.’

For more than two and a half agonizing hours, the group huddled in near-silence, phones on silent, praying the barricade would hold. ‘We talked about escape routes – windows, back doors – but we knew running could mean running straight into her. So we waited. Just waited. Every creak in the building felt like the end.’

Darian didn’t hear the gunshots himself – the killer’s rampage played out primarily on the upper floor of the opposite wing – but the terror was visceral. ‘Friends sent pictures. Blood everywhere. It was like a horror movie, but real. You could feel the fear in the air, thick. People were crying quietly, holding hands, telling each other “It’s going to be okay” even when we didn’t believe it.’

One younger student, a Grade 9 pupil, described an even more claustrophobic nightmare: hiding crammed inside a classroom cupboard with classmates, barely daring to breathe as footsteps echoed nearby.

Outside, panic gripped parents. Shelley Quist, Darian’s mother, was working at a nearby hospital when news broke. From her office window, she could see police swarming the school. ‘I wanted to run there, straight to my boy,’ she said, tears streaming. ‘A colleague physically held me back. “You can’t – you’ll get hurt.” I called Darian over and over: “Keep your phone on. Stay down. I love you.”‘

When armed officers finally stormed the building and began clearing rooms, the sound of doors being kicked in brought a mix of relief and fresh terror. ‘We heard banging, shouting – “Police! Come out!”‘ Darian remembered. ‘Then they reached us. They moved us out, single file, hands up. I saw the blood in the halls as we passed. I’ll never unsee it.’

Shelley raced to the community centre where evacuated students were being reunited with families. ‘When I saw him, I just grabbed him and held so tight. I couldn’t let go. My baby was alive.’

The shooter, Van Rootselaar – a local teen who had dropped out years earlier and reportedly struggled with mental health issues, prompting multiple police welfare checks at her home – had acted alone, authorities confirmed. Born biologically male but identifying as female for the past six years, she legally acquired at least one of the weapons used, though details remain under investigation.

British Columbia Premier David Eby praised the rapid police response: officers arrived within two minutes of the first 911 calls. RCMP Deputy Commissioner described the scene as ‘fast-moving and complex,’ with forensic teams still processing the school and the family home days later.

The small town is reeling. Mayor Darryl Krakowka fought back tears: ‘This community is broken. We all knew the victims. They were our kids, our neighbours.’ Vigils have sprung up – candles, teddy bears, flowers piled high outside the community centre overlooking the school.

Prime Minister Mark Carney issued a statement: ‘Our nation mourns with you. Canada stands by you in this dark hour.’

Darian Quist, still processing the trauma, spoke of the surreal aftermath. ‘It feels like a bad dream – like something from TV, not real life. But it is real. Kids died. Families are destroyed. How do we go back to school? How do we feel safe again?’

As investigators dig into the motive – still unknown – and autopsies continue, one thing is clear: in this isolated corner of Canada, where everyone knows everyone, the scars will last a lifetime.

For now, a grieving town clings to fragile hope amid the horror. ‘We will get through this together,’ locals say. But the question lingers: how?