“Morning, Anna,” Lucy said to her as she walked away, impressed with her own civility.
“It’s crazy in there,” Anna replied without turning around.
Lucy pivoted and opened her mouth to ask how, but Ethan motioned her away. “Go! I’m leaving in five minutes if you’re back or not. It wouldn’t be fair for Mom to have to kill two children in one day.” Anna mustered a weak smile before climbing into the car beside Ethan and shutting the door, a mopey argument ensuing before Lucy was even out of earshot.
Slipping in through a small patchwork of shrubbery, Lucy walked with purpose and determination toward the door—which had been tagged some time ago with bright neon green spray-paint. She tugged on the handle and the door pulled open, leading to a damp, dark stairwell. A dim light guided her forward; the handrails were sticky with used gum wads and crushed soda cans were abandoned in the corners—the smell of mildew, dirt, and urine permeated the air.
When she pushed on the door leading to the supply closet, the door opened and then crashed back into her shoulder; she groaned. Someone had placed the old pool cover against the door. She aligned her shoulder, grabbed the handle, and pushed with all her strength—the metal cart rolled inch by inch with each well-placed body-slam. Lucy squeezed her body through the opening she had created and then, because she couldn’t get back out that way anyway, shoved the pool cover back against the door. Then for good measure, she toppled some dusty chairs down too. She let her imagination play out what would happen when Anna tried to get back into the school after her rendezvous with Ethan—the daydream ended with Anna sporting a bruised shoulder while seething in In-School Suspension.
It made the unfortunate events of the morning seem a little less ominous.
While Lucy navigated the supply and the pool, she grabbed her phone. Four minutes. And still no texts from Salem. Even in mourning, Salem would make an attempt to connect. Salem allowed herself to feel no emotion unless it could be experienced with someone else. Where was she and why was she silent? No lamentations, no messages with excessive capitalization and punctuation. No farewell wishes or “Bon voyage!” or “Bring me back a necklace!”
With her eyes on her phone, Lucy checked her feed.
She stopped walking because she was unable to process what she was seeing and move forward at the same time.
All over the country, people were sending and posting alarming updates. In just thirty-minutes everything had gone from sad and speculative to real and nightmarish. A sickness was spreading. Hospitals couldn’t handle the intakes of the ailing who were arriving at steady-intervals. Someone who worked in an ER posted a photo of a crowded hallway, the caption reading: “Busy day. Damn this flu.” So-and-so had heard that 9-1-1 was jammed. A friend who went to another school updated her status to read: RIP Aunt Rosemary.
Lucy’s phone buzzed and she almost shrieked, juggling the device before checking her text. It was Ethan: “Anna says teachers were reporting they were going into lockdown. Get. Out. Homework not worth it. Mom will deal.”
Lockdown.
They had done a lockdown drill during the first week of school.
It meant there was an immediate threat to the student body within, or around, the school. All students would be held in classrooms until the lockdown was lifted. Lucy took a step forward around the empty cement cavern; she could see from her vantage point the long stretch of hallway dedicated to the science department. The lights were dimmed. The entire place was clear of movement. If she could get straight down the hallway, closer to the English classrooms, she would be able to get to her locker and exit out the double-doors that opened toward the senior parking lot.
The high school was built as a giant rectangle. Students could start walking in one direction and the school would eventually lead them back to their starting point—classrooms lined the inside and outside of the rectangle. There were small hallways off the ends leading to the pool and the library on the opposite side. The science hallway ran at one end and directly down from the main office; the other end of the hallway passed by the gym, the cafeteria, the counseling center, and eventually the social studies hallway. Then came the English and math hallways. At her present location, she could not be further from her locker, but at least her exit would be close.
“Go to senior lot. By double-doors,” she texted to her brother and then opened the door from the pool, aware of the clunking echo of the metal swinging open. For good measure she added a text: “I can do this.”
She had never heard the school so quiet. On her tiptoes, she crept forward, moving at a fast enough pace to make it to her brother on time, but slow enough to watch for a patrolling guard or a teacher on-watch. But after fifteen feet, Lucy realized that the classrooms were abandoned. The lights were turned off; the desks were empty. She pressed her face against the glass of one room; there were discarded backpacks scattered on desktops and on the floor—books and papers without owners, a solitary shoe, coats still hanging on the backs of chairs. Students had been asked to leave in a hurry.
She shivered.
The clock showed that it was partway through first period. With great trepidation, Lucy moved forward, inch by inch, stepping along the white tiled flooring, her feet tapping along, the only sound in earshot.
Down the hall, Lucy heard the distinct crackle of a walkie-talkie. She pushed her body into a small opening between a locker and a drinking fountain and held her breath. Her phone vibrated in her hand. In the absence of all other noise, the vibrating seemed loud and commanding while drawing attention to her hiding space. She pushed the ignore button with her thumb and closed her eyes.
There had to be rational explanations. Students and teachers were frightened by the news and had been called to an emergency assembly. Perhaps the grief over pets and sick loved ones had impeded any valuable learning and the students were ushered into an impromptu counseling session. During Lucy’s freshman year, a senior football player was killed in a car accident. The administration canceled every class and held a series of honorary assemblies and meetings with counselors—they even held a vigil out by the flagpole.
Occam’s Razor.
Her father taught her that.
The simplest explanation was usually correct.
They were under lockdown out of fear, not necessity. The students were at an assembly, perhaps to alleviate or control the rising worries. The pets were dead because someone had poisoned them. People were not in danger.
Her father had told her: She was not in danger.
Back on her feed, all the doomsday prophets were broadcasting their end of the world theories as a full-fledged assault. Several of her feed items were calls to faith in the midst of judgment day. If Lucy believed in evangelical Christianity, she would have guessed her classmates had been spirited away through rapture. But Lucy shook her head and scowled—she may not be perfect, but she had a hard time believing that God would leave her behind and take the entirety of Pacific Lake High School instead.
This was ridiculous. The overreacting. The fear.
“Bears are not trying to poison me,” she thought to herself. “Bears are not trying to poison me.”
There was no way that any of this amounted to anything remotely exciting. She just needed her damn homework so she could go on vacation with her family. For a moment, she thought of just walking with confidence down toward her locker, and if a guard stopped her, she would just say with calm precision, “My ride to the airport is waiting outside. I just need my Ray Bradbury book and I’ll be on my way.”
The walkie-talkie crackled again, but it was moving away from her. Further down the hall it traveled. A man’s voice, some security guard, sounded an “All Clear” for the science and main hallways. The talking turned a corner, toward the cafeteria, and away from her.
Two minutes.
With a deep breath, Lucy hesitated. Then, without thought, she sprinted, running as fast as her legs would carry her, shoes slapping heavily on the tile. She closed her eye
s and ran; straight by lockers and classrooms, past the front of the building and the main office, they were all a blur as she sped down the wide stretch of hallway.
Then, she rounded the corner toward the English hall. Within eyesight of her locker, she slowed her pace, her heart beating with rapid thumps against her chest, blood pounding in her ears. Then her body flew forward. Pain shot up her legs and arms as she hit the tile with a crash, knocking the air out of her body. She landed on her elbows and knees and slid forward several feet before stopping. Her head caught the metal of a locker—a burning pain traveled from the top of her ear and all the way down her neck.
After a few moments, Lucy collected her composure and took in a giant gulp of air. She hoisted herself into a sitting position and then turned to see what had caused her fall.
And that was when she saw the body.
Crumpled in a heap, like someone dropped a wet rag on the floor and left it there.
She scooched herself backward, her feet slipping against the tile, until she felt her back hit the hardness of the lockers. It was a boy, his face turned in her direction, his eyes open and staring past her; one eye, one-solitary eye, was filled with blood, the blackness of the pupil still peeking through the bright red. It was a freshman she didn’t recognize.
One minute.
Lucy stood up, viscerally aware of how her knees wobbled together. Her heart thumped wildly in her chest; pulsating outward all the way to her fingertips. As if walking on a small ledge, she high-stepped along the row of lockers, until she reached her own and only then did she turn around, her hands shaking as she spun the lock.
Nine.
Twenty-six.
Seventeen.
There was a dead boy in the hall.
A dead boy in the hall.
Someone left a dead boy in the hallway.
And yet she was still fully fixated on her homework and getting the hell out of there.
She couldn’t shake the boy’s image as she pulled up and opened the locker with a click. Lucy grabbed her big purple binder that was covered in Salem’s doodles, political cartoons, and a photo of her family stuck on one side and a picture of her holding Harper on the other. She dropped the binder into the backpack and then grabbed her copy of Fahrenheit 451, sliding it into the bag and zipping it up. Only then did she realize she had been holding her breath and she let it in one giant hot gush. Voices down the hall snapped her to attention. Men’s voices, conversational, but hushed.
Time was up.
The voices were gaining on her.
No more than thirty feet away were the doors leading outside. Lucy could hear the distant sounds of sirens traveling up the street. Ethan was out there, waiting for her, and her mother and her family were at home. They had a plane to catch. This couldn’t be happening; she had a plane to catch.
Lucy struggled to wrap her mind around the evidence—the lack of students, the dead classmate. The lockdown. Her fear was intense; Lucy gnawed on her bottom lip until she tasted blood.
Her time was up.
The voices approached. To run to the door now would risk exposure. To wait would risk abandonment. She ducked into the closest classroom, grabbed the handle and shut the door without making a noise. Then she reached for her phone. It blinked with three unread messages. Amidst the panic she had not felt the phone pulsating in her pocket.
The first was a cryptic message from her mother:
“Not what we expected. Please come home. Please come home. NOW.”
The second was from Ethan:
“Mom needs me. She called. She was frantic. Bawling. Screaming. Going home. Taking Anna. We will come back for you. Sit tight.”
The third was from Salem:
“My family is dead. They’re all dead. It’s the end of the world.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Lucy collapsed against the door.
She closed her eyes and listened as the footsteps reached her and then passed her without incident.
When she opened her eyes, she cried out and then flung her hand over her mouth.
Splayed outward in the center of the classroom was another body. A man. His green Levis crept up to his mid-calf, exposing pink and gray argyle socks. The acidic smell of vomit wafted from his direction. Dried blood pooled on the floor, it had trickled down from the twisted mouth, opened wide as if in protest. His skin was yellow and waxy, and his eyes glassed over with a thin film, giving them the appearance of having cataracts.
Lucy knew that she was looking at Mr. North: Senior English teacher, recently married, advisor to the chess club. He was young and funny and impeccably dressed—a combination that added up to an adoring fan club of bright-eyed girls. She turned her head and then she saw the other bodies. A girl, head on her desk and a boy right next to her. And more. Six people altogether.
Some looked like they had sat down and fallen asleep, but others were a twisted mess of limbs and clothing.
She shook her head. A scream caught in her throat.
Lucy dialed her house number on her phone and hit send, but the phone beeped angrily at her. She dialed again. It beeped. Her screen flashed an angry All Circuits Busy message. Busy. Busy. Busy.
Lucy stuck the phone in her pocket and stood up; she gathered up her white shirt and pulled it over her nose and mouth—the futility of this act was not lost on her, but Lucy didn’t know what else to do. She pushed her anxiety away and focused as best she could. Was this related to the dogs? What was happening? Would this happen to her? Had it happened to her family? Where was Ethan? Would he really come back? The questions flooded her brain, and ran in a loop, like a clip playing without stop.
Staying in the room with the dead was not an option, and it was not a fear of the bodies, but a fear of what killed them. Lucy peered out into the hallway and discovering it quiet, left the room with her bag hoisted up on her shoulder. She rounded the corner toward the social studies hall and froze.
Scattered up and down the long hallway were more dead students.
Like the ones before, many of these victims had thrown-up prior to collapsing. They bled from their eyes, noses, and mouths; under the bright florescent lights of the high school, their skin took on a green tint. For the first time, Lucy noticed that one boy was covered in hives. The sickness did not bother her, but the smell was overpowering. While Lucy was certain from her biology classes that decomposition wouldn’t begin for hours or days, these bodies already seemed to bloat and smell like decay. Frozen in the hallway, she watched one boy, eight or ten feet away, and waited to see the subtle movement of his chest—waited to see his breathing resume.
This is what she did during movies after key characters died. She ignored all other dialogue and just watched and waited to see if she could spot the imperceptible movement of life. A short breath or small twitch. Most of the time, the camera cut away before she could see it, but sometimes she was rewarded with the slight rise and fall of an actor’s chest. Then she would clap her hands and jump the scene backward, watching again, pointing out the subtle movement to anyone around.
It was a reminder that this death was not final.
But the boy in the hallway didn’t move, didn’t breathe. He didn’t sit up and laugh and wipe away the blood—corn syrup and food coloring—from his mouth and ask if that was it for the day. This was real.
Her mother’s text haunted her.
In some way, she was comforted by being at the school and staring at this lifeless body of a stranger, instead of facing the grim reality that someone at home had fallen ill after she and Ethan ran off.
Where were all the living people? Where were her friends and teachers? Why was the school achingly quiet? When would Ethan come back for her? Her nagging questions changed direction. She now had one singular focus: Wait for Ethan.
“No one can see me,” she muttered to herself. “No one can know I’m here.” Her hand shook as she raised it to her face to wipe away a flyaway strand of dirty-blonde hair.
Lucy glanced
inside the small rectangular window of a door to a social studies classroom and found it void of bodies and movement. She stepped inside and pushed the closest desk against the door, then another, barricading herself from the multitude of unknown threats with nothing more than cheap furniture. World maps covered the walls, stuck into the thin cardboard walls with multi-colored tacks; a globe had been knocked from its perch on a front table—it had broken open and rolled a few feet and a large cavernous gash extended from the Atlantic Ocean and cut down into South America. Lucy kicked it to the side. Then she climbed up onto a table and tore down an American flag hanging uselessly next to the clock. Using masking tape, she affixed the flag over the small window—blocking the view from the outside. Security on patrol wouldn’t spot her easily and that was comforting.
On the inside of the door, the teacher put up an old World War 2 propaganda poster. “He’s Watching You” it read, with a shady man peering out under his helmet. Lucy turned away from the figure’s militant stare.
The large canvas blinds had already been drawn over the large windows, per lockdown instructions. While everything inside of her wanted to peek out and catch a glimpse of the parking lot, Lucy worried that even the slight rustle of a curtain would give away her position. So, she steered clear. With the lights off, the room was dark. Heat funneled through large vents above her, creating a warm, womblike atmosphere, which made Lucy feel claustrophobic.
Creeping on her tiptoes, Lucy reached her hand up and flipped on the television in the corner. She pressed her pointer-finger on the volume button instantly, lowering it to just barely above mute.
Then she stumbled backward and watched the images flood the screen.
The emergency broadcast system ran below—a ticker of bright red, following by instructions. Stay inside your house. Threat origin unknown. Do not drink water from the tap. Avoid all fruits and vegetables. Avoid contact with infected people. Stay away from populated cities. This is not a test. Stay inside your house.
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