I’m going to miss that bitch.
My brain is locked into survival mode at this point. Get myself out, get one of the stashed guns, come back and save the boys. That’s not just it, Bernadette, I realize as I keep my footsteps light, moving as fast as I can without letting my soles squeak against the linoleum. You’re just like Hael. You’ve always wanted to be the good guy.
There’s a part of me that I can’t crush that wants to save Ms. Keating and our gay blond math teacher Miss Addie and even stupid ass Billie because I feel sorry for her kid.
And that’s why I couldn’t kill Kali.
Because it hurt me to look into her eyes with my hands wrapped around her throat. Not because of her. Me. I didn’t want to see someone who used to be my best friend dying underneath me in the dark woods.
I start running when I hear a door open, and then I just dive to the floor on instinct. Bullets pepper the front entryway of the school as I roll to one side and end up pressed against the door to the security office, a bank of lockers on my left protecting me from the gunman temporarily.
This is Vic’s locker, I think, glancing over at it. The same fucking locker he was standing in front of when I called out Havoc. The feeling that gives me is surreal as I shove myself up to my feet, knowing that no help is coming from the dark and empty office.
For the first time today, I managed to sneak a small switchblade on campus, right past the metal detectors and the cops and the drug dogs. Asking Cal to teach me a few tricks might’ve just saved my life. Thank fuck, because that’s the only weapon I have. That, and the pencil I accidentally took with me when Mr. Darkwood banished me from the classroom.
His body isn’t too far away from where I’m crouched, a pool of crimson spreading out beneath him. There’s a possibility that he’s still alive since his fingers keep twitching. Stacey, on the other hand … well, I just won’t look at Stacey’s body.
In a few seconds, the gunman will come into view and that’ll be my one and only chance to make a stand. I slip the knife from my back pocket, hunker down, and ready myself to lunge at this motherfucker the first chance I get.
The man appears a second later. He’s anticipating me being here, but he doesn’t expect me to throw myself forward and stab the blade into his upper thigh. He stumbles backward in a sea of blooming red as I rise up and then throw myself into his stomach. We hit the floor together as I whip the pencil from my pocket, slamming it down as hard as I can into the man’s eye.
As much as I hesitated with Kali, I can’t hesitate here.
I stand up as he bleeds and scrabbles around, reaching for the gun that got knocked away when he fell. I could’ve grabbed it, too, if another shooter hadn’t appeared from the direction of the cafeteria. Instead, I drop down, crawling for another one of the alcoves that lines this hallway. Every door is inset, with rows of lockers on either side, giving me just enough space to hide in.
The man I just stabbed is already dead, shot by his comrade in arms in his rabid attempt to shoot me.
I lean against the door, still breathing hard, knowing that even if I were to knock or scream, nobody would let me in. They don’t want a wolf inside their sheep pen. Biting my lip, I feel all of that fear and confusion just bleed out of me. They already know where you are, Bernie, so what do you have to lose?
I cup my hands around my mouth and let out a howl. It’s wordless, but I’m clearly crying Havoc here. Where are my dogs of war? That’s what I’m asking in a simple, primal sound.
My new attacker, the one who’s so fucking loyal to the GMP that he shot his injured friend in order to get to me, takes fire at me before he’s even rounded the corner enough to see where I’m at. Bullets bury themselves in the wall and the metal fronts of the lockers as I crouch down, readying myself to attempt the same trick twice.
I can hear the sound of a door opening, the faintest cry of someone howling in response to me, and then the noise of it slamming shut again. The ruckus causes the gunman to pause briefly, head whipping around to take in the new threat. I don’t wait, not even for a heartbeat’s worth of time, standing up and whipping around the corner fast enough that I’m able to get an arm around the guy’s throat before he can fire his weapon.
I hang off of him from behind, squeezing as hard as I can and letting my feet come up off the floor as he thrashes. That puts my own bodyweight into the move, giving me the extra bit of force that I need to pull this off against someone that’s so much larger than I am.
This guy is smarter than the last one though. He bends forward suddenly, trying to throw me off of his back as I lock my thick ass thighs around him and hang on for dear life—quite literally.
Two men come around the corner as we struggle … followed by four more.
That’s six plus the one I’m already choking for a grand total of seven.
Seven GMP motherfuckers up in my ragged ass school.
I am fucked. I am beyond fucked.
Then I see the blood, the flecks on the clothing of the men that’ve just appeared. They’ve already killed people. And, seeing as they’ve likely come here just to say hi to Havoc, I’m filled with this primal terror that one of the boys might be dead.
A noise like a backfiring car echoes around the hallway—the sound of a weapon without a silencer being fired. One of the GMP’s soldiers falls to the ground, bleeding from the head as the majority of the men turn to find out where the shot just came from. Another shot, another man on the ground. It’s hard for me to tell what, exactly, is going on since I’m still in the midst of a primal struggle for my life, but … I’m pretty sure I see a skeleton-masked face emerging from the hole where the ceiling vent was.
Whoever it is—let’s be honest, it’s gotta be Callum—can make a hasty retreat back into the ceiling if needed. This is a distraction meant to get me the fuck out of here. I’m at least smart enough to recognize that.
I let go of the man I’m choking and turn, hating my heels, thankful that I’m Prescott High’s most talented bitch. Don’t like running in them, and it hurts, but if need be, I’ll do it. I’d have kicked them off if they didn’t have straps.
I’m out the front door and halfway down the steps when I run into James Barrasso.
He’s smiling at me, and the sight of it makes me gag.
Something he said the other night burns like fire in my brain. “Not if I can help it.” That was his reply when Trinity declared she was going to marry Vic. I have a bad feeling that this is what he meant by that.
“Grab her,” he says to one of the men standing beside him. Hands reach for me, but I’ve got nowhere to go and nothing left to fight with. I swing at them anyway. Like a cat pinned by a dog, I’ll fight with all my claws. “We’ll use her to lure Victor outside.”
The first punch to the jaw hurts, but it’s the one to my stomach that knocks the air out of me. Then there are just too many of them, boots slamming into my back, my stomach, the side of my head.
I end up choking on blood on the grass in front of Prescott High.
“You are pathetic,” Kali whispers to me, reappearing for the first time since I fucked Victor in his closet. Standing behind her, I can see all of the others, too. I can see Coraleigh Vincent, Neil Pence and Ivy Hightower, Eric and Todd, Mitch and Logan. I’m so conflicted and twisted up with all of my own bullshit that I’ve written a metaphor so real inside my head that I can see it now, right there in front of me, with eyes wide open. “This is always how you were meant to find your end.”
Jimmy saunters up to me, trying to roll me over with his boot. But I’m not a dog. I don’t perform tricks. When he can’t get me to move, he kicks me as hard as he can, and I vomit blood. It’s involuntary; I can’t help it.
“Stupid, frigid bitch,” he bites out with a laugh, leaning down to look at me. “You’re lucky your buddy stumbled in on us at the party.” He sweeps some hair away from my face as I lie there with all of my failures, my critics, my betrayers, standing above me and gloating. Is that how
I want to die? Quiet and bleeding and shaking? “I was going to fuck you and kill you right then. This is better.”
He stands up and pulls a gun from his shoulder holster, sea glass eyes as empty and cold as a bottle with a note that will forever drift on an angry sea. The barrel is aimed right at me; I’m staring down the face of death in the form of some misogynistic sister-fucker.
No goddamn way.
“Victor Channing, I’ve got your girl!” James calls out, looking up at the barred windows of the school. “You’ve got two minutes to get your ass out here.”
Breathe, Bernie, breathe. I decide that my best option here is to throw myself at James the way I did with my first attacker, aim my elbow for his dick. Maybe he’ll drop his gun? Maybe I can grab it? There isn’t much else I can do.
But I’m going to fight until endless darkness finally takes me, that much I can promise.
Guess I’d forgotten yet again that Havoc never does anything in half measures.
One of the cars across the street—a vintage one belonging to a member of our crew—explodes, bathing the air in yellow and orange flames. The wave of heat alone is enough to make James stumble, and that’s before the second bomb goes off. And then the third.
Hael.
I shove up to my feet, and I run, bleeding and broken but not beaten.
No, never that.
Never.
Callum Park
Ten minutes earlier …
Trouble has a smell.
I know for a fact that it does because I always catch a whiff of it just before shit goes down. It tastes like wet copper on the back of your tongue, and its scent is as sharp as rubbing alcohol. Even before my phone buzzes in my pocket with an incoming text, I can sense it.
Something is wrong.
Ignoring the droning words of my first period teacher, I slip my phone from my pocket and stare down at the text from Bernadette.
Mare’s nest.
It’s an interesting phrase, isn’t it?
Actually, it’s been around for hundreds of years. According to the 1811 edition of the Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, you could say something like, “This man has found a mare’s nest and is laughing at the eggs” to indicate insanity. During that same time period, it also came to mean a place, situation, or condition of great confusion and disorder. As if, say, someone had wreaked havoc in their wake. That usage stemmed from what was very likely a misunderstanding of the original phrase.
And that’s why it’s perfect for us as a safety word.
It means havoc, but only to some people. Everyone else just misunderstands and the meaning changes. Only we know what, exactly, that phrase means to us.
I stand up from my chair so quickly and so silently that nobody else in the class seems to notice. My footfalls are mere whispers as I creep along the back of the classroom and exit into the hallway.
My absolute first destination in any crisis is Bernadette which means I head straight for Mr. Darkwood’s class in the main hall. Before I even round the first corner in that direction, I hear heavy footfalls traveling my way.
Without a second thought, I haul myself up and onto the top of the metal lockers that line either side of the hallway, waiting to see who it is that’s coming with such confident, sturdy footsteps.
Two men round the corner, wearing ski masks and carrying pistols outfitted with silencers.
Executioners.
GMP executioners.
It takes them a second to spot me, but that’s enough time for me to pull the knife from the pocket of my shorts and chuck it at the throat of the first man like I’m playing darts. The blade digs into his throat, spilling blood as he pulls the trigger on his weapon and sends several stray shots into the ceiling and, coincidentally, into his partner as he flails around and bleeds all over the floors of Prescott High.
The alarm goes off, the automated system warning of a school shooter on campus. That’s about as advanced as our technology is here at Prescott. There are no automatic locks on the classroom doors, no live security feed with which to follow the intruders’ movements.
This is something Havoc is going to have to handle personally.
As the two men bleed and struggle in the hall, I get on my knees and remove the vent directly above my head, crawling into the metal duct that’s been carefully reinforced for the sole purpose of holding my weight. We made this alteration during sophomore year, but we’ve never had a reason to use it.
I’m beyond grateful for it now.
As soon as I slip into the duct, I pull the rubber skeleton mask from inside my hoodie and slide it on, shimmying down the length of the hallway and in the direction of Bernadette’s first period class. There’s no room in my head for panic; panic doesn’t do anybody any good.
Instead, I focus on getting to her as quickly as I possibly can, not bothering to hide the sound of my movements and opting for speed over stealth. The alarm continues to blare as I work my way around the corner and pause. A distant howl catches my attention, followed shortly by one directly below me.
I know immediately that the sound of the first one was Bernadette.
I crawl as quickly as I can, finding the vent cover closest to where I heard the sound of the first howl, and then I carefully lift it up so that I can pull it into the ceiling with me. Lying on my back, I lean my head out of the hole so I can see what’s going on before I drop down.
Yes, I’m upside down, but I can see everything I need to see from here without having to put myself in an awkward position. That, and I know that to anyone looking, I’m scary as fuck.
There, in the middle of the turmoil, is Bernadette. She has eight gunmen facing her from the north end of the hall while she grapples with a ninth.
She can’t possibly understand how I feel about her, that much I do know. And the reason for that is, she lives for so much more than just herself. She has dreams, even if she won’t admit them. Dreams of poetry and travel and discovery. When I lost the ability to dance, I felt like I lost everything that made me human.
Everything but for Bernadette, the childhood flame that roared inside my cold heart like an inferno. There were shadows everywhere, but there was at least one light. That light is her for me, the only source of illumination in a tired soul.
I reach up and grab the pistol that’s taped to the ductwork above my head, using my feet to brace myself as I take the two easiest shots. In the ensuing turmoil, I roll onto my belly and use my arms for leverage to lower myself out of the hole.
This is almost fun. Or it would be, if Bernie wasn’t in danger.
An unwanted laugh slips from my throat as I drop down into a crouch and lift the pistol at the same time, taking aim and firing at the back of one man’s head before I even stand up fully.
As I rise from my crouch, I take aim at another.
Bernie is quick though, using the time I’ve just bought her to get outside of the school. She’s either fleeing or going for the guns we’ve left taped to the underside of one of the dumpsters. I’m betting on the latter. Bernadette is not a woman who runs from scary situations. She might have a heart that’s too big and too kind for this world, but she does not run.
She is not a coward.
The remaining men take their shots at me, but I duck into one of the alcoves and then hit my fist against the door behind me in a very distinct rhythm. One of our crew opens it up, letting me in and then relocking it just as fast.
There’s a window in here that already has the iron bars on the outside of it bent apart far enough to accommodate a person of my height and weight. I know there is because Havoc is the one who made it that way.
I shoot the window out as most of the Prescott students in the room scream. But that’s okay, I’m used to people screaming. They don’t factor at all into my movements as I hop outside and start running toward the front of the school, rounding the corner just in time to see Bernadette on the ground in front of James Barrasso.
One of the cars across the st
reet explodes in a violent plume of orange and red, drawing the man’s attention. Seconds later, another vehicle explodes. And then another.
Yep, definitely Hael’s handiwork.
Bernadette is up and on her feet in a second, sprinting around the corner of the school toward the delivery door that leads to the cafeteria, the very spot where we’ve stashed some of our weapons. I follow after her, pausing to unload the magazine into the backs of the men chasing after James.
Several of them turn and take cover, forcing me to stop and do the same.
Gunfire fills the air in a violent and seemingly endless wave, but I stay where I am, crouched down behind a massive piece of tree trunk, some old growth monster that was put here when the school was built to be used as a sign. It once said Prescott High, Home of the Loggers on a decorative plaque affixed to the front. Now it says Home of the Floggers which is almost as accurate.
I don’t move, reserving the remaining rounds in the gun for shots I think I can actually make.
Once they realize I’m not returning fire, my attackers stop and conserve their own ammo. Crouching low, I stand up and dart back around the side of the school in the opposite direction from Bernadette. It’s the only way I’m going to get back into the building itself with so many members of the GMP lurking around.
Using the hood of an employee’s car, I climb back up to the same broken window I used before. Only this time, when I start to haul myself up and into the classroom, I feel it.
The sharp sting of a garrote being wrapped around my fucking neck.
Bernadette Blackbird
The guns are exactly where we left them, taped to the underside of the dumpster. I’ve only got enough time to remove one of them before the first man skids around the corner. His gang tattoo—that bright red scrawl on his arm—seems to catch the light as I whirl around and lift the weapon at the same time.
Oddly enough, it’s the Thing’s voice that I hear echoing in my head, a distant flicker of memory of a shooting range, of thirteen-year-old me with a grudge and a chip on her shoulder.
Anarchy at Prescott High Page 37