The Virulent Chronicles Box Set

by Shelbi Wescott

  “Thank God! Sal, I’m here too! It’s a long story…but I’m inside Pacific right now. No one can get out, Salem. They have everyone locked inside! It’s a total nightmare.”

  “Lucy, listen. I’m outside. I’m right outside the cafeteria, by the big doors. We can’t get in Lucy. No one can get in!”

  “No one can get out!” Lucy said overlapping. Then she paused and processed their conflicting wishes.

  Another gunshot. Again, she could hear it both in the phone and in her ear. There was a slight delay between one and the other—a small disconnect, as if two shots were ringing out upon each other.

  “Salem? What the hell is going on?”

  “They’re trying to shoot the card lock off. They’re trying to shoot the glass. I tried to tell them it’s bulletproof, but it’s madness here. God, Lucy, help me! Help me, please! Is there another way?” Salem’s voice was beyond begging, her sobs shot through the phone in short bursts of pure panic.

  “I’m coming! Okay, okay! I’m coming,” Lucy yelled into the mouthpiece and, with only a quick look to Mrs. Johnston and the rest of the group—all of whom had frozen to listen to her conversation—she took off running back in the other direction, her phone still pressed to her ear, her backpack rising and falling as she ran, the gravity of it threatening to pull her to the ground. She didn’t know what she would do when she got there, and it only occurred to her that she was running toward gunfire as the cafeteria doors came into view.

  “I’m almost there, Sal. I’m almost there,” she said into her phone.

  “Lula. You have to get me inside the school. You have to get me inside the school right now.”

  Chapter Six

  Lucy slowed to a stop in front of the windows and doors in the cafeteria. They were covered in thick black paper, and even though she couldn’t see the people outside, she could hear them—yelling and crying and pounding on the glass. Part of the district’s safety plan included upgrading all the windows to war-grade fortification, thick, resilient, bulletproof glass. Before the update, an angry student on a rampage after a suspension broke an entire windowpane by throwing a metal garbage can into the center of the cafeteria door. It shattered during the school day and wasn’t replaced until the following evening at which point an assistant principal found a homeless man curled up in the waterless pool.

  Parents were quick to pass the school bond after that.

  Lucy reached as high as she could and grabbed hold of the paper and tore it down. The strip slid to the floor and bathed the area in light. She tore another and another, swinging each discarded piece to the side.

  She stepped back.

  Forty. Maybe fifty—she was never good at estimating—people congregated outside in the alcove beyond the cafeteria doors. They were everywhere, pressing up against the glass, their fists pounding in earnest. A woman near the door was pushed forward, the side of her cheek flat against the smooth surface, and in her arms she held a toddler. The child was wearing a blue backpack, his face stoic, shocked, and he clutched to his mother out of necessity, trusting that she was leading him to safety.

  Lucy scanned the crowd and finally saw Salem a few people deep near the door, waving with wild abandon, tears streaming down her face. Salem was in the clothes she wore yesterday. And for a moment, Lucy wondered if perhaps Salem had never gone to bed. Perhaps she had laid in wait, pondering Bogart, crying with her mother, and snuggling in her mom’s bed. Salem’s mom was a large woman and the soft folds of her body were perfect for hugging. Or maybe, Salem had merely thrown on the first clothes she saw this morning—the ones she had shed the night before near her laundry basket.

  The crowd breathed in and exhaled as one, so Salem seized her chance and pushed against the flow, rushing forward to reach the door. Against the glass at last, she reached her hands up and placed them flat. Lucy sprinted forward and matched them—the two-inch thick windows separated them.

  “What can I do?” she asked. Her voice was loud, booming in the cafeteria; she was shocked by the sound of it. Salem couldn’t hear her but she understood.

  “Please, please, please,” was all Salem said in return. Over and over she said it, begging for Lucy to do the impossible. She took a step back and the crowd surged and what Lucy saw scared her. She could feel her classmates, Clayton, Grant, and the group, assembling behind her, but she dared not turn to look at them. She knew she would see on their faces what she already knew in her heart: There was no way they could open that door.

  Lucy felt a hand on her shoulder, but she didn’t look to see who had approached her. She stayed staring straight ahead, her eyes on Salem and the others, her stomach twisting.

  “Lucy—” she heard Grant say in a voice hovering above a whisper.

  “I know,” she replied without looking at him.

  But her heart ached for everyone who left the pandemonium of the outside world and turned to the high school for shelter and help. The people arrived there hopeful and scared, seeking solace and aid. Some of the people outside, relegated to the perimeter of the crowd, sat huddled with suitcases and other mementos. What had they expected to find? No place was protected from death.

  But this was her friend. Her best friend.

  This was the girl who convinced her to sit on the uppermost part of the jungle gym in the third grade, a book of mythology in their hands, and pretend it was a book of witches’s curses. They sat for an entire recess casting down spells on unsuspecting second-graders. This was the girl who first introduced her to nail polish and told her, in a whisper-voice one night during a slumber party, to be proud of her laugh. Salem was in every major memory from her childhood and into those petrifying and awkward junior high years and into their high school. College was next—shared dorm rooms, double dates: These were the things they dreamed about. And as she watched Salem’s body ebb and flow outside like a wave, Lucy just assumed that it would be her and Salem forever.

  She rushed forward to the doors, not even sure of what she would do once she got there. But she stumbled when she felt a rough hand latching on to her upper arm, forcing her backward. Lucy tripped and ended up on the cold tile of the cafeteria—the floor littered with dried ranch dressing, crushed corn chips, and strings of wilted lettuce.

  Before Lucy could get up, she felt Grant kneeling down next to her.

  “I’m on your side, Lucy,” he said into her ear. “But this is not the way.”

  She paused. Lucy hadn’t even known Grant knew her name. She looked up at him, pleading. “What if there is no other way?” she asked.

  “This can’t be the way,” he repeated and he gestured toward the mob.

  Lucy crawled back to the window. She was still clutching her phone in her hand and she sent Salem a text.

  “Pool door?”

  But her phone kicked back an error message.

  “Send. Send.” She willed it to go through, but it was no use. The phone gave her error message after error message every single time.

  Lucy decided to press her phone against the glass, only for a second, while Salem, and others scrambled to read the message.

  Then Salem froze. Her face fell, her shoulders slumped, and she allowed those around her to toss her around.

  Blocked. She mouthed. Or locked. Then distinctly—No.

  Salem stared directly at Lucy. She motioned around the chaos and someone bumped her. An arm hit the glass, then something hit Salem’s head and she rocked backward, reeling away. Salem’s body pitched downward and someone pulled her arm behind her back and flung her to the ground.

  Salem cried out.

  Then she shut her eyes tight; she tried to wiggle upward, and when she opened her eyes, she stared right at Lucy.

  Salem shook her head. Just once. Fear flooding her face, defeat and worry settling around the dark pockets of skin under her eyes.

  It was just a small look, but Lucy’s insides twisted with guilt.

  “I will get you inside,” she called, squatting to put herself close t
o Salem’s face. She pointed at her friend and then put a hand on her heart. “I will.”

  Lucy tried to communicate dedication and strength with her body and facial expressions alone; she tried to send Salem comfort instead of fear. She could not open the door, but she would not leave her friend outside to die.

  “I will!” Lucy screamed and she pounded the glass.

  And that was when Lucy felt heavy hands upon her, closing in around her collarbone and dragging her away from the window. Not the gentle redirection of Grant, but strong adult hands that dug into the flesh on her shoulders. The security guards poured around the windows, armed with duct tape and the discarded black paper. Working swiftly—place, tape, repeat, place, tape, repeat—the men covered the windows again and the cafeteria succumbed back into the shadows, the muffled shouts from the people outside emanating from beyond the blackness.

  Salem was lost behind the partition.

  “I’m sorry,” Lucy sobbed into her hands, even though Salem couldn’t hear her. She kicked her legs and tried to pull away from the hands that held her. “Sal…I’m so sorry.” Fingers dug deeply into her bone and the pain radiated down her chest.

  The mother and her son. The faces of that mother and her son burned into Lucy’s brain. Salem. Everyone. It was unfair.

  “Those people…all those people…” Lucy mumbled. She turned to see that it was Friendly Kent who held her back. He loosened his grip but kept his hands on her, wary and watchful. Seeing the anger flash across Friendly Kent’s face, Lucy felt doubly betrayed.

  Grant watched Lucy from a few steps behind. And it was only now that Mrs. Johnston made an appearance, the staccato clip-clap-clip-clap of her heels full of reprimand.

  A larger security guard, who’d helped place the paper over the windows, pivoted and turned toward Lucy. He raised an angry finger, poised to launch. But Grant raised his voice instead, preventing the verbal onslaught.

  “That’s a Pacific Lake student out there. And I bet she’s not the only one,” he took a step forward. “Principal Spencer said his main concern was keeping students safe. So, then why aren’t we keeping all students safe?”

  “Enough,” Friendly Kent said. “Back to your rooms.”

  “Those people didn’t look infected,” Lucy added. “They’re just scared.”

  “They’re armed. Are you out of your minds?” Friendly Kent replied. Then he settled back and crossed his arms across his chest. “I’ve waited my entire career to say this. You teenagers are idiots. Complete and total scum of the earth. Everything we’re doing is to protect you, but you think you’ve got a better plan? Of course you do. I’d be happy to unload the lot of you right back out into the fray.”

  “We aren’t protected in here either,” Grant responded. “Look! Look around.” Two more students emerged from their original group of ten, but no one else. Four had succumbed to the virus in the last ten minutes.

  “We’re not keeping anything out! The sickness is already here. Don’t you see that?” Grant continued.

  Friendly Kent raised his eyes to Mrs. Johnston and pursed his lips. “Get them back. Now.” His command was swift. He yanked Lucy to her feet and shoved her forward, Grant followed behind.

  Even their teacher bristled from his tone, but she nodded and obeyed. Mrs. Johnston grabbed Lucy by the arm and turned her toward the group, then she motioned for Grant, Clayton, Purse Girl, and the others to line up, follow along. They exited the cafeteria, back to following the letter of the law without question.

  Everything about the situation made Lucy sick.

  “Don’t you see?” Mrs. Johnston asked when they were out of earshot. “Isn’t it clear by now?” She waited, for an answer, but no one answered. “There is no great master plan. It’s chaos. Inside and outside.”

  Slower this time, they walked the long corridor. Purse Girl’s eyes were wide open as she shuffled along, but Clayton still kept a firm hand on her elbow, propelling her forward.

  “Those people will find a way inside,” Grant muttered. “Two administrators and a small team of failed mall cops are gonna keep them out?”

  Mrs. Johnston nodded. She took several steps forward and stopped, her voice shaking, “Everyone’s lied to you. Your whole lives. See what happens when the world falls apart…see what happens when everything you know crumbles?” Her eyes were wild. “You realize. You will see. It’s the assholes who inherit the earth.”

  Room 126 felt like a tomb. Mrs. Johnston kept the lights off, and she huddled at her desk, refreshing the Internet browser on her computer religiously and keeping her phone situated in her line-of-sight, next to a picture of her husband and her kids. For the most part, she ignored the students in her charge. If anyone tried to talk to her or lean over her shoulder, she shooed them away, relegating them back to the uncomfortable chairs or coarse carpeting. Pretense melted away—there was no time for comforting pep talks. They could tell they were in danger and no one was trying to spin it any other way.

  Every ten minutes a security guard popped his head in and did a quick head count, then he shut the door and moved on. Every ten minutes. Like clockwork.

  When Mrs. Johnston taught her English classes, she was like a puppy dog—full of boundless energy and eager naiveté—and it was something that Lucy always appreciated. This notion that someone still woke up enthusiastic about Jonathan Edwards’ “Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God” and would read it in dark and somber tones, burning plastic spiders over open flames and then erupting afterward into joyous giggles, making them, with hands over hearts, promise to never tell the administration about her fire hazards.

  She was light and bright, and she was counselor and coach. They taught her new slang words, and she snickered with embarrassment, unbridled, genuine.

  But since they had locked themselves into her room, Lucy couldn’t find any of that Mrs. Johnston left in the space where they once held spirited slam poetry competitions and waxed philosophical about Emerson’s Transparent Eyeball. The new Mrs. Johnston was taciturn and cold; she barely spoke a word and didn’t try to hide her disgust toward each of the children in her care.

  After an hour, they were down to five.

  The security came by and took note of bodies and survivors; then a group of surviving teachers carried the dead away. But even the number of adults seemed to dwindle as time passed. Six teachers, now only two, continued to act out their roles despite the futility of it all. Mrs. Johnston never moved from her desk; her eyes never wavered from her computer screen as she clicked and clicked and willed the news on her screen to be different. She moved between the news sites, their updates slowing down as the time slipped away from them and then on to her own feed and her email. Lucy watched as she went through her pattern. Site one. Site two. Site three. Wait. Look. Repeat. As if it was not the intake of information that interested her, but instead the cathartic nature of the ritual.

  A phone buzzed in the room.

  The sporadic nature of sending texts and receiving calls made it impossible for her to communicate with Salem, but Lucy looked down at her phone, disappointed that her screen was blank. Even so, Lucy’s fingers flew into action. She fired a note, “Stay strong friend. Working on a plan.” And she watched, stomach in knots, until the little green arrow indicated success. If Salem could read it, if she was still out there, she would know that Lucy had not abandoned her. Lucy would never abandon her.

  Even if that was not entirely true because she had abandoned her—she had left Salem crumpled on the ground with hoards of scared people tearing around her. Scared people with guns. Lucy took a deep breath and held her phone to her chest. She felt it apropos to pray, but specific requests eluded her, so she just repeated over and over inside her head: Help me, help me, help me, help me. Less like a prayer and more like a mantra.

  “I have to get home,” Mrs. Johnston said. It was the first thing she had said in hours. Everyone turned to look at her and gawked, as if she had grown a tail and barked wildly. She looked at the s
tudents in the room, assessing their faces and then to the clock. Jumping up, her chair crashing backward behind her, she rushed to the window and pried it open. The bottom half was designed to open an inch and she ran her hands over the metal, pondering. Unless they could remove the entire pane of glass from the window, it was not a viable escape route.

  “Can’t. I can’t. I can’t!” Mrs. Johnston hit the metal radiator beneath the window in frustration and immediately cradled her hand. She spun around and leaned back, breathless.

  Clayton, who had been slumped in the corner of the room, using his backpack as a pillow and drawing doodles in a notebook, sat up.

  “I’ve been thinking,” he said.

  Grant moved himself under the television and he turned his head. He’d been watching the news without saying a word for most of the time they were trapped in the room, but at one point he had sidled up to Lucy and put a reassuring arm around her shoulder. She shrugged him off and then apologized. It was easier to think Grant had single-handedly stopped her from rescuing Salem than to accept that any course of action was futile.

  “You have an idea?” Grant prodded and Clayton nodded.

  Purse Girl, who also hadn’t said a word since they got to the room, raised her body off the floor, alert. They each stared at Clayton expectantly.

  “You have a master key? You know, from coaching?”

  Mrs. Johnston’s shoulders slumped as if she was already preparing for this plan to fail. “It doesn’t unlock the main doors. They have control for the locking mechanism in the security office and outside the main office. My keys are worthless,” she said. She took out a rubber band and tied her hair up into a high ponytail, her blonde hair cascading down her back. Lucy marveled that somehow throughout the entire day it had not lost its curl.

  “No. I’m not interested in using them to get outside,” Clayton answered. He stood up and brushed his hands off on his jeans. “Does your key unlock the doors in the East wing?”