Behind us, Wade’s programming finally resolved its conflict. “Halt! Security breach!”
A shot cracked through the air, the bullet whining past my ear close enough that I felt the disturbed air against my cheek. Trent yanked me sideways, and we zigzagged across the open ground toward the fence.
Another shot. This one punched into the dirt by my feet.
“Keep moving!” Trent shouted, pulling me toward a gap in the fence where the chain-link had been cut and rolled back.
Wade fired again, the shot going wide as he began jogging toward us with that same mechanical gait. Not running, not hurrying. Moving at a constant, efficient pace that somehow felt more terrifying than if he’d been sprinting.
We reached the fence, and Trent shoved me through the gap first. The rusted metal caught on my shirt, tearing the fabricand scratching my side. I barely felt it, scrambling through to the other side. Trent followed, his broader frame struggling to squeeze through the narrow opening.
“He’s coming,” I gasped, watching Wade’s steady approach.
“I know.” Trent finally pushed through, then grabbed a piece of concrete from the ground and wedged it into the gap, making it smaller. “It’ll slow him down, but not for long. We need to move.”
We ran through the abandoned elevator complex, past rusted machinery and empty silos. The place smelled of old grain, dust, and chemicals that had seeped into the ground over the decades.
“How did you do that?” I asked between ragged breaths. “That code thing?”
“Took a guess. 10-64 is the police code for a crime in progress. These systems often have priority hierarchies.” Trent glanced back to check if Wade was following. “Protecting the technology source would override normal patrol duties.”
“But he’s still coming.”
“Yeah. And he’ll alert others. We’re running out of time.”
We emerged from the other side of the elevator complex, the elementary school now in sight across the empty baseball field. My heart hammered against my ribs at the sight of it—so ordinary, so normal-looking. Yellow buses parked in the row along the side. The flag fluttering in the breeze. Colorful construction paper art visible in classroom windows.
Somewhere inside was Sophia. My daughter. Surrounded by people who might no longer be people at all.
CHAPTER 8
TRENT
The school wasa squat single-story building that looked like it had been there since the 1950s. Faded brick with peeling trim, windows lined up in perfect symmetry. The parking lot held only two vehicles: a blue sedan and the school van that should have been prepping for afternoon routes. Through the windows, I could see that the hallways were dark. The hair on the back of my neck stood at attention at the wrongness of that. School in session meant light, sound, energy—kids shuffling between rooms, teachers calling out instructions. Instead, the building radiated an eerie stillness that made my combat instincts scream danger.
We’d made it across the baseball field without incident, but my shoulder throbbed with every breath. The reset had bought me function, not comfort. I’d pay for that dislocation later. But right now, I just needed my arm to work long enough to get Sophia out.
“Where are all the kids?” Evelyn whispered beside me, her voice tight with fear.
I scanned the grounds, noting every approach, every potential exit. The empty parking lot. The silent playground. I knew from my prior recon of the town that Prairie View Central School bused kids in from all the rural communities around Garnett, so there should be about seventy students here, spanning all the grades from pre-K through twelfth. “Let’s find out. Stay low.”
We crossed to a cluster of ancient playground equipment—monkey bars, a slide worn smooth from generations of children, a merry-go-round with chipped paint. The metal smelled hot in the sun, almost burning against my palm as I used it for cover. From here, we had a clear view of the side entrance, a steel door with a small window set at eye level.
“Security cameras?” I asked, still studying our surroundings.
“One over the front entrance, but it hasn’t worked in years.” Evelyn’s voice was steadier now. Good. She was focusing on the practical, not the emotional. “Budget cuts. The side door leads straight to the kindergarten wing.”
I nodded, gauging distance and exposure. My left arm felt weak, untrustworthy. I kept my right hand near my gun. “We’ll use that. Thirty yards of open ground. Can you run?”
She swallowed hard and nodded.
We moved in quick bursts, using the sparse landscaping for cover—a stunted tree, a concrete bench, a half-dead hedge along the building’s perimeter. The hair at the back of my neck stood on end, that familiar sensation of being watched, but a quick sweep showed no movement at any window. Just that unnatural stillness.
The side door was locked, but it was small-town security, more for show than function. I pulled a thin metal tool from my pocket and worked it into the keyhole while Evelyn kept watch. My left hand trembled slightly as I steadied the tool. The shoulder injury was worse than I’d let on.
“I thought you’d just shoot it open,” she whispered.
My lips quirked despite the situation. “That’s only in movies. Too loud. Too messy.” The lock clicked under my hands. Simple. “Security here is a joke.”
