SHIT.
The screaming is louder again.
I run, gasping for air until my lungs hurt, my throat so dry I start to gag. I think I piss myself, or maybe I already did, or maybe I just imagine it, I don’t know. My rented shoes have no grip, and I skid across the polished floor until I fall almost face first into another dead body. It’s so shot up, the face such an obliterated mess, that I can’t make out who it used to be.
Swallowing bile, I struggle to my feet again and head for the corner, running past the Nolan High trophy cabinet, past the track team photo from last year showing Eli before he graduated, standing with his teammates and holding up the trophy.Eli. Thank fuck he isn’t here for this.
There’s a crash and a shatter of glass as the gymnasium door is kicked open, and the motherfucking Terminator steps out, still armed to the teeth, a never-ending supply of ammo destroying everything in his path.
FUCK.
It’s pandemonium. Those of us that are left are running in all directions, not thinking any more clearly than justgetting away. We’re trapped inside, so all we can do is hide, and hope like hell it’s enough. I sprint around the corner as hard as I can, no idea where I’m headed, and a burning pain bursts at the back of my right arm. Terrified as to what that means, I ignore it for now and keep running.
I’m going to die. I’m going to dienow. Not on a far off ‘someday’ I don’t need to think about yet. Not as an old man in the distant future, surrounded by loved ones after a long and happy life.Now.
I can’t. There’s so much I haven’t done yet. I’m not ready.
Neither was Callie. It didn’t keep her alive.
I’m never going to see my girl again. Unless thereisan afterlife, and I might be about to find that out.
I don’t want to. Not yet.
I head up one flight of stairs to the classrooms, not wanting to go upstairs, but there’s no other choice open to me. I try one door, and then another, and then another. Fuck - they’re locked for Prom, I guess so no-one would come hook up in them or vandalize anything.
Amazingly, one door I try is unlocked, swinging open and smacking the wall as I push with all my might. I stumble, landing on the classroom floor, and kick it shut. Scrambling to my feet again, I try to wedge a chair underneath the doorknob, but it’s not tall enough, so I just collapse against it instead, sinking to the floor as my shaking legs finally give out, trying to catch my breath as my heartbeat throbs in my temples.
I’m almost afraid to move a muscle, but my arm feels weird, and I touch it reflexively. The wound is wet, and it burns. I stifle a shout of white hot pain, my fingers coming away bloodied. But I think it’s a flesh wound. I don’tthinkthere’s a bullet inside me. I mean, I’d know, wouldn’t I?
Wouldn’t I?
I take a deep breath. I’m alright. For now. I need to think. I need my racing mind to slow down so Icanthink.
What the fuck am I gonna say to Callie’s parents? They trusted me to have her home safe by one a.m. They’re going to be furious. They’re going to kill me for failing her, and they’re right.
They’re right.
I should have taken the bullet for her. Iwouldhave, if I’d seen it coming. I’d have died in her place, no hesitation, I swear it.
Oh, god, I might have to puke. I mustn’t. I need to be silent.
The front of my shirt starts to feel cold and clammy, and I’m gripped by a kind of madness as I look down and see the blood and flesh and brain matter all over my front. I scrub my sleevehard over the mess until the skin underneath feels raw, hurting my arm in the process but not caring.
“S...stop,” I hear someone whisper.
My stomach plummets.
Mrs Oberman, my English teacher, is cowering behind her teacher’s chair. She’s hugging her knees as best she can. She’s heavily pregnant. She stares at me with glassy, horrified eyes. Suddenly, in the middle of this nightmare she’s in, here’s some kid from her senior class whose face is drenched in someone else’s blood.
Oh, god in heaven help me, I’ve led him right to a pregnant woman.
I’m sorry I’m sorry oh shit please forgive me I didn’t mean to -
There’s a loud thudding noise in the corridor. Sounds like someone slapping their hand on the doors at the far end.
“Heeeeere, kitty kitty,” he sings like a demented shit. “I know you’re iiiiiiiiiin heeeeeeeere…”
It doesn’t sound like Mr Whitmire, and yet it does. It sounds like a little kid trying to sound like a tough guy. And the familiarity of his voice makes this even more terrifying. He’s a teacher. He’s supposed to be someone we turn to for help.
