Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
LET’S GO BOBCATS!
JACOB
We’re trying something different today. After a week of striking out on supply runs, empty shelves, ransacked homes, more risk than reward, Joanie tossed out an idea that actually stuck.
“A high school,” she said, eyes bright. “I mean, who loots a high school? You have no idea how much shit people kept in their lockers.”
She wasn’t wrong. The more I thought about it, the more it made sense: vending machines in the cafeteria, first aid kits in the nurse’s office, cleaning supplies from janitor closets, maybe even extra clothes in the locker rooms. Hell, the lost and found alone might be a gold mine.
So when we hit our next stop—Stafford, VA—that’s the plan. No neighborhood crawl. No scouring gas stations. Just a direct hit on Springboard High School.
The camp hums with nervous energy, the kind that coils in your gut and sharpens every sense. Movements are quick and efficient, straps cinched, weapons checked, low murmurs exchanged in case things go south.
Across the clearing, Lyla weaves through the group like she’s always been here, part of the mismatched family. She tightens Joanie’s pack strap, bumps Trish’s shoulder, tosses a remark that makes Earl bark out a laugh.
Then she turns, eyes locking on mine with a mischievous glint. Every muscle tightens, the tension shifting to something electric.
She nods at my rifle. “You sure you’re not compensating for something, Gorgeous?”
I slide a clip into place, the click slicing through the quiet. My grin is slow, knowing. “Not at all, Trouble.” I tilt my head, letting my gaze drag over her like a challenge. “Sounds like you’re projecting. Something you want to share with the group?”
Her laugh is light, teasing, but with a hook meant to pull. And damn if it doesn’t.
“You wish,” she tosses over her shoulder.
I shouldn’t, I really shouldn’t, but my gaze drops anyway, tracking the curve of her ass, the easy confidence in her stride. Two weeks ago, she was on death’s door. Now I’m standing here like a teenage idiot, watching her walk away like she’s the last bit of pleasure left in the world.
A muttered curse slips out.
She glances back, catching me in the act. Her brow arches before she adds just enough sway to her hips to make sure I notice.
I shake my head, biting back a groan. She’s gonna kill me.
A heavy hand claps my shoulder. “Didn’t you hear me calling your name? Are you ready?” Earl’s gaze is steady under bushy brows.
I shake off the images burning in my head. “Always.”
Adjusting my shotgun strap, and other things south, I let my fingers trace the cool metal, mind settling into what’s ahead.
We move in tight formation, each step deliberate, breaths measured. Even Joanie keeps her mouth shut. Jessica, Edith, Mom, and Poppy stay behind to guard the vehicles. The rest of us push toward the high school, the air thickening with every step.
An old rusted car slumps near the curb, windshield shattered, a faded honor roll bumper sticker peeling off.
The school looms in the distance, a skeletal husk of faded brick, cracked windows, the gaping front entrance swallowing the light. Vines climb up its walls, making it look half-consumed, like nature is trying to erase what happened here.
As we draw closer, my stomach knots at the sight of the words spray-painted in jagged black letters across the entrance doors:
ALL TURNED INSIDE. ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK.
“Well, hell,” Earl mutters.
Joanie squints. “That sounds promising.”
Lyla tilts her head. “I mean, at least they warned us, so kudos to them.”
Trish snorts, but Leon and I both give her a look.
“What?” Lyla throws up her hands. “All I’m saying is someone took the time, after getting out, mind you, to warn people. That’s practically a love letter in today’s world.”
Even Clair chuckles, though her eyes stay locked on the abandoned cars in the parking lot.
I turn to Trish. “Think there’s anything worth taking?”
“If people stayed out, maybe,” she says, studying the doors. “Could still be medical stock, nonperishables.”
“Or a damn death trap,” I counter.
Pete huffs, nerves already fraying. “You can’t be serious. This screams bad idea.”
A grin spreads across my face. “Thank you, Pete. You just volunteered to go first.”
Color drains from his face. “Screw you. I’m not going in.”
I step close, voice low. “If it were up to me, I’d have left you a long time ago.
Edith and Earl vouched for you, so I let you stay, even after your stunt with the bus.
Now? You’ve made it clear I can’t trust you to guard the vehicles.
So congratulations—you’re coming in, with me watching your every move. ”
His breath hitches, shoulders curling inward. “This is horseshit.”
I can tell he’s contemplating fighting me on this, weighing his options. But we both know how that would end.
I turn to the group. “All right, democracy time. Who’s going in?”
Trish and Leon raise their hands without pause. No surprise.
Joanie’s hand shoots up like we’re handing out free candy.
Then Lyla, of course, throws both hands in the air, wiggling her fingers like she just won the grand prize.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. Beneath the exasperation, though, is a flash of appreciation. Pete’s not wrong, this place does scream bad idea, but she meets it with that reckless fire, refusing to let the world take one more piece of her.
Clair hesitates, eyes darting between us and the woods. “I have to think about Poppy,” she says.
Leon’s shoulders loosen.
I press a walkie into her hand. “Stay here at the doors. If anything moves out here, call us.”
She grips it tight, knuckles white, wanting to do more but knowing where she’s needed.
Trish tosses a couple of empty gas cans beside her feet, the metal clattering against pavement. “When we get out, we’ll check the cars for fuel.”
Clair nods, stepping back.
I tighten my grip on the shotgun. No turning back now.
Pushing the doors open, we pause.
Silence.
A prickle runs down my spine.
Beside me, Lyla steps in, her whisper curling with dark amusement.
“Welcome to hell.”
The stench hits first, thick, cloying, a mix of rot, mold, and the sweet tang of old blood. It coats my throat, settles in my gut like a warning.
The hall stretches ahead, swallowed in shadow, littered with crumbling textbooks, torn notebooks, scattered test papers—remnants of a world that once cared about GPAs and homecoming games. Now it’s just another graveyard.
Our footsteps echo too loud. The silence here listens.
A faded banner curls on the wall:
LET’S GO BOBCATS! DISTRICT CHAMPS!
The words feel wrong—frozen cheer for an audience long dead.
Leon leads, bow raised, posture razor-sharp, Pete behind him. Then—movement.
A handful of undead goth teens drag into view, bodies stiff, moans dry and rasping. Too long without fresh meat.
They’re sluggish. Desperate. Predictable.
An arrow punches through an eye socket. Earl follows, his blade flashing, splitting the skull of a young girl with piercings lining both ears. One by one, they fall.
Leon braces a boot on a corpse, yanks his arrow free, wipes it clean.
Pete’s another story, breathing too fast, hands shaking, eyes darting.
“We shouldn’t be here,” he mutters. “This is bad.”
I turn, voice low. “Shut it. You want to draw more? Keep talking.”
He swallows, goes quiet, but the tremors stay.
I watch him carefully as we push forward, sweeping the hallways, our movements tight.
Lyla keeps her knife ready, steps measured, eyes daring the dark to make the first move. Joanie shadows her, quiet for once. Trish sticks close to Pete, our biggest liability.
Leon and Earl take point, silent as ghosts.
The admin office looms ahead with the nurse’s station attached. Probably our best bet for whatever medical supplies are left.
The door is intact, but the glass panel is smeared with dried blood, rust-brown streaks painting a history of panic and loss.
Leon tests the handle. Locked.
Lyla taps her knife against it. “Quiet or fast?”
“Fast.”
“Okey dokey, artichokey.”
She wedges the blade, wrenches hard. Wood splinters. Lock gives. And we’re in.
Inside’s a mess—cabinets hang open, their contents looted long ago. Drawers half-ripped from their tracks, the desperation of past survivors etched into every overturned bin, every scattered supply.
A hospital bed sits in the corner, mattress stained, sheets bunched. Someone tried to make a stand here, but by the smears of dried blood all over the floor, it didn’t work.
We spread out. Searching. Hunting for anything useful.
Joanie yanks open a cabinet and immediately groans. “Oh, great, gauze! Because that’s exactly what I was hoping for when risking my life in a creepy-ass high school.”
Trish pulls down a bottle of aspirin. “Take what you can get, kid.”
The haul is modest, a couple of bottles of aspirin, some bandages, a nearly full box of tampons that has Joanie fist-pumping, and a few rolls of medical tape.
The others slip out into the hallway, their footsteps fading into the quiet ruin of the school. I move to follow, but Lyla lingers.
She’s crouched by the cot, rolling a Band-Aid between her fingers before setting it down.
It’s such a small thing. Insignificant. But something about it makes me pause.
“What’s that about?”
She doesn’t answer right away. Just studies the bandage for a second longer before finally standing, brushing dust from her hands.
“I always leave one thing behind,” she says simply. “In case someone else comes looking. You never know, this could be the thing that saves them. Or at least gives them hope.”
I don’t know what to say to that.
I should brush it off, throw out some sarcastic remark about how one Band-Aid won’t fix a damn thing in this world.
But the truth is, she’s right.
And just like that, I feel the cold rush of guilt.
“What?”
I blink, forcing my features into something neutral. “Nothing. You just reminded me of someone.”
She hesitates. “Was it your fiancée?”
My jaw tightens. “How do you know about her?”