Chapter 17 #2
“Jessica told me in an attempt to scare me off.” She shrugs and shuffles toward the door, pausing when she gets close, close enough that I can catch the quiet sincerity in her voice. “I’m so sorry you lost her.”
She doesn’t ask for details. Just acknowledges the loss, gives it weight, and moves on.
If only she knew the whole truth.
Would she look at me differently?
“What do you mean Jessica tried to scare you off?”
Lyla gives an exasperated look. “You can’t be that blind, can you?”
Shit.
I’ve had my suspicions for a while, but I was hoping I was wrong about Jessica. I hate to turn her down since she has been such a good friend to me, and Sheila, but I just don’t see her that way.
“I suggest you take care of that before it gets worse,” she adds.
I nod, stepping aside as she moves past me, following the group toward the cafeteria. The eerie silence of the school presses in, only broken by the occasional scuffle of boots against dust-coated floors or the distant echo of something shifting unseen.
Lyla falls into step beside me, her presence a strange mix of lightheartedness and quiet resolve, like she belongs here in this darkness, yet somehow manages to bring a spark of something lighter with her.
She thrives in the unknown.
I should ask her for some pointers. Might help regulate my anxiety in these moments.
The cafeteria looms ahead, its doors slightly ajar, but before we can advance, a sudden movement catches my eye.
Pete. Veering away toward a different door down the hallway.
Of fucking course.
His fingers curl around the handle. My gut twists, a deep, primal warning.
“Pete, stop—”
The doors burst open with a groan of rusted hinges, and then—hell spills out.
A wall of undead surges forward, teens and faculty led by an infected clutching an empty pudding cup.
They’re a relentless, rotting tide—grotesque hands clawing, blackened fingernails cracked and jagged from mindless scraping.
Sunken, milky eyes lock on to fresh prey, their hunger a physical force, teeth clacking, jaws stretching unnaturally wide as if already tasting flesh.
The smell hits next, the rank, putrid stench of rotting meat, festering wounds, and stale, death-thick air.
The horde crashes into Pete like a battering ram, slamming him backward with the force of a wrecking ball.
His arms pinwheel wildly as he chokes out a strangled cry and hits the floor hard, scrambling like a trapped animal.
He finally finds his footing and sprints back to us.
I yank Lyla behind me as gunfire erupts.
“MOVE!” I shout, my voice barely cutting through the noise.
Earl swears, and Leon is already a blur of deadly efficiency, his hatchet cleaving through decomposing skulls of uniformed basketball players. Joanie’s revolver booms, her shots ripping into the first wave, bodies crumpling with sickening, wet thuds.
Muzzle flashes strobe through the dark, lighting up blood-slicked floors and swaying, ravenous corpses.
Trish and Lyla stand shoulder to shoulder, their pistols kicking back as they unload round after round into the oncoming horde.
Joanie fumbles with her chamber. A shadow lunges for her. My shotgun booms, the blast turning a rotted skull of a girl with bright pink braces into a spray of gore that paints the lockers and my arm. Gross.
I sling the shotgun over my back, unsheathing my machete in one smooth motion.
The dead crash against us in an unrelenting wave—gnashing teeth, clawing hands, the guttural moans of hunger filling every inch of space. Their bodies crush together, spilling through the doorway like floodwater, pushing forward even as they’re cut down.
The air is thick—gunpowder, rot, coppery blood.
The stink clogs my throat, but I shove it down, swinging my blade in tight, brutal arcs.
The first strike carves through the throat of a snarling woman with purple glasses.
The second takes another’s jaw clean off, leaving the basketball coach snapping uselessly, black fluid spilling from the wound onto his hanging whistle.
I catch the heels of Pete’s boots out of my periphery bolting down the hall. The coward’s legs pump, eyes wild, leaving the rest of us to fight for our lives.
A hand clamps down on my arm.
I pivot hard, slamming the shotgun stock into the face of a young girl wearing a green hoodie. Bone cracks like a splitting log. She stumbles, jaw hanging loose, but before she can collapse, another one takes its place.
Too many.
Too fast.
Joanie fires again—the sharp crack of her pistol slicing through the crowd. But she hesitates just a second longer before pulling the trigger.
She’s running low.
We need to move. Now.
“Fall back!” I yell.
Trish and Lyla hold the rear, their weapons barking out controlled shots, dropping any that get too close.
Leon’s blade is a flash of silver in the dim light.
Earl and Joanie cover our flank, moving fast, reloading on the run.
I keep my shotgun poised for any necessary close calls, pumping a round into the chamber.
But the halls feel smaller. The tide of undead rolls closer.
Up ahead, that twitchy, spineless bastard stands at the intersection of three hallways, his fingers clawing at something mounted on the side of the wall. His movements are jerky, panicked, like a rat cornered with no escape.
Lyla pants beside me, her breath sharp with adrenaline. “What the hell is he doing?”
Then, Earl’s flashlight swings up, the beam catching on the object in Pete’s hands.
Oh, you’ve got to be shitting me.
“Pete!” I bellow, but he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even fucking hesitate.
CLANG!
An old security gate slams closed, rattling the walls, sealing him safely on the other side.
Rage flares hot. I pound the barrier, roaring his name, but he’s already running.
Lyla stumbles, her boot catching on a loose textbook, slamming her head hard into a locker. Trish pulls her up with an iron grip, hauling her forward even as she checks her head.
Earl and Joanie fall into position, guns barking out their last few shots, each bullet a desperate, final attempt to hold the line. The spent casings ping against the tile, tiny echoes swallowed by the unholy sound of the horde.
We’re backpedaling now, forced into a tighter formation. Their moans build into a horrific crescendo, like the world itself is screaming.
My breath shortens.
My pulse pounds.
We’re out of time.
I shove past the panic and force my mind to calm.
What would Hicks do?