Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
SCHOOL'S OUT FOREVER
LYLA
The thunder of snarls and pounding feet churns the air into something charged, rattling down to my bones. Earl’s flashlight strobes over the hallway, guttural moans bouncing off tile and dented lockers, weaving into a terrible melody of hunger and despair.
Jacob’s voice cuts through the clamor, sharp and commanding. “Split up! Draw them away! Do what you have to do to get outside and find Clair!”
Leon and Joanie tear down one corridor, Trish and Earl down another. Their footsteps vanish under the rising tide of the undead. Jacob and I take the last one and sprint. Each step sends a shot of pain to my head.
Behind us, the horde surges like a black wave, slamming lockers, tripping over rotting limbs, never stopping.
The hallway stretches ahead, flashlight beams slicing the dark, illuminating bloody handprints smeared across the walls. My lungs burn, but there’s no room for it—only run.
A blur—something lunging from a side door.
Decomposing fingers swipe for Jacob’s throat.
His machete carves through the air, the blade hissing before it crunches through bone. The skull splits like overripe fruit, black gore splattering. The thing collapses midstep, its body crumpling with a grotesque thud.
“Keep moving!” Jacob barks, shoving the twitching corpse aside.
We round the corner, three more undead teens stumble into our path.
The closest lunges, lips peeling back in a grotesque snarl. Instinct takes over. I meet it halfway, driving my knife deep into the mush of its skull. Wet crunch. Twitch. Dead weight drags me down.
Jacob’s machete flashes—clean, efficient. Heads roll.
We push past the fresh corpses, boots squelching in congealed gore.
The moans behind us swell.
“Left!” Jacob shouts.
I glance back and regret it instantly.
The hallway writhes with rotting faces and clawing hands, eyes locked on us with mindless hunger. Bodies slam lockers, feet scrape cracked linoleum.
They’re close enough I can almost feel their rancid breath on my neck.
Move, Lyla. NOW.
I yank Jacob toward an open doorway.
We burst into a science lab, slamming into desks in our desperation to put something, anything, between us and the clawing hands reaching for us.
Jacob throws his weight against the door, shoving it shut just as the first body slams into the other side.
We move as one, muscles straining as we drag a metal cabinet across the entrance.
BAM.
The impact rocks the frame, the hinges groaning under the force.
BAM. BAM.
The horde piles up, their weight pressing, their clawed fingers scrabbling against the wood, nails splintering as they tear at the barrier.
The cabinet jerks. Jacob braces his back against it, breath harsh, fury rolling off him.
“I’m going to kill Pete,” he growls.
I drag the teacher’s desk over, legs burning, adrenaline flooding every vein, a headache burning behind my eyes. We wedge it in place. “Get in line.”
His dark chuckle holds no humor.
We shove more lab desks into the barricade, my pulse hammering, every nerve buzzing from the fight, from the too-close teeth snapping at my throat just seconds ago.
Outside, the pounding grows wilder.
The furniture jerks with another violent thud. We don’t have much time.
I exhale, pressing the heel of my palm against my side, only to pull it away slick with blood.
Jacob’s gaze drops to it, his expression hardening. He grabs supplies from our earlier haul and crouches beside me.
“Quick, let me see.” His voice is low, gruff, threaded with concern. He lifts my shirt just enough to reveal the soaked bandage on my ribs.
Shit.
He peels it back, fingers careful. “You popped a few stitches. Give me a second to clean and tape them so the others don’t go along with it and you bleed out.”
The antiseptic stings as he dabs it over the wound, his fingers brushing against my skin as he secures the gauze in place, with duct tape. His touch is warm, reassuring. My chest tightens, heat curling in places that have nothing to do with pain.
His jaw tics. His eyes flick to mine, something unreadable swimming in that dark pool of chocolate.
I watch him work, unable to look away.
There’s an intensity to him when he’s like this—all precision and control, his full attention locked on me, on making sure I’m okay.
The air between us shifts, thickens. Suddenly, the world outside this room, the snarling, the death, the inevitable horrors waiting on the other side of that door, fades to nothing.
All I see is him.
Up close, I catch the little gold flecks in his eyes, bright against their dark depths. The way his stubble darkens his jaw, the curve of his lips, the quiet heat behind every lingering glance.
I wish I could let myself fall, let him wrap me up and never let go. Let myself want something for once without fear gnawing at the edges. But the voice in my head, the one that’s always stopped me, whispers its usual warnings.
What if I lose him? What if I let him down?
The what-ifs harden my resolve. Da Vinci dies. No matter what. Getting close will only make it worse.
We reload in silence, the air between us thick with what neither of us says.
I nod toward the door. “What’s the plan?”
He heads over to the wall of windows behind us and smashes one open with the handle of the machete, glass raining down.
“There may be some infected out there, but we kill them and circle to the main entrance,” he says.
Adrenaline hums under my skin. “Sounds like a blast. You ready?”
He holsters his gun, cracks his neck. The door rattles with pounding fists.
Then his eyes darken, not with strategy, but with something else.
Liquid fire curls low in my stomach.
“One more thing,” he murmurs, stepping in close.
I open my mouth, half a breath away from saying how now is really not the time for small talk—
But his hand slides behind my head, fingers threading into my hair, and everything stops.
My breath catches.
His lips brush mine—soft, slow. A question. A warning. A challenge.
Then he claims me.