Chapter 8
TRENT
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.”
“It’s Garnett. Nothing ever happens here.” Her voice caught. “Or it didn’t, until we came.”
I ignored the guilt in her tone. No time for that now. “Stay behind me. If anything moves, tell me.”
The door swung open with a whisper of rubber against linoleum.
The corridor beyond lay in shadows, emergency lights casting a dull red glow along the floor.
The air inside felt too cool, almost artificially so, and carried the smell of school—floor cleaner, cafeteria food, crayons, and kid sweat.
But something was missing—the sound. Schools were never this quiet, not even after hours.
We stepped inside, and the door clicked shut behind us. Our footsteps echoed in the empty hallway despite my attempt to move silently. Classroom doors stood open on both sides, chairs upturned in some, papers scattered across desks. Like everyone had left in a hurry.
The first room we passed was labeled “1st Grade - Ms. Winters.” Inside, small desks were arranged in clusters, half-finished worksheets still on their surfaces.
A math problem remained on the whiteboard, the marker that had written it discarded on the floor.
A dozen lunch boxes sat in cubbies along the back wall.
My stomach tightened. The kids hadn’t even taken their lunch.
“What happened to them?” Evelyn whispered, her face bone-white in the dim light.
I shook my head, flexing my left hand to keep blood flowing. The fingers responded sluggishly. “Keep moving. Sophia’s room is down this way?”
She nodded, leading us deeper into the building.
Each classroom we passed told the same story—abandoned mid-lesson, signs of hasty departure.
Backpacks still hanging on hooks. A science experiment with leaves in jars still set up on a table, unobserved.
A computer still logged into a reading program, the screen saver bouncing between corners.
The silence pressed against my eardrums, broken only by the soft buzz of fluorescent lights and the whisper of our breathing.
I kept the gun ready, safety off, finger resting alongside the trigger guard.
Not pointing, but prepared. The weight felt wrong in my right hand with my left arm compromised.
“It’s like they all just...vanished,” Evelyn murmured, her voice barely audible.
I thought of the townspeople we’d seen—all wearing those matching clothes, all moving with that same mechanical precision. “Not vanished. Relocated. Question is, where? And why?”
We reached a junction in the hallway. To the left, a corridor led toward what looked like administrative offices. To the right, bright construction paper letters spelled out “Welcome to Kindergarten Country!” The childish whimsy against the unnatural quiet sent a chill through me.
Evelyn’s breath hitched. Her hand found mine, fingers ice-cold as they gripped tight. “Sophia’s room is the second one. The butterfly drawings in the window are hers.”
I squeezed her hand once, then let go to maintain better control of my weapon. Pain shot through my shoulder at the movement. I gritted my teeth. “I go first.”
We moved down the kindergarten hall, passing a water fountain where a small paper cup had been abandoned, water long since evaporated.
The wall displayed children’s artwork—handprints in bright colors, wobbly letters, attempts at self-portraits with giant heads and stick limbs.
So normal. So at odds with the emptiness.
Evelyn’s breathing grew faster, edging toward hyperventilation. “What if she’s not here? What if they took her somewhere? What if—“
“One step at a time,” I said quietly. “We find her room. We assess. We adapt.”
She nodded jerkily, struggling to get herself under control. Her hand rose to her throat, touching a spot that I knew held the small half-moon scar she’d gotten from Hope’s Embrace.
The first kindergarten room was empty, alphabet blocks scattered across the reading rug as if dropped mid-play. Tiny jackets still hung on child-height hooks by the door.
We approached the second room. Sophia’s room. The door stood half-open, a sliver of fluorescent light spilling into the hallway. Inside, I could hear movement—subtle, like someone trying to stay quiet. Not the chaotic noise of children. Something else.
Evelyn made a small sound in her throat, something between fear and hope. Her hand reached for the door, but I caught her wrist, shaking my head. First rule of unknown situations: never rush in blind.
I eased forward, positioning myself to see through the narrow opening without being seen. What I glimpsed made my blood run cold.
Two figures in the center of the room. One standing, one sitting. A flash of Sophia’s purple sweater visible at the small table where she sat frozen.
And Beth Morris, her hand clamped around the little girl’s shoulder, standing with unnatural stillness beside her.
Beth stood rigid in the center of her classroom, her body like a statue someone had placed there.
Her hand rested on Sophia’s small shoulder, fingers curled into the purple fabric of her sweater, holding her in place.
Sophia sat at a tiny table meant for art projects, her back straight, eyes wide with fear, tears silently streaming down her cheeks.
The other children were gone. The classroom showed signs of hasty evacuation, small chairs toppled, crayons scattered across the floor. But Sophia remained, kept behind for reasons I couldn’t yet understand.
“She hasn’t hurt her,” I whispered to Evelyn, feeling her vibrating with fear and fury beside me. “Sophia’s scared but unharmed.”
Beth’s head tilted slightly at the sound of my voice, a predator calculating the location of prey.
Her movements weren’t as mechanical as Carol’s or Wade’s had been.
There was something different about her, something not quite as complete.
Her eyes still held that flat, empty quality, but occasionally they would flicker, like static on an old TV screen.
Brief moments where the real Beth fought to surface.
“I’m going in first,” I said, keeping my voice low. “You stay by the door. If anything happens, you grab Sophia and run. Don’t wait for me.”
Evelyn nodded, her face pale but determined. I wanted to pull her into my arms and kiss her and tell her everything would be okay, but there wasn’t time.
I tucked my gun into my waistband. Still easily accessible, but I didn’t want to scare Sophia any more than she already was, and I had no desire to shoot an innocent kindergarten teacher who had no control over herself at the moment.
I pushed the door open slowly, deliberately making noise to avoid startling Beth.
Her head turned toward us in that robotic way, but her eyes darted frantically for a split second before settling back into that vacant stare.
She was in there. Fighting.
“Hello, Beth,” I said, keeping my tone calm, conversational. “We’re here for Sophia.”
“Subject Sophia Phillips has been selected for special development.” Beth’s voice was flat, emotionless, but I caught the smallest tremor in her hand where it gripped Sophia’s shoulder. “Her neural plasticity is optimal. Her adaptation will be accelerated.”
I moved into the room, positioning myself between Evelyn and Beth. My left arm hung at my side, mostly useless. I’d have one shot with my right if this went bad.
Sophia’s gaze found me, and a fresh wave of silent tears spilled down her cheeks. She looked so small sitting there, so vulnerable in her purple sweater with the butterfly pin. Her hands were folded in her lap, white-knuckled with fear.
“Vigi?” she whispered.
“Hey, Bunny. It’s okay.” I kept my voice steady, eyes on Beth as I moved one step closer. “Your mom’s here, too. We’re going to take you home now.”
Beth’s fingers tightened visibly on Sophia’s shoulder, making the little girl wince. “Unauthorized removal of test subjects is not permitted.”
Behind me, Evelyn made a small, wounded sound. “She’s not a test subject, Beth! She’s my daughter.”
Something flickered behind Beth’s eyes. Recognition, maybe. A crack in the programming. But then it was gone, washed away by the blank stare. Her free hand moved to her desk drawer, slow but deliberate.
“Don’t,” I warned, my right hand shifting toward the gun at my back.
Beth ignored me, pulling open the drawer and reaching inside. Her movements were faster than they should have been, enhanced by whatever controlled her. My hand closed around the grip of my weapon, but I was too slow.
She withdrew a pair of scissors—not the blunt safety scissors used by kindergartners, but long, sharp fabric shears. In one fluid motion, she pulled Sophia to her feet and held the open blades against the child’s throat.
“Interference will result in termination of the subject.” The words didn’t match Beth’s vacant eyes. They were coming through her, not from her.
Sophia whimpered, a tiny, broken sound that hit me like a physical blow. Beside me, Evelyn made a noise I’d never heard from a human being before—raw, primal, the sound of a mother watching her child in mortal danger. Her body tensed to spring forward, but I caught her arm, holding her back.
“Wait,” I murmured. “You’ll make it worse.”
Beth’s hand trembled slightly where she held the scissors, the sharp point dimpling the soft skin of Sophia’s neck without breaking it. Not yet. The real Beth was fighting, trying to stop her own hand from pressing deeper.
“Subject will be transported to processing center,” Beth continued in that flat voice. “Resistance is not permitted.”
My mind raced through options, each worse than the last. I couldn’t risk a shot—Beth was using Sophia as a shield, and the scissors were already against her skin.
Rushing her was equally dangerous with my left arm compromised.
One startled reflex, one twitch of her hand, and those shears would slice into Sophia’s throat.
“Beth,” I tried again, softening my tone. “I know you’re in there. I know you can hear me. You don’t want to hurt Sophia. You love these kids. Remember? You said they were the best part of living in Garnett.”
Another flicker behind her eyes. A tiny loosening of her grip on the scissors.
“That’s it,” I encouraged. “You’re stronger than whatever’s controlling you. You can fight this.”
For a brief moment, the real Beth surfaced—confusion clouding her face, horror dawning as she realized what she was doing. “I... I don’t...” The scissors lowered a fraction of an inch.
Then it was gone, washed away by that vacant stare. The scissors pressed back against Sophia’s throat, harder this time. “Processing will continue as scheduled. Step aside or the subject will be terminated.”
“Please,” Evelyn whispered, her voice cracking. “Please don’t hurt my baby.”
Sophia’s eyes locked on her mother’s, wide and terrified but somehow trusting. Even now, even with cold metal against her throat, she believed her mother would save her. That belief had kept her silent, kept her still, kept her alive.
I shifted my weight, calculating angles, trying to find a solution that didn’t end with a little girl’s blood on a kindergarten classroom floor.
If I lunged left, Beth would have to turn to track me, which might give Evelyn an opening to grab Sophia.
But if Beth’s reflexes were enhanced like the others, she might react faster than expected.
The risk was too high. And my left arm wouldn’t respond fast enough if I needed it.
A shadow fell across the doorway. Someone big stood there, blocking the dim hallway light, but I didn’t turn, kept my eyes on Beth and those scissors.
“Figured you might need backup,” came a gruff voice I recognized.
Dutch Henderson.