Wyatt, with his gun at the ready, gestures for us to follow him through the school. At the gym, the door handles are bound together with a chain.
“Back up,” Davis says, tapping on the door with his gun after we’ve pushed back against the wall. We wait, listening for any response at all, but the only sound is from our breathing.
Wyatt unbinds the chain--which didn’t have a lock--and steps into the gym. After a moment, he leans back into the hallway and says, “It’s all clear, but I think I’ve figured out the breach.”
One step inside and the problem is clear. Both sets of back doors had been blown off their hinges. The back wall is wide open, allowing anyone--alive or dead--in or out of the building.
“Check out the floors,” Jude says, pointing to the scorch marks. There are more along the walls. “Explosive? Someone did that on purpose.”
Between us and the opening is an abandoned encampment of cots and possessions. Bedding, backpacks, and personal items lay scattered on each bed and across the floor.
“I’ll send a team back to pick those up,” Wyatt says as I walk over to check out the closest one. There’s not much in it, just some clothes. I move to the next one and lift it by the strap. The front of the backpack spins around and I inhale sharply, as though I’ve been hit in the gut.
“Ramsey?” Parker asks. I glance up and she’s watching my hands closely. They’re shaking. I don’t respond, but unzip the top to rummage through the bag. “Girl, what’s going on?”
A large hand closes on the top of the bag and I look up into Wyatt’s concerned eyes. I exhale. “I know this bag.” I poke the familiar red patch—the very last thing I saw before Paul disappeared with the military on the North and South Carolina border. “I, uh, I knew the owner.”
“I’m sure it’s a coincidence.” His voice is soft—gentle. I swallow back my emotions and yank the bag out of his hands.
“Sure. You’re probably right,” I agree, not agreeing at all. If Wyatt is talking to me like a child, then I may need to roll it back a little. Besides, it’s none of their business. Paul is none of their business.
My mother and I met Paul when we first left our home. We’d been trapped by Eaters and he saved us. He sheltered us. In return, he followed us out of Raleigh, forming a bond like a brother. When it was time to split up he’d chosen to go off with a group of evacuees, who’d immediately been under attack by the military. Mom and I were unsure if Paul was one of the survivors.
That attack was our first sign that the good guys weren’t necessarily so good. I touch the red patch. It the last thing I’d seen before the bombs dropped. Paul was one of the good guys. I knew this in my heart, and we’d been lucky to meet him.
Wyatt turns and leaves the gym and I try to shake off the irony. Everyone in the apocalypse wears a mask. Some better than others. I put mine on, grab the pack and follow him and the others out of the gym.
Chapter 16
After an hour, we’ve filled our bags with supplies and fought off a handful of Eaters lurking around the empty classrooms, but we’re no closer to an answer about the armbands than when we got here. We knew there was a fire—or an explosion--that resulted in releasing hundreds of evacuees-turned-Eaters from the school into the surrounding area. They’d attacked us on the road and later at the clinic. We don’t know why, what the tags mean, and who’d intentionally released the Eaters. Or was it intentional at all?
“It’s getting late,” Davis notes, looking at his watch. “We’ll need to head back soon to avoid getting caught in the dark.”
The group collectively nods. No one wants to be outside the walls after dark. We’ve looped back around to the front of the school, standing around the front office. Parker shuffles through some paperwork behind the main desk. Jude sighs, slumping in a chair. Wyatt disappears down a narrow hallway leading to what I assume is other offices, while Davis stands watch at the door.
It’s a rare moment of quiet for the day, and I look around the office, absorbing the reality of our location. Being in a school is one of those surreal post-apocalyptic moments. The room we’re in is like a time capsule. Plaques and children’s artwork mounted on the walls. The school mascot, an eagle, watches over us from the banner hung behind the desk, with menacing eyes and spread wings. There’s the impression that whoever took over the school figured that one day the students and faculty would return. The empty feeling in my chest would bet otherwise.
“Anything interesting?” I ask Parker.
“Well, this place was definitely under the control of the military. There are papers with their letterhead and logo. The National Guard was here. They had lists of the soldiers that came through, and supplies.” She flips through the papers rapidly until she gets to two sheets and holds them up. A frown sets on her mouth.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“More names. I’m assuming of the evacuees’. It’s got ages, hometowns, and all kind of numbers I don’t understand. Who knows, they could just be students from the school.” She drops the papers on the desk and rubs her temples. “I think I need to get out of here. That ashy burn smell is giving me a headache.”
“For real. Let me go find Wyatt.”
The hallway is more of the same. Award and accolades for the school. Class photos and some of teachers laughing, wearing matching shirts. I pass an empty conference room and another with a now-defunct copy machine. There are little slots on the wall where teachers got their mail. What I don’t find is Wyatt, and with each step I get a little more nervous, clutching my weapon in my hand. I hear nothing—not Wyatt. Not anyone from the front office. I reach the end of the hallway and I see that it turns off to the left. Before I turn, I take a deep breath and brace myself before moving around the corner, expecting nothing but anticipating the worst.
I find the worst.
Okay, close to the worst. My idea of worst has changed a lot lately.
Wyatt stands at the end of the hallway, gun raised at a figure in a similar position. The person’s back is to an open door—a closet or another room. He and Wyatt are in a silent standoff, barrel to barrel. I can’t see the other person’s face—it’s cloaked in a hoodie—but it’s clear he’s human and comfortable carrying that gun.
“Put the gun down,” I say in the strongest voice I can muster. I should have gone for Davis. He would’ve had this guy begging for mercy three minutes ago.
No one listens to me, but my command gives the other guy pause, allowing Wyatt to get the upper hand. In a flash the guy is disarmed, the gun clatters to the ground. To his credit he fights back, but Wyatt is a force to be reckoned with, and it only takes a moment before he’s flipped to the ground, jamming a knee in his back. He grunts in pain and begs, “I’m cool, dude. Swear. Just don’t kill me.”