The Release

“So, we need to get to the cafeteria,” Lucy stated. “And we can’t just waltz through the hallway.” It had been a bit since Lucy had checked her phone; she had set it on one of the couches and she grabbed it, but the low battery light blinked and blinked, warning her and threatening her. But there was still nothing but silence. Lucy shoved the phone in her pocket and willed it to keep itself alive for a little bit longer. She didn’t even know if cell phones were working, if her wish was wasted.

“Go up the ladder,” Grant instructed. “Boiler room is on the inside of the gates. It’ll be easy, as long as Spencer doesn’t leave the office. If he goes on the move, we should abort the trip and head back.”

“Agreed,” Salem said.

Back they trudged to the journalism room where the door was kept ajar with the doorstop. It was easily ten degrees cooler in there with the open roof fu

Grant went first, pulling himself up to the roof with sheer upper body strength, his legs following after. Lucy went next, bracing herself each time the ladder wobbled under her weight the higher she climbed. When she reached the top, Grant lowered his arms and pulled her up and she scrambled to the hard surface the second her legs could catch the side of roof. For a prolonged moment, she rested on the cool roof, flat on her belly against the tar. Then she stood and blinked.

Sca

She clamped her mouth down and took a tentative step forward. Then another. Walking to the edge of the roof and peering down on to the parking lot below to the dozens and dozens of deserted cars, dead bodies, discarded backpacks, and other personal items littering the area. It was then Lucy realized the earth was strangely quiet, just like Clayton had said. There were no planes in the sky and no cars rushing down the street. The screams and torment of the survivors from yesterday were all gone. Only a few sporadic sounds remained—a crash, a sudden car alarm—and their appearance was jarring, unexpected, frightening, causing each of them to jump and seek out the source with their hearts pounding with fear.

She closed her eyes and listened to the wind. From miles and miles away, she heard the distinct sound of a dog barking.

Then she realized with sadness that she must have imagined it.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

They climbed down into the boiler room and out into the small walkway that co

Splayed out on the tile was a dead man. He had brown hair and was wearing a blue button-down shirt, jeans, and a walkie-talkie was still in his hand. A thick key ring with at least fifteen silver keys dangled from a belt-loop. The man still looked like a man, but his skin had a greenish and cloudy quality along his bloated cheeks and extremities, as if he had been submerged in a vat of soured milk.

This decomposition was not normal. Not even the Ebola virus could arrive without symptoms, kill in minutes, and reduce the body to rotting tissue within an hour. Lucy knew if her father was around, he would be looking at this virus with curiosity, examining it with a scientist’s eye, and she longed for his strength and whatever answers he could give her. Not having him within reach was alarming—she had questions. Who would answer them?

It was difficult to look away, despite the disgust. Grant coughed into his shoulder and then leaned forward, inspecting and assessing the body. He dropped down and squatted, turned his head away from the stench, and started to reach forward, his eyes watering.

“What the hell are you doing?” Salem asked.

With one quick motion, Grant unhooked the silver key ring and swiped it off the belt-loop with a small tug. The keys jangled in his hand and he held them up triumphantly. “Master keys. Locker keys. All keys. This,” he jangled them, “is a treasure.”

“I wonder why his body was left here,” Lucy said out loud.

“One of the last adults to get sick, probably.” Salem crossed her arms over her body and looked up and down the hall with nervous, shifty eyes. “Come on, I feel exposed.”

“Wait,” Grant said and his shot up to the cameras. “Where’s Spencer?”

They all strained to listen, but the office was quiet.

Then they heard the ring of a telephone. One long ring, another long ring. Then Spencer answered it—off somewhere in the office, away from the microphone.

“The phones!” Lucy exclaimed and she reached her pocket, scrambling. Pulling it free, she stared at the screen, waiting for dormant text messages to start pouring through. A beep signaled that she had a message and Lucy clicked on it quickly. Salem’s name popped up. I’m in the building. Journalism room? But that was all.

“What? What did you get?” Salem asked, leaning over to look at the screen.

“Just you. From yesterday.” Lucy didn’t even try to mask her disappointment. She dialed Ethan’s number. After five long seconds, the call clicked in. “It’s ringing! It’s ringing!” she said and she took two long strides back down the side walkway toward the boiler room, shoving her left hand over her left ear out of habit, even though there wasn’t any noise to drown out in the background. After four rings, it kicked her to voicemail. Ethan’s voice on the message was bright and chipper—and so clear, like he was standing right beside her. She wanted to cry.

“Ethan? Ethan. It’s me. I’m at the school. I haven’t left. I’m still here. If you make it here, I’m in the—” the phone kicked her off. Lost signal. Lucy growled and shoved the phone back into her pocket. Salem was looking at her and she tried to smile.

“He’ll hear it. He’ll get the message,” she encouraged.

Grant had positioned himself directly beneath a speaker in the hallway; his head upturned, his eyes squinting.

“Who could he possibly be talking to?” Grant said as Salem and Lucy joined him, stepping around the dead janitor in the process.

“Family?”

“No. He’s angry. Can you hear the tone?”

Grant was right. The conversation happening halfway around the school and just out of range of their intercom was not a happy one. Spencer’s voice raised and lowered, with growing levels of intensity.

Occasionally they heard a snippet.

“I will control that. Only me,” Spencer had snapped once. Then a few seconds later, “No. I will not help. But we can talk.” Lucy, Grant, and Salem exchanged puzzled glances.

Then there was nothing. A lost signal, an angry hang-up, they could only speculate what ended the discussion and who was on the other end of it. But they now heard Spencer opening and shutting drawers and files with a fury, shouting to himself as he went: “No. My school. My rules.”

Salem lowered her head from looking at the ceiling and scowled. “I don’t like this.”

Grant took one look at the camera. “Me neither, but while we know where Spencer is…” he pointed to the red light blinking at them, “let’s get what we need and go.”