The Release

The three of them bolted into the cafeteria—ru

None of them had entered the kitchen before and they stood in awe of the prep area and the pantry, the freezers, and the endless rows of stainless steel pots and pans. Sterile and polished, everything gleaned brightly.

“I never actually thought any cooking happened in this kitchen,” Grant mused. “Like these have to be just for show.” He pinged a hanging saucepan with a flick and drew back, rubbing his nail.

Lucy walked over to the walk-in freezer and unlatched it, opening the door wide—a cloud of cold air billowed up at her as she walked inside. She was instantly freezing as she rummaged around boxes of frozen peanut butter and strawberry jelly sandwiches, the kind with the crusts removed, all the ingredients jammed into a bread pocket. The frozen options were limiting: Meat patties, chicken nuggets, pre-cooked French fries, burritos. Lucy didn’t know how they would cook the frozen items or if there was some cooking rule on letting a frozen meat patty defrost in a refrigerator for an unspecified amount of time. That was a question for a mom or the Internet and neither of those things were readily available.

“Take what you can carry,” Lucy instructed the others.

A drawer near the back yielded industrial size garbage bags and Grant handed one to each of them so they could start collecting food. They flipped them open, spreading the top wide and started filling it with anything that could be stored, consumed, and transported with ease. Salem grabbed milk cartons and sandwiches and then she turned her attention to a metal rack that held small bags of pretzels and corn chips.

“What about the fresh stuff?” Salem asked, palming an orange.

Grant shook his head. “Too risky.”

“How long does it take to get scurvy?” Lucy asked.

“Like sailors or whatever?” Grant shrugged. “Months?”

Salem dropped the orange back into the crate. She took a few steps and opened up a refrigerator and examined the shelves stocked from top to bottom with juices and water in plastic bottles. She smiled and started dumping then two at a time into her bag.

The bags began to drag on the floor, heavy from an abundance of food, snacks, and bottled water.

“This should last us. What a goldmine,” Grant said excitedly.

“A statement that has never been said about a school cafeteria in the history of school cafeterias,” said Salem. She hauled her bag over her shoulder and started to walk forward, hunched over from the weight.

“I wish we could get into the vending machines,” Lucy said. “Swedish fish and red vines, chocolate chip cookies, and peanut butter cups.”

Spencer’s voice erupted above them, the cafeteria speakers echoing in the empty space. They jumped and it reminded them that their time was limited. Each heaving their loot, they began to work their way back to the boiler room—taking slow and deliberate steps, like cartoons figures tip-toeing away from a snoring enemy.

They climbed back up the metal ladder embedded into the boiler room wall and pushed open the small square on the ceiling that allowed them roof access. Then they skipped and ran back to the skylight in the East Wing, keeping their bags hoisted on their backs as they slid down the opening, their feet blindly searching for the ladder, kicking this way and that until the wooden steps materialized and guided them back down to safety. Then Grant carried the ladder down and shoved it up against the wall and slid the tables away as well. The skylight still offered a wayward outsider entrance, but they still hoped the long drop on to the tile floor was enough of a deterrent.

Without a word, they meandered across the hall like weary roommates arriving home from a shopping trip. Grant swung the door wide, the girls sliding inside as he fumbled for the light. Lucy dropped her grocery bags and walked to the far corner. She sat down on one of the small red couches, her bag between her legs, and she opened it wide, rummaging around, counting and assessing.

Her cracker breakfast left much to be desired and Lucy couldn’t resist the thought of thick peanut butter and sweet jelly; she grabbed a sandwich, still partially frozen, and began to gnaw on it, succeeding in breaking off pieces of bread and hardened jelly between her teeth, and she rolled it around her mouth, warming it with her tongue.

As if she had reminded each of them that they were hungry, Grant and Salem also descended upon the bags like a pack of wolves. They crouched over their plundered food and began to eat it on the spot. Grant opened a bag of pretzels and a water bottle and Salem downed a bottle of juice, each of them depositing their garbage in the corner.

“We’ll dump our garbage next door,” Lucy suggested. “Grab a bag and then lock it up in the wood shop or something.”

Grant dangled the keys. “This might help,” he replied. “Locker keys.”

“Nice,” said Salem, making a grab for them, but Grant whisked them out of her reach.

“What do we need?” Lucy asked. She surveyed the room again. They had two small couches and a big leather chair, a small wooden desk with the coffee maker, a half-empty bookshelf, a large built-in cupboard with paper cups, a stack of computer paper, and a box of old t-shirts advertising a ca

She turned to Grant. “I want a classroom key. I want my backpack.” Grant wiggled a key free and slapped it into her upturned palm.

“I’ll open all the lockers in a section and we can go through them piece by piece. Save anything essential, right?” Grant asked.

They nodded.

They made the trek down to the English hall. Lucy let herself into Mrs. Johnston’s room and went straight to Ethan’s backpack, slipping it up over her shoulder, holding on to the strap tightly. More than anything, Lucy wanted to be reunited with her pictures. She looked around the room and assessed the familiar quality of it. Everything now seemed so foreign, so strange, and so empty. Pausing by Mrs. Johnston’s desk, she sca

She hoped that Mrs. Johnston made it home. Hoped that her family was waiting; hoped that she had water and food and a plan. Some people deserved a happy ending, Lucy thought. And Mrs. Johnston was one of those people. She stopped for a second and opened up Mrs. Johnston’s desk drawers. She nabbed a bottle of ibuprofen, but couldn’t find anything else of use—various office supplies, a thank you note, a tube of lipstick, and a nail file. She left the remaining detritus undisturbed.

When Lucy exited the room, she saw Grant opening lockers wide with the key and Salem swooping in to plunder. They worked as a team, standing side-by-side, yanking and pulling, flipping things over and tossing it to the ground.

It felt so wrong. But it was also so necessary.

Maybe the items in the lockers were important, but these were still artifacts of someone else’s life, tucked away for them to discover and judge. Within minutes Grant and Salem were tittering over some of their finds: Packs of condoms, a locker turned shrine for some overly auto-tuned pop star. Salem unearthed a collection of phones and music devices, treasure trove of technology, stuffed in a shoebox under unused textbooks and half-eaten sandwich.

Grant spun to Lucy. “Hey, I unlocked a row over there,” he pointed to a section that included Lucy’s own locker. “Want to start on those?”