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CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
STEBBINS LITTLE SCHOOL
STEBBINS, PENNSYLVANIA
“Ground-floor windows are a priority,” said Dez.
“All of the windows are security glass,” said Mrs. Madison, “with wire mesh in each pane.”
“Won’t stop a bullet,” said a farmer.
“So we block the windows,” said Dez. “Look, this school is built like a blockhouse. There aren’t all that many windows anyway, not on the first floor.”
“Twenty-two,” said Mrs. Madison, and Trout felt like kicking her.
“Twenty-two, okay,” conceded Dez. “So we lock them and cover them with paper or cloth so no one can see in. Then we stack stuff in front of them. Cans with marbles or pieces of metal, anything that will make a lot of noise if the window is forced. We’ll post people in the halls and if anyone hears those cans falling over then they shout out and we all come running.”
Several people nodded, and Trout felt the first splinter of encouragement.
“All of the classroom doors open out,” said Jenny DeGroot. “We can get benches from the gym or other stuff and put them in the halls. If we hear someone breaking in, we can wedge the benches crossways so the doors won’t open out.”
“Great idea,” said Dez, jumping on it.
And suddenly everyone was throwing ideas out. Some were poorly thought out, just things to say from people who needed to be part of a solution—any kind of solution; but there were some good ones, too.
“There are tools and hammers and nails and all that stuff in the janitor’s office,” said one of the teachers.
Someone cleared their throat loudly and the crowd turned toward one of the farmers, a young man with old eyes. Trout fished for his name. Uriah Piper.
Piper shook his head and said, “There’s a better way to secure the doors.”
“Okay, Uriah,” said Dez, “what have you got?”
“Well, first,” he said, speaking in the slow way some farmers do, “we don’t need every door to even open. Once we secure the windows, we can seal off a bunch of the rooms. We can set those noise-making cans you mentioned, but otherwise make sure those doors won’t even open.”
“How?”
“Easiest and fastest way would be to nail a piece of wood along the bottom of the door. Nail it, or better yet, screw it right into the floor, and position it so that it also attaches to the wall right there at the bottom, and maybe again at the top. Or we could erect a brace at an angle to the floor and toe-nail it in, then nail another piece to the floor behind that. Take a battering ram to open a door like that, and even then it wouldn’t be easy. You’d have to tear the whole door apart to get through, and I don’t think even soldiers can do that without us knowing about it.”
“Are you a carpenter?” asked Clark, one of the teachers, his tone filled with skepticism.
“No, sir, I’m a dairy farmer, as I believe you know.”
“Then how do you know that will work?”
Piper gave him a small, cool half-smile. “You live in farm country, Mr. Clark. How do you not know that would work?”
That coaxed a few chuckles from the crowd.
“Okay, okay, you’re right,” interrupted Dez, clapping Piper on the shoulder. “It’ll work and it conserves our supplies. Uriah, you’re in charge of securing the doors and windows. Everyone else helps you. Set up work parties and get going.”
She glanced around, saw some nods, a few blank stares, and Clark’s doubt-filled scowl. Dez locked her eyes on him.
“We’re not going to have a problem, are we?” she asked.
Trout wondered how long Clark could meet that uncompromising blue-eyed stare. As it turns out, the teacher lowered his eyes after maybe a full second. Trout was pleased that Dez wasn’t so small that she nodded to herself to acknowledge the victory. Clark wasn’t a bad guy or an asshole. He was scared and confused and defiance or resistance was probably the only way he knew to try and find solid ground or a scrap of personal power. Dez apparently knew that, too.
“Okay, then let’s get started,” said Dez. “I want this all done an hour ago.”
