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At the door she paused, listened. Definitely screams.
In the hallway.
She took a breath and opened the door.
The bathroom was on the basement level. This part of the school was usually empty during class. Just the bathroom, the janitor’s office, the boiler room, and the gym.
She only opened the door a crack, just enough to peer out.
Dault was out there, and she froze.
Dault was running, and he was screaming.
There were three other kids chasing him. Freshmen, Dahlia thought, but she didn’t know their names. They howled as they chased Dault. Howled like wildcats. Howled like Marcy had done.
Dault’s screams were different. Normal human screams, but completely filled with panic. He ran past the bathroom door with the three freshmen right behind him. The group of them passed another group. Two kids—Joe Something and Tammy Something. Tenth graders. They were on their hands and knees on either side of one of Marcy’s friends. Kim.
Kim lay sprawled like Marcy was sprawled. All wide-open and still.
While Joe and Tammy bent over her and . . .
Dahlia’s mind absolutely refused to finish the thought.
What Joe and Tammy were doing was obvious. All that blood, the tor
n skin and clothes. But it was impossible. This wasn’t TV. This wasn’t a monster movie.
This was real life and it was right now and this could not be happening.
Tammy was burying her face in Kim’s stomach and shook her head the way a dog will. When tearing at . . .
No, no, no, no . . .
“No!” Dahlia’s thoughts bubbled out as words. “No!”
She kept saying it.
Quiet at first.
Then loud.
Then way too loud.
Joe and Tammy stopped doing what they were doing and they both looked across the hall at the girls’ bathroom door. At her. They bared their bloody teeth and snarled. Their eyes were empty, but there was hate and hunger in those snarls.
Suddenly Joe and Tammy were not kneeling. They leaped to their feet and came howling across the hall toward the bathroom door. Dahlia screamed and threw her weight against it, slamming it shut. There were two solid thuds from outside and the hardwood shook with what had to have been a bone-breaking impact. No cries of pain, though.
Then the pounding of fists. Hammering, hammering. And those snarls.
Far down the hall, Dault was yelling for help, begging for someone to help him. No one seemed to.
Dahlia kept herself pressed against the door. There were no locks on the bathroom doors. There were no other exits. Behind her on the floor were three things. A dead girl who had been every bit as fierce as the two attacking the door. A cell phone that had seemed to try to tell her that something was wrong with the world.
And the knife.
Dad’s knife.
Just lying there.
