A year of sleeping on the ground in a bed of sand—paranoid, pacing every hour of the night, listening to distant pops and the loud booms that shook the earth like thunder—Peter could still hear the shouts of soldiers calling out in the chaos of firefights.
"Covering fire!"
"Frag out!"
"I'm reloading!"
"Man down!"
Long nights. He could still taste the sand and smell it burning from fires sparked by fighting. Convoys destroyed. Fluids igniting under the desert sun. Black smoke pluming into the sky.
Now, Peter was on patrol with his team. Their formation was spread out, moving in unison, each soldier monitoring a different sector—together maintaining 360-degree security. Their patrol base wasn't far off. They'd covered roughly ten miles before reaching the abandoned school.
Massive holes scarred the roof, as if it had been bombed. Graffiti littered the walls. The building spanned 85,000 square feet—two main levels and a partial basement. The basketball court's roof had caved in.
"Sergeant!" a soldier behind Peter shouted.
Peter turned, weapon raised to high ready, before locking eyes with the man.
"What's up, Lopez?"
Lopez stared up at the building, eyes widening as the school's size sank in.
"Private!" Peter barked, shaking Lopez by the shoulders. "Stop getting fucking lost and speak!"
Lopez snapped out of it, clutching the cold-hammer-forged barrel of his Vektor-9 Praetorian modular rifle, its ACOG-style optic catching the sun.
"Sergeant, I don't think we should stop here. We need to keep moving—find somewhere inhabited. This place… it's just a bad memory waiting to happen. Nothing good, Sergeant."
Peter let go of him, brow furrowing.
"So you want to keep walking? Skip out on a place that might have water, supplies, someone alive? Just because it looks dead doesn't mean it is. I say we go in. I need you to trust me."
Lopez lowered his gaze and sighed.
"Fucking shit… yes, Sergeant."
Peter turned back, rifle lowered to the low ready. As he approached the school's entryway, the stench hit hard. From the outside, it looked abandoned—lifeless. Inside, though… death clung to every hallway and classroom.
He gagged, covering his mouth.
"¡Chingada madre!" he muttered.
"Sergeant, we should really think about this," Lopez pleaded again, this time backed by the rest of the squad.
"I think Lopez is right, Sergeant. To hell with whatever nightmare's in there. That smell alone makes me wanna run," said Private Desmond.
Corporal Haut and PFC Klicker nodded in agreement.
Peter slung his rifle behind him, fists clenched.
"So you're all pussies now? Scared of a school that smells like death? Yeah, it reeks. Because of dead people. And we don't fear the dead."
He gripped his rifle again and pushed through the bullet-riddled wooden doors, turning back before they closed.
"Be fucking men."
The doors thudded shut.
"Oh, fuck him. 'Be fucking men,'" Desmond mocked. "He's insane! We're gonna find nothing! Nothing but our own deaths!"
"Cool it, gringo," Lopez snapped. "We've got guns. Knives. We're trained. Why are you so worked up? There's no life here."
Desmond hurled his rifle to the ground and turned away.
"I'm not dying 'cause some psychotic asshole wants to 'patrol' a goddamn death school that reeks of rot!"
"Yo! Your rifle, dipshit! You're dead anyway without it!" Haut shouted.
Desmond turned, stomped back, retrieved the weapon. Before he could take another step, Klicker handed his rifle to Lopez and tackled Desmond, spearing him into the sand.
Desmond groaned, wind knocked out. Haut and Lopez walked over. Haut knelt beside him.
"I get it. You're scared. You wouldn't be human if you weren't. But you swore an oath—to face shit like this whether you want to or not. It does not matter to any of us. Or did I miss something? Are you one of those thinkers?"
Desmond rolled in pain. Lopez gave his calf a light kick.
"Quit being dramatic, pendejo. Get up. We got work to do."
Groaning, Desmond stood. Klicker slapped him hard on the upper back, the sound echoing into the desert.
"Don't be a bitch. Come on."
Klicker moved to the doorway, weapon at the low ready. Haut and Lopez stacked up—Lopez behind Klicker, Haut at the front. Desmond took position behind Lopez, pulling rear security.
Haut brought his boot up and kicked the doors wide open. The doors slammed inward, breaking off their hinges and collapsing with a loud bang.
"Son of a bitch…" Haut muttered, rubbing his eyes. He signaled to advance.
The squad swept in, rifles scanning corners.
No Peter.
No sound except for the fading echo of the doors slamming to the ground. Dust was swirling in the air.
Flashlights clicked on, beams cutting through the dark.
Lopez vomited. Haut coughed, gagging.
"Oh my God…"
Bodies everywhere—children. Teachers. Bullet wounds. Slit throats. Blood dried into the tile.
Desmond kept eyes on the door, covering the rear. Klicker moved closer and spotted a note stapled to a woman's forehead. Her eyes were gouged out. Written in what looked like blood:
Jy is 'n vermorsing van lewe!
"It says, 'You are a waste of life.' This was an attack. Personal," Klicker said.
"A shooter? A kid?" Lopez asked, wiping his mouth.
"No way to know. Doesn't matter. They're gone," Klicker replied.
"What a fucked-up deal." He shook his head.
Lopez stepped beside him, intertwined his fingers, closed his eyes, and whispered, "Señor, cuida a estos niños en tu cielo. Amén."
He signed the cross over his body.
"In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit."
Klicker nodded toward a nearby classroom—History 101. A shadow moved inside. He raised his rifle.
"Movement. Twelve o'clock. History room."
The squad aimed. Desmond crouched low, moving in. Klicker stacked at the door; the others followed.
A spray-paint can rolled out—hissing.
"GRENADE!" Haut yelled.
Lopez tackled Haut. Desmond and Klicker dove. The explosion slammed them into lockers. Desmond faceplanted. Haut landed on his legs. Lopez hit the ground sideways. Klicker caught a locker corner to the helmet—knocked out cold.
Haut scrambled to him.
"Status! Talk to me!"
"I'm alive!" Lopez called, raising an arm.
Desmond spat blood, feeling the crater where a tooth used to be.
"God fucking damn my fucking life!"
He stood, waved to Haut. Haut knelt by Klicker, slapping his face.
"Wake up, kid!"
After pinching his arm, Klicker jolted awake—screaming. He punched Haut, knocking him backwards on his rear. He took a second and winced, then cracked his jaw back into place.
Lopez and Desmond raised their rifles, covering the doorway. Haut stepped up, finger on the trigger.
"One chance! Come out now or we come in!"
"Kom en kry my, fokken nou! I'll make you like them! Quiet, like statues!"
A child's voice. Ten, maybe twelve. The sound of a shotgun being racked.
Haut signaled for cover positions. Desmond ducked behind lockers. Lopez crouched behind a pillar. Klicker dove for cover.
Haut motioned to Lopez: Get his attention.
Lopez shouted, "What's your name?"
"Fok jou!"
Desmond snorted. Klicker raised his voice.
"How long have you been here?"
Silence. Then, footsteps.
Haut pantomimed a grab: Get him out here.
Lopez set down his rifle, raised his hands.
"Listen. I just want to know your name—how you got here. Then I'll leave."
"Like the others? They came. They asked. They did not leave. Tried to take me. Now statues, like the rest!"
Lopez steadied his voice.
"I'm Lopez. I came to find survivors. Not to take you. I want to help."
"How do I know you tell truth?"
Lopez stepped toward the door.
"You don't want to do this."
The kid swung out—shotgun leveled at Lopez's chest. Locked eyes.
"Leave me alone!"
Finger tensed on the trigger—Haut grabbed the barrel, yanked it. The kid lost his grip. Haut kicked him in the chest, sent him flying.
He pounced, rolled him over, zip-tied his wrists. The kid kicked, thrashed.
"SHUT THE FUCK UP AND STOP FUCKING KICKING!"
The kid froze. A wet patch spread across his pants.
"You move—look the wrong way—and you pay. You tried to kill us. That's not forgotten. You understand?"
The boy barely nodded.
The others gathered around.
"Take it easy," Desmond said. "He's just scared."
"He looks terrified, man," Klicker added.
"He should be," Haut growled. "He almost killed us all."
Lopez crouched down beside him.
"When's the last time you ate?"
No reply.
Lopez unwrapped a nutrient bar. Haut shook his head—but Lopez offered it anyway.
"Here. Try it."
The boy bit. Chewed slowly. His eyes locked on the bar.
Lopez gently helped him up, feeding him another bite. Haut mouthed: Don't free him. Lopez nodded.
"Now… will you tell me your name?"
The kid glanced from Lopez to Haut, then nodded.
"Sipho. I am Sipho."
Haut stepped forward, stared him down.
"Tell me where Peter is."