Temple jostled her from behind. “Get in, quick, before the cops see us.”
They gathered in the broad center hall, each switching on a flashlight. Pale green paint peeled off the walls in sheets; Zach’s narrow light fell on a constellation of spotty black mold growing along the plaster. A smell of wet rot permeated the air, hanging heavy as moss. Jagged rings of water stains dotted the ceiling, and a jumble of iron water pipes lay on the floor near the crippled staircase. The white light from Tally’s flashlight lit up Fairen’s face with a ghostly pallor. She shifted her place in the circle to stand beside Zach, and clutched for his hand.
“I feel weird about this,” she said under her breath. “There’s broken glass all over the place. We should have brought gloves.”
“Don’t pick anything up and you’ll be fine.”
“What if I catch tuberculosis?”
“You won’t. That was fifty years ago.”
Scott turned his back to the group and shone his flashlight up to the balcony of the second story. Zach couldn’t resist the opportunity to mess with him. He handed his light to Tally, then rushed up behind Scott and twisted his arm behind his back, uttering a loud “Yah!”
Scott’s light clattered to the ground, spinning the beam into a twist of brightness and shadow that, for a moment, disoriented Zach. In that time Scott gained the advantage, releasing himself from Zach’s grip and forcing Zach into a headlock. Zach, calling upon ten solid years of judo experience, immediately realized Scott wasn’t playing.
Zach jabbed an elbow into Scott’s side and grasped his wrist. But Scott—in a blatantly illegal move—jerked Zach’s head back and threw him to the ground. Zach broke his fall with his hands and coughed reflexively. Before he could gather himself Scott was on his back, holding him down with his body weight. He locked his arm around Zach’s neck again and jerked his arm behind his back, sending a lightning bolt of pain from Zach’s wrist to his shoulder. Scott was taller, heavier, and—Zach understood—angrier. He held on.
“Get him off the damn floor, Scott,” Temple yelled.
“Let him up,” urged Fairen. “That’s disgusting. There’s glass.”
In the darkness, the others couldn’t tell that Zach could barely breathe. He felt Scott twisting him against the gritty floor and desperately coached his own mind. Scott’s fighting skills were shit. His own were superb. He wasn’t being overcome; he was being psyched out.
“Stop playing, you idiots,” said Fairen.
Zach gathered what little oxygen he could and surged up from the floor, throwing Scott to the ground and, at long last, rising to his feet. He took two steps back as Scott got up and squinted when Temple shone a flashlight on them. Scott walked back to Tally, leveling a cool-eyed gaze on Zach. This time Zach understood that what he felt was not paranoia. Scott knew.
He returned to Fairen’s side, recoiling as she reached for his hand. His wrist felt as though it had been crushed beneath a school bus. She touched his shoulder and asked, “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
They followed the others around the staircase and entered a long hallway. The light from their Maglites was entirely ineffective. Circles of brightness swirled on the walls, bringing out hanging black wires and inkblots of mold, crumbled plaster and more loosened flaps of sickening green paint. When Temple’s light turned onto a broad doorway, they passed through it into a cavernous room.
“Is anyone keeping track of the way we came in?” asked Kaitlyn.
Fairen said, “I’ve been dropping bread crumbs all along.”
“That’s not funny,” Kaitlyn replied. Her voice wavered.
“There’s something stuck in the bottom of my shoe,” whined Tally. “Can we stop for a minute?”
Scott shook his head. “Don’t pull it out. It could be glass and cut you. Or a nail with tetanus.”
“Tetanus?” asked Tally. Her voice had risen by an octave.
They shone their lights on the walls. Graffiti was everywhere: trios of meaningless letters, curse words, the occasional swastika. The room was empty of furniture except for a desk that sat askew beside the farthest wall. But the floor was littered with napkins and fast-food containers, a filthy blanket, two garbage bags and a snow boot.
Scott focused his light on a wall. “That looks like gang graffiti.”
In a disparaging voice Fairen asked, “Scott, what would
“He grew up on the mean streets of Sylvania,” Zach said.
His wrist pounded as though his heart had been relocated there. “The Waldorf thug life.”
“Shut the fuck up,” said Scott.
“Damn, Scott, chill out,” said Temple.
“I don’t like this,” Tally informed them, her voice wavering. “I’m going back out to the hallway.”
“Hang on a sec,” said Scott, looking over the graffiti.
Tally turned. “I’ll meet you out there.”
“That’s not the way,” Fairen called. She shone her flashlight on Tally’s retreating back. Suddenly Tally vanished, and screamed.
“What the
