They were everywhere.
He kept running.
Soon he figured out where he was. If he kept running—as if he had a choice—he’d be at the school in less than ten minutes.
Five minutes into his run, the rain stopped.
Six minutes in, he smelled smoke.
Seven minutes in, the smell grew intense. Something big had burned, like when the blast furnace at the steel plant had exploded when he was ten. He remembered smelling it all through Sydney, for miles. Even days afterwards.
Eight minutes in, he found the source of the smell.
Colby Elementary—his goal—was a smouldering framework of blackened wood and concrete. Scorched brick walls still stood, but the building looked hollow. He didn’t dare get any closer.
There were hundreds of them.
Hordes of people, crouched to the ground, huddled around things he could not see. But he knew. They clustered around food.
Their food was people. People from the school.
Or are they the people from the school?
Or both?
He hid behind the opened door of an abandoned car and watched, panic crawling up his throat. He had to get closer. He had to see who was down there.
He had to find his family.
He crawled to another car to get a better view and recognized faces: neighbours, teachers, people he’d regularly seen in the street or in the park. People he knew. All diseased. All tearing at what remained of other people he knew. None of them were his father or Mary.
Maybe they left, before things got bad. Before this happened.
“They won’t let me leave,” his father had told him.
Alex’s breathing rasped in his chest as his panic took over.
Very slowly, one of the people in the closest group turned toward him. It was horribly burned, its skin blackened. Tatters of clothing had melted to its body; charred muscle glistened from the rain. It saw Alex. It raised what was left of a hand—just bones and tendons—and started moving very slowly toward Alex—its joints had all fused together.
As it approached, others moved with it, like a flock of horribly scarred birds. Mark hadn’t looked like this. Neither had Mr. Watts. These were grotesque.
Bloody gashes slashed across heads or necks or arms. Many were missing limbs; some dragged themselves along the ground, their legs torn or burned off. Covered in blood, singed, or burnt to a char, they all should have been in horrible pain. They didn’t show it. They only showed one thing: Get Alex.
He turned to run, but more had gathered behind him. He looked around frantically, struggling to breathe. The house behind him? But he was terrified to go into an unknown house after what had happened at Mark’s.
Behind the house ... He knew those woods.
I’ll hide there until help comes!
It had to come at some point.
He passed a lot of things, darting between trees and ducking under low branches. Bodies, mostly. And pieces: legs, arms, hands—all scorched from the fire at the school. He tripped over something and tumbled roughly into the wet leaves covering the ground. When he looked back, he saw a head, rolling from the impact of his foot.
Farther in there were no more bodies. “Maybe they didn’t get this far,” he muttered, panting. “Maybe they don’t like the woods.”
After a minute of straight sprinting, he collapsed, barely catching himself before his face hit the forest floor. His body simply refused to carry him any farther. His arms gave out and he felt the wet leaves plaster against his face. He had been running almost since he woke up. He dragged himself to a tree and sat against it. He scanned the area, then leaned his head back.
He had no idea what he was going to do.
Nowhere to go. No one to find. No plan.
SNAP!
Something else walked slowly in the woods. Something that wouldn’t leave until it found him. Fear rose in him once again, but his body ached as he tensed against the tree.
SNAP.
The sound brought some clarity to his mind and an image formed: his fort.
Years ago, he had read about Superman’s Fortress of Solitude and he liked the idea: a place where he could get away from the problems or people that bothered him. Alex had built his fortress in the woods between his house and the school so that it was close, no matter who or what was bothering him. If he could get there...
CRUNCH.
His legs ached under his own weight as he slowly stood, leaning against the tree. He took a step and dropped to his knees. He had nothing left.
SNAP.
He had to go. If he didn’t, they’d have him. He got to his feet again and took some very painful steps leaning on trees for support. Ducking low almost brought him to his knees again, but he kept going.
CRACK.
He looked around, knowing that the fort was nearby.
SNAP.
He hadn’t used it for years. He hoped that wind or rain or other kids hadn’t destroyed it.
SNAP.
He recognized a pile of large rocks, covered in fallen leaves.
CRUNCH.
It had to be around there ...
CRACK.
... somewhere.
SNAP.
There it is!
Making things even more difficult, Alex had built his tree fort in a tree on top of a small mound. He chose it to gain even greater height, but having finally found it, he cursed having to climb even the slightest incline. He got to the tree and put his hands on the first hold.
CRACK.
The first step was wet and his foot slipped quickly, hitting the ground with a soft thud. He leaned his head against the tree, putting his weight onto it. I can’t do this.
SNAP. CRACK.
He looked up at the underside of his fort, tightened his grip on the handholds and put his foot back on the step. He didn’t slip. He would get
