Apocalypse - Keith R. A. DeCandido [55]
She parked the car just outside the school gates. Nearby, she sighted a vehicle crashed into one of the buildings by the abandoned playground. From this distance, it looked like an RCPD truck, but she couldn’t tell which division—and she didn’t care enough at this point to investigate.
They had a girl to find.
Meanwhile, L.J. had gone back to stargazing. “Terri fuckin’ Morales. So, is it hard? To get on TV and shit?”
“It just takes a lot of hard work and determination,” Morales said with a bright smile that Jill had to resist the urge to punch.
Both weapons drawn, Jill approached the front door to the school. Morales and L.J. were right behind her.
The door was ajar. It squeaked as Jill pushed it open.
“Damn, we got some serious horror-movie shit happenin’ here.” L.J. had gone fully three seconds without talking, which was obviously more than he could bear.
Ahead of them was a long, darkened corridor filled with lockers and doors to classrooms.
Morales muttered, “I always hated school.”
“Not me.” L.J. shrugged. “I was my school’s ghetto superstar. Guns, drugs, hos, jazz choice—I did it renaissance style!”
Jill had finally had it. “Is there any danger you might shut the fuck up for a moment?”
L.J. held up his hands defensively but, miraculously, said nothing.
“We’re going to have to split up to cover this place.”
“Forget it,” Morales said. “I don’t even have a gun. I’m not going anywhere by myself.”
“I could come with you,” L.J. said quickly, flashing a huge smile.
Looking at L.J., Jill said, “You take the east wing.” Then she handed one of her pistols to Morales. “You take the west.”
Morales took the automatic, holding it like it was a dead rat.
“I’ve never shot a gun before.”
Resisting the urge to say that if she shot herself in the foot, she’d be doing them all a favor, Jill instead put on an encouraging voice. “Nothing to it. Point, pull, repeat.” With a smile, she added, “Try to hit them in the head.”
Under normal circumstances, Jill wouldn’t split them up this way, given that L.J. was at best unreliable and Morales at best wholly incompetent, but time was of the essence. If they weren’t out of Raccoon by sunrise, their continued good fortune in managing to stay alive in the death trap that the city had become would come to an abrupt end.
They needed to find Angela Ashford, and fast.
Jill took the basement, figuring that to be the most likely spot where she’d be. After all, if a little kid was hiding out, she’d go downstairs.
As she opened the door to the basement, she heard Morales mutter to herself, “Point, pull, repeat, point, pull, repeat, point, pull, repeat…”
If she was really lucky, Jill would find the kid and be able to get out before L.J. and Morales knew she was gone.
No, that wasn’t fair. They deserved as much of a chance to live—
—as Peyton had?
Dammit.
The basement was a maze of cooling ducts, heating pipes, and bad lighting. Jill had a flashlight, but it barely penetrated the gloom.
Anything could be hiding down here.
Twenty-Four
Humming the theme to Shaft—he’d have been singing it, but aside from the phrase “shut yo’ mouth!” he couldn’t remember any of the words—L.J. walked through the halls of the darkened school.
This, he decided, was cool. Yeah, okay, most everyone in the town was dead, but L.J. was still kickin’, and that was what mattered. And now he was patrollin’ the halls on a mission to rescue a little girl.
All this after surviving the fuckin’ St. Valentine’s Day Massacre in Halloran’s gun shop.
Best of all, he was hangin’ with Terri fuckin’ Morales! A goddamn celebrity!
Not bad for a three-time loser from the ’hood.
He went into the first room he came across in this wing. Looked like a science lab—it had those big black-topped tables with faucets and Bunsen burners and shit. Against the wall, there were all kinds of jars filled with dirty water and dead animals.
L.J. shook his head. No wonder the world was goin’ crazy, if they were lettin’ little kids play with this shit.
On the far side of the room was a frosted-glass door. Probably