Flip This Zombie - Jesse Petersen [67]
So with all that in mind, it followed that within the walls of… Creekside Elementary (a ridiculous name since we were in the desert with no creek within any reasonable distance to the school), there were probably a couple of chicks still roaming their classrooms, hanging with the students who they had turned or who had turned them one fateful afternoon just before recess.
I pulled into the parking lot and took a space right near the door even though it said HANDICAPPED.
Here’s a weird thing. Even though parking wasn’t exactly at a premium in the last few months, I still felt really guilty about taking a spot meant for someone disabled. I mean, my great auntie had owned a handicapped placard because of some weird hip thing and every time I slid into one of those extra-wide spots with the little blue chair in it, I could hear her screeching voice in my ear, repeating her favorite phrase:
“For shame, Sarah!! For shame.”
Today was no different and I muttered, “Shut up, Auntie Rose,” to myself before I looked around me.
There were a handful of rusted-out cars in the lot and a sludge-covered bus parked half up on the sidewalk, both good signs that someone had been home when the plague hit the school. I pulled my supplies from the back seat and began to load up as I played potential scenarios out in my head over and over.
Dave always told me I needed to think more and act less on emotion, and he was right. As always.
Today more than ever, though, his advice was spot-on. He wasn’t there to protect my ass so I had to be very certain that I was ready for all contingencies before I took step one into the dark, low building that had once been a place of learning and children’s laughter.
The dart gun was vital, so I took it. Also the bat Dave had created for me just a short time ago. I admit that putting it into place at my utility belt made my heart hurt a little. I missed the goof. A lot.
And then there was the cannon. I hadn’t actually tried it out yet, but it wasn’t too complicated, especially for someone as well-versed in weaponry as I’d become. Funny, back when this started, I had no clue how to shoot and could hardly reload. How quickly things change.
But anyway, the cannon was basically a big-ass gun that could fire hundreds of bullets at once, spraying down any target (or targets) in a few presses of the trigger mechanism.
The only problem was that it was a huge thing. When I strapped it across my back, my knees actually buckled a little from its weight and I had to readjust all my other supplies (including the rope to bind whatever I hoped to catch) before I dared move forward into uncharted and dangerous territory.
Still, within fifteen minutes of pulling into the lot, I felt ready enough to start toward the big double doors that led into the school building.
Heading up the long sidewalk that led to the entryway, I was struck by a feeling that this was all so familiar. I could almost hear the soccer moms at the curb, yelling out directions to their children as they scurried through the yard. I could almost see the teachers herding little groups of kids toward the front of the school as the bell rang to signal the beginning of the day.
When the infection had come to the school, what had brought it? Some little latchkey kid who no one cared enough about to notice he’d been bitten by someone? Or a rabid janitor who was already kind of weird so no one noticed until it was too late? Maybe even a stuffy principal whose morning announcements that day had been very different.
I shook away my thoughts and tugged at the doors, but I found they were locked. It didn’t really surprise me.
When the shit started going down, there was no way the schools hadn’t gotten a “lock down” order. You can thank Columbine and other school shootings for that. It was just standard operating procedure meant to limit the incident as much as possible.
Only in this case, once the people in this place were locked down, they were also locked in with whoever and whatever had already been