Two Nights Ago
The sheriff’s station had been a disaster. The radio was broken, and it was no accident. There would be no escape, no help, no mercy. The adults meant to extinguish us.
“The weapons,” Theo said. “They’re gone.”
He was looking at the gun locker, its doors open, the lock hanging loose, the cabinet empty. The sheriff never had what could be called an arsenal, only a shotgun and extra ammunition. Still, this meant somebody else had it. And we didn’t. The odds continued to stack against us. I sensed Max and Theo’s resolve falter, their will draining away. At what point, I wondered, did the human spirit simply break?
“We need to get out of here.” Just as I said it, pushing Theo and Max toward the door, I saw the sheriff pull up outside the station. Under the glare of the light, I watched the cruiser come to a stop, splattered with mud, and even the car seemed something predatory. The sheriff had gone hunting and his quarry was in the backseat, silhouetted and slumped against the window.
I didn’t know what to do. I thought of running, all of us in different directions, picking a spot in the distance and giving everything we had to get there, but I couldn’t take the chance the sheriff wouldn’t shoot one of us, or maybe all. So we stayed, glued in place, safe behind a wall of brick.
The sheriff stepped out of the car, taking his time, his cadence relaxed. He opened the back passenger door. For a split second, I thought it might be Renzo. It was Wendy, a girl from my homeroom known mostly for her shock of red hair, curly and wild.
Thrilled is the wrong word, but how else to describe the feeling of seeing another survivor? Another classmate? In my own efforts to stay alive, I hadn’t thought of anyone else. But if she’d survived, others must have, too. We weren’t alone!
The sheriff, it seemed, had been capturing kids. Probably bringing them to the station. Maybe keeping them locked up in the jail cell. Why hadn’t we checked there?
We would save them. We will save them all.
Wendy, hands cuffed behind her, emerged from the cruiser. Her jeans were ripped near the knees, her elbows scraped. I imagined her running from him, her terror, her exertions and effort, only to trip and fall.
Now she was here. We could rescue her.
The sheriff positioned her against the side of his car. She was limp and pliant, and I tried to think of what we could do to help, but everything was happening too fast.
She looked up and caught my eye. There was a moment of recognition. Hope. She blinked and looked away before the sheriff discovered us.
And then….
I remember her face. Like last words, there are last images.
The sheriff, so casual, like waving to a friend, raised his gun and shot her point-blank in the head. Just like that. A life snuffed out without a word.
Max gasped, instinctively bringing his hand to his face. Theo jumped, startled.
I had to stop myself from screaming, swallowing my horror. My mouth was dry, and I tasted bile, a sick mix of sour and sweet, my throat burning.
I looked away, though I’d seen too much. In the second from seeing to not seeing, her head snapped back and she’d collapsed to the ground, this lifeless thing, as though in the same span of time, from standing to falling, her soul had flown, and all that was left was a husk of skin and bone.
The only word was why. Why had he shot her? Why had he gone through the trouble of chasing her to bring her here?
I wanted to rush out and tackle him, claw his eyes out, make him feel the pain he had inflicted, to feel his life leave his body, and then wishing for him to return so that I could do it again. Max must’ve sensed my desire, as my body tensed, pulled by an invisible string, and I moved to the door. “Ruthie,” he whispered. “No.”
His voice kept me where I stood.
The sheriff holstered his weapon and then searched her body, treating it no better than road kill. I hated myself for doing nothing more than watching. Digging through her pockets, he retrieved a cellphone and laid it on the parking lot cement, crushing it with his boot. He bent over her once again and lifted her hands and began dragging her. Dragging her toward the door. Toward us.
“He’s coming this way,” Theo gulped. “He’s coming inside.”
I felt my panic rising.
The sheriff’s back was turned, and as he dragged her she left a trail of red, a blanket of blood.
I turned to Theo and his face was sheet white. I asked, “Are there any windows?” He was paralyzed with fear, his eyes huge. His head barely moved from side to side.
The reception area had windows, but none big enough to fit through. I took Max and Theo by the arm and led them deeper into the station.
A bathroom was right next to the reception area, but its windows were too small, used for ventilation and light. We were trapped. My mind spun. The walls seemed to close in on me and I wished I were a bird, anything to just sprout wings and fly away. In a flash of desperation, I pointed to the jail cell down the hall and said, “Maybe we can hide there.”
They nodded, having no choice but to follow.
I saw the bars, and I turned the corner, ignoring the smell of spoiled meat until it was too late. When I arrived at the cell, I understood.
I understood madness.
I didn’t want to, but I knew why the sheriff had brought Wendy here. Like he had so many others. He was using the jail cell as a makeshift morgue.
They were in a pile near the corner. Bodies. 30 or 40 or more. Kids and teens. Tossed like dirty laundry and stacked like wood, a hideous game of Twister, legs over arms, bodies at odd angles, and hands. Such small hands.
The room began to spin and I stumbled to the floor, landing in wetness, not wanting to know what it was. I was level with them, their gazes, the open eyes, their expression curious, as if saying why me? Why me and not you?
I knew them all.
Down the hall, I heard the door clang open. I could hear the sheriff struggle to get Wendy’s body over the lip of the door. All that dead weight. Then the wet slickness like a mop traversing a floor.
Coming our way.
Closer.
And closer.
We had to hide. We had to bury ourselves in the pile.
“No,” whispered Max.
“You’ll die,” I said, hearing the tremor of my own voice.
“I can’t.”
“You will.”
We heard the slumping of the sheriff and his human luggage.
God help us, we did the only thing we could.
Theo, Max and I dug into the pile, slithering between the bodies. Between dryness and wetness, between arms and legs to disguise ourselves, becoming chameleons of death. Faces of kids I’d spoken to only days before lay next to me like discarded mannequins, their faces pale, masklike, some of their limbs oddly rigid, while others hung loose. I was surrounded by skin and clothes, hair and nails, and the smell was earthy and ripe, a bouquet so full of decay I gagged.
I silently thanked them for helping me while apologizing for this sacrilegious sharing of space. Every one of them held a story, an ending I didn’t want to fathom.
Something dripped on my face and it took everything I had not to reach up and wipe it off. One drip, then two, leaking infinitely slow.
The sheriff entered and in the dark he was less a person and more a shape, his face empty, removed of features. He moved methodically, unaffected, taking in the pile without an ounce of emotion.
I shut my eyes, feeling he could sense us, the energy, something not belonging, and I wanted to scream.
I am invisible. You cannot see me. You cannot sense me.
I heard him grunt as he hefted what used to be Wendy onto the pile. Another grunt and then he heaved her up and lumped her on top, and the whole stack squished down, crushing my lungs and I almost let out a gasp. I don’t know how Max and Theo were able to stay so still.
The blackness was too dark, inviting my imagination to go to places I didn’t want it to. I imagined the kids next to me, whispering, their fingers moving, their breath cold on my neck and I had to open my eyes. That’s when I finally noticed the face next to mine.
It was Renzo.
He hadn’t run away. He’d been found.
I nearly squealed, and I must’ve reacted somehow, because Wendy’s body rolled off the pile and unto the floor. The sheriff looked back, his face askew. He stood, staring at the pile, staring at us.
He’s looking right at me. I know it. I can feel it.
Then he lifted Wendy again and as if wielding a sledgehammer, brought her down on the pile. My lungs collapsed and I couldn’t breathe.
I counted the seconds, waiting for him to leave, watching his boots recede into the darkness and down the hall, until the door clanged open and closed, and his car rumbled off into the night.
Only then did I draw a breath as deep as if I’d been drowning, a breath surrounded by breathlessness. Theo, Max and I slowly crawled out of that nightmare, out of that room, not looking back, never ever looking back.