Rivera felt her eyes widen as darkness filled the locker room, her pupils fully dilating in an effort to absorb any light they could from her surroundings, but they found only the inky black of nothing.

Someone forgot to refuel the generator, she thought, repeating the statement in her head like a mantra so as to not freak herself out more than she already was.

She had been putting on a clean set of clothes at a bench when the power went out. The layout of the locker room was already fading from her mind but still good enough to know roughly where she was in relation to the exit. She pulled on her boots, struggled a bit with the laces, then stuffed her dirty clothes into the plastic bag she’d brought and began carefully shuffling forward with one hand outstretched, fingers brushing past the cool metal of the lockers, praying she didn’t crack her shin against one of the bolted down benches. Her fingers ran off the edge of the lockers into empty air and it felt just like death, no sound, no sight, no feeling, nothing at all but her standing there in an infinite abyss. Chills ran down her arms.

Why she hadn’t brought a flashlight she’d never know.

A few more uncertain steps brought her to the hall that led back to the gym. She knew this only from the way the silence changed in her ears, the sound squeezed into a different shape by the close presence of dense stone. Her hand found the mercifully solid wall and she walked a little faster, rounding the corner and passing under the red EXIT sign that glowed above the door.

Walking now on the lacquered wooden floors of the gym, Rivera continued along the wall until the silence shifted again, this time opening up into a cave-like rumble that thrummed with each footstep. A handful of LED lanterns were scattered around the gym, little havens of illumination left abandoned on cots or toppled sideways on the floor, but their owners were nowhere to be seen. Not one of the hundred or so people who had filled the room earlier were there. It was like she was the last soul on the planet.

She grabbed one of the lamps and continued by the bleachers toward the main hallway, but paused when a door slammed somewhere outside. For half a moment she considered running out there and asking whoever it was what was going on, but she stopped herself and listened, the muscles deep within her ears tensing.

Voices. Low voices, like those of people who didn’t want to be heard.

A flashlight beam moved over the glass of the gymnasium doors and the voices slowly grew louder.

Rivera switched off her lantern and climbed into the bottom row of the bleachers. She didn’t really know why she was doing this as she lay down on her back and pressed her body flat beneath the bottom bench, but the conspiratorial tone of those voices bristled against her mind. Combined with the power going out, everyone abruptly disappearing . . . something was wrong.

Of course, “Something is wrong” was the mental soundtrack that looped through her head practically every day. How many times at the university had she tensed up when a door closed too loudly? Or when she saw a student run by her door during office hours? She knew statistically it was nothing nefarious, he was likely just another kid running late for class, but what if that bag he had held something worse than over-priced textbooks? Those flashes of anxiety, the what-ifs that kept her constantly on edge, always turned out to be a waste of cortisol in her experience, so it followed that this was no different. Logically, there was a safe and reasonable explanation for the power going out and all the other things she was reading her fears into, that this was just the paranoia of an overstressed, sleep-deprived mind in its second week without any medication.

Of course, logic also said the Sun couldn’t randomly disappear.

The gym door banged open and Rivera’s entire body jumped. She held her breath and stared up at the ceiling rafters as a flashlight beam slowly moved over the room.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” a man called out.

Goosebumps crawled over Rivera’s skin.

“There’s noone in here,” a second man said. “Let’s go.”

The flashlight moved slowly over the bleachers, passing directly over her. “Lot of places to hide,” the first man said, his footsteps echoing as he walked further inside.

“What,” the second snorted, “you think two hundred peeple are hiding under the bleachers?”

“Might be.” His voice was even closer, so close she was sure that he saw her. “Or it might just be one.” She made herself as small as possible, shutting her eyes and willing the floor to absorb her body.

The light moved off of the bleachers and darkness wrapped around her like a cloak. She watched the backs of her eyelids glow a faint red as the flashlight panned around the gym. It grew brighter as it passed by her once more, then went dark again for around ten seconds before she finally opened her eyes.

The man was grinning down at her. “Found you.”

---

“You don’t have to do this, Darren,” Howell said. He sounded unusually calm, like he was chatting with a neighbor and not actively being held at gunpoint. “We can work something out.”

Darren let out a bark of laughter, then quickly moved the light back to Carlos to make sure he was behaving. “You think I’m stupid? After everything that’s happened, you think I’d believe you’ll just walk away like it was nothing?” He aimed the light back at Howell.

“No,” Howell said, “because I don’t intend to walk away like it was nothing. You messed up, Darren. Really messed up. Killed some innocent people, good people. But you don’t have to make it any worse. You can do the right thing and we can fix this.”

“How?” Darren demanded. The word came out strained, as if forced through vocal cords not tight with anger, but desperation. “How can we possibly fix this?”

“Tell your people to stop,” Howell said. “That’s how. Tell them to leave all those innocent women and children alone and then the two of us can work out some kind of deal. Nobody else has to get hurt.”

“They won’t listen.” The light moved to Carlos for a second, then back to Howell. “No one was supposed to die. I told them that. I told them we’d scare everyone and get them to leave the gas station, they weren’t supposed to start killing people. That wasn’t the plan.”

“I know.” Howell kept his voice calm and even. “You wanted to do what any leader would do and keep your people safe. I understand. It’s what I’m trying to do too. But your people are scared, Darren, they’re not thinking straight. They don’t know what’s going on and that scares the hell out of them–scares the hell out of me, too–and no one makes good decisions when they’re that scared. That’s why you have to tell them they don’t need to be afraid, that they don’t need to do this, that if both our groups work together then we have a hell of a better chance of staying alive. You have to rein them in, Darren. Lead them.”

Darren’s gun dipped ever so slightly downward. From somewhere down the hall, a distant door slammed and voices carried down the hall. “I can’t. They want this place and they want you gone, if I tell them they can’t have it they’ll kill me and take it anyway.”

“You decided to be their leader,” Howell said. “It’s up to you to tell them they can’t go around killing people to get what they want. That’s not how we’re gonna get through this. We have to work together.”

“They’ll never work with you,” Darren said. “Look, one way or another we’re taking the school. I don’t want to see anyone else killed, so it’d be best if you slip out the back and pray they don’t see you. I’ll let your people go after you leave.”

“And how do I know that your people won’t gun them down anyway? You’ve lost control, Darren. You don’t command them anymore, all you’ve done is stir up their anger and set them loose on the town. A week ago you wanted to protect Honey Grove from invaders foreign and domestic, as you said. Did you have any idea then that you’d be the one leading those invaders?”

“Shut up,” Darren spat, eyes flashing. “We’re trying to keep the town safe from selfish dictators like you.”

Howell laughed. “Come on, you don’t actually think that, do you? I’ve tried to reach out to you, tried to share resources between our groups. You shut me down and refused to communicate, then you took over our gas station and killed our people. Which of those sounds more like a dictator?”

Darren didn’t answer, his eyes drifting as the gears spun behind them. “That’s . . . not how it went.”

A muffled gunshot boomed from somewhere outside.

“Make them stop!” Howell demanded.

Carlos took a step forward and Darren’s gun came back up, its sights trained on his chest. “More people are dying out there!”

“Back up!” Darren warned.

What happened next was almost too fast for Ryan to comprehend. One second Darren was aiming the pistol at Carlos, and the next his flashlight was spinning through the air, its beam painting a splotch of white on the bookshelves, then the floor, then the ceiling, then the bookshelves, and then a bright flash exploded in the room and a sharp bang clapped against Ryan’s eardrums. The sharp, smoky scent of something burning. A metallic clatter of something landing on the floor nearby. Beasley yelping in fear and scrambling out into the hallway.

Then it was over, all in the span of three seconds.

The flashlight rolled to a stop under a table and from its light Ryan could see that Darren was on the ground and Howell was on top of him. For a moment Darren fought to get out from under him, but he stopped struggling once he realized the mayor wasn’t fighting back. Howell’s limp body rolled off of him and fell motionless to the floor, his unseeing eyes staring up at something far beyond the ceiling. Blood ran from a ragged hole just above the mayor’s left cheekbone and seeped into the carpet.

Carlos lurched forward and grabbed the gun that had fallen to the floor during the struggle, but Darren made no effort to move. He just stared dumbly at Howell’s lifeless face.

“Get up,” Carlos ordered, the gun leveled at him. “I said get up!”

“He jumped me,” Darren said, finally tearing his eyes away from Howell. “I didn’t–He attacked me!”

“Because you had him at gunpoint!” Carlos shouted. “Jesus Christ, Darren. What did you think would happen?”

“It was self-defense!”

“No, it was murder. Now get up. You’re going to tell your people to put down their guns and leave.”

“Or what?” Darren asked. “You’re gonna shoot me?”

Ryan glanced at Carlos, at the pistol shaking in his hands, and wondered if he could actually do it. And if he could, should he? Would Darren really take his people and walk away if given the chance, or would letting him live be inviting another attack a week from now?

Darren rose to his feet, a smug look on his face. Any remorse that might have been there was gone now, like his mind had either fully snapped or jumped through enough logical hurdles to convince him that he was justified in what he had done. He wasn’t the bad guy, he was the hero. “You’re not gonna shoot me. You’re the same as your anti-gun, snowflake bitch of a wife. All bark and no–“

Carlos shot him.

The bullet struck just above his knee, the impact jerking his leg to the side and dropping him to the floor. Darren growled up at the ceiling through gritted teeth and clutched the bleeding wound with his hand.

“Call them off,” Carlos said. “Now!”

Darren glared at him but slowly reached for the walkie-talkie on his belt and brought it up to his mouth, pure hatred glowing in his eyes. “You son of a bitch. I’ll kill you. I swear to God, I will kill you.”

The next gunshot was even louder than the first two had been. Ryan jumped at the unexpectedness of it, then looked at Darren to see where he had been hit this time, if he was alive or dead, but Darren’s body fell behind a bookshelf too fast to see how bad the damage was.

“We need to go,” Ryan said, looking back to Carlos.

That’s when he realized Carlos wasn’t standing where he had been. He wasn’t standing at all. He was on his back, eyes wide and gasping for breath, the gun on the ground by his side, tendrils of smoke rising up from a hole punched through the front of his coat.

“What–” Ryan looked back at Darren in time to see him stumbling toward the opened door on the far side of the library, where a small figure stood in the doorframe with a handgun pointed into the library.

As Darren limped through the door the figure lowered the gun and Ryan saw who it was, a kid, pale and wide-eyed, staring into the room at the man he had just shot in the chest. For a second Joey didn’t move, then Darren grabbed his arm and pulled him away from the door and the two disappeared down the hall.

Carlos coughed and groaned, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts.

“No,” Ryan whispered. He grabbed Darren’s flashlight and knelt on the floor beside Carlos. “No, no, no, no. Hey, can you hear me? Come on, please, Carlos!” His hands violently shook as he placed them over the bullethole in Carlos’ coat and pressed down, hard, just like the EMT had done to Franklin.

Carlos’ eyes widened and he gritted his teeth, hands moving up to push Ryan off of him, to stop the pain, but Ryan didn’t let up.

“I have to stop the bleeding,” he said, close to tears. This had all happened half an hour earlier, the same exact emotions and terror, and Ryan knew how it was going to end. He was just going through the motions now, reliving Franklin’s death once again, only this time he would have to experience it from Terri’s perspective.

“Stop,” Carlos begged.

“I’m not letting you die!” Ryan shouted down at him, and he pressed even harder against his chest.

---

Rivera tried to crawl away from the man but it was no use. He grabbed her arm and yanked her up to her feet, not caring when she stumbled over the bottom bleacher and fell onto the floor.

“Told you someone was here,” he called to the other man at the door. “I got ESP. I can sense things like that.”

“Please,” Rivera said, looking up at him and crawling backwards. She was breathing fast, too fast, the panic attack already making itself at home in her mind, spreading its way through her body and turning her hands cold.

“Hey,” the man said, casually bringing the rifle up and cradling it in his arms. “I ain’t gonna shoot you like this, not so close, anyway. Makes such a mess. How about I give you a headstart? If you can make it to that door,” he nodded to the far side of the gym, to the doors that led out into the parking lot, “before I get a shot off, you’re free to go.”

She glanced at the door but already knew she’d never make it. “Just . . . let me go. I’ll leave, I swear.”

The man laughed. “But I don’t want you to leave. I want you to pay.”

“For what?” Rivera whispered.

He pulled the bolt back on his rifle with a sudden snap, loading a round into the chamber that made her jump. “Don’t play dumb. You all think you can just live here nice and warm after what you did to us? That we wouldn’t get you back? Make you pay?”

“I don’t . . .,” She didn’t know what she could possibly say in response that wouldn’t cause him to shoot her. Her mind was entirely blank. She had no idea what he was talking about or what she had supposedly done that required her death as punishment.

“Sure, we took your gas station, eye for an eye and all that,” he went on, clearly enjoying himself, “but you know that’s not enough. That just makes us even. I don’t want us to be even.”

“W-Wait,” Rivera said, willing herself to calm down enough to speak coherently. If she panicked, she was dead. “Do you think we burned down the Valero?”

“We know you did. Saw your van and everything.” He pointed the rifle down at her. “Let’s go, ten seconds and I shoot.”

She flinched as the barrel lined up with her head, feeling the invisible line of death that extended from it like it was something tangible. “Check the license plate!”

“What?”

“We sent someone to see what happened after we heard the explosion. They said a van with out of state tags crashed into the pumps. Out of state! It couldn’t have been us.”

He laughed. “Well, now, ain’t that convenient?” He turned his head and called back to the other man. “Hear that, Doug? She said that van was from out of state.”

Doug didn’t answer.

The man’s smile turned to a frustrated scowl. “Doug! I said, did you hear that?” The sound of footsteps approached from the door and he shook his head at Rivera like she was a friend in on a joke. “He can’t hear shit.”

When the footsteps were close enough, he turned around to face Doug. “You need some hearing aids or some–” he froze, fumbled with his rifle, tried to bring it up to his shoulder.

But Terri closed the short distance between them and knocked the rifle to the side with one hand. The gun went off and a bullet shattered a window on the upper wall. With her other hand, she pressed the barrel a revolver up against his neck. “This is for Franklin.”

“Wait–“

She fired and the man stumbled backward, hands closing around a throat that was no longer in one piece. He collapsed onto the floor, gurgling, and his rifle clunked to the floor at his feet.

Terri holstered the revolver and reached a hand down toward Rivera. “Hey, Doc. Let’s get you out of here.”

“You . . . You shot him.” She stated. It was a stupid thing to say, she realized, but her mind wasn’t really operating at ‘normal socialization’ levels just then.

“Sure did, and you’re welcome,” Terri said, pulling her up to her feet.

As soon as she was up she nearly collapsed back to the floor. Her legs were shaking, her head swimming, bile rising up in her throat at the metallic tang wafting from the pool of blood around the man on the floor. The dead man on the floor.

“You good?” Terri asked, picking up the man’s rifle and slinging it over her shoulder.

“Not in the slightest.”

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I only choked out the guy at the door. Doug. He really can’t hear shit.”

They crossed the gym and crept out by the unconscious Doug leaned up against the wall just as another gunshot went off somewhere. Terri took the lead and they made their way toward the auditorium. Rivera had about a million questions she wanted to ask but kept her mouth shut, her mind piecing a few things together as they walked. She gathered that Darren had decided to take the school, he had already taken the Mobil, and for some reason he was convinced that Howell was behind the Valero explosion.

And that Franklin was dead. God knew how many others.

Terri paused, hand help up. A sound coming toward them, not footsteps but . . . clicking? Scratching? Rivera squinted down the hall. She could see something dark and low to the ground far ahead, and realized with a flash of spine-chilling horror that it was crawling directly toward her at an inhuman speed.

Terri brought her revolver up.

“No, don’t!” Rivera said. She knelt down and held out her hands and a terrified Beasley crashed into her, whimpering and wagging her tail and urinating all at the same time. Rivera hugged her and stroked her fur. “It’s OK, you’re OK.”

Another gunshot echoed down the hall from up ahead and they both froze. Terri started forward, Rivera and a whining Beasley close behind. At the door to the library, Terri carefully leaned around the wall and looked inside, then rushed in with her gun drawn.

Rivera closed her eyes in anticipation of the next gunshot and pulled Beasley close to her chest, but instead she heard a voice call out for help.

She waited only a few seconds before rounding the corner and going in. Terri stood halfway across the room, gun holstered, turning back toward her with a pained expression on her face. In the middle of the library, she could see Ryan leaned over someone down on the floor, and even after Terri moved to block her view, Rivera already knew who it was.