Spencer took two long strides forward. “There is no other way,” he replied. “They have ten seconds or you can pick which one I shoot first.”
Letting out a gulping sob, Lucy spun back to her friends. “Find Ethan!” she cried out. “Stay safe and hidden. And don’t—”
“Five…four…”
Grant and Salem began to run. When they reached the front doors, they grabbed the metal door handle and pushed the door swung open, a gust of spring air blew into the foyer of the school. It was the first breath of fresh air, full of moisture and wet earth, that they had experienced in days. Grant pushed Salem forward over the threshold and then turned to look back at Lucy.
“Three…two…”
Grant opened his mouth to say something, but then watched as Spencer moved the gun on him. And before he could even wave goodbye, Grant was out the door. The heavy door closed quickly with a bang. And Lucy was alone.
Spencer reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of handcuffs. He tossed them over to Lucy and nodded. “Put one end around your wrist.”
“Why?” Lucy asked, her voice shaking. “My friends are gone. When do I get to leave too? I thought you said—”
He aimed the gun at her and took a step forward. Lucy trembled. “Handcuffs. One wrist.”
Breathless, Lucy obeyed. The unattached end of the handcuff dangled at her side. Then Spencer lowered the gun, his finger dropping off the trigger. He marched over to her and wrapped his hand around her upper-arm.
He tugged her over with him to the door, where he inserted a key into a plastic covered security box, lifted the lid, and then entered a seven-digit code. Metal bars and locks slid back into place over the front doors of the school; the high-tech automated system, which cost taxpayers millions of dollars, had not gone to protect the students from any real threat. The locks and bars and bulletproof glass had not kept the virus out. Instead all the bells and whistles continued to facilitate the supreme rule of a maniacal madman.
“Tell me what’s going on. Why are you keeping me?” Lucy asked as Spencer began pulling her toward the office. Terror rose in her throat like bile and she wondered if she screamed if he would shoot her or if he would ignore her. He pushed her to the floor and then hooked the other end of the handcuffs to the underbelly of a table in the middle of the room. Gravity pulled her hand and arm toward the floor, and her wrist went limp against the metal.
“I don’t owe you an explanation.”
Lucy yanked her hand and rattled the handcuff. “You said. You said! Why am I here? Let me go!”
Spencer placed the rifle flat on a desk in the corner. He walked over to a filing cabinet and poured himself a drink out of a tall clear bottle with a brown label. Tipping his head back, he downed the drink in one gulp.
“You…Lucy…are a commodity to me.” Raising his drink in a toast, he took another sip and then took a step forward. “I will not let you go.”
“A commodity. What the hell does that mean?” Lucy adjusted her body. She slumped against the table leg. He turned his back and walked back over to the cabinet; he took a new glass and poured another, then he walked it over to her and tried to hand it to her, but Lucy turned her head away.
“Drink,” he instructed.
“I don’t want to drink anything you give me.” Lucy pushed the drink away. But he shoved the glass closer to her face and leaned down, his rancid breath spilling over her face. She inhaled deeply and then held her breath.
“Drink,” he said again, slower, his mouth leaning closer.
Taking the glass in her hand, Lucy noticed the liquid sloshing against the sides, dangerously close to spilling over. She shook her head and tried to set the drink down on the floor, but Spencer pushed her hand to her face. Then he pinched her cheeks and took the glass back and poured the burning alcohol into her mouth. She tried to let as much dribble down her chin and to her shirt as she could before she spit the rest on the floor. It burned her tongue.
“You wasted it, you little bitch,” he seethed. “Do you know what this cost me? This,” he gestured to the bottle, “was two Tasers. And twenty bottled waters.”
For a second, Lucy couldn’t process what that meant. Then she turned her head sharply to him, her mouth dropping open. “You’re trading the school’s supplies…for alcohol?”
Spencer laughed, a grotesque, throaty laugh, his unbrushed teeth bared. “And weapons. And pills. And other food. But that doesn’t have much to do with you, now does it?”
“It does when you think you can trade me!” Lucy said, practically screaming.
He dropped to her level and grabbed her chin. “The moment you chose to stay in my school, you became my property. It’s just my luck that someone seems to think you’re worth trading for.”
“Who?” Lucy asked while Spencer’s hand still gripped her. “If it’s not my brother, then who?”
“Doesn’t matter to you.” He let her go violently and Lucy’s head snapped backward and hit against the metal edge of the table. Her head burned and a shooting pain traveled down into her neck. She took her free hand to rub the spot and realized that the back of her head was wet and when she looked down at her fingers, they were smeared with blood.
Spencer frowned. “Oopsie,” he glowered, “accidental damage to the goods. Such a shame. I hope it doesn’t hurt your value.”
“Who are you?” Lucy asked. She was too shocked and scared to cry, but her whole body trembled.
“I am a man. A fighter.”
“An opportunist,” Lucy spat.
“You see,” he smiled, “yes. And you say it like it’s a bad thing. But I’m alive. You and me…we aren’t supposed to be alive. And yet, here we are. I realized…quickly…all those people.” He stopped to drink and then he walked back over to Lucy, squatted down, his eyes were bright and wild. “All those people…they wanted into our building. For food and water and shelter. The limited survivors need me.”
“You made yourself important.”
“I am important. I am needed.”
“So you abuse that need?” Lucy’s head felt thick and achy. “What about your own family?”
Spencer broke into a sinister smile. He rose and waltzed over to his office. Lucy could only see only a corner of the room. He leaned over and swiped a picture off of his desk, walked back out, and tossed it to her. In a fancy metal frame, was a wide-smiled and white-toothed brunette, the ocean in the background, wind whipping her hair into her face.
“Fake. My girlfriend, I’d say.” He shook his head and laughed. “Some picture off the Internet. But teachers are kinder to you when you have a family. Paint yourself as a family man; tell people how eager you are to start a family. I was always this close to marrying her, settling down. Do you know how eager all the young female teachers are when they think they get to offer up some dating advice for their boss?”
“You’re a sociopath.”
“Opportunistic.”
“You lied about having a family?”
Lucy noticed the flash, however brief and fleeting, of self-awareness passing over Spencer. She wished he would drop the act, but the drinking wasn’t helping anything.
“Please.” He drank. Then added, “I’d say I’m lucky.” He stared off at one of the office walls, his eyes glazing over. “Who did I have to mourn?” And even though it was a fact that was supposed to have spared him pain, Lucy watched as Spencer closed his eyes and took a shaky breath.
“The world,” Lucy answered in a whisper. “We have the entire world to mourn.”
This did not even garner a response. Spencer went and drank another tumbler—his back to her. Then he slammed the empty glass down and grabbed his rifle, taking an exaggerated step over Lucy’s legs, and walking five feet away to a small table. Sitting on top was the head of the school’s mascot, Spartan Joe. Without an owner, the head took on a freaky vacant quality. Grabbing Joe by his foamy crown, Spencer walked out of office. Lucy could see from her vantage point the front windows, still taped
over with black construction paper.
First, Spencer loosened some tape around the edges and then he kicked over a black crate to the window. He placed the mascot head on top of the crate, its empty eyes staring outward. Then he let the black paper fall around it, creating an obscured view back into the school. Onlookers from the outside would just see a giant head in front of a black background. Then Spencer yanked up on his long sleeved shirt and checked a wristwatch.
After several minutes, Lucy heard a knock on the front door. Four short knocks right in a row, then knock followed by a beat and two more knocks. Spencer raised his gun and walked forward. He unlocked the plastic covering the security panel and punched in his code again. The large mechanical bolts slid open; then Spencer hit a second key code and one of the front doors starting to swing forward automatically.
Lucy hoped that Salem and Grant would be the ones to enter the school. That somehow in that short amount of time they would have planned a rescue.
Instead, a single body ducked through the doorframe.
It was a tall, slender young woman with raven hair. A large single stripe of faded pink framed her face. Spencer pointed his gun at her as she entered with one hand and typed in a key code that slid the metal back over the doors.
The woman had a gun of her own in a holster around her hips; her hand hovered over it like she was about to engage in a duel. She wore black lace-up combat boots over black leggings and a white long sleeve t-shirt—a clear mixture of every video-game heroine Lucy had ever seen. If the new visitor was trying to adhere to some cliché of a badass female, she was succeeding in the category of costuming. She held a bulging messenger bag across her body and her eyes shifted as she watched Spencer’s every move.
“Afternoon,” Spencer mumbled to his guest, he lowered his gun and then walked over and kicked the Spartan head away from the door, the paper flapping back into place.
The new visitor did not return his greeting. She looked at him with nothing but suspicion and potential loathing, her big bright eyes moving quickly from Spencer to the office and ultimately to Lucy.
“You got the girl,” she said. Her voice was smooth and deep.
“Just like you asked. I can see her appeal,” Spencer grumbled as if Lucy couldn’t hear.
The woman slid the messenger bag off and strode with wide, far-reaching, steps into the office, where she tossed it on to the desk where Lucy was handcuffed. Without even a single word to Lucy, she began to pull out various items from the bag: A bottle of whiskey, bottles of pills, a stack of magazines, a box of bullets, and other sundry items.
“Everything on your list, plus some extras thrown in for good measure,” she said as Spencer examined everything piece by piece.
“And what do you want?” Spencer asked.
She snapped her head at him, annoyed. “The girl. And two water bottles for the road. That’s all. Per our discussions and negotiations. That was the deal.”
Lucy saw the girl’s hand itch above her gun, then she slid her hands to her hips, standing there looking at him squarely, her mouth drawn into a thin, tight, frown.
“We didn’t have a deal,” Spencer said. He picked up the whiskey bottle and palmed it, then he tossed it up and down, the brown liquid splashing around inside. “We were in talks. And now that Lucy Larkspur King…that was the name you gave me, right? Well, now that she’s here, in the flesh, in my office, I feel like perhaps she’s more valuable than all of this.”
The woman’s eyes flashed with unmistakable rage. She let out a small huff and then gracefully recovered. Taking a breath, she then gave Spencer a tight-lipped smile. “I see. You want to play a game.” She said it as a statement. And then she nodded, as if giving Spencer credit for his using Lucy as a pawn. “What could you possibly want? Try me.”
Spencer narrowed his eyes. “No, my creativity is limited. I want this to be challenging. I want to be surprised.”
The girl in the black leggings laughed. “I could pull out my gun and shoot you before you even knew I had moved a muscle,” she said with a smile. “Let’s remember something and be real clear about it. I’d much rather kill you and get on with my life.”
“Is that a threat?”
The girl dropped her voice down to a whisper. “A threat? Oh no, Spencer…it’s a promise.”
She even spoke in clichés and sound bites. Lucy watched wide-eyed.
Spencer was quick and he swung the rifle he had been holding a few minutes before off the table and into his hands—but the girl didn’t move and she didn’t reach for her gun, didn’t aim it at his head, and didn’t do anything. Instead, she took her right hand and lowered the gun to the floor.
“You want to keep her?” She asked.
“No. But you want her and that makes her worth more than my usual assortment of loot.”
“Your lack of imagination is hindering my ability to fully comprehend what you think I can get for you…”
He took a step forward, his breath, hot and reeking of alcohol. Lucy watched as he extended his hand and swiftly tucked a long lock of the girl’s hair behind her ear.
“I do have an active imagination after all,” he whispered. “I can think of a few things.”
The woman took a deep breath, but she remained frozen and unfazed by his closeness. “Don’t touch me ever again,” she whispered in a soothing voice. Then she leaned in, her lips a half an inch away from Spencer’s scruffy cheek. “Or I will blow your brains out.” She made the sound of a gun exploding.
Lucy rattled her handcuff against the table, annoyed and frustrated from being ignored, bartered, and a witness to their sick tête-à-tête.
“It doesn’t matter what you give this man because I’m not for sale,” Lucy interjected, but she sounded insecure and frightened. The woman turned her gaze downward and narrowed her eyes as if she was noticing this human for the first time. She looked disgusted at Lucy’s timidity.
“Do me a favor,” the woman said, turning her attention back to Spencer. “Give me another day. Same time. I think I have something that might interest you.”
She then bent down and examined Lucy, pulling on the handcuffs, patting her down for weapons. When she saw the gash on Lucy’s head, she shot Spencer a frustrated look.
“I need her compliant. And in good condition. Handcuffs, good, fine, whatever. Violence, bad. Are we clear?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Spencer pointed to the door. “Tomorrow. And I better not be disappointed.”
“That’s entirely up to you,” she replied. “But what I’m prepared to offer you is so rare it has no value. It might be the single most important item left on our Godforsaken earth. And you’ll take it. Eagerly. Then I get the girl in excellent condition. I mean…for the love Spencer…fix her a decent breakfast, share your deodorant.” Then she turned to Lucy, looked her up and down one last time. “Tomorrow.” She started to walk away.
Spencer followed her back out to the doors, his rifle raised again. He started to punch in the code to slide the metal locks apart.
“Who are you?” Lucy cried out after the stranger, her voice full of anguish and fear.
The girl spun. She paused as if debating whether or not she would answer. “I’m Darla,” she called and then disappeared back outside.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Six days after The Release
Lucy wasn’t able to sleep that night. Her mind kept spinning around thinking of Salem and Grant out there in the world for the first time since the attack. She wondered if they found it cruel or peaceful, and while she hoped they had located her brother, she was not optimistic. But more than anything, she kept imagining that kiss, and she pondered whether or not she would be rescued. After waiting and wondering, she just assumed they had forsaken her for more romantic pursuits. It pained her to think of their closeness while she was so alone.
Her hand ached above her head and she could not find an ounce of comfort. Occasionally she dozed, but when her body pulled on the chain, she would jerk awake t
o the sound of metal rattling on metal. All through the night, her anger and pain increased, but Lucy didn’t cry. Five days ago, she wouldn’t have stopped crying, but she could not find it in herself to shed tears. Spencer watched her like a caged pet—balancing his interest with both fascination and indifference.
When Spencer attempted conversation with her, Lucy turned her face away from his and stared off at the beige office walls where pictures of former students had been taped up in equally numbered columns and rows. Tiny squares of smiling faces, painted and plucked, wearing brand new outfits, without a hair out of place. Lucy’s own senior photos were sitting at home, already distributed to her mother’s friends and distant relatives.
Spencer never wanted to talk about anything that made sense. Instead it seemed that he was excited just to hear himself talk to a human being at all, even if that person was his prisoner. He held court in front of her and recounted movie plots and stories of crazy students and he told her the details of teacher scandals—all of which might have interested her a few days ago, but not anymore.
After he realized it would be a perpetual one-way conversation, Spencer retreated to his office with his bottles and his pills. In no time at all, he was snoring. His rattling breath kept Lucy wide-eyed and awake until the wee hours of the morning.
When Spencer rose with the sun, he was slow, grumpy and suddenly silent, but otherwise fine. He fixed them both a breakfast of scrambled eggs, sausage patties, and French toast sticks drowned in maple syrup from a collection of tiny plastic packets, which he opened for Lucy without so much as a good morning.
But even if he handled himself in virtual silence, Spencer abandoned his antagonistic banter. He didn’t have to be nice to her, but somehow Darla’s instructions were weighed with authority. They spent the morning like awkward houseguests—one not sure what to do with the other—even though the reality of her situation was never far from Lucy’s mind.
After hours of waiting, Darla was back. Right on time. Her four short knocks, beat, two knocks. The song and dance of raised guns, sliding bolts, mutual distrust, locking doors. When she returned, he seemed jittery with excitement, like a child on Christmas morning. His morning moodiness was lifted.
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