Grownups Must Die

by D. F. Noble

  Even with both arms disabled, Harry wasn’t giving up. It was like he felt no pain. The crazy fucker was absolutely determined to get through that door, regardless if he had anything to fight with. Dean swung again, this time aiming for the joint with a hope to remove the arm completely. The steel collided with the elbow, forced it against the heavy wood of the door, and tore through it. The arm hung there, barely connected by skin and a bit of sinew, and this time Harry did withdraw his arm. However, as he tried to pull it back through the window, a bit of broken glass there finished off the job and cut the arm free. It fell to the floor, and Dean watched in horror as it clenched and unclenched a few times before it finally lay still.

  “Fuck off already, Harry,” Dean yelled at the door. “I’m sick of your…your fucking…knock-knock jokes. Fuck off!”

  Harry replied by trying to stick his face through the door window. His head was too big, but it gave Dean and opportunity to jab him—and jab him he did. The rugged end of the paper cutter smashed through Harry’s lip and teeth viciously. Flesh and bone split and splintered and Harry stumbled back, but only for a moment. The psycho came right back and tried it again.

  “They’re like thombieth,” Caleb said off to Dean’s right. Dean looked over, and the kid was stuffing his nose with tissues from Mr. Ottoman’s desk. Dean was surprised the guy wasn’t fighting-mad, because, well, Dean had done quite a number on him. Maybe he isn’t too bad after all…he took an ass whooping he definitely deserved and was being pretty cool about it. Maybe he just doesn’t handle crisis situations too well, thought Dean.

  Then again, beating people to death like I’m doing probably isn’t the best way to handle a crisis situation, either.

  Dean asked Caleb, “They’re like what?”

  “Ugh,” Caleb said, and walked over to grab his cell phone from the floor, “thombieth… you know…like aaargh brainthhh.”

  Dean cocked an eyebrow at him, and then it hit him. “Oooh,” Dean said, “zombies… Yeah, kinda… maybe… I didn’t see them trying to eat anyone, though.”

  Beside Dean, Harry grunted, trying to stick his head through that damn door window. Fuck, was he persistent. Dean jabbed at his face again, this time sending the end of his weapon into Harry’s eye socket with a thick, scraping crunch. This time Harry went limp and fell away, almost taking Dean’s weapon with him.

  “Think I got him,” Dean said. He had half a mind to sneak a peek through the window, but the image of Harry leaping up and trying to bite his face stopped him. Instead, he turned back to Caleb. The kid was trying to get his phone to work, but Dean could hear that swirl of static from it. A cringe hit Dean for a moment. What if that static makes you go crazy? He watched Caleb intently, getting ready to strike him if need be. But Caleb closed the phone, and then tried to text someone.

  “Can’t even thend a tetht,” Caleb said, and Dean began to latch onto his speech—can’t even send a text. Dean took a breath and looked about the room. This was all a big hot mess. Dean suddenly felt very tired, and reality was trying to set in. Dean had never really understood what shock was like. It was dreamlike, kind of foggy. He knew he should be flipping out. He did just kill Mr. Ottoman and the janitor, after all.

  Save it for later, Dean told himself, you don’t even know if this is over yet.

  There was Jessica and Mark to think about. Dean checked her pulse, and swallowed hard. He couldn’t find one. He didn’t know if Mr. Ottoman bashing her head into the chalkboard had killed her, or just knocked her out. There was a possibility she might have been unconscious at first and then drowned in her blood (there was definitely enough of it). Dean didn’t even want to turn her over. The thought of what her face looked like was nauseating. Mark, on the other hand, he was just knocked silly. Dean shook him till the kid came to with a set of roaming eyes.

  “Mark,” Dean said. “Mark, wake the fuck up, dude. Come on.”

  When Mark did fully come to, he immediately began shrieking in terror. Dean had to clasp his hand over the kid’s mouth. “Shut the fuck up,” Dean hissed. “You’re okay!”

  Mark groaned and sat up. His freckled face jerked about the room, taking it all in. He turned back to Dean and asked, “You killed him?”

  Dean stood up. “Had to. He killed Jessica, was gonna kill you, too.”

  “Oh man,” Mark whimpered, and ran a hand through his red hair till he touched the spot on his temple where Ottoman had struck him and winced. “We’re in so much trouble! No one’s gonna believe us! We’re gonna go to jail! We’re gonna-”

  Dean acted as if he was going to slap Mark. It was enough to shut him up. “Calm the fuck down,” Dean said. “Don’t need you freaking out. We need to go get help. Get the fuck out of here.”

  Then, from the windows across the room where Caleb was peeking through the blinds, Caleb piped up, “Guyth, I think you need to thee thith.”

  ***

  There at the windows, Dean, Caleb and Mark peered through the blinds across the street. They watched in horror and awe as two adults massacred a toddler. They ripped the small boy limb from limb, this man and woman, who looked as if they were the kid’s grandparents. They were right outside of a Lutheran church that sat across the street, and something about that deeply disturbed Dean.

  Dean noted with interest that the woman still had her eyes, although there were deep scratch marks on her face. Caleb must have noticed it, too, for he said, “That old lady thtill hath her eyeth.”

  Dean stepped away from the blinds. He couldn’t watch anymore. The two deranged fucks outside were ripping the boy down to small enough pieces and stuffing him in her purse—or at least trying to. “Remember the static?” Dean asked, avoiding the remains of Mr. Ottoman’s leaking skull. “Remember how the radio went crazy right before Ottoman?”

  “Yeah,” Mark and Caleb replied simultaneously.

  “I think that it made him go batshit,” Dean said. “Maybe she wasn’t close enough to the signal or something; you know, to rip out her eyes. Maybe all the adults are crazy now.”

  Mark shot a startled look at Dean. “Like all over the world?” he asked. Mark’s eyes were wide enough that they looked like they might pop right out of the sockets.

  “Maybe,” Dean replied, and knelt beside Mr. Ottoman. Clenching his teeth, Dean pulled a key ring from the dead teacher’s pockets. He turned back to Mark and Caleb and said, “I’m getting out of here. You guys can stay if you want, but if the world’s gone crazy, this is the last place I want to be.”

  The two other boys looked away, their eyes going to their shoes. Caleb looked back up. “Where you gonna go?”

  Dean thought for a moment. He didn’t even really know the answer to that. Something in him just wanted out, wanted out of this room full of sweat, fear, blood and brain matter. It was obvious there was only one place to go: Tree Top. If he was lucky, he would find Jake and Alex there. “I’m going to get a gun,” Dean said, “and I think I’m going to climb the water tower.”

  “Thath kinda thtupid,” Caleb retorted. “What if you get thurrounded?”

  Dean scratched at the back of his head, “Well, at least I’m going to get a gun. I’m going to look through the school first, though; see if there are any more kids in here. Grab some food and shit and hide the fuck out till I figure out what the fuck is going on. I want to check if the net is working in the library, maybe we can get help.”

  Mark met Dean’s eyes. “I’ll go with you,” he said.

  Dean nodded. “This time, though,” Dean said to him, “try to fight back if one of them comes at you. At least run, dude.”

  Mark nodded and looked away. “I need some new pants,” Mark said, a slight insecure giggle to his voice. “I totally pissed my pants when he… ripped his eyes out.”

  “What about you?” Dean asked Caleb. He personally didn’t care if Caleb came or not. The kid was always a dick. Caleb thought he was cool; being that Caleb partied with the seniors. Plus, Caleb was a silver-spoon. He came from money, and he alwa
ys liked to remind everyone of that.

  “I think you’re both nutth,” Caleb said. “I’m thtaying here, where ith thafe. Juth leave me the keyth when you go tho I can lock the door.”

  Mark gave Caleb a weird look. Dean could tell Mark was wondering why Caleb was talking funny, and wondering why he had tissue paper stuffed up his nose. “Did Ottoman hit you, too?” Mark asked.

  “No,” Caleb said, and turned back to the window, “Dean did.”

  “Why?”

  Dean went to the door and fumbled through the keys. “I was pissed,” Dean answered. “He was just standing there filming the whole thing. He woulda let us all get killed.”

  Caleb had his back to Dean, but Dean was sure the kid was making a face, scowling or mimicking Dean’s comment.

  “Oh,” Mark said, and followed Dean to the door. “Dean, I’m sorry I froze up. I didn’t know what was happening.”

  It took Dean a second to find the right key, but a moment later and the door unlocked. “It’s cool, dude,” Dean said. “I understand. And man, you might wanna grab your knife.”

  Mark looked back at his pocket knife sticking up out of Mr. Ottoman’s neck and shivered. He looked back at Dean with big puppy dog eyes and Dean was sure the kid was going to ask him to pull it out. Instead, Mark pursed his lips out, walked over and yanked it free. When he turned back to Dean, Dean could see the kid had gone a few shades whiter.

  “Okay,” Dean said, “help me push open this door. Harry’s body is blocking it.”

  “Harry the janitor?”

  “Yeah, that Harry.”

  “You killed him, too?”

  Dean shot Mark an annoyed look. “Yeah,” Dean said. “I just killed two people and I’m not in the best mood right now, Mark. Would you help with this door? I want to get out of here.”

  ***

  Dean and Mark’s footsteps echoed down the hallway of their high school. The quiet was disturbing, but Dean somehow knew that if he walked outside, it wouldn’t be so quiet. There would be screams; enough to make his legs go weak. There would be cries of terror and pain. They would be the high-pitched tones of children, children who were being murdered by their parents.

  “Where to first?” Mark asked beside him.

  Dean took a few steps, thinking. He replied, “Let’s go to the gym first.”

  “Why the gym?”

  “Think about it,” Dean said. “You’ve only got a pocket knife. There are baseball bats and football helmets and padding and all kinds of shit in there. I don’t care how retarded I look, I wanna fucking helmet.”

  “Good idea,” Mark replied, and touched the knot on his temple where their former teacher had struck him.

  They took the stairs to the first floor cautiously with Dean at the lead. He felt jittery, like he’d been up all night drinking Mountain Dew. At any moment, Dean expected a freakish, eyeless staff member to jump out from a classroom door with a stapler or a yardstick and a desire for murder. As to why the adults wanted to kill kids, Dean didn’t think too much on it: he only knew that it was happening. Surviving this wouldn’t be a matter of discussing why, it would be a matter of action.

  Stepping down into the main hall of the first floor, a sign above the principal’s office damn near made Dean burst into laughter. Practice Random Acts of Kindness it read. Just a little ironic, Dean thought, and then Mark tugged at his shirt.

  “What?” Dean whispered.

  “Listen,” Mark whispered back, and pointed down the hall.

  Dean strained his ears. It was a dull, distant sound, but Dean instantly recognized it. It was the sound of fists, pounding on a door. “Where’s it coming from?”

  Mark replied with sweat forming on his brow, “Library, I think.”

  Dean swallowed. “Let’s go check it out.”

  Mark grabbed Dean’s shirt and scrunched his face up. “What,” he scowled, “why? The gym’s this way.”

  Dean pulled his shirt away, irritated at Mark’s cowardice. “Cuz’ there’s probably a kid in there,” Dean hissed back. “Can’t just leave them, asshole.”

  “Dude,” Mark said, “please, let’s just go. I don’t wanna do this.”

  Dean almost punched him in the face, but somehow held his temper at bay. “Go back then, you pussy,” Dean growled, and started walking, holding the paper cutter handle up.

  “Dammit,” Mark moaned, and followed suit.

  Dean made his footsteps as light as possible. He didn’t want to give away his presence just yet. Three doors down, and they were at the library. Dean stood on his tiptoes and peeked through the small window there. He couldn’t see anything just yet, but the sound was definitely coming from inside.

  Dean turned and whispered to Mark, “I’ve gotta go in, I can’t see from here.”

  “You’re fucking crazy, Dean. Please, let’s go.”

  There was nothing left to say. Either Mark was going to man up or not. Dean slowly turned the door knob and felt a surge of adrenaline pulse through him. It was the same feeling he got when he was pulling a prank that required him to be a sneaky ninja, but this was amplified tenfold. Dean’s whole body felt electrified, it tingled.

  Jesus, dude, Dean thought, and looked down, you got a goddamn boner.

  A twisted grin on his face, Dean turned the knob and cracked the door open. The sound of pounding fists heightened. It was coming from off to his left, and Dean knew that it had to be the Librarian’s office. The library wasn’t that large, the school only had about three hundred students. There were three aisles of books to his left and right, and an open area with computers in the center of the room and several tables. Books lined almost every wall of the place, and where there wasn’t a book, there was a motivational poster about reading. Sly as a cat, Dean slid inside, and Mark stepped in after him, quietly closing the door. Dean crept through an aisle of books, his eyes focused towards the direction of the sound. Futilely, he tried peeking through the rows, only to find the shelving next to him. Biting his lip, Dean came to the end of the aisle, and he knew, just a few feet away around the corner, there would be one of them, pounding away, probably eyeless with their hair all out of whack and their face scratched open.

  Dean shot a quick glance at Mark behind him, whose face trembled with fright and whose pants reeked of piss. Dean gave Mark a wink and mouthed ‘cover me.’ Dean then glanced around the corner, and there she was: Mrs. Serene, the librarian, stood toe to toe with the door of her office, pawing away at it like a dog trying to get back in a house. She was a short woman, and wide in the shoulders with a bowl haircut. Typically, she wore glasses, and she always wore some type of pant suit. Mrs. Serene was actually pretty nice for an older lady, and as a plus, she had a sense of humor to boot, unlike a lot of the school’s staff. However, Dean could see the side profile of her face, and that was more than enough. There was no mistaking them. You saw one crazy, you saw them all.

  Dean took a single step around the corner, and instantly Mrs. Serene’s bloody, ragged and eyeless face turned to him. Her mouth dropped open and that sound came, that sound of static mixed with snotty vocal cords.

  “Shit,” Dean said and let loose a nervous fart. There was no time to tell if Mark could smell it, because Mrs. Serene rushed forward, shrieking that hideous inhuman sound and reaching her hands out as if to choke the life from Dean.

  Dean cried out with a startled animal yelp and swung the heavy paper cutter. The strike was awkward and off balance, but it sailed over Mrs. Serene’s outstretched arms and connected with her cheek, shattering bone and throwing open flesh. Dean could feel the hit vibrate up his arms, and loosed a startled fart again as the deranged librarian stumbled to the side and sprawled out over a table. She was dazed, her upper body and arms laid out wide, and Dean leapt forward, not wanting to spare a second.

  He bashed her in the lower back and the wind gushed from her. But the bitch was crazy. A hit like that would take the fight out of any normal person. Normal person she wasn’t, eyeless crazy killer bitch s
he was.

  Mrs. Serene kicked back and caught Dean in the hip with her heel. It knocked him off balance, and Dean stumbled back, hit the bookshelf behind him, knocking books loose.

  “Mark,” Dean yelped, “a little help, please!”

  Mark did not reply, and Dean was already moving forward, trying not to lose ground. Having Mark as a tagalong—a sidekick who sucked his thumb every time the shit hit the fan—was more than a little annoying. Dean used that frustration to power himself. He sidestepped a wild flailing attack from Mrs. Serene. He waited, watching her head intently, like a fisherman watches a quark. She swung, her fingers arched like claws, and Dean leaned away.

  Now she’s open…

  Avoiding the attack, Dean came back with a vicious overhand swing. The heavy steel handle of the paper cutter struck Mrs. Serene’s forehead. There was a loud crack, and the librarian lurched back, sprouting a terrible vaginal-looking wound above her right eyebrow. The blood didn’t gush out, nor did it spray like a fountain: it started off as a trickle around the ragged edges, and then gained momentum and turned to a torrent.

  Mrs. Serene grunted. Shaking hands reached for the wound, and Dean felt sorry, sorry for what she’d become. This wasn’t a game. This was a person…or what used to be a person. She didn’t deserve it, and Dean wondered then just how bad all of this was going to get.

  Stop thinking, a voice in his head whispered, this is war now, Dean. This is hell.

  With a mix of disgust and pity, Dean leapt forward, swinging with all his might. His weapon caught her in the temple, and there was that familiar loud crack of bone being split. The blow was hard enough that a chunk of Mrs. Serene’s head flapped open, revealing the pinkish-white hue of bone beneath her scalp for a moment and a glimpse of her brain. But it was only for a second, because the next, her lifeless corpse spilled over a chair and twitched on the ground.

  It was hard, it was sick, but Dean stood over her and finished Mrs. Serene off with a blast to the back of her skull. He felt suddenly weak, and luckily made it to a chair and plopped his ass down. Dean felt something warm running down his cheek, and for a moment, he thought it was a tear. When he wiped the moisture with the back of his hand, it was no tear at all: It was blood.