Part 13 (2/2)

A boost? That means Clay putting his hands on me, pus.h.i.+ng me upward. At any point his hand could slip and feel something that would solve the mystery of my gender once and for all. I follow him, biting my lip. I could suggest Ethan, but he's too short to reach the ledge and besides, I'd be sending him into a dark creepy building alone.

Clay stands at the base of the window and looks up. He hands Ethan a revolver and tells him to watch the road. Then he laces his fingers together and nods at me. Facing him, I can see the stubble that's grown on his normally smooth chin. His eyes are red rimmed and bloodshot from exhaustion. I remind myself that he could be at home right now, soaking in a tub of warm water while Auntie rubs his feet. Instead he's here in the third circle of h.e.l.l with us.

I put my hands on his shoulders. His muscles tense as he looks deep into my eyes.

”I got you.” His face is calming, rea.s.suring. ”On the count of three. Okay?”

I'm so close to him, I can see the flecks of gray in his blue eyes. I grip his shoulders. He stills smells like aftershave.

”Okay,” he says. ”One. Two. Three.”

I put my foot in his hand and push up. As he hoists me, my body brushes past his, but I think I've avoided him noticing anything suspicious. Then I realize my inseam is hovering near his face as he lifts me. Oh G.o.d. I wobble.

”Grab. The. Ledge,” he grunts. His hand grips around my feet, pus.h.i.+ng upward.

My fingers find purchase on the cool stone ledge. Being this close to Clay has tingles going in all the wrong regions of my body. All I can think is his hands on my body. My fingers slip. We rock backwards and almost topple. I gotta focus. Dark, scary building, I think. My thoughts fly off Clay's hand cupping my calf. I pull up and tumble into the dark room.

I bash into something hard. It crashes and goes skittering. I lie on the floor, panting in the dark silent room. Please G.o.d, don't let there be anything in here to eat me.

I sit with my back against the wall and will my eyes to adjust. The air's musty despite the open window, like no one's stepped foot into this s.p.a.ce for a long time. I smell mold, dust, the thick scent of all things man-made crumbling to particles. Soon I can see faint outlines of chairs, tables, the remains of a cla.s.sroom. The tiny desks and chairs are thrown together in random upturned piles. The one I smashed lies upside-down, its legs in the air like a dead insect. Rotting papers that disintegrate at the touch of a finger lie scattered on the floor. Some of the ceiling lies crumpled by the door. From first glance I don't see anything too frightening. No bodies at least.

”What's going on in there?” Clay calls from below.

I swing over and peer down at him. Both their faces stare up at me. ”A cla.s.sroom.”

”Right,” he says. ”What else?”

”Not much. I think it's okay so far.”

Clay nods. ”Ethan's coming up. I'll hand him to you.”

Clay picks up Ethan and lifts him to the window. I pull.

Ethan tumbles in and looks around. ”Cool,” he whispers.

I hear Clay trying to scramble up the wall. That kid really thinks there's nothing he can't do. I grab a little desk and carry it to the window. ”Watch out,” I yell down to Clay. He backs up and I chuck the desk out the window. Luckily it survives the fall. He grabs the desk, places it under the window and stands on it. I pull him up and he almost falls on top of me when I drag him over the window ledge.

The three of us sit in the little cla.s.sroom, taking it in. Ethan peeks in a few cupboards. I want to stop him, but they're too small to house any real threat other than rodents or insects. He finds a few broken pencils and a coffee mug.

Clay holds it up to the light from the window. ”I prayed for hope and G.o.d sent you,” he reads. ”Huh. Don't think hittin' their knees really paid off for these folks, or they'd still be around.” He frowns and sets the mug on a tiny desk.

”All clear,” Clay says, scanning the room. ”But no water. Let's make sure the rest of the place is safe.”

I look out the window nestled in the door that leads to the pitch-black hallway. ”Can't we just sleep here for the night? There's only one door to defend and we can take turns on watch.”

Clay removes his hat and musses his damp hair. ”We'll use up the last of our water tonight. I'd feel better if we made sure there's more, but I guess you're right. Wouldn't do any good to go skulking in the dark like a bunch of blind fools. And we're wore out, right, bud?” Clay runs his hand over Ethan's hair. Ethan sags into Clay.

I pick up a couple plastic orange chairs with rusted metal legs and start stacking them in a pile by the door. It won't stop someone who wants to come in, but it'll slow them down. Then we make camp. In the back corner I find a decaying beanbag and offer it to Ethan. He's the only one tiny enough to curl into it. Yet the thick dust that swirls up every time we move is getting to him. He coughs until his cheeks are crimson, until his eyes bulge. Clay glances at me and then we give him the rest of the water. He gulps it down between coughs.

I sit back against a buckling closet door and dig into my pack. I find a can of Spam, open it and pa.s.s it around. Clay cracks a can of peaches and we each take one with our fingers until they're gone. He and I take turns with the juice. My stomach's still seizing with hunger and my mouth feels like the desert floor, but weariness is winning this battle.

”Can you take first watch?” I ask Clay. He nods. I lie on the musty carpet and shuffle around for a comfortable position. On the closet door above me a faded and curling poster pressed in some sort of plastic shows a decorated evergreen tree. It takes me a while but I finally read, ”Jesus is the reason.” As I drift off I wonder what he's the reason for.

Daylight. I sit upright. Clay should've woken me for my turn at watch. I see that he's fallen asleep sitting up against the warped plaster wall next to the door. His revolver rests in his lap. Ethan's still curled in his dusty beanbag chair. I feel surprisingly well rested except for a kink in my neck. When was the last time I had a good night's sleep that wasn't induced by horse tranquilizers? It's been a while.

My tongue feels thick and sluggish in my mouth. My throat burns for water. I stand up slowly, letting my spine crack into place. Then I tackle removing the chairs as quietly as possible so not to disturb the boys. Twice they bang against each other, but the boys never stir. They must be dead tired. I think about how happy they'll be when I wake them with a big gla.s.s of water. If I find it.

Somehow survival seems possible today. The sun looks warm and upbeat coming in the open window, and the cla.s.sroom is way less creepy in the daylight. It drastically improves my mood. Making sure I've got my hunting knife in my pants just in case, I slip out the cla.s.sroom door and pull it closed.

On the other side of the door, my mood dims. There are piles of papers strewn about, broken desks and dried-out rodent droppings. Ceiling tiles hang in saggy fragments or lie in bloated piles on the cracked tile. In one corner I see a small rib cage. Some rat, long dead and forgotten. Each doorway could hide any number of horrors. My eyes trace down the long dark halls. I could turn back to my quiet cla.s.sroom, but my burning throat won't let me.

I slip down the creepy hallways, peeking in each room. The cla.s.srooms look just like ours with small differences. One has larger desks for older kids. Our cute posters are replaced with faded charts and graphs pressed in that same plastic covering. One room has no desks, just piles and piles of wet and rotting garbage. Another looks like it had once been a music room. A tilting, three-legged piano grimaces at me with its black and white teeth strewn on the floor. I pa.s.s a room with a fallen roof, exposing one corner to the sky. Each room is coated in undisturbed layers of dust or mildew. No one's been in here in some time.

I should go in the cla.s.srooms and dig through the cupboards, but I'm a coward. Maybe with Ethan and Clie behind me I could brave pulling open those doors to see what's behind. Animal nest, bugs, spiders, or worse. I think about the body Clay found. I can't face something like that on my own.

I turn the corner and spot a cracked porcelain water fountain. It's a long shot, but I hit the b.u.t.ton. Nothing. I push open the door labeled Ladies' Room. Inside there's no windows, so it's pitch black, and besides, if there's no plumbing, there's no water in there anyway. I let the door slip shut and turn down another dark, garbage-filled hall.

Near the front of the building, I find what used to be the greeting center. Though it takes me a while, I sound out the word Office on the sign. With big windows facing the front, there's enough light to see in. Disheveled chairs, their fabric turning to dust, line the wall leading up to a receiving counter. A dust-encrusted crystal dish still perches delicately on the counter top, but whatever was in it has long since been carted off by mice. Another chair lies wheels up behind a paper-covered desk.

My eyes lock on a black rectangle sitting on a desk in the back. I walk in and touch my finger to the dusty screen. On the table next to it is another black rectangular gadget with rows of lettered keys. I tap a few with the pads of my fingers. Arn said these were called computers. Long ago people used them for communication. I trace my initials in the dust on the screen. Then something catches my eye.

A big blue jug attached to a white base sits in the very back of the office. Liquid was once stored in these. I thumb down the little spigot. In a dispenser, I find a stack of rotting paper cups that fall apart at my touch. Could there be more jugs? A slim door sits next to the water dispenser. The wood is warped so I have to yank on the handle for a while until the thing pops open. I cross my fingers and peer in.

No bodies, just rows of pencils, clips, paper, folders, more paper cups and on the floor ... a big jug of water. Full.

I clap once and the sound startles a mouse. He shoots from a paper nest in the corner to a hole in the floor. I wrap my hands around the lip of the water jug. The boys will be so happy.

It takes me five minutes to carry the jug back to our cla.s.sroom. I underestimated how heavy the jug was and how weak I am from travel. Still, I half drag, half carry the prize in and plunk it down on the floor in front of Clay. Clay raises the revolver, but then the recognition dawns on his face.

”Riley,” he says, ”What the h.e.l.l?”

”Water,” I say with a triumphant wave of my hand.

They both blink at me and rub their eyes. I was expecting more fanfare than blank stares.

”Well, I'm thirsty.” I start working on the cap. When I finally get it open and figure out how to pour it in one of our jugs without dumping the whole thing over, I take the first drink. Water's never tasted so good. I sigh in relief.

”Nice job, ace,” Clay says, stretching and reaching for the jug. I hand it over and he drinks. ”Tastes like plastic,” he says as he smiles. ”Where'd you get it?”

”Down the hall. Sign said Office.”

Clay takes another drink, a few strings of water dripping down his stubbly chin. ”Soon's I can wake up, we'll go exploring.”

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