Constant Fear

CHAPTER 36

Hilary took the stairs to the lower level, two at a time, threw open the bottom door, and raced down an empty corridor, pumping her arms to gain speed. The overhead lights were still on; otherwise, she’d be running blind in this windowless section of the Academy Building. Hilary was in good shape, not short of breath, and her sneakers provided decent traction.

As she turned a corner, she slowed. Somewhere down this long hallway was the classroom with a Harkness table inside, and a backpack containing an emergency glucagon kit. But which room? Hilary could not recall the specific location, so she would have to check them all.

Most of the classroom doors were open, and Hilary paused only long enough to poke her head inside and have a quick check about the room. Some classrooms had the lights off, so Hilary had to flick a switch to get a better look inside. She closed each door before moving on to the next. If they came looking for her, it might slow them down, though she feared it would buy her at most a few more seconds of life.

About halfway down the corridor, Hilary thought she should have reached Langford’s classroom by now. This flash of doubt mushroomed until Hilary believed she had screwed up royally. The classroom was behind her, she was now certain, and in her rush had somehow missed it. Hilary contemplated backtracking. She slowed and glanced over her shoulder. She wasn’t going to have enough time to double back and finish checking the remaining classrooms.

Go forward, or go back: whatever choice she made had to be the right one. The corridor was empty, but Hilary imagined men rounding the corner, picking up speed, coming at her like a hungry pack of jackals. The hallway seemed to stretch on forever-a trick of the mind, she knew, but it made the choice to turn around even less appealing. Maybe it was her gut telling her to keep going forward. She listened to her gut.

Fear bubbled inside, igniting every nerve, seeping into her joints, taking over like a quick-moving fire. She had thought she understood fear. Roller coasters and scary movies and snakes made her shiver and set a clammy chill against her skin. But this was a new level, an entirely different dimension of terror. Her fuzzy mind conjured up horrors beyond anything she had ever conceived possible before today. She became the central figure in each nightmare, the object of supreme violence.

A drill into her leg.

A makeshift club bludgeoning her head.

A machete peeling her skin.

Hands pushing up the skirt of her school uniform.

Compared to those, a gunshot to the temple felt almost merciful.

Near the end of the corridor, Hilary slowed. Langford’s classroom had to be nearby. Her footsteps clomped on the linoleum flooring; she might as well have been shouting, “Hey, I’m down here. Come find me! Come get me and skin me alive.”

Hilary ached to think how close she had come to leaving this godforsaken school. By now, she would have been clear of The Quad and deep into the dark woods beyond. Maybe she’d already be with the police, safe. An angry and vengeful voice inside her head spoke up.

“Save yourself,” the voice said. “You can’t help Andy or the others. The Shire was Andy’s idea, not yours. Why should you get killed because of his stupid idea? Go back upstairs. Get outside. Run! Run! Run!”

Hilary shook her head and dislodged the voice from the dark crevices of her mind. Out in the open, those thoughts became exposed for what they were: fear. She knew the voice was lying to her. Andy hadn’t made her join The Shire. She did so under her own volition. She liked the rush, the thrill. It had made her heart flutter. Each theft had hit like a comet and left behind a void that could only be filled by another rush. Addictions could be dangerous. She knew that now.

Everything had snowballed from there, including Hilary’s feelings for Andy. If she didn’t love him, would she have fled the school? This question came to her not as a conscious thought, but more as a feeling. It came to her as she ran the rest of the way down the corridor, as she breathed hard as a galloping horse, as her heart leapt about her chest, and as her skirt flapped like a cape around her waist.

Not that room. Not that room. Would you have done this for Solomon? Not that room. Not that room. For David? For Pixie? Not that room. Maybe not. Maybe only for Andy. Maybe only for him, she realized.

As she approached the end of the hallway, Hilary’s earlier thought returned: Somehow I’ve missed Langford’s classroom. Panic clogged her thinking, but it didn’t make her turn around. One more room-she’d check one more, even though she believed it wasn’t this far down.

Hilary opened the classroom door on her right. Nothing there, so she shut that door and went on to the next. One more. Just one. This next room was on Hilary’s left. The door was closed, and she pulled it open with force. Her head poked through the door frame. There was enough light for her to see the Harkness table in the center of the room. She went inside and shut the door behind her. She flicked on the room light and immediately spotted the backpack tossed into a corner.

Hilary flung herself forward, tripping over chairs on her way to that backpack. She dropped to her knees and tried the zipper, but it got caught on the fabric and she feared she might need a knife or something to cut it open. After a moment’s struggle, the zipper gave way.

Hilary emptied the contents onto the floor. Folders. Papers. Junk. More junk. And then she found it-tucked inside a mesh pouch was a red plastic case containing the glucagon emergency injection. There was also a package of glucose tablets in the same pouch, along with several vials of insulin and a few hypodermic needles.

She opened the red case and examined the contents. She found a capped hypodermic needle and a small clear vial labeled Glucagon for Injection (rDNA Origin). The dosage read 1 mg (1 unit). Andy would need the entire vial.

Andy needed the glucagon, not the insulin, but Hilary put all of his medicines into the backpack, just in case, and headed for the door. Her hand was on the knob when she heard a loud bang coming from down the hall. Someone had slammed a door. Hilary pressed her back against the wall and felt her knees go weak. Her breathing grew labored as her blood turned to ice. She thought about the light seeping out from the classroom into the hall like a homing beacon for her potential murderer to follow. She could turn it off, but that might only draw attention.

Hilary heard more doors slam shut. Heavy footsteps were coming her way. It sounded like one person to her. Whoever was out there did not spend long searching each room. He went quickly from room to room, and Hilary doubted she could make an escape while he was occupied with his search. She looked for a place to hide, but the room had no closet, no door to another room, no windows.

Hilary searched for a weapon, but what could she use? A chair would be too unwieldy. A ruler was blunt and flimsy. There was nothing here, really. She could use one of the hypodermic needles, but what damage could a thin needle inflict?

The needles made Hilary think about the backpack, and that gave her an idea. The backpack could be a weapon of sorts. Something she could swing. Working frantically, with her vision blurred by tears, Hilary transferred the diabetes paraphernalia to the pockets of her skirt. Then she stuffed the backpack full of the heaviest books she could find. Her hands trembled as she closed the zipper.

Out in the hallway, doors continued to slam shut. It wouldn’t be long now. She took up a position to the right of the door. Sweat dotted her forehead as she still breathed fast. Hyperalert, her eyes were open wide, but they weren’t actually seeing anything. This was all about her ears, all about those footsteps coming her way.

Hilary positioned the backpack on the floor just beyond her left foot; she gripped one of the straps in both hands. Her knees were bent and her hips engaged, ready to uncoil at a moment’s notice. Another door slammed. She guessed he had three more doors to go before getting to this one. Hilary shut her eyes and gritted her teeth to keep from crying out.

The door across the hall opened and slammed shut again. Blood thundered in Hilary’s ears. She tightened her grip on the strap. She heard footsteps crossing the hall. The doorknob began to turn. Hilary wound her hips a few degrees more.

The door came open and Hilary uncoiled at the waist as she lifted the backpack off the floor. She swung her makeshift weapon high and connected with something-the man’s chest or head. The strike produced a powerful jolt, which momentarily numbed her arms. She heard a loud grunt, followed by a thud as a body hit the floor.

Hilary let go of the backpack and sprang from the wall. Through the open door, she saw in the hallway a heavyset man on his back, writhing in pain. This was the one called El Cortador. The man was groaning, trying to get back on his feet, and he seemed hopelessly dazed.

As Hilary stepped over him, El Cortador lunged with startling quickness and seized hold of her ankle. He squeezed hard and Hilary shrieked at the intense pressure exerted on her tendons and bones. She wriggled her ankle, but the man would not let go.

About to lose her balance, Hilary hopped forward on one foot, moving toward her attacker, and kicked with the leg clutched in his grasp. The kicks weren’t damaging, but it was enough to get him to let go of the ankle. Hilary spun as she tumbled to the floor. Her knees cracked and her wrists ignited in pain when she landed. The glucagon was secured inside the hard plastic case.

The man groaned as he rolled onto his stomach. Hilary clambered back to her feet, ignoring the lingering pain in her wrists and knees, and took off running.

She sped down the hall, fear giving her wings. If El Cortador caught her, he’d climb on top of her. Pin down her arms and legs. Place his grotesque hands over her throat or, more likely, the blade of some knife. He was The Cutter, after all. And then he’d hike up her skirt. In his humiliation and rage, he would take from her something she could never get back.

At the end of the hallway, Hilary gave a quick look before she turned the corner. El Cortador had gotten to his feet and lumbered toward her. He brandished in one hand a meaty knife, big enough to carve a pumpkin. But he was too far back, and it would be impossible to catch her before she reached the stairs. The steps seemed to go on forever.

Breathless when she reached the top landing, Hilary spilled out of the stairwell and tumbled awkwardly into the upstairs corridor. Ahead of her were the double doors to the outside, but those were guarded by one of Fausto’s men, the thin man Andy had called Whippet. He was outside, standing on the steps that overlooked The Quad, but Hilary could see him through the tall picture windows on either side of the door. His attention was elsewhere, scanning the wide expanse of lawn-looking for her, perhaps-and Hilary thought she could get to the auditorium without being noticed.

She crossed the hall and pressed her body against the wall, getting as flat as she could, and began to inch her way to the door.

From the stairwell, she heard a loud bang. A door had slammed shut from below. El Cortador was coming for her. It would have to be a footrace. Who could reach the auditorium first?

Hilary bounded off the wall and began her sprint. As she did, Whippet must have sensed movement inside the school and turned in time to see Hilary making a dash for it. Behind her, the door to the stairwell flew open, and Hilary caught sight of El Cortador as he stumbled out into the hallway. He staggered toward her, dazed and slightly off balance.

The real race was between Whippet and Hilary. Whippet reentered the building and started his charge. It’s fifty-fifty, at best, Hilary thought. Whereas El Cortador moved like a tranquilized rhinoceros, the other one came at her like the wind. She could see the whites of Whippet’s eyes. He never raised his gun, maybe because he had orders not to kill.

Hilary got to the auditorium door a few steps ahead of Whippet. She pushed on the door, but it wouldn’t budge. From somewhere down the hall, El Cortador bellowed, “¡Voy a matar a esa maldita puta!” He was closing in fast.

In her panic, Hilary pushed again. Still, nothing. Whippet was close enough to reach out and grab her. A voice inside Hilary’s head screamed, “Pull, not push!” This time, Hilary gave the door a hard yank and she threw herself inside.

Andy was slumped over in his chair. Is he breathing? Whippet came at her from behind, screaming something she couldn’t understand. He grabbed her by the shoulders and tossed her to the floor. Hilary’s feet left the air as if an invisible rug had been yanked from under her and she landed on her backside.

The auditorium door opened and El Cortador staggered in, grunting. He charged at Hilary. Hilary could hear others shouting as they, too, entered the auditorium. It sounded as if Fausto had sent everyone to look for her.

Whippet’s arm wrapped around Hilary’s throat, and he began to squeeze. She had gotten on her knees, basically kneeling in front of Andy, who was dying as well. Hilary gasped for air as her throat closed. She clawed at Whippet’s arm, to no avail. His grip around her neck only tightened. Hilary felt as though her eyes were going to pop out of the sockets from all the pressure building up.

The faces of her family popped into Hilary’s head-Mom, Dad, her sisters-right before her world went black. But somewhere on a vast, endless horizon, Hilary heard a scream, more like a war cry. In the very next moment, the breath returned to her, the pressure fell from her eyes, and air flooded her lungs. Hilary fell to the floor, gasping, rubbing at her throat. Whippet spun around in erratic circles. It took a moment for Hilary to understand what had happened.

Pixie had climbed on Whippet’s back and held on with one arm secured around the man’s neck. Pixie bit at Whippet’s head and neck like a blood-starved vampire, while using his free hand to claw at the man’s face. El Cortador rushed over to help, when a loud, piercing whistle that came from the stage told him to stop. Standing center stage, Fausto bellowed with laughter as he watched Pixie and Whippet do battle.

Despite the pain and burning in her throat, Hilary took advantage of the tumult to crawl over to Andy. She fished out the glucagon kit from her pocket. From the stage, Fausto yelled, “The little one is kicking your ass, Inigo.” He unleashed another roll of laughter.

Andy looked as sick as could be: pale, listless, drenched in sweat, his whole body shaking. Blocking out the noises in the room, Fausto’s hoots, Pixie’s war cries, Whippet’s rage, Hilary glanced at the instructions adhered to the inside cover of the emergency kit. Put the needle into the vial. Give it a shake. Fill the plunger. Stick into exposed flesh. Hilary’s hands trembled as she filled the syringe with glucagon.

Then she pushed the needle into Andy’s upper arm and depressed the plunger. She held the syringe in place and counted to ten. Only then did Hilary check her surroundings, fearful that El Cortador might come for her, or Whippet, or one of the others. Nobody was moving. Everyone’s eyes were on Whippet and Pixie. From the stage, Fausto shouted insults in Spanish. He laughed and whistled with delight, more animated than Hilary had ever seen.

Pixie grunted as he gouged Whippet’s face with his clawed hand. Whippet spun and twirled like a rodeo bull, but could not dislodge the boy, who continued to hold on with one arm wrapped around Whippet’s throat.

Hilary did not know how long it would take for the medicine to kick in or if it would.

Three loud bangs cut short Hilary’s thoughts. The air reeked of gunpowder. Fausto held his pistol above his head. Whippet stopped swirling and Pixie leapt off the man’s back. El Cortador turned to face Fausto. The auditorium fell into a heavy silence.

Hilary sat down beside Andy, put her arm around him, and pulled him close. David and Rafa, both battered and bruised, huddled on the stage floor next to Solomon. Those three were flanked by Armando and Efren. Three other armed men were on the stage standing behind Fausto and his smoking gun.

Eight cartel men.

Six kids.

Fausto said, “Everyone, get back in your seats, right now! I want the kids in the front row. The games, this fun, it is all over. I am going to tell you now why nobody is coming to your rescue. And why you are all about to die.”