The Manual

​The smell of stale floor wax and teenage desperation always peaked during Thursday afternoon detention. It was a thick, cloying scent that usually just made Cassie’s head ache. Today, it made the hair on her arms stand up. ​Cassie sat in the back row, her boots kicked out into the aisle. On the desk in front of her sat a battered, leather-bound notebook with no title on the cover. To anyone else, it looked like a messy journal. To Cassie, it was the only reason she was still breathing. ​Under the harsh fluorescent hum of the media center, she flipped to the first page. Her father’s jagged, frantic handwriting stared back at her. ​Rule #3: The government will tell you to stay in place. That’s so they know where to find the bodies. Move fast, move quiet. ​"Cassie, cell phone. Now." ​Mr. Henderson didn’t even look up from his grading. He was a graying man who looked like he’d given up on life somewhere around the 2008 recession. ​"I don't have it out, Mr. H," Cassie said, her voice low. She wasn't lying. Her phone was in her pocket, buzzing with a rhythmic, insistent vibration that hadn't stopped for ten minutes. ​"Then stop staring at that damn book and finish your reflection essay," Henderson sighed. ​Across the room, Heather—the reigning queen of the cheer squad and currently serving detention for "creative" dress code violations—snorted. "It’s probably her manifesto. Right, Case? Planning to overthrow the student council?" ​Sarah, sitting next to Heather, gave a weak, nervous giggle. Sarah always giggled when she was scared, and today, she looked terrified. Her eyes were fixed on the windows, where the afternoon sky had turned a bruised, sickly shade of yellow. ​Bzzzt. Bzzzt. Bzzzt. ​Cassie ignored them. She reached into her pocket and clicked the side button to silence the device. She didn’t need to look at the screen to know what the alerts said. She’d seen the "symptoms" her dad had spent years obsessing over. The erratic power flickers. The way the birds had stopped singing at noon. The way the school resource officer had been sweating through his uniform since second period, his eyes bloodshot and unfocused. ​Then, the intercom clicked on. ​It wasn't the usual upbeat chime for afternoon announcements. It was a screech of feedback that made everyone winced. ​"Attention students and staff," Principal Miller’s voice crackled. He sounded like he was running. "We are initiating a Level 4 Lockdown. This is not a drill. Teachers, lock your doors. Students, get away from the windows. Stay in place. Help is—" ​The audio cut out with a wet, heavy thud. ​"Stay in place," Cassie whispered, her fingers tightening around the edge of her dad's manual. "Rule Number Three." ​"What was that?" Sarah gasped, her voice climbing an octave. "Is it a shooter? Oh my god, is there a shooter?" ​"Probably just a gas leak," Heather said, though she had gone pale, her hand instinctively reaching for her Prada bag. "Mr. Henderson, what do we do?" ​Henderson stood up, his face a mask of confusion. "Exactly what he said. Everyone, under the tables. I’ll lock the—" ​CRACK. ​The sound of shattering glass echoed from the hallway, followed by a scream so raw it didn't sound human. It was followed by a heavy, rhythmic thumping—the sound of dozens of feet running, but not in a pattern. It sounded like a stampede. ​"Mr. Henderson, don't go out there," Cassie said, standing up. Her voice was cold, cutting through the rising panic in the room. ​"Cassandra, sit down!" Henderson barked, reaching for the door handle. "I have to see if anyone is hurt." ​"Rule Number One," Cassie muttered to herself, grabbing her backpack and sliding the manual into the side pocket. Don't be a hero. Heroes are just the first ones into the ground. ​Henderson cracked the door open. "Hello? Is someone—" ​He didn't finish the sentence. A blur of gray and red slammed into the door, throwing Henderson backward. A student—or what used to be a student—stumbled into the room. It was Tyler from the varsity wrestling team. His jersey was torn, and his jaw hung at an impossible angle, dripping a dark, viscous fluid that wasn't quite blood. ​"Tyler?" Heather squeaked. "You're getting... you're getting stuff on the carpet." ​Tyler didn't look at her. He lunged at Henderson with a speed that defied his broken frame. ​"Move!" Cassie screamed, grabbing Lily—the quiet girl who had been sitting next to her—by the arm. ​The lockdown had begun, but Cassie wasn't staying in place. She was moving. And if her dad was right, the nightmare was only just beginning.