text: ‘Come on, let’s go!’ Momma hurries me, waving absently at the luggage I’m still packing. ‘I know Momma, hang on.’ I tuck my favorite Teddy from when I was younger in with the clothes. I don’t remember when when Dad gave it to me. I know I always loved it since. I zip the suitcase shut, before slipping into a warmer hoodie. Momma is already downstairs, preparing to go. She’s got a gun on the table. I haven’t seen our gun in a while, since Dad taught me to shoot it. ‘Momma?’ I ask, with uncertainty. ‘It’ll be alright, hon. Let’s go.’ We take our paltry supplies to the car. Water for a few days, the rest of our food. Our medical kit, and sanitary supplies. As we get into the car, I notice the sun seems different. Colder. Maybe I just hadn’t looked at it enough. ‘Where are we going first momma?’ ‘The school I think. He is a teacher, hopefully he’s still there. We’ve been here.’ Momma looks like she doesn’t know. I don’t blame her. She turns onto the highway, and with no traffic in sight, she presses the pedal to the floor. I notice her knuckles on the steering wheel are white. We pass the time in silence. Momma watches the road while I watch everything else. I open the car door, taking in the empty surroundings. School should still be in session, but there’s nothing here. No lights or voices, or people. But we have to find Dad. I step out of the car, before pausing and leaning back in. Momma is making to get out too. ‘Momma -‘ my throat catches. ‘Ma, I got this. It’s okay. Just give me the knife. I’ll be alright. I gotta.’ She grimaces at me, not wanting to leave me alone here. I don’t blame her. ‘You still have the gun right?’ Momma pulls it from under her seat, and makes to hand it to me. ‘No ma, you need it more than I do.’ She settles back into the car. Unhappy. But it’s safer out here, at least, I think. I clutch the knife to me, feeling it rattle in its sheath. It’s the first sound I hear outside the car. There’s just a short path between the car and the doors. I push open the door on the left, and it swings itself closed behind me, awkwardly groaning before it latches into place. There are stairs to the right, and the office to the left. There are no lights there, and the door is closed. There’s no light downstairs at all. The light from the door gives way to black too soon. I decide not to go that way. The stairs are dusty, the railing cold, the concrete cracked. The air is old and unmoving. I reach the top of the stairs, and something is already wrong. There’s a child sitting in a seat in front of me, watching lines on a screen embedded in the wall. He isn’t moving, so I ask who he is. He doesn’t answer. I reach out with the knife still in its sheath, and tap him on the shoulder. Nothing. I go to his side, and to my relief he still has a face. A right face. He’s just not all there. To the right, barely two steps away is another door, solid wood. No light emanates from the crack beneath it. The boy will be no help, so I leave him. To the left is a normal classroom, the stairs might have been where the door was. A single light from what looks like a kitchen counter dimly projects into the room. I see two rows of chairs, and tablets at each desk. The windows along the wall are blacked out. I look up and realize the overhead fan still spins. It’s still spinning. That thought catches in my throat as I realize there’s no sound. I can’t hear my breathing. I can’t hear my single footstep back. All I feel is the pounding of my heart, as fear creeps into my vision. I turn to run, hoping I am not too late. The child looks at me quizzically as I turn, but I barely see him. Not four steps into the room, as I make to race down the steps back to the safety of the light I slam into nothing. I lose myself for a moment, staggering backwards into the wall of screens. Only the one is still on. But the child isn’t looking at it anymore. He’s looking at me. But his head hasn’t turned. Just his face. Surprised, I look back to the stairs. The door opens again. It shouldn’t have opened. Why is it opening? And there’s my mother. She closes it behind her, softly. The gun is in her hand. She makes the same short decision I did. I try to call out to her, but no sound will come from my anguished lips. She begins climbing the steps, and I know she must not make it to the top. He’s just looking at me. Only looking at me. I throw myself at the stairs, feeling my head thud against concrete, seeing nothing. I slam the knife against it, harder, and harder, until I feel something give way. Numbly I realize it is my hand. Momma is just a few steps away now. She stops at the last step. The gun is still in her hand. The last vestige of safety she has. Momma stops. I don’t know why. She stares at the wall, past me, at something else. She turns a pale white, and stumbles backwards down the stairs, gripping the railing. She nearly falls before turning and running down the stairs. She makes it outside, the door slowly creeping back into place. The light from outside fades into the black of the foyer. I am relieved. I sag into the invisible wall, feeling its uncapitulating smoothness. It’s hard to hold the knife. I settle with my back to the wall now, the child still looking at me. His eyes don’t move. When I look at him, nothing moves. He shouldn’t be able to look at me without turning his head. Then I hear an impossibly loud cracking as if reality had split itself open again. I fall backwards down the stairs. The last thing I see is a mirthless smile, before I manage to scramble to my feet, dropping the knife down the other side of the stairs in the process. Old dust clings to my pants, my shirt, and gets into my lungs. I hear myself cough as I scramble down the stairs. Adrenaline surges as I seek to be let out of my prison. I crash through the doors, throwing them open. My hand throbs. I take a few more steps before I am stopped again. This time it isn’t a wall. An ancient primal grief awakens inside me, and I scream. My mother sits slumped at the wheel, the gun awkwardly lopsided on the dashboard. Viscera clings to the windshield. I rush to the car, murmuring. ‘No.’ over and over. I yank the door open, hoping its another trick. It isn’t. I fall to my knees, feeling reality close in around me, my vision blurs. Tears fall on the concrete. I feel empty. A void grows inside me, and at the center of that void a white-hot rage builds against the tides. I scream upwards into the sky again, into the cold orange rays dying against the black of space. I bury her there. It takes me a while, though the sun no longer moves so I don’t know how long. The gun sits, holstered on my hip. I put a blanket on the car seat, and wipe away what I can on the windshield. I have to look for Dad.