BRRRRRRRRRRING!

  The sharp, shrill peal rips through the silence, tearing me from sleep. My eyes snap open, my heart hammering against my ribs as I force my palms against my ears, yet again. For a second, I’m in my bed, cozy, warm, everything familiar. Then, I have no idea where I am or which way is up. A few more seconds and the sound dies again. The bell? Where am I? What…? What day is it?

  It was Tuesday. Or Wednesday? Wait… I blink, trying to clear the lingering fog of sleep from my mind. Sun streams in through the window, warm, gloriously warm, bathing the room in a bold, golden light. The sky is clear and vibrant, the rain has finally stopped. It’s going to be a beautiful day. Then everything comes back to me in a flood. A leathery cocoon, oddly comforting. My legs, still aching, a warm heap in my lap. I stroke the soft fur with my fingers, a rhythmic rumble greeting me. Buttermilk. She stirs, stretching sleepily, and gazes quizzically up at me.

  I remember the freezing rain, the dogs, the shower, the boy’s changing room; I remember the principal’s big, soft chair. And Buttermilk. A strange, heavy peace settles over me, almost instantly replacing the initial fear. I slept again. How long? I don’t know… maybe a few hours. I can’t remember falling asleep. It just came, blotting out the terror, silencing the constant clamor of my own thoughts. The chair enveloped me, held me safe through the long, dark hours. I’m still here. Still safe. But, I’m not alone anymore.

  My stomach rumbles, a deep, hollow growl that ripples through me. I’m hungry, really hungry. The chocolate and chips from the vending machines feel like distant memories from a different lifetime. I’d give anything for some bacon and eggs. The profound emptiness inside me is too much. I’ve got to get up. I’ve got to get some food.

  The thought immediately invites a new knot of anxiety to my chest: the dogs. Where are they? They could still be in the school, they could be right outside this door. I have no way of knowing. I don’t want to go out there but I don’t really have a choice. The memory of their snarls, the terrifying chase through the corridors, holds me rooted. A cold tremor that momentarily overshadows even the gnawing hunger. The principal's office, with its locked door and sturdy furniture, feels so safe, but out there… anything could be lurking in those silent halls. To find food, I have to leave this room, and that means facing whatever is out there.

  With a sigh, I slowly push myself out of the soft chair, trying my best not to disturb Buttermilk. It’s a lost cause. She shifts from my lap and hops deftly onto the desk, stretching deeply and taking a seat. My muscles protest with dull aches all over, but the ache in my tummy is far worse. The warmth of the sun through the window feels wonderful after last night’s freezing ordeal, but the feeling is bittersweet; a reminder of a beautiful day happening in a world with no one left to enjoy it.

  I move quietly, my bare feet making no sound on the carpeted floor, but my heart beats faster as I approach the door. When I press my ear against it, holding my breath, straining to hear, the pulse in my ears is like a drum that drowns out everything else. I can’t hear a thing. No barks, no growls, no scuffling. Nothing. Just the duff-duff, duff-duff, of my own heart. It’s almost more unnerving than the alternative.

  Slowly, carefully, I reach for the doorknob. When I turn it, the click is loud in the overwhelming silence. Hesitation, fear, makes my heart leap inside me, pounding harder in my ears, making me pause, listening intently once more. Still nothing. No sound from beyond the thick wood. With a surge of adrenaline, I pull the door open just a crack, wide enough to see.

  The lobby is bathed in the same warm, golden light that fills the principal's office, streaming in through the glass of the main entrance. It looks empty. Perfectly, chillingly empty. No movement, no shadows, no sign of the dogs. My breath hitches, a mix of relief and renewed apprehension. Nothing out there.

  Taking a deep, shaky breath, I push the door open wider and step out onto the polished floor of the lobby. The air out here is heavy, carrying a distinct, cloying sweetness that my mind doesn't quite want to acknowledge. But it’s there and it’s unmistakable and it’s terrible. Behind me, I hear the soft thud of Buttermilk dropping from the desk to the floor, then the whisper of her paws as she follows me, a small, white shadow at my heels.

  My eyes immediately drift towards the vending machines, their broken glass glinting in the brilliant morning sun. But I’ve already raided two of them, and making such a big noise again when I don’t know where those dogs are… is just plain stupid. My stomach growls again. I need to find food, real food, and quietly. I’ve already cleaned out… most of the bags… and the staff room... I shudder, remembering the appalling smell inside. No, I’m not going back in there for anything, ever.

  Shouldn’t have been so thorough… My options are narrowing. Where else could there be food? Classrooms might have forgotten lunch boxes, but they’ll be bad by now, right? Tuck shop? Maybe… but they only opened at lunch time. Or maybe... maybe there's a way to find the dogs first, lure them out? Then I can go back to the storeroom for food.

  My mind is all over the place but Buttermilk doesn’t seem phased at all. She wanders across the open hallway, investigating the watery trails, the broken glass, the still shapes but doesn’t seem at all perturbed by the chaos. She looks back at me once in a while but otherwise, her exploration is conducted with a tranquil grace, her tail held high as she surveys the silent lobby. Her fearless reconnaissance is more emboldening than anything I could have asked for. If she isn't twitching, maybe it really is safe?

  But I need to know for sure. Quietly, I begin my search of the ground floor. Every step is measured, deliberate. My bare feet hardly make a sound. The floor polish is smooth and slick, like walking on ice that doesn’t melt. My toes leave little foggy prints on the shiny surface and every step feels like I’m sticking just a little bit, making a tiny 'tack-tack' sound when I lift my feet. Buttermilk moves like a ghost, soundlessly disappearing in an instant if I turn away.

  We check each classroom door, pushing them open just enough to peer inside. Empty, still, filled with desks and chairs or the lingering, unbearable presence of the still shapes. But silent, void of life. Where doors are open, I make sure to close them, hoping to keep back the growing stink at bay, trying my best to add some small measure of control to the chaos. The cloying sweetness in the air grows stronger as I move away from the lobby, the big, open doors. It’s getting bad. It’s getting really bad.

  Corridor after corridor, I find nothing, hear nothing. No barks, no growls, no scuffling. Just empty silence, dirty paw prints and that ever-present stink. The art room, the music room, the science lab, the classrooms — all of them are empty of anything living, all closed tight to the rest of the school. It's such a simple task but the tension in my shoulders is making my head throb; the school is huge and they could be anywhere.

  After what feels like hours, I’m sure the ground floor is clear. The dogs aren't here and there’s no sign that they’ve been upstairs. I don’t like it. I don’t like not knowing but I tell myself they’re gone. They must have left while I was asleep, maybe when the rain stopped. I should close the doors. Keep them out.

  I return quickly to the lobby and shut the doors, moving methodically back through the building. The heavy main entrance doors are closed now, the side exits are closed, the staff entrance, even the smaller doors near the sports fields. One by one, I check them all, flip the latches and jiggle the bolts until I’m certain that nothing out there is getting in, listening all the while, watching for any sign of danger.

  It’s like I’m waiting for a big army to come and get me, like I’m closing the castle gates but it doesn’t make me feel more safe, just trapped and alone. There is no ‘safe’ anymore, is there? There’s no ‘safe’ anywhere. I have to pretend it’s safe. Do my best like Dad would and just pretend, for now, I guess. For now, it's mine.

  Now, with the ground floor closed to the outside, I guess it’s time to eat. Finally, time to go back to the storeroom after all this time and get something in our tummies. I move with more purpose now, still quiet, but less cautious, with a clear destination. Buttermilk, sensing the change, trots ahead, her tail a tiny white flag leading the way. She pauses to wait for me when I get too far behind but she’s on her own journey. She’s probably hungry too.

  The storeroom is just as I left it. The bubble of towels that ensconced my nest still stands, the snacks and stolen lunches still lie on their shelves and the door, still squeaky. I jump yet again as I pull it open, it’s like a ritual at this point. My tummy is so empty, my hands so shaky I can’t even open a bag of snap sticks. The tough plastic is too strong, I can’t even bite it open so I grab an apple instead, from the ones I found in the staff room and take a huge bite, crunching slowly, savouring the cool, crisp and juicy tartness of its flesh. It’s not bacon and eggs but it’s almost better, it’s what I have and it’s still crisp and fresh. With a chunk of biltong, it’s way better than bacon and eggs. At least it’s real food.

  Buttermilk smells the biltong and perks up instantly, making that funny little squeak and assuming the cutest begging position with her paws in the air. She’s ravenous, the little pieces I tear off for her disappear so quickly that I barely have a chance to eat myself. She nips them gently from my fingers, devouring the meat in an instant and begging for more as if she’s never tasted food before. Maybe I should find something better for her to eat?

  Still chewing, I stand up, stretching the aches from my limbs again. My eyes fall on my uniform, hanging neatly on the hook behind the door where I left it. I reach out, my fingers testing the fabric. It's almost dry, just a lingering dampness in the thicker seams. As I smooth out a crease, my mind drifts to the thought of a proper bed, a truly dry place to sleep, somewhere warm and comfortable. The blankets in the girls' changing room are also still wet, though the shower probably got the pee out. And those boxes in the hall. I remember the dark stains and shudder, no one here to laugh at me. Just get rid of them.

  This storeroom, with its neat shelves and the clean scent of disinfectant overriding the distant cloying sweetness; this is home now. And I’ve got to keep it clean and safe.

  I grab the biltong from the shelf again and Buttermilk springs to attention, eager, paws held high. A handful of smaller pieces disappear down her throat, but still, she wants more. Well, I’m still hungry too so I leave a few pieces on the floor for her and tear into a little bag of peanuts as I open the door to leave the storeroom. The squeak gets me again, making me jump but not as badly this time. I wonder if there’s anything I can do about it, it’s getting really annoying now.

  But first, the boxes. They're still here. I grimace, forcing myself towards them. I don't want to touch them, but they're here, and they smell. I bend down, holding my breath, and try to grab one of the larger cardboard boxes. The pile isn’t heavy, it’s nasty. Smelly and wet and squishy from the pee, soaked and oddly pliable. As my fingers close around it, the stench of stale urine overwhelms me. My stomach lurches. Gross! gross! gross!

  The air here, in this little corridor, is cool. There are no windows down here, just a fire escape on the other side of the stairs. It’s a little dogleg between the art class and the music room and without the lights, it’s always dark and creepy. The stairs are the worst when the power’s out but the school never did anything about it; they needed a window, or a battery powered light; it was always ‘on the list…”

  I wrestle with the pile of soggy cardboard but it sticks to the floor, tearing as I try to move it, leaving faint, dark trails on the polished tiles. Buttermilk trots curiously alongside me, her bravado, contagious. There's no big bin here, nowhere to throw them away. My initial thought is just to get them as far away from the storeroom as possible, maybe even outside.

  My gaze lands on the fire escape door, a dark, heavy rectangle with a push bar. Outside. That's the best option. Get them out of the school entirely. I kick the bar and all hell breaks loose.

  BRRRRRRRRRRING! BRRRRRRRRRRING! BRRRRRRRRRRING!

  My hands fly to my ears, my heart exploding to life, but it's useless, the sound is too loud. Buttermilk bolts, a white blur disappearing into the mess of my barricade, searching for safety while the deafening buzz hammers directly into my skull, a physical assault. The school bell! The fire alarm, that same stupid, grating sound, now screams continuously, piercing through every fiber of my being. It's no longer just an annoying ritual; it's a relentlessly repeating scream that just won’t shut up! It’s unbearable.

  Rage, pure and blinding, surges through me, eclipsing the fear for a moment, drowning out the pain in my head. This stupid, awful, endless sound! I glare at the bell on the wall, its mindless wail bringing my blood to a boil. My eyes dart frantically around, searching for something to hit it with. I have to smash that thing or I’m going to go insane!

  I grab a chair from my barricade and jump as high as I can but the bell is out of reach, way above my hands. I need something to hit it with. A mop. CLANK! CLONK! BANG! BONG! SNAP! No good.

  The mop handle, cheap plastic and thin metal, dangles uselessly from my grip, bent and battered. My breath comes in ragged gasps, half from exertion, half from the sheer, mind-numbing noise. It’s like being trapped inside the bell itself. The sound vibrates through my bones, blurring my vision and my head throbs, my ears singing. There has to be something stronger. Something that won't break. I glance desperately around the corridor, my eyes darting over the familiar, mundane objects now transformed into potential weapons. A fire extinguisher? “Gah! No way I can get that up there.”

  My eyes land on the open door of the art class, just a few steps away. Desperation overrides caution. Bare feet slap on the polished floor as I rush inside, the blaring bell driving me forward. The room is bright with morning sun, filled with the lonely remains of all that was. My gaze sweeps across the room, past stacked canvases and forgotten clay, settling on a heavy, dark-wood easel that stands near the window. Its sturdy legs look perfect.

  The continuous clang of the bell is a physical pressure in my head. I grab the easel, pushing, pulling, bending and straining against the wooden frame, the metal hinge, struggling with all my might. It’s tough. The wood is heavy and strong and the hinge is big and solid but eventually, with tremendous effort; with a grunt and a splintering crack of wood and metal, the screws snap off, sending me flying across the room with my prize. It's surprisingly heavy, a solid chunk of timber. This. This is perfect.

  Arms burning, I half-stumble, half-run back to the corridor, the big wooden club raised over my head with both hands. Each BRRRRRRRING feels like a nail driving deeper into my skull. I can’t take it anymore! I clamber back onto the chair, the solid piece of timber still in hand, heart pounding painfully in my ears. The bell, a simple, convex dish of metal, seems to mock me from its perch. I take a breath, aim, and swing with everything I’ve got.

  THWACK!

  The first blow is a jarring impact, a dull crunch of wood on metal. The bell shudders, the ringing wavers, distorted, as if gasping for breath. Bits of plaster dust rain down, showering me, getting in my eyes, making me sneeze but I swing again, putting all my weight, all my furious energy into it.

  CRRRNNNCH! SKREEEEEE!

  A tearing, screech replaces the obnoxious shriek. Worse, far worse than the bell. It doesn't stop, instead, the sound is mangled, broken, as if the thing is ripping itself apart. The club slips in my sweaty grasp, glancing off the wall as I readjust. My arms are screaming, my head is splitting open. One more. Just one more.

  I lift the pole again, muscles trembling, vision blurring from the pain and the incessant noise. I bring it down with a desperate, final yell, almost throwing myself from the chair with the unbridled effort.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  CRRRRRAAANG!

  Silence.

  No, not silence. Not absolute silence, not the gentle quiet of a sleeping house. No, the sudden cessation of the bell's deafening shriek, but replaced by a ringing void, a phantom echo in my ears. My head pounds, a dull, aching throb, but the immediate, oppressive assault is gone. I stand on the chair, chest heaving, listening, the giant club still clenched tight in my hand. All I can hear now is my own ragged breathing, the frantic pounding of my heart, and…

  ...the sound of the stupid bell somewhere else in the school! “AAAAAAAAAAAAAA!” I rub my face viciously, clench my fists with all my strength. I can’t believe this. Is this it now? My life? “GO AWAY!”

  The distant, mocking BRRRRRRRING continues to needle at me, a persistent, infuriating buzz in the quiet. But I have to ignore it for now. I can’t deal with all of them right this moment, I have more important things to do and… I guess it’s not so bad at this distance. I should clean up while I have a chance. Soggy boxes and the pee-streaked floor demand my attention. Small, manageable tasks. That’s how you survive. “Small and manageable…” Where did I even hear that?

  With a grimace, I gather up the reeking, crumbling cardboard, wrestling it back towards the open fire escape door. The air outside smells of rain, evaporating in the warm sunshine. It’s a kind of fresh smell but there’s something else there too. Not strong, but there. I push the boxes through the gap and drop them to the ground with a wet, sloppy thud. Good riddance. One less problem in here. My stomach still churns, but a sense of grim satisfaction settles over me. One small problem, dealt with.

  Next, the floor. I need to clean it but I broke the mop. I’m sure there’s something else here I can use. The boxes from the store room yield all kinds of stuff. Cleaning chemicals, dusters, and rags. The mop bucket lies to one side, where I left it, so I pick it up and run to the closest bathroom to fill it. The gurgle of running water is a stark contrast to the oppressive quiet. It gives me shivers, sending goosebumps down my arms. Mom. Mom used to do this every day… before… I can’t finish the thought. I don’t want to think about it.

  The act of scrubbing, the rhythmic swish of the rag in my hands, is oddly soothing but the memories... I used to help… I used to do this with mom. The thoughts won’t go away. We used to sweep and vacuum and mop together, dance around in our socks on the kitchen tiles. We used to… before.

  My eyes sting, I thought I’d run out of tears but I’m crying again. How am I supposed to do this alone? Why? Does it even matter anymore? There’s no one. No one left. Is there even any point in being alive? Only silence answers the questions in my mind. There’s no one. No one left to answer. No one left to care.

  The wet rag feels cold and heavy in my hand now, the floor, hard as ice beneath my knees. My shoulders, my whole body is shaking uncontrollably as silent tears pour down my cheeks. The cold spreads through my legs, my hands but I don’t have the strength to care. There’s nothing left. Everyone is gone and it’s just me. The world outside this small, wet circle of grief feels impossibly far away, drowned out by the ringing in my ears and the awful, throbbing ache in my chest. I want to just curl up and disappear forever. I want my mom.

  Then, a soft, insistent nudge against my leg. That odd little squeak and a gentle, rumbling vibration that starts low, rising as the little white cat crawls onto my lap. The familiar purr is so impossibly loud in the vast silence but the comfort it brings is magical. I open my eyes and blink through the tears, my vision blurry, eyes, hot and puffy.

  Buttermilk.

  She's there, calm and still, her small white body warm as afternoon sun. She looks up at me with wide, unblinking yellow eyes, "Squeak?" Her presence is like a beacon that cuts through the despair, a gentle, steady rhythm that reminds me I am not completely alone. A small spark. A tiny, warm truth in the overwhelming cold. I reach out a trembling hand and bury my fingers in her soft fur, stroking her back. She presses harder against me, rubbing her head against my palm with silent insistence. Someone is here. Someone cares, even if it’s just a little, white cat that can’t mew.

  The tears don't stop, but they change. They're still for Mom, for Tim, for Michael, for Sarah. They’re still for everyone, but now they're also for Buttermilk, for her quiet comfort, for this small, unexpected gift in a world engulfed beneath an endless sea of loss. I pick her up, pull her close in my arms, burying my face in her fur, drawing strength from her warmth and the steady thrum of her purr. I’m not alone. I have Buttermilk.

  Holding her tight in my arms, cuddling her fiercely, my face buried in her fur, slowly, the tears subside. I don’t feel empty. I don’t feel hollow. Not completely. I’m still here. Still safe.

  Time to get up; time to carry on. Sensing a change, Buttermilk slips from my arms and wanders ahead of me, sitting at the edge of the open fire escape door, surveying the grounds beyond. I find my feet, dragging the bucket of dirty mop water over to the door. SPLASH. The water hits the ground with a sound like a bellyflop. A final end to my humiliating accident as I slam the door shut. The heavy metal clacks sharply into place, sealing out the memory. The BRRRRRRRING of the distant bell seems slightly softer now, like I can handle it, just a bit. It’s still there, still endlessly bleating at nothing, but I think, for now, it’s ok.

  What next? The blankets, my uniform. What else? I guess there’s loads to do but I’m not sure where to start. Buttermilk is sitting on the first step now, watching me as if she knows. My uniform, I should hang it outside to dry properly. I could use the extra clothes. The roof should be a good place, right? I duck into the storeroom to retrieve my damp clothes and wander upstairs, my mind in a far off place. The cool breeze and the warm sunshine greet me at the big heavy door. It really is a lovely day. Almost too lovely, the world moving on before its tears have even fully dried.

  I look up, my eyes drawn by a faint sound above the wind. High in the clear, blue sky, a few dark specks circle lazily, almost imperceptibly, against the vibrant backdrop. Just birds. But the way they drift, endlessly, like tiny, silent flies… My mind drifts, a momentary flicker of unease, before I shake it off.

  I find a sunny spot on the parapet wall, away from the vents and solar panels, somewhere dry. My damp uniform flutters in the gentle breeze as I carefully spread it over the concrete top of the wall, letting the fabric hang down in the sunshine. It should dry fast up here. A final tug to make sure it won't blow away, and I step back, satisfied, ready for my next task.

  Buttermilk inspects my work with one paw raised, then flicks it dismissively and wanders away. She softly rubs against my leg as she passes and finally, ambushes an unsuspecting tennis ball, sending it bouncing off towards the open gate to the courts and dashing after it like a little dog. I giggle, despite myself but the moment passes quickly. As soon as the ball stops moving, the little cat loses interest, takes a dignified seat in the centre of the way and begins to groom herself.

  I sweep my gaze across the roof, the rows of glimmering solar panels, little sitting areas and the tall fence that separates me from a dizzying drop. The silence is different up here, wide and open, not the suffocating quiet of the hallways below but vast, so vast, and empty. No traffic, no people, no sound but the wind. "Butters," I murmur, my voice thin in the open air. "Let's go get those blankets, huh?"

  She ignores me, finishing her grooming with a distinct air of detachment. I make my way to the door and finally, she moves. Not a hurried motion, she simply eyes me, stretching luxuriously before rising and padding over to the door in front of me. Together, we head back inside, making our way back to the gym. On the second floor landing, I turn and make my way back towards the main staircase to avoid as many still shapes as I can. It’s pointless though, a few is more than enough to make me sick to my stomach.

  The long hallway stretches out before me, quiet, endless and I walk slowly, my footsteps echoing louder than I intend. The classroom doors are mostly closed up here, but some are ajar, offering glimpses into that happy yesterday, that happy… never again.

  The cool, fresh air from the roof dissipates quickly, replaced by the heavy, stale atmosphere of the sealed school and that same, cloying sweetness that hangs like a cloud wherever there are still shapes. It’s faint at first, a whisper, a whiff, but it's there, building steadily with every step I take. And then, it’s like dipping into a bath of rancid water. A sudden shift from tolerable discomfort to sickening, slimy, revolting stink. I descend the stairs to the lobby once more, arm clapped over my mouth and nose to no avail. My head passes through the veil into the disgusting pressure cooker and the nauseating smell turns my stomach yet again.

  It’s getting stronger. Stronger like the staff room. Like a sticky oil in the air that coats everything it touches and strangles even the thought of freshness in its wake. They smell like meat left out too long, worse, but the same and for the first time, I really start to notice the flies. Not many, not a lot but far more than normal. I hear them. A low, persistent buzzing that seems to emanate from everywhere and nowhere all at once. My eyes dart around, catching momentary glimpses of the small, dark blurs as they dart and hover near the still shapes, or cluster on the floor and walls.

  As I move closer to the lobby, the smell intensifies, clinging to my tongue, to the inside of my nose, making my lungs feel like garbage bags filled with disgusting, putrid leftovers. The stench of the staff room, of the still shapes, now pooling in the corridors, spreading through the school. I can’t help but look at them now, the buzzing, the ungodly stench is unbearable. I have to do something about it but what? “Oh my god they’re going green.” I nearly throw up as the words escape my mouth. Bellies are fat and bloated and foam leaks from their mouths and noses. Clothes, once neatly draped, now strain in places, stretched taut over the unnatural bulges.

  The assault of sight and smell is utterly overwhelming. The sweet, putrid air chokes me, thick and cloying. Every intake of breath threatens to bring up my breakfast but I fight with everything I have. I try to pull my uniform up over my nose and mouth, but it’s useless. The stink is everywhere, everywhere. Even inside me. It’s worse than anything I’ve ever smelled before, worse than the staff room, worse, far worse. It’s the smell of… death. Relentless, absolute, tangible.

  Buttermilk, seemingly unfazed, continues to lead the way, her tail held high, a small, confident white flag in the increasing gloom and unbearable smell. She glances back at me occasionally, urging me forward but I can only move as fast as my broiling tummy will allow. Finally, after what feels like an eternity breathing this sickening slurry of air, the double doors of the gym stand in front of me. Just a little further.

  Sweet, sweet air. I can finally breathe without throwing up. I pull the door open and slide through, holding it just long enough for Buttermilk to pass. The air inside feels different. Not fresh, not like on the roof, but blessedly free of the cloying, putrid reek that permeates the hallways. It's stale, but I can breathe. I take a deep, shaky breath, fighting the last of the nausea. Buttermilk saunters on ahead of me, her tail swishing as she surveys the vast, empty space of the gym, undisturbed. It’s weird, she always seems to know where we’re going.

  The shower area is just as I left it. The blankets, the clothes are still there, a sad, sodden pile in the middle of the stall. A pathetic heap, dark with absorbed water. Reaching down, I try to gather up a large armful of the blankets. They’re heavier than I remember, cold and limp, sagging with water, but at least they smell clean. The pee smell is gone. I try to lift them, but they pull against me, weighing me down. There's too many of them. I can't carry them all. Not like this. Not all at once.

  “Sigh,” I’m gonna have to do this again. The thought of walking back and forth through that stinking wasteland raises the bile in my throat. I squeeze my hands tight shut, cracking my knuckles in frustration. I'll have to make multiple trips. That’s all there is to it. I pick up one of the blankets, a blue one that feels a little less soaked than the others, and wring it out over the drain as hard as I can. Water streams from it, cold and clear, but the blanket still feels heavy and the fuzzy fabric is still soaking wet. I put it aside and pick up another, and another, repeating the task until everything is wrung and ready to move. The water is cold. Cold. My fingers burn, and the dampness quickly soaks into the sleeves of my borrowed uniform as I handle the sodden fabric. It’s unavoidable; I’m going to get wet again. I’m going to get cold again. It’s just an endless cycle.

  But there’s no avoiding it; I have to do it. Small, manageable tasks… One, two, three little heaps. Manageable, I guess. So I fold each heap, roll them up into short, fat little sausages, stuffing the wet hoodie and other clothes in the centre of one, like a cheese griller. Yum. I could really eat a cheese griller right now. Buttermilk gives a soft "squeak?" as I turn, her head tilting to one side, as if asking why I look so miserable.

  "Just gotta do it, Butters." She seems satisfied with that and turns, leading the way out of the changing room. I bend down, grimacing slightly as I pick up the first of the damp blanket sausages. It's heavier than it looks, and cold against my chest. The dampness seeps through my clothes, making me shiver. Buttermilk, seemingly unfazed by my struggles, trots out of the changing room, waiting patiently by the door that leads to the lobby.

  The journey back is slower, more oppressive. The air still holds that awful, rank sweetness, and the flies still buzz lazily around the still shapes, but I focus on the blankets, focus on the task; anything but the smell, anything but the fat, bloated figures and green tinged skin. The effort of carrying the blankets distracts me a little but the assault on my senses is unignorable. All I can do is persevere and try not to gag with every breath. Each step is deliberate, my arms aching, the weight pressing me down. I feel the damp patches spreading on my uniform. I focus on that.

  At last, I reach the roof again. The sun is still warm and welcoming, the bright orb climbing steadily towards its midday peak. When I step out into the clean, fresh air, the relief is like a sharp shiver down my entire body. I stumble over to a sunny spot near my drying uniform and carefully spread out the wet blankets and clothes, hoping they’ll dry quickly. Then turn back towards the door, eager to end this ordeal as quickly as possible. Before I go, I take a deep, cleansing breath, letting the fresh air fill my lungs, trying to purge the clinging scent of the hallways.

  I leave the first load to the sun and head back down into the stinking depths. It takes me two more trips to save all of the blankets from their watery grave. By the time I drop the last bundle and spread it all out, my muscles are trembling, and I'm breathing hard. My tummy hurts from the awful, awful smell and the front of my borrowed uniform is thoroughly soaked, clinging to me, making me cold, again, despite the warm sun. Buttermilk, ever patient, simply waits by the roof door for it to finish, stretching out, warm.

  Finally I can take a breath. Finally I can sit down.

  I collapse onto the warm concrete near the edge of the roof, leaning back against the low parapet wall, my damp uniform chilling me where it presses against the stone. Buttermilk, sensing my stillness, hops onto my lap, a comforting weight, and starts to purr, a deep rumble that vibrates through me. I stroke her soft fur, closing my eyes for a moment, letting the exhaustion seep into the ground beneath me. The sun feels good on my face, warm, revitalising. The clean air, a miracle.

  After a few minutes, the shaking in my arms subsides, the shivering, and the icy grip of the hallways begins to recede. I open my eyes and push myself up slightly, gazing out over the city, unseeing. Everything is normal from up here. The town spreads out below me, bathed in the bright midday sun. Houses, tiny from this height, stretch in endless rows, their roofs, an undulating path of red tile and white metal flashing. Down the street, the mall stands silent, its glass entrance reflecting the sky like a giant, vacant eye; the parking lot, still, mostly empty. Traffic lights at the intersections below continue their dutiful cycle through red, amber, and green, their silent change a bizarre, automated ballet for an audience that no longer exists. The world is moving, meticulously, mindlessly on, without us. It's beautiful and terrifying all at once.

  My gaze drifts, taking in the familiar landscape. Then, without conscious thought, it drops to the field below. A sound? A feeling? I can’t say. Closer in, closer to the school grounds directly below me; the main lawn; the bike racks; the area where the buses usually park; places where I've walked a thousand times for years since I was small. And the still shapes; they’re still there; scattered, crumpled; slumped against the buses; sprawled on the pavement; out across the vast, green field. I've seen them up close, but from this height, they’re nothing but blobs; just dark, distorted bundles. Exposed to the merciless march of a world moving forward, leaving them behind.

  A flurry of dark movement catches my eye, a flutter of wings. Ravens. So many of them, sleek and black, strutting and hopping among the shapes on the lawn. They peck and tug and flit from place to place, oddly vigorous in their motions. A larger form, a flash of shaggy fur. A dog, another and another. The big one from before, the one from the hallway, his pack. They’re at something, nosing, pulling; a dark, elongated shape on the ground.

  A knot twists in my stomach, the taste of bile in my mouth. I squint, leaning further over the edge, a cold dread blossoming in my chest; worse than any fear of the dogs; worse than the stench. The birds aren't just pecking at the ground; they're wrenching, pulling at something. The dogs aren't just sniffing; they’re ripping, tearing, fighting over pieces. The big one, pulling back, grips a dark, glistening stringy thing in its jaws; a sickening, wet sound, faint but unmistakable, carrying up to me on the breeze as the sliver finally snaps. My vision blurs, not from tears, but from the sudden, grotesque clarity. The still shapes below aren't just still. They're... meat.

  The dog pulls again, a guttural growl escaping its throat, and a piece, dark and unrecognizable, comes away. It shakes its head, worrying the flesh, before swallowing it in a single gulp. The ravens caw, darting in, trying to snatch their own portions from the exposed innards of what used to be someone. Someone I knew.

  Oh my god.

  My stomach lurches violently, and this time, there's no holding it back. I buckle, bile burning my throat as I throw up over the edge of the parapet wall, the fresh air doing nothing for the sick, bitter taste in my mouth. My entire body convulses with dry heaves even after my stomach is well and truly empty. This isn't just death. This is… nature… devouring what’s left. It's the ultimate indignity. It's the world chewing up everything they were, gorging on my classmates. Teachers. Swallowing all but their memory. They’re just... food. Nothing more, just food.

  Buttermilk, startled by my sudden retching, retreats to the top of the wall nearby, looking at me with wide, uncomprehending eyes. But I ignore her, clutching my churning stomach, watching the grotesque dance, the grisly feast below, frozen with disgusted horror. The world isn't still; it's ravenous. And I'm watching it consume the last vestiges of everything and everyone I've ever known.

  Thank you for following Elara's story.

  If you would like to support my process, please consider following or leaving a rating.

  If you wish to contribute:

  Elara's not going down without a fight—and they may get hungry while they wait.

  Next Update: Tuesday at 3:00 PM SAST