I snuck into the school ten minutes into the massacre, securing my backpack behind me.

The gunfire inside had died down to a crawl, occasionally hearing a pop or two, but then they were followed by the screams. I didn't know how many of the Alphas had died, hopefully, most of them, so that I only had to pick out the stragglers, including the vectors. There were plenty of dead along the front entrance and by the lobby—vectors and Alphas alike—but I did have to put down two vectors still left alive; their kneecaps had been blown off, crawling on the floor toward the noise. I hadn't seen Bean or Porter's bodies yet, and though I feared they were still kicking, I wished they weren't for long.

One strike, kill swift. Leave no loose ends.

It surprised me to find that there was electricity in the building. Emergency floodlights illuminated the halls, but the Alphas had already cut the line to the fire's sprinkler system to stop attracting more vectors with the shrilling alarms. That had been an idiotic mistake. The fire hadn't spread on this part of the school yet, but it soon would be, and I was running out of time.

I found a map by the entrance, took it off the corkboard, and followed it to the cafeteria. I had to start from the source, my heart hammering at the sight of them surrounded by the blaze. I wished they were not there.

Blood smeared the walls, passing an occasional body face-down on the floor. I crouched over one man, grabbing the pistol from his grip. It was the same model as Betty, and I stole the magazine off it but found it empty. Cursing, I threw the magazine to the side and continued forward.

They got to be here somewhere, ran away to safety, I thought. No. I can't take that chance.

The further I went, the thicker the smoke filled the halls. The white wooden walls groaned and creaked, the paint bubbling like boils. Patches blackened until they burst into tiny flames, spreading quickly along the surface. Rooms behind those walls were under the blazing heat, places I could not enter, and yet I still tried to peer through the tiny windows and get a glimpse of anyone who was trapped inside.

Guys, where are you? Don't be dead.

Breathing became more challenging, and there came a moment where I could no longer push further. I still fought against my senses, and I cried out for Miguel's name. Logan's. Yousef's. No one answered except for the crackling behind the walls, buckling under the heat.

Keep running. Keep moving.

A beam fell at the end of the hall, trapping a screaming vector. An Alpha chopped a vector with an ax; bite marks littered his arms and legs. He saw me, but instead of attacking, he ran into a corner.

It took a second before he screamed, and a small explosion engulfed that section. I swept behind a pillar just as debris rained around me.

A strange, sulfuric odor persisted, and I looked at the map, realizing the man had gone into a chemistry lab where the chemicals would be stored.

"Um. Okay then," I found myself saying, and ran the opposite, covering my mouth and hoping I hadn't inhaled any noxious gas.

The fires spread out faster, seemingly thrilled by its renewed source of fuel. The smoke bothered my lungs more, coughing, and hacking until I reached the door leading to the courtyard. I pushed on the panic bars, and fresh air entered my lungs.

"Fuck!" I said, clutching my chest and massaged it, but it didn't help lessen the prickling burn, but my eyes still stung from all the smoke. "Aw, shit. I shouldn't have gone there."

Water. Water would help wash the sting off my face. I grabbed the bottle in my bag, but it was lighter than usual; I hadn't refilled it once.

"Shit."

I stood there for a minute, blinking, still hacking out the thorn inside me. Fortunately, it went away.

A door stood opposite me. I strode across the courtyard, about the size of a basketball court, passing by the trees planted at the corners, untrimmed bushes still growing along the sides, and benches, picnic tables, and walkways. The school's mascot, a snarling otter, was at the center on a raised concrete dais, flanked by the American flag and the New York State flag flapping on the poles.

I was about to open the other door when a muffled shout, followed by a constant banging, fists on the glass. The courtyard was surrounded by windows that looked into the school, but it didn't come from there.

And then I looked up to the second floor. There, by a large window encompassing almost the entire wall, Logan pounding against the glass, a grin on his face, shouting something I couldn't make out. Alfie was with him, knocking on the glass, though not as excited as Logan did. He gave me a small wave.

I smiled. Finally! I was right!

They didn't look wounded or hurt, a little disheveled and a mess, covered in patches of blood, which had become a norm these days. If they were still talking and walking, they're okay, I supposed.

I pointed. A finger upward, gesturing that I would come for them. I swore I saw a stairwell in the door I came from and thought maybe I could use it to come up. Though smoke rose out of the door's cracks, a black cloud lingered behind the glass.

Not that way then.

On the other door, school dance posters blocked the window, so I couldn't see what was on the other side. There was no smoke, so I surmised that it was a good sign. Bolting for the door, I had my hand on the handle, when—

The ground, my stomach lurched, the air knocked away as if a massive truck had sped and rammed through my body. I drew a breath, found it heavy as I curled on the ground, but then a pair of hands were on me, a vector, but spots continued to go on and off at the periphery of my vision. But vectors, I was sure. They were all over, and I thrashed and screamed, pushing the weight off me.

Huffs of breath were on my face, smelled a hint of rotten eggs, and I screamed, waiting for the teeth to gnaw at my nose. I opened my eyes and found a man hovered over me, teeth clenched into a nasty snarl, eyes filled with fury, and they were all trained at me. His hands seized around my neck and squeezed, and at that moment, I recognized who he was.

Porter. Kossa's brother.

"You killed him! You took his gun!"

I croaked, wrapping my hands around his wrist. I couldn't maneuver my legs to spin, pinned down by his own weight. I thought I could perhaps put him on a headlock around my thighs, or a boot on his face, anything to keep him dazed long enough for me to grab a weapon and take him out.

"Give it back!" He spat, hardening his grasp on my throat. "Give it back! I'll kill you!"

There! A shift on his weight as he moved up to sit on my stomach, trying to push more strength in his squeeze. I knew I had seconds left, but it freed my hips and legs.

I put both my arms in a praying position, like I was in the church, elbows tight and close to the ground, making a frame of his hips. I placed both my knees up and my foot down, forming a pyramid with my legs, lifting him just a tiny bit upward.

Then, I went for the kill.

I thrust my hips up, and he immediately teetered off-balance, his hands loosened around my neck, enough to latch onto his right side and pushed him off to my own right. He made it about half-way down, putting his elbows in time on the ground for support, and I quickly rolled and wrapped my legs and around his right leg, his knees now up to my chest, his ankles resting on my shoulder.

With his leg straightened, I didn't hesitate to strike his knee with my fist and then drove another for good measure.

Porter cried out. He wore shorts, so I saw clearly how I displaced his patella, his knees now leaned crookedly in a vile way. Porter clutched at his injured leg, found that he could not bend his knees without screaming and hollering.

But I wasn't done. I took out the icepick in my pocket—the same one I used to kill his brother—and drove it into his gut. I stabbed, and stabbed, and stabbed, six or seven times in quick succession. Porter reeled back and rolled over, arms wrapped around his bleeding abdomen.

I pushed off the ground. I heard a roar not far from me, coming from the door I was about to open. There, two men rushed toward me, brandishing mostly knives, although they had rifles strapped around their shoulders. In a split second, I reckoned they were out of bullets. I still had Betty on my holster. I was about to pull her out, but there was a loud crash; shards of glass fell like a sheet of rain at my periphery. The first man to reach the courtyard suddenly keeled over with a gaping hole at the side of his head. I shot the second one on the chest, and he dropped to the ground.

I looked up to the window, or rather, a shattered one. Logan gave me a thumbs up, a rifle in his hand.

I walked over to Porter, gently putting my boots on his body, and rolled him over on his back. Blood trickled from his lips, pupils narrowed, forever staring at the blue sky, and let out a breath. I waited for a couple of seconds and realized it was his last one.

"Bren!" Logan screamed.

A small gust of wind fluttered at the nape of my neck, and I turned around, finding that the man I had shot earlier was still alive, a blade raised over my head. I didn't have time to scream or move, or even have the space to dodge it.

I blinked, and blood splattered on my face.

The man stood there, with his knife still hovering above my head. However, his jaw slacked downward, lost the grip on his blade as his body swaying for a couple of seconds.

An arrow stuck out of his eye socket; his eyeball fixed on the metal tip.

I looked past behind him, toward the shadows of the corridor; a blood-covered Jun stood with his bow raised, putting it down to his side once the man hit the ground.

——

PETER

Blood trickled from Peter Gauthier's brows, sliding down to his upper lip.

My head...

For a moment, the blood lingered there as he lay unmoving under a cloak of black smoke, ears ringing from the small explosion below the main cafeteria. He stirred, flicked his tongue out to wet his dry, cracked lips until he tasted something coppery.

Amateur. You don't bleed easily.

Peter opened his eyes and found the fires had spread everywhere. He had been in many fires before, both physically and figuratively. It didn't bother him that one came so close as to scorch his boots. He drew his foot back and crawled away, annoyed that he got knocked out.

Don't be a loser. You don't lose.

Groaning, something had burrowed on his right side. He looked down, gently touched it, and winced, tender nerves tingling like a thousand serrated knives grubbed toward the nape of his neck. There was nothing there; perhaps loose debris had hit him from the explosion. He lifted his shirt and saw multiple red, rash-like bruises trailed down to his hips from his midsection.

He sighed, annoyed again. That'll turn into an ugly purple later.

He turned around, clasped a decapitated head an inch to his right. He didn't cry out from fear, the confusion going into curiosity, really, on how he died. He shoved the head away, letting it roll.

One of them, he thought. Not his doing, probably from the explosion, but he smiled nonetheless. Good. You deserve that.

There were two more bodies where the head ended up. Those he shot dead, each with a single bullet between their eyes.

Nice shot. Dad would be proud.

He spent all his bullets, but the rifle still made a useful crutch, so he hauled himself up to his feet, trying to ignore the pain irritating at his side. He couldn't bend his torso or lean on the wound, so he had trouble getting up, taking him several moments to get it right.

Where had that explosion come from? He had glimpsed the stuff piled up below, and one of them could be a highly-flammable. The explosion had shattered the glass-domed windows on the ceiling and the large windows encompassing the entire wall, which overlooked the football field. He thought of going down the stairs where Logan and Alfie had gone, but then the vectors' cries filled his ears, followed by the screams of the surviving gunmen.

He hoped Alfie wasn't among them, though, if Logan were, then...well, he wouldn't complain.

Petter staggered toward a door to his left, coughing, getting rid of the irritation in his lungs. Pete covered his nose and mouth over his elbow; His head started spinning. He remembered it was a bad sign. He had inhaled too much smoke, and he needed to get out of there before he lost consciousness, or else he wouldn't wake up again. Peter nudged at the door, and it budged open. He scrambled out and closed it behind him.

Breathe.

Clean air. He breathed it all in, though his lungs still burned, but it didn't matter now. He was finally out of there. It was quieter in the hall than inside. As the ringing in his ears eased, the vectors' dying shrieks intensified along with the gunmen.

Oh, the more, the merrier, I guess.

The vectors' cries faltered, and Peter found himself laughing against his scratchy throat. "Yeah, die in there, assholes. Get a taste of what Hell feels like."

Drag marks caused by blood snaked from the entryway, heading deeper into the corridor. There was a lot of it, and whoever was wounded wouldn't survive for long.

Armed with a lump hammer and the knife he got from the dead gunman earlier, he followed the trail of blood. He didn't have to look far as it led him to a man sitting against the wall, a hand clasped around his bleeding neck. At first, he thought it was Logan, dark-haired with olive skin, tall and, if he turned at just the right angle, was handsome. However, he didn't have Logan's striking looks, only his build, to Peter's dismay. Part of him wanted it to be Logan.

A dead Logan is a good Logan, he thought.

But then again, he'd be disappointed if he wasn't the one who stuck a knife in him or something else below his waist. He had imagined the former many times over the years, and he would have done it if Bren was not in the picture. Bren would hate him, he was sure, and so he had settled in sulking at the corner instead, shooting daggers at Logan. As for the latter, well, he was not a robot and being surrounded by scantily-clad men under a heatwave still pumped his blood to a healthy degree.

Peter reached Fake Logan, who hadn't noticed him until he gently kicked his foot and knelt in front of him. Fake Logan's eyes widened, rasped something unintelligible, and then he quickly reached for his gun. Peter didn't have time to dodge, and Fake Logan fired his weapon an inch away from Peter's nose.

The gun clicked.

And clicked.

"Wow. That was close there. You almost got me. Good job with the draw."

Fake Logan pulled the trigger again. It clicked.

"Um, you don't have a bullet there, bud," Peter said as sincerely as possible.

Fake Logan's eyes brimmed with tears. He was starting to get scared, Peter realized, which only excited him, the thrill blooming inside. "Ah. You know what's gonna happen, right?"

Fake Logan dropped his weapon, raising his free hand, the one that wasn't clutching his throat, out in submission. "Please..." he croaked.

Peter hid a smile. He had learned long ago that he liked it when people begged, to completely yield themselves at someone's mercy that they would do anything, everything, to please.

Those people were like dogs, and Peter loved and adored them. This was no different, their zealous lapping at his feet, expecting to do his whims without question. He liked that, had paraded that uninhibited power back in Portland before everything came to a crashing end. Logan and his friends were behind those cut strings, who watched him fall with eager delight. He was worthy of such power, he believed. A king was not a good king if no man challenged him, and Peter was a king.

But real kings aren't cowards, Peter thought. Cowards with a crown will never be a true leader.

That only made him angrier, a lingering shame crept at the back of his mind, how he spurned people who had looked at him kindly, and his mind immediately thought of Bren. Charming, innocent Bren, who would never hurt a fly, who never would spurn anybody, who always talked sweet things that made his skin prickled nicely, and Bren still liked him even when everyone mocked him, even when Peter was a coward. He could tell that he disappointed Bren back then, what he called the dark days, one he couldn't remember much except for the pain and the anger.

Bren wouldn't hurt a fly, a doll sitting at the best place on the shelf, displayed for all to see, and Peter as the proud man by his side. He never liked it when Bren was fighting, or when he was stubborn, or when he flirted with other men, or when he didn't do what he said. He never liked it one bit when he insisted on marching across Albany's burning streets just to save his friends and his boyfriend. Bren should stay safe inside a beautiful house, guarded by real, patriotic, American men like Peter, who would do the fighting. Luke couldn't protect him. Peter did, and he had been doing that all these weeks, and far better!

Oh, how he wished Bren had waited for him to kill Luke. He would have done it, and kindly, of course, Peter didn't think he was heartless. By killing Luke, he would be protecting Bren from so much unnecessary pain. Now, he carried that burden of killing a man he loved, and he hated watching Bren amble on, mumbling to himself, and sometimes, when he was asleep, calling for Luke. Peter didn't want to compete with a dead man, and it had been weeks! He was itching to ask Bren to lean on him, to remind him that the first man he loved was still here.

But weeks...

He knew the answer right away. Peter had abandoned Bren for the wolves to feast on—big, bad wolves like Logan fucking Hardy. It's their fault Bren didn't like him anymore. It's their fault they hurt Bren for many years and kept Peter away from him. It's their fault that they ruined him so he could never be with Bren and could never live in Portland to see him. They made him a coward.

All Logan and his ilk wanted to do were to take and take, and it was never enough. Logan probably wanted Bren for himself, and that only made Peter's blood curdle even more. It didn't help that Fake Logan was sobbing pathetically in front of him, catching the change in his mood.

"You looked like a friend of mine," Peter said. The other man didn't answer. Peter closed his eyes briefly, and once he opened them, he imagined the man in front of him was Logan. "Ah. Yes. There you are."

"Please...what do you want..."

"Everything, like killing my friend, for example. But he's off-limits, you see, and I don't know what Bren sees in him..."

Fake Logan didn't move. Peter doubted he knew the right words to say anyway. Bren did. He always had that magic in him, words that made Peter wanted to take him upstairs, to the bed, and do all sorts of things to him. But Peter was a gentleman, you see, and had kept himself as 'gentleman-y' as possible for Bren's sake, and tolerated a creature like Logan.