LOT'S MOUNTAIN

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: !

With Shep and King at his heels, Mr. Unger walks real fast down the hall where the gray tiles (I guess they were white about a million years ago) are peeling up to show bare board underneath. We pass by what looks like a bathroom, but the toilet's not there, only a big hole where the floor musta gave out. Big chunks of wall are missing. After we go past a few more rooms (some of them are just heaps of rubble where the ceiling's buckled), Shep thrusts his nose into the air, and the hair between his shoulders rises up like a fin.

"We need to get out of here," I say. Thank you, Captain Obvious. The knife's still tucked into the jacket pocket that zips, the one on the inside. I don't want to use it unless I have to.

Unger looks at his house one more time, a real long look like he's staring at a hot girl. No, not quite like that. It's more like he's remembering what the place used to look like as he runs his hands along the splintered walls.

"We gotta get out of here," I urge again.

"Yeah. Damn straight," Unger says as he recovers, his voice low and gruff.

I didn't know an old man could move so fast. Shep barrels on ahead, but King stays right next to his master, like he's glued to him.

Unger leads us to a back door, but before he can unlock it, the doorknob turns. Somebody's on the other side, trying to get in. When the door doesn't open for them, they start yanking on it, like they're gonna jerk it off its hinges.

Out of ideas, we race back down the hall and into a small room. There's only one boarded-up window and no doors to the outside. As soon as we lock ourselves in and start barricading the door with a small table and chair, I see fingers working through the gaps in the boards that have been nailed over the outside of the window. Slowly, they pull and tug, prying the wood away.

Behind us, the door shakes even harder. That lock isn't gonna hold for long.

Unger cocks the gun, but he doesn't know whether to aim at the window or the door. And what if they're all kids? He can't keep holding back, but he also won't have enough shells to take out all of them anyway. Not sure what else to do, we—Unger, his dogs, Jamie and me—huddle together in the center of the room.

The white shirts by the window are almost past the boards now. A long splinter of wood bites into one of the white shirts, all the way down to the bone, as he pushes his head into the room.

I can't stop staring at the bleeding face that's grinning at me from the window, but Jamie turns away.

"Dylan." I look over when she calls my name. Like she's in a world of her own, she picks up a small angel figurine that's on the floor. It's been painted so that its skin is about the color of ours and its eyes are bright blue. There's a little chip in its right shoulder, and its finger is frozen to its lips like it's hushing us, telling us to be quiet.

That's when the door explodes and the white shirts flood in. Several of them grab me, trying to pull me away from Jamie and Unger. The big dog lunges at one as the puppy cowers by the old man. Using the butt of the gun, Unger knocks the white shirts away from me. One of them is Mike from lunch. His shirt is splashed with red.

The way Unger's swinging that gun around, I hope he doesn't blow our heads off.

I want to yell something, but the little angel figure in Jamie's hands suddenly wriggles away from her, flopping back to the table. It then turns to me and winks.

Did an angel figurine just hit on me?

All of a sudden, a huge stone angel breaks through the floor to stand next to us.