DEAD IN BED By Bailey Simms: The Complete Second Book

PART 8, SECTION 8

Just before leaping to my feet and making a mad dash down the snowy hillside, I looked at the ranger once more. I wanted to see if he'd drawn his gun yet.

He hadn't. His hands were still at his face.

But he wasn't looking through binoculars, as I'd assumed a moment earlier. He lowered his hands.

He puffed on a newly-lit cigarette.

He hadn't even seen me! He'd only been lighting a freaking cigarette. He must have been on break.

I exhaled as quietly as possible and tried to quell my racing heart. I had to be less jumpy. If I'd run, he would have seen me for sure, and probably shot me.

The ranger took a deep drag and checked his watch. Then he turned around. He walked away.

I didn't waste any time.

I jumped to the next section over and tore aside the weeds. This time when I pulled at the fencing the whole chain link segment swung free like a curtain. It was even looser than I'd remembered.

I ducked and dashed through. I ran up the hillside gracelessly, slipping in the muddy snow, and I took cover in the nearest place I could find, which happened to be behind a dumpster opposite the girls' shower.

I tried to catch my breath. I'd made it in.

My stomach twisted itself into another tight hunger pang. I had to get some food soon.

The locker room door, not far from where I'd crouched, was secured with a newly-installed bolt and a massive lock. A large sign was posted directly above. I read it, panting.

Home Guard Ordinance 31.2D

All individuals confined on this premises are duly convicted of harboring and/or fornication with TGV-positive corpi, thereby deemed UNSANITARY, and shall remain confined herein until designated sentence has been carried out.

Right away I wondered if Ed might be one of the "individuals" held inside.

The last time I was here, Ian and I had secretly removed a body through this very doorway. I remembered thinking, naively, that lifting the mutilated corpse from the broken glass would be the worst moment of my life. Then, after recalling the broken glass, I remembered the window.

I looked up and down the hallway to make sure no one was coming, jumped up onto the dumpster, and scrambled to pull myself onto the awning.

The snow had compacted to ice on the tin roofing, and I steadied myself. Falling to my death probably wouldn't be the best move at this juncture. The awning ran the length of a long bank of skylight windows spanning the girls' locker room. A thick sheet of plywood had been bolted in to replace the broken pane. I used it to conceal myself as I tried to peer into the next window over. The glass was filthy, though, and I couldn't see a thing. I lowered my surgical mask, exhaled until my breath condensed on the pane, and used my sleeve to wipe a small area clean.

I could see now that the locker room was packed full with people. Maybe twenty or thirty of them. Some were sitting on benches, others were lying on the shower floor. They all looked completely defeated. One woman was sobbing quietly against a bathroom stall.

I scanned the crowd. Right away I saw Ed. He was sitting on a changing bench with his head in his hands, but I was sure it was him.

And, then, I saw my mom and dad.

My dad was holding my mom in his arms, resting his chin on her shoulder.

My heart broke.

I frantically scanned the rest of the crowd, looking for anyone else in my family.

There was Lindsay, Bryce Tripp's wife, holding her son in her lap. And I recognized a few other people from town, too. But mostly I saw only strangers.

It seemed that my parents were the only ones from my family there. I wasn't sure what it meant that they'd been separated from Ian and Danielle and the kids. But apparently Ian's family hadn't been imprisoned too, so that, at least, was a relief.

A face—inches from my own—suddenly appeared on the other side of the glass.

I leapt back, startled, then slipped on the ice and fell on my ass.

It was a face that was so familiar that for a moment all I could think about was the awful, acidic feeling that it sent through my gut. . .

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