Under a Silent Moon

45

Chapter Forty-Five: Angel of Death

LANA

His silhouette is a stark contrast against the blinding light that shines through curtainless windows. His head is tilted to the side, empty eyes staring blankly at the bodies scattered about room 201. As if transitioning from Kansas to Oz, the vibrant colors of the room shift into focus, and to my dismay, it's more of a ruby red river than a yellow brick road.

The words take their time to arrive, to my mouth and to my brain. He either hasn't sensed my presence yet or can't face me. His feet are cement on the once-blue tiles, resembling an angel of death, heaving from the slaughter.

The door creaking shut behind me disturbs his trance and he swivels to meet my horrified expression.

"You need to leave." I've never heard his tone so deep and menacing. The predatory way in which he eyes me now should be reason enough for my departure, but my body doesn't move an inch.

"What have you done?" I can't disguise the fear; my words come out in a whimper.

He approaches me slowly but with caution as he makes his request again. "You need to leave."

I force myself to swallow, clear my throat, although there isn't any moisture left in my mouth. "Leave?"

"They'll think you're an accomplice," he says, and I don't follow his thinking at first. "You have to go before anyone else finds us." His eyes shift to the analog clock above the door. The motivational poster at its right reads Be The Change You Wish to See in the World.

"And you're going to . . . stay here? And wait?" Amongst the carnage?

The muscles, tense beneath his polo, relax fractionally. "What else am I supposed to do, Lana?" he asks, but it isn't a question. It's filled with exasperation and desperation and any other -ation you can imagine.

My mind races and I blurt out whatever comes first. "There aren't any cameras in the classroom. They don't know it was you."

I take a step further into room 201, maneuvering around Justin Wineblot and his faded black Converses. My hand finds my face without me telling it to. I don't even attempt to contain the tears. They flow ceaselessly down my cheeks and meet in unison at the base of my neck.

He laughs humorlessly at my statement. "Me, the sole survivor. Yeah, the police will certainly believe that."

"Well you can run, then." It's nearly a shout. "Disappear again."

"No, Lana. I'm done running from my problems." He feverishly makes his way to me now, sparing only a handful of inches between us. "I did this. I lost control." His hands, coated crimson, race through his disheveled hair. His once-apathetic eyes are wild now, full of fear and regret and horror. And yet, there's something else there too. Relief? "I killed my classmates. Kids who were just trying to learn about biology. I murdered them in cold blood. How am I supposed to live with myself?"

My head is shaking violently and I can barely see through the tears that won't stop flowing. "You didn't choose this life, Zack. It isn't your fault." I say this, and yet I can't look in any other direction than right at his face for fear that I will recognize more corpses that surround us.

"But I did choose this. We are in control of our own lives, of our own decisions. I may not have chosen to become undead, but I did choose to become a monster. I shouldn't be given the privilege of leading a normal life when in fact I'm the complete opposite of normal. I'm a serial killer. A fucking murderer who rips his friend's throats out before they can even scream." He takes a staggering breath before continuing. "And I'm going to do the same to you if you don't get out of here."

Even from where he stands, hunched, I can see his pupils dilating. I know I only have a moment before he reaches me. Although I trust the Zack that I've come to know, I do not trust the one standing before me, the one driven by a murderous hunger.

I open my mouth to object, but Zack's frenzied eyes are my silent warning to leave. Before I do, I take in one last mental image of Zack and try to recall not what he looks like now but what he did when we sat cross-legged on the rock in the river. When we reminisced about our pasts and fantasized about our futures. Zack told me he was angry at his father--pissed that he never let him truly choose what he wanted to do or what he wanted to be. He had to live with immense expectations looming over him at all times. Now, amongst this tragic scene, a positive thought creeps into my thinking--at least Zack is making a choice that he alone has a say in.

I want to help him. I want to help him like he helped me. I've never wanted anything more in my life, I think. But this situation is too far gone. It's too late for my friend, my best friend, my lover. I yearn to reach out and hold him one last time, but I have to let it go. I have to let him go.

I push through the door and fly past the rows of royal blue lockers that line the halls of Grasshill High, second floor. As I reach the end of the corridor, I pause before I push through the double doors that lead out to the stairway. For a fleeting moment, I want to look back. I want to turn around to see Zack following in pursuit, saying "Wait, I'm coming with you!" and together we would leave this town for good. We would find our adventure somewhere new.

But I know that isn't what I would see. If I turn around, all I would bear witness to is a long, desolate hall that exudes nothing but quiet and calm. Juxtaposed against the bloody wreckage that lies behind the door of room 201. I try to clear my mind of the image of Zack standing amongst our slaughtered classmates with that look of rage and hopelessness. I try not to imagine how he's going to "solve" this situation.

Slamming through the doors, I descend the stairs to the first floor. For once, I'm thankful for our outdated school and its lack of security. If cameras had been installed in these corridors, I wouldn't have a chance of getting away. I'd look like a perpetrator fleeing the crime scene.

I want more than anything to leave the building, to hide away in the woods where there are no sounds or people or blood or death. But every door aside from the front entryway is locked during the school day, and the administration would surely see me waltz past their offices. So I stow away in an empty bathroom near the gymnasium and sit. And wait. And mourn. And splash water on my face. And dent the stall with incesssant kicking. And I bite the collar of my shirt to keep from screaming.

I do this until I can't take it anymore. I race out of the building faster than an Olympic athlete thirsty for gold. I need to put as much distance between me and the school as I possibly can.

Then the fire alarm goes off.