DEAD HORIZON — CHAPTER 24: LOCKDOWN
Maggie POV
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
The sound never stopped.
Red lights spun. The mechanical voice was hoarse now, like it had been screaming too long. “SECURITY LOCKDOWN INITIATED. ALL EXITS SEALED. ALL EXITS SEALED. ALL EXITS—”
It skipped. Started over.
The Great Hall felt smaller than before. Two hundred people breathing the same air. The T-Rex skeleton watched with empty eyes. No windows. No way out.
Mr. Carson stood in the middle with his clipboard. He’d been there twenty minutes. He hadn’t moved. “Everyone stays seated,” he said. His voice was teacher loud. But thinner. “We wait for instruction. LAPD. National Guard. Someone.”
Ms. Lee was next to him. She wasn’t nodding anymore. She was staring at the doors.
Kevin was pressed against Maggie’s side. He wasn’t crying. He wasn’t talking. He was watching the red lights spin. His fingers dug into her sleeve.
“They said biological incident,” Braid Girl whispered. “What does that mean?”
Glasses Boy opened his mouth. Closed it. His hands were shaking.
“I don’t know,” Maggie said.
Because she didn’t. And guessing felt like lying.
A man in a suit stood up. “This is ridiculous. I have rights. You can’t keep us in here.”
“Sit down,” a khaki vest said. Security. Buzz cut. Sweating.
“Or what?” The suit guy laughed. It was ugly. “You gonna shoot me?”
Nobody answered.
A girl three rows over was on her phone. “Mom? Mom, can you hear me? Mom—” Her voice went up. “Mom?!” She stood. “It cut out! It was working! It just—”
“Mine too,” someone else said. “Two bars. Then nothing.”
“Mine’s got full bars,” a senior said. “See?” He held it up. “But it won’t load anything.”
“Turn it off and on,” someone said.
“I did!”
No pattern.
Maggie looked at her phone. 38%.
Maggie [3:47 PM]: Arthur
Sending…
FAILED TO SEND
She stared at it. Her throat closed. She tried again.
FAILED TO SEND
She shoved it in her pocket. Her hands were shaking. She didn’t want Kevin to see.
A sound.
Not the alarm. Not the crowd.
Above.
Maggie looked up.
The ceiling was high. Grid tiles. Vents. Big square ones, old metal. The kind that rattle when the AC kicks on.
Tick.
She frowned. The AC wasn’t on. Power was out. Emergency lights only.
Tick… tick…
Like metal cooling. Or warming. Or moving.
“Do you hear that?” she said.
Braid Girl looked up. “Hear what?”
“The vent,” Maggie said.
Glasses Boy adjusted his tape. “Ventilation systems maintain pressure differentials even during lockdown. Air displacement from sealed doors can cause—”
“Stop,” Braid Girl said.
Tick.
A puff of dust fell from the vent directly above them. Small. Gray. It landed on Kevin’s hair.
He didn’t notice.
Maggie brushed it off. Her fingers came away cold.
The air smelled wrong. Not the two hundred people smell. Something else. Under it. Damp. Like wet concrete. Like a basement.
Shhhhhk.
Not air.
Something dragged. Inside the duct.
Maggie stood up. Slow.
“Maggie?” Kevin said.
“Shh.”
She stared at the vent.
The grille was square. Screws at the corners. Old. Rusted.
It moved.
Not much. A sixteenth of an inch. Out. Then back.
Like something pressed against it. From inside.
Maggie’s heart was too loud.
“Mr. Carson,” she said.
He didn’t hear. He was talking to the khaki vest. Both of them looking at the doors.
“Mr. Carson,” she said, louder.
He looked. Annoyed. “What?”
“The vent,” she said. Pointed.
He looked up. Frowned. “Probably pressure. Doors sealed. Air has to—”
SHHHHK. TICK.
The grille bulged.
Not a sixteenth. Half an inch.
Dust fell. More this time.
Something was behind it.
Not air.
The shape was wrong. Too long. Too thin. The shadows didn’t make sense.
And it was wet.
Maggie could hear it. A sound like breathing. But not. Like lungs full of water. Like someone trying to breathe through a soaked rag.
Hhhh… hhhh… hhhh…
“Do you see that?” Braid Girl whispered.
Kevin saw it. He made a sound. Small. Broken.
“Hey,” Mr. Carson said. He stepped forward. Voice wrong. Too high. “Hey, it’s probably… it’s probably a raccoon. Or, or system debris. From the—”
The grille screw popped.
Ping.
It hit the floor.
Everyone heard it.
The room went quiet. Two hundred people. Quiet.
The vent sagged. One corner hanging.
Something moved inside.
Not a raccoon.
Fingers.
Too long. The skin was gray. Black under the nails. The joints bent wrong. Backward.
They gripped the edge of the vent.
And pulled.
The metal screamed.
The whole panel dropped.
It didn’t fall straight.
Something came with it.
It hit the floor in front of the T-Rex skeleton.
It wasn’t a man.
It was. But it wasn’t.
The limbs were too long. The spine was curved. The head hung too low. The skin was wet. Peeling. The eyes were open. White. No color.
It lay there.
For one second.
Then it moved.
Not like a person getting up.
Like a spider. Limbs all at once. Wrong angles.
A woman screamed.
Then everyone screamed.
The crowd surged. Away from it. Toward the walls. Toward the doors. Toward anywhere.
“CALM DOWN!” Mr. Carson yelled. “EVERYONE SIT—”
The thing on the floor opened its mouth.
The jaw unhinged. Too wide.
It made a sound.
Not a growl. Not a hiss.
A wet, rattling inhale.
HHHHHHHKKK.
Maggie grabbed Kevin. Grabbed Braid Girl. “Move!”
She didn’t think. She ran. Not to the doors. To the side. To the wall. Away from the vent. Away from the thing.
Glasses Boy followed. Face white.
The thing moved. Fast. Not running. Scuttling. Low. Toward the crowd.
A man tripped. The thing was on him.
There was no bite.
There was tearing.
The screams got worse.
Ms. Lee was crying. “Do something! Someone do something!”
The khaki vest pulled a taser. Fired.
The prongs hit. The thing twitched. Then kept moving.
“Vent,” Maggie said. She was breathing too fast. “There’s more.”
Because there was.
Above them.
Tick. Tick.
All over the ceiling.
Three vents. Four. Six.
Dust falling.
Grilles bulging.
Hhhh… hhhh… hhhh…
From everywhere.
Not one.
Not random.
Moving.
Coordinated.
Mr. Carson looked up. His clipboard fell. He didn’t notice.
Maggie looked at Kevin. At Braid Girl. At Glasses Boy.
Her hands were steady now.
She wasn’t seventeen.
She wasn’t scared.
She was alive.
And they were in the walls.
