DEAD HORIZON — CHAPTER 25

Maggie POV

The screaming stopped.

Not because people calmed down. Because they ran out of air.

The Great Hall was breathing. Two hundred people, panting, coughing, whispering. The T-Rex skeleton stood over all of it, teeth bared, like it was laughing.

The thing from the vent was gone.

Maggie didn’t see where. One second it was on the man. Next second—floor was empty. Blood on the tile. No body. No creature.

Mr. Carson had his clipboard. He wasn’t writing. He was holding it like a shield. “Everyone stay back,” he said. “Stay back from the center. Against the walls. Now.”

His voice didn’t shake. His hands did.

Ms. Lee was crying. Quiet. Hiding it behind her hand.

Kevin was pressed into Maggie’s side. He wasn’t crying. He was watching the ceiling.

“It came from outside,” a guy in a senior hoodie said. Loud. “I saw it. The doors. It got in when—”

“No,” a woman said. “It dropped from the ceiling. From the vent. I saw it.”

“You’re both wrong,” said a man. Black jacket. Bleeding from his forehead. “It was already here. Under the benches. It crawled out.”

“It’s in the vents,” someone else said. “There’s more.”

Mr. Carson slammed his clipboard on the floor. “ENOUGH!”

The hall flinched.

“There is one,” he said. “One. We saw it. It’s gone. We do not panic. We do not spread stories. Is that clear?”

No one answered.

Because no one agreed.

Maggie looked at Braid Girl. “What did you see?”

Braid Girl’s eyes were wide. “It was… fast. On the floor. Like a person but—” She stopped. “No. It was on the wall. For a second. Before it dropped. Wasn’t it?”

Glasses Boy adjusted his tape. It was cracked. “Insufficient data,” he said. His voice was flat. Wrong. “Subject exhibited quadrupedal locomotion, atypical joint articulation, and—” He stopped. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I saw.”

Maggie noticed.

Four people. Four versions.

Fast. On the floor.

On the wall.

Person but not.

Crawling.

Were they lying? Panicking?

Or were there different things?

Her stomach dropped.

The khaki vest—security—was by the doors. He had his radio. He pressed it. “Central, this is Hall. We have a confirmed breach. Repeat, confirmed—”

Static.

Then: “—all staff. Do not open exits. Possible contamination indoors. Repeat. Possible—”

The radio cut.

The vest guy looked at Mr. Carson. “They said possible.”

“Say again?” Mr. Carson said.

“Possible contamination indoors,” the vest guy said. “They didn’t say confirmed. They didn’t say clear.”

Ms. Lee made a sound. Like a sob she swallowed.

“Contamination?” a mom said. She was holding a toddler. “What does that mean? Like, air?”

“No,” Glasses Boy said. Fast. “Airborne transmission would have presented differently. Surface contact—”

“Shut up,” Braid Girl said.

Maggie scanned.

Exits: sealed. Metal doors. No windows.

Vents: six. One open. Hanging. Five closed. All of them dark.

Crowd: breaking apart. Families huddling. Seniors against the far wall. Sixth graders in the middle, crying. A group of tourists by the T-Rex, filming.

Filming.

Maggie wanted to scream at them.

Kevin tugged her sleeve. “Maggie?”

“Yeah?”

“I have to pee.”

God.

“Okay,” she said. “Okay. Bathrooms are…” She looked. Hallway. Side corridor. Past the benches.

“I saw it again,” someone yelled.

The hall went still.

“Where?” Mr. Carson said. Sharp.

“Hallway,” the guy said. Pointing. “By the bathrooms. It moved. I swear I saw—”

Everyone looked.

The hallway was dark. Emergency light flickering.

Nothing there.

“You’re seeing things,” someone said.

“I’m not,” the guy said. “It was—”

“What was it?” vest guy said. “Describe it.”

“I… I don’t know. Shadow. Low. Fast.”

Shadow.

Not crawling thing. Not human thing.

Shadow.

Maggie pulled Kevin closer. Braid Girl stepped back. Glasses Boy pushed his glasses up.

Mr. Carson walked to the hallway entrance. He didn’t go in. He stood there. Listening.

Nothing.

“See?” he said. “Nothing. People are scared. You see what you expect to—”

A scream.

Sharp. Short. From the edge of the crowd.

Everyone turned.

A woman was on the floor. By the benches. Alone.

“Help!” someone yelled. “She fell!”

No.

She didn’t fall.

Her leg was bleeding. Three lines. Like claws.

“Did you see it?” a senior yelled. “Did anyone see it?”

“I saw something move!”

“It was him! He pushed her!”

“I didn’t!”

“Then who did?”

No one knew.

The woman was crying. “Something grabbed me. It— it pulled—”

Mr. Carson was there. “Everyone back. Now.”

But they weren’t one crowd anymore.

They were clusters.

Families watching families.

Students watching strangers.

Everyone watching the vents.

Everyone watching the hallway.

Everyone watching everyone.

A guy wiped his mouth. Looked at his hand. No blood. But he checked again.

A girl sneezed. Three people moved away from her.

Ms. Lee said, “Please. Please, everyone. We have to trust each other. We’re safe if we—”

A sound.

Tick.

From the ceiling.

Every head went up.

The vents were dark.

Tick… tick…

Then nothing.

Maggie’s heart was too fast. She couldn’t slow it down.

She looked at Kevin. At Braid Girl. At Glasses Boy.

Staying still was bad.

Moving was bad.

The vents were bad.

The doors were bad.

The people were bad.

Mr. Carson opened his mouth. Closed it. He didn’t have an order.

The radio on the floor crackled. Static. Then a voice. Far away. Broken.

“—multiple contacts inside… repeat… not contained… they’re in the walls…”

The radio died.

The hall was silent.

Then someone whispered. “In the walls.”

Then someone else. “It’s inside the building.”

Then someone else. “It came through the vents.”

Then someone else. “It’s already among us.”

Maggie looked at the crowd.

Two hundred people.

Now two hundred islands.

Every sound was a threat.

Every shadow was a thing.

Every person was a question.

Kevin’s hand was cold in hers.

Maggie realized.

They weren’t waiting for help anymore.

They were waiting to find out who already changed.