There, in the middle of the turmoil, is Bernadette. She has eight gunmen facing her from the north end of the hall while she grapples with a ninth.

She can’t possibly understand how I feel about her, that much I do know. And the reason for that is, she lives for so much more than just herself. She has dreams, even if she won’t admit them. Dreams of poetry and travel and discovery. When I lost the ability to dance, I felt like I lost everything that made me human.

Everything but for Bernadette, the childhood flame that roared inside my cold heart like an inferno. There were shadows everywhere, but there was at least one light. That light is her for me, the only source of illumination in a tired soul.

I reach up and grab the pistol that’s taped to the ductwork above my head, using my feet to brace myself as I take the two easiest shots. In the ensuing turmoil, I roll onto my belly and use my arms for leverage to lower myself out of the hole.

This is almost fun. Or it would be, if Bernie wasn’t in danger.

An unwanted laugh slips from my throat as I drop down into a crouch and lift the pistol at the same time, taking aim and firing at the back of one man’s head before I even stand up fully.

As I rise from my crouch, I take aim at another.

Bernie is quick though, using the time I’ve just bought her to get outside of the school. She’s either fleeing or going for the guns we’ve left taped to the underside of one of the dumpsters. I’m betting on the latter. Bernadette is not a woman who runs from scary situations. She might have a heart that’s too big and too kind for this world, but she does not run.

She is not a coward.

The remaining men take their shots at me, but I duck into one of the alcoves and then hit my fist against the door behind me in a very distinct rhythm. One of our crew opens it up, letting me in and then relocking it just as fast.

There’s a window in here that already has the iron bars on the outside of it bent apart far enough to accommodate a person of my height and weight. I know there is because Havoc is the one who made it that way.

I shoot the window out as most of the Prescott students in the room scream. But that’s okay, I’m used to people screaming. They don’t factor at all into my movements as I hop outside and start running toward the front of the school, rounding the corner just in time to see Bernadette on the ground in front of James Barrasso.

One of the cars across the street explodes in a violent plume of orange and red, drawing the man’s attention. Seconds later, another vehicle explodes. And then another.

Yep, definitely Hael’s handiwork.

Bernadette is up and on her feet in a second, sprinting around the corner of the school toward the delivery door that leads to the cafeteria, the very spot where we’ve stashed some of our weapons. I follow after her, pausing to unload the magazine into the backs of the men chasing after James.

Several of them turn and take cover, forcing me to stop and do the same.

Gunfire fills the air in a violent and seemingly endless wave, but I stay where I am, crouched down behind a massive piece of tree trunk, some old growth monster that was put here when the school was built to be used as a sign. It once said Prescott High, Home of the Loggers on a decorative plaque affixed to the front. Now it says Home of the Floggers which is almost as accurate.

I don’t move, reserving the remaining rounds in the gun for shots I think I can actually make.

Once they realize I’m not returning fire, my attackers stop and conserve their own ammo. Crouching low, I stand up and dart back around the side of the school in the opposite direction from Bernadette. It’s the only way I’m going to get back into the building itself with so many members of the GMP lurking around.

Using the hood of an employee’s car, I climb back up to the same broken window I used before. Only this time, when I start to haul myself up and into the classroom, I feel it.

The sharp sting of a garrote being wrapped around my fucking neck.

Bernadette Blackbird

The guns are exactly where we left them, taped to the underside of the dumpster. I’ve only got enough time to remove one of them before the first man skids around the corner. His gang tattoo—that bright red scrawl on his arm—seems to catch the light as I whirl around and lift the weapon at the same time.

Oddly enough, it’s the Thing’s voice that I hear echoing in my head, a distant flicker of memory of a shooting range, of thirteen-year-old me with a grudge and a chip on her shoulder.

“You see that, Bernadette? I pull the trigger without hesitation—and I always hit my target. Do you understand me, girl? When I shoot, I shoot to kill.”

I fire my weapon before my attacker can do the same, nailing him directly in the forehead. Blood spatters the wall of the alley in red as his body slumps to the dirty ground. I fucked Hael in this spot, I think, a slight smile working its way to my lips. And now I’m defending my school and my city in the same damn place.

Ducking back down, I feel around for the second gun and manage to tear the duct tape off just in time to see James Barrasso and the remaining five men in his party appear. With both weapons in hand, I make my way to the delivery entrance, the one that leads into the cafeteria. Every student here knows that after that Pepsi truck backed up into the metal doors, they’re bent just enough that they can be jimmied open.

I do exactly that, slipping into the darkness of the cafeteria kitchen.

It’s eerily silent in here. Seeing as the GMP caught us mid-morning, there are no students in the cafeteria itself. The cafeteria staff has likely locked themselves into the walk-in. It’s just me and shadows in here now.

“Find the little bitch and put a bullet in her. I’m done playing games,” James snarls as I crawl over to the door that leads from the kitchen to the cafeteria proper. There’s a dark zone in here, on the opposite side of the room near the windows. The camera that faces that direction has been broken for years. A severed cord dangles from the bottom of it, cut by some long-ago student ready for trouble. Trust me: it isn’t wireless, we can’t afford that sort of shit here in the southside.

But it’s a good thing.

For me, that is.

I stand up and shove my way through the door, listening to the shouting behind me, the thundering storm of boots. This is my school though, and I know everything there is to know about it. As soon as I’m out of view of the other cameras—the last thing I need is video evidence of me with a pair of illegal firearms—I crouch behind the giant wooden carving in the corner.

It’s a man, a logger presumably, with an axe in his hand. It’s one of those chainsaw carvings, made out of a solid piece of redwood. It’s covered in graffiti—tits and penises mostly—and band stickers from various local underground concerts. It serves as a hiding place while I get one gun tucked into the waistband of my shorts, and check to make sure the safety on the other is off.

I can hear the men enter the room, their footsteps slowing as they look around the dingy cafeteria with its three wood tables, and its sea of plastic ones, all of them tagged and marked by Havoc.

Every inch of this school is pissed on, claimed, owned.

Wait, Bernadette, I tell myself, wetting my lips with my tongue and tasting blood. Whose blood, and from where, I’m not sure. Probably residual spatter. Remember what Callum told you. Take your time; good things come to those who wait.