Grant looked at Lucy and held out his hand.
“I’ll hold it steady. Promise,” he said and grabbed on to the ladder with both hands.
Lucy stared at the sky through the ceiling. She looked at Grant and patted his arm. “No, you go first,” she said.
Grant dropped his hands to his sides. “It’s okay. I don’t mind. Just go. Clayton can help you up if you’re worried. I don’t mind climbing up without someone holding the ladder. I’m a pole-vaulter,” he paused. “Was a pole-vaulter? Look, I’m good at balancing, so I’ll go last, and I don’t mind. Let me hold it for you.” He reached up and grabbed the side, giving it a little jiggle to show that it was sturdy.
She narrowed her eyes. “I’m not worried about falling. I’m not arguing chivalry. I’m just...” Lucy looked at him and her shoulders slumped. “I’m not going.”
He let his hands slide from the sides of ladder. “Not going?”
“My family knows where I am. Ethan said he’d come back for me…what if…we miss each other. What if he comes back and I’m not here? Plus, Salem.” She motioned upward, “She was scared out there and she was trying to get inside. Maybe it really is safer in here.”
“But...Spencer…?”
“He’s one guy. And this is a big school.”
Grant looked upward; Clayton popped his head back down. “Hey, are you two coming? You should see it up from the roof. The whole world is just eerie. And it’s quiet,” Clayton said to them in a hushed voice. “The world is really quiet.” He disappeared again, his long hair sliding up and out of sight.
Then they heard it.
A distinct knock against the door. Softly at first, tentative, and then more aggressive. Building, building, and escalating in intensity and loudness.
“Oh great. Just what we need,” Grant mumbled and motioned to the ladder. “Okay, no more arguments. Just get up there now.”
Lucy looked from the ladder to the door.
The knocking was growing and it sounded like flat fists against the metal door.
Grant looked torn.
“I’m not leaving you here,” he said. “It’s not chivalry...it’s like basic human kindness. But can you please climb this ladder. Right now.” He reached out to touch Lucy’s arm, but she pulled away, slid down off the table, and took tiny steps toward the door.
“Wait. If it were Spencer, he’d just open it. He has a key.”
“Lucy—” Grant banged his head against the ladder. He sounded panicked now. “It may be...there’s a possibility that it could be…”
Lucy spun and looked at him. “Please tell me you were not going to say zombies.”
“It is a very real threat and I wish you would stop thinking that it couldn’t happen,” Grant said in a long rush. He hopped down off the table and followed after her.
“Zombies knock?” She couldn’t help but smirk.
“Nothing good is on the other side of that door, I promise you,” he said and he took her hand and tried to pull her backward.
“Stop!” Lucy hushed him.
A voice was calling through the door—its tone hurried and hushed. “Dios mio. Abre la puerta. Lucy? Lucy? I am going to punch you if you don’t let me in right now.”
Salem.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Salem tripped into the room as Lucy yanked the door open wide. Her eyes traveled from Grant and Lucy to the ladder standing on the table. She took a tentative step forward and raised a finger. “Oh,” she said. “You wanted me to come down that way?” Then she smiled. “Thanks, but I found a door.”
“A door?” Lucy asked as she wrapped her arms around Salem and gave her a giant hug; she could hear Salem’s vertebrae crack as she squeezed.
“Easy, easy. Yes. There are all these large metal chutes up on the roof, they are large enough for a person, and for a while I thought maybe you wanted me to slide down those? But then I found this door and when I opened it there was a staircase bolted on to a wall. Dropped me into the boiler room.”
“No one saw you? No one followed you?” Grant asked.
Salem looked at him, her mouth closed, assessing his presence and then realizing there was an absence of anyone else in the room. “Grant Trotter,” she stated matter-of-factly.
“Hey Salem,” he said back and then: “And no one saw you?”
“Jeez, the inquisition. No one saw me.” She collapsed on to the couch and rubbed her eyes with her heels of her palms. “You have no idea how happy I am. I am really glad to see you two,” she said, with her eyes still covered.
And then her chin began to quiver.
Lucy sat down next to her friend and watched as Salem let loose and her shoulders shook with rolling sobs. Salem hardly ever cried. She got angry and scared and she yelled and kicked inanimate objects, but she rarely turned her sadness, fear, or nervousness into tears. It was Lucy who was the crier—misting up when teachers corrected her in stern tones, spilling tears over poor exam scores or if her parents wouldn’t let her go to the movies. But these twenty-four hours had turned Salem into a blubbering mess. No one could blame her.
Salem turned. “I walked to school, you know? Walked here. I tried to drive, but after I got off my street, it was a total traffic jam. People were getting out and just abandoning their cars. Sirens everywhere and yet the ambulances couldn’t get through.” She let out a small gasping hiccup and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. In a swift motion, Salem clutched at her crucifix necklace and held the small golden Jesus tightly in her hand. The necklace was a prized possession given to her by her father at her quinceañera. Her mother had wanted to give her a locket, but Salem helped pick this necklace out herself. The icon was a rich gold, the cross, encrusted with tiny diamonds.
Ethan once mocked the necklace one day while Salem lounged on their couch after school. “You’re wearing a dead guy around your neck,” he said. “And that doesn’t make you creepy?” But Salem’s response was quick and ruthless; catlike she pounced, slapping Ethan across the face with an open-palm. Not hard enough to hurt, but he recoiled and rubbed his cheek.
“Que dios tenga pieda de tu alma,” she spouted as he nursed his wound. “I can forgive a lot. But never blasphemy.”
“My God is better than your God,” he replied, standing up and running behind their couch. Reckless teasing always turned into a game for him. But Salem wasn’t laughing.
“The Kings have no God,” she muttered. Then sulked back to the couch; staring blankly ahead, waiting for Lucy to intervene, but Lucy never knew what to say. Salem’s faith was a novelty in their household and they tolerated it like she was an exotic pet, allowing her bizarre rituals out of curiosity.
Out of the hole in the ceiling, Clayton lowered his head, his hair tumbling downward and obstructing his face. Salem screamed when she saw him and scrambled off the couch toward the door, continuing to let out worried cries until she saw Grant and Lucy’s confused stares.
She put a hand over her chest and inhaled. “It has not been a good morning for surprises,” Salem said between gasps. “Next time. Warn me. If you know there is a guy in the ceiling.”
“Thought I’d check again. Y’all coming?” Clayton called. “I didn’t know if I should wait or not?”
Grant made a move toward the ladder. “Yeah, wait up,” then he turned back to the girls. “Coming now?” he asked, looking first to Lucy, then to Salem.
Lucy stared at the ladder and she stood up as if she was ready to go. She paused, looking back and deferring to Salem.
Salem let out a low whistle. “I’m not going back outside there. Took enough effort to get inside today, I don’t think I’m up for a repeat attempt.”
“Lucy?” Grant asked expectantly.
Lucy shook her head. “I’m with Salem. I stay with her.”