He woke up, feeling the drool on his cheek, his face planted on the desk to his right. His senses flared up immediately, the feeling of intense lethargy completely vanished, the smell of chalk and polished wood filling his nostrils, his heart beating steadily, quietly, a hard contrast to the drumming beat before.

  His paranoia completely vanished, almost as if fully aware of his safety, the feeling of quiet serenity nearly identical to the feeling he would have inside the confines of his room at home. He could breathe and just sit and think. His hand grasped towards his nose, then to his eyes to wipe the sleep from them. It was when one smell—the smell of iron—when he took a proper look at his hand.

  Dried blood all over, on his other hand as well, yet he couldn’t find it in him to panic, even with the reminder of what happened. Ezra simply used the back of his hand to wipe at his eyes and cheeks. He stood up, wincing slightly at the sound of the creaking chair, his bodily needs suddenly flaring up.

  How long has it been since he had eaten anything? Or had some water? Ezra scanned the classroom, surprised to see bags littering the floor in sporadic patterns, something he clearly overlooked when he came stumbling in, seeking refuge. The bags were promptly collected; the tables bearing little compartments underneath for students to store anything they had, anything but the intended books, were quickly scoured.

  2x full soda cans, bearing no recognisable brand, like someone took a grinder to it.

  2x water bottles, their labels removed, and a handful of chocolate bars in greyish-white plastic packaging.

  The pattern became evident. The floors, the rooms, and now, even necessities. All uniform, all to imitate, to simulate. Any form of individuality ripped away. At first, there was hesitation to even try to consume any of the things he found, even after he had already bitten into the chocolate. Tasteless but filling—that’s all it needed to be.

  Slinging one bag over his shoulder, knowing he couldn’t just spend all his time sitting here, Ezra, so far able to just wing his decisions, had to contemplate just what he was going to do. Surviving? As if that wasn’t just the natural state you had to deal with around here. Ezra stepped towards the door leading to the halls, leaning his head out to check for anyone aiming to surprise him. It was quiet, almost serene, even out there. He took deliberate steps, hoping against reason that it would stay like this.

  A bloodied imprint of his hand on one locker fell into his view, making him wonder why he even bled. He remembered becoming sickly but not being hurt in any other way. He crept onward. The further he went, the more his instincts came back with it, his body recognizing that he was leaving his safe haven. Stumbling through the halls, walking downstairs, the halls never quiet changed no matter how far he went. That was, until he had seemed to walk far enough, far enough for that creeping feeling to have returned, telling him that he was going towards danger.

  Almost immediately, with that feeling, only a step later, he heard a scream. Without even thinking, he ran straight towards the source, the bag he carried shaking wildly beside him. The screaming went on. In some macabre way, calming Ezra. It meant that the person he intended to help was still alive.

  The halls, after having climbed yet another stair, finally adopted a new look, with fewer lockers lining the walls, opening up more space. All this led to the familiar doors of one of the biggest sections of the school, as far as Ezra could remember. The cafeteria. The blue, wide frame, holding two sturdy doors, almost like gates to a castle, sounds of duress behind them. Ezra wanted to be quiet; he needed to be. He stalked towards the doors and peeked into the cafeteria.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Pandamonium was describing it lightly.

  Fire everywhere, multiple gallon jugs littering the tables and ground; their contents spilled, fueling the flames even more. A pungent smell of burnt flesh and oil forced a retching reaction out of Ezra, who then looked in amazement, to the middle of the cafeteria. Creatures clad in flames, writhing in pain, their forms charred, some of them convulsing on the floor, all still desperately crawling towards the one thing that was contending with them, on who was making the most noise around here.

  “YEAH, HOW DO YOU LIKE THAT YOU FUCKING FREAKS?”

  A student, protected by an impromptu barricade consisting of many tables and chairs, the fire around acting as another layer of protection. In his hand, a taped-together spear, poking at whatever dared to extend its charred appendages towards him, not quite having the intended effect of stopping any advances but prolonging them. Ezra was still hidden in the chaos, scanning for anything he could use to help. Running into the fray would get him killed, either by fire or claw, but he had to manage to get the attention off of the other student and then get out alive. The kitchen area to his right looked like a prime spot to find anything of use, and with the chaos around, it didn’t prove hard for Ezra to make a stealthy lap towards it, though the climb over the counter was more than a little awkward.

  It was apparent the kitchen had already been plucked. Not cleanly, as utensils and many packaged foods littered the ground. A weapon, that’s what he needed, and his choice, after searching for quite a while, fell on something that would do the perfect job: a meat cleaver. As he picked it from the ground, his eyes wandered towards half-opened cabinets, inside heavy bags, potentially carrying gold inside of them for Ezra's current goal.

  Flour.

  With the fires around, deduced to be grease-fires, Ezra planned to aid the other student by amplifying the arson. The bags were quickly grabbed out of cabinets and cut to cause the fire to reach the inside of the bag faster.

  Ezra stepped outside the kitchen area, two bags strapped together with some kitchen twine he had found, both slung over his shoulder, him for a split second imagining himself akin to a Krampus-like figure, because he too was baring ‘gifts’ that were nothing but fuel for the fire. Ezra used the entire capacity of his lungs to shout at the student, with eye contact between the two shortly following.

  He held the bound bags up high; presenting is panacea for the predicament they had found themselves in. “FLOUR,” Ezra growled through the cafeteria. “FUCKING DUCK” following after. The creatures, too caught up in trying to reach the student in his ever-dwindling fortress, didn’t seem to care for the 20 pounds of baking ingredient hurling through the air towards them, and when the student they were so desperately clawing at suddenly turned himself into the equivalent of a ball, desperately clinging to the side of a tipped over table, it was already too late.

  Ezra, luckily finding refuge behind another of the tipped tables, watched as the room went from well lit to blinding in a few seconds, the sound of furniture scratching, pushed by the sheer force of the explosion that made his ears ring. He felt the intense feeling of having been burned on his arm but pressed through the pain to peek towards the student.

  Neither of them had gotten out unscathed. The student, sporting shaggy brown hair and glasses, came hurling towards the door Ezra came through, the creatures around writhing on the ground, but the way was relatively clear.

  Ezra sprung to his feet, doing much the same, almost crashing through the door, and waiting for the other student to make it through. The student ran right past Ezra, shouting, “DON’T FUCKING STOP RUNNING THEY’RE PISSED NOW.” Ezra took a look inside, seeing at least 5 of the beasts, covered in flame, standing up, the distant sound cracking bones and searing flesh, their forms indescribable among the flames. But they were moving, every single one of them.

  And the screeching was indicator enough for how pissed they were.