We are in the foyer, outside the chapel.
“Hey, you’re alive,” says a voice I recognize.
I push an elbow beneath me. The room swims for a moment, then refocuses. I look to my right and see David. He’s holding Thomas’s hand. Behind him are the twins, looking scared, but not terrified. I think that’s good, that perhaps it means the danger is behind us. Surely the priests have secured the boys who attacked the others. They must have them locked up somewhere.
I sit up the rest of the way, and now Andrew notices me. He does not smile, there is no relief in his expression. He looks like a different man. His face is stretched and bloodless. His eyes wide and haunted. “Peter,” he says, and it’s only then I see a little of the old Andrew return.
He walks over to me and helps me stand. After a moment of dizziness, things stabilize, and I take a look around the foyer. Around me are small pockets of children, most of them talking quietly; some are crying.
Behind me is the chapel. Smoke seeps from the open doorway, but I don’t hear the crackles of flame nor feel the heat of fire.
Andrew grips my elbow, turns me gently so he can speak to both David and me simultaneously. “I want you two to take all the boys here up to the dormitory. Close the doors behind you and find a way to secure them. Push furniture in front of them if you must.”
Secure them? This makes no sense. I try desperately to clear my head, organize my thoughts. “I don’t understand, Andrew,” I say. “What happened?”
Andrew lets out a breath. “I don’t really know, Peter. All I know is a handful of boys came to the chapel this morning armed with . . . well, anything they could get their hands on. One or two boys locked us in, using farm tools, and some others tried to burn the . . .” Andrew’s words trail off, his gaze grows distant. “God, it’s awful. Just awful.”
I turn back toward the chapel doors, notice the remains of a shovel and a hoe, both shattered in half, lying lifeless on the floor.
“I don’t know why they did it,” he continues, “but they killed many of the other children. I don’t know how many yet, I have to bring them all out of the chapel. There are also many wounded.”
“Let us help you,” I say, my body refueled by adrenaline and anger.
“No,” he says. “Get these boys to safety.”
“You keep saying that . . .” I say, still not understanding.
David puts a hand on my shoulder. “They’re still around, Peter. When the doors opened, everyone took off in different directions, but we don’t know who is safe and who is dangerous. I saw a few faces, but it was chaos in there. They could be anywhere.” He lowers his voice. “They could be here.”
I study the other boys in the foyer, looking for murderers. For evil in their eyes.
I see none. I see nothing but frightened children. Some badly cut. Most soot-stained in varying degrees. All of them needing protection. “Okay, fine. But then I’m coming back to help you.”
Andrew does not respond with affirmation or denial, but simply turns away, heading back for the chapel. “Go! Go now!” he says, and disappears through the doors.
“They killed White,” David whispers.
I turn on him, shocked. “What? Who?”
David looks away for a moment, as if not able to meet my eye as he tells me. “It was Simon who did it,” he says. “Simon cut his throat.”
I don’t believe it. I can’t believe it. “No . . .” I say, the despair surging fresh in my blood.
“Afraid so,” he replies, and then he does meet my eye. “He’s one of them.”
*
We make it halfway down the hall before we’re attacked.
They come from the first classroom just as we begin walking by. Four of them, all with weapons. All screaming.
They look insane.
“Run!” David yells, and scoops down to pick up Thomas.
The other kids from the foyer are all ahead of me, most of them already inside the dormitory. I volunteered to take up the rear, so I’m the first one they grab.
I feel the tug on my arm and instinctively turn and kick out randomly, connecting—by blind luck—with the gut of Auguste, who doubles over and drops awkwardly to the floor, cursing loudly in French. Something metal jumps free from his hand, skids to the wall. I don’t bother to look at the object meant for my back, or my skull, and follow the others in a sprint.
Just ahead of me are the twins, Jon and Finn. In front of them are a cluster of five or six kids. David, carrying Thomas, leads our straggling group.
All of us run for our lives.
Two smaller boys, Harry and George, begin to stagger and slow, trying desperately to keep up with the rest, but the boys chasing us are older, faster.
The dormitory doors are wide open. Panicked faces from inside beckon us to hurry. They can’t be more than twenty feet away, but it seems like twenty miles.
“Run!” I yell at Harry as I catch up to him and George. They’re both too big for me to carry, and the murderous screams behind us feel only inches away. I’m terrified. I don’t want to die.
George, who had a birthday only last week, trips. He hits the floor in a heap. I spare a look back and see two of the pursuers fall on him like wolves. Flashes of metal. Pumping arms. His screams are horrible.
I trip next.
I fall hard, hitting the floor with such force it feels I’ve dropped a hundred feet instead of five. My breath shoots out of me. I scramble to my hands and knees when a body crashes down onto my back, flattening me to the floor. Something hard and sharp is stabbed into my shoulder and I scream. I manage to twist partly around, panicked with the need to fight back—to survive—but whoever is on me is heavy, their knees planted on my back, my arm. I wait for a second thrust of the knife, perhaps to my head or neck. A killing stroke.
Then I hear a thump and the body is gone. Hands are pulling at me desperately, trying to get me off the ground, to stand. I look up to see Byron. There’s a spray of fresh blood on his face.
“Get up Peter.” He says it almost calmly, but his eyes are behind me, on those who still pursue us. I scramble to my feet, take a fleeting second to notice the meat hammer in his hand dripping blood, a clump of black hair mashed into its prongs.
Byron, who has now saved my life twice this day, is already running. I don’t hesitate to follow.
David is at the doors. He’s got one closed and stands holding the other, waving his hand at me and the boys in front of me, as I bring up the rear once more. “Hurry! They’re coming!”
The boys running ahead slip through the door. Byron is through.
Just me now.
I lunge through the opening and David slams it behind me, leans his weight against the doors. He turns and yells to me, to anyone. “Bar it!”
I look around frantically, then spot the iron cross on the floor by the wall, the same one which had hung over these doors for so many years. The one which had inexplicably fallen the night of the visitor, the night this all started.
I grab the cross, run back to David and slide it neatly between the arched, twisted iron handles of the two doors. I’m reminded of the broken shovel I saw in the foyer, knowing this cross is not nearly as fragile. It won’t be broken.
Almost immediately, bodies slam into the doors from the other side. Whoever is out there is shrieking like mad; making horrible, guttural, animal sounds. They punch and kick and push at the entry, but the doors hardly move thanks to the tightly wedged cross, barely fitting in the gap of each handle, the short arm hooking neatly over one grip, making it impossible to dislodge.