Twisting and turning, racing along corridors, tears streaming down my face, I pant and stumble, but never fall or falter. Never look back either, afraid of what I might see, zombies or Dad, one as bad as the other.
I can't believe I'm doing this. I was so close to freedom. I should have escaped with the others, dealt with Dad outside, fought my fight when my life wasn't on the line.
But I couldn't. For all these years I've said nothing when he hit Mum, when he hit me, when he demonized anyone who wasn't white. I never stood up to him. I put on an act, tried to pretend it didn't matter. And not just because I was afraid of him. Because I loved him too. He was my dad. I didn't want to admit that he was truly evil, irredeemably warped.
But he turned me into a killer. He made me throw Tyler to the zombies. I can't forgive that. I can't lie to myself, dismiss it as an isolated incident, tell myself that he'll change. Tyler and I weren't close, he wasn't a friend, but he helped us get as far as we did. We might not have found our way out without him. He didn't deserve to be killed because of the color of his skin. Nor the Indian boy, sacrificed by a man who cares for nobody except his own.
I remember something that Mr. Burke said a while back. There are lots of black-hearted, mean-spirited bastards in the world. It's important that we hold them to account. But always remember that you might be the most black-hearted and mean-spirited of the lot, so hold yourself the most accountable of all.
I've played a cringing neutral all my life, and it turned me into something far worse than I ever feared I'd become. But that changes here, today, now. If I get out of this alive, I'll never make a mistake like that again. I can't bring Tyler back - that will haunt me forever, and nothing can ever make up for it - but from this point on I'll do whatever I can to stand up to Dad and anyone like him. I swear on the blood I've shed, on the life I've destroyed.
I come to an intersection and turn right, but there are zombies shambling up the corridor towards me. I backpedal and push on straight. The zombies give chase.
I'm passing a room when a girl staggers out ahead of me. She's bleeding, one arm bitten off at the elbow. A zombie follows, a boy my size, his clothes almost torn to shreds. He decides I'm richer pickings and makes a grab for me.
I duck, but not quickly enough. Finger bones rake my arm and catch on the exposed flesh of my wrist. I yelp and kick at him. He snaps for my leg with his teeth but I pull it back in time. Kick him hard in the head. Race on.
I stare at the scratch as I run, terror mounting. We never found out whether a scratch was enough to turn a human into a zombie. Maybe it's harmless and they can only convert by biting, a transfer of saliva or blood. But I wouldn't bet on it. I think it's all over for me. In another minute or two I'll probably throw up like Pox did, give a shiver and a grunt, and never think clearly again.
I come to a set of stairs and start up the steps, figuring I can get to the windows at the front and jump to safety. I have to believe it's not too late. If I can get out of the school, maybe I can be helped, even if the scratch is infectious. I'm hoping it isn't, but if it is, maybe someone can chop off my arm or inject me with a cure or... or... something. It doesn't matter that I'm clutching at straws. Better I cling to some kind of hope than abandon it entirely.