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straight at Billy. All three let out an involuntary scream and the little boy skittered around them, hell bent for the open front door. He never stopped but in the brief second of shared scream, Billy noticed two things about him.
    Number 1: The little boy had pissed himself. The unmistakable dark stain on his crotch and upper legs had been there even before he had ran into Billy and Cat.
    Number 2: The little boy had no interest in sticking around and kept looking behind him the whole way out the door.
    “Daddy, let’s go back outside and wait for the cops,” Cat hissed.
    Billy shook his head and was about to explain how they needed to go on ahead, get her brother and then go when they heard more footsteps.
    From down the hallway the little boy with the wet pants had just erupted from came the echoes of what sounded like a softball team coming toward them. Billy grabbed Cat and pushed her up against the lockers and out of the way.
    With the footsteps getting louder and closer, Billy looked at his daughter and instinctively put his finger to his lips in the universal gesture to be quiet. There would be no screams this time.
    The first one around the corner was a tall lanky kid about eight years old with a torn face and blood on his shirt. It looked as if he had caught his lip in a paper shredder and nearly ripped it off. He did not seem to notice Billy and Cat only fifteen feet away, but turned sharply at the open door and ran out of the school, following the same path that the wet pants kids had. Only seconds later a half dozen more young kids, both male and female ran by, determined to follow the leader of the pack like lemmings.
    Each of them had the same type of wounds, some very severe. Billy could make out lacerations, bruises, bloody clothing, matted and torn hair, and even what looked to be a compound fracture with a bone protruding on the arm of the girl bringing up the rear of the pack. They left a trail of dripping blood and sweat smeared on the industrial tile floor. None of the pack looked back at them, but simply continued on their way out the door.
    Cat looked at her dad while making her mouth up to form words to questions that would not come out. Billy shook his head to keep her quiet, grabbed her arm and moved down the hallway the pack of damaged kids had just run from.
    They passed classrooms that were empty of students. Some looked ready for class with the lights on bright and assignments written on white boards. Coffee cups still rested on teacher’s desks, ready for the morning.
    Other rooms were explosions of disarray with desks thrown everywhere, blood on the walls, pee and saliva on the floors and clumps of hair. In one room, there looked to be a trio of small bodies, torn and bloody, in a pile near the back of the classroom by a hamster cage on top of a small bookcase. Billy checked briefly for vital signs but it was clear all three children were dead.
    They navigated through the first hallway, resisting the urge to stop and render further assistance or find out more about what had happened. It was just a month earlier that they had been there at Wyatt’s open house night and both seen his homeroom and met his teacher so it was with this knowledge that Billy pushed on.
    “Isn’t this Wyatt’s class?” Billy asked as they approached the end of the hallway.
    “I think so,” Cat replied.
    He put out his hand, pushing her back behind him as he peeked around the corner. The room was not as bad as some they had seen already. A few chairs were pushed away and one small table was overturned but there was no blood or bodies.
    Thank heavens no blood or bodies.
    “Daddy.”
    He turned from the classroom entryway and looked at Cat. She was in a stare-down with a little girl a few feet down the hallway who looked to be about nine or ten years old. Her brown pigtails were bloody and she had ugly dark purple rings around her throat as if something had been choking her.
    Billy pulled Cat past him and edged