School had only been in session for two hours, and already it felt like one of those days that was going to drag for the wrong reasons.
Tally knew the difference.
She noticed things. She always had. You didn't stay on top by floating through life clueless. You stayed there by reading rooms, reading people, and knowing exactly where you stood at all times.
And this morning? Something was off.
It started with attendance.
Ms. Parker stood at the front of the room, tapping her tablet harder than necessary, lips pressed thin as she scrolled. She paused. Scrolled again. Cleared her throat.
"Alright," she said, forcing brightness. "We're missing a few people today."
A few was generous.
Tally leaned back in her chair, crossing one long leg over the other, pink cheer hoodie knotted just enough at the waist to show it wasn't an accident. She scanned the room with a practiced glance.
Three empty desks in the front row. Two more near the windows. One shoved back awkwardly, like someone had left in a hurry.
Kenzie leaned over, whispering, "Did half the grade just disappear?"
Tally shrugged. "Probably faking sick."
Kenzie snorted. "That many?"
"People are lazy," Tally said flatly. "Especially when finals are coming up."
Kenzie smiled like she was agreeing, but her eyes flicked nervously toward the empty desks.
Tally noticed.
She noticed everything.
Across the room, a boy named Eric—benchwarmer, forgettable—had his head down on his desk. Not sleeping. His shoulders hitched every few seconds like he was trying not to throw up.
Gross.
Ms. Parker cleared her throat again. "If anyone is feeling unwell, please raise your hand."
No one moved.
Because no one wanted to be that kid.
Eric gagged.
Everyone froze.
"Oh my God," Kenzie whispered. "Is he about to—"
Eric bolted.
His chair scraped loudly as he ran for the door, one hand clamped over his mouth, the other catching the wall for balance. He didn't make it far before the sound hit—wet, violent, unmistakable.
Someone screamed.
Ms. Parker rushed to the door, snapping, "Everyone stay seated!"
Tally wrinkled her nose. "That's disgusting."
Kenzie nodded, eyes wide. "I sat behind him yesterday."
"Then you should probably burn your clothes," Tally said. "And your personality."
Kenzie let out a shaky laugh.
The door closed. The room stayed quiet. Too quiet.
Ms. Parker returned, visibly rattled. "Alright. Let's… let's take a moment."
Tally checked her phone under the desk.
One bar.
That was weird.
Savannah schools didn't just lose signal. Not unless something big happened. A storm. A citywide outage. Something official.
Her phone buzzed anyway.
QB ❤️: u skipping practice today? coach said ppl r sick
She smirked, thumbs flying.
Tally: ppl are dramatic 🙄 tell him I'll be there
Kenzie peeked. "Still obsessed with him?"
Tally glanced up slowly. "Obviously."
Kenzie smiled. "He's kinda spiraling."
"Then he should spiral harder," Tally said. "Practice doesn't cancel itself."
The next class was worse.
Two teachers didn't show up.
Subs rotated in like they'd been pulled from a hat—confused, unprepared, whispering to each other in the hall like they were trying to piece together a story no one had explained yet.
By the time the lights flickered for the first time, Tally had already decided this day was trash.
It was subtle. Just a blink. The projector glitched. The air vents hiccupped.
Someone groaned. "Not today."
The teacher laughed nervously. "It'll be fine."
Tally crossed her arms. She hated when adults lied badly.
Ten minutes later, it happened again.
Longer this time.
The room dimmed, then snapped back on.
People murmured. Phones came out. Teachers started checking the hall.
Kenzie leaned close. "My mom texted me. She said the elementary school already sent kids home."
Tally frowned. "That makes no sense."
"She said it was 'precautionary.'"
"Against what?" Tally snapped.
Kenzie shrugged. "She didn't say."
By the time they reached what should've been third period, the school felt different.
Not loud. Not chaotic.
Uneasy.
The hallways were thinner. Teachers stood clustered near doorways. A security guard paced with his radio pressed tight to his ear, muttering.
Tally passed the cheer hallway mirror and paused, checking her reflection automatically. Honey-colored skin flawless. Curls behaving. Lip gloss still perfect.
At least something was normal.
Someone coughed behind her—deep, ugly, wrong.
She turned sharply. "Cover your mouth," she snapped.
The girl flinched and apologized.
Tally rolled her eyes and kept walking.
Lunch never happened.
They were lined up, trays half-filled, when the power flickered again.
This time, the lights dimmed to emergency yellow.
The cafeteria smelled wrong. Too warm. Too crowded. Too many bodies.
Someone gagged near the trash cans.
Another kid started crying.
Tally scanned the room, irritation tightening her chest. Teachers whispered urgently. The lunch staff looked panicked. One woman leaned against the counter, pale and sweating.
Kenzie whispered, "That lady doesn't look okay."
"Then she shouldn't be here," Tally said.
The intercom crackled.
Everyone froze.
The principal's voice came through—controlled, but strained. "Attention students and staff. Please remain calm. We are currently experiencing intermittent power issues and staff shortages."
Staff shortages.
That wasn't a phrase schools used lightly.
Tally felt a flicker of something she didn't like.
Then the power went out again.
Completely.
The cafeteria plunged into darkness.
Someone screamed.
Emergency lights snapped on—but weaker this time, flickering like they might give up too.
"Okay!" a teacher shouted. "Everyone stay where you are!"
A kid yelled, "My phone died!"
Kenzie checked hers. "No service."
Tally checked hers again.
Nothing.
Her stomach tightened.
This wasn't a drill.
The intercom crackled again.
"Due to ongoing safety concerns," the principal said carefully, "we will be dismissing students early today. Parents have been notified."
A wave of noise crashed through the cafeteria.
"What about buses?"
"Car riders first?"
"My mom's at work!"
Tally stood up without thinking. "This is ridiculous."
Kenzie grabbed her arm. "Tal—"
"My dad works on base," Tally said loudly. "They would tell people if something serious was happening."
The principal continued, voice louder now. "Bus riders will be dismissed immediately. Car riders, please return to your classrooms until called."
People surged.
Teachers shouted.
The emergency lights flickered again—and this time, they stayed dim.
Tally felt it then.
Not fear.
Not yet.
But the certainty that something had already slipped past the point where adults could fix it.
She picked up her bag, jaw set.
"Come on," she snapped at Kenzie. "I'm not sitting around for this."
As they pushed into the hallway, the smell followed them—sick, metallic, wrong.
Someone retched in the stairwell.
Someone else screamed.
And somewhere, deeper in the building, something heavy hit the floor.
Hard.
Tally stopped walking.
For the first time that morning, her confidence cracked—just a hair.
"What was that?" Kenzie whispered.
Tally swallowed.
"I don't know," she said.
And she hated that she meant it.
The hallway felt wrong the second they stepped into it.
Not loud—schools were always loud—but fractured. Like everyone was talking past each other instead of to each other. Teachers stood in doorways with forced smiles that didn't reach their eyes. A few were openly arguing in low voices, hands waving, faces tight.
Tally clocked all of it as she moved.
She hated disorder. Hated it when adults lost control. It made everything feel cheap and messy, like a bad knockoff version of reality.
"Why are they freaking out?" she muttered, adjusting the strap of her bag higher on her shoulder. "This isn't how you do dismissal."
Kenzie jogged to keep up. "My mom still hasn't texted back."
"Well, panicking won't fix it," Tally snapped. "She'll show up."
But even as she said it, she noticed how many classrooms were dark.
Not empty—dark.
Lights off. Doors closed. A handwritten OUT SICK sign taped crookedly to one door. Another sign farther down the hall read COVERING MULTIPLE CLASSES in red marker.
"Since when do teachers write signs?" Kenzie whispered.
Tally didn't answer.
They passed the nurse's office.
The door was wide open.
Three kids sat slumped against the wall, pale and sweating. A trash can sat between them, already lined with a bag. One girl was crying quietly, mascara streaking down her cheeks. Another kid retched, the sound hollow and awful.
Tally felt irritation spike—sharp, defensive.
"Why are they all here?" she muttered. "Go home."
Kenzie slowed. "Tal… this isn't normal."
Tally shot her a look. "People get sick."
"That many?"
"Yeah," Tally snapped. "It's winter."
But the words felt thin.
The intercom crackled again, sharp enough to make several students flinch.
"Car riders," the principal's voice said, tighter now, "please report directly to the front entrance. Do not linger in hallways."
Do not linger.
That wasn't a phrase schools used unless something had already gone sideways.
The crowd surged.
Someone shoved past Tally hard enough to knock her shoulder.
"Watch it," she snapped.
The girl didn't even look back.
That bothered her more than the shove.
By the time they reached the front lobby, the power flickered again.
Once.
Twice.
Then stayed dim.
The double doors stood propped open, sunlight spilling in like a relief they hadn't earned yet. The parking lot beyond looked chaotic—cars stacked awkwardly, parents standing outside their vehicles, phones pressed to their ears, shouting over one another.
Tally scanned automatically.
No dad. No mom.
Of course not.
Kenzie grabbed her arm. "Tal, what if they can't get here?"
"They'll get here," Tally said, sharper than she meant. "My dad literally works on base. He's not stuck."
Kenzie hesitated. "My mom's a nurse."
That landed heavier than it should have.
Tally pulled her arm free. "Then she's busy."
A teacher stepped in front of them, forcing a smile that looked painful. "Girls, please move along."
"What's happening?" Tally demanded. "You're being weird."
The teacher's smile faltered. "Everything is under control."
That was a lie.
They stepped outside.
The noise hit immediately.
Engines idling. Horns blaring. Parents yelling names. A woman crying near the curb, her hands shaking as she tried to dial a number that clearly wasn't connecting.
Tally walked faster, heels of her sneakers slapping against the pavement. She hated being lumped in with everyone else. Hated feeling small in a crowd.
She spotted her car and exhaled sharply.
"Finally."
Kenzie hesitated near the curb. "Tal—can I ride with you? Just until my mom answers?"
Tally rolled her eyes. "Fine. But don't make it weird."
Kenzie nodded quickly and followed.
As soon as Tally slid into the driver's seat, the familiar smell of her car hit her—vanilla air freshener, faint perfume, normal. She shut the door harder than necessary.
She turned the key.
The engine started.
The radio crackled.
Then went dead.
Static hissed for a second before cutting out entirely.
Tally frowned. "Seriously?"
She turned it off, pulse ticking up a notch.
The power flickered again.
Not inside the car—outside. The school's exterior lights blinked once, twice, then went dark.
Someone screamed.
Not playful. Not dramatic.
Real.
Tally's fingers tightened around the steering wheel.
Kenzie whispered, "What was that?"
"Someone being extra," Tally said quickly. "People scream for anything."
But her eyes were already scanning the mirrors.
They pulled out of the parking lot inch by inch, trapped in a snarl of cars that didn't know where to go now that the traffic lights were out. Parents argued through open windows. A man leaned out of his truck yelling at no one in particular.
"Four-way stop," Tally muttered. "It's not rocket science."
Someone ran across the street in front of them—barely missing the hood—face pale, eyes wild.
Kenzie gasped. "Did you see his face?"
"He was probably late," Tally said, jaw tight.
They crept forward.
The farther they got from the school, the quieter it became.
No buses. No crossing guards. No normal mid-morning city noise.
Just sirens.
Lots of them.
They wailed in layers, overlapping, not moving so much as multiplying.
Kenzie hugged her arms. "Why are there so many?"
Tally swallowed. "Because people panic."
"But about what?"
Tally didn't answer.
They passed a convenience store with its doors wide open and lights off. People stood outside arguing, one man kicking the glass in frustration.
Another siren screamed past—this one close enough to rattle the windows.
Kenzie whispered, "This feels bad."
Tally snapped, "Stop saying that."
They turned onto a side street.
Dogs barked.
Not one or two.
All of them.
Sharp, frantic, overlapping, like an alarm no one could shut off.
Kenzie pressed her forehead to the window. "That's weird, right?"
Tally forced a laugh. "Dogs bark."
"Not like that."
The words stuck.
Tally dropped Kenzie off in front of her house, watching until she made it inside. Kenzie paused at the door and turned back.
"Text me when you get home," she said.
"If service comes back," Tally replied.
"Call me," Kenzie said. "Promise."
Tally rolled her eyes. "Relax."
But she watched Kenzie lock the door before pulling away.
The streets grew emptier the closer she got to home.
No city trucks. No joggers. No kids cutting through yards.
Just wind.
And sirens.
And barking.
Her neighborhood came into view—neat houses, trimmed lawns, the illusion of order still intact.
Her house sat at the end of the cul-de-sac like it always did. Cream siding. Dark shutters. The oak tree bare for winter.
Normal.
She parked and sat there longer than necessary, hands resting on the wheel, heart still beating too fast.
"Get it together," she muttered.
Inside, the house was silent.
Too silent.
"No school today?" she called automatically.
No answer.
She locked the door behind her. The click echoed.
The air felt colder than it should have.
The stove clock was blank.
Power's out here too.
She dropped her bag and headed toward the kitchen—then stopped.
A sound.
Upstairs.
A floorboard shifting.
Her stomach dropped.
The nanny never came this early. The housekeeper wasn't scheduled today. Her parents were both at work.
No one should be here.
"Tally," she whispered. "Don't be stupid."
She took a step.
Another sound.
Deliberate.
Her pulse roared.
"Hello?" she called, voice tighter than she liked.
Nothing.
Her phone lit up suddenly—one weak buzz—and she nearly screamed before the screen went dark again.
Someone was upstairs.
Her hand drifted toward the kitchen drawer where her dad kept the flashlight.
A creak.
Then—
"Tally."
Her name.
She spun.
Justin stood at the top of the stairs, hands raised.
Her knees nearly gave out.
"What the hell?" she breathed. "You scared me half to death."
"Sorry," he said. "Not intentional."
"You're not supposed to be here."
"I know."
Relief hit hard and fast, leaving her dizzy. She crossed the room and hugged him, harder than she meant to.
"You could've said something!"
"I was about to."
Outside, the dogs barked louder.
Tally didn't notice.
Not yet.