Episode 9 — The Morning After

Morning came slowly and colorlessly.

The sky outside the high library window was a dull, pale gray—the kind of light that didn’t bring warmth, just the confirmation that another day had started.

It was already 7 A.M.

Per the usual, the sun was already up one hour ago, but he couldn’t take the risk. Tania’s words about the rules changing still lingered on his mind. It never hurts to be cautious.

Michael sat near the door, legs stretched out, head bowed but eyes still open. He hadn’t slept. Not really. He watched the door like it was something alive. Something that might still burst open at any second.

Sasha was the first to stir. Her book lay forgotten on the floor beside her. She blinked groggily, rubbed her eyes, and sat up.

Michael’s voice came low, scratchy from hours of silence.

“They’re gone.”

Sasha froze. “What?”

He didn’t look at her, just kept staring at the door.

“The Suits. They’re not outside anymore. Haven’t been for about an hour.”

For a second, Sasha didn’t move. She strained to listen—half-expecting some distant moan, the scratch of fingernails on wood, anything. But there was only quiet.

“Did you wake the others?” she finally asked.

Michael shook his head. “Figured they deserved a little more time.”

But already, as if on cue, the others started waking. One by one.

Anya was next, pulling her hoodie tighter around herself and sitting up with a dazed look. Tania stretched stiffly, wincing at the pain in her back and shoulders from sleeping on hard tile. Jasmine yawned and blinked slowly like a cat coming out of sedation.

The mood shifted as they all noticed Michael sitting alert by the door.

“…Is it over?” Anya asked, her voice small.

“Maybe,” Michael said. “We can’t really be sure of anything now.”

Tania crept to the window first. She stood on her tiptoes and peered out through the dirty glass.

“Nothing,” she whispered. “Not a single one.”

The relief that hit them was fragile, thin as paper.

“Do we…do we go out?” Jasmine asked.

Michael stood, stretching his arms with a grimace like every joint in his body had rusted overnight.

“We can’t stay here forever,” he said. “But we have to be careful.”

Everyone nodded.

The Hallways

They took down the barricade and opened the door slowly, Michael  was at the forefront with one of the heavy ok chair legs as his weapon.

The air outside the library was colder than they expected. Stale. Touched with something metallic.

They moved together, tight as a pack.

It didn’t take them long to see the first body.

A boy graduated two weeks ago. One of the kids who always wore headphones between classes. His throat was half-gone, ragged and wet. His limbs bent at angles that didn’t make sense.

Anya gagged, turning her face into Tania’s shoulder.

But there were more.

Down the hall, near the lockers, a girl slumped against the wall with her stomach torn open. Her nails were split and bloody—claw marks dragging along the lockers like she tried to crawl away.

Blood was all over the tile like spilled ink.

And then—near the trophy case—Michael froze.

Two bodies.

A boy and a girl.

They were half-sitting against the wall, their backs slumped against the lockers. From a distance, it almost looked like they were hugging. Their identical purple hair hung matted and wet, sticky with blood that coated most of their faces and chests.

But as they stepped closer, the horror came into focus.

“No…” Jasmine breathed, her voice trembling. “That’s… that’s Kyle and Bree.”

Anya covered her mouth, stepping back, her face turning pale.

Michael just stood there, jaw clenched, swallowing whatever scream wanted to crawl up his throat.

Their bodies had been carved open from the waist up—long, deep vertical gashes running from their stomachs, straight up through their chests, through their necks, and finally splitting their faces in half. One brutal, singular slash from some massive blade—like a scythe or something worse.

Their exposed ribs jutted out like broken fence posts. Their insides spilled over their laps in mangled heaps. The skin on their cheeks had been sliced so cleanly it parted like fabric, leaving their jaws slack and open at unnatural angles.

It was like the moment they died… they were still holding each other.

“They were behind me when it started…” Jasmine whispered, almost dazed. “They must have been following. I heard footsteps behind me…but I didn’t stop to look. I couldn’t… if only I…”

“Come on.” Sasha’s voice came firm and low, cutting through Jasmine’s guilt. “Don’t stop. Don’t look. Just keep moving.”

Outside the school was colder still.

The street was nearly empty now. Just scattered papers. A single, overturned bike. Cracked glass glinting on the sidewalk.

But the bodies...

The trail of blood led them out, down the street, past where the party had taken place. It was like following a trail of breadcrumbs—only these were soaked in blood and entrails.

A macabre wasteland lay before them. Bodies torn apart, discarded like trash. Pieces of people were scattered across sidewalks and lawns. Some still clutching each other. Others sprawled mid-run. The horror written on their faces told everything: flesh torn, bone shattered, skin peeled back in ways that didn’t seem physically possible.

Before… whenever the Suits arrived from whatever hell they came from, their attacks were quick. Surgical. Efficient. A slice to the throat. A head removed. Maybe gutting a stomach or two if they had to.

But this… this wasn’t killing.

This was destruction.

This was rage.

This was a punishment.

They moved past the bike rack and noticed other survivors all heading in the same direction.

Some were crying.

Some were helping others walk.

Some were… collecting pieces of entrails from the ground and putting them into paper bags with trembling hands, like they were gathering parts for someone to come back to later.

But they were all heading to the same place.

Mathers’ Church.

“Should we follow them?” Anya asked softly. “I mean… maybe Sasha’s dad knows why this is happening. He’s always known when it came to these things.”

They all turned toward Sasha.

“Yeah,” Michael said, noticing Sasha’s silence. “At the very least… we can meet up with our families. Figure out what’s next.”

As they neared the church, they saw more people—students, teachers, neighbors—all moving like ghosts. Stumbling toward the old stone building on the hill like survivors in some half-remembered dream.

The church doors stood open.

People crowded inside—some crying, some silent, some just sitting and staring at the floor.

Inside, Pastor Mathers stood near the altar. His sleeves rolled up, his hands stained with something that might’ve been dirt… or something else.

His normally composed face looked pale and drawn. His glasses sat crooked on his nose like he’d forgotten they were there.

But his voice was steady as he spoke to a small group huddled near the front.

When Michael and the others stepped inside, the first thing they noticed was the smell—old wood, sweat, and fear.

Pastor Mathers turned as they entered.

“You’re late,” he said quietly, giving them a tired, almost bitter smile. “But alive. That’s what matters.”