Chapter Text
“Can anyone tell me the name of this dinosaur?”
It’s safe to say that school trips into the bustling city are always a hotly anticipated, end-of-term treat for the year threes of Bracklinn Primary. Even an outing to a natural history museum excites them beyond that which might be considered necessary, if only because it meant they could miss a whole day of classes.
The children, all aged seven or eight, gather in front of a friendly, chipper tour guide and crane their necks back to look up, and up and up, gaping at what could quite possibly be the largest skeleton they’ve ever seen. Standing behind the little group, you’re inclined to share in their astonishment.
It certainly is a whopper.
The city museum’s latest exhibit may still have miles and miles of scaffolding holding it upright, but that doesn’t take away from its magnificence.
“Yeah! I know!”
A young girl, barely taller than your hip, bounces eagerly on her toes, holding an arm up in the air as if her life depends upon it.
Smiling patiently, the tour guide barely has the time to point at her before she blurts out, “A tyrannosaurus Rex!”
There’s a chorus of ’duh’s’ and ’oh yeahs!’ from the rest of her classmates, each easily identifiable by their fluorescent orange jackets that almost entirely cover their school uniforms. Standing close behind the small group of around ten kids, you thank your lucky stars that you weren’t required to wear one.
“Absolutely spot on,” the guide claps his hands together and launches into a well-practiced spiel regarding the exhibit as he slowly traipses around the base, swiftly followed by a gaggle of enraptured children.
At the very back, you trail along, one sharp eye trained on the kids and the other on their actual teacher, who’s lounging on a wooden bench nearby, half asleep. You frown at her, though she’s hardly paying attention on the class, let alone your expression.
When dull old Ms. Davies the history teacher asked for the school’s art technician to help her out by tagging along on a field trip, you’d assumed there’d be an equal distribution of duties. Not that you’d be expected to handle all of the kids by yourself whilst she puts her feet up whenever there’s a spare moment. It isn’t as though you particularly mind though. The children are relatively well behaved, if a little prone to wander. What’s more, they positively adore you. Although that’s probably more down to the fact that you don’t issue homework, nor are you particularly inclined to lose your temper with them. Besides, unlike Ms. Davies, you actually like them.
Kids tend to pick up on little details like that.
Still, it would be nice to know that if something went wrong, the responsibility wouldn’t fall entirely on your shoulders because you had to take your eyes off one child to tend to another.
Sighing quietly, you shake your head and check the time on your screen. 3:45pm. Placing the phone back in your pocket, you clear your throat softly and catch the tour guide’s eye, giving him a discreet nod.
You’d need to wrap this up. The minibus would be arriving soon.
Luckily, he seems to understand the gesture, for he flashes you a charming wink and asks the kids if they have any questions.
An abrupt tug on the hem of your jumper gives you a start and you look down to find Archie - a quiet boy wearing thick-rimmed glasses - pulling at your clothes and pointing towards a sign behind the rex’s leg.
Following his finger, you grin when you see what he’s showing you.
Written clearly in bold, white letters across the black sign, are the words ’Gift Shop, this way.’
“I’m sure we can squeeze in a quick detour to the shop,” you tell him, happy to see his lips part in a bright, gap-toothed smile. Such an expression rarely crosses his face anymore, not after his father died a year prior. You don’t know the details, nor did you think it appropriate to ask. All you know, is that he’d once been a notorious ‘class clown’, now though, he’ll barely raise his hand to answer a simple question. The mop of curly, blonde hair bounces animatedly as Archie spins around to refocus his attention on the dinosaur, staring up at its teeth with round, bespectacled eyes warmer than the richest honey.
“Alright,” the guide exclaims, “I think that’s it for today. Your teacher looks anxious to split.”
The kids turn to look at you when you let out a short, bemused laugh, interjecting, “Oh, I’m just an art tech.”
Raising a brow, he smiles. “What’s the difference?”
“The difference being our salaries,” a voice rings out, shrill and demanding.
You have to fight down the urge to roll your eyes as Ms. Davies approaches, hands in their usual place astride her narrow hips. For a woman in her mid forties, you’d think she would know a little something about tact. She stops a little too close to one of the girls - Kitty - who stumbles backwards and collides with your legs. She turns her big, hazel eyes on you and mutters a quick apology which you wave away with a dismissive hand.
“And our qualifications…” Davies continues quietly, mostly to herself.
Before you have the time to roll your eyes at her typically bolshie behaviour, she raises her voice and holds a clipboard aloft, barking, “Right! Roll call!” And at that, she begins to list off the children’s’ names, so you take the opportunity to sidle around towards the guide.
“Hey, thanks for the tour,” you mutter, holding out a hand.
Grinning, he accepts it easily and nods. “Hey, no problem. They’re one of the most well-behaved groups we’ve had in a while. But did you find it as riveting as they did?”
“Well…” You shrug. “It was better than cleaning paintbrushes all day.”
The two of you share an amicable laugh until you’re interrupted by Ms. Davies harshly clearing her throat. “If you’re quite ready,” she grumbles, “The minibus will be waiting in the car park. Come along.”
The guide has to stifle a chuckle when, all of a sudden, she’s met with a cacophony of disappointed squawks from each of the kids.
“But what about the gift shop!?” A spanish girl – Lucia – stomps her foot.
“Yeah!” Several classmates back up their friend and stare imploringly between you and their teacher, though when they decided that you had authority in this matter is a mystery. Ms. Davies looks as though she might spontaneously combust at the noisy protestations, but you decide to help sway her by saying as casually as possible, “The bus actually isn’t due for another fifteen minutes. Surely they can just have a look?”
If looks could kill.
Eyeballing you coldly, she snaps, “Gift shops are a waste of their parents’ money.”
You very nearly groan aloud, feeling the eyes of ten, hopeful children boring into the side of your head. “Ten minutes? Come on, it’ll be better than having them stand in a car-park getting all fidgety and restless.”
At that, she actually seems to be reconsidering and you just know you’ve got her. If there’s one thing Ms Davies despises more than children, it’s children who can’t stand still. How on Earth she ever got to be a teacher is another mystery you’ve yet to solve.
After another few moments of tapping a nail against her leather handbag, she opens her mouth to speak…
…When all of a sudden, an earth-shattering ’BOOM!’ rips everyone’s feet out from underneath them.
Crashing to the ground with a startled yelp, you scramble to get upright again, eyes darting over each of the kids in turn, a high-pitched hum screeching in your ears.
Pushing through the dazed confusion, you manage to grind out between clenched teeth, “Is – Is everybody okay?”
Sobs, whimpers and a few ’no’s!’ reach you, but they’re all moving, and therefore, not dead.
The tour guide had fallen right next to you and when you push yourself back onto unsteady legs, you grab his arm and help him up. “What the hell was that?!” he gasps.
Shaking your head and lifting Lucia and Kitty to their feet, along with a few of the others, you shakily reply, “I-I don’t know….Earthquake, maybe?”
Somewhere beyond the museum doors, there are several more, thunderous explosions, followed by the sounds of screeching car tyres, metal screeching on metal and the petrified screams of a thousand people. The slew of strange noises draws the attention of every guest in the museum.
Still sitting down with a hand on her head Ms. Davies watches you lift the last of the kids to their feet and brush down their clothes. “T-terrorists!” she all but screeches, “It has to be terrorists!”
You glance at her, then to a nearby window and motion for the class to stay close to their teacher. Swallowing down a thick lump, you carefully creep over to it, the tour guide sticking close to your heels.
“Doesn’t this museum have guards?!” Ms. Davies shrieks behind you, “Where are the damn guards!? Get out there and start shooting!”
As if on cue, a man and women clad in black uniforms burst through a door at the very back of the room and rush towards the museum’s large entrance, taking up positions behind two, wooden pillars on either side. Upon reaching the window, you jump, hearing a maelstrom of gunfire suddenly erupt above the telltale sounds of panic.
Fingers quivering, you grip the sill and pull yourself up to peep over the edge, eyes flicking too and fro across the square outside….
….Like a boulder lobbed into a shallow pond, your heart plummets down through your shoes, disappearing into the marble floor.
For a long moment, your brain doesn’t quite register what’s happening, but the guide popping up next to you and exclaiming in a sharp hiss, “What. The. Fuck!?” confirms that you haven’t inexplicably gone mad.
“What is it!?” a woman cowering behind the information desk demands fearfully. “Who’s out there!?”
“I….I…” The words stick in your throat like glue. How in the hell are you supposed to describe the chaos that’s happening just beyond the museum walls?
How can you say without sounding like a lunatic that there are…..monsters outside in the square, pulling themselves from smouldering craters and spilling out of streets and buildings. There are big ones, bigger than elephants, wielding fists like battering rams that pummel at roofs of cars before lifting them high over their heads – terrified passengers still inside – and hurling them through the air as though they weigh nothing.
You blink dumbly and tear your eyes off the larger monsters to observe as dozens of smaller, spindly ones hurtle after civilians and brutally lay into people who – like you - are still trapped in a stupor. Those too shocked to run are swiftly put down by claws, teeth, strange blades covered in deadly barbs. It’s like watching cattle go to slaughter.
Blood flows. Screams rend the air and people are….people are dying! In terrible ways. It isn’t even morbid curiosity that keeps you watching. Your muscles seem to have simply locked up, rendering you immobile, as though trapped in a nightmare. ‘Because this isa nightmare,’ you try to convince yourself as you watch a green creature pounce upon the back of an older gentleman and bite down on the back of his neck. ‘It has to be..’
Very dimly, you’re aware of a hand on your shoulder and somebody inside shouting, “Hey!”
Sense rushes back sharper than a slap to the face as you suddenly find yourself spinning around and staring into the wide, horrified eyes of the tour guide. “Hey! Y-you see ‘em too right!?” His nails dig painfully into your shoulders and with the pain, comes the anchor to reality. Comprehending that you’re awake and this isn’t some twisted, fever dream, sends chilling, slimy panic slithering up from the depths of your stomach and clinging to your lungs.
Suddenly, breathing feels extremely difficult.
“I-I need to know you see 'em too!” the guide continues to stammer, frightened tears glistening at the corners of his eyes. “I’m not imagining those…those things!?”
Any coherent thought still has yet to find its way back to you and you open your mouth, closing it again seconds later, not unlike a confused goldfish, until someone answers for you. “You’re not imagining them kid…” An older woman, mid fifties, mousy-blonde hair and a black, leather jacket has her eyes trained out of the window a few rows down from yours. Slowly, her gaze turns to pass over the people inside. “I see them too.”
Deathly quiet, everyone shares a moment of dawning horror. In a shaking voice, another man ventures forwards, squeaking, “What do you see? What the Hell is out there!?”
One of the guards, clutching his gun close and peering through the glass doors is shaking his head and looks to his partner on the opposite side. “Maybe it’s….a chemical attack?”
She lifts her shoulders in a shrug, training her careful stare on his face. “I – I don’t know. Hallucinogenics? Really? Seems unlikely.”
At that moment, their mouths clamp shut when a shadow passes across the door, stretching along the marble as if pushed inside by the late afternoon sun.
Gunshots and hideous, garbled roars shatter the air outside, implying that the bobbies have finally started to retaliate.
That doesn’t help the people in the museum though.
Your eyes are fixed on the shape through the glass doors. Deep indigo skin stretches taut over a hulking, hunched up brute of a monster with four, bulging arms and two, stumpy hind legs. It stands outside, paused misstep as it lifts its head and you watch a long, garish purple tongue slip between razor sharp teeth and writhe about, tasting the air.
Nobody in the museum dare exhale.
There are no visible eyes, or at least none that are its own. Instead of a face, the thing’s entire head is made up of about a dozen human skulls, grinning out at you from every conceivable angle. A few of them still have dead, greying eyeballs in their sockets.
The urge to vomit creeps up on you, but the guide beats you to it. He lurches away from you and empties the contents of his stomach all over the floor and his shoes.
The monstrosity drops its jaw wide and unleashes a bellowing roar so deep and resonant, the tyrannosaurus skeleton rattles violently, shaking in it’s struts.
Finally, everyone seems to find their collective voice.
“I’ve done some hard drugs in my time!” Ms. Davies screeches unexpectedly, “and that is not a hallucination!”
If the situation wasn’t so dire, you might’ve burst out into laughter at the absurd notion of stern, sour-faced Ms. Davies doing hard drugs.
Suddenly, the creature lifts two of its hands and curls them into massive fists just as the guards by the door raise their guns and open fire. Bullets explode from their chambers and thud dully into the monster’s softer underbelly but ricochet off its impossibly hard head. It doesn’t even seem to feel the impact.
A series of petrified shrieks permeate your eardrums, punching above the roars and gunshots.
Your head snaps towards the high pitched screams and your heart seizes, wrenching you entirely from your stupor.
“KIDS!” you screech.
The monsters outside, the one in the doorway….They’re all forgotten. Irrelevant in comparison to an age-old instinct raging inside you.
Sobered, you skid to a atop and grab Archie’s rucksack and Lucia’s hand, hauling them away from Ms Davies. “We have to hide. Now!”
On your opposite side, three more kids leave their teacher’ to stand with you but when the others try to follow, her hands shoot out and snatch them back. “Hide!?” she shrieks above the din, “We need to evacuate!” Jabbing a finger down to the end of the enormous room, she indicates a fire exit, through which several other people have already flown the coop. You gape, first at the doors, then at her.
“Are you insane!? You want to go outside!? With more those things!”
“The – the police are out there!”
“The police?!” you scoff, throwing an arm towards the behemoth still trying to stuff it’s fat, swollen body through the door frame, “That thing has twelve bullets it in and it hasn’t even flinched! The police can’t help us!” A shout rings out loudly in the musuem, and you glance back at the door, stomach churning as a guard is brutally flattened beneath a wayward fist. ‘God, I hope none of the kids saw that!’ Frantically, you look around, spotting the tour guide try to crawl between the Rex’s legs. Striding over to him, you let go of Archie’s bag and grab the man, pulling him upright and spinning him around to face you.
“VAULT!” you bellow, jostling the guide who desperately tries to pry your hands off his lapels.
The five children behind you are all crying and whimpering softly, but they’re still trying to convince their classmates to stay inside with them instead of leaving with Ms. Davies. Though her vice-like grip and clipped tone keeps them shuffling reluctantly towards the fire exit.
Behind you, one of the windows shatters inwards and some, insectoid nightmare begins scrabbling through the gap, screeching like a banshee. “This is a museum!” you wheeze, “WHERE’S THE GODDAMN VAULT?” It’s a long shot, but it’s the best plan you can think of.
Eyes bulging, he points a shaking finger at a pair of tall, wooden doors in the far corner, directly adjacent to the fire escape. “D-down there! I…I think it’s open-”
A bloodcurdling scream from the remaining guard is cut off by a wet gurgle and a snap. Yelping, the guide tears himself out of your grip and flees after Ms Davies and the children she’s commandeered, easily overtaking them with his longer strife. Letting out a frustrated shout, you fling Archie, Lucia and the other three ahead of you, shoving them none to gently towards the doors that supposedly lead to the vault. “Go! Run!”
Slowly, much too slowly for your liking, they scramble for it with you bringing up the rear, keeping yourself firmly planted between them and the two monsters behind you.
As you make your mad dash, from the corner of your eye, you spot Ms. Davies and her half of the class running full tilt for the exit. She’s got one of their arms clutched in her hand, yanking the poor kid along as she darts ahead of the group, relying on them to keep up with her.
Although the children do manage to maintain their teacher’s pace, the bug-like creature has selected its target, and it’s bounding closer and closer to the child at the back, chittering triumphantly as its maw stretches wide, revealing rows of needle-sharp teeth. The boy in question chances a look back and sees the gruesome sight, his eyes bursting wide open and he screams.
“DAVIES!” you try to warn her, “Help Timothy!”
To your shock, she ignores you, reaching the door and all but throwing herself through it just as you reach yours.
Archie, Lucia, Kitty, Sam and Ashleigh thunder through, but you pause, fingers braced on the doorframe as you prepare to charge across the room and intercept the monster before it can get its beastly claws into one of the kids. However, before you can move, Timothy puts on an unexpected burst of speed and shrugs out of his high vis. Then, in a genius move, he hurls the bright, orange gilet over a shoulder, finding his mark perfectly. It slaps into the beast’s face, getting snagged on sharp scales and flopping like a blanket over it’s six eyes, causing the hideous thing to screech to a halt, howling in rage and frustration.
The hesitation gives Tim precious seconds to slip through the exit and disappear from view. But you can’t breathe a sigh of relief just yet, not when you so ardently believe that Davies just lead those kids and herself to their prospective dooms.
All of a sudden, Kitty’s face appears in the doorway, her watery, hazel eyes wide open and she shrieks, a finger stabbing at something behind you. Throwing your head over your shoulder, you realise what.
The indigo juggernaut has braced it’s meaty fists on either side of the wall next to the entrance and gives an almighty heaves. As you watch, the thick walls crack and crumble under its strength until, in a shower of dust and fragments of brick, it manages to thrust itself inside.
By the time the beast lifts its head to let out a gut-wrenching howl, you’ve grabbed Kitty under an arm and bolted through the doors.
On the other side, you find all the kids waiting for you; their only authority figure in this mess, the one person they’ll be relying of from here on out. ‘Oh boy,’ you gulp. This was not how you saw your day going. When you told the headmaster that you wanted to have a more active role in the children’s learning experience, this isn’t exactly what you’d had in mind.
Filled with a sense of urgency that only occurs in the direst of straights, you usher your newfound charges down the long corridor, eyes fixated on a small, white door at the very end that has only a flickering, green emergency light to guide you. To your relief, the guide had been right. The door is slightly ajar.
At your back, the roars, snorts and growls of monstrous things chase you all the way, so loud, you’re certain you can hot, rancid breath gushing down your neck, though upon glancing back, there’s nothing to be seen. “Everyone inside, now!” They all race through, tripping over themselves and each other.
Only when the last child dashes inside do you follow suit, slamming the door shut and praying that the locks will hold….
—–
That was three days ago.
Three days since you locked yourself and five children behind six inches of hard, white steel.
No turn handle. No keyhole. Just a blank slab of metal separating you from the monsters outside. The power had gone out mere moments after you made it inside, revealing a noticeable design flaw in the museum’s security system.
This isn’t Fort Knox. They aren’t protecting a mountain of gold bars in here, just a few, dusty old paintings and a sculpture or two that somewhat resemble a greek philosopher. During a power cut, all power goes out, including the door lock.
For three days, you’ve been staring at that door. Weaponless, waiting for some hideous monstrosity to claw its way in and kill both you and your charges.
Speaking of whom…
You’ve finally managed to get all five of them to go to sleep. They lay in a tangled heap of limbs and hair in the very corner of the vault, buried beneath their coats and substituting rucksacks for pillows.
You did your best to ration, but they barely had enough food to last an afternoon, let alone sixty two hours. There isn’t any more food now though, nor any liquid. They’d finished the last drop and crumb yesterday. The children keep asking when they can go home and you want nothing more than to bang your head against a wall and knock yourself out, if only so you could force your brain to rest and not deal with another child asking what’s going on. There are only so many times you can tell a kid ‘I don’t know’ before they start to lose faith in your ability to keep them safe.
Adrenaline has been your constant companion so far, but there are periods of time where you black out and awaken to find one of the kids patting your face and crying out for you to wake up.
There isn’t any question. Your situation is beyond bad. It’s a disaster, and even that’san understatement. The only things that keep you from breaking down and wailing your guts out are currently asleep in the corner.
Exhausted, you slump forward, raking dirty fingers through your scraggly hair and letting out an exhale, wrought with fear, uncertainty and anguish.
Your phone had died yesterday as well, and with it, your connection to the world outside this museum. Not that there was much to connect with anyway. Every emergency number was engaged, your friends went straight to voicemail and the same went for your parents.
You ended up trying to ring every contact in the address book, including the pizza place down your home street, but to no avail.
For a while, you had enough signal to send messages to every social media platform you knew, telling everyone where you are and that you need help, all the while, the kids huddle around you and stare down at the phone as if it were a lifeline. Though it soon becomes abundantly clear that help isn’t coming any time soon.
Every single forum was flooded with messages from people panicking. Nobody knows what the hell is going on. But whatever it is, there’s one, deeply unsettling fact that can’t be ignored, no matter how much you might want to.
This isn’t just happening here. It’s happening everywhere. Every city, every country, every continent is overrun with murderous, otherworldly creatures.
As far as you can garner from what little information is available, this is a global phenomenon.
But then, distressingly, the updates just….stopped coming in.
Millions became thousands, thousands turned to mere hundreds until soon enough, the severs that had struggled so valiantly to host that many users, crashed completely. So you started looking at news sites, then more obscure forum pages. Hours passed with no new information. You kept refreshing the pages until you were down to three percent battery.
The phone case creaked in protest as you squeezed your hand around it, frustrated, scared….defeated.
With nothing else to do, you used the last of the power to leave a voicemail for your parents in the vain hope that they’ve survived this.
So, standing next to a marble bust of a man who might’ve been Socrates, you watched the children share a packet of crisps between themselves, and you uttered the last words your parents would ever hear from you.
If they were even alive, that is.
“Hey mum….dad. It’s uh….It’s me-” Your jaw clenched suddenly, eyelids crushed together like vices. You refused to cry in front of the kids. Raising your head once again, you exhaled shakily and stared at Socrates’ placid face, focusing on the smooth white curve of his lips to ground yourself. “I’m okay..We’re okay. I – I’m with some of the class, in a museum vault, of all places! Haha…ha….”
Wayward tears sprang up behind your lashes and you quickly turned to face the wall. “It’s pretty bad - um…yeah. Listen, I love you and I hope you’re okay. God, I wish I knew what to do… I wish I know what’s going on but I - I have no idea what to tell these kids!…”
You crane your neck back to look at the group and find Archie has removed his glasses to clean them, his little fingers trembling violently.
“…Tell me what to do,” you begged in a whisper down the phone, “Please…Tell me what I’m supposed to do.”
On a whim, you pulled the phone away from your ear and glanced down at its screen.
Dead.
Figures. You’ve no idea how much of that message your parents received, if any.
After the phone died, you moved as if in a daze to the front of the vault, told the kids to get some rest, then sat down in place and stared at the door, half asleep but wide awake.
Which brings you to the present, a jumble of mixed up thoughts running rampant through your brain. In the vault’s darkness, illuminated by a single, green emergency light above the door, you find yourself faced with a dilemma.
Over the last several hours, you’ve boiled your options down to two choices. The first, remain here with the children and watch them die of dehydration. A terrible plan, really.
The second, leave the vault and brave the doubtlessly ravaged world above in the hopes of finding food and water to sustain them for a few more days. Likely you’d die yourself in the process, leaving the children utterly alone and without an adult figure to reassure them that they’d be okay. Then, they’d die regardless.
You have to stuff a few fingers into your mouth and bite down to stop yourself from shouting. This is definitely a situation.
Glaring daggers at the door isn’t getting you anywhere. You have to decide. Maybe if you’re quiet, if you’re quick and careful, you could get out and return before the kids wake up and panic upon seeing you gone. They’re so tired though, so you figure you’ve got at least another hour until they begin to stir. ’Alright.’ The walls press in around you, as if trying to force the decision upon your shoulders. This could go wrong, this could go so very, badly wrong.
Foot tapping rapidly on the hard floor, you exhale long and slow, standing up and staring down the vault door - your only protection against the monsters outside.
'Die in here for sure or take a chance and buy these kids a few more days… Man. Video games made these choices feel so easy.’
“Courage kiddo,” you whisper – a mantra you’d adopted from a doctor you met years ago. You didn’t even remember his name. Only that before you went under general anaesthetic for a surgery, you’d been terrified. But one stranger in a surgical mask took your hand in his and murmured it, flashing you a wink. A passing comment. Easily forgettably, yet for some reason, it stayed with you, and in frightening times, you repeat it to yourself, as you are now. “Courage kiddo,” You reach out and place a hand on the door. “Courage…” It swings open when you give the metal a firm push, but blessedly, it doesn’t utter a single sound.
A long, dark corridor greets you on the other side, at the end of which is another emergency light, beckoning like an ominous quest-icon. “Courage-…oh, who am I kidding.” You scowl at it.
Taking a final, longing look back at the sleeping children, you can feel your resolve slowly harden, similar to an egg tossed into boiling water. You do not, under any circumstances, consider yourself an authority figure. You’re an art technician, for crying out loud.
But it doesn’t matter how you see yourself. Only how they see you. All they’ve been taught is that an adult’s word is law. To them, you are the answer to all their problems. That kind of responsibility terrifies you, though you can no more ignore it than the furious pounding of your own heart. It isn’t their fault you’re the only barely functioning adult in the vicinity.
So, without a weapon, without a real plan, hope or prayer, you step out of the ’safe’ room and push the door closed behind you.