A/N: Hey guys! So I'm hoping you all guessed that the last chapter was an April Fools joke, and I hope that it kind of tied you over until I posted the real chapter. Originally I was going to delete it after but I got so many hilarious comments that I couldn't!

Anyways, this is the real chapter twenty-four. I hope 3540 words make up for my little joke.

Also, just to let you guys know, I'm doing Camp NaNoWriMo so my updates on Resistance are going to take longer than usual. In the meantime, please check out my new story As I Am! (:

(7 pages! Aren't I awesome?)

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Twenty-Four    

          There’s something about having to throw up that makes me instantly feel worse. I want to, to get rid of this horrible, stomach churning feeling. But on the other hand, I know that doing so will just make me feel worse. Then I’ll have two things to feel sick about instead of just one.

            I had to cover my entire face with my hands as I entered the cafeteria. And by cover, I mean press into my mouth and nose with as much force as possible. I even squeezed my eyes shut because they burned.

            “Why are we doing this,” I gasp. My voice is muffled from my palm as Jagger and I walk towards the others, who are at the far end of the open, echoing room. “Why can’t we get food somewhere else? Why here? Why this?”

            The smell is agonizing. I’ve never smelt anything like it before and even though the cafeteria is large, it just gives the stench more room to breed and intensify.

            “Cole says we have no choice,” Jagger says through the sleeve of his navy sweater, one that he had found underneath a church pew. “This is the only place to get food other than houses, and those are dangerous.”

            I think I’d take being trapped in a house with a zombie family over this.

            Cole, Jack and the toddler, who’s standing on the ground with his hand in Jack’s are waiting for us. Both of their free hands cover their mouths. The horror in Jack’s eyes looks different than I’ve ever seen. He doesn’t look so little and sad anymore. He looks like he grew up.

            “The food is in here,” Cole’s muffled voice says. At first I can’t make it out but then the answer becomes obvious. “Ready?”

            No one says anything because really we’re not. It’s evident that the smell is coming from inside the kitchen doors and it’s painful knowing that rotting food isn’t the answer to the question of what the smells coming from.

            Cole takes out silence as a yes.

            He kicks open the door with his foot and points his gun, ready for zombies.

            Again, there aren’t any.

            “Holy fuck,” Cole gasps, doubling over until he’s crouched on the ground, wrapping his own head in his arms.

            At first I’m confused but as the smell hits me I think I might pass out. It’s strong enough to knock anyone out and it’s a miracle that we all haven’t fled for the doors yet.

            My stomach churns and immediately I turn around, ready to vomit. Even though there’s littering is the least of my worries right now, I find a garbage can and grab the sides so tightly my fingers turn white.

            Somehow, the smell of the garbage is refreshing compared to the kitchen.

            I’ve only heaved once when Jagger reaches me. I hear him take a gulp of air and then his hands are tangled in my hair. He’s holding the brown mess away from my face as I continuously throw up, wondering how it’s possible to create a smell so awful.

            I dry heave for ten minutes and still Jagger holds my hair. When I collapse on the ground when I think I’m done, I lean my head back against the garbage can and breathe in the smell of garbage. If I continue to smell this, I won’t have to smell anything else.

            Cole and Jack still haven’t ventured inside the kitchen.  Cole is still on his position on the ground, hiding his face while Jack has opted to let the toddler slide out of his grasp and onto the ground to quietly cry. Jack covers his face with his hands and Bullet, who I had forgotten about, hides under a table at the left side of the room, underneath the large, tall windows.

            What must be horrifying to us has to be one million times worse to him.

            “Food,” Cole moans as loudly as he can from the cave he has created for himself. “We need food.”

            “Let’s do it,” Jagger calls, his hand covering his mouth and nose again. He turns down to look at me. “Want to stay here?”

            I shake my head no. My stomach is empty and even though I’ll probably dry heave again, I have to know what the smell is. I need to see it for myself because the thought of not knowing seems scary to me.

            Jagger helps me to my feet and together we stagger towards the doors. Cole is still couched on the ground, somehow still on his feet though. His head is buried into his arms on his knees and I think I hear him sigh.

            He bounces a few times, as if he’s testing the waters of standing and then jumps to his feet.

            “Let’s get this the fuck done.”

            It only takes five steps inside of the room to see what caused the fragrance. I don’t notice it at first but when Jack turns to throw up the rest of us look.

            “Holy mother of fucking fuck. Oh my God. Oh my fucking God,” Cole yells, moaning the words. He covers his face with his hands instead of just where he breathes and turns away, slouching over. “Oh my God,” he repeats, sounding as bad as he did when Emily was gone. “I can’t fucking believe this. I can’t. Oh my God.”

            Even Jagger hisses through his teeth and turns away. Jack doesn’t come in the room, and continue to not look. But I can’t. All I can do is stare.

            If it weren’t for the smell nobody would even be able to realize that it’s a child’s body. Somehow, through the decaying process it managed to turn black and doesn’t even look human again. It looks like a pile of black mold, lying against the wall on the ground.

            The only thing that shows me it was human is the way the black head is considerably smaller than the mold on the rest of the body and the small bone that sticks out in the middle.

            “Let’s get out of here,” I snap.

            Jagger is the only one who follows my lead of opening cupboards and checking expiry dates before shoving the canned foods into our backpacks. Along the way we find a few luxuries like still-good chips and cookies. But there’s only so much of the smell we can take before we have to grab Cole and burst out of the door, making sure to slam it tightly behind us.

            I spot the throw up as soon as I look at Jack. He looks disorientated, his eyes wide by vacant. The vomit cascades down the front of his shirt and ends in a small pile in front of the toes of his shoes.

            “Jeeze,” Cole mutters but not in a mean way. It almost sounds sad, like he feels sorry for him. He rushes over to Jack and grabs his arm. Jack barely acknowledges Cole and this is when I realize he saw it. Jack saw the body.

☣

            We eat canned peaches and apple sauce in an empty classroom closer to the back of the school and as far away as we can get from the cafeteria.

            Something about the peaches makes me happy despite everything. I don’t remember the last time I’ve had them, or if I ever did. But the taste makes me enjoy them better than the stale chips and other junk we’ve scavenged in the gas stations and convenience stores. In fact, before I felt tired and sore but now I feel better. I think my body needed fruit more than anything. I needed something healthy.

            I fetch a slippery slice between two fingers and pull it out of the can. It slides against my skin and I struggle to hold onto it, but somehow I manage to feed it to a gentle Bullet who’s been waiting patiently in front of me for ten minutes.

            As he licks the juice off of my fingertips and drool drips onto the ground, I get a strange feeling. It’s like my brain and my stomach are working together somehow. Like a bad feeling rests in my gut and my brain is telling me to pay attention to it. To really think about what’s going on.

            I can’t shake this feeling.

            By the time we’re all somewhat full and making buddy trips to the bathrooms down the hall, I still can’t place why I feel like this.

            “Buddy?”

            I blink and look up to meet Jagger’s eyes. I didn’t hear him stand as Cole and Jack walked awkwardly back into the room and now he’s directly in front of me, towering.

            I shrug. “I’ve always wanted to see what the inside of a boy’s bathroom looked like.”

            Our footsteps echo down the quiet hallway and the feeling intensifies. My skin crawls from the silence and I have the urge to hide and constantly look over my shoulder.

            Even though there hasn’t been a sign of danger since we’ve been outside I find myself straining to see further in the dark and listening to sounds that aren’t really there. It’s as if just trying to hear something is causing my imagination to make me hear something, like a footstep, something metal rolling on the floor or a piece of paper falling off a desk.

            Cole and Jack’s movement and words – words that I can only assume come from Cole – quickly get quieter and quieter until we finally reach the bathroom. Jagger leads me inside, hesitating slightly when we pass the rounded corner onto the tiled room.

            “Do you have to…” he trails off and I turn away, towards the mirror. I shake my head no but don’t meet his eyes. When I realize he’s still paused, I walk briskly into the hallway and lean against the wall, waiting for him.

            When I fold my arms across my chest I realize that I’ve forgotten my shotgun. I slap a palm to my forehead and mentally scolding myself. Then, out of nowhere, I have an epiphany.

            The feeling I’ve had – it’s the feeling that I forgot something.

            Already I know it’s not my shotgun, it’s much, much bigger than that because it started before when I had it. But it’s also not the feeling of just forgetting something, it’s as if something is missing and I can’t place exactly what.

            I hear the sink quietly run behind me and walk back into the bathroom. When I round the corner Jagger pauses, mid-hand wash and stares straight ahead at the mirror. I feel him looking at me even without his eyes meeting my own.

            Without saying a word I walk to the sink beside him and run the tap. The cool water rushes into the sink and I turn it, trying to make it hotter. I wait for a few moments. The water remains cold.

            I splash it onto my face, not knowing if I’ll have another chance to do this until we get to the military base. I scrub my skin with my eyes closed, trying to wash off the dirt and grime that never seems to go away. When I’m done I start washing my arms, my neck, my legs. Eventually I take off my shoes and start scrubbing my calloused feet. It isn’t until I’m almost done that I realize Jagger is doing the same, getting as clean as he can while we have the opportunity.

            When I’m done I lean against the sink and fold my cold arms across my chest. Jagger is bent over, scrubbing the dirt off of his ankles.

            “I forgot my shotgun,” I say absentmindedly.

            Jagger straightens up and pulls off his sweater. He sets it on the counter and then removes his shirt. I turn my eyes away as he wets his hands and starts washing his shoulders.

            “I have my gun.”

            I don’t say anything back. I don’t know what to say.

            When he puts his shirt back on it gets damp in some places, but already I can tell he looks cleaner. I turn back to the mirror again and stare at the bags under my brown eyes and how my face looks so much different than when I woke up at the bottom of the stairs. Not only do I look tired, but I look worn. My face looks like it’s lost some weight to it, and not in a good way. Already I had been thin, but now it’s as if my skin as sunk in. Even my hair is limp, creating a tangled mess around my neck and over my chest.

            “Here,” Jagger murmurs, moving behind me in the mirror. I stare at him, trying to meet his eyes but he keeps them lowered. I know he knows I’m looking.

            He doesn’t say anything as he grabs my hair and moves it over my shoulders. He starts finger combing it on my back, trying to get some knots out even though it’s a lost cause. Sometimes he’ll tug and I’ll wince, but I still don’t say anything. The feeling of him touching my hair is almost too much; ready to trigger a memory but one never comes. Eventually he combs it all back, my tangled mess of chocolate hair until it’s in a hand held pony tail. I look down at the white sink and stare at the brown dirt and sand in it as Jagger continues to touch my hair.

            “Done.” He steps away from me and I look up. My hair is in a ponytail, looking neater than I’ve ever seen it. I turn my head to the side, watching it swing. There are a few large knots on the underneath, but for the most part, it looks nice. I didn’t know it was possible.

            “Thanks.” I turn around but I don’t meet his eyes. I turn to leave, ready to go back to the others when Jagger grabs my upper arm. He gently pulls me back a few steps and turns me around. When I don’t raise my head, he grabs my chin with two fingers and tilts it upwards.

            “I think we need to talk.”

            I don’t say anything. Even though we most definitely need to have this conversation, I don’t want to, at least not right now. I want it to be when I’m ready and on my terms, not Jagger’s. And besides, I still need time to figure out what the outcome is. It’s going to change things, but for good or bad, I have no idea.

            I still don’t know how I feel about Jagger.

            In fact, I don’t really know how I feel about anything.

            “Sloane?” Jagger turns my head again when he realizes I’m looking away. I’m forced to meet his eyes. He looks generally concerned, as if this is the most important thing on his mind, not getting to safety. “What’s up with you? You’ve been different ever since…” he trails off.

            Jagger lost his sister.

            I never really thought about it until now. I think I’ve been pretending that things are the same as they have been since I met Jagger, at least in this time in my life. Thinking that he and Emily were brother and sister freaks me out and I try to push the thought away but it keeps coming back. Jagger lost his sister. Jagger lost is sister. Jagger lost his sister.

            “Since Emily…” he continues, looking away from me. He drops my chin but his grip on my arm remains. I stare down at the floor, unsure of what to say.

            I haven’t noticed that Jagger is mourning. I never really thought about it, how he never really gave himself a say in what Cole wanted to decide or how he didn’t seem to mind, in fact, pushed that Cole was the one to choose. He never cried, never said anything, just kept us moving closer and closer to safety.

            Maybe this is why he gave up when we were in the Hummer.

            Without thinking, I spit out the two words that I’ve been waiting and dreading to say since we lost Emily.

            “I know.”

            Jagger’s head snaps up and he observes me between slightly narrowed eyes, trying to figure out what I meant. “You know-“

            “About Emily,” I rush. “About you. About us.”

            Jagger’s eyes go wide. He looks exactly like a deer caught in headlights, ready to be rammed over by a truck. But instead of getting hit, staying in the middle of the road to die, he opens his mouth to speak.

            And then something shatters in the hallway.

            Even though my body tenses, I can’t stop thinking one thought over and over again in my mind.

            I’m forgetting something I’m forgetting something I’m forgetting something.

            Jagger grips my arm and pulls me behind him as he rushes into the hallway. As soon as we round the corner and walk through the doorframe, we step on broken glass. All through the hallway is bits and shards of broken glass.

            All along the opposite wall of the hallway are broken windows. I never noticed them before as we walked because each and every one of them was covered in thick, brown grime. Now, each and every one of them has a gaping hole inside it. And worse than that, for every hole there’s at least three arms reaching through, trying to grab us.

            “Come on,” Jagger urges, keeping his hold on my as he moves to our side of the hallway. Because it’s so thin, he lowers me onto the floor and he drops his hand so we can crawl on our knees.

            My palms protest as I crush broken glass underneath them. Little pieces no bigger than a grain of sand lodge their way into my skin and I only hope that I make it out alive to remove them later. We rush as fast as we can on our hands and knees until we reach the classroom. Cole and Jack have their guns pointed at us the second we come into view.

            “What’s going on?” Cole shouts over the sound of more glass breaking and moans. He helps me to my feet as Bullet growls at my side. I have no idea where he came from.

            “Zombies are breaking in,” Jagger replies loudly. “We need to get out, now. Where do we go?”

            “We have to go out the back,” Cole explains, grabbing his backpack and stuffing food he took out into it.

            “That’s where they’re coming from!”

            Cole ignores Jagger’s comment until he turns around and meets his eyes. “There’s no way around the field. It’s the quickest way. We have to!”

            “But what about the zombies-“

            “If I remember correctly there’s a fence separating the kindergarten playground from the rest of the field. We’ll go out there and be shielded. Hopefully they’ll still be trying to get in here and we’ll be clear to go.” He pulls on his backpack and everyone rushes to get their own. “Oh, and remember,” he continues before we run out the door. “Don’t shoot unless you have to.”

             We run out of the classroom one after another, holding out guns at our sides as we hug the wall opposite the windows. Our footsteps barely make any noise compared to the sounds of the glass still breaking and moans, so we don’t worry about being entirely silent.

            The kindergarten room looms around us quicker than we expected. Cole leads us through the rows of tiny chairs and desks, ignoring the paintings and drawings scattered across the floor. He opens the back door quietly for us and raises a finger to his lips.

            We’re about to leave, about to escape. Either we’ll get away, all okay and alive. Or we’ll get surrounded in the fencing, just waiting for one of the zombies to break through to kill all of us.

            We all tip toe through the door, one after another. I’m second last, in front of Jagger. He feels me hesitate when I step into the daylight and grabs my shoulder, trying to comfort me.  But despite how I like his touch, I jerk my skin away.

            I’m forgetting something. Something is still missing.

            It isn’t until Cole edges his way cautiously around a small tricycle that all the blood falls from my face and I stagger. I bump quietly into Jack, my face colliding with his spine. As Jagger catches me and pulls me upright, my head swings to the left. I don’t see any zombies along the schoolyard, meaning that they’re around the corner of the building.

            Again, my gaze lands on something the children would play with outside and my stomach lurches, threatening to empty my lunch for the second time.

            Tears streak my face in fear before I can say it, before I can acknowledge what happened. Everyone is stopped, staring at me, wondering what’s going on but I can’t speak. I’m too in shock.

            I lift my head and meet Jack’s eyes. It’s his fault, he was the one watching and as soon as he looks at me, he knows it.

            “We left the toddler,” he gasps.