The whole building starts to tremble, blurring the edges of everything. Not the crude, violent shaking and bouncing that Fred produces, but a subtle, high-frequency shiver, like an animal protesting angrily, Protesting against what? Me? This is getting out of hand! I’m lost in a school that feels more and more like a living, breathing creature.
Urged on by the rapidly escalating vibrations, I start to run. I have an idea, a desperate one, but it's the only one I have. I figure my best chance of saving myself is to deliver the list to the vice-principal’s office, no matter what year I find myself in. Yes, that must be it. Once I've completed my task, everything will return to normal... hopefully.
The vice-principal’s office is only a few corners away from the science classroom. I can make it. But as soon as I turn the first corner, everything goes sideways—big time. Something hard hits me in the face. My knees buckle, the taste of iron fills my mouth, and blood streams from my nose. Voices everywhere. Orders. Screams. Of pain. Of rage.
Reflexively, I throw myself sideways as men and women rush past me, seemingly oblivious to my presence. I’m not even sure if they are real. The foot landing on my knee, however, is very real, as is the pain shooting through my leg. I scream and press myself against the wall. This isn’t a normal time-jump. This is madness. Everything is spiraling out of control.
The group running past me looks like they stepped right out of one of Scroptz’s paintings—ancient Egyptians carrying spears, swords, and shekel-shaped knives. Their bronzed upper bodies gleam with sweat, and they smell exotic, of herbs I can’t identify. They smell of adventure. They charge towards another painting that has come to life—a small band of World War I soldiers, bayonets fixed, determined to stand their ground. Nobody is minding me. I can still get away.
I push myself back around the corner, only to find two other paintings battling it out. Medieval crusaders are hacking away with long swords at a group of twelve cavemen, not the Flintstones, but real ones: low brows, hunched backs, long limbs, armed only with sharp rocks and primitive spears, yet fighting with fierce, death-defying commitment. One of the spears slips between the metal breastplates of a knight’s armor. Blood sprays all over me. I clap my hands over my mouth, struggling to stifle a scream.
The school has gone mad! I must get out of here before I get wounded... or killed. I try to get to my feet. The tip of a lance grazes my leg, tearing the fabric of my trousers. Blood trickles down my leg. I suppress a scream. It's not deep. Not serious. Move on!
At the end of the corridor, bodies are piled up, forming a horrifying barrier of human flesh. I swallow my disgust. It's the only way. I have to climb over it if I want to escape. As I do, the smell of burned flesh fills my nose. I glance at my hands; they glow red hot. Occasionally, I hear a soft sigh or groan when I place my hand or foot on someone still alive, but most bodies remain lifeless and silent. This is just too nauseatingly morbid to comprehend. I try with all my might not to throw up.
When I finally roll down the other side and stumble around the next corner, I find once again that it solves nothing at all.
Six Roman soldiers from yet another painting are helplessly pinned against the ceiling by six beams of light emitted from six small devices held by six spacemen in silver space suits, who have stepped straight out of the vintage movie poster in Scroptz’s classroom. The remaining Roman cohort charges forward, outnumbering the spacemen ten to one. However, just before they reach them, they crash into an invisible barrier—a force field of some kind—which they begin attacking with such bloodthirsty determination that the six spacemen grow increasingly worried. Then, without warning, the force field is down. The first Roman soldier stumbles forward. The spacemen don’t stand a chance; they are slaughtered right before my eyes. One by one, the beams of light are extinguished. One by one, the soldiers crash to the ground. I tear my eyes away.
I urge myself to move on, but before I can take another step, American soldiers storm the corridor from the other side, as if it's Omaha Beach on D-Day. I’m trapped. I have nowhere to go.
I sink to the ground, making myself as small as possible, wrapping my arms around my head and knees in a futile attempt to protect myself. A heavy boot lands on my ankle. I scream. My head is struck multiple times. Now that it’s impossible to escape physically, I resort to the only thing I’ve mastered over the years: I disengage my mind from my body. So, while my body is trampled and overrun, my mind spirals inward, searching for a glimmer of hope. Suddenly, I wish my neighbor were here. He always knows how to calm me with a simple remark. Or Angel, who never fails to make me laugh. But as my mind retreats even further, I realize there’s someone I want to see even more—Gran. I want to curl up against her and let her improbable proverbs wash over me like water. And then, everything turns black.