Time to get it back, he thinks. Time to get it all back.

He keeps his face carefully blank for the audience that is not there and dials the number he was given. There’s no voice at the other end, but apparently it’s not necessary. All he has to do is say the words.

“Lock the doors,” he says.

Right behind him, all around the school, all at once, the entrances and exits — every one of them steel-paneled, double-door, magnetic-locking, on a central circuit for fire safety — slam shut with a colossal boom.

He puts the phone away and steps through the only door that still works, into the gymnasium. People look at him. They heard the noise. Some of them were waiting for this moment to arrive.

Buzz nods. Fuller yanks a cord from the DJ’s setup, and the music comes to an abrupt halt. Buzz signals Lonnie, and Lonnie moves over to the equipment closet. He has a key and unlocks it.

“Buzz,” a woman says to him. “What’s going on?”

It takes him a second to recognize her. Jill Steffens. She blew him in the back seat of his car once, the night of a 14–3 win over Centerville. He’s pretty sure that was her. He and Hailey were on a break.

He takes out his Beretta and raises it. Her eyes go wide and she lets out a little shriek.

“Everyone, if I could have your attention, please,” he shouts.

He didn’t need to say it. Everyone’s eyes are on him already.

All around the gym, Lonnie is handing the other Followers their weapons. Shotguns. Good at close range, in an indoor space. Easy to use. And scary. People look at that big, black hole at the end of the barrel and imagine being blown to pieces. The sixteen Followers will be able to manage the whole crowd, herd them like cattle.

“It’s time for the real party to begin,” Buzz says.

They all look so scared. They’ll do whatever they’re told. This is serious, but he allows himself a little grin.

He feels like James Bond.

Alana doesn’t know where Carrie is now. Everyone in the gym is clumped up, on the verge of panic. They want to run, but there’s nowhere to run to.

She has to give Buzz and the Followers credit. They’ve got the whole room covered.

Jason Dunleavy tries to be a hero. He steps forward, yelling something, and Lonnie cracks him across the jaw with the stock of a shotgun. Dave drops to the floor and stays there. Lonnie points the gun around, shouting, “You want some? Huh? You want some? Fucking right you don’t.”

And that pretty much does it for any thoughts of rebellion. Most of the people here remember what a gunshot wound at close range looks like. Most of them have been trying to forget it for twenty years.