This is what it sounds like when the world ends.

I take in the auditorium. The cheery purple and beige walls, the matching banners that hang from the ceiling, the Rams posters (GO RAMS, GO!) taped up all over. It was Cary’s idea to come to the school. After we found the community center overrun, we heard that woman’s voice on the phone. Find a place. He didn’t even hesitate before he said CHS. Cortege High. It was built to be the most distraction-free learning environment in the county, which means maximum windows for minimal view. Strategically placed transoms line the classrooms and halls, save for skylights in the auditorium and gym. Two large windows open up the right side of the second and third floors and overlook the school’s parking lot. They’re covered now.

“It’s still happening,” Harrison says.

I follow his tearful gaze to the exit just right of the stage. The doors open into the parking lot which bleeds out into the streets of Cortege, a half-dead, half-dying town. They’re locked, the doors. Locked and covered with lunch tables reinforced by desks, thanks to Rhys and me. Every entrance and exit in here is the same. The idea is nothing gets past these barriers we’ve created. We spent the first five hours here putting them up. We’ve spent the last two shaking and quiet, waiting for them to fall.

“Of course it’s still happening,” Rhys mutters. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

Cary turns the radio off and eases himself onto the floor. He looks like he has something to say but first he runs his hands through his black hair, letting his eyes travel over each of us. Cary Chen. We followed him for days. Lily used to buy pot from him sometimes and sometimes I wanted to, but I thought that would make English class weird and I don’t know if she always paid in cash.

“Listen, I—” He sounds sandpaper rough from screaming instructions at us for hours and never once taking a breath. He clears his throat. “Phone?”

Trace makes a gurgling noise, digs his hand into his pocket, pulls out his cell, and frantically dials a number, but it’s no use. The woman’s voice drones over each desperate push of the buttons, a condensed version of what we’re getting on the radio. I watch the sound work its way into Trace’s bones, his blood. His face turns white and he whips his phone across the room. It breaks into three pieces; the back flies off, the battery falls out, and the body skitters across the shiny linoleum floor. Nothing works anymore and the things that still do don’t work like they should.

“I can’t get through,” he says flatly.

Cary picks up the pieces and fits them back in place.

“Give it more time. You will.”

“Think they’d pick up if I did?”

I watch Cary, waiting to see if he’ll defend himself. He doesn’t. He turns the cell phone over and over in his hands and says, “Trace, the message is a good thing. I think it means they’re leaving priority signal for emergency workers.”