Slaughterhouse High

This night flag, designed by an artist of his grandparents' generation, had gradually replaced the day version, unofficially and then by an act of Congress. When it was first introduced, some had called it sacrilege. But most folks honored truth when they saw it: Fifty gloom-white skulls on a field of blue, bloody furrows alternating with flayed flesh, the skulls like Honest Abe looking drawn and haggard in his last photos, the flayings like sexual lashes gone mad, the whole a vivid rendering of the nation's dark side, the nation dubbed the Demented States of America scarcely twenty years before by an otherwise forgettable pop musician. The moniker had stuck, gone into common parlance, and was used more often than the original now-except by the President, though he too lapsed at times into the vernacular.

"Hi there," said Gerber Waddell, ducking and nodding at the sheriff from the flagpole.

Poor halfwit always said, Hi there.

Irritating.

"Looking good, Gerber."

The janitor mumbled his thanks, a catch in his throat as he figure-eighted the twin cord about its stay and yanked it tight. Benign feeb. Gone nutso years back at a corporate picnic the day after prom night. Killed one more than the law and custom allowed. But some judicious brain slicing had redeemed what could be redeemed, and Gerber Waddell, with the aid of his guardians the Bleaks, had become once more a productive member of society.

"Take care now, hear?"

"Thank you, Mister Sheriff." Gerber nodded politely, a grin on his face. Then he picked up the triangulated day flag, did a one-eighty, and headed for the school entrance.

Young couples were cascading now through the double doors, bottlenecked at the table Blackburn had just left. He had entrusted a padlock to the bristle-lipped shop teacher, Elwood Dunsmore-the final padlock that would be snapped on right at the stroke of eight, no more students allowed in after that, no more anybody. The only keys were in the packet he had left with Zane Fronemeyer and on the ring of metal hanging from the sheriff's belt.

A limousine drew up to disgorge another young couple, fear and anticipation on their faces.

Blackburn clucked and shook his head. Waste of money, as far as he was concerned. Most people made do with their own vehicles, parking in the lot on his left. But there were always some, too extravagant for their own damn good, who saw fit to hire fancy-dan automobiles, hoping to impress their dimbulb classmates with a display of gold-plated rungs up life's ladders.

Yeah, he remembered the kind from his own high school days. One of that crowd had reached his last red-gold rung a tad early, on prom night. The sheriff had a dried piece of pancreas at home to prove it.

Blackburn crossed the grass on his left and found the sidewalk. From his right fist swayed three padlocks.

Kids with flashlights, sketched shadows in the darkness, waved cars in off the street and left or right along a gauntlet of volunteers who handled the parking proper. Overhead, a pallid moon drifted in and out of pewter-gray clouds.

Passing the iron-barred windows of several classrooms, Blackburn rounded the corner of the building and headed for the gym's emergency exit door. When one lock's hasp slid snugly into place there, its firm snap sealed off the exit as a means of escape. There would be no promjumpers on his watch, at least not the kind that signed in and slipped out.

High exuberant shouts erupted in the parking lot at the sheriff's back. He thought of his son and two daughters, how in two short years Blitz, a sophomore, would drive or be driven into this very parking lot for her prom. Yesterday, a slight injury in gym class had brought Daddy to school, where he received assurances from Nurse Gaskin and a handshake from Principal Buttweiler. The whole encounter had given Blackburn a chill.

But they said it built character, this prom ordeal. And he had survived it, him and his wives.

"Hello, Sheriff!" Kids passed by, crossing the lot, a hint of challenge in their voices, but respect too.

He raised a hand to them. "Be careful now, you hear? Don't go catching any stray knives!"

"We won't!" But they well might. Only a few teachers, and the principal of course, knew which couple would die tonight.

Two padlocks remained.

Blackburn hummed as he rounded the building's next corner, low bristly shrubs keeping him clear of the wall. The back entrance was used only by driver ed kids and those who lived north of the school. It yielded to his efforts, a sturdy door now made impassable.

Nobody here. He started to feel creepy in spite of himself. Whistle a happy tune.

Right.

He resumed his walk around the building. On the east side was an emergency exit from the band room, hidden in moon shadows. The floods on this side hadn't been flicked on!

Damn that dimwit janitor.