Sherry Apocalypse Schoolgirl Pack 1 P Mature Online

“Contact,” Yuki whispered from the choir loft. Her voice was a reed in the wind. “Three mature male scavvers. Armed with pipe guns. They have a dog.”

“Mei, the left one has a gas mask. Take his air. Yuki, the dog first—then the man with the shotgun. I’ll take the leader.”

And somewhere deep in The Hollow, the Siren began to wail again. But for once, Sherry didn’t run. She just listened. Then she walked toward the sound.

The dog sensed Yuki a half-second too late. A silenced .22 round entered its ear. It dropped without a whimper. The shotgunner never even raised his barrel. Sherry Apocalypse Schoolgirl Pack 1 P Mature

“Tomorrow,” Sherry finally said, “we go east. There’s a rumor about a library. Not books. Seeds. A seed vault.”

They ate in silence. Yuki leaned her head on Sherry’s shoulder. Mei hummed a pop song from before the Fall—something about a boy, a summer, a car. Sherry couldn't remember the words.

Their objective today was the Vault of St. Agnes, a pre-Fall school rumored to hold a working cryo-pod. Inside: a pharmacologist who’d developed a partial cure for the Rustlung plague that turned adults into shambling, calcified statues. “Contact,” Yuki whispered from the choir loft

They called her pack “The Schoolgirls.” It was a joke the raiders made—until they didn’t. There were five of them originally. Now, in Pack 1 P (Mature designation—meaning they had survived longer than any other juvenile unit in the sector), there were three.

She was seventeen, though the mirror in the ruined department store told her she looked forty. Her uniform was no longer a symbol of youth, but a tool. The pleated skirt, hemmed with fishing line and razor blades, allowed her to run. The white blouse, stained rust-brown and charcoal, was stuffed with Kevlar scraps from a shattered police drone. The red bow at her collar? That was for her. A last piece of the girl she’d been before the Siren went off.

Yuki looked up. “Another rumor?”

The rain over the dead city tasted like tin and old pennies. Sherry had stopped trying to remember its real name three winters ago. Now, it was simply The Hollow—a graveyard of shattered highways and glass-toothed towers that clawed at a sky the color of a bruise.

Outside, the Rustlung wind moaned through the broken steeple.

Sherry sat on the floor, back against the pod, and took out a piece of hard candy she’d been saving for two months. Butterscotch. She broke it into three pieces with the pommel of her knife. Armed with pipe guns

She didn't kill him. That was the mature part. Instead, she sliced his belt, his bootlaces, and the tendons behind his knees. He’d live. He’d crawl. He’d tell others: The Schoolgirls are real. Don’t hunt near the cathedral.

Inside the Vault of St. Agnes, the cryo-pod was dead. A frozen woman’s face stared through the frosted glass—peaceful, beautiful, utterly useless. The cure was a fairy tale.