The Last Good Summer
The world ended quietly.
No mushroom cloud. No alien death beam. No Godzilla stomping Penn Station. Just a cough. The adults called it Captain Trips. It spread like gossip in a trailer park, fast and sloppy, and before anyone knew what was happening, people were bleeding and suffocating in their own lungs. Schools closed. Stores shut down. Teachers vanished. Parents got sick. Then neighbors. Then everyone else.
For the kids of Brookline, Colorado, reality shrank down to empty streets, silent houses, and the echoes of what the world used to be. The only ones left were the ones too young to understand the odds. The ones the virus did not want.
Seven kids survived.
Only seven.
They did not plan to become a tribe. It just happened, the way gravity happens. When everything adult disappeared, kids clung to other kids. Someone to stand next to. Someone to keep watch while you slept. Someone who still remembered how to laugh, even when laughter sounded like it belonged to ghosts.
The group was held together by a girl named Frankie Harper.
Frankie was thirteen and had the face of someone who had seen too much and decided she was not going to blink anymore. Her hair was uneven, chopped with kitchen scissors, and she wore a baseball bat slung from a bike messenger strap across her back like a medieval weapon. No nail spikes or punk rock leather. Just a bat. A clean, perfect Louisville Slugger.
“You keep the bat clean,” she said to the others. “Clean means ready.”
The others trusted her because she did not talk nonsense. She was blunt, calm, and hard in a way that made the others feel safe. They followed her like orbiting moons.
The group consisted of:
Jax, ten years old, the smallest and fastest. Lean as a scarecrow, always climbing on things.
Becca, twelve, quiet, wore her late mother’s denim jacket even in the heat. She hummed when she was scared.
Tyler, fourteen, the oldest. Once believed he was king of the middle school because he had armpit hair. Now he questioned everything and sometimes cried when he thought no one saw.
Twins, Mira and Cody, both eleven. Bright brown eyes. They could finish each other’s sentences, which made everyone else nervous. They remembered every street, every back road, every shortcut.
And Liam, thirteen, big for his age. The gentle giant. If you needed to push something heavy, Liam was your guy. If you needed someone to say something kind, he was also your guy. He had found Frankie's group after burying both parents in the backyard. No words. He just walked up and sat down next to them, like he had arrived where he was meant to be.
They lived in the old Brookline Elementary School.
They chose it because it was sturdy brick, two stories tall, and the cafeteria still had canned vegetables and industrial-size peanut butter. The gym had gym mats. The classrooms still had blankets from naptime for the little kids.
Jax turned the principal’s office into a radio room. He fiddled with knobs and dials he did not understand because movies had taught him that radios were how you connected to other survivors.
“Anything?” Frankie asked one morning, leaning in the doorway with her bat.
Jax stared at the static like it was hypnotizing him.
“Nah,” he muttered. “Just snow.”
“It is not snow,” Frankie said. “Snow melts. Static does not.”
He rolled his eyes.
“You know what I meant.”
She did. She always did.
They scavenged every few days. Sometimes Walmart. Sometimes the gas station outside of town. Sometimes houses. They never took everything. Frankie believed that leaving something behind honored the dead. Or maybe it kept the ghosts quiet. She never explained it.
They traveled in pairs on bikes.
Frankie and Liam.
Becca and Tyler.
Mira and Cody, always together.
Jax usually rode behind Frankie. He hated that, but everyone agreed he could not be trusted alone.
Life settled into routine. Meals from cans. Rainwater barrels. Defending their turf from raccoons that had gotten way too bold. The world became smaller, but also bigger. They knew every crack in every sidewalk. They knew where to find wild strawberries and where the septic runoff made the grass grow in strange patterns.
They talked around campfires made of torn library books. They played cards. They told stories. They laughed. They teased. They fought.
They survived.
For a moment, it almost felt like childhood again.
Then summer ended, and everything changed.
ONE
Jax saw the first sign of trouble at the far west edge of town.
He and Frankie were returning from a scavenging run at the Lowes parking lot, backpacks loaded with batteries, bottled water, and an entire box of Popsicles that had melted into one giant frozen blob in the freezer section. Sticky, but still usable if you just accepted that you were eating rainbow flavored memories.
Frankie had tied her bat to her back again. She seemed calm, but Jax could see her shoulders were tight.
“What do you think melted Popsicles were like before all this?” Jax asked.
“Cold and separate.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
Frankie was not exactly a conversationalist.
They pedaled past the turnoff toward Route 66 when Jax saw something painted across a tall section of concrete barrier.
Red paint.
Large letters.
The size of billboards.
“HE IS COMING.”
Jax stopped so fast his bike skidded sideways.
Frankie braked and stared at it for a long time. The sun was low, glare on the letters, and the paint looked more like dried blood than anything from a spray can.
“Who is he?” Jax whispered.
Frankie did not answer. Instead, she got off her bike and walked closer, studying the edges of the paint, pressing a fingertip against the dried streak.
“Not spray paint,” she said. “Too thick.”
“What then?”
She wiped her fingertip on her jeans.
“Not paint.”
Jax took a step back.
“You think it’s blood?”
Frankie did not look at him.
“Let’s go.”
She got on her bike and pedaled so hard her legs blurred.
Jax followed, trying not to cry.
TWO
Back at the school, the others gathered around when they saw Frankie’s face.
Tyler frowned.
“What happened?”
Frankie took a breath and pointed west, toward the mountains.
“Someone left a message.”
Mira and Cody exchanged looks.
Becca asked, “What kind of message?”
Frankie said, “Not the friendly kind.”
Liam stood up from the gym mat he had been repairing.
“Show us.”
Frankie shook her head.
“Not tonight. We do not travel after dark.”
Tyler straightened, offended.
“We have the school locked down. We have flashlights. We could see anything coming.”
Frankie locked eyes with him, her voice low.
“We do not travel after dark.”
That was the first moment Tyler stopped seeing himself as co leader. Frankie had authority that came from somewhere deeper. She spoke like someone who had already seen the worst and did not need to debate it.
They ate dinner in silence, listening to the wind rattle the aluminum blinds. No one mentioned the Popsicles. Jax tried to distract himself by wondering how someone finds enough blood to paint letters three feet high. Maybe a deer. Maybe a cow. Maybe something else.
Becca broke the silence.
“Do you think there are other people?”
Frankie looked up.
“Yes.”
Tyler leaned forward, hungry for hope.
“Good people? Or like, bad survivor people. The weird ones who talk to mannequins and collect toenails.”
Jax snorted.
Frankie kept her voice even.
“There are always both.”
Liam set down his fork. His voice was soft, but everyone heard him.
“We are not alone.”
The room felt colder after that.
THREE
They found the second message three days later.
It was painted across the pavement outside the empty Brookline Municipal Court. Again in thick crimson.
“THE BOY WHO WALKS.”
Frankie stared at it for a full minute.
“What does that mean?” Becca whispered.
Tyler kicked a loose pebble.
“It means someone has too much free time and zero regard for our mental health.”
Cody tugged on Mira’s sleeve and pointed toward the courthouse steps.
“Look.”
A man was slumped on the stone stairs. Skin gray and cracked. Dried blood around his mouth. His head lolled sideways at an angle that suggested structural failure. The virus had taken him weeks ago, yet someone had tied a piece of cardboard to his chest with red yarn.
The sign read:
“DO YOU BELIEVE?”
Frankie tightened her grip on the bat.
“We should go.”
Tyler raised his chin.
“No. This is our town. Our turf. We are not running from graffiti.”
Frankie turned and looked at him, voice flat.
“There is a difference between bravery and stupidity. You lean toward the wrong one.”
He shook his head.
“We have been pretending the world is done. What if it is not? What if there are survivors who want the same thing we do?”
Jax stepped closer to Frankie.
“I do not like this. The sign. The dead guy. The paint. It feels wrong.”
Frankie scanned the area.
“We are leaving.”
They rode back double speed. Mira kept looking over her shoulder. Becca hummed silently. Liam pedaled slow, eyes everywhere, like his body was too big for the bike and too calm for the fear.
When they reached the school, they blocked the doors with filing cabinets.
Not because Frankie said to.
Because no one wanted to be the last one in.
FOUR
That night, Jax woke to a voice.
It came through the radio.
At first, he thought he was dreaming because he fell asleep in the principal’s office again, his face pressed against a binder labeled PTO Fundraising Ideas. The static was always on, like white noise in a cheap motel.
But then the static shifted.
A low hum. A rhythm. Words buried in the hiss.
“…alone… walking… coming…”
Jax sat up.
“Hello?” He whispered into the receiver like it was a holy relic. “Who is this? Where are you?”
The voice cracked through the static, uneven, warped.
“Do you believe?”
Jax threw the headphones across the desk and scrambled backwards. His heart punched his ribs so hard he felt dizzy.
The hallway lights flicked once, from the generator strain. A gust of wind rattled the hallway lockers. He imagined footsteps. Long, slow footsteps.
He bolted to Frankie’s sleeping spot and shook her shoulder.
“Wake up. Wake up right now.”
Frankie opened her eyes instantly. Light sleeper. Trauma did that.
“What happened?”
He told her. The voice. The phrase. The same words that had been on the dead man's chest.
She did not laugh. She did not accuse him of dreaming.
She stood up, grabbed the bat, and woke the others.
FIVE
Morning brought decisions.
Frankie gathered the group in the cafeteria, what used to be the heart of the school. There were posters on the walls showing cartoon vegetables telling kids to eat more fiber. There were long tables covered in board games, maps, scavenged batteries, vitamin gummies, and a bucket of wild strawberries that Mira and Cody had collected.
Frankie paced, calm but sharp.
“We have three problems.”
Tyler raised a hand.
“Oh my God. We are having a meeting. Fantastic.”
Frankie ignored him.
“One. Someone painted messages. Two. Someone handled a dead body. Three. Someone broadcast our conversations on the radio.”
Becca hugged herself.
“You think he hears us? All the time?”
Frankie nodded.
“We cannot assume privacy anymore.”
Tyler scoffed.
“Maybe it is not a he. Maybe it is a she. Or an it. Or a government signal. Or aliens. Or like, maybe this is a prank. Punked. Surprise. Ashton Kutcher crawls out from behind a bush.”
Frankie slammed the bat on the table. The crack echoed like a handgun. Tyler flinched, his eyes wide.
“This is not comedy,” Frankie said. “Messages in blood are not jokes.”
Liam’s deep voice rolled in.
“He wants us scared.”
Frankie nodded.
“And we are not giving him what he wants.”
Tyler scowled.
“So what. We attack?”
Frankie looked at him like he was made of cardboard.
“No. We scout. We find out how close he is. We learn the terrain. We keep our home safe.”
Becca’s voice wavered.
“Home?”
Frankie met her eyes.
“Yes. Home. We protect it.”
And that was enough.
SIX
They moved out at dawn, bikes silent on cracked pavement.
Frankie led. Jax rode behind her, one hand on the walkie-talkie. Mira and Cody flanked the middle like twin guard dogs. Tyler and Becca rode the rear. Liam walked, not rode. He preferred the ground under his feet. He carried a metal pipe like it weighed nothing.
They found the third message at the far north edge of Brookline.
Painted on the side of an abandoned RV.
“THE BOY WHO WALKS IS NEAR.”
Tyler shivered.
“What is he walking for. A challenge?”
Frankie did not smile.
The RV door hung open. Inside was a smell of rot and gasoline. On the small kitchenette table sat a Polaroid photo. A child’s photo. Pale boy. Shaved head. Black eyes. Wearing a hospital gown.
Becca whispered, “He looks our age.”
Frankie studied the photo. Her jaw clenched.
“He is not dead.”
Tyler frowned.
“How can you tell?”
Frankie tapped the Polaroid.
“Eyes. People who die do not keep that look. He is watching.”
Mira pointed toward the floor.
A second Polaroid.
This one was taken from outside Brookline Elementary School. Their school.
Jax grabbed Frankie’s arm.
“He knows where we live.”
Frankie nodded.
“We are going back. Now.”
They pedaled hard, the fear like static under their skin. Liam ran, long strides, not slowing. Every kid in that formation felt the weight of the photo like a countdown timer.
They burst into the school.
It smelled wrong.
Not wood. Not dust.
Something sweet.
Jax froze.
Cody gagged.
Smeared across the hallway wall, in thick strokes:
“ARE YOU READY TO BELIEVE?”
Under it, on the floor, sat their last unopened jar of peanut butter.
The lid had been removed. A spoon was next to it.
The peanut butter was scooped into a perfect, shallow circle. Like someone had taken just enough to prove he had been there, but not enough to count as theft.
Tyler whispered, voice shaking.
“He did not take anything else.”
Frankie’s voice dropped to a murmur.
“He does not need to.”
SEVEN
That night, no one slept.
Frankie kept them in the cafeteria with every door blocked. Tyler held a flashlight like a weapon. Becca trembled. Mira and Cody sat back-to-back, eyes fixed in opposite directions.
Liam stood at the main entrance, pipe ready.
Jax stayed beside the radio.
Midnight.
Static.
Then the voice, calm and almost childlike.
“I see you.”
Jax’s breath hitched.
Frankie knelt beside him and took the receiver.
“Who are you?”
The voice laughed softly. A sound without joy.
“I walk.”
“That is not a name.”
“I find the ones who are alone.”
Frankie tightened her grip on the bat.
“We are not alone.”
“You will be.”
Silence.
Then the radio cut out.
The power flickered.
Outside, a single long knock echoed through the gymnasium doors.
Three beats.
Pause.
Three beats.
Pause.
Three beats.
Tyler whispered, “That is Morse code. S. O. S.”
Frankie shook her head.
“No. That is not what it means.”
“What then?”
“It means he wants us to open the door.”
EIGHT
They waited until dawn.
No one spoke. No one breathed unless necessary.
When the sun rose, Frankie motioned toward the main entrance. Liam nodded and slowly pushed one filing cabinet aside. Frankie gripped her bat. Tyler held the flashlight. Jax held a fire extinguisher because it was the heaviest thing he could lift.
They unlatched the doors.
Outside, on the concrete steps, sat a stack of canned peaches.
Seven cans.
One for each of them.
Frankie swore and kicked one down the sidewalk.
Jax whispered, “He knows our number.”
Becca squeezed her jacket tight around her shoulders.
“We could leave.”
Mira shook her head.
“We will not survive out there.”
Cody said, “We stay. We stand.”
Frankie nodded.
“We stay.”
NINE
The battle came on the fourth night.
Not with guns or explosions. Just footsteps.
Soft, deliberate footsteps on the school roof.
Frankie commanded positions.
Liam guarded the stairs.
Tyler and Becca controlled the back hall.
Mira and Cody watched the courtyard.
Jax stayed near the radio, listening for that voice.
The footsteps traveled across the roof, slow, measured. Whoever was up there knew exactly where they were below.
Then glass shattered in the library.
Cody shouted, “Movement. He is inside.”
Frankie ran, Liam behind her.
In the library, books were scattered on the floor. Something had climbed in through the skylight. There were footprints on the carpet. Bare feet. Small. Kid sized.
Tyler shouted from the hall.
“He is in the science wing.”
Frankie sprinted.
They turned the corner and froze.
A boy stood at the far end of the hall. Pale skin. Black eyes. Same boy from the Polaroid. Thin and still. Wearing a patient gown and no shoes.
He smiled.
“You survived. That means He wants you.”
Frankie stepped forward.
“Who wants us?”
The boy blinked, long and slow.
“The man who walks in dreams.”
“Why us?”
“You are young. You are pure. He wants believers.”
Tyler scoffed.
“We already have beliefs. Like in cereal. And sleeping. And not inviting psycho children into our home.”
The boy tilted his head.
“You will follow.”
Frankie raised the bat.
“No.”
She lunged.
The boy moved fast. Too fast. He caught the bat with one hand. Frankie’s eyes widened. Liam barreled into them from the side, his weight knocking the boy into a row of lockers. The metal caved inward.
The boy’s expression did not change. No pain. No anger. Just interest.
“You should not resist. He does not like resistance.”
Liam grabbed him by the throat. The boy did not struggle.
Jax screamed from down the hall.
“Behind you!”
Frankie spun as another figure crawled from an air vent. Not a boy this time. A man. Eyes black. Skin gray. Moving silent and wrong.
Then another climbed through a window.
Then another.
Silhouettes multiplied in the hall.
Frankie’s heart hammered.
“Run!”
Liam dropped the pale boy.
The group fled toward the cafeteria, doors locked behind them, filing cabinets slammed into place. The black eyed people pressed their faces to the reinforced glass. They whispered in unison.
“Believe.”
Inside the cafeteria, panic rose. Becca cried. Tyler shook. Mira and Cody whispered a frantic prayer.
Frankie grabbed the walkie talkie.
“We need a plan.”
Jax pointed to the gas generator closet.
“We overload the power. We blow the system. We start a fire. Smoke will drive them out. We escape through the back.”
Frankie hesitated.
“This school is home.”
Jax looked at her, voice steel.
“We cannot stay dead in our home.”
Frankie nodded once.
They overloaded the generator.
Sparks.
Smoke.
Alarm bells.
The lights flickered and died.
The black eyed people began clawing through the weakening doors.
Frankie turned to the group.
“Follow me.”
They escaped through the kitchen, through the delivery loading dock, into the breaking dawn.
Behind them, Brookline Elementary burned.
TEN
They made it to a ridge outside town.
Smoke rose behind them. Orange against the morning sky. The school collapsed inward, a slow sigh of wood and flame.
Jax sobbed.
“That was home.”
Frankie put an arm around him. No comforting words. Just presence. That mattered more.
Becca wiped her eyes.
“What now?”
Frankie looked west. Toward the mountains. Toward the direction of the painted warnings.
“We ride.”
Tyler swallowed.
“To where?”
Frankie gripped the bat over her shoulder.
“To find whoever is coming.”
Mira whispered.
“To stop him.”
Cody nodded.
“To end this.”
Liam spoke last.
“We are not prey.”
They got on their bikes. Frankie led again. No school behind them. No safety. No walls.
Only each other.
They pedaled toward the unknown.
And somewhere behind them, inside the smoke and ash, a voice whispered through a busted radio speaker in the ruins.
“Believe.”
END
