We're Ghosts in a Hail of Bullets

I had that dream again. The one where I was at that school with those strangers. Everyone was so confused and scared that they were running around that one white room, flipping desks open, ignoring the man on the T.V., and screaming at each other. Two people actually paid attention. While the others were busy flipping things over and yelling at the person next to them, they took bottles of water, sharpened pencils, and the small, folded up maps that were laying around. I found a small letter opener, some water, and a map. I was one of the smart ones. A light beeping sound signaled that our time was counting down. I tried to brace myself for the run to the door. As soon as the clock reached zero, the whole mob of people would rush to the door, creating a block. Maybe if I could pick up speed and the crowd there I could make it, but I wasn't fast at all. I would have to wait.
My prediction came true. They shoved and pushed each other until the doorway was finally cleared. They all went their separate ways once they reached the hallway, but I stayed by the door. I examined the area I was in. It was day and night the white room. The hallway was outdoor and wrapped around the unattended courtyard in a square shape. It was rather large. If I looked up, I could see the sky and a tall building next to the one I was in. There was broken windows on every floor and broken glass everywhere. I looked to my left and right and saw doors that had been busted down, burned, and painted on. Weeds were growing through the cracks in the cement and breaking through the bricks that hardly held the walls together. The sound of a gun shot startled me and brought me back into reality. Unfortunately it froze me to my spot and I knew I would be the first to go. The figure of a man, dressed in all back, appeared in one of the windows of the other building. He was holding a shot gun, which scared me because I thought he only had hand-to-hand weapons.

"Run!" he shouted from the distance. I didn't hesitate. I darted to my left and found one of the boys in our group. He was walking out of the dark, abandoned rooms with a backpack full of stuff. He was a tall, grungy-looking boy who gave me a stern look. I stopped in my tracks having only ran a few feet. He looked down at a picture he was holding and then back at me.

"What's three, twenty, ninety-five?" he asked in a deep voice. I shook my head. They were just numbers to me. "Well, it's your problem then," he said before handing me the picture. It was of me, standing in front of a blue wall. I was starring straight at the camera with a tired look. Like I had just woken up and someone thought it was funny to take a picture of me. On the back, written in dying, blue, pen ink were the three numbers. The boy ran off in a flash. He was just gone but I could hear his foot steps down the hall. I wanted to ask him some questions but I knew it was meaningless.
I wandered through the maze-like building, popping in and out of rooms just to find them empty. Every room was a class room. The subject were written on the black boards, but I didn't have time to care. I had to find something to defend myself besides a lousy letter opener. You never bring a knife to a gun fight, right?
By the time I found anything useful, the killer took his first victim. It was in the auditorium. I was in a class room just above it. There was a small hole in the floor and I could see all that happened. The killer walked up to the screaming girl, holding his shotgun loosely in his right hand. His heavy foot steps echoed into my room and crashed against the walls of my brain. He was slow with the killing. That was the scary part. He allowed her to savor those last few moments of her life before he shot her. After the gigantic bang, he knelt down be side her. I couldn't see what he did, but was there for a few seconds. Then he left as slowly as he came. It was my cue to get out of there. I scrounged up the few, small items that I found and ran out of the class room. Now I had two bottles of water, a small, old fashion air soft gun, five sharpened pencils, the map, and the letter opener. I had an idea with the air soft gun and the pencils, but I was too frantic to test it out.
As I dashed down the corridor, trying to find a stair case, an announcement come on through the speakers.

"Stephanie Boggs, the first victim to go," said the voice over the speakers. He sounded so casual about it, like it was a common, everyday thing. It sickened me. But I continued to run and run. The announcements kept coming though. In about twenty minutes, three people were dead including the first girl. Ten minutes after that, two more people were killed. I had a few break downs. Tears fell from my eyes as I ran up the stairs and through the halls, but I never stopped moving. More people died. I could hear the gun shots and their screams. They were carved into my brain like wounds forming into scars. The only good thing that came out of the time that past was that I figured out those numbers and who I was. Three, twenty, ninety-five was my birthday and soon after that I remembered who I was.
I was on the roof when I had a complete meltdown. I fell to my knees and screamed at the top of my lungs for someone to save us. Only there wasn't an "us" anymore. The final announcement came on saying that last person had died. His name was Kyle Greenwell. I thought I had won. He killed the last person and tragically that meant I won. I was the last one, but fate would never allow that. Not for a coward that ran the whole time.

"Now Anna, you better be able to fight him off," the announcer said adding in a chuckle at the end. I tried to wipe away my tears and muster up some courage, but then I heard the heavy footsteps. A pair of large combat boots slowly collided with the pavement, chipping away at my sanity. I took the air soft gun out of the plastic bag I was carrying everything in and stuck a sharpen pencil in the barrel. I aimed at the killer, finger on the orange trigger, and tried to catch my breath. But I dropped the gun. I wish I could have blame my hands because they were shaking so bad, but I couldn't make it that far. The boy smacked the gun out my hand and then pressed the double barrels of his shot gun against my forehead. I looked up at him in disbelief, trying to breath, and tears streaming down my face.
He had blonde, wavy hair, dark, brown eyes like midnight skies, and a completely motionless face. His lips seemed to be trembling, but he wouldn't let himself show any sadness if he even felt it. But I recognized his face and it broke my heart. The killer was Tate.
There was a loud bang from the gun and then I woke up in my room. My pillow was covered in pathetic tears and I was alone. That's when I continued to cry. I was so scared. My mind told me to run as far as I could, but my heart told me to lay there and cry. I was doing a lot of crying lately. What made it worse was I could feel eyes on me. The spirit who was watching wouldn't reveal themselves. I was too torn up to demand them to. I really didn't care. I just wanted to cry until my eyes bleed or my lungs gave out.