I gestured with my chin to the door. “Open it and hold it,” I said. My hands were full. It was colder on the hill than down in town, and the sky had a sullen look that promised rain. My brother took the handle, tugged, and the heavy metal door swung inward with a creak.

We stepped into the corridor. Cold, damp air greeted us. The smell of old stone and new paint mingled with something metallic. I didn’t have time to take it in.

The ground rumbled underfoot. Dust sifted from the stone walls. At first, I thought it was a passing truck on the road below, but then I heard shouts. Outside, boys abandoned their clay and sprinted toward the building. They moved with practiced urgency, feet pounding, faces tight with fear but not panic. This had happened before.

I backed up to the doorway and looked across the playground. Beyond the fence, the trees in the mountain forest didn’t just shake, they convulsed. Branches snapped. Bushes flattened. What had looked like a gentle green border a minute ago now churned like a storm‑tossed sea. At first, I thought a single big cat was coming. Instead I saw dozens—hundreds—of shapes pouring down the slope: spotted leopards the size of trucks, shaggy beasts with horns, serpentine bodies with scales that flashed silver and black. Some were as small as dogs, others towered above the treetops. They surged forward in a writhing mass, a wave of teeth and claws. The ground shook because thousands of monsters were charging toward us at once.

“Inside, now!” the teacher barked. He grabbed the last boy by the collar and shoved him through the door. His eyes met mine for an instant. I saw fear there, but also determination. He pushed me hard. “Move!”

As I stumbled backward into the corridor, a low roar rolled over the hill like thunder. The teacher slammed the door. I heard the bar locking. He turned to me, grabbed my shoulder, and shook me. “Snap out of it if you want to live,” he hissed. “Follow them!”

I followed. The corridor was narrow, lit by dim bulbs. Ahead, the boys ran without speaking. At the next corner, we veered left and saw a round hatch set into the floor. It looked like the entrance to a bunker. A heavy steel lid, several centimeters thick, was propped open. One by one, the boys climbed down a metal ladder. The class monitor was already halfway down.

My brother went ahead of me. When I put my foot on the top rung, I looked back. The teacher stood in the corridor, glancing over his shoulder. The floor trembled. Plaster cracked. The roar grew louder, as if the wave were about to crash onto the school. “Take care of the kids,” he said softly, as if the monsters couldn’t hear him. “Find the green button on the bookshelf. That’s your way to the city. Hurry!” His face twisted between a sad smile and tears. Without waiting for my reply, he slammed the lid. The darkness swallowed me.