Chapter 4: Scorched Earth Protocol

Chapter 4: Scorched Earth Protocol

Karen Reed and Tiffany Vance stood frozen in the doorway of what was, moments ago, a functioning office. They watched in slack-jawed disbelief as Bob, the head of maintenance, and his two-man crew efficiently and methodically dismantled the room. The district-issue metal desk was upended, its legs unbolted with the whine of a power driver. Filing cabinets were emptied into rolling bins, their contents a cascade of manila folders that meant nothing to the men hauling them away.

“This is… this is insubordination!” Karen finally sputtered, her face a blotchy shade of magenta that almost matched her suit.

“Ma’am,” Bob said, not unkindly, but with the weary patience of a man who had seen it all. “Mr. Carter put in a priority work order. Said it was a direct order from the new principal to have all district property cleared from Office 101 for a ‘strategic staging area.’ Just following the chain of command.”

He gave her a bland smile and went back to work. The phrase, weaponized and turned back on her, left Karen speechless. Tiff was furiously typing on her tablet, presumably composing a strongly-worded report on this flagrant disrespect.

Meanwhile, Alex Carter was methodically executing the next phase of his plan. He had retreated to the small, windowless supply closet that also housed a secondary network terminal—a back door he’d set up years ago when the main office server was on the fritz. From here, he could orchestrate his quiet demolition.

His first targets were physical. He wheeled a dolly down to the staff lounge and unplugged the sleek, stainless-steel mini-fridge that was always stocked with cold water and the occasional yogurt. He’d bought it himself after seeing teachers faint from dehydration during a heatwave when the school’s water fountains failed. He affixed a bright yellow sticky note to the front: “Personal Property of A. Carter.”

Next, he visited the in-school suspension room, a small, grim classroom that doubled as a detention hall. The only point of interest was the large, smoked-glass window in the wall connecting to the main office—a two-way mirror he had personally sourced and convinced a glazier friend to install for a case of beer. It allowed administrators to observe the room without disrupting it. With a few deft movements of a screwdriver, he popped the mirror from its frame, wrapped it carefully in a moving blanket, and leaned it against the wall in the hallway. Another sticky note.

His final physical retrieval was the most telling. From each classroom, he collected a large, sealed plastic bucket. Inside each was a trauma kit, emergency rations, water purification tablets, and a solar-powered radio. They were lockdown safety buckets, a comprehensive emergency system he had designed and funded through a VFW grant after a district-mandated active shooter drill had revealed the school’s official plan was, essentially, to “hide and hope.” Another thirty sticky notes, one for each bucket, were placed. He wasn't just removing furniture; he was removing competence. He was removing safety. He was exposing the gaping holes his presence had always filled.

With the physical assets secured, he turned his attention to the digital realm. He still had full administrative access for another six weeks. It was time to clear his inbox.

He opened the procurement software. A dozen pending supply requests from teachers sat waiting for approval, most of which would have been automatically denied by the parsimonious district office. Ms. Albright wanted a new set of rock and mineral samples. Denied. The PE coach needed new floor hockey sticks. Denied. The special education department requested noise-canceling headphones. Denied.

Alex’s lips curled into a grim smile. He clicked ‘Approve.’ ‘Approve.’ ‘Approve.’ He went down the list, a benevolent god of classroom supplies, raining down resources upon his deserving staff. Then he got to the request from Mrs. Gable, the perpetually flustered art teacher. She had put in a speculative, almost comical request for a used, second-hand ceramics kiln, citing a local artist who was selling one for a song. It was the kind of request you put in knowing it was a pipe dream.

Alex clicked ‘Approve,’ adding a note: “Expedite delivery. Per district policy 734.2c, purchases under $2,500 for curriculum enhancement do not require secondary approval. Essential for Q4 artistic development goals.” He knew for a fact Karen Reed’s starting budget for the next year had just taken a five-thousand-dollar hit before she’d even been issued a key.

With the school’s coffers suitably lightened, he moved on to the true heart of his operation: his personal digital files. Over ten years, he had built a massive, intricate library of custom documents that made the school run. The district provided the bare minimum; he provided the workarounds, the cheat codes, the institutional memory that kept the gears from grinding to a halt.

He opened a folder labeled “Master Schedules.” Inside were the bus duty rosters he’d spent weeks perfecting, the lunch supervision schedules that prevented cafeteria riots, the emergency substitute teacher plans that could be understood by a confused temp in thirty seconds. He selected all. Shift + Delete.

Next, a folder called “Forms & Templates.” His custom-built discipline referral forms that actually gathered useful information. The parent-teacher conference request forms that were available in three languages. The student field trip permission slips that were actually legally sound, unlike the district’s ancient, liability-riddled version. Shift + Delete.

He purged his existence with a series of cold, efficient clicks. Years of work, tens of thousands of hours of thoughtful labor, vanished into the digital ether. Karen and Tiff would arrive expecting a well-oiled machine. They would find a pile of mismatched parts with no instruction manual.

His penultimate task was the most creatively malicious. He knew Tiff would be tasked with creating the orientation binders for the new school year. Alex, being proactive, decided to help. He opened the master template file, a project he had been meaning to finish. He deleted the helpful campus map and replaced it with a low-resolution satellite image of the school with the caption, “You Are Here.” He replaced the staff contact list with the full lyrics to Nickelback’s “Photograph.” He deleted the bell schedule and inserted a single, cryptic image of a confused-looking llama. And on the final page, under the heading “Important District Contacts,” he erased the numbers for HR and the curriculum department and replaced them with a single entry: “Teacher’s Union Legal Defense Fund,” followed by the direct phone number for their top lawyer. He saved the file and re-uploaded it to the shared server, marking it “FINAL - READY FOR PRINTING.”

Finally, it was time for the coup de grâce. He navigated to a password-protected file buried deep in his personal drive. The file was named “Community_Partners.xlsx.” It looked innocuous, but it was the school’s secret weapon. It was the master list of community donors Alex had cultivated over a decade. It wasn't just names and phone numbers. It was a detailed record of relationships. “Mr. Henderson at the hardware store will donate paint if you ask in March, before his fiscal year ends. Mention his daughter, Sarah.” “Mrs. Gable from the bakery provides free cookies for honor roll ceremonies, but hates being called on Mondays.” “The CEO of Veridian Tech is a huge wrestling fan; he’ll fund the new mats if you can talk about the Royal Rumble.”

This list was the reason Northwood had a robotics club, new band instruments, and scholarships for underprivileged students to go on the annual science trip. It was priceless, built on trust and years of genuine connection. It was the one thing an image-obsessed phony like Karen Reed would kill for.

Alex stared at the file for a long moment. Deleting this felt different. It felt like a true act of destruction. But leaving it behind would be arming the enemy, allowing Karen to take credit for the community he had built. He was scorching the earth so nothing could grow under the new regime’s blighted rule.

His finger hovered over the key. He thought of Lily, of the STEAM school, of the promise of a future where competence was rewarded, not punished. He thought of his teachers, who deserved a leader, not a warden.

He pressed the Delete key. When the confirmation box appeared—“Are you sure you want to permanently delete this file?”—he clicked ‘Yes’ without hesitation.

He logged out of the terminal, the silence of the supply closet pressing in around him. The purge was complete. He had erased himself, and in doing so, had planted a thousand landmines for the incoming administration. They wanted his job? They could have it. But they would have to build it from the ashes.