by Poss, Bryant
“Wow, good thinking, Lo,” Cillian glanced at her hand. “What’s in the bag?”
“Homework,” she said with a grin.
“I’m sorry, what?” he cocked his eyebrow at her then caught the book she threw. “Lord of the Flies, you were serious about that? I told you I’ve read it.”
“But not with me,” she said, walking another copy over to Alice. “We’re pretty well situated here, and I think it’s time to put education back on the agenda.”
“Well, that settles it,” Cillian said, fanning the pages with his thumb.
“What?”
“It’s truly the apocalypse. Not only is the world covered in zombies and psychopaths, but we’ve got to go back to school now. Awesome.”
“Hey,” Lo crossed her arms and looked at him. “I said education, not school. Big difference. Wipe out whatever you have in mind about school. We’re about to do this together. No lectures, no political correctness, no bureaucratic bullshit. We’re going to discuss, debate, devour everything we can the way it should be. Hey, I’ll be learning right there with you when it comes to some subjects.”
“And we’re starting with British literature?” Cillian held the book up. “You know there’s a gymnasium in this place. A weight room? There’s plenty to do.”
“Believe me, all that will be used. And no, we’re not starting with a particular type of literature, we’re starting with human nature,” she pointed at the book in his hands. “In light of our current situation, I’d say that’s pretty important.”
“There’s only four of us. Don’t we need more people?”
“I’m actually glad you brought that up, Alice,” Lo walked over and sat in front of the girl, using the question to transition to what she had on her mind. “Were there any other kids at the camp? It couldn’t have been just you and Devon.”
“There were other people, other kids,” Alice said, playing around with the cereal in the box. “That’s something I really wanted to talk to you about, but I wasn’t sure how to bring it up. The others won’t do well without me there. I helped them deal with things. Well, me and Ben. Actually, if it wasn’t for Ben most of the kids would probably be dead.”
“Ben?” Lo’s face lit up, holding her hand over her head. “A little taller than me? Dark hair, green eyes? Uh, stubble on his face, kind of broad in the shoulders?”
The chill that ran from Cillian’s scalp to soles practically vibrated the windows.
“He’s got a scar on the side of his face,” Alice drew a line from her temple to her jaw with her finger.
Lo’s body went rigid. “On his right cheek?” She traced her finger down the side of her face.
“Yes, he had a beard, but the scar was still there,” Alice continued. “That’s him exactly.”
“Oh my god, I don’t believe it!” Lo stared at the floor in wonder.
“I don’t know, Lo,” Cillian’s voice quivered. “He was fighting a spazzo. Seems—I don’t know—hard to believe.”
“You didn’t even know him!” she snapped at him and immediately regretted it. Cillian’s face dropped like he’d just put down his dog. “Hey, Cillian, look—"
He turned to the door, clumsily unlocking it, and walked out, the others just watching as he did.
“Hey, you shouldn’t go out—” Lo’s voice cut off with the door, and he looked up and down the empty hallway before walking on.
The silence of the halls was only unnerving for a moment before it was muted by a sound. Cillian stopped and listened, trying to identify the noise then he realized it was rain. Through the window of the door behind him, he could see the downpour that Lo had predicted. He walked away from it, aimlessly meandering the concrete maze. Childish was the only word that kept coming to his mind. He was being childish about the news that Ben could still be alive. Was it childish? Perhaps jealous was a more apt description, but was there a difference? Looking down, he saw that he still had the book in his hand, so he shoved it into his back pocket and continued on, eyes downcast, wondering why he’d even left the room. Because you’re childish he thought again. You’re a child and you’re acting like one. His mind kept going back to Lo, her face when she’d heard Ben’s name. That was happiness. Unforced, genuine. He saw it, and it had cut him to the core. Why? Because he wanted her to himself. He knew that. Had known it. She was his, after all, in possession of his every thought and desire. She was pure pleasure, even down to her smell.
In trying not to think of Lo, the image of Alice flashed in his mind. His thoughts now turned to her. So many thoughts, so many directions. She was beautiful, but she seemed to be hiding something. He didn’t know what it was. It was in her demeanor, the way she answered the questions about the camp, the fact that she had obviously been better fed than Devon. The mystery only added to her. The not knowing made him think of her even more. He thought of them both. Why couldn’t he stop? The train of thought was beginning to become painful, but blessedly so. It was infuriating. It seemed to be more difficult than ever to focus, to concentrate on anything other than her, than them now. Was this normal? Was he a freak? He had no way of knowing. There was no one to talk to. Sadly, he was the man of this group, the fourteen-year-old man, dealing with what seemed to be trivialities that were eating away at his very consciousness.
Eventually he found himself in the library of the school, the media center it was renamed in an attempt to modernize the area, as if it wasn’t always the most important room in the building. A Nabokov novel lay on the checkout counter, the cover displaying a blown up picture of a woman’s lips, perhaps a young girl. Spinning it with his finger, the sound playing against the background of the rain. Shelves of books stood erect in their proper places, so organized and efficient. This could in all honesty be one of a select number of civilized areas remaining in the world. No hospital ran anymore, though the information to run it lay here, in a combination of forms and resources. Perhaps it could be argued that a pharmacy would still be civilized, but a drug store was wholly finite compared to this. Once its contents were diminished, there was nothing else for it to offer. Whereas here, all things could be made possible on the skeleton of civilization that lay between the covers, among the pages of the thousands of volumes that lined the walls. There they all stood like parishioners standing for hymns, all different sizes and colors with different motives and claims. This place had the smell of such a room as the wooden pews with worn padded seats or perhaps just worn, grooved wood there. Creaking and moaning as these would do with the slightest breeze, but it was kept safe for now. It was contained. And it still functioned and would continue to do so as long as. . . He could not imagine how long the materials would last as they were. As long as the roof held out, there would be no damage. The summer heat and rains would bring mold without climate control, but the pages would remain. It would be when the structure around the books began to fail. Perhaps a fire started by lightning or some idiot immune who passed by and found nothing more delightful than burning the old world. If not that, it would be the rain. He watched now and realized that inevitably it would be the downpour, along with the wind that would eventually eat through the roof, and from there, through what remained of the insulation and the tile ceiling, to the books that sat beneath, and from there the mold, the animals, the world would take them back to the weeds where it could feed into the Earth, as efficiently as Einstein’s flesh, or Oppenheimer, or Tesla, or John the hotdog vendor. The Earth will take it all back. In the end, She would win.
Making his way through the sharply-angled halls, Cillian found himself in the dance room, mirrors on all sides. It was here that he saw her behind him but gave no notice. He kept his pace and walked through to the gym. The doors here were locked with chains, the windows on the doors covered with cardboard. Large industrial fans were at the top of each wall just sitting motionless now, no further value for them in this world. No way to run them anyway. The hardwood floor creaked under his weight on the first step but no more, and he walked to th
e center circle of the basketball court where a ball sat. He placed his foot on top of the sphere, rolled it back, caught it with the top of his shoe, and popped it up into his hand. The bounce of the ball as steady as a metronome under his hand then it stopped as abruptly as it started as he grabbed it in both hands and looked at the figure in the doorway.
“You sure can move quietly,” his voice echoed in the wide-open space of the gymnasium.
“I’ve had to learn how to lately,” Alice stepped into the gray light coming through the top windows of the room, the rain not letting much of it inside.
He threw up a shot from the three-point line, and it banged off the rim. He trotted to retrieve the ball, keeping his focus out of the corner of his eye as she came in.
“Where’s Devon?”
“He’s with Lo,” she held out her hands for the ball, and he tossed it to her with a smirk. “She’s asking him a lot of questions about the compound. I think she’s going to try to get everybody out.”
“She wants Ben out,” he snapped with a whisper. Alice just looked at him for a moment but ignored the statement. She dribbled up to him and shot the ball from beside him. It went in on a bank shot.
He hiked his pants up and looked at her quizzically, and she pulled her long hair back to tie in response. Cillian gave her a nod. Pulling Luck from his pocket, he walked over to the baseline just underneath the goal and set it down then reached over and touched the floor, making grunting noises with his stretching.
“Ladies first,” he said with a smile, gesturing to the top of the key.
“If you’re sure,” she replied, “but let’s make this interesting.”
“We can bet ten thousand bucks a shot if you want,” he laughed. “I’m good for it these days.”
“Money’s worthless now. Information is way better.”
“Go on,” he rolled his hand for her to explain.
“Person who scores gets to ask a question. Other person has to tell the truth.”
“Sounds fair,” he said nodding. “But let’s just shoot. No need for this to get violent.”
“Agreed. We’ll play horse. You know the rules?”
“Sure, second shooter must make the same shot made by the first shooter. If the second shooter misses, he or she gets a letter in the word horse.”
“Exactly. The lady is first then?” She asked and he nodded.
With a few bounces of the ball, she moved up to the corner of the foul line. Exhaling softly, she tossed it up with perfect form, the first sound following was the popping of the net. Cillian pursed his lips and nodded.
“Thought we’d start easy,” she said.
The ball spun in his hand and hit the floor once, twice, a third time. He loosed the ball, and it bounced around twice on the rim and fell in, followed by a loud exhale.
“Holding your breath, weren’t you?” She asked with a giggle then took the ball to the side of the key just in front of the three-point line. Baseline shot, the worst. The net popped again from her effort, and Cillian began to look visibly irritated.
“What are you, some kind of basketball phenom?”
“Not anymore,” holding her smile wide. She reached over and pinched his side while he dribbled. Chills ran through both of them as if shocked.
A moment went by as he waited for the sensation to subside, not wanting to appear flushed, and quietly thanking the gods for the dim light. He loosed the ball with perfect form himself, wincing as it bounced off the rim. After running to retrieve the ball, he walked it all the way to her like a dog scolded.
“You have to say it,” placing her hand on top of his as she took the ball.
“H,” his tone a little more bitter than he’d intended, but she just kept smiling.
“First question,” she made her way to the other side of the basket for an opposite baseline shot. “Do you like this world better now?”
The soft echo of her voice in the open gym rang in his ears, and the question stunned him. He stood looking at her for some time.
“What do you mean?”
“Please just answer the question,” holding the ball and looking at him. “There’s no one in here but you and me, probably no one for miles and miles. There’s nothing you can say that is wrong. There’s no reason to lie anymore. Who’s the judge? Tell the truth.”
“I mean, of course I miss my parents. I miss my family. I can’t say that—”
“Cillian,” she folded her hands over the ball, lacing her fingers. “All that goes without saying. Of course you miss your family. The last time I heard my mother scream is all I have left of her. There is no incorrect answer as long as you tell the truth. Imagine being able to tell the absolute truth with no repercussions. Now do it, and know that you can.”
The face of this girl was untrue to her age, as was her body. The look of her said twelve or thirteen, but how she spoke said so much more. He wondered if she’d always been this way or if the events that transpired since the infection made her this way, forced her out of her boundaries. Had she been made to grow up? Had he?
“Yes,” he spoke confidently. “This world is better in many ways. The safety is gone. The convenience is gone. But the stifling setup is gone too. The monotony—the—the status quo. You know what I mean? The way everything was set up for everyone to be the same.”
He huffed a little, breathing hard from his answer like it had been a marathon.
“Good answer,” she said then shot the ball. Nothing but net. Cillian followed more quickly this time. His ball too hit nothing but net. The only problem was it didn’t go through the hoop. Alice raised her eyebrows at him and waited.
“O,” with an eye roll.
“Have you ever kissed a gi—no,” she shook her head. “Have you ever kissed Lo?”
The ball bounced to the top of the key, and she let fly before he moved. When the ball bounced off the rim giving her the first miss, he still hadn’t moved.
“Nothing but truth,” she said from behind him. “There is no judgement.”
“Yes,” his cheeks caught fire, and he finally turned around, taking the ball that was given to him.
“And?”
“One question, right?” He asked, and she only nodded.
Cillian took his time then with a smirk he called his shot.
“Bank,” he said before letting it loose. The ball bounced off the backboard at an angle and through the hoop. “That means you have to bank it.”
“Uh, I know,” shaking her head. She tried for the same, and oddly the ball missed by far. He opened his mouth to question her about the shot then thought better of it. Just take it he thought. Cillian cupped a hand to his ear, and she blew a piece of hair out of her face.
“H,” with crossed eyes.
“What did Marshal do to the children at the compound?” It came out somewhat hesitantly.
“Jeez, take the gloves off one time,” her face was as calm as it had been, no shock at all, no irritability. “He didn’t treat us like children. That’s the simplest way to put it. He did in some ways, but he didn’t in others. It’s hard to explain. He’s so far from the idea of normal, I don’t think I could really explain everything to you so that you’d understand.”
“I thought we spoke truth here,” Cillian slammed the ball down as he spoke.
“This isn’t a matter of truth. Any explanation will be lost in translation. He treated us like children to suit him then he didn’t. Me, he treated like a child and a mother.”
“What?”
“I told you, Cillian, it’s too difficult to explain.”
“Fine,” he threw the ball at the goal and bricked badly, catching it as it came right back to him. He handed her the ball, and she gave him another pinch, helping ease his mood. Shooting from where she stood, the ball went in and he followed with an unsurprising result. He handed her the ball, shrugging his shoulders in futility.
“R.”
“What happened to your fingers?”
“My brother
bit them off. He was sitting beside me in the car when he turned,” he held up his hand minus the two fingers on the end, a minor itch now was all that reminded him they were gone. “Hey, that’s probably why I can’t shoot now.”
“Whatever makes you feel better,” she said and shot again. It arched through the hoop just as easily as if the pushed in on a rail. “I’ll go ahead and ask the next one. What are you most afraid of?”
Cillian held out his hand for her to be still. Walking over to her, he whispered softly.
“Listen.”
Tap
The sound came from where they’d come in, toward the front of the school. It was a big building, but the silence allowed for the slightest noise to carry. When there are no lights humming, no water flowing, no air conditioning or heater running, the inside of a building is a dead place. The tapping was unmistakable now. He grabbed her hand and walked her to the doorway of the gym, the last of their footsteps in the open area fading as they left—
—creaking of the board and staccato footsteps again growing louder with the background of panting breath. Cillian reached and grabbed Luck, shoving it in his pocket. A level of anxiety in him that scrambled his thoughts, but they slowly converged. They made their way back out.
Tap
Cillian froze mid-stride and backed up against the cinderblock wall, trying to move slowly so his shoes wouldn’t squeak. His breathing became rapid, and he could feel his heart in his chest, feeling somewhat like the demented narrator from the Poe story, like the sound of his heart would give him away, like a watch enveloped in cotton, or something like that. Briefly he thought it was as much from holding her hand as anything else. Suddenly he was aware at how sweaty his palm was. He peeked around the edge of the wall, at the tarp that covered the glass doors that once served as the main entrance to the school. Three sets of boots could be seen on the other side, the dim silhouettes of people through the thin tarp. They were soldiers from the truck, had to be. The rain must’ve masked the sound of the diesel engine, the only explanation for why he hadn’t heard anything. Standing underneath the overhang to get out of the rain perhaps, but they most likely were wondering why the tarp was hung. Cillian watched as long as he dared, waiting to hear any scrap of communication from them, but he heard nothing. The rain came down hard, drowning out whatever was being said on the other side of the thick glass.