Donna of the Dead

by Alison Kemper

  “It’s nothing affecting us personally,” he continues, “so let’s both just relax, okay?”

  My voices start up again, screeching, reminding me of their warnings.

  Better be sure, better be sure!

  As if I’d forget.

  Deke takes a breath. “Someone on this ship is infected with that virus.”

  “Virus? Like the one on TV?” I gape at Deke. “No way.”

  “Yeah. The captain told your dad.”

  I don’t believe it. Deke’s gotta be joking. He’s always pulling this kind of stuff on me. But there’s no hint of teasing behind his somber expression.

  “The sick guy’s quarantined to his cabin, and the ship’s doctor is keeping an eye on him, so there’s nothing to worry about.”

  Deke says this super-fast, like he’s guessing I’ll interrupt him with a gazillion frantic questions. Which is exactly what I do.

  “Are we going home? Is anyone else infected? Are they spraying the ship with bleach?”

  An image of one of the crewmembers flashes through my mind—a tiny, pinch-faced woman who guards the buffet line, forcing passengers to squirt antibacterial gel on their hands before they get food. Deke and I nicknamed her Soap Nazi, but now I feel vaguely grateful toward her. Maybe she’s kept me from catching those germs that turn people gray and crazy. Deke still hasn’t answered my questions, and now he’s staring at me like I’m an alien.

  “W-what?” I ask, my voice wavering.

  “Donna, that’s not how this virus spreads. Have you watched any of the news reports?”

  I shake my head.

  “You can’t catch this from common contact.”

  “You can’t? That’s good, right?”

  From the expression on Deke’s face, I know he’s figuring out how to explain something. With science stuff, Deke usually has to dumb it down so I can understand.

  He begins in typical patronizing Deke fashion, using his best kindergarten teacher’s voice. “We prevent the spread of common viruses through simple hygiene practices: washing our hands, covering our mouths when we cough, that sort of thing. Common viruses are passed through contaminated air or surfaces.”

  I nod and suck down more coffee. Maybe caffeine will get me through today’s science lesson.

  He continues, “Other kinds of viruses can’t spread without contact through blood or bodily fluids.”

  “Like HIV,” I chime in, showing I can keep up.

  He nods. “Very good.”

  I wonder if he’ll make a snide comment about giving me a gold star. If he does, I’m going to—

  “But some viruses, like rabies, pass when a host bites the victim.”

  I bob my head in encouragement. “Go on, I follow you.”

  Deke furrows his brow. “I’m not sure how to say this.”

  “Say what?”

  “Crap. Donna, there’s no way to make this sound nicer. It’s that kind of virus. Like rabies. The biting kind.”

  “The biting kind?” I sound incredulous.

  The apologetic expression crossing Deke’s face is all the answer I need.

  “Shut up, Deke. You’re totally making this up.”

  “Nope.”

  “So you’re saying someone on this ship,” I tap the bed, “can bite people like ARRRGGGHHH,” I growl, showing my teeth, “and infect them?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Gross. You are definitely making this up.”

  “I swear I’m not. But you shouldn’t worry; the dude hasn’t bitten anyone. He’s locked up, and there’s probably ten crewmembers guarding—”

  “Is he flipped out and scary, like those people on the news this afternoon?” I cut across Deke, my voice quavering.

  “I guess. I mean, it’s not like I’ve personally seen—”

  “And if he bites people,” I pause for breath, “if he bites us, we get the same way? Like we’d want to sink our teeth into somebody’s arm?”

  Deke shrugs, his voice reassuring. “I suppose. Actually, rabies is a good analogy. The virus causes the person to become irritable and irrational, and all they want to do is bite. The adrenaline rush makes them stronger than usual—”

  “They get really strong?” I must look horrified because Deke holds up his hands and moves away from me.

  “Okay, I’m shutting up now,” he says. “I’m only making this worse. Turn on the TV if you don’t believe me.”

  I concentrate on holding my coffee cup still. My voices have dialed it up a notch: BETTER BE SURE! BETTER BE SURE! BETTER BE SURE! Honestly, I appreciate the voices and their crazy hoodoo warning system (or whatever the heck it is), but sometimes I wish they’d put a sock in it and let me think in peace.

  “How long until we’re home?” I ask. I’m trying not to sound whiny, but it doesn’t work. “They’re taking us straight home, right?”

  “Yeah, we’ll be there first thing tomorrow. The captain’s taking a different route. Something more direct. Your dad’s on the bridge helping with navigation, since he’s familiar with this part of the Florida Straits.”

  I manage a smile in spite of my escalating fear. My dad would like that. Being on the bridge—feeling needed and useful.

  Deke’s face seems kinder. Is he frightened, too? I know better than to ask. He’s doing his best to tell me about the problem, but not scare me to death. And I appreciate it.

  I try to match his casual, offhand tone. “It sounds crazy, doesn’t it? Like one of your video games. Super-strong infected zombies or something.”

  Deke’s one of the few people on the planet who realizes I mask my fears by joking around. That my snark acts as a defense mechanism. He chuckles, playing along, obviously glad I’ve calmed down. “Yeah, I’m sure it’s nothing. We’ll get to Fort Lauderdale, they’ll treat this guy, and we’ll be some thirty-second sound bite on CNN.”

  “You’re probably right. Nevertheless, I’m staying in the cabin for the rest of the day.”

  “I hear you.” Deke pulls a box off the nightstand. “Travel Scrabble?”

  …

  My voices stay quiet all evening.

  We don’t go to the dining room for supper. Or to the video game tournament Deke wins on every cruise. We order more room service and play yet another game of Scrabble, which is the only game I have a chance of beating Deke at.

  Other passengers seem unconcerned about the infected guy. We hear announcements for bingo tournaments and trivia contests. And later, the halls crowd with people heading toward late dinner seatings. Maybe they don’t know about the sick dude. Or maybe they don’t care.

  My dad returns at nine, babbling about how nicely the ship handles, and how the young sailors rely too much on computers.

  Dad doesn’t look much like a sea captain anymore, but I’ve seen pictures from when he was in Vietnam. Sandy blond hair, blue eyes—and always wearing one of those cool officer caps. Probably all the hot chicks were after my dad. Now, he has thick ankles, white hair, and scabs covering his hands from too many years in the sun.

  He wobbles slightly on the way to his bunk. “Maybe I’ll grab a quick nap before I head back to the bridge.”

  Dad seems exhausted. He’s almost sixty now; he got a late start with me. I keep telling him to slow down. Work less. Not that he listens.

  While Dad naps, Deke and I play Scrabble, and Muriel spends the evening on the phone. Her three sisters live in Brooklyn, and she calls them, like, twelve times each. I guess they’re all blathering about the virus. Mostly Muriel just says, “Oh my gawd. Oh my gawd.”

  Beside me, in a low voice, Deke imitates his grandmother’s nasally New York accent, “Oh my gawd. Oh my gawd.” Then he says something in Yiddish. It completely cracks me up.

  Muriel, like lots of New Yorkers, moved to Florida after she retired. I guess she wanted a peaceful life, gossiping in the sun with other nice senior citizens. Instead, she got one-year-old Deke after his parents were killed in a car wreck. He doesn’t remember them, so that part does
n’t make him too sad, but I know he gets frustrated living with a little old lady. Muriel can be totally embarrassing. I mean, like, even more than most parents.

  While I’m getting ready for bed, Deke turns on CNN. The announcer’s voice drifts into the bathroom, where I’m taking off my eye makeup.

  “The virus referred to as Bleek-Burns has now spread across all fifty states and most of North America. China was ground zero for this one, and last we heard, their population will more than likely be decimated by the virus.”

  This gets my attention. I stick my head out the bathroom door. “Decimated?” I ask Deke. “Like practically wiped out?”

  “Well, technically, that’s not what the word means.”

  “Right,” I answer absentmindedly. “The historical definition of decimate is ‘to destroy one tenth of a population.’ But you know how the English language keeps evolving.” Once again, I’m babbling to hide my rising fear. “Nowadays, most people misuse ‘decimate’ to refer to the death of a large mass of people.” I try not to choke on the words.

  Any other time, Deke would play along, start a battle about vocabulary. But tonight he ignores me, his attention fixed on the TV screen, where a colorful map shows states reporting cases of Bleek-Burns virus. That’s what they’re calling the outbreak, after the two scientists who identified it, I guess. I watch less than thirty seconds of the footage showing the victims. Their waxy skin and sunken eyes spook me. When the announcer begins using words like “highly contagious” and “quarantine,” I wrestle the remote from Deke’s hand and snap off the TV.

  “Ugh, I was joking before,” I say, sinking down on the bed beside Deke, “but I swear, they do remind me of zombies from those dumb horror movies you make me watch.”

  He snorts. “They are not zombies. Zombies are dead people who have been reanimated. These people are still alive.”

  I don’t care how rational Deke’s explanation sounds. They seem like zombies to me.

  “Do you think we have to shoot them in the head to stop them?” I muse.

  “I imagine,” Deke replies, sounding sick-to-death of being locked in a small cabin with me, “since they are still living, breathing human beings, you can kill them in the normal ways.”

  “We won’t need silver bullets or anything like that?”

  “That’s for werewolves, Donna.”

  “Well, I’ll keep that in mind, since we’ll probably have an outbreak of werewolf flu next season.”

  “You’re ridiculous,” he says, tilting his head so it rests on my shoulder.

  “I know. That’s why you love me.”

  Chapter Three

  I have the dream again that night.

  Don’t catch a ride. Don’t catch a ride.

  This is nothing new. I know exactly how it ends.

  Don’t catch a ride. Don’t catch a ride.

  Amy Baker’s face, happy and freckled.

  “You wanna catch a ride with me today?” She’s seventeen and lives on my street. She’s also sweet enough to drive me to school some mornings, since she knows I don’t have a car yet. I’m always so grateful when she saves me from the torture of the bus. Plus, since I’m a sophomore, it just looks cool to show up in the school parking lot with my older friend.

  Amy pops open the passenger door. A faint whiff of something unfamiliar tickles my nose. Amy’s car smells different today, but I can’t quite place—

  Don’t catch a ride. Don’t catch a ride.

  I pause, my hand on the doorframe.

  “Come on, Donna. Hop in. We’re gonna be late.” Her eyes are glazed. Unfocused.

  Don’t catch a ride. Don’t catch a ride.

  “Um, actually, I might take the bus today.”

  Amy’s puzzled face is crystal clear in my memory. What am I supposed to tell her? That the voices in my head warned me not to ride with her? So… I lie. I say Liam is taking my bus. Amy raises her eyebrows and wishes me luck, waving good-bye as she speeds away.

  Ten minutes later, she’s killed in a head-on collision with a truck—her blood alcohol level at double the legal limit.

  If I’d gotten in her car, I might not have gotten out.

  Even in my sleep, guilt smothers me like a hundred-pound weight on my chest. Why didn’t I try to save Amy? Why didn’t I ask her to ride the bus with me? Or call her parents? Or tell her to—

  Don’t catch a ride, don’t catch a ride. Get up and get out.

  I frown in my sleep. That last part seems different. The dream doesn’t usually end this way. The words echo in my head: Get up and get out. But they’re part of the dream, right? I wait a second, wondering if they’ll repeat, but everything stays quiet.

  I force my eyelids open. I’m still on the ship, and we’re still moving. And as far as I can tell, we’re moving fast. Much faster than these massive cruise ships usually go. The storm’s hitting full force; the boat lolls as we dip into each wave trough, then arc upward again. For a quick moment, I wonder how safe this is, sailing at a breakneck speed during high winds, but the longer I lie there, listening to the roar of the waves, the sleepier I get. The boat’s like a cradle, rocking me… I love the feel of the ocean…

  Get up and get out.

  Did I fall back asleep? For a few seconds, I wait in the dark, listening for more voices, but they stay quiet. I roll over to squint at the digital clock on the nightstand but can’t see it. When I switch on the bedside lamp, nothing happens. I guess the power’s out. A smidge of light seeps through the glass door to the balcony, making the room a jumble of shadows. My father’s bed is empty. Maybe he’s in the bathroom?

  “Dad?”

  Silence.

  Is he still on the bridge? I fumble blindly until my hand wraps around my cell phone. I flip it open; it’s almost five in the morning. Early, but not too early to get up and get coffee. The ship probably has emergency power for important stuff, like coffeemakers. Besides, there’s no way I’m going back to sleep, and I’m anxious to ask my dad when we’re gonna arrive in Fort Lauderdale. We must be almost home.

  I throw on a tee, hoodie, and jeans, choosing sneakers instead of my usual flip-flops. It’s probably pouring outside, and flip-flops are a lousy choice for slick decks—especially when the ship keeps rolling and pitching. I grab my dad’s oversized rain poncho and pull it over my head. Not a very cute outfit, but who’s going to see me this time of night?

  It’s too early to wake up Deke or Muriel. In a few hours, I’ll be nice and bring them one of those big silver pots of coffee. I grab my iPod for company, shoving it deep in my back pocket.

  I open the door to my room. The windowless hallway stretches ahead, dissolving into absolute blackness. I flip open my phone and the glow from the display screen illuminates a few feet of patterned carpet ahead of me. Apart from the constant chug of the overworked engines, everything’s quiet.

  My mind flashes to the infected guy, and I hesitate. Should I sneak next door and get Deke? The problem is, I might wake Muriel, and she’d tell me to stay in the cabin. But maybe that’s good advice? I pause for a second, waiting for the voices to confirm this. They don’t say Go back or Turn around or Better be sure you listen to Muriel, so I decide to quit being spineless and get my coffee. After all, the captain told us over the intercom last night that the situation is “under complete control.” Plus, my need for caffeine outweighs my fear.

  A few seconds later, my cell light dims. I have to close the phone and flip it open to get the light back to full strength. God, why won’t Dad buy me a phone invented in the twenty-first century, instead of this ancient piece of crap?

  I start down the familiar hallway, flipping my phone closed and open, closed and open, every fifteen seconds or so. My shadow ripples along the wall as I walk. The ship bucks through the rough waters, and I concentrate on keeping my balance. At the end of the hall, I pause in front of the elevators. Obviously, without electricity, these won’t be working. I try to remember where the stairs are. Shouldn’t there be a row of emer
gency lights? Like on the floor? Or is that only on airplanes?

  I visualize the ship’s layout. There’s the open atrium, with the glass elevator and grand staircase in the dead center of the boat. It’s too far away. There’s also a wide, carpeted stairway at each end of the ship. I head toward the closest one.

  I’ve walked down two flights of steps when an odd scuffling echoes through the stairwell. My steps falter.

  Get up and get out get out get out.

  I aim my phone screen farther down the steps. The dim light casts a bluish gleam along the length of the staircase, illuminating a figure ascending toward me.

  It’s the blonde from the pool. She’s a flight below, making her way up, still in her heels and bikini. Did she spend the entire night in the hot tub? My dad would freak if I stayed out that late.

  “Sheesh, you startled me,” I call down to her, my voice filled with relief. She doesn’t say anything, just holds up her arms. Now that she’s closer, I notice the dried blood streaked from her fingertips to elbows.

  I gasp. “Oh my God! Ew! Did you get hurt? Did you fall?” The stupid high heels and bad weather must’ve finally caught up with her. She doesn’t answer, just continues to lurch up the stairs with her arms extended.

  Get up and get out get out get out.

  I want to follow the voices’ instructions, but my sneakers feel glued to the carpet. “Um, excuse me?” I call again, more tentatively, “Are you okay?”

  Her answer is a growl, more animal than human. I freeze, forcing myself to stare into her face. Only a thin strip of white shows between her eyelids. In the phone’s gleam, her skin appears blotchy, almost green, as she shambles closer. A wave of fear spasms through my body. She reaches the step where I’m standing. Her hands grope for me. At that exact moment, my phone light goes out.

  Chapter Four

  I’ve never closed and opened a phone so fast in my life. Its light flicks on just as the whacked-out chick lunges at my throat.

  “RAWWWWRR!” she growls.

  My heart tries to catapult out of my chest. Instinctively, I arch my body away from her, losing my balance in the process. I fall forward and tumble down the rest of the stairs.