Donna of the Dead

by Alison Kemper

  Someone is humming in a nearby classroom. Well, at least Lara’s not down here completely alone. I edge away from the foyer and stick my head through the open doorway. Gretchen moves around the classroom, sorting what’s left of our vending machine food. Her back is turned to me, and her blond poodle-curls bounce as she hums. She’s busy counting peanuts and wrapping them in Kleenex. I guess she’s dividing our rations into equal portions.

  A peanut bag crinkles and the humming stops abruptly. Her hand moves to her lips.

  Wait. Did she just toss peanuts in her mouth?

  I duck back into the hall. Did she really? Am I imagining things?

  I pause a few heartbeats, then peep around the doorframe. As she reaches for a tissue, her head turns slightly.

  Yep. She’s chewing.

  I can’t believe it. What a stupid, selfish, freaking brat. Sneaking food while the rest of us are starving? On cue, my stomach growls.

  Loud.

  I race down the hall and up the stairs, not waiting to find out if Gretchen heard me or not. I’ve got to tell Deke. If I confront Gretchen myself—smack those peanuts out of her mouth, it’d be my word against hers. Better to get a witness.

  The auditorium is deserted. I run up one more flight and burst through the door of the teachers’ lounge. It’s a large room with lots of tables and natural light. Deke and some other kids sit in a group on the floor. Quentin is disassembling a student desk. Electronics parts are spread across the nearby tables. The Robotics Club must be using this as a workroom.

  “Deke, I’ve got to—”

  Tara glances up from her place on the floor. I bite my tongue, struggling to keep my story in my mouth. Tara’s pretty tight with Gretchen. Maybe I’d better not blurt out my suspicions in front of everyone.

  “What is it?” Deke asks. “What are you so worked up about?”

  “Uhhh… Lara’s downstairs. She seems upset.” I try to slow my breathing and drop casually into an empty space on the floor beside Stanley and Bo. “I thought maybe Tara could go talk to her, try to cheer her up or something.”

  “She’s in shock,” Tara says airily. “We all are. I’ll check on her in a minute.”

  Quentin’s eyes flit toward me, then return to the desk leg he’s trying to unscrew.

  I suddenly get the sensation everyone stopped talking when I entered the room—like I’ve interrupted a secret conversation.

  “Are you guys having another meeting or something?” I ask suspiciously.

  No one answers.

  “What’s up?” My eyes dart around the faces in the semi-circle. “Why’d everyone shut up so fast?”

  Another few seconds of silence, and Deke finally speaks. “It’s Liam.”

  My heart drops into my socks. “Did something happen to him?”

  “No…nothing like that…well, nothing yet. But he left the building. Before the rest of us were awake. To find food. And there’s a cluster of zombies out there.”

  I stare at Deke, unbelieving. Icy terror fills my lungs. “He went outside?”

  “Apparently, Gretchen ordered him to go. She told him to find more drinks.”

  “She should get her own damn drinks.” Quentin pounds the desk leg free from its fastener.

  “I’m getting worried,” Fabio tells me. “I don’t think Liam is safe out there. Especially on his own. Not after what we saw last night.”

  “It’s been a couple of hours since he left,” Stanley adds. “Me and Fabio were wondering if we should go search for him.”

  Outside, thunder rolls again. Closer this time.

  I press my lips together and stare at my knees. I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not be a wimp.

  “Donna, I’m sorry,” Deke says. “You know I would’ve gone with him.”

  “Me, too,” says Bo, his words sweet and sincere.

  Across the circle, Tara makes an exasperated noise—loud enough to make me look up. “You people are totally overreacting,” she snips. “What if Liam volunteered to go? We do need drinks. You know, so we don’t die. And he said something yesterday morning—something about knowing a place to find water. Maybe he wanted to go.”

  “Gretchen still shouldn’t have sent him alone,” I mutter.

  “Fo’ shizzle,” Quentin agrees.

  “Fo’ shizzle?” Tara asks, rounding on Quentin. “What are you supposed to be, Q-dog? A gangsta? A redneck gangsta? That’s like the worst fake accent I’ve ever heard.”

  “Girl,” Quentin throws his screwdriver to the floor, “please don’t be gettin’ in my face. I’ll bust yo—”

  “Hey, hey, hey,” Veronica says, glancing up from a batch of motherboards. “Guys. Quit it. Don’t make this personal. If we start fighting—”

  “Look,” Quentin interrupts, “I’m not tryin’ to make trouble, but some of us worry Gretchen don’t know what the hell she doin’.”

  I gesture at Deke. “Exactly what I told you last night.”

  “And some of us think she’s doing a great job,” Tara says. “She’s making sure we don’t get dehydratization or whatever you call it.”

  “Dehydration,” I correct.

  “It might rain,” Stanley offers. “Been thundering all morning.”

  “This is Florida,” Tara snaps. “It could thunder all damn day without raining.”

  “Tara, we get what you’re saying,” Fabio says in a calming voice. “I’m so hungry I could eat one of those wooden candy bars from Ms. Lucent’s room. And I’m thirsty, too. But not enough to risk sending someone outside. Obviously, that kid in the red hat is keeping tabs on us.”

  “Not to mention that bunch of thugs by the tree,” Stanley adds. “It’s like they’re hanging around, waiting for their next meal.”

  “I think they’re outside today because it’s cloudy,” I offer.

  “Genius,” Tara mutters. “We figured that out like an hour ago, while you were off searching for clothes.”

  “What’s your problem?” I ask, glaring at her.

  “Gretchen’s our leader,” Tara says. “She’s trying to help us—keep us safe. And you guys are up here—talking behind her back—while she’s downstairs working. Sorting rations and guarding the door with Lara.”

  I snort. “Guarding the door? Is that what she’s doing? ’Cause it looked to me like Gretchen was busy shoveling peanuts in her mouth. You know, the peanuts she’s supposed to be rationing.”

  Oopsy. Didn’t quite mean to say that.

  “Are you freaking kidding me?” Fabio yells.

  The room goes quiet.

  Veronica suddenly loses interest in her computer parts. Behind her glasses, her gaze is dead even. “Are you sure?”

  “You’re such a sneaky little tattletale,” Tara cuts in, before I get a chance to answer. “Everybody knows that you and Gretchen don’t get along. You’re making up lies about the peanuts.”

  “I want some peanuts,” Bo whines.

  “Me, too,” Fabio says. “If I find out that chick’s eating our rations, I’ll personally rip every curl from her oversized head.”

  “Damn straight,” Stanley agrees. “In fact, I make a motion we put someone else in charge.”

  “Who?” Tara asks, throwing him a withering glare, “Donna?”

  A few people giggle. Thanks, guys.

  “What about Veronica?” I suggest.

  “Veronica?” Tara shrieks. “Little, dorkbomb Veronica?” She stands now and crosses her perfectly tanned arms across her chest. “What has Veronica ever done for this school? Has anyone elected her class president? No. They have not. Let her be in charge of her stupid computer club or whatever it is, and that’s enough. I don’t want to be bossed around by some underfed, undersized—”

  “Look, beyotch.” Quentin stands so fast, his tools all clatter to the floor. “Without Veronica’s electric door, you’d be down on that football field doing the zombie shuffle with the rest of your brain-dead cheerleader friends. So you’d better keep yo’ mouth shut—unless you’re thank
ing her for saving your ass.”

  Tara folds her arms tighter. But she quits talking.

  “We all need to calm down,” Veronica says, and suddenly it doesn’t matter that she’s four foot ten and the biggest nerd on the planet. There’s something in her manner that resonates quiet authority. “I’m not trying to overthrow Gretchen or anything. Please don’t think that. Let’s not waste energy fighting.”

  “I agree,” Deke says, his voice growing dark. “Tara, you’ve got to understand something. I know this is an alien concept to you, but try. There are no more popular people here at this school. No more dorks. It’s just us. The eleven of us. For all we know, we’re the only ones alive in this town—maybe even the whole county. If we have to fight the infected people, the zombies,” he says nodding toward me, “then we’re gonna be in trouble. Serious trouble. Because we’re so outnumbered it’s not even funny.”

  The truth of Deke’s words sucks the fight out of Tara and Quentin. Tara sinks back to her place on the floor. Quentin hitches up his pants and leans against the whiteboard. No one seems to know what to say.

  Just us. Eleven scared kids. Versus like, fifty million zombies. I’m overwhelmed by an enormous sense of emptiness. I have never felt this alone.

  Fabio breaks the silence. “What if something happens to Donna’s dad? What if we get stuck here? And we can’t get out?”

  My deep, paralyzing terror is reflected in my friends’ faces.

  Stanley knits his pierced eyebrows. “Our chances aren’t very good, are they? Maybe we should face facts. That door isn’t gonna hold. We probably won’t last another—”

  BZZZZZT BZZZZZT BZZZZZT

  The noise jars the entire building. Bo screams and clutches at Stanley.

  BZZZZZT BZZZZZT BZZZZZT

  “What’s that?” he whimpers, hiding his face in Stanley’s sleeve.

  “Someone’s trying to get in the doors,” Deke answers, picking up his bat. “Or some thing.”

  Chapter Eleven

  While everyone panics, I force myself to stay calm and listen.

  No voices. Not a peep.

  “What if it’s only Liam?” I ask. “Maybe he’s trying to get back inside? Throwing rocks at the door or something?”

  “Lara’s supposed to be watching for him,” Tara says.

  “Ummmm…Lara might not be the best guard—”

  “What, you’re gonna make fun of Lara now?” Tara demands.

  “Jeez, Tara, give it a rest,” I tell her. “Didn’t you hear what Veronica said about us working togeth—”

  “Shut up. Everybody.”

  I’ve never heard Veronica’s loud voice before.

  “I’m sick to death of listening to you people whine.” She pulls a paperweight off a desk, testing its bulk in her hand. For a sec, I think she’s going to sling it at me, but instead, she shifts her attention to the other side of the room. “Fabio, grab that golf club Donna brought with her. It’s there in the corner. Deke—good, you’ve got your bat. The three of us will walk in front. Stanley, you and Quentin bring up the rear. Everyone else—listen closely. We’re all going to walk downstairs together. Calmly. Quietly. Lara and Gretchen are down there alone. We need to make sure they’re okay. There will be no arguing or cat-fighting on the way down.” She stares pointedly at me and Tara. “Or one of you is gonna get knocked upside the head with a mini-golf club.”

  I fight the urge to say, “Yes ma’am.”

  BZZZZT BZZZZT BZZZZT

  We all cluster together. I twine my arm through Quentin’s. Bo grabs my free hand. Tara scoots up close, right on Quentin’s heels. A minute ago, she was arguing with him. Now she’s clinging to the back of his shirt.

  Leading the group, Fabio clutches my golf club, and winces with each step as his flip-flops smack loudly against the stairs.

  I might not be able to use the golf club to defend myself, but I still feel sorta naked without it. If I thought I was in real danger, I’d wrestle Fabio to the floor and get it back. Well, except Fabio’s built like a linebacker. He’d squash me in under two seconds.

  For a long moment, I study the guys acting as our bodyguards. They’re an impressive group. It’s odd—I had this stereotype in my mind of robotics kids being skinny mega-dorks with glasses. That they’d all be male versions of Veronica. But here’s Fabio with his broad chest and arms big as tree trunks. And Quentin brandishing that desk leg like a heavy wooden club. And Stanley. Well, Stanley just looks scary with his ass-kicking boots and long, dark coat.

  Maybe my voices knew what they were talking about when they told me to stop at the school. I’ll have to thank them next time they show up. Which I hope will be…never.

  By the time our ragtag band reaches the ground floor, the bzzzzt-ing has ceased. Liam stands inside the doors, talking to Gretchen as she secures the padlock on the chains.

  “Huh,” Fabio grunts, returning my golf club. “If all this excitement keeps up, I’m gonna have a stroke before we get to that cruise ship.”

  I’ve never been so happy to see Liam. And it has nothing to do with the fact that his shirt, slightly sweaty from being outside, is now clinging to his muscled chest.

  Well, okay, maybe it has a little to do with that.

  I want to run to him, fling my arms around his neck, and tell him I was scared I’d never see him again. But that might be weird. So I content myself with ogling his chest, and being glad he made it back to the building alive.

  The food run must have been successful—Liam hands Gretchen a huge box labeled “Snack Products—60 Count—Assorted.” I glance out the window. The zombies are still under the tree, imprisoned in the shade. The red hat dude is nowhere to be seen.

  “See,” Tara says in a voice too low for Veronica to hear. “Liam is perfectly fine. And he got food.”

  I ignore her. Liam comes toward me. Maybe he’ll scoop me up in his arms. Bury his face in my hair. Tell me how much he missed me. Let me feel his chest.

  Nope. He walks past without a word. Doesn’t even stop to grab a bag of chips.

  As Gretchen rations the chip bags, she relays more bad news: Liam didn’t see any cars while he was outside. Not a single one. And even worse—the rest of the drinks disappeared from the caf. We are now completely out of beverages. The only good news: in spite of the clouds, the zombies seemed reluctant to leave the shade of the tree.

  “Liam said the sick people watched him,” Gretchen explains, “but didn’t try to attack. He walked about half a mile—all the way to the college fountain—without seeing a single zomb—I mean, infected person. There was no sign of the boy in the red hat—we’re hoping he is also slowed by the sun.”

  Beside me, Tara nods in agreement.

  “Therefore…I have decided…” Gretchen spreads her arms wide, as though she’s issuing a royal decree. “If it’s sunny tomorrow, it will be 100 percent safe to leave the building and search for water.”

  Behind me, Quentin and Fabio mumble something to each other—the only words I catch are “red hat” and “no way in hell.”

  Tara has no such reservations. “Yaaaaay!” she squeals bouncing in her sneakers. “We’re going for water!” She grips Bo’s hands and they dance in a circle. “Water! Water! Water!”

  Lara snaps out of her stupor and joins the chant. “Water water water!!”

  Oh God, please tell me they’re not gonna cheer.

  “We’ve got water, yes we do! We’ve got water—”

  Yep, they’re gonna cheer.

  Tara does a few back handsprings. Her short skirt flips inside out. Deke and Fabio watch, their mouths gaping slightly.

  “Drool much?” I ask, ripping open my bag of chips.

  Deke’s jaw snaps shut and sneaks a quick peek at me. For a second, his expression turns almost…guilty. What in the heck is going on there?

  I don’t even want to know.

  I make a quick exit, just as Tara and Lara start spelling L-I-A-M and W-A-T-E-R.

  Personally, I never liked water.
I prefer Coke or coffee. But as I sit alone in the auditorium, I find myself daydreaming about water. I didn’t drink anything yesterday except that teeny-weeny cup of grape soda. My tongue is now the texture of a dried apricot, and eating the salty potato chips only makes it worse. I hate to admit this, but I like the idea of someone leaving the building to find water. As long as that someone isn’t Deke, Liam, or me.

  Problem is—I know Deke and Liam will volunteer. And that twists my already-tangled nerves into an even bigger knot.

  …

  If I thought Liam and I had become friends during last night’s guard duty, I was obviously wrong. I spend the rest of the morning searching the building for him. While pretending I’m not searching the building for him. He shows up at lunchtime (if you call breath mints lunch), but he sits apart from the group and doesn’t speak to anyone.

  After lunch, Veronica suggests we spend the afternoon in the newspaper room, brainstorming ideas for makeshift weapons—in case we need to defend ourselves before Dad and Muriel get back. Gretchen agrees to this plan, but I sense her reluctance. It’s not that she doesn’t want to make weapons. It’s that she doesn’t want to support any of Veronica’s ideas—especially since members of her robotics team act super enthusiastic about this plan. They gather around Veronica, bouncing ideas off each other.

  “We could make a potato gun with PVC pipe from the plumbing,” Fabio suggests.

  Stanley’s eyes widen with humor. “Yeah, man, if we only had some potatoes.”

  “And some freakin’ sour cream,” Quentin adds.

  “We could try sharpened pencils instead of potatoes,” Deke tells them. “The effect would be the same. Maybe better. And Ms. Lucent’s got hairspray in her desk. We could use it for propellant.”

  Veronica grins in approval. “That’s actually a good idea.” She studies Deke with new respect. “What else you got?”

  Deke’s eyes sparkle. “I was thinking. We don’t have guns, or really any weapons besides basic blunt objects. But we do have gravity. I scoured all the classrooms for stuff we can drop from the roof—you know, heavy objects—chairs, tables, art history textbooks. I even found an old, metal vacuum cleaner—the thing weighs a ton. Probably won’t kill any zombies, but it might slow them down.”