by Ash Parsons
“Can I take a picture of this?” Imani asks the woman. “It’s beautiful and my little sister would love it! She’s really into cosplay and fantasy makeup and stuff.”
The woman agrees and Imani shows her some of the pictures she’s taken of Tish in various makeup and costumes.
“Oh, I love her!” the woman says, swiping through more photos. “She’s amazing! Give her my card, tell her to email me saying I talked to you at the con, and I’ll give her an online discount code.”
Imani thanks her and slides the card into her jacket pocket.
Another woman wearing special effects makeup stumbles into the booth. Her skin is more sickly looking than actually necrotic, almost gray and with a sheen like she has a fever. On one side of her jaw there’s a large, oozing bite wound.
“That looks great,” Imani tells her.
The woman doesn’t acknowledge the compliment. She’s staring fixedly at pictures of legs and arms, covered with fake tattoos or flowered wreaths.
“She looks great,” Imani says, turning to the makeup artist. “Great work.”
The makeup artist shakes her head.
“I didn’t do it.” The makeup artist sighs. “I wish, though. Look at those edges. That’s next level.”
The bite prosthetic, torn meat and gore, is flexible, moving with the slight opening and closing of her jaw, undulating, almost, under the twitching of fine facial muscles.
The makeup artist moves forward, studying the effect.
“Who did your makeup?” she asks. “That looks real.”
She reaches out to the woman’s arm.
The woman with the bite effect jerks her arm away, violently. She stumbles back, confusion in her eyes.
She shakes her head, like she’s trying to clear it. Then she spins on her heel and runs away from us, pushing through groups of people, until she reaches the end of the aisle and turns out of sight.
“Ooooookaaaaaaay,” the makeup artist says.
We laugh a little, and shrug at her.
The makeup artist picks up a few brushes that fell out of her apron when the woman jerked away.
“I just wish really committed cosplayers would give you some sort of sign,” she says.
* * *
• • •
We leave the exhibit hall and go back up the escalators, then down the hallway that leads to both the hotel skyway and the smaller banquet rooms. We stop at the second banquet room for a session called “Apocalyptic Preppers.”
We all agreed it would be interesting, but Siggy was the one who really wanted to check it out. Which surprised me, but she’s really psyched to tell her dad about it. Harald isn’t a prepper, for the record, but he likes to watch that reality show about them.
We step into the back of the room and scan the audience, getting our bearings for a moment before deciding where to sit.
“It’s pretty bright in here,” Imani murmurs. “Compared to the rest of the con.”
She means there’s mostly white people in the banquet room.
I had just been thinking the same thing.
Siggy turns on a dime. “Let’s go to the author panel instead. That looked cool!”
“No, it’s fine,” Imani says. “Just, you know. Noticed.”
“Are you sure?” I ask, because I don’t ever want to be oblivious to my privilege in spaces where she feels . . . other.
I don’t know what to do sometimes, I feel helpless and angry, but pretending it isn’t there just so I can feel better is the opposite of the answer.
And it’s not about me. Not about my feelings at all.
“Thanks,” Imani tells us. “I’m good here.”
“Don’t worry,” Siggy reassures her. “If we need to run for it I’ll trip June.”
“Nice,” I say, laughing. “I see how it is. All together or . . . not, if there’s real danger.”
“Just keeping it real.” Siggy leans into me, though, giving me a little one-armed hug.
We choose a row in the back, near the doors, anyway.
Honestly, I don’t know what to think about preppers. Like, it’s cool to know how to do all this stuff? But it’s . . . well, the mind-set is maybe . . . um. Well.
Anyway, I’m glad we’re in the back.
But when it starts, it’s two relatively normal-looking couples who lead the session. They don’t seem that scary. I guess I expected apocalyptic preppers to look more . . . like something out of Mad Max? One of the guys looks just a little like a biker, big and burly and bearded. He seems to be the leader of the group, and you can tell he takes all this prepping very, very seriously.
He seems like the kind of person who takes himself very, very seriously, generally. Not just in doomsday scenarios.
Very, very seriously he takes us through a “prepping essentials” PowerPoint.
“The first thing is to know your procedures and know your rules,” the biker says.
“Ohh, I like him,” Imani murmurs, halfway joking and halfway serious.
“Your love language is rules and procedures,” Siggy teases her.
“Shh, I’m taking notes,” Imani says.
“Everyone’s rules might be different, depending on your prep-group needs,” the biker continues. “But you should make your rules and procedures now, before the crisis.”
“What crisis?” Siggy whispers the question.
“All of them,” I answer.
“For example, my number-one rule is: no outsiders allowed once the crisis hits,” the biker says. “Outsiders can be dangerous, and your first responsibility is to your core group.”
“That’s harsh,” Siggy says.
Imani leans over. “Well, think about the show. It makes sense to me.”
The biker finishes going over the rest of his rules then tags out to the other man, who looks like an accountant. He tells us how to pack a bug-out bag, and how to safely stash supplies in our houses and offices.
One of the prepper ladies (who looks kind of like Mrs. Claus) goes next, telling us how to make water drinkable by adding a few drops of Clorox to it.
“Two drops per quart, stir, let stand for thirty minutes, and voilà, drinkable!” she says.
Now that is really useful to know!
“Speaking of drinking water,” the biker guy says, “I’m gonna show you how to set up a solar-filtration system so you can drink your own urine.”
“Ew,” Siggy whispers.
She’s not the only one who has that response, because there’s an audible “ew” and then laughter that crests in the room like a wave.
The biker guy looks a bit miffed at the response.
“Real mature, people. Real mature,” he says. “But I’m standing here telling you, you can prepare for the worst all you want, you can lay the groundwork for your own survival. You can do everything right. But when push comes to shove, the survivors are gonna be those with mental toughness.”
“And those who drink their own pee,” Imani murmurs.
Siggy and I convulse in silent laughter. Luckily, we’re sitting in the back but omg, Imani just kills me, her face serious as she’s nodding along with the biker guy like he is her dude, he is the one, he is saying what we’re all thinking, he’s the preacher and we’re the congregation.
I can’t breathe; I’m struggling so hard not to laugh.
The biker guy taps his forehead with an index finger.
“Mental toughness,” he repeats.
Imani nods.
“Peeeeeeeee,” she whispers, tilting her head sideways in agreement like the word “pee” is a stand-in for “testify.”
Siggy makes a little gasping noise. She’s beet red and looks like she’s going to bust a gut.
“Stop, Imani.” My whisper is pressurized, eking out in front of the laughter that threatens to s
pill out.
Imani keeps a straight face, just shoots us a glance that says stop what? But mirth dances in her eyes and I swear I am going to die right here if I don’t make a noise, the pressure of laughter inside me is that strong.
I have to do something.
I can feel the gale of laughter building up in my chest.
Imani turns and thumps me on the back, and a spurt of laughter comes out as a cough. Siggy starts coughing, too.
“You’ve got to want to survive,” the biker guy says. “You’ve got to want to fight for it and never stop fighting.”
Imani bends down to look in my eyes, then she turns to Siggy.
“Y’all need a drink of water or something?” Imani whispers, and we have to choke back more laughter.
Finally, the session is over, and when my stomach rumbles it’s a surprise, even though I’ve been keeping track of the time so we won’t miss the podcast or the full cast session on the main stage.
Imani must hear it, too, because she cocks an eyebrow at me.
“Should I be worried? Are you about to turn on me?”
“I mean, if I did, I would make it quick, okay?” I say.
We decide instead of returning to the exhibit hall to eat under fluorescent lights, that we will use the skyway hamster tube to cross over to the luxury hotel for lunch. Besides which, since we are already on the second floor for the prepper session in the banquet room, we’re pretty close to it.
We walk down the second-floor hallway, the wall of windows to our left.
“This is a good plan,” Siggy says. “I’ve always wanted to use the skyway.”
We reach the tube and walk out into it, over the street. The sun warms us, and I feel like lying down in the tube for a moment, just luxuriating in it.
“Can we stay at the lobby sandwich counter instead of the actual sit-down restaurant, though?” Imani asks when we’re about halfway through the tube. “It’ll be quicker, cheaper, and we might see celebrities in the lobby, if they’re taking a break from the con.”
“Yes, let’s do that!” Siggy agrees.
We reach the hotel side of the tube, walk past the convention badge and security checkpoint, and take the clear elevators down into the lobby.
As we cross the marble floor, we have to make a small detour around some kind of spill. There are those little collapsible yellow fabric cones spread in a loose triangle around a surprisingly large area of floor.
A maid from housekeeping swipes a large, wet mop across the floor, then lifts the rust-dark mop into her bucket and presses. The red water is vivid contrasted to her white hand.
“Gross,” Siggy says. “That looks like blood.”
“No way that’s blood,” Imani says, but she’s frowning.
“Maybe the makeup effects team dropped a fake blood packet,” I say.
We order sandwiches at the counter, then take a table near the windows, but sit with our backs to the outside. All the better to see the lobby.
We snarf our sandwiches and don’t see anybody famous come through the lobby while we’re sitting there, just more cosplayers arriving in hazmat suits. Maybe the costume shop had a special group rate? The cosplayers spread into the hotel lobby, stopping and scanning people—swiping those heat-sensitive thermometers across foreheads, sticking a fake chem strip into the maid’s bucket water, spreading through the lobby and into the elevators, making people more annoyed than amused.
We’re almost done with our sandwiches when Siggy’s phone goes off, a cacophony of electric guitars.
“Mark?” I ask as Siggy swipes to answer. “Again? He knows you’re here with us!”
I feel my eyebrows pulling down as Siggy makes an apologetic face but takes the call anyway. She gets up from our little table, and takes a few steps away, murmuring low into the phone.
I turn to Imani. “Ugh.”
Imani gives me one of those smiles I’m never completely happy to be on the receiving end of. Even though she is my best friend, and even though it’s gentle, there’s a reprimand in there, too.
“I’m sure it’ll be quick,” Imani says. “Maybe the mail came.”
Meaning maybe there’s an admissions letter.
I glance over at Siggy, and it’s impossible to tell anything. So I don’t think the letter came, because we’d sure be able to tell in an instant if he got in or not.
My fingers drum on the table before I realize I’m doing it. I make myself stop.
Imani scrolls on her phone, patiently, and so I eat the pickle spear left on my plate. My phone just gobbles up power, and it’ s already low so I’m deliberately saving it for more photos.
We wait. For Siggy to talk to her boyfriend. Which is some-thing she does all the time every day so maybe it could wait.
Ugh.
“June.” Imani’s voice is gentle.
“I know,” I say. “I’m being patient.”
“She just needs a minute. Relationships take work sometimes,” Imani says.
“Should they though?” I ask. I glance over at Siggy smiling and talking.
“They all do,” Imani says. “Ryan and I fought, remember?”
Her boyfriend from last year, who graduated.
“Yeah, but you guys broke up,” I say.
“Only because he went to college,” Imani says. “Not because we fought.”
Imani’s hand touches my arm. “Besides, did you ever think maybe the reason they fight so much is not because of Mark?” she asks.
“Not really?” I answer, and my tone is defensive for Siggy. Because I know exactly what Imani means. Because I’ve seen Siggy get into it with Mark.
She’s awesome but she goes off. And then she doesn’t back down, even when she should. When she’s completely wrong, or is misinterpreting something he said, she just digs in.
And he’s not perfect, but that’s not Imani’s point.
“I just keep waiting for them to break up for good, I guess,” I say.
“I wouldn’t hold your breath on that,” Imani says.
Finally Siggy comes back to the table.
“Any news?” Imani asks.
Siggy shakes her head. “He just wanted to hear my voice.” She tips her chin and pulls a lock of her white-blonde hair, stroking it with a happy little smirk on her face.
Imani smiles at her, and I successfully avoid making obvious hurking noises, so it’s finally time to climb the stairs back up to the hamster-tube level. We go through the security point again, showing our badges and opening our bags on the table, and then we’re back in the tube, clear to return to ZombieCon!
Imani stretches in the sun.
“I feel like a sunbathing hamster,” she says.
“Me too,” Siggy agrees, doing a deep leg lunge, hands on her hips like she’s going to start doing yoga or is posing for a ridiculous Instagram.
Behind us there’s a commotion at the hotel side of the hamster tube.
I glance back. Two people in white hazmat suits are there, scanning the guards. A guard shouts as they shove him back into the tube.
“Stop! You have to come through security like everyone else!” the guard shouts.
Me and Siggy and Imani quick-time it out of the tube, moving back into the convention center and stopping along the interior wall. We stand next to one of those red emergency stations, a fire alarm and extinguisher hanging next to a firehose cabinet.
We look back at the drama unfolding in the skyway.
One of the figures in the hazmat suits holds big gloved hands up, in an easy there gesture. Another figure is messing with the tables, pulling them back away from the hotel side of the tube entrance.
A third figure is working the mechanism that releases the door hatch to the tube.
“Those guys had better take it down a few notches or they’re gonna get kicked
out,” Imani says.
One of the convention guards is barking into his shoulder radio.
“Yeah,” I say. “Let’s get going.”
I don’t want to get caught up in whatever happens next.
10
We go down the escalators and back into the exhibit hall. It’s more crowded now, so we have to weave down the aisles a bit more.
Lots of people have visited the various makeup booths and are sporting wounds and scars, or scleral contacts. It’s weird and disconcerting to share smiles with these walking wounded.
Although it’s also supremely cool.
A drunk, middle-aged man in the center of the aisle lurches from table to table.
“Whoo boy,” Siggy says. “Watch out.”
The man lurches back across the aisle to another table.
We give him a wide berth as we pass.
The man turns and sees Siggy. He turns jerkily, like his body is a puppet with separate, jointed controls. His shoulders whip around first, then torso, then hips, then feet. He stumbles and crashes into another man.
“Hey!” The man shoves him.
The drunk man hasn’t taken his eyes off Siggy. He keeps moving toward us. His mouth opens, and he tries to speak, but all the noise that comes out is a mangled, garbled groaning.
I . . . don’t think he’s drunk.
A thick string of saliva pours down his chin. The rope of spittle stretches to his chest.
“You guys.” Siggy’s voice is tight with fear.
Without thinking, I step in front of Siggy.
Imani must have the same instinct because I feel her shoulder pressed close to mine.
“Cut that crap out!” Imani shouts at the man.
I remember from health class how you’re supposed to give people jobs in an emergency.
There’s an audience standing around, watching us like this is some kind of performance bit.
“You!” I point to the man who shoved him. “Go get security!”
The man nods and pushes away from the crowd.
A clump of three teens stands in the middle of the aisle. Two girls and a guy, they’re just standing there like deer mesmerized by oncoming headlights.