by Logan Keys
I lift his added weight and begin counting again. By number three, though, my arms start to shake, and I jerk to the side, letting his foot fall, effectively spilling some of his soda.
Sergeant Nolan kicks me in the side, and my face scrapes the ground when I land.
He chuckles like it’s all too much fun. “Private, is it true you have some sort of crazy Special? I heard you turn uglier than a coyote with rabies.”
The platoon shuffles with muffled laughter.
“Sir, yes, sir.” I ignore the burning in my palms and begin to do push-ups again.
“You some kind of werewolf, Private?”
“Sir, no, sir.” Sweat drips off the tip of my nose in a steady stream.
“Then what is it?”
“Sir, it’s a genetic mutation, sir.”
“Well, forgive the hell out of me, Private. Do you see ‘doctor’ anywhere on my lapel? Do I look like one of those freak scientists? Answer me, Private!”
My teeth grit. “Sir, no, sir.”
“If you turn into something dangerous, tell me now, ‘cause I don’t need no bigfoot lab-rat screwing up my platoon.”
“Sir, yes, sir.”
Sergeant Nolan leans in, his face next to mine. “You keep that kind of crazy locked up tight, you hear?”
“Roger that, Sergeant.”
He kicks me again, and I grunt. “You gonna do it now? Huh?” He kicks me a third time, and I feel a stirring inside. “What did you say? You want to challenge me, soldier?”
My vision shrinks, and my voice turns strained. “Sir … no … sir.”
There’s a darkness within me now, put there by the same scientists who’d electrocuted me before injecting every color serum imaginable until I thought I’d die. I’d wanted to at certain points. If the body is like a bag of sand, then the grains filling it under the skin had to be removed, to make room for … it…. They’d sieved some of me out and replaced my insides with something only imagined from the farthest and coldest galaxy, a consciousness so foreign and inhuman—both ancient and young—it’s there, primordial and evil, sifting through that sand, waiting for freedom.
I sense its shift now.
“Leave him alone!” Vero yells, then counts again, doing push-ups, fast.
Cory chucks her beneath the chin and shakes his head. “Looks like our virgin’s about to get his cherry popped, Sarge.”
“Virgin.” Sergeant Nolan puts a foot on my hand, stopping me. “Virgin … ? You telling me monster boy here hasn’t so much as wet his whistle?”
The squad succumbs to choked hilarity.
Sergeant Nolan yells over the top of the laughter. “Answer me, soldier. Is your team leader correct?”
I keep pumping up and down, arms shaking, gut clenched. “Sir. Yes. Sir.” Sweat’s stinging my eyes, and I pretend it’s the only thing that’s making them burn.
Sergeant Nolan chuckles and spits something brown next to my hand before he moves his boot to my shoulder. “Keep going.”
A ringing begins in my ears. This is how it starts. “Roger.”
“Count,” he snaps.
“Fifty-five, fifty-six, fifty … fifty―” I collapse, face-first, feeling my energy leave in a rush.
“Don’t you quit on me, you pussy! You get the hell back up, or I’ll make you pay for a hundred years!”
“Roger, Sergeant!” But I’m only able to move about an inch upward.
“Get up! Get up, you worm!”
When I don’t, he backs off, telling me to stand. I do, and he moves toe-to-toe with me. “Private, tell me how it’s possible, when girls think the world’s ending and your pissant generation is gonna be the last so they’re passin’ it out like candy at Halloween that you still haven’t become a man?”
I mumble an answer, avoiding the platoon’s stares, Cory’s grinning face, and Vero’s pitiful glance. “I’m afraid that I’ll hurt her … sir.”
“What? What are you muttering about?”
“I’m afraid I’ll make—hurt—”
“Babababa! Talking like a baby, Private. Should I get you a bottle? Speak up, son, when you’re addressing a superior. If you like, we could heat up you and the entire platoon, too, an extra few hours.”
Groans roll through the squad.
I shift my eyes away, and spittle flies from his lips. “Get it out! Or so help me God―”
“I’m scared I’ll kill her, okay! I’m afraid I’ll break her in half! That I’ll wake up to a corpse in the sheets, blue and mangled. Is that what you want to hear, Sergeant? I turn into a monster five times your size, and he―it—craves …and she won’t be able to get away…Do you have any idea what I’m capable of!”
The entire platoon has fallen silent, their eyes round, while my body stretches inside my shirt. Seams creak from the strain, and a button pops off to roll across the cement. We watch it circle until it stops before Sergeant Nolan tips his head back, laughing softly. He spits off to the side again. “Well, why didn’t you just say so, pencil dick?”
He nods at Cory. “Dismissed.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Liza
Serena’s asking me something, but I’m only half listening. When my stare remains blank, she repeats her question.
“Do. You. Want to go to the movies?”
But it’s late, past curfew. “Wait—what? There’s a movie place here?”
She rolls her eyes. “Look, if you don’t want to go—”
“No, I do. But what about curfew?”
“They let us do this, like, once a month. Some kind of new program where they put out a couple of films. You wanna come or not? They bus us in and out, so curfew isn’t an issue.”
“Sure,” I say. It’s a much needed distraction, and I’m adding a hoodie over my black jeans that I’d splurged on and purchased last payday, along with some tennis shoes. Dress clothes get old after a while.
Serena’s right about the allowed extension of curfew. When we get to the alleyway, we find a line of people shuffling in the cold. Our raging heat wave has turned freezing in a matter of hours.
At last, a bus pulls up and we all get in, huddling for warmth. But the bus is too much like a train for my liking so, despite Serena’s snide giggle, I end up gripping the bar near my seat.
They drive us in a strange squiggle southward until we stop in front of a cement building with one glass door.
There, we get off and wait for tickets. Just before we step inside, a man in a fancy grey coat and perfectly gelled hair runs toward us. “Serena!”
He brushes back a non-existent loose strand, and his gold watch catches the moonlight. Such extravagance is mind boggling.
Serena seems irritated, and something else. “What are you doing here, Gregor?” she hisses.
“I couldn’t wait to see you. I hoped you’d come tonight. I have a ticket, too.”
He shows her the stub, and she shrugs before looking away. Only I’m seeing her small smile.
Now, I'm an awkward third wheel to the unexpected pair, and the crowd jostles us inside, where several movies play in small, packed theatres. We choose randomly, something I’ve never seen before. Not that I’ve seen many films, but a few float hazily through my memory.
Not long into the film I’m noticing uncanny likenesses: how the boyfriend walks the girl home before curfew, both dressed in grey. Only the guards are polite, keeping the couple safe, instead of threatening them like they do in reality.
And the citizens watch this propaganda as if it’s perfectly acceptable to remake entertainment to fit our pale lifestyle.
In the seats next to me, Serena and Gregor make out voraciously; she’s practically in his lap, head ducked down in a hidden pocket of darkness.
I’m officially solo.
The movie’s male lead is saying, “Our leaders are here to help us, Jamie,” when I’ve had enough.
There’s only one toilet, but there’s no line. Inside the stall, a small drawing of a skull has been carved into the me
tal door, and I’m sitting on the toilet lid, staring at it when the bathroom door squeaks open, letting someone inside. A long moan has me stepping up onto the toilet, hands over my mouth.
I inch up to see over the top, but instead of the walking dead, Gregor and Serena are there. She’s pressed up against the wall, and he’s got his mouth on her neck. Her glazed eyes aren’t undead, just lust-filled.
This goes on while I plug my ears and mentally say the alphabet fourteen times over.
Once they leave, my glance in the mirror reveals pink, blotchy skin from having to listen to their noisy tryst. While I’m drying my hands, a girl rushes in, almost crashing into me as she runs for the stall.
She barely makes it to the toilet before hurling.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she gasps, and then pukes again. “Yeah. I just had something bad. Damned moldy bread.”
I slowly approach. “Should I get someone?”
“No. Don’t do that. I’ll be fine.”
She throws up again, and this time, she stares down at the toilet bowl after. Eyes widening, she slumps back against the side of the stall.
Her lips are foamed red.
Blood.
“Wait!” she cries, scrambling to her feet. “Don’t leave. Help … me.”
But I’ve already grabbed the door handle when she tackles me from behind, hitting low so we connect solidly with the wall before bouncing back in a wild tangle. We fall together, and she crawls desperately up my body.
“I’m okay, I’m not … it’s not. I’ll be fine. If they come, they’ll shoot me. Do you understand? They’ll think—”
“Get off of me!”
A jolt of adrenaline aids my shove, and she flips backwards, head striking the floor in a dull thud. Her eyes flutter, then close.
Now she’s lying between me and the door.
I reach across her carefully, trying not to touch her, but the handle slides through my grasp. My hand’s slimy with blood. It’s all over the front of my shirt, too.
At the sink, I try to mop it from my chest, but soon give up on the shirt, pulling it off.
With the shirt pushed down as deep as it will go into the trash, I zip my hoodie. My eyes catch the mirror, making me freeze.
She stands behind me, perfectly still, gaze vacant.
We stay like that for a moment before my dive for the stall breaks the trance. She’s halfway through the door as I’m trying to close it, arms fitting through the space just big enough, hands leaving bloody prints anywhere she touches.
She withdraws long enough for me to latch the lock.
I back away, frantically trying to decide the next move while she repeatedly throws her body against the flimsy door.
Panic begins to override my senses, and I clap my hands over my ears, trying to block out the sound, when it suddenly stops. She’s still again, quiet. I peek through the crack to see she’s standing out there, sort of weaving.
She moves out of my line of sight. First, a hand appears under the bottom of the door. Then, another joins the first. Like a worm she inches underneath, sliding her head along the floor. It twists backwards, and her teeth snap at me where I’m standing on the toilet.
There’s no choice but to attempt to climb over the top, and I’m halfway up when she grabs my legs, pulling me back down. My still-wet hands slip. As I fall, my leg strikes the side of the toilet hard enough to make me cry out.
She’s on me instantly, teeth inches from my vulnerable neck.
But then … it’s like with the guard—my hands clasp each side of her face, and I twist. Her milky eyes move restlessly, blood pouring from her nose. When her head catches and can turn no more, I push it even farther. A single pop vibrates through my arms before more follow.
Letting go, she slumps, unable to do more than quiver. She’s prone, neck broken, jaws snapping impotently, head at an impossible angle.
The vision makes me gag.
Another rinse of the blood at the sink, and I’m out of the bathroom and through the theatre door.
I go back at my seat, having left her there in a permanent seizure on the floor, hoping the darkness can hide the blood on my hoodie.
The film finishes and we leave.
Serena’s busy daydreaming and doesn’t notice I’m not gripping the seat on the bus anymore, or even talking.
She and Gregor hold each other tight and neither notice the strange dampness of my hoodie.
Back at my apartment, even though it’s freezing, I sit through a second ration of shower water trying to get clean.
In bed, bundled up to get warm, I wait.
I wait for them to come and take me away.
To ask how I’d killed a zombie.
What will I say?
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Saturday’s breakfast is a must at Journee’s. He gets the best pastries for it, fresh ones; to miss it would cause suspicion. The twins are nosy anyway, so to give them any reason to suspect something is a bad idea.
“Where’d you go last night, Mozart?” Journee asks.
The doughnut sticks in my throat. “I went with Serena and Gregor to the movies.”
“Oh, really?” He stares at Serena, who keeps careful eyes on her newspaper. “You still hang with that rich old man?”
“Mm-hmm,” she replies, not looking up, but an eye roll was in there somewhere. She dramatically turns the page. “I wouldn’t call him old.” Serena seems to search for the right word. “Sophisticated,” she finally says.
“Hmm.” Journee watches her over his mug before he reaches across to brush her hand with his. “You be careful, all right?”
She looks up in surprise. “Sure,” she says, and rolls her eyes again, but with a softer smile than I’ve ever seen, even with Gregor.
When she returns to reading, Journee’s expression turns pained.
Manda talks with her mouth full. “I’ve told you, Muneca, that man is nothing but trouble. Mm-hmm, my ass. Just like our daddy. All play but no stay.”
Serena spouts something rapid in Spanish, pinning Manda with a glare.
Manda tosses her pastry down. “All right. Sarry. I just calls it like I sees it. A warnin’ is all.” She turns to me, and it’s difficult to take her seriously with her hair in pink rollers. She fixes one and purses her lips. “I have a sick sense about these things. You know … ?”
“Sixth, Manda.” Serena sighs. “The saying is ‘sixth sense.’”
Manda screws her face to the side. “Huh? That makes no freakin’ sense. I saw that movie, okay, and if everyone was dead, they had to be sick. No offense, Mozart.”
My shrug goes ignored.
Serena slaps her hand on the front headline. “A girl died at the movie theatre last night.” She gestures between us. “That’s where we were!” She takes a bite of her muffin and with a head shake, reads, “Doctor Pica Ciudad comments on the loss of yet another life. ‘The dreadful virus strikes again.’”
The table erupts with groans, and I glance around in question.
Journee taps the page. “Find a comment from the leaders.”
“Yup. Here it is.” Serena snaps the paper taut. “Karma Cromwell makes a statement to the people: ‘The Authority is saddened by the loss of one of our citizens and promises to find a cure.’ Reginald Cromwell adds, ‘We have to keep hope.’”
Everyone groans again.
Journee snatches the paper from Serena and searches it, reading, “Doctors work round the clock to find a cure for the dreaded influenza.”
“Is that what they call it?” I ask. “It has a name?”
“Yes.” Manda snorts. “Hey, are you feeling okay, Mozart? Do you feel … dreadful?”
My mouth curves dryly. “Indeed,” I say, trying to keep my voice light. “So, have you had any epidemics here recently? I mean … zombies … ?”
“Well … ” Journee takes a sip of his coffee, eyeing me with new interest. “They don’t say we have, but … Tell her your theory, Se
rena.”
Serena brushes her hair back with an almost eye roll, though her expression changes to one of superiority before complete rotation. “I have this thought about them. The zombies, I mean. And, of course, the ‘oh-so dreadful’ virus. That’s all we’ve heard about lately,” she says, “when people change into zombies, they seem to do so when they’re tired. I’m sure you know the majority of transformations happen at night, right? That’s why maybe the Authority got the idea sick people are more susceptible, too, because of their immune systems. No offense,” she says to me, and I shrug again.
Serena continues, “But anyway, back when it first started, it seemed like that was a clue. We haven’t had any outbreaks—or supposedly we haven’t—but lots of these people die of the ‘dreadful flu,’ and guess what? All of them are found at night or very early morning. Supposedly. This girl … ? Dead at night. Suspicious, if you ask me.” Her dark eyes narrow, and I shrink in my seat.
My cup has suddenly become very interesting. “You think they’re all zombies?” I ask. “That it’s a cover?”
“Of course.”
Manda smacks her lips. “My sistah, inspector freakin’ gadget, here.”
Serena leans in, and Journee does, too. Manda watches too carefully, and I feel like they know my secret.
Serena says, “They say purging is the only guarantee. You purge, you never zombie out.”
“But they say a lot of crap,” Manda adds.
“Purging …?” I whisper.
But before they can answer, Manda squeals and runs to the window. “Oh. My. God! Guys, check it out!”
“Well, would you look at that.…” Journee shakes his head.
We’ve moved up onto the roof after Manda had complained that we needed a better view.
When the first train car goes by, I’m as surprised as everyone else. The large container has been tagged on the side with an anarchy symbol from top to bottom.
The next car reads: Against
The third: All
And the fourth: Authority
And that’s when it dawns on me what’s different about the train: It’s completely empty.