Generation Dead

by Daniel Waters

  "Yes," he said. "We have concerns as well."

  "Who is this 'we' you keep referring to? Is it the royal 'we'? The papal 'we'?"

  She thought his smile grew a bit wider. "I want to show you something," he said, and motioned for her to follow him through the kitchen to a closed door, which no doubt led to his bedroom.

  "Um, could you tell me where the bathroom is?" "Back that way. On ...the right." "Thanks."

  She left her hands under the faucet for a couple minutes, the cool water making her hands tingle and the floral scent of the hand soap filling her nostrils. Margi's words echoed in her head, and she stayed behind the locked door longer than she needed to.

  She walked back. Tommy's door was open and his complexion had taken on a bluish cast as he sat in front of a computer screen in the dark. The room itself was a male version of hers, with books and a stereo and posters, the differences being that the stereo was a lot cheaper and there were sports stars mixed in among the musicians on the walls. And the room was a lot neater.

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  "I wanted to show you this," Tommy said, and motioned to the screen.

  Phoebe saw that Tommy was on a Web site called mysocalledundeath.com. The home page was decorated with comic book zombies shambling from graves, and menacing pink people, mostly blond and buxom. Some familiar heavy metal mascots were present as well.

  "What is this?" she said, leaning over his shoulder. There was a subtle scent to him, one that she could not quite identify. Something outdoorsy. She resisted the urge to touch his shoulder.

  "My blog."

  "Your blog? No way."

  "Way. I've got close to a thousand subscribers."

  "Wow." She leaned in closer. When he typed she could see the muscles of his arms move underneath his shirt.

  There were a few hot links on the home page: Archive, Deadline, MSCU Alumni, Links.

  "I try to write ...every night."

  "Can I read some?"

  He clicked on the Deadline link, and there was an entry for the day prior. She began to read.

  Week three of the Hunter Foundations necrohumanitarian experiment. The class was subjected to the crass but persuasive arguments of Mr. Steven "Skip" Slydell, with whom all of you are by now well familiar, thanks to his being a good years worth of blog fodder. Skip's main thesis seems to be that the zombie

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  community can achieve legitimacy through consumerism and sloganeering. He dispensed swag to the class; I myself am now the proud owner of a new Zombie Power! T-shirt. There is something almost endearing in his shameless hucksterism, and the gear he showered us with does have a certain radical chic to it. You can't help but question his motives, which almost certainly are profit driven, but at the same time you can't help but be drawn into his circle of "positive transformation." If there is cheesy packaging around a universal truth, does that make the universal truth inside any less valid?

  In a perfect universe, we would not need the Skip Slydells of the world to sell us the messages that we should be creating ourselves. But the fact of the matter is, until we as a group are able to fully take advantage of the DIY ethic that built this country, we are at the mercy of the Slydells. Until we have a press, a voice, a piece of the media, we need to take what we can get. Until we can get hired and have some economic worth, we need to take what we can get. Many of us by now have been dead for three years, meaning that by human terms some of us are now eighteen and should have the legal right to vote, but of course our death certificates are, for all intents and purposes, a complete revocation of our rights and citizenship.

  So III work with Skip Slydell as best as I possibly can. Ill do so knowing that I am selling myself and all of you out, but that such sellouts are necessary to really make change happen.

  At the bottom, there was a flashing banner ad that read, Support Proposition 77 .

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  "What is Proposition 77?"

  "A proposal to have the federal government issue a rebirth certificate to anyone who comes back ...from the dead. It's what would grant us some rights and ...citizenship."

  "So you could hang with the humans, huh?"

  He looked up at her. "Poor word choice?"

  "I'm cool with it, but you know how us blood bags are. Seriously though, Tommy. This is incredible. You are a really good writer."

  "Wish I was a better ...typist," he said, wiggling his stiff fingers.

  Their eyes met, and Phoebe imagined that her pale skin did not look much different than his in the soft blue glow of the computer screen.

  Phoebe heard the front door open, and she jumped as though caught doing something wrong. Gamera leaped off Tommy's lap and ran into the living room.

  "I'm hoooome!" a high voice carried throughout the trailer. A blond woman in a nurse's uniform walked in and hung her keys on a hook on the wall.

  "You must be Phoebe," she said, crossing the kitchen and taking a hold of Phoebe's arms. Phoebe could feel the warmth of her hands even through the thick frilly material of her blouse sleeves. "I've heard so much about you. Welcome."

  Phoebe could barely bring herself to say hi as the woman hugged her.

  "Phoebe," Tommy said, "my mother."

  "Call me Faith," she said, her blue eyes shining at Phoebe to

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  the point where she wondered if the woman was about to cry. Faith released Phoebe and threw an arm around her son's shoulders, stooping to give him a loud wet kiss on the cheek. "Hey, you," she said. "How's life?"

  "You tell me. I was just...showing Phoebe the site."

  "My son, the writer," she said. "Isn't it great?"

  Phoebe nodded, still in shock. She hadn't really been able to picture Tommy's mother, and the tiny woman's vibrant cheer wasn't at all what she'd expected.

  "Thomas Williams!" Faith said. "You didn't give the poor girl anything to eat or drink. Some of us still have to do that, you know!"

  "Sorry, Ma," he said, as his mother walked two steps into the kitchen and withdrew a bag of cheese puffs and a glass from the cabinets.

  "What do you like, Phoebe? I have Diet Pepsi, milk, orange juice. I could make coffee. You like coffee?" "I like coffee."

  "Good girl!" she said. Her smile made even Angela Hunter's seem lopsided, maybe because there was a sincerity that was absent in the other woman's.

  "She likes you," Tommy whispered.

  "What? I heard that, Tommy. Of course I like her. Why wouldn't I like her?"

  Phoebe watched her rifling through the cabinets, no doubt in search of misplaced coffee, which she eventually found in the freezer. She realized that Faith was as nervous as she was, but the woman was also so happy, the emotion seemed to be

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  coming off her in waves. Phoebe felt a stab of guilt deep within her.

  "My parents don't know I'm here," she blurted.

  Faith stopped her shuffling and looked at her, a coffee cup in her hand. Her face grew a bit more serious, but her smile didn't leave her eyes. Tommy forced a sigh of air through his nose.

  "We'll talk about that, Phoebe," she said. Her voice was soft and warm. "We have time. Do you like sugar? Cream?"

  Phoebe said that she did, and then she followed Tommy over to the round table and waited for her coffee.

  "So," Adam said, looking over at his companion. Margi had been sitting with her arms folded across her chest and a stormy expression on her pale face from the moment he'd picked her up. She'd been glaring out the window without speaking as he drove laps around Oakvale Heights and the twisting roads that radiated around the development. "What do you want to do?"

  "I can't believe she would do this to me," Margi said, her bracelets jangling as she uncrossed her arms and threw her hands skyward. Adam didn't mind that she'd ignored the question; he was just glad she was talking. "Can you believe she did this to me?"

  "We could go to the Honeybee if you want," he said. "Get some milk shakes."

  "She's irresponsible, is what she is. Irresponsible. To th
ink

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  that we would just cover for her so she could go on a date with a dead kid."

  "Any movies you want to see?" Adam watched her out of the corner of his eye, amused at seeing Typhoon Margi start to blow. He knew that Margi had no problem at all lying to cover for a friend. In fact, it was usually Margi who would suggest it.

  "And then to make you do it, too," she said, turning toward him as though suddenly aware that he was in the truck with her. "Bad enough to make me do it, but you--that's just icing on the cake. Talk about insult to injury." Her eyes were fiery and wild beneath her pink eye shadow.

  He almost wanted to pursue that line of thought, but Margi wasn't always a reliable source of information, and the last thing he wanted, regarding Phoebe, was misinformation. So he let it go.

  "I've got a Frisbee if you want to play Frisbee," he said. "Phoebe and I toss a Frisbee around sometime."

  "Phoebe is the sensible one," she said. "She isn't supposed to do stuff like this."

  She sniffed, and Adam realized with a growing sense of horror that she might be ready to burst out crying.

  "Could we go to the lake?" she said. "I used to like going there."

  Adam nodded and headed for the access road that would bring them to Oxoboxo Park, a short stretch of public beach kept sandy by the town.

  "I learned how to swim there," Adam said. "The

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  Oakvale Rec used to give lessons."

  "Me too," Margi said, reaching into her enormous black purse and pulling out a wadded lump of tissues. "I was in Colette's class. We were Guppies together."

  And then she just let loose with deep sobbing cries. Adam gripped the wheel and pressed down on the accelerator.

  Like everything in Oakvale, Oxoboxo Park was a short drive away. The entire town was made up of a lopsided hub around the lake and the woods that surrounded it, and the park was nestled in the southern corner where the Oxoboxo River joined the lake.

  The parking area was roped off, so Adam parked beside the ropes and paced around in front of the truck while Margi cried a little longer. After a few minutes she must have realized that her makeup was a complete ruin and the only sensible thing to do would be to take off as much of it as she could. Adam watched her rubbing at her cheeks and eyes with the wadded tissue balls. He thought she needed some air, so he opened the door of the truck.

  "Daffy," he said, "why don't you come out of there? We'll talk."

  "Don't look at me," she said through her sobbing. "I'm horrible."

  "No worse than usual," Adam replied, but her wailing indicated that humor was not the answer. He looked out over the Oxoboxo where it met the wide crescent of sand that the town had put in years ago and replenished every

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  year since. There was a cold breeze rippling the water and making it lap gently on the shore. Beyond the crescent and far on the other side, the trees were thick, their branches full of red, yellow, and orange leaves that had begun to fade, as though they'd been bleached out by the grayish sky above.

  "Come on, Daffy. I'm just kidding. You'll always be beautiful to me."

  She gave a curt laugh, and Adam turned--partly because it was the polite thing to do, and partly because he was revolted as a big saliva bubble blew from her mouth.

  "Yeah," she said, "I buy that. I wish I bought that."

  "Daffy ..."

  "You and Phoebe should be dating," she said. "Then I wouldn't feel so bad."

  "Sure," he said, with no witty rejoinder coming to mind.

  "Take me home, please. I don't feel so good."

  "Not yet," he said. "You wanted to come here, we're here. Let's talk."

  She looked up at him, her eyes red from crying. Then she seemed to catch her breath and compose herself.

  Adam held out his hand and motioned for her to come out. She gave her puffy face a final scrub and then took his hand, allowing him to lead her out of the truck.

  "Well," she said, "I guess we learned that I'm an idiot. A total, total idiot."

  "Nah," he said. "You're just upset. And you were just about to tell me what's upsetting you."

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  She let all the air out of her lungs in a great rush, and then she leaned back into the cab to rummage through her purse some more. "Phoebe. Colette. Zombies. Wow, it really turned cold today, didn't it?"

  "Why don't you start with Phoebe," he said. He could feel a muscle along his jaw twitch, and was glad when Margi returned from her purse with a pack of gum. He accepted a piece, trading it for his heavy letter jacket.

  "This smells good," she said, pulling the shoulders of the jacket in. "What cologne is that?"

  "My natural musk," he said. "Phoebe?"

  "I'm just worried about her," she said. "It's weird, her dating a dead kid. Having us cover for her. Don't you think it is weird?"

  "It's weird," he agreed, folding the cinnamon gum up into his mouth and starting to chew.

  "She's not talking about it, which is also weird. She isn't really telling me what she feels."

  Me either, he thought, but didn't see any point in discussing that. "She probably doesn't know. Not everyone is struck by lightning when they think they have feelings for someone."

  "I know, I know. I guess I just find the idea ...creepy."

  "Tommy is a good guy," he said, hoping she didn't notice the caution he felt in his voice.

  "Sure," she said. "But he's dead. Where can it go?"

  He didn't have an answer to that, so he started loping toward the water.

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  "Adam," she said, "can we leave now?"

  He turned back to her with a wise comment on his lips, but he'd caught the tone of her voice, and he saw that she was shivering within the shelter of his coat.

  She looked terrified.

  "Daffy ...."

  "This is where she died," she said, her voice barely audible over the leaves rustling in the wind. "Not here, but over on the other side, where we used to hide out. The Weird Sisters, we were so spooky. Spoooooky! We had our own secret grotto deep in the woods. That was where she went under, right outside of the grotto."

  "Who?" he said, knowing as soon as he said it. "Colette?"

  She nodded, rubbing at her eyes, sending her bracelets clinking. "I thought maybe if I came here with you, you know, someone as big as you, I wouldn't be afraid. I know you'll think I'm making fun, but how could a girl be afraid if you were with her? I thought that maybe I could walk down to the water and put my big toe in and it would be all right again. I wouldn't be afraid."

  "Margi, I wasn't even thinking when I mentioned the lessons. I'm not a very smart guy most of the time."

  "But I still am. Afraid, I mean. I'm still afraid."

  Adam looked back at the water and thought the whole surface of the lake had just darkened, like a giant mood ring.

  "I haven't been back here since," she said.

  "Margi," he said, "her drowning wasn't your fault. She blacked out, had a seizure or something. It wasn't anybody's fault."

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  " That part wasn't my fault," she said, so low he could barely understand her. Two tears rolled down her cheeks, leaving fresh grayish tracks on her skin.

  "You could talk to her," Adam said.

  "That's what Phoebe says too," she said. "But it's so hard, Adam. It's so hard to see her, to watch her walk or try to get up from her chair when class is over. And the way she looks at me ...."

  "Margi ..."

  "I thought the class might change something, Adam. I really did. I thought I'd have some major breakthrough or something, and just be okay with things. But I'm not. I'm not okay. The more time I spend with dead people, the more time I spend thinking about dead people, and I don't know how much more I can take. I start thinking about being a dead person. And now with Phoebe ditching us for zombies, I just don't know what to do."

  "She's not ditching us," Adam said.

  "I didn't let her in," Margi said. "She was calling and I did
n't let her in."

  "Who was calling, Margi?" he said. Was that some bizarre, Daffy-esque metaphor for what she was going through with Phoebe?

  "I'd really like to go home now, Adam," she said. "Please."

  Adam nodded. Her crying jag had left her looking disheveled and urchinlike in his jacket, which covered her like a tent.

  "Sure, kid," he said, and climbed back into the truck.

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  Pulling out of the parking area, he realized that she hadn't looked at the Oxoboxo the entire time they'd been there, not even when the only view of the lake was in the rearview mirror.

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  ***

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  A REN'T YOU COMING, PETE? We're going to be late."

  A half dozen scathing retorts bubbled up through his subconscious, but Pete let them dissipate without comment.

  "You go ahead," he said, watching from the foyer as Williams got on the bus. "Tell Coach I have diarrhea or something. I'll be out in a while."

  "Really?" Stavis said. "You sick?"

  Pete turned back to him and shook his head. The dead kid was moving pretty well for a dead kid, much better than the girl that he let on the bus before him.

  "You want me to get the nurse, or something?"

  "No, TC," Pete said through clenched teeth. "No, I don't want you to go to the nurse. What I want is for you to get out of here and go to practice and tell Coach that I'm sick. Tell him that I will be on the field as soon as I clear my colon."

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  "You want me to say that ?" Stavis said. "I can't say that. He's gonna be pissed."

  "TC, make something up. You're a creative guy."

  "Yeah? You really think so?"

  "Yeah, I really think so. Now go away."

  Pete set his backpack down and took out the roster he'd ripped off the office wall. The blue sheet was creased and torn in places, one gummy strand of yellow masking tape still affixed at the remaining corner. There were four of them on that bus. Phoebe Kendall, Margi Vachon, Tommy Williams, and ...some other dead chick. Either Sylvia Stelman or Colette Beauvoir, because the slutty-looking one was Karen DeSonne. One of the girls, either Sylvia or Colette, got picked up every day by a blue van that also took a zombie who must be Kevin Dumbrowski, because Evan Talbot was the redheaded freak who lived in Pete's neighborhood and Tayshawn Wade was the black zombie. Well, the gray zombie, anyhow.