Closed Campus (Jane Zombie Chronicles Book 1)

by Gayle Katz

  I start to walk toward the door. At the same time, he leans over and puts his arm across the entrance. I stop. I see the adjacent door is open and decide to try that door, but he walks over and blocks that doorway too.

  “Please just let me by,” I ask, pleaded really.

  “I’ll let you by. No problem. Go out with me.”

  “Why are you doing this? I just want to go to class.”

  “Am I bothering you? Listen. Either you put out or you can get out.”

  “What?” I say, stunned. I sigh. I’m not going to make it to my next class after all. He just stands there. Emotionless.

  Frustrated and on the verge of crying, I blurt out, “Fine. I’m going. Just leave me alone, OK?”

  Dejected, I start to walk away. Confrontation isn’t my thing. I’d rather just get out of here. I’m going back to the dorms. If everyone else is at class, it’ll be nice and quiet there.

  “Hey!” he shouts.

  I turn my head back around.

  “If you change your mind, and I know you will, I’m in Lincoln Hall, Room 342.”

  12:00 p.m.

  My head is spinning. Screw the rest of my classes today. I can’t handle them right now anyway. I’m going back to the dorm to relax. My nerves are shot. I do an about-face and start back.

  Walking back to the dorms, I clearly see some camouflaged military vehicles against the stark white of the falling snow. That’s odd. They’re parked outside of my professor’s building.

  As my eyes analyze the situation, I catch a glimpse of a young guy in fatigues leaning quite suggestively over a girl. I recognize her from my class. She is smiling, and I am staring. Who wouldn’t stare, right? He’s touching her face and getting closer to her. Really close. She wraps her arms around his neck and brings him closer.

  That’s when my jaw drops. They’re kissing. I mean, really kissing in front of everybody and anybody walking past the building.

  When he pops his head up to look around, I quickly break off my view. I don’t want him to see me staring. I’m positive that wouldn’t come off well. I can’t resist, though. I peek again, but this time the girl is gone and my professor is talking with a few of the military guys, including the one previously drooling all over that girl from class. I can’t hear what they are saying, but I do see a lot of arm and hand gestures indicating their conversation isn’t going well.

  The real question I have is, Why are the military and my professor talking with each other?Perplexing. Maybe they’re just recruiting like they do in high school? I dismiss it. It’s none of my business anyway. I continue walking home.

  Just then my phone starts making noise. I take it out of my bag, flip it open, and see that I have a text message. Strange. No one has my number except for my parents and the school.

  Don’t make the wrong decision.

  What? Who is texting me? It’s a local number, but I have no clue who it is. Probably just a wrong number. I put my phone back in my bag and keep walking to my dorm.

  The snow is starting to fall faster. When the flakes hit the ground, they don’t disappear. Instead, flake-by-flake they start to cover up the ground with white. The campus is turning into a winter wonderland. I just hope I’ll be able to get to the radio station tonight.

  My thoughts turn to what a dud this day had become. When I woke up, the morning seemed so promising, but then my professor and that hockey lug-head Lance completely ruined it. They also made me feel really uncomfortable. Why do people feel the need to bully me into doing things? If you like me or think I like you, why not be nice about it rather than being an asshole?

  Tired from drudging through the snowdrifts, I spot what look like two people making out against the wall, necking really, cold snowflakes hitting their heads. They are really going at it.

  It’s the middle of the day. “Get a room,” I mumble.

  Finally, I make it back to my dorm. I run up the three flights of stairs and open the door into my drab, undecorated half of a room. My roommate isn’t there. She’s probably in class, which is where I should be right now, but who cares? I just can’t deal with life right now.

  I decide to skip lunch. Instead I lie down on my bed to relax and chill out.

  Staring at the ceiling, I feel my eyes getting heavy. Why is being here so tough? Why are people making it even worse? Why doesn’t everyone just leave me alone? I start to sob a little, which takes my last ounce of strength. I doze off.

  I dream that I am back in class. This time, though, my professor is holding onto my arm tightly and won’t let me go. I’m pulling away from him, but his grip is too tight. As I start to get upset, I wake up in a panic. I guess I fell asleep, but it’s far from peaceful.

  Just then, my phone starts buzzing again. I pick it up and see I have another text message:

  Last chance to do what’s right.

  Shit! Who’s texting me? Why won’t they leave me alone?

  What’s that mean anyway? Last chance to do what’s right? Last chance? I don’t understand. This is clearly a mistake. These text messages must be for someone else. I decide to write back:

  I’m sorry. I don’t know who you are, and I’ve been receiving your texts. You have the wrong number.

  There. Done. As I put my phone back in my bag, I notice that I have forgotten to give the professor back his pen. I’ll put it on his desk tomorrow before class starts. I go back to sleep.

  8:00 p.m.

  Exhausted and still lying in bed, I check my watch. I’ve slept the entire afternoon and early evening away, but it’s anything but restful. I’m still tired, and now my stomach is growling. I need to grab some food. There’s just enough time to make it to the dining hall before it closes.

  Despite the time I spent sleeping, I am shaking from nerves, from everything not going my way. It’s worse when I get to my feet. Heading off to the dining hall, I get to thinking.

  Maybe I should see the friendly female campus psychologist and talk? Being on my own is turning out to be more stressful than I originally thought it would be, and having all these people hounding me is driving me even crazier, if that’s even possible. I guess this is how college prepares you for real life?

  I do feel comfortable with her. We met during orientation. We were introduced after the mandatory medical evaluation I went through when I accepted the offer here. They took my blood, asked for emergency contact people, and made sure I was healthy enough for class. I remember thinking then that all the hubbub in order to take a couple of classes was ridiculous.

  Maybe I will reach out to her. Tomorrow, I think. Yeah, tomorrow.

  Right now, I need to focus on getting my butt to the radio station for my shift. Just focus on that. Ever since I was turned down to read the morning announcements in high school, I have always wanted to be on the air. Now’s my chance. Plus, I’ll get practice being social and talking to people. I definitely need that. After a few weeks of training, I think I’m ready to go. Gotta get pumped for it. I pack my bag with my books, makeup, and anything else I think I might need for the next twenty-four hours. After my 2-6 a.m. overnight shift, I have a full day of classes to tackle.

  Before I head out to the station, I check the syllabuses for my classes. While I ditched classes today, I shouldn’t fall behind on my studies. I figure I can get in a couple hours of solid reading and play catch-up.

  1:00 a.m.

  Bag packed, I head off for the station. Despite the lack of restful sleep and my nerves’ probably forming an ulcer in my stomach, I’m feeling pretty good right now. I have plenty of time before my shift starts at 2 a.m. No rushing tonight. I’m good.

  Not even the weather can bring me down, although I can’t believe it’s still snowing. It’s coming down so quickly that the snowplows are already out and about clearing the streets and walkways.

  As I am walking, the snow is up to my knees in certain areas and it’s getting difficult to walk. Damn! Why didn’t I wear my boots?

  Wrapped up tightly in my coat, I f
ind most of the walk down to the other end of campus uneventful until I hit the bars and restaurants just off campus. It’s there that I see Lance and get a sinking feeling inside. He’s pinker than when I last saw him. And he’s surrounded by other guys who look just as out of it as he is.

  As I pass him on the sidewalk, I smell the liquor on his breath and see his eyes are bloodshot. He’s practically oozing alcohol. He stumbles, smiles a drunken smile, and stretches out his arm to grab me, but luckily I’m an inch or two out of his grasp.

  “Have you thought about my offer, honey? We would be so good together. Mm hm.”

  He turns to his buddy, puts his arm around him, points to me, and says, “See that piece of ass walking away? She wants me.”

  He grabs his friend and the two of them run in front of me.

  Lance says clumsily, “M’lady, this is my roommate, Stefan. He really likes you too.”

  I stop walking. They are blocking the sidewalk. I just stare at them. Lance goes, “Doesn’t she look good?”

  “Oh yeah. She’s totally my type,” Stefan says as he steps closer to me.

  “Every woman is your type!” Lance fires back, laughing.

  “I guess she doesn’t want to play,” Stefan says, “and that makes two of us. I’m beat, dude. I’m goin’ back to the room to crash.”

  “Fine, dude. I’m gonna stay and get hammered.”

  I take a breath. To get around them, I have to walk in the street. I look both ways as those two are acting like idiots behind me. No cars are on the road since the snow is coming down fast, I cross to get away from them.

  Thankfully they don’t follow, but I walk faster anyway.

  Who knows what a group of drunk guys is capable of at 1:30 in the morning? I race forward.

  Once across the street, I notice complete chaos at a neighboring restaurant. I pick up my pace even more. As I walk by, I see people hitting each other with chairs, punching each other, basically tearing each other apart. I see a guy bite someone. What’s wrong with people? Aren’t people supposed to be more sophisticated, worldly, and open-minded at a university? I guess not. I hear sirens and have a sneaking suspicion that the police will have their hands full tonight.

  I finally make it to the radio station’s front entrance, a simple glass door with a metal frame. Most of the building is stucco and in the process of crumbling. A silver gray cloth-like tape is stuck everywhere, keeping the crumbles from falling apart. Frankly it’s amazing that the building is still standing. I guess we have duct tape to thank for that.

  My legs are pretty tired from the hike and from sprinting the last few blocks. I enter, run up the stairs, come face-to-face with the alarm panel and security door, and punch in my security code.

  The door opens with a loud, irritating buzzer. Once inside, I exhale, knowing that I am secure. No one can get me now.

  I walk from the front door to the control room, the nerve center of the radio station, then open the door to where I’ll be spending the next four hours. The air inside the entire radio station is permeated with the old smell of vinyl records, compact discs, and the old album note inserts that keep them safe from scratches. It takes a minute to adjust to this new smell assaulting my nostrils, but then I acclimate, and I hardly notice it anymore.

  Looking around the studio, I see walls and walls of music. They’ve songs from all the great musical decades from Jimi Hendrix and Pink Floyd to INXS and Nirvana. It’s quite a spectacular sight.

  Here people like to call the control room Studio One, where the magic happens. It’s where the DJ plays all the tunes. Nothing happens here without the DJ. I’ll be remiss if I don’t at least mention Studio Two, an almost identical control room, but for practice. It’s where I’ve spent the past few weeks honing my skills, learning how to operate all the equipment, and practicing for tonight. While nothing actually broadcasts from Studio Two, in a pinch, it could.

  After the smells of old paper and music have finished violating my senses, I’m hit in the face with the smell of stale coffee and old fried food. Those smells aren’t indigenous to the radio station, but to the DJ finishing up his 10 p.m.–2 a.m. shift. While not the greatest smells, they are tolerable, especially since they would dissipate when this DJ leaves.

  Once gone, it will be just the music and me. When I think about that, things immediately get simpler. No being responsible. No crazy professor. No douche-bag hockey player and his loser roommate. Just music and a few intermittent commercials for the next four hours. I am in control here.

  I don’t know the DJ who is on the air before me, but he seems nice enough. He makes eye contact and smiles at me as he plays his last song of the night—well, morning. It will be my time to shine soon.

  2:00 a.m.

  He gets off the hot seat, yawns, and, without a word, is gone.

  It’s not really a hot seat, just the chair all the DJs use when they’re on the air. Everything that happens at the station happens because of the person sitting on this seat, this dilapidated leather stool.

  I pull the next few songs I am going to play and sit down. I like controlling what music airs. I rule here. I play the required prerecorded station identification at the top of the hour and then hit play on my first song. Everything goes to plan. I am happy. The overnight shift is a great way to get used to the whole radio station vibe. The overnighter, that’s me, doesn’t have to speak much. It’s really a chance to learn the ropes, and if you screw anything up, it’s not a big deal.

  A few songs into my shift, my phone starts making noises again. I grab it out of my bag.

  More text messages from the unknown: No wrong number. Last chance. The lives of everyone depend on you.

  What the hell? I think. Who is this crazy person text messaging me? Whoever it is, they’re starting to make me really uncomfortable.

  I text back, Who are you?

  Last chance.

  Last chance for what?

  It’s on you.

  OK. It’s probably someone screwing with me. Relax. They found someone who responded to their bait text message and now they’re having fun at my expense. I’m not going to play their demented game anymore. I put my phone back in my bag.

  Trying to think calming thoughts, focusing on my breathing, and listening to the music, I’m able to loosen up and relax a bit. And as the night goes on, I start to get tired. To perk myself up, I decide to get off the hot seat and stand up so I can stretch my legs. I also think it would be fun to take a chance and speak on air for the very first time. I know I should have been identifying all the songs played for the listeners, but my hands are shaking and so is my voice, so I decide against it. My mentor here, Wyatt, taught me how to do it so I know how. I just need to muster up the nerve to follow through and make it happen.

  “You can do it.”

  I don’t believe it. I’m still tired and quite nervous.

  “You can do it!” I stand up tall in my power pose, arms bent at my elbows and fists at my sides. Yeah! I’m feeling it now!

  “Uh... Maybe I’ll wait just a smidgen longer,” I say. The introvert in me is kicking in again.

  4:15 a.m.

  I haven’t yet uttered my first word. I decide this is my time. The song playing slowly fades out. It’s my moment to shine. I put on the headphones, click the microphone button, and speak.

  “Good morning, Scarlet Peak! My name is Jane, and I’ll be taking you through the rest of the wee early morning hours. If you have any song requests, the number is 555-WZOM. I’m waiting for your call. You know what radio station you’re listening to, 97.5 FM WZOM. Scarlet Peak, NY.”

  I hit play on the next song I have queued up, click off the microphone, take off the headphones, and hear the listener line ringing already. Wow! That is fast. I smile. Someone is listening to me!

  “Hello. You’ve reached the listener line. What song do you —?”

  “Hi, Jane. I’ve been listening to you.”

  “Who is this?”

  “You can’t i
gnore me, Jane.”

  “Ignoring you? Who is this?”

  I hang up on him, totally freaked out. Just breathe. Everything is cool. Breathe in and out, in and out. I can feel my heart beating faster.

  The listener line rings a second time. My heart jumps again. I pick up the phone.

  “Hello?” I say with a catch in my throat.

  I anticipate someone on the line talking, but I hear nothing.

  “Hello? Hello? Are you requesting a song? I can’t hear you. Maybe it’s our connection. Can you call back? Call back, OK?”

  I hang up. That’s odd.

  Chapter 2

  ________________________________________

  5:00 a.m.

  Despite getting some shuteye last night, my eyelids are getting heavy again. The stress of being at college for the first time, classes not going my way, and not getting enough solid sleep is wearing thin. I’m tired.

  I look up at the clock over the news booth diagonally to my left, and it’s approaching 5:30 a.m. The morning crew starts straggling in. I can see them through the Studio One windows and the pane of glass on the front security door.

  Buzzzzzzzz.

  That front door is sure noisy. There are two news people, a man and a woman. They look familiar, but I don’t know their names. I saw them around the station while I was training, but never was formally introduced to them.

  As they walk around the station and through Studio One, I can hear them mumbling to themselves. I catch bits and pieces of their conversation. They’re talking about their commutes into work. People are apparently stumbling about the streets like they’re drunk, which may not have been unusual for a college campus, but it must have been excessive and noteworthy enough for the news people to keep talking about it.