The Infects

by Sean Beaudoin

  “Oh, yeah, okay. Sure, man. I get it.”

  “I’m serious, it was no big deal.”

  “Uh-huh, uh-huh. Cool.”

  Nick went to his next class shaking his head, surrounded by kids walking in packs, all wearing the same hoodies, listening to the same music, reading the same books, using the same slang. He felt ten years older, like he’d been fired from a couple of jobs and gone through a few divorces, but instead of that otherness making him seem even less palatable than before, now it was all about the rock star.

  At lunch he chose a small table in the corner. There was a rush to take the other seats, two girls in orange sweaters briefly pulling each other’s hair. Nick looked at the faces around the table — pink, straining, wanting so badly to impress.

  And felt nothing. No kinship, friendship, interest.

  Even worse, no one seemed to remember Petal, or even care. There’d been a small funeral. Jett Ballou said some people from Rebozzo’s had gone. Three days later, everything was back to normal.

  Whatever normal meant anymore.

  It all seemed so fake. And meaningless.

  Was this what he’d fought so hard to get back to?

  Instead of fifth-period math there was an assembly. A policeman from town had died in the Shasta County fire. So had some sophomore’s brother, who’d been in the army. Rumor had it that Nick’s IT group had been near those woods, so he was given a special seat in the front row and treated with deference by students and teachers alike. First there was a moment of silence. Then a fire chief talked about how fires could be prevented in the future. The mayor talked about studying hard and not doing graffiti. A forest ranger asked for volunteers to spend the weekend replanting trees.

  Someone laughed. “The weekend?”

  There was a huge cheer as the lights dimmed and music boomed out of the sound system. It was Tawnii Täme’s new album, the one produced by Dirk Rock and Spumaland, where she tried her hand at a little light rapping.

  Then a dozen men and women in polyester uniforms sprinted down the aisles.

  Each carrying a huge warmer bag.

  Or a cooler.

  While an announcement thanked Fresh Bukket for generously donating lunch.

  As the food was set up at folding tables on the stage and people jostled to get in line to fill their plates, a guy in a chicken costume did backflips down the center aisle. He leaped onstage, swung around his yellow wings, and poked teachers with his beak. It got huge laughs. The chicken tossed SMOKE MY NUGGETS shirts into the crowd, then tossed rights and lefts and uppercuts with his comically huge boxing gloves.

  The kids went crazy.

  And then they went for seconds.

  After school, Nick got three offers for rides home.

  He stood out by the entrance and thumbed instead.

  Which only cranked his rep another notch.

  The Dude was in the kitchen, watching TV.

  Except he wasn’t dressed like a dude anymore.

  He wore slacks and a button-down shirt. His beard was shaved off except for a neat soul patch. The sandals were gone. The fingerless gloves were gone. The fanny pack was gone.

  The tan stayed.

  Nick played it deadpan, pretending to make dinner even though there was nothing in the fridge. He rearranged slices of bread on a plate while the Dude jabbed at the remote. It landed on a reality show called Minuscule vs. Majuscule, where a midget and a former basketball player competed for prizes in challenges that almost always involved one of them getting kicked in the balls.

  “I need a favor, Nicky,” the Dude finally said.

  “Yeah. To be honest? I’m actually kind of busy.”

  “That pile of bread can’t wait?”

  Nick stopped massaging the loaf.

  “Fine. What is it?”

  The Dude went to the bathroom and came back with a towel around his shoulders, the ends tucked into his shirt. He held up a pair of scissors.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope, they got to go.”

  “All of it?”

  “All of it.”

  “You’re saying you want me to cut your hair.”

  “I’m saying I want you to cut my hair.”

  Nick cringed at the thought of touching his father’s dreads. But the Dude’s face was so oddly sincere he couldn’t say no.

  Nick closed his eyes and grabbed a handful of Dadlock.

  “Ouch.”

  Then sank the metal in.

  “Take it easy there.”

  As it turned out, it was sorta fun to chop them off.

  “Now, that’s more like it.”

  The Dude whistled while Nick worked, scissors snipping away. Hair tumbled down in waves, forming mounds across the floor, a feast of snakes.

  “So what’s this all about?” Nick asked when he’d finally hacked through a square acre.

  “I got a job.”

  “Say that again.”

  “I got a job.”

  “One more time.”

  “I got a job.”

  “You got a job?”

  “I did indeed.”

  “You’re employed?”

  “Gainfully.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  The Dude grinned. “Kind of amazed myself, but the call came yesterday morning. I start Monday. Put the old chemistry degree back to work, draw a regular paycheck. They know I’ve been a little out of the loop but love my potential.”

  “Wow. Is it a new company? Some start-up?”

  “Nope. It’s Rebozzo’s.”

  Nick slipped, almost taking off his father’s ear.

  “Yeah, Captain Fuld called. Did quite a bit of apologizing, actually. But he insists they need fresh thinking on the R & D team. An experienced hand who’s seen the ropes. Win wants to make things right, get me back in the fold.”

  “And you already said yes?”

  “Sure did. Went to the store and put a new suit on the old Visa. ’Course, it got denied.”

  “So you stole it?”

  “Nope, pawned my wedding ring and put the rest on layaway.”

  Nick cut deeply through the last bundle of greasy cable.

  All that was left was a tight, even buzz.

  The Dude looked fifty pounds lighter.

  He got up and checked himself in the mirror, smiling like he’d just been paroled, given a bus ticket, and told to keep going until he crossed the state line. “Super job. Even with your record, you’re a lock for barber school.”

  Nick swept up hair while the Dude jabbed at the remote.

  Friday-night wrestling came on. A cage match.

  Slaughterfist was going for a cruiserweight belt against the Masticator.

  “You like wrestling now?”

  The Dude shrugged. “Well, I’ve always sort of dug Sir Ziggurat. And Massive James Sasser has some slick moves. I guess you’re usually pulling the night shift while it’s on.”

  Nick dropped the dustpan. Tufts of hair wafted across the floor.

  There was no way.

  None.

  It was impossible.

  Wasn’t it?

  The Masticator got Slaughterfist in an elbow grip and then tossed him out of the ring. Slaughterfist’s manager came up from behind and clobbered the Masticator with a folding metal chair.

  “Who are you rooting for?”

  “Oh, I don’t care. My real favorite isn’t on tonight.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, he doesn’t really wrestle anymore. Sort of went Hollywood and got too big for his Speedo.”

  Nick swallowed. Twice.

  “What’s his name?”

  “The Rock.”

  Nick closed his eyes and sat down, almost missing the chair. Something in his brain began to itch. He unflexed a muscle in his cortex, a slit that had opened a long time ago.

  “It was you?”

  “What was me?”

  “The voice. Our . . . connection.”

  The Dude flic
ked the remote. “Sorry, kid, you’re speaking Chinese.”

  Nick leaned over, speaking softly. “You were practically holding my hand all the way up to the lodge.”

  “What lodge? You mean Rebozzo’s?”

  “But how did you know which way to turn? How did you know where to go?”

  The Dude frowned, making the whoa sign. “Well, if you mean have I been there before, the answer is yes. Plenty of times. Corporate retreats. Team building. Trust exercises. I know that trail like the back of my hand.”

  Nick looked down at the burn in the center of his palm.

  “But what about all the rest? The jokes.”

  “There were jokes?”

  “And the wise-assing. You gave me advice.”

  “I did?”

  “You know you did.” Nick said. “You totally know.”

  The Dude looked uncomfortable. He tried to grin it away. “Hey, I guess that’s what fathers are for.”

  Nick stared at the shorn man in front of him, a grizzled whippet in a cheap suit. He wasn’t ever going to work at Rebozzo’s. They’d never even let him in the gates. Win Fuld was screwing with both of them.

  Proving a point.

  “Dad, do you remember the summer I was twelve?”

  “Ah, not really, no.”

  “I kept thinking I heard music. Totally loud and random. In my head.”

  “That’s weird.”

  “Was it you?”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah, you sending it.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Try harder.”

  The Dude thought for a minute. “Well, your mother used to say she heard Mozart in her sleep. Or sometimes would ask if I could turn down the radio when it was already off.”

  “Mom? Really?”

  “This may be difficult to accept, Nick, but I think you’re old enough to know the truth.”

  “What truth?”

  “A slight instability runs in our family.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope.”

  “Strange, I hadn’t noticed.”

  “Well, I didn’t want to say anything until you were old enough to handle it.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Hey, you bet.”

  Nick tossed a steak dinner in the microwave. When it was done, he put it in front of his father, along with a glass of water and a napkin. The Dude leaned over and turned down the volume.

  “Nick?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Did you know the Rock’s real name is Dwayne?”

  “No. I didn’t know that.”

  “Point is, a guy called the Rock gets to tell the world to eat it in a way that your average Dwayne never could. Which is cool. But in the end, it’s not your name that defines you; it’s your actions.”

  Nick stared at Nero’s reflection in the microwave door.

  “Would one of those defining actions include me getting you some Jell-O?”

  The Dude laughed. “Absolutely.”

  When it was jouncing in the center of the table, and the Dude had a death grip on his favorite wooden spoon, Nick turned to go upstairs.

  But stopped in the doorway.

  “Mom told me once that you guys met at a concert.”

  “It’s true. In California. God, that seems like a lifetime ago.”

  “Who did you see?”

  “The Rolling Stones.”

  “At Altamont?”

  The Dude slurped a cherry cube. “That’s right. Altamont Raceway. Nineteen sixty-nine. How did you know?”

  Nick reached in his pocket, about to slam the lighter on the table, until he remembered for the millionth time that Win Fuld had confiscated it.

  “How does anyone know anything anymore?”

  “Amen,” the Dude said, turning up the volume.

  NICK WENT UP TO AMANDA’S ROOM, LIKE HE did every night since he’d gotten home. She didn’t sit under the table in the kitchen anymore. Nick had always thought she’d done so out of sheer weirdness or obstinacy. Now he realized that she did it for the Dude’s sake. To be near him without crowding him. To comfort him.

  But the Dude was on a roll, excited about his new job. He didn’t need her there anymore. Or at least not right there.

  It was scary how much Amanda had grown in ninety days, almost a preteen. Sassier. Present. On her computer all the time. Even if she was mostly slashing her way through the Battle of Actium or ruling post-apocalypse Vegas at the point of a Luger.

  He knocked on the door. She was at her laptop, pounding keys. He sat on the floor, next to her chair.

  Amanda laughed. “Trading Places?”

  “I never knew how cool it was down here.”

  “I knew there was? Something different? About you the moment you? Came home?”

  “You have no idea.”

  She continued to tap away, IM’ing with a bunch of friends.

  Making jokes about bands.

  And game characters.

  LOL’ing in a welter of girl-power nerd-dom.

  Amanda.

  Having a conversation.

  With other people.

  Amazing.

  “You want to know where I was?” Nick finally asked. “The last three months?”

  Amanda closed her message screen and brought up two different games in progress. She did three button combinations, released rockets, released throwing stars, enacted a force field, eviscerated a wizard and some rogue elves. She landed a ship on the frozen slope of Proxima Prime, extracted a hold full of Kraytonium from the planet’s crust, sold it on the Rigelian black market, made a killing, bought a wormhole pass and a tactical nuke, sieged Leningrad, overhauled her pulse drive, and then defeated the last remaining knight of the Order of Crowley.

  “In prison? It’s okay? I won’t judge? You?”

  “No, there was more to it than that.”

  Amanda executed a flying knee that took out a trio of killer clowns. “Tell me?”

  Nick sighed. “Okay, first of all, there was this guy named Bruce Leroy.”

  “You mean like? African? American? Bruce Lee?”

  “Exactly.”

  “I want him? On my team?”

  “Me too,” Nick said.

  And then he told her.

  Everything.

  From the minute he stepped onto the IT van to the conversation with Petal he’d had the day before.

  It took over two hours.

  Amanda finally pushed away her keyboard and turned to him. Her hair was parted even more severely than usual.

  Nick was positive she was going to laugh. Or get angry. Or, the most frightening possibility, not react at all.

  Instead she said, “I guess I always sort of knew? That zombies? Were real?”

  “So you, uh, believe me?”

  “Of course?”

  He let out a long gust of air. “Um, okay. That’s sort of amazing.”

  Amanda shrugged. “Not really? Your story? Has too much? Detail to be made up?”

  He nodded. “True.”

  “Also? I’ve been monitoring some sites? You’re not the only one? Saying this shit?”

  “Amanda!” Nick said. “You just swore!”

  “So? Fucking? What?”

  He laughed, looking at his tiny, dark, dead-serious sister. And then hugged her. Hard. Amanda hated to be hugged. But she let him. When he pulled back, she snapped her fingers.

  “Okay, three things? One, do I have to? Call you Nero?”

  “You can call me anything you want.”

  “Okay, Nick? Second thing?”

  “Shoot.”

  “Thank you for? Sticking up for? Mr. Bator?”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Third, you need to get? Petal out of there? Sounds like? She’s dying?”

  It was bizarre. Amanda had accepted it all, without blinking. Nick thought his own friends were jaded, but Amanda was something else entirely. Her capacity to be amazed had already skipped a generation. By
the time she was in high school, it’d be a worldwide collective yawn when aliens landed a pie pan on the White House lawn and then vaporized the president.

  “I know, A-dog. Believe me.”

  “Unless she’s? Already dead?”

  Nick stiffened. “Yeah, unless.”

  “So we need? Tanks? A SEAL unit? Maybe even? Two?”

  “True, but not very realistic.”

  Amanda frowned, nodded. “But then? What?”

  “The only weapon that’s free.”

  “Decommissioned? Cold War ordinance?”

  “No, information.”

  Amanda spun back to her computer, and with a few taps brought up links to Fresh Bukket. Marketing, customer complaints, fan sites. Dead rat found in mashed potatoes. Conspiracy stuff, sales numbers, the Sole Fryer recall. The Rebozzo Fryer launch. She pulled up the CORMICOM site. Rants, accusations, dime-store Assanges. Even stuff about the Dude, pictures of him with young Win Fuld and Anton Gazes.

  Prototypes.

  Side effects.

  Strange viruses in Bombay and Cairo.

  Hazmat troops, Quantico, zombie black sites, Zach holding pens.

  Who really shot John Lennon.

  Then there were calls to action. Protests, sit-ins, boycotts that no one cared about or would ever join. Boilerplate about how we’re all already zombies. Walking through our lives, doing nothing but consuming, the usual self-righteous bumper-sticker whining about individuality, a noncleverness that was void of actual solutions. One headline said “Embrace Your New Space on the Food Chain!” Another said “We Are All Zombie Nuggets. Some of Us Are Just Extra Crispy!”

  “Thanks, but I know all that stuff already.”

  “Hold? On?”

  Amanda bore down through layer after layer of rumor, a bullshit tiramisu. One in particular came up repeatedly.

  “People say there’s? Colonies of them? Up in the hills?”

  Nick read it all. Much of the stuff was clearly nonsense, dudes talking smack, saying they were CIA. Saying they were in the Fire. Saying they were infected, right there at the computer. Saying it made your junk bigger. Saying they wanted to meet other infected girls and party.

  Then came a pair of articles that were different.

  One was posted by a soldier who had doubts about his mission. He was angry. Disgusted by his orders. Haunted by the carnage he’d witnessed. And had backup info. Satellite photos. Camps. CDC maps of contagion spread. Reticulate patterns. Recombination theory. Classified documents detailing the order to burn fifteen thousand square miles of forest.