“Gross,” Aaron said.
“Nice swing,” Bryce Ballar said.
I dropped the gooey basketball trophy (Go, Upheare Toros, 1982 Semifinalists!) and started forward again. The class surged along behind me.
The equipment locker was a steel mesh storage cage welded onto the rafters above the courts. It was stuffed with equipment. Climbing ropes dangled over mats on the gym floor. Once the door was locked and buttressed, I ordered Bryce Ballar (who saluted) to pull the climbing ropes onto the platform. I told Kirsty Rawls to find a pad and pencil and take inventory of the Juicy J Juicer-Boxes and Crunch-a-Chip Mini-Pouches stacked in the corner. I had Kirsty Templeton assign each student a yoga mat, a pommel horse blanket, and a deflated basketball-pillow. Finally, I asked Miss Last to begin fashioning orange highway cones into commodes so the waste could be aimed out the side vent, onto the faculty lounge below. As the class took on tasks and became organized, Aaron came and stood next to me.
“You’re really something. Like the girl Bruce Willis.”
It was too sarcastic to even respond to.
“Now, Bruce, do you think you could do me a huge favor and tell me what the hell’s going on? Who was that guy. With the roulette wheel?”
“It was Mr. Pug—”
There was a pounding at the steel door. Three slams, a pause, three more. Kirsty Westerberg started crying. The air ducts ticked and creaked. The pounding began again. Bryce Ballar picked up a Louisville Slugger 40 oz. Derek Jeter and positioned himself within swinging distance of the knob. I got on my knees and peeped under the door. There was a sliver of light and two feet. Not four, six, or eight feet. Not ten, twelve, or fourteen feet. Just two.
“Who is it?”
“Coach Dhushbak!” came a quavery yell. “Lemme in, I’ve lost my keys!”
Most of the class sighed. Dhushbak? Jesus. Shorts inspections were next.
“Don’t let him in,” Kirsty Lords whispered.
“Hurry! There’s something down there! It’s coming up!”
I looked at Miss Last, who shrugged. Dhushbak was a fanny slapper, notorious around the faculty coffee machine.
“Prove you’re human.”
“That you, Gothika?” Coach Dhushbak almost laughed. “Okay, I’ll prove it. You just bought yourself another week of detention.”
I sighed and let him in.
For an hour, everyone sat on the floor, eating snack chips and trying not to listen to the smacking and gnawing sounds coming from below. Aaron kept cornering me, but I pretended to be busy organizing. “Either I’m crazy, you’re crazy, or we’re both crazy. Okay? How’s that?”
“I think I’ve found something,” Miss Last called. She’d been rummaging in the back, where some old file cabinets were pushed against the wall. Next to them were big piles of paper arranged in stacks on the floor.
“What is it?”
“Mostly crap,” Miss Last said. “Board meeting minutes. Plans for evacuation in case of earthquake. Pay structure and benefits schedules. Except this.”
It was a ten-page report outlining an agreement between Fade Labs and the school board. It was signed by Principal Whithers. It was a list of students who had been inoculated in The Nurse’s office. The inoculations were provided by Fade Labs. For agreeing to be part of the study, the school had been paid twenty thousand dollars, and a new basketball court had been installed.
“No way.”
The list included most of the class, as well as the ones before and after. It was hundreds of students.
“What does it mean?” Aaron said, looking over my shoulder.
“I’m not sure.”
“That’s not good enough.”
“Don’t. Aaron?”
He climbed onto a crate of Bonzo-Boy Pork Muncher-Hunks and signaled for everyone’s attention. “Listen, I’ve been thinking about it, and I’m thinking maybe we should go down there.”
“Excuse me?” Bryce Ballar wheezed.
“C’mon, haven’t you guys ever seen a zombie movie?” Aaron laughed. “Well, I have. I’ve seen them all. And the one thing I know for sure is zombies don’t bite people for food. Zombies aren’t hungry. Zombies won’t ever be hungry.”
“Then what are they?” Kirsty Doe asked.
“They’re lonely,” Aaron said. “They bite because they want us to be like them. When everyone’s like them, they won’t have to be embarrassed. Anymore.”
Some people began to nod.
“Embarrassed about what?” Miss Last asked.
“About the rotting,” Aaron said, staring right at me. “And the smell. And the face-skin dangling. And their inability to talk. About books at parties. Or make fun of the president. In an ironic voice. I mean, what are we really afraid of? Sure, they’re ugly, but they don’t know they’re ugly. Maybe they’re just like us.”
There was more nodding. Most of the class drifted over to the other side of the cage, standing near Aaron.
“What are you, a frickin’ retard?” Ballar said. “A frickin’ vegan? They’re eating people.”
Aaron grabbed a case of Oranger-Rella Guzzle Mists under each arm and unlocked the door.
“No!” Bryce Ballar shouted, reaching for his bat, but it was too late. Aaron scampered down the staircase.
* * *
An hour later, when Aaron hadn’t returned, the rest of the class went down as well. There were hundreds of zombies in the gym. Most of the lights were off. It had just been decorated for prom, a stage and streamers and a big banner. Miss Last found a radio and turned it on loud. Girl zombies stood along one wall, and boy zombies stood along the other. A few paired off and began to dance. They spun, fell, and laughed in their own dim way. A zombie’s leg fell off. He picked it up and samba’d with it. The Clash came on, and other zombies did the pogo. The music got louder; the yelling got louder. Finally, even Bryce Ballar said screw it and went down. A cheer echoed, or maybe it was a moan. There was laughing, or maybe screaming. A zombie boy directly below me was wearing a Timberlake’s A Puss T-shirt. Coach Dhushbak was curled up in the corner, rocking back and forth and singing to himself.
I could stay or I could go now.
I untied the rope securing the trapdoor, dangling for a moment above the crowd, then lowered myself to the floor. There was a pause in the dancing. The music continued to pound, but the zombies stood, watching me. They bared their teeth, not friendly at all. A few of them had their sleeves pulled up. I could see red marks on their elbows. I couldn’t see Aaron, or anyone else from the class. The floor was covered with something wet and slick, but I was afraid to look down. There was a collective roar. It was like being stung by a thousand bees, set to clanging music, teeth and fingers, as a series of backfires came, squealing tires and a frozen grill.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
KENNY “O.S.” BLUE
LIKE BO JACKSON, BUT BIGGER, ROUNDER, SLOWER, WHITER, AND SWEATIER
I can handle Goethe,” Trish said. “You should go. Quickly.”
“Why?” I said. “I don’t understand—”
“Just go,” she snapped. “Don’t you ever listen?”
I looked at my mother, already standing and straightening her hair. I knew it was pointless to argue. Talking to Trish was like picking up a jellyfish and trying to keep it from leaking between your fingers. She looked at me in the mirror and made a shooing motion with her hand. I went to my room and filled my messenger bag with snacks and comics. Was there anywhere for me to go? Not really. Back to school? No. To Johnny Hex’s Comics and Collectibles Shoppe? No. Straight to Lake’s, pound on the door, and find out what’s up? Check.
I clambered down the steps and huffed out the back, hiding behind a tree as a car pulled into the driveway. An ungainly man in a security uniform clomped up the front walk and entered like he’d done so before. Many times before. The door slammed behind him.
Out on the street, car after car after car flashed by, ignoring my thumb. No one was ever going to give me a ride. I considered my options.
Since there were none, except lying on the side of the road and eating bag after bag of Cheeze Nobz, I began to jog. With any luck, I’d drop a dozen pounds by the time I got to Lake’s house. I hadn’t run in a year. Actually, I wasn’t really running now. It was more like a wobbly shuffle. Sweat immediately began to sheet down my neck, from my ears, through my scalp. Cars beeped and honked, people leaning out and yelling. The very same cars that had ignored me entirely when I was asking for a ride.
“Hey, Forrest Plump! Where you runnin’ to?”
“Hey, Orson Welles! They givin’ out free chicken buckets somewhere?”
“Hey, Norbit, you just eat Big Momma and the Nutty Professor?”
Oh, man, humanity.
A red convertible whipped by at about a thousand miles an hour, three police cars behind it, but I was too tired to even look up. My knees throbbed, my heart contused. I was soaking wet, my legs felt like tubes filled with ground glass, my pulse was unquantifiable, and there were only thirty-five more blocks to go.
“Hey, Shamu! You lost? The million gallon pool’s thataway.”
It took four tries to spear the bell. I held it as long as I could and then slumped against the side of the house. Lake’s father, the guy I’d seen at the pool, answered the door. When he saw the shape I was in, he grabbed my arm, straining against my sweaty ballast. He finally managed to lever half of O and most of S onto the couch, as Lake covered my head and neck with cold cloths.
“Just take it easy there, big guy,” her father kept saying.
The house was filled with cans and wrappers and pieces of machinery and binoculars and hammers and hats and shoelaces and flowerpots and spoons and doll heads and fondue sets. There were paths through it all, which I assumed was to make way for Lake’s wheels. On the far wall was a poster. It was a picture of a bearded guy in a robe with his legs crossed, giving the camera the finger. Underneath it said Om You, Buddy!
Lake wheeled beside me, while I haltingly told her about Officer Goethe and Trish.
“Thank God you’re here, safe,” Lake said with an unusually big smile. “That guy sounds freaky.”
“I couldn’t get you on the phone,” I said.
“So you ran over?”
“Sort of more like a gentle lope?”
Her father pulled out a huge hunting knife, grabbed a blanket that had a sort of horsey, New Mexico-ish pattern to it, and made a long cut in the center.
“What’s that for?”
“Emergency shirt.”
He pointed to my sweat-soaked hoodie and gestured to the blanket’s slit. I took the hoodie off and slid my neck through the blanket’s hole. It settled over me like a poncho, like the one Clint Eastwood wore in The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. It was totally, amazingly cool.
He held out his hand. “Hi, I’m Herb.”
“O.S.,” I said.
We shook.
“So, what does O.S. stand for?”
“Overwhelmingly Studious.”
Herb smiled. His mustache twitched.
“You know, I hate to say this?” I said, saying it anyway, “since you guys have been so welcoming, but I—”
“You want to find your sister. You want to go to the lab?”
“Right.”
“Don’t worry about Sophie,” Herb said. “I’m on it.”
Lake looked adoringly at her father, and then at me. “Sometimes Daddy’ll forget it’s a school day and take me to the movies,” she said in a monotone. “Or, we’ll watch three hours of TV and he’ll roll over and say, ‘Let’s take a break, who wants to watch some TV?’ ”
“Oh,” I said. There was something off about her, like she’d gone kind of slack. I wanted to snap my fingers in her face.
“That’s enough, Lake,” Herb said.
Lake sort of looked at the ceiling like she hadn’t heard him, speaking even more slowly. “Back when I had friends and stuff, Zac and Dayna and Kirsty and Kirsty always wanted to come over. I was like, ‘Hey, you guys wanna go to the mall or the beach or the movies?’ And they were always like, ‘Uh, hey, is Herb home? Let’s go to your house and chill with him instead.’ Isn’t that funny?”
“Hilarious.”
“Daddy was always like, ‘Hey guys, we should all volunteer.’ And everyone was like, ‘Yeah, cool idea. But first let’s have more cookies.’ ”
“Do you need a nap, hon?” Herb said. “Maybe you need a nap.”
Lake sort of wheeled sideways and stared at the poster on the wall. Her mouth hung open.
“Um, Lake?” I said. She didn’t answer. The second or third time, either.
CHAPTER TEN
SOPHIE AND TRISH REDUX
WORDS OF TRUTH AND PASSION
Mr. Puglisi wasn’t in the vacuum store. Vacuums weren’t in the vacuum store. It was completely empty, like everything had been boxed up and shipped out. There was a broom and piles of dirt and an empty desk. Behind the desk was the big wheel, but all the colored triangles were gone. Except one. It was bright blue. In the center it said SOPHIE. On the floor was a warm can of Sour White, bent in half and almost empty. Underneath it was a note with three words. Just like my progress report. And in the same handwriting.
Pull The Cord.
I looked around the room. There were no cords.
Of any kind.
Anywhere.
The big wheel clackity-clacked around and around and around, landing on the blue triangle, dead center, the very first time.
I was alone, nauseated, and shivering, lying in a hammock in someone’s backyard. Across the street, four police cruisers were parked around a red convertible on the side of the road. Policemen stood and gestured, explaining something to one another, none of them entirely convinced. There wasn’t a scratch on me, but it still took a minute to get rid of the sensation of zombie fingers. I rubbed my eyes and tried to decide what to do. Staying in the hammock, forever weeping, was one option.
I got up and walked through the yard, into the neighbors’, and across two more streets, cutting through gardens and mini putting greens. When I got to our house, I slid open the glass door off the kitchen and tiptoed inside. The television was on, loud. I considered knocking on Trish’s door and telling her everything. What did I have to lose? My knuckles hung in midair as a buzzing went off and a studio audience cheered. Trish cheered along with them. I put my hand away.
Kenny’s room was an unbelievable mess. I kicked over piles of junk and leafed though bags of stuff in the corners. It was mostly empty bottles of cologne and mismatched socks and food wrappers. His bed was unmade, the sheets and blankets swirled up into one big pile. Under the bed, there were cardboard boxes filled with comics, but none was the one with the robot, mostly hottie vampires and talking carrots and heavily armed lizards croaking at one another to Attack! Attack!
Did Kenny hide La Nutrika, or did he always carry it with him? I walked across the hall to the storage room, where Trish had punted the boxes of stuff my father had left behind. I rooted through them, but there were no comics, just horns of aftershave, notes, glass beakers, some clothes, khakis and starched lab coats, framed degrees and cheap watches and pen sets. In the last box was a stack of Polaroids. There were more pictures of the reopening of the lab, construction crews, the cutting of a ribbon. My father standing with his partners. My father standing with Rose Fade. There was also a thick sheaf of letters. I skimmed through them. They started out businesslike, discussing clinical trials and equipment orders, and then became more familiar, a little flirtatious. Finally, at the bottom of the pile was a pink envelope. It smelled like perfume and was written on expensive paper.
Albert,
How could you? After that day in the rhesus room, I was filled with such elation, I<
Now that the final procedures are in place for the reopening of the conduit, your little kite had bette
r fly. And then, when you have completed the test run, we will have a long talk. A very long talk.
Best to wifey,
Rose
I almost swallowed my tongue when I heard the door slam. I was nailed. Trish would come down, see me, see the note, and… there were no footsteps. No Trish voice. I realized the slam had been the front door. Moron. I crept to the top stairs to see who it was.
Trish was sitting on the sofa with a glass of wine. She was more made-up than usual, wearing a clean robe, her hair shaped. Officer Goethe stood in front of the fireplace in his security uniform, his legs spread wide. His glasses were gone. His orange perm was gone. He tucked his thumbs into his pockets and grinned.
“Don’t stand there like an ape,” Trish said. “Find a glass and pour yourself a drink.”
“Not now,” Goethe said. “I’m here for them both. It’s time.”
“Finally earning your paycheck, huh, Larry?” Trish said. “Well, neither of them are here. So maybe you shouldn’t be, either.”
Goethe sighed. “Do I need to look around? Poke in a few drawers?”
“Go ahead,” Trish said, and took a big gulp. “You might find some panties your size.”
Goethe turned red. He knocked a chair and a table over. He cut open a few pillows with a utility knife. Then he went upstairs and kicked stuff around. There was no way to sneak out without Trish seeing. Would she tell him? And I still didn’t have the comic. I couldn’t just stay on the stairs and wait to find out. Washing machine? The closet? People were always hiding in air vents in spy movies, but ours was just about big enough to fit a rectangle of Velveeta. When I heard Larry coming back down, I crawled under Kenny’s bed. Perfect. Under the bed. No one would ever think to look there. I tossed disgusting-smelling sheets and wet towels over myself, stuffing my legs and butt as far back as they would go. It smelled worse than horrible. Larry’s boots clomped into the room. He belched and tossed things around. He broke something. And then something else. It was completely silent for a minute. I fought the temptation to peek. Then he began stabbing his knife into the mattress. The blade nipped all the way through to the underside, just the silvery tip winking at me each time. Pop pop pop. I pressed my face against the wall. Pop pop pop. I tried not to breath. Pop pop pop.
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