by Mira Grant
The parents of the students who had died at Evergreen Elementary were virtually forgotten. The few who bothered to sue the school district for damages were paid off quickly and quietly. The lucky families whose children had stayed home that day said nothing, perhaps feeling that their good fortune would be taken from them if they dared to flaunt it. Who can blame them for a little nervousness, given the circumstances?
None of the students who survived have ever spoken to the media. We reached out to them, to ask whether they would break their silence and speak to us. There have been no replies. Whatever happened in the halls of Evergreen Elementary has been lost to posterity, save for those fragments captured on the school’s security cameras…and given the horrors that those fragments imply, perhaps it is better that way.
Perhaps there are some truths better left forgotten.
—from Unspoken Tragedies of the American School System by Alaric Kwong, March 19, 2044
* * *
Wednesday, March 19, 2036, 12:01 p.m.
Elaine Oldenburg’s class was one of five in the first grade. The school extended from kindergarten through fifth grade, although there were only three fifth-grade classes; many students were withdrawn from the physical school system after fourth grade, or transferred to a middle school where they would be less likely to endanger smaller children through their mere presence. All told, thirty-three classes were in session when the alarm began to sound. It was too much to ask for that many students to remain calm and collected, especially when the restraints failed to activate correctly, resulting in fewer than half the students being locked into their desks.
Nathan Patterson had started feeling unwell fifteen minutes after the end of recess, and had been sent to the nurse’s office for observation and blood tests. Mr. O’Toole had followed school policy and not asked Nathan to take a blood test before leaving the classroom. If it had come back positive—which it couldn’t, there was simply no way Nathan had been exposed; it was a ridiculous idea—the door would have locked, and the safety shutters on the windows would have descended, containing the infection, yes, but also containing the entire class. Blood tests were only requested in the case of student illness when the student could not be safely transported from the classroom to the office.
Joseph Lee, who sat next to Nathan, kept casting anxious glances at his friend’s empty desk. Nathan should have been back by now. But instead, the alarm was sounding, and Mr. O’Toole couldn’t get the office on the phone. Something was seriously wrong. And why wasn’t Mr. O’Toole calling for help? Someone needed to tell the police that something was going on at the school.
Cellphones were forbidden during class, but with Mr. O’Toole pacing back and forth in front of the whiteboard and half the class distracted by crying, or sitting very still and trying not to cry, Joseph decided he could risk it. He slipped his phone out of his pocket, swiping his thumb across the screen to unlock it. The familiar glow of his background sprang into view. Habit made him fold himself around the screen, trying to keep from attracting Mr. O’Toole’s attention. He needn’t have bothered. In that moment, his teacher wouldn’t have noticed the students beginning to dance on their desks and sing the national anthem. His mind was miles away, following a trail that would have been familiar to everyone in the room: like the rest of them, Mr. O’Toole was trying frantically to convince himself that this wasn’t what it looked like.
It wasn’t an outbreak.
It couldn’t be an outbreak.
Joseph brought up his keypad and considered it for a moment, waffling between calling home and telling his dad what was going on, and calling 911 and letting the authorities know what was going on—although he wasn’t really sure what he’d say in the second instance. Like, was it prank calling if you told the police that the alarms at school wouldn’t stop ringing, and the desks weren’t locking right, and the doors weren’t locking at all? It seemed like something that somebody ought to know.
Finally, he decided that he should call his father. Dad could take care of the difficult part, like deciding whether or not to contact the police. Joseph brought up his father’s number and pressed Call.
Nothing happened. Joseph frowned at the phone. The display said he had five full bars of service, so why wasn’t the call going through? He tried again, this time dialing his mother’s cell, and got the same result: nothing. Fear began to gather in the space behind his eyes, swelling and twisting until it filled the entire world.
Mr. O’Toole was still pacing back and forth, paying virtually no attention to his class. Joseph worried his lip between his teeth, trying to decide where the line was between “reacting normally to a crisis” and “losing your shit.” He was pretty sure Mr. O’Toole was on the wrong side of the line. He was just terrified of slipping and joining his teacher there.
Joseph wiped his mouth dry with the palm of his hand before he resumed worrying his lip between his teeth. The small abrasions this created were perfect for the fomite specks of Kellis-Amberlee that he had picked up from Nathan’s hand when they were sitting under the slide—Nathan, who had touched the ground where Scott Ribar had scraped himself. The virus was invisible to the naked eye, but not to Joseph’s immune system, which promptly launched an all-out defense against the invaders. This defense included the boy’s own store of Kellis-Amberlee virus, which recognized its brethren, even in their new, strangely folded configuration, and began to refold itself in viral sympathy. The cascade was beginning.
Joseph was unaware of all this; Joseph would not begin to feel unwell for another five minutes, by which time it would be far too late to take any precautions or attempt any quarantine. In many ways, fomite transmission was more dangerous than the flashier and easily detected bite or splatter transmissions, because it was so quiet, so easy. Touch a contaminated surface, touch your mouth, nose, or eyes, and wait for the virus to do what comes naturally. Joseph had become an incubator for Kellis-Amberlee.
Hands shaking—with nerves, nothing more; not yet—he raised his phone a third time and dialed 911. Again, the call did not go through. Fear fully bloomed in his chest, setting his heart hammering against his ribs and speeding the infection through his body. The faster the blood circulated, the more quickly the live-state Kellis-Amberlee would be able to convert the slumbering stockpile in his veins. “Mr. O’Toole?” he said, thrusting his hand into the air.
Mr. O’Toole stopped pacing and turned, frowning blearily at the room for a moment before his attention finally focused on Joseph. “I cannot approve any trips to the restroom while the alarm is sounding,” he said stiffly.
“It’s not about the bathroom,” protested Joseph, cheeks flaming red as uneasy giggles broke out around the rest of the room. Unlike Sharon in Miss Oldenburg’s class, Joseph didn’t ask to go to the bathroom very often. He found the idea of broadcasting his bodily functions to his classmates faintly mortifying. “I tried to call my dad and the call didn’t go through.”
Mr. O’Toole’s frown deepened. “No cellphones in class,” he said. He started down the aisle between the desks, heading toward Joseph. “Hand it over.”
Joseph pulled his phone back, out of his teacher’s reach. “You don’t understand,” he said, hating the thin whine that was beginning to appear in his voice. “I tried to call my dad, and my mom, and the police, and none of the calls went through. Their numbers didn’t even ring. Something’s wrong with the phone.”
“It’s not the phone,” said Mr. O’Toole. “If you had asked me before you decided to panic yourself and your fellow students, I could have explained that you would be unable to get a call out. When the alarm starts ringing, the cell blockers in the school’s communication network activate. None of us can make calls out right now.”
Joseph stared at him, slack-jawed. His tongue was dry, probably from panic, so he swallowed hard to moisten it before asking, “Why would they do that? Who thinks that’s a good idea?” Murmurs rose from the classroom around him, echoing the sentiment.
&nb
sp; Mr. O’Toole pressed a hand to his temple, like it hurt, and thrust his hand out again. “The phone, Joseph, please.”
“But I didn’t even make a call!”
“The rules are still very clear about cellphones in class.” Mr. O’Toole gave his hand an admonishing shake. “You can have it back after the end of the day.”
“This is so unfair,” said Joseph, and slapped the phone—now thoroughly contaminated by fomite traces—into Mr. O’Toole’s hand.
“Life is unfair,” said Mr. O’Toole. “As for who thought blocking cell communications from the campus was a good idea, it was recommended by our state’s governor when he approved the current security plans used by this campus, and our sister schools. It prevents local law enforcement from being swamped by calls from students—like yourself—when the alarm goes off. If there is any need for law enforcement, they will be contacted by the office. It helps keeps things under control. It prevents a panic.”
“But you can’t get the office on the phone,” said Joseph, looking more concerned than ever. “What happens to us if the office doesn’t call the police?”
Mr. O’Toole—who was five minutes away from wiping his eye with one contaminated hand, and who would not need to worry about complicated issues like cellphones and law enforcement for very much longer—didn’t have an answer. “Everyone, take out your history books and turn to chapter twenty-three,” he said, turning and walking back toward the front of the room. “If we’re going to be stuck in here, we’re going to use our time productively.”
The groan that rose from the collected students was briefly louder than the persistently ringing alarm, and could almost have been mistaken for a moan.
* * *
When asked why he had approved legislation that included the installation of cellular and wireless communication blocks in all elementary and middle schools, Governor Wilson (D) replied, “This system was recommended by some of the top minds in private and military security. I am shocked and ashamed by the manner in which it has failed our schools. It has failed our students. I have failed our students. We will be auditing the entire security structure of our schools, and there will not be another Evergreen. Not on my watch. Not in Washington.”
Governor Wilson did not complete his review of the school security systems before the next election, when he was defeated by his opponent, Heather Benson (R), the mother of Emily Benson, who had died while under the care of Miss Elaine Oldenburg. Despite running for office on a school security and personal tragedy platform, Governor Benson did not change any of the previous governor’s policies. As of this writing, fifty-seven Washington elementary and middle schools are still designed to block all outgoing cellular or wireless transmissions during an emergency situation.
Thus far, Governor Wilson has been correct: there has not been another Evergreen. It is less clear whether his words will remain true as the years go by, or whether they will become one more lie in the tapestry of untruths that has defined the educational system in this country.
—from Unspoken Tragedies of the American School System by Alaric Kwong, March 19, 2044
* * *
Wednesday, March 19, 2036, 12:35 p.m.
Scott wept steadily but silently as Miss Oldenburg helped him into a pair of clean trousers and a button-up flannel shirt, both taken from the supply of emergency clothes at the back of the closet. It was always best to keep a few things on hand in case of “accidents,” and many of the children had borrowed a shirt or a pair of underpants from the general supply at least once. They teased each other about it when they thought she couldn’t hear, she knew, and she allowed a certain amount of it, stepping in only when it became actively cruel.
Brian had been pressed against the closet door since the bleach wash was finished, an expression of mixed terror and fascination on his face. It was like he was interested in the process despite himself, and wanted nothing more than to pretend that interest didn’t really exist; it was a trick of the light, maybe, or some sort of temporary psychosis brought on by the steadily beeping alarm—which, Elaine readily admitted to herself, was becoming unsettling. The alarm was never supposed to ring for this long. It was meant to sound, get everyone’s attention, and then be turned off, allowing teachers to communicate with students without an annoying buzz underscoring everything they said.
More important, it was meant to leave silence in its wake. Silence was a powerful weapon when you might be dealing with an outbreak. Without silence, how were you supposed to hear things coming? The infected could be on top of you and moaning before you knew that they were there in the first place.
The thought made Elaine shudder, which caused Scott to raise his head and stare at her, clearly terrified. She pasted a practiced Miss Oldenburg smile across her face and buttoned the last button on his borrowed shirt. “There you are, all better,” she said. “You’re ready to rejoin the class.”
“Okay,” he mumbled, and moved as if to pick up his coat from the floor.
Moving with a speed no one would have suspected she possessed—including herself—Elaine Oldenburg lashed out and grabbed his wrist before he could complete his reach. Scott froze. Brian froze. For a moment, stillness reigned.
Then, in a very small voice, Scott said, “Miss Oldenburg, you’re hurting me.”
She was squeezing too hard, she knew that she was squeezing too hard, but she couldn’t force herself to loosen her grip. “Scott, I don’t think you understand the situation,” she said, and it was a struggle to keep her voice level. She didn’t want to start yelling at him. If she started yelling, she was never going to stop, and it didn’t matter how much he deserved it—these kids started learning never to hide blood before they were out of diapers, and he’d turned her classroom into a biohazard zone because he didn’t want a time-out—it would frighten the rest of the children, and she couldn’t afford that. Not now, not with the alarm ringing steadily in the background and her control over the classroom eroding with every deviation from the norm.
Scott stared at her, eyes wide and glossy with tears. That should have been enough to make her let go, but she still couldn’t.
“Scott, if you touch your coat, you could get exposed again, and then we’ll have to bleach you again,” she said, slowly and calmly. “But because bleach is hard on your skin, if we do that, you could start bleeding more, and then we’d have to leave you here. We can’t take you out into the classroom if you present a danger to the other students. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Miss Oldenburg,” he whispered.
Finally, wonderfully, she was able to make herself let go. Her fingers ached from squeezing so hard. There was a livid red mark on Scott’s wrist. She supposed she should feel bad about that. She would later, of that she had no doubt, but later was very far away; later came after they were all safe, and off school grounds, and she was explaining to a disciplinary committee why she had felt the need to squeeze a student until she could feel his bones, thin and fragile, beneath the blanket of his skin.
Elaine Oldenburg had never expected to be excited by the prospect of facing a disciplinary committee, but now she realized that if she faced that committee, that would mean they had survived. Survival was something she very much wanted to experience. “All right,” she said, and stepped back, and opened the door.
Brian immediately fled back to the safety of his seat, throwing himself into the chair so hard that the desk would have rocked if it hadn’t been bolted to the floor. He folded his arms and dropped his head into the hollow they created, clearly putting himself on time-out. Miss Oldenburg followed more decorously, her hand resting on Scott’s shoulder as she herded the sniffling, teary-eyed boy back into the company of his peers. Fifteen pairs of eyes fixed on him before shifting to Miss Oldenburg, waiting to hear her pass sentence. The fact that she was touching him meant that the danger had to be past, didn’t it? She wouldn’t have done that if he had still been a biohazard. That meant that they were safe now, didn’t it? Didn’t it?
>
“Take Amelia’s desk, Scott,” said Miss Oldenburg, giving him a small push in the appropriate direction. “Your desk isn’t safe.” His desk would need to be doused in formalin, and even then, the administration would probably elect to remove it completely and replace it with a new desk, one where a small boy had not sat, bleeding, for the better part of a class period. It was easier to destroy than it was to decontaminate. That was how the world had always worked, and the rising of the dead hadn’t done anything to change that.
Scott sat. The class looked to her, all save for Brian, whose head remained firmly down on his desk. Some of them looked wary, like they were afraid that she would pull them into the closet next. But even under the wariness, there was a level of trust. Trust that she would get them out of this; that she understood what she needed to do and would make sure that it happened, no matter what. She was their teacher, and this was their classroom, and no one could defeat her. Not here, not in the place of her power.
Elaine—who was having increasing trouble holding on to the veil of Miss Oldenburg, who seemed more and more like a dream with every minute that passed, that alarm still chiming in the background—looked out on her classroom and knew, just knew, that she was going to disappoint them. There was nothing else she could possibly do. And if that was the only possible outcome, there was no sense in wasting time standing around and waiting to know what she was supposed to do. She was supposed to try to save them. If that attempt came with failure, well, so be it. At least she would have tried.
“Everyone, we’re having a very special drill today,” she said, and upon hearing the words spoken aloud, she found that she could very nearly believe them. There was power in the teacher voice, and even she was not immune. “I want everyone to gather up your things very quickly and quietly, all right? If you have a coat, put it on. If you brought mittens or a hat with you today, put those on, too. I know you’re not normally supposed to wear them when you’re inside, but the rules are different today.”