by Mira Grant
“Because of the special drill?” asked Sharon cautiously.
Elaine nodded. “Yes, exactly. During special drills, some of the rules are different, because that way we can practice doing things under unusual circumstances. If you’re not fastened to your desk, you can get up if you need to. I’m going to help everyone else out of their seats.” She picked up the clean screwdriver, the one she hadn’t given Brian to help Scott out of his desk, and began moving around the classroom, undoing screws and loosening restraints until, one by one, her students were able to pull themselves free.
As for the students who were not confined, they scurried to grab their bags from their cubbyholes and their coats from the coat hooks near the door, all of them returning to their seats without needing to be told. Once seated, they watched Miss Oldenburg making her circuit of the room. Some of them were crying. Others were dry-eyed and patient, waiting for the moment when she would snap her fingers and everything would make sense again. They knew that the moment was coming. All they had to do was be patient, and she would fix the world. She was the teacher. That was what she was supposed to do.
Finally, the last of Miss Oldenburg’s first graders was free. She walked back to her desk and started to put the screwdriver down, only to pause and slip it into the pocket of her coat. Anything that might be a weapon was going to be useful in the hours ahead. She couldn’t have said how she knew that; she just did, as surely as she knew that this was the last time she would see her class assembled like this, all of them trusting in her to see them safely through the day.
“All right, class,” she said. “I want everyone to line up by the door. Find a partner. Take your partner’s hand, and don’t let go. Do you understand me? Don’t let go no matter what. We’re going to use the buddy system as we walk down the hall, and I’m going to trust you to stay together, because I need to be able to scout ahead.”
“Miss Oldenburg?” Jenna thrust her hand into the air, not waiting to be called on before she continued, “Where are we going? It’s not time for lunch.”
It was, actually, and bellies were beginning to grumble all around the room. But the fear was stronger. They were catching it from their instructor like a virus, and it told them each that hunger mattered less than survival. Survival was the only thing worth having. “We’re going on a little field trip,” said Miss Oldenburg. “We’re going to go see the parking lot. Won’t that be fun?”
“We’ve seen the parking lot before,” said Jenna crossly. “That’s not a field trip.”
“That’s still where we’re going,” said Miss Oldenburg. She sounded strained. “Get your things and join the line.”
Jenna, taken aback by Miss Oldenburg’s tone, did as she was told. Once she had joined the line, Miss Oldenburg walked along it one last time, checking to see that everyone had someone else by the hand. Jenna—who had been late to join the line, and wasn’t the best-liked student in the class under normal circumstances—had no buddy, and so Miss Oldenburg took her by the hand, and opened the classroom door, and led them out into the hall, away from the illusion of safety, and hopefully toward the reality of it.
* * *
>> AKWONG: IT’S DEFINITELY HER. THE RESULTS JUST CAME BACK FROM THE FACIAL RECOGNITION SOFTWARE. THE HAIR WAS THROWING OFF OUR RESULTS—I THINK MAYBE THAT’S WHY SHE CHOSE THAT COMBINATION OF COLORS.
>> MGOWDA: HOW SO?
>> AKWONG: ELAINE OLDENBURG ALWAYS LOOKED YOUNG FOR HER AGE. SHE TENDED TO GET FALSE POSITIVES WHEN AGE REVIEW SOFTWARE SCANNED HER TO SEE IF SHE WAS PRESENTING A FAKE ID TO BUY WINE OR CIGARETTES. BUT SHE HAS THE COLLAGEN DECAY AND EYE MUSCULATURE STRAIN OF SOMEONE HER ACTUAL AGE. BY DYEING THE BOTTOM LEVEL OF HER HAIR WHITE, SHE CONFUSES THE SOFTWARE EVEN MORE. IT STARTS THROWING BACK INCORRECT RESULTS.
>> MGOWDA: BUT IT’S DEFINITELY HER.
>> AKWONG: YES. ELAINE OLDENBURG IS—OR WAS, I GUESS—THE WOMAN YOU MET AT THE MONKEY’S HOUSE. I FOUND HER. I FOUND FOXY.
—internal communication between Alaric Kwong and Mahir Gowda, After the End Times private server, March 16, 2044
* * *
Wednesday, March 19, 2036, 1:14 p.m.
The hallway was empty when Elaine Oldenburg’s first-grade class emerged and stood, blinking, in the fluorescent light. Elaine looked around uneasily. Surely her door couldn’t be the only one that had failed to lock, and with an unlocked classroom, surely she wasn’t the only teacher who had thought to take her students and get out. Something seemed very wrong about the absolute stillness of the hall, although she couldn’t have said exactly what it was if pressed, and with seventeen first graders looking to her for leadership, she couldn’t take the time to figure out what her instincts were telling her.
The airlock door leading to the blacktop was slightly closer, but that was just another, slightly larger trap, and one that was even less secure than their unlocked classroom. They needed to go for the airlock past the office, the one that would grant them access to the parking lot and put her outside the reach of the school’s cell blockers. She could call for the police then, and explain that the office was contaminated and the classroom doors weren’t locking. They’d bring the CDC, and the school would be properly quarantined. It might take hours—or even days—to clear all the classrooms and get the unaffected students back to their parents. In the meantime, her students would be free and clear and safe at home. That was what she needed to focus on. Safety.
“This way,” she murmured. “Everyone stay together, and don’t talk unless you absolutely have to. Silence is golden.”
“But—” began Mikey.
“Shhh,” said Miss Oldenburg. He shushed, and the group of eighteen began walking slowly, cautiously, down the hall.
Sharon—who had buddied off with Emily, as she was always inclined to do when she had her choice of partners—lagged until the two of them were at the back of the group. Emily gave her friend a sidelong look, trying to question without saying anything. She knew that Sharon was the leader; that was how things had always worked between them, ever since they met in day care. She didn’t mind so much. Sharon had good ideas, and she knew how to make them become real things, while Emily mostly just had ideas about how to sneak snacks into her room for them to enjoy during their sleepovers. She was, and had always been, content to follow.
Sharon lagged more. Now there was two, three, four feet of space between them and the pair ahead of them. Dropping her voice to a whisper that Emily had to strain to overhear, Sharon said, “I still need to pee.”
“Can’t you pee after we get where we’re going?” Emily asked nervously, and promptly hated herself for the question. She knew that it was her nervousness that cemented Sharon as their leader. If Emily had been a less nervous person, she could have called the shots. She could.
“No,” said Sharon, looking at Emily with scorn. “There’s no bathroom in the parking lot. I’d have to go in the bushes. Boys might look. I wouldn’t be able to wash my hands. I’m not going to do it.”
“Oh,” said Emily, beginning to understand. The hallway would take them right past the bathrooms. If they lagged far enough back, maybe Miss Oldenburg wouldn’t even notice when they slipped away. Sharon always peed superfast, especially when she really had to go. They could catch up easy, and no one would ever know that they’d snuck away.
“C’mon.” Sharon tugged Emily with her as she sidled toward the wall. The girls’ bathroom was only about ten feet up ahead, so close that she could almost feel the relief already. She needed to pee, and she wasn’t going to do it in a bush, and she wasn’t going to do it in a bucket. If Miss Oldenburg was too nasty to understand why a good girl didn’t want to use those things, why, Sharon wasn’t going to let that make her nasty, too.
The bathroom door was just ahead, inviting them in. Swallowing her giggles, Sharon gripped Emily’s hand tighter and pulled her buddy with her into the open doorway.
The bathroom had been designed to minimize unnecessary contact with surfaces, on the theory that small c
hildren weren’t always the best at washing their hands. The doorway led to a small “hallway” created by extending a false wall across the actual bathroom. Everything was tiled in blue, easy to care for and clean. Sharon walked primly down the hallway, turning the corner into the bathroom proper. Then she stopped, frowning, unable to immediately process the scene in front of her.
There were five stalls in this bathroom, and five sinks on the wall across from them. All the stalls had open doors, but one of them was occupied; someone was lying on their back inside the stall furthest from the door, their feet poking out and pointed at the ceiling. That would have been strange enough, but they weren’t the only person lying down inside the bathroom. One of the teacher’s aides was huddled in a ball in the middle of the floor, and the tile around her was red, like someone had spilled a bottle of paint. But why would anyone be painting in the bathroom? It didn’t make any sense.
Someone in the middle stall moaned.
Emily tried to pull her hand out of Sharon’s, but the other girl, who she had always considered to be far braver than herself, had gone rigid with terror. Her fingers were locked on Emily’s, and no matter how hard Emily pulled, she couldn’t break free.
The moan came again, and then another of the teacher’s aides shambled into view. He had red all around his mouth, like he’d been putting on lipstick without a mirror. His eyes were all black, swallowed up by his pupils. He rocked back and forth, head shaking almost bonelessly, before his eyes settled on the two girls.
He moaned a third time. Sharon moaned too, a small, terrified sound that nonetheless seemed to come all the way up from her toes. Something warm and wet covered her legs, and she knew that she was peeing herself. That was even nastier than a bucket or a bush, but she couldn’t make it stop, and she couldn’t make her feet work.
“Sharon, let go,” whimpered Emily, fighting against her friend’s grip.
Sharon couldn’t make herself do that, either. All she could do was stand rooted to the floor, Emily fighting against her, as the teacher’s aide shambled closer.
Then there was nothing but teeth, and pain, and redness, and the dim, disappointed feeling that there should have been more than this; that she should have been more than this, somehow. Only she wasn’t.
By the time her limp hand fell away from Emily’s, it was too late. For either of them.
* * *
The security cameras at Evergreen Elementary were old. They had been installed during the construction of the school, and they had never been upgraded. The money was always being channeled into “improvements.” New scanners, better locks on the windows, more automation. Ironically, because of this lack of “improvements” to the camera system, it was the only thing that did not fail at some point during the outbreak. It had been installed by people who not only knew what they were doing, but who had no political agenda to push. All they wanted to do was monitor the school, and they accomplished that goal.
The deaths of Sharon Winchell (7) and Emily Benson (6) were recorded in detail. I have not chosen to view those tapes; I will not be describing their deaths for you. They have earned more decency than that from me, and from anyone who reads this.
—from Unspoken Tragedies of the American School System by Alaric Kwong, March 19, 2044
* * *
Wednesday, March 19, 2036, 1:20 p.m.
The screams came from behind them, high and shrill and utterly agonized. The fifteen remaining students whirled around, eyes going wide and glossy with fear. Then, unified by their terror, they did the only thing that made any sense to them: they mobbed their teacher, clustering around her skirted legs like chicks trying to nestle under the winged safety of a mother hen. Elaine did not let go of Jenna’s hand. That seemed like the most important thing, somehow: that she continue to demonstrate the buddy system for her students, even as they abandoned it in favor of hiding behind her.
Her free hand shook as she drew her service weapon, releasing the safety with a flick of her thumb. Somehow, the tiny sound of the safety snapping back was what made everything real. Not the screams, not the alarm, but the reality of holding a gun in her hand, ready to fire, with students all around her.
“Miss Oldenburg, where are Sharon and Emily?” She didn’t know who asked the question; the students had become an undifferentiated mass around her. The only one whose identity she was sure of was Jenna, and that only because she was holding Jenna’s hand.
“Move.”
The students looked at her blankly—the ones who weren’t crying or staring fixedly back toward the sound of screaming, which was beginning to taper off, losing strength and volume with every second that passed. They didn’t have much time left. That was the most important thing. Safety was now a span measured in screams, and the screams were ending.
“Move,” she snapped, and—pulling Jenna with her—she turned and began walking rapidly toward the airlock door that had been their destination all along. There was definitely an outbreak in the school. The screams confirmed it. They needed to get off campus, and they needed to get off campus now, before things got any worse.
One teacher and fifteen students ran down the hall, some faster than others, but all managing to stay loosely grouped together. Terror made anything else unthinkable.
“Where’s Sharon?” whimpered one of the girls, her face obscured by the bodies all around her. “Where’s Emily? Why are we leaving them? We have to go back. We have to go back for them.”
“Hush, we’re almost there,” said Miss Oldenburg, and kept walking. She wasn’t quite running—her legs were much longer than the legs of her students, and she knew that if she broke into a full-out run, she would leave them behind. Part of her silently screamed that she should be doing exactly that: saving herself. Let the children find their own way off campus. She was at risk of amplification, and all they were at risk of was dying.
But that was exactly the reason she couldn’t run. She was their teacher. She had made them a promise, however unspoken: she had promised to do her best to keep them safe, and that meant she couldn’t run away and leave them, not even to save herself. She had to get them off campus. She had to get them back to their parents.
They ran past the office door. Elaine couldn’t resist glancing toward it to reassure herself that it was still securely closed, and she very nearly tripped over her own feet when she saw that it was standing ajar. There was something sticky-looking on the doorknob that could have been jam or finger paint. She knew that it wasn’t either.
Nothing was moving in the narrow slice of office that she could see as they ran by, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. The infected were surprisingly good at lying in wait when they weren’t actively hungry, waiting until their prey was cornered or close before they made a move. Stillness could be a trap as easily as it could be safety. There was only one thing she knew for sure: that whatever had been contained in the office was contained no longer.
The airlock was so close that she could practically taste the outside air on her tongue, feel the rain falling on her face—all the little signifiers of freedom in Seattle, of being somewhere other than these closed, dimly lit hallways where the dead were walking. Miss Oldenburg moved a little faster, hauling Jenna with her, the rest of her class trailing along like so many ducklings.
They were less than three feet from the airlock door when the heavy steel gratings designed to isolate and seal the school in the event of an outbreak slammed down, blocking their view of the parking lot and reducing the light in the hallway by more than half. Miss Oldenburg skidded to a stop, staring in disbelief. The students stopped as well, some of them panting from the exertion, others in tears as they clustered around her skirts once more. They trusted her to get them through this safely.
They had no idea how wrong they were. As Elaine Oldenburg stared at the featureless steel barrier between them and safety, she thought that she was only just beginning to understand herself.
* * *
The securi
ty lockdown at Evergreen Elementary was triggered by Ashley Smith (10), a student in Mr. O’Toole’s class. She had witnessed the amplification of her teacher, and had been saved from his initial, insatiable hunger by two small accidents of circumstance: she was seated toward the rear of the classroom, and her desk was one of those which had failed to lock properly upon receiving the signal from the school’s central computer.
Based on the analysis of the remains in Mr. O’Toole’s room, as well as the partial feed from one of the playground cameras covering the area nearest Mr. O’Toole’s window, Ashley was able to wiggle free of the single desk restraint that had deployed. She had been wearing two pairs of socks, as well as a pair of thick flannel pants. By pulling up her pant leg and removing her shoe, she loosened her bonds enough to let her yank her foot loose and run for the window, which she broke with the classroom’s rear fire extinguisher.
Ashley Smith was halfway out of the room when she was dragged back by the hands of her already-amplified classmates. This caused a sufficient amount of contaminated material to touch the sensors, and a full lockdown of the campus was initiated. This still did not lock the internal doors, which were operated on a separate system.
In short, with one small act of self-preservation, Ashley Smith managed, entirely by accident, to transform Evergreen Elementary into a killing field. It’s difficult to blame her for wanting to survive. But it’s also difficult, knowing what we know about the incident, not to wish that she had made her break for freedom a scant five minutes later.