All Together Now: A Zombie Story

by Robert Kent

  Since she left, Chuck and I had only seen her a few times a month. She had an apartment across from the courthouse and though I know Gerald Kirkman slept there some nights, he never slept there when we did.

  Last weekend was the first time Chuck and I had stayed with our mother since she moved out of that apartment and into Gerald Kirkman's palace. We went there straight from school Friday night.

  My mother gave us a tour of all three floors, proudly showing us each room as though she'd decorated it and not the late Mrs. Kirkman.

  Michelle's mom died three years ago. Cancer.

  If you do the math and remember what I told you about my mother buying me a video game to shut me up six years ago, you'll know both Gerald Kirkman and my mother are liars and cheats.

  You might be tempted to think Kirkman was worse because his spouse was dying while he was with my mother, but you'd only think that because you haven't had to live with my dad this last year. Before my mother left, I only saw him drunk on holidays.

  Even though she'd been living at casa de Kirkman for barely a month, my mother had already prepared bedrooms for both Chuck and me. In mine was a 55-inch TV and video games. Chuck's room had Sesame Street wallpaper and a stuffed Big Bird taller than him.

  I think my mother was hoping we'd want to leave Dad to live with Gerald Kirkman, but Chuck and I are made of stronger stuff than her.

  Friday night we ordered pizzas and watched movies, and Gerald Kirkman was all grins and perfect white teeth. He had his own personal theater with a projector, an old-fashioned popcorn wagon, leather recliners, and 3D glasses.

  Halfway through the movie, I left for "my room."

  Saturday, I slept late and stayed upstairs all afternoon playing video games. Sunday, my mother made me go swimming with "the rest of the family."

  Chuck doesn't hate Gerald Kirkman half as much as he should, but Chuck's in kindergarten. The two of them were batting a beach ball in Kirkman's enormous indoor pool. I joined them to keep an eye on Chuck.

  That was when Michelle came in. She was wearing a white bikini that stood out against her dark skin in just the right way to make me wish we weren't about to be legal siblings. Then she opened her mouth and I remembered why I never liked her.

  "Boys," she said, "please don't pee in my pool."

  I wouldn't have, but after that I made it my mission to stay in "her pool" until I had to go.

  Kirkman put up a net and we played volleyball, the two pasty and poor Genero boys against the rich Kirkmans with skin like polished mahogany. My mother stood at the pool's edge and cheered for each team like she could have it both ways.

  If I had to choose between that house with the steaks we ate and the popcorn wagon, or this roof with crackers and jerky—I'd choose the house. I'm not crazy or stupid, but I would have to think about it.

  I only picked at my steak, which is why I woke up hungry a little after 4:30 on Monday morning. On my way to the kitchen, I passed Kirkman's home office.

  The light was on and he was yelling.

  "How does this happen? How did we not catch this?"

  I didn't know what he was talking about, but anything that upset Gerald Kirkman was interesting to me.

  I peeked into the office and watched him pace in front of his desk, dressed only in boxers and black socks (who wears black socks to bed?), talking to someone on the other end of his earpiece.

  "You think, or you know? It was supposed to make drinkers more docile and focused. That sounds like the exact opposite behavior!

  "How sure are you it's the Chrome Lightning? Okay, how sure is the Center for Disease Control?"

  This I understood. Chrome Lightning was Kirkman's new brand of sports soda, which is sort of funny when you think about it. How many athletes do you know who actually down soda all day?

  Soda's for people who watch sports and get fat rooting for their favorite team.

  Dad put in a lot of hours at the plant getting ready for Chrome Lightning's launch last month. They had a big banner for it in the school cafeteria, and every time I tried to watch a video I had to sit through an ad of women running up a mountain and men bicycling through a hail-storm, all while cooling off with a bottle of Chrome Lightning.

  When I think of all the ads for soda I've seen in my short life, I wonder how I ever thought to drink anything else.

  "Why hasn't this come up before now? Why didn't it come up in testing?" Kirkman yelled. "Prolonged exposure? How prolonged?

  "What do you mean they have to die first? So does the Chrome Lightning kill them or do they die in some other... Well who in this wide earth does know!?"

  Kirkman kicked a metal trash can. It skittered across his office and bounced off the wall.

  "No I don't want to issue a recall! You just said the CDC isn't sure."

  Even if Kirkman had issued a recall instead of waiting for the government to mandate one, it was probably too late even then.

  22

  I HAVEN'T HAD A DROP of Kirkman Soda for a year.

  My first week without soda was hard. I had nasty headaches and I got tired and weak during the day.

  After the first week, I didn't miss soda. I drank water and lemonade and tea (had to get my caffeine somewhere). I was more awake during the day and I felt better in pretty much every way.

  If there's anything good to come from my mother leaving Dad, it's that I've never tasted a single drop of Chrome Lightning and didn't have to worry about "prolonged exposure."

  Gerald Kirkman left the house shortly after his early phone call and nobody knew when he'd be back. My mother drove us to school Monday morning. We dropped Chuck off at Funucation Kindergarten and Daycare first.

  "Did you have a good time, sweetie?" my mother asked in that perky voice she reserves for condescending to Chuck.

  It made my stomach tighten like a wrung sponge. She didn't bite him, but she was trying to turn him.

  Chuck knew the answer she wanted and nodded. "Good time."

  Michelle groaned. "Can we go already?"

  My mother swept Chuck into her arms as he climbed out of her new Lexus. "You keep growing so much."

  If she were around more, my mother wouldn't be so surprised each time she found her baby bigger than when she'd left him.

  "Mommy," Chuck said, and I looked at them for the first time because Chuck only calls her "Mommy" when he wants something. "Next time, can Daddy come too?"

  Ladies and gentlemen, my brother, Charles Walter Genero.

  My mother's face dropped as though a maître d' had handed her a bill so big not even Gerald Kirkman could pay it.

  I burst out laughing.

  My mother's head snapped toward me.

  She set Chuck down. "Go to class, honey," she said.

  Chuck waved at me.

  I didn't wave back.

  Stupid. Idiot. Moron.

  I saw the hurt look on Chuck's face before he turned and walked to where the teachers were greeting kids.

  Wasn't his fault.

  I should've waved. It was all he wanted. If I had any moment to do again, I'd—but I don't. Nobody does.

  My mother drove us away from Funucation Kindergarten and Daycare in dead silence, so Michelle turned on the radio. Some song about how "you're all I got in this world, baby doll" ended and a DJ came on.

  "Our number-one story this hour: Kirkman Soda has issued a sweeping recall of all flavors. Stores are removing Kirkman Soda from their shelves and authorities are advising consumers to return any Kirkman's products to their place of purchase."

  My mother sat up straight. "My God."

  Another DJ chimed in, "Have they given any reason for the recall?"

  "None as of yet. Most suspect a contamination, although details of what contaminant consumers may have been exposed to remain sketchy at this—"

  My mother turned the radio off. "Oh my God," she said again, and brought the car to a stop in front of Harrington High School. "I have to go the plant."

  "I should call Daddy." Mich
elle took her phone from her jeans pocket.

  "Get out and head to class," my mother said. "I've got to go."

  We got out and her Lexus sped away, my mother waving without looking at us.

  I didn't wave back. That one I don't regret.

  23

  HIGH SCHOOL IS SORT OF like life on an African plain. The hippos and crocodiles stay near the river, the giraffes and monkeys stay near the trees, and the antelope and zebras roam in herds.

  As long as everybody stays in a group, nobody finds himself wandering alone, the shadow of a descending lion growing beneath him.

  So it was that Monday morning in the main hallway of Harrington High School. The stoners roamed together, stinking of the pot they'd smoked in the car they arrived in, exploding out of it like baked clowns.

  The skateboard kids had their section of the hall, talking about skateboarding because they weren't allowed to skate in the school parking lot. Many of the skateboard kids overlapped with the stoners.

  Goths grouped together, probably discussing the work of Edgar Allen Poe or who had the cheapest deals on eyeliner or whatever it was they talked about.

  In the cafeteria, a whole group of geeks gathered around one phone watching a movie trailer.

  At a table beside them, a group of nerds flocked around a tablet watching a press conference about some new technological gizmo to replace the last technological gizmo they'd bought.

  In every group at least one kid was drinking Chrome Lightning.

  There was a 12-foot banner for it on the far wall depicting a cool guy with a sexy chick reaching for the bottle of Chrome Lightning he was holding behind his back. Both of them had looks on their faces like they were totally going to rip each other's clothes off immediately after they drank the soda.

  In less than four hours, there would be only two groups. No jocks, no preps, no nerds, no geeks, no dweebs, no Goths, no stoners, no skateboard kids.

  Only the dead and the soon-to-be-dead.

  Michelle went off with the preps, of course. When your father owns the biggest business in town, you have to hang with the preps because no one else will have you.

  I went off with my friends, but before I had a chance to talk with any of them—the last chance I was ever going to have—the warning bell rang and the groups dispersed to class.

  Shortly after we stood and in unison pledged our allegiance to the flag and the republic for which it stands, Principal Stender came on over the intercom:

  "Attention students: We are effecting an immediate ban on all soda products. Soda of any kind is no longer allowed in classrooms, the hallways, or even the cafeteria.

  "Any student or faculty member found in breach of this ban will be subject to immediate discipline up to and including possible expulsion or termination."

  Principal Stender paused awkwardly, then added, "Thank you."

  The entire school erupted with voices of students in every classroom and teachers asking them to be quiet. Just as the noise started to hush, the overhead intercom pinged on again.

  "Teachers, please consult your email inboxes. Thank you."

  There were students drinking bottles of Chrome Lightning as these announcements were made. Teachers made them throw their drinks out and fired up their email accounts as quickly as they could.

  By second period, most classrooms had their televisions on, everyone watching coverage of the first attacks in Chicago and the fire that spread to five city blocks in less than an hour. Even the reporters weren't entirely sure what we were seeing.

  "Chicago police appear to be shooting at citizens," one reporter said. "No one is certain why—did he just get up? He's getting up!"

  In third period, a freshman girl brought a message to me from the office. It was from Dad. All it said was "coming to pick you up at 11:30."

  If only he'd come sooner, I might've missed the deaths of so many of the kids I'd grown up with.

  24

  IF THERE'D BEEN A FIRE or a shooting at Harrington High School that day or a bus crash or some other tragedy that took the lives of 200 or 300 students, it would've been a big deal.

  I don't know the actual number of students who died, but Harrington High School had over 1,300 students and a lot of them never made it out.

  Anyway, my point is: if there'd been a normal tragedy that took the lives of so many students, Harrington would've put up plaques, held memorials, people would've given interviews for all the major news, and we maybe even would've created a town-wide holiday honoring those lost.

  But by that evening, most of the people who would've done those things weren't alive to do them.

  Even after the cure gets distributed, I can't imagine survivors making a big deal about Harrington High School when schools everywhere have been wiped out.

  This journal may be all the memorial Harrington ever gets.

  I'm not up to the task. If I write a memorial for them, I have to write one for the whole world and Michelle and I will be out of crackers and tuna long before I could finish that.

  But I'll do my best.

  25

  —IN MEMORIAM—

  MIKE MULLIN, SENIOR, CLASS PRESIDENT. Being a sophomore, I didn't really know Mike. He was into martial arts and a lot of girls giggled when he passed. I know he was popular, obviously, so he must've been a nice guy or admirable in some way.

  Mike came in the back doors of the cafeteria a little past 11:00. No one was paying attention. I was at a center table talking about the news reports from Chicago and eating a chicken sandwich, just like everyone.

  How I wish I had that chicken sandwich now, breaded and warm and served with waffle fries. I can almost taste it.

  No one noticed Mike, an athlete, staggering as he walked.

  No one noticed Mike's eyes were pure milky white from top to bottom.

  No one heard Mike's moan over the bluster of students at lunch.

  Lisa Fipps, junior, one of the prettiest girls I ever saw. We used to ride the same bus and I spent a lot of trips home trying not to stare at her. She had light brown hair and freckles and she lived about three stops from the school. I never really worked up the nerve to talk to Lisa, so I don't know a lot about her.

  Lisa wasn't the only girl approaching Mike, but she got there first. I was too far away to hear what she asked him, probably if he was okay. I didn't really pay attention until Lisa started screaming.

  Then everyone was looking.

  Girls screamed in the cafeteria—not every day, but often enough.

  Sometimes it was followed by someone storming out, sometimes it was followed by a lot of laughter and a very angry girl, and sometimes, and this is what we were all hoping to see when we turned to look, it was the start of a fight.

  It was no fight.

  Mike had Lisa bent back, one hand clutching her hair, the other snaked around her waist. His head was buried in her breasts, which might've been awesome if blood hadn't been pouring down her front.

  Lisa slapped at Mike's head, hard at first, then lighter, then not at all. Her screams choked.

  Shannon Alexander, freshman, bookworm, tennis player. Shannon and I went to the same elementary school and I can't ever remember seeing her without a book in her hand. She made honor roll every report card and probably would've grown up to be a teacher or someone important.

  Shannon punched Mike in the back of the head. He dropped Lisa, who slumped to the floor like a vampire's drained victim.

  Mike turned and had his fingers wrapped around the belt of Shannon's jeans before she could punch him again.

  Mike took no notice of Shannon's blows. They bounced off his face like she was punching a wall. He leaned in as though to kiss her and tore her throat out with his teeth.

  Virginia Vought, freshman, stoner. I don't know a whole lot about Virginia, except she sometimes sat with Shannon. First thing in the morning, her eyes were usually red and glassy. She laughed a lot (and coughed), and considering how things finished up, I say good for her.

&
nbsp; Some of the students were already running for the exits. But there were plenty of us who stayed right where we were, transfixed, like we were watching a car accident or a fire.

  I watched as Virginia swatted Mike the way one might swat a dog for dumping on the carpet. I don't think she knew what she was doing, but in no time Mike's hand was clasping her wrist and raising it to his mouth.

  Jody Sparks, sophomore, God's warrior. Jody scared me. I shouldn't say that in her memorial, I guess. She was pretty, when she wasn't yelling at Mr. Curts, our biology teacher, for teaching "the fallacy of evolution."

  She hosted prayer circles before school, always wore a dress past her knees, and got in trouble for wearing T-shirts featuring pictures of aborted fetuses and dead homosexuals to class. I never saw her without her Bible.

  She was cradling Lisa's head in her lap and praying for her when Lisa turned. Jody screamed as the reanimated Lisa bit the flesh from her stomach and maybe God's warrior finally went home to Jesus.

  I sort of doubt it, but it seems only fair.

  I don't know what happened next. After that, I ran.

  26

  MR. WAYNE GOODWIN, SOCIAL STUDIES teacher, father of two (I'd write husband, but I think he was divorced—not sure). Mr. Goodwin made me nervous. He used to pace between desks and yell when he taught. I never fell asleep in Mr. Goodwin's class.

  I tripped over him on my way out of the cafeteria.

  I was running like a panicked rabbit and so focused on the people running farther up the hall, I didn't look down.

  I sprawled, smacking my chest and elbows, but I managed to keep my face from hitting the floor.

  Mr. Goodwin groaned. He was sitting just outside the cafeteria with his back against the wall of bright orange lockers.

  "Mr. Goodwin?" I said. "Are you—"

  All right was how I meant to finish, but when I turned to face him, I saw he was the furthest from all right any of us will ever be.