by Robert Kent
"We should go," I said.
Ben slapped his eyes again and nodded. "Where?"
"I don't know. We should—" I remembered the office memo I received in third period. "What time is it?"
"I don't know—I'm not..." Ben reached into his pocket and withdrew his phone. "11:17."
"My dad's coming," I said. "He'll be coming to the front office, so we—"
The metal exit doors behind us banged open and the zombies from the gym poured out into the sunshine. They batted their white eyes in the daylight, but lurched toward us without breaking stride.
We ran.
We raised our bats, but there was no need. We could've outpaced the zombies if we'd been walking briskly, and in no time they were too far behind us to be a threat.
The problem with zombies is not speed. It's that they never sleep, never get tired. If not distracted by other prey, the dead students of Harrington High School would've followed us forever.
We had to stop sometime. They didn't.
As we rounded the side of the school, we understood the reason for the fire alarm. Through the windows of a classroom in the science wing we saw flames. Inside, students stumbled and staggered as though unaware they were on fire.
They didn't scream, only moaned.
Brock Hussong, junior, basketball team. Brock was mostly quiet, but he was always nice. He dated Kelly Westerfield forever. I think they planned to get married after senior year. I didn't see Kelly, so maybe she got out. I know Brock would've liked that.
Brock was standing on the outside of the building, beside the burning classroom.
Flames rose several inches from his shoulders, and beneath them I could hear crackling and popping. His hair was melting to his face the way a plastic action figure melts in a camp-fire.
But Brock only stared off, vacant, until he caught sight of Ben and me.
Then he stepped toward us and raised a hand, causing the flame to spread from his shoulder down his arm.
Just behind Brock, the emergency door opened and a group of living students came running out.
Kendra Jordan, sophomore, swimmer. Kendra wasn't popular. She was a bigger girl, not fat, but thick, and she had bad skin. But she swam the butterfly faster than any of the other girls.
As the students streamed either side of Brock, he reached for them. They all dodged him, save for Kendra.
He caught her hair and pulled backward so hard Kendra's feet flew out from under her.
She fell to the grass and Brock went with her. Within seconds, Kendra's hair caught fire and Brock was biting into her chest, both of them burning, Kendra screaming.
Neither Ben nor I stopped.
We kept running until we reached the school's main entrance, where my dad would've to come to pick me up.
There was no sign of Dad, but Michelle was standing in front of the building staring into the distance.
At first I thought she must be a zombie. But her eyes still had irises and pupils.
Michelle blinked when we approached, but didn't speak.
33
"MICHELLE?" I SAID. BEHIND US smoke was billowing out the side of the school. Every few seconds the exit doors swung open and students came running out. Other students were lumbering onto the grass, moaning.
But for all that, I was more concerned about the girl who was going to be my stepsister.
Michelle didn't look at me. Her right hand was curled into a fist and shaking in circles so small it appeared to be vibrating.
"I got a note," she said, raising her left hand. In it was a bright yellow office memo, the same as the one I got. "Your dad is coming to pick us up."
I nodded.
"But he's not here," Michelle said and let her hand drop to her thigh.
I scanned the parking lot. There was no sign of my dad's truck.
I pulled my phone from my pocket and dialed him. Nothing happened, and when I checked the display I saw I had no signal.
"Me either," Ben said, holding up his phone as proof.
"Michelle, can I see your phone?"
Silence.
"Michelle?"
Her left hand opened, letting the yellow office memo flutter to the ground, and she reached into her pocket. Her right hand was shaking too badly to be of use.
She held out her phone without looking at me and I took it. No signal, of course.
The fire alarm was still ringing, but just over it sounded a series of four explosive bursts I knew must be gunshots. The air smelled of thick smoke and blackening meat.
"Chuck," I said.
I turned to Ben. "We have to go to Funucation. That's where Dad is. He would've gone to get Chuck first."
Ben nodded.
"Michelle?"
"Your dad is coming to pick me up," she said, staring at whatever it was in the distance.
"That's right," I said, speaking slowly. "But first we have to do some walking. Funucation is three blocks from here. We're going to go there, and that's where Dad will pick you—"
The front doors swung wide and eight students came running out.
Jessica Fenton, sophomore, the most beautiful girl in the school. I guess not everybody thought so, but I always did. She had short amber hair, creamy pale skin, and the long neck of a model.
I sat behind her in health and I used to imagine what it would be like to run my fingers from her neck to the base of her slight shoulders and down to the small of her back and graze the cleft of her cheeks.
She was dating Mathew Kincaid. Had been since the start of second semester, which as high school relationships go was practically engaged.
But you'll notice I didn't underline Mathew's name. He was one of the first students to come running out of the building. Six or seven more came after him and then Jessica.
She stumbled as she exited, tripping over nothing, and I feared the worst. But her clear blue eyes were the same ocean hue as ever.
"Jessica, are you alright?"
She tripped again and fell to the ground. She was wearing a tank top that had been ripped in the back. Beneath, much of the flesh I'd dreamed of touching was missing, including most of her left buttock.
I bent down and put my hand on her arm.
"Ricky?"
"Yeah."
"Will you call my mom?"
"I can't. The phones are out."
"Oh."
"We can't call anybody. You have to—"
She wasn't listening. Jessica Fenton closed her eyes, and though they opened a minute later, she never saw through them again.
"You have to get up," I said.
I could see by the way she exhaled and didn't inhale again she couldn't hear me, but I kept talking. "My dad's just down the street. We're going to get in his truck and then we can take you to the hospital.
"But we can't carry you, so you have to walk. Can you walk? Can you..."
There wasn't any point.
I rolled her over and her arm flopped from her side to the cement.
"Jessica?"
Her fingers twitched.
"Jessica?"
Her delicate lips drew back and moaned.
"Ricky," Ben said. "Get away from her."
Her eyes opened, all white, and I knew she was gone.
Her hands seized my arms and pulled herself to me.
I turned my head and closed my eyes. I tried to stand, but couldn't.
Jessica Fenton snarled.
She stopped.
I felt her hands tremble with the impact and release. Warm droplets sprayed my face.
When I opened my eyes, I saw Michelle standing over Jessica, Ben's bat raised high.
I saw what she meant to do. "Don't!"
Michelle brought the bat down against the back of Jessica's skull, driving her face to the cement.
Michelle lowered the bat and let it dangle at her side. She went back to staring off at whatever she'd been looking at before.
Ben wrapped his arm beneath mine and pulled me to my feet. "We have to go," h
e said.
"But—"
"Go now."
Behind us the front doors opened and three moaning teenagers staggered out.
34
—IN MEMORIAM—
THE BURNING OF THE SCHOOL wasn't the worst thing I saw that day, but somehow it's the most memorable. As Michelle, Ben, and I walked away, we could see the fire spreading and black smoke billowing upward until it blocked the sky.
We used to sing that song "My eyes have seen the glory of the burning of the school." But it wasn't anything like we used to imagine it would be.
Three blocks away, we could still hear the fire alarm. But no engines came, no emergency sirens sounded.
The school just went on burning.
There are a lot of names I didn't write here. The truth is I don't know who all died and who made it out. The news reports I saw later had bigger stories to report than the burning of one high school.
Maybe in the grand scheme of things, they have the right idea.
But I remember.
And I won't ever forget.
35
MICHELLE WAS ASLEEP WHEN I finished the previous chapter, or so I thought. As soon as I stashed this journal in my bag and stretched out to sleep, she sat up.
"What are you writing about all day?"
"My life," I said.
"Really? Like what?"
"It's personal. But if something happens to us and people find my journal, they'll know... they'll know, is all."
"Something like you and me getting eaten alive by all our friends down there?" Michelle pointed to the edge of the roof, and amongst the moaning I heard a snarl like maybe one of the zombies knew she was talking about him.
"Yeah," I said. "In case of that or in case the government decides to nuke Harrington."
"They wouldn't. Would they?"
"I hope not."
Michelle considered. "It's probably not a bad way to go. If you were at the center of the blast, I mean. Not if you were alive after and turning radioactive and stuff, but if you just got blasted away in a second, there wouldn't be time for pain.
"I used to ask people how they were most afraid to die. You ever do that?"
"Yeah." I sat up. "Easy. Testicular cancer. Or maybe getting butt-raped to death."
Michelle tilted her head and scrunched her face. "I don't think you'd die from that."
"Maybe not the way they do it where you're from—"
Michelle laughed. It was the first genuine laugh I'd heard from her in days.
It made me laugh. "How about you?"
Michelle shrugged. "I used to say burning, but now I think getting bitten by them would be worse. I think stumbling around, hurting people and not knowing you're doing it—that would be worse."
"I'm not going to promise to kill you."
She frowned.
"So what's so personal about this journal of yours, anyway?" She reached for my bag and I grabbed her hand.
"Don't."
Michelle laughed. "Is it about sex? Is it about all the girls you've done it with?"
"No."
"Let me see it."
I put my bag in my lap.
"Must be really juicy. Are there some boys in there too?"
"It's not about sex."
"Of course not. Because you're a virgin."
I blushed.
Michelle cocked her head and her grin faded. "You are, aren't you?"
"No," I said automatically. That's what you say when someone asks if you're a virgin.
"Really?" Michelle said. "How many girls have you done it with?"
I sighed. When every girl I might've ever had a chance with was probably dead, what difference did it make? "Fine. None."
"I knew it. That must be one boring journal."
"And I suppose you've had all kinds of sex?"
Michelle shrugged. "Maybe."
"Okay," I said. "How many guys have you had sex with?"
"You're not supposed to ask a lady that."
I grinned. "I'm not asking a lady. I'm asking you."
"One."
"Bull crap."
"Okay." Michelle arched her arms behind her and stretched her back.
"How many times?"
"Three."
I crawled toward her. "With who?"
"You don't know him."
I crawled closer. "Who?"
"He goes to Noblesville."
I got close enough to invade her personal space. "Who?"
"Josh Adams."
I sat back. "Who?"
Michelle held up a hand as though to say "my point exactly."
"When?"
"Last summer."
For some reason, I wanted to find Josh Adams and punch him in the face. "Were you in love?"
"I guess not." Michelle looked down at her feet and I could see from her expression I shouldn't ask any more about the very lucky Mr. Josh Adams.
So I asked about the sex. "What did it feel like?"
She laughed. "What do you think it felt like? Haven't you ever, you know..." Michelle wagged her wrist like she was shaking dice.
"Let's talk about something else."
"Prude." She motioned to the world beyond the roof, which was still and silent, as every dead person in the area was directly below us. "Are you afraid I'm going to tell everybody?"
"All right, fine," I said. "And I suppose you've never done it?"
"Everybody's done that. But with somebody, it's better. The first time sucked, but the second time was good, and the third time," Michelle giggled and smiled in a way that reminded me of my mother describing a favorite chocolate.
"Josh Adams can go to hell," Michelle said. "But sex? I like sex."
She frowned. "It would've been nice to have been in love, though."
"It could be worse," I said. I stretched out and put my bag behind my head like a pillow to keep my journal safe. "I've never been in love or had sex. So you're better off than me by half."
Something shattered below us. Probably one of the zombies stumbling in or out of Ernie's broken windows.
"Will you do me a favor?" Michelle said.
"Maybe. What do you want?"
She didn't say anything. Instead she stretched her body beside mine and lay close enough for us to be spooning. I'd never spooned with a girl before.
She took my hand and put it around her waist.
For a moment, neither of us said anything and all that could be heard was the miserable moaning of the dead.
My hand stayed on her stomach, like a gentleman, but when she breathed my index finger brushed the swell of her breast.
"Are we going to have sex?"
Michelle sighed. "Shut up, Ricky."
"Because if you wanted to—"
"Get your arm off me."
36
ON OUR WAY TO FUNUCATION Kindergarten and Daycare, Michelle, Ben, and I passed an old couple standing on their lawn watching the school burn. Both their mouths hung wide, but they weren't doing anything, just watching.
That was when I stopped watching the fire.
I turned around and focused on Funucation. I couldn't do anything about the school.
But I could do something about Chuck.
It was a straight shot up the street to Funucation. Four one-story candy canes stood in front of it, which made it an easy building to spot.
Parked in front of the candy canes was a green truck. Dad's green truck.
"He's there," I said to Michelle and Ben, pointing.
"Are you sure it's your dad?" Ben asked.
"Of course I'm sure!" I started to run.
At the corner of the block, a naked man in his forties stepped into view.
His hair was wet as though he'd been in the shower, but his enormous stomach and legs were slick with blood. He made no effort to cover himself, but snarled as we approached.
We crossed to the opposite side of the street and kept running.
A yellow station wagon rounded a corner ahead. The speed limit was 20
mph, but the wagon was easily going 60. It swerved to the left and then right as though the driver was drunk.
"Run!" Ben screamed, though we were already running.
The station wagon veered and struck the naked man. He smacked across the windshield, then went over the wagon's roof and landed in the street, still snarling.
The station wagon crashed through the front of a blue house and came to a stop in its living room.
The naked man tried to stand, but now appeared to have only one working leg. He crawled toward the house, dragging his broken limb.
Michelle stopped. "We should help—"
"Don't stop!" Ben yelled.
I slowed.
The station wagon's driver's side door banged open and a woman crawled out awkwardly into the house she'd wrecked. She had one hand pressed to her bleeding shoulder.
A man crawled out behind her, snarling, and I understood the woman was already dead. She just didn't know it yet.
I sped up and we ran the rest of the way to Funucation.
I had to dodge lawn ornaments—lollipops and tootsie rolls to match the giant candy canes. I reached Funucation's front door.
It was standing wide open.
The first thing I saw was Chuck, still alive. He was standing with two other kids his age, a girl in pink and a boy in a Superman shirt. All three shook, their mouths open in tiny O's.
In front of Chuck was Dad, dressed as always in jeans and a green work shirt with the bright pink Kirkman's logo over the left pocket. He was pointing a gun at Chuck's teacher.
There were six children, the biggest of them no older than four, crawling toward Dad. All their eyes were bright white.
37
"PLEASE STOP," DAD SAID, WAVING the gun as though he hoped Chuck's teacher would remember what it was.
Her hair was red in places and blood coated her chin and nose. I could actually see bits of flesh in her teeth.
She'd forgotten the students left in her care weren't food. She wasn't going to remember anything as complex as the fact that guns kill.
Ben came in the front door of Funucation just behind me. Michelle stayed outside.
"Don't make me do this," Dad said, aiming, but still not pulling the trigger. I wanted to take the gun from him and shoot her myself.