by Meyer, Tim
The sun was halved by the tree-cluttered horizon. Clay could feel the rays on his skin, his flesh warming. It didn't burn. It felt pleasant. But as the seconds ticked, a new feeling emerged. Clay couldn't quite place his finger on it.
His followers felt it, too.
“Clay, something's off,” one of them said.
“I don't feel right,” the woman said. “Maybe we should go back.”
Just when Clay was about to agree, the hair on his arms began to singe.
“WALDEN”
EPISODE 2
3 MONTHS AGO
Trudging across the field toward the gymnasium, the groundskeeper wiped a thick layer of sweat from his brow. Puffing away on his cigarette, he watched pockets of high school students move about the grounds, paying him no mind as they strolled toward their next class. Day in and day out he observed future doctors and politicians, educators and executives as they began to shape and ready themselves for a life beyond parties and Friday night football games. How many other lives would they affect? How many of their decisions would affect the future of the world? he wondered. Exhaling plumes of white smoke, he recalled his own studies and the peculiar paths they had taken him.
“Hot as hell today,” a voice said, interrupting his thoughts. “Don't you think?”
The groundskeeper turned and saw Principal Reynolds keeping pace with him. The boss man smiled, although it was far from friendly. The groundskeeper knew what was coming, but cared little for the lecture he was about to endure.
“Sure is,” the groundskeeper said, enjoying the last drag of smoke.
“You know, we've been through this,” the boss said through his teeth, glaring at the cigarette. “Faculty is prohibited from smoking on school premises. Sets a bad example for our students.”
“I'm not faculty,” he replied, flicking his butt into the nearest trashcan.
“Jesus! Did you even put that thing out? Are you trying to burn the place down?”
The groundskeeper grinned, watching the thick vein in Principal Reynolds's head pulsate.
“Relax. The way they make those things now, it's nearly impossible,” he said, taking a sip from his water bottle. “You should hydrate yourself, Reynolds. Hot as hell out here.”
“That's Principal Reynolds to you, janitor.”
“My apologies.”
“I don't know where you came from or who the hell you think you are,” Principal Reynolds said, spitting, “but I won't hesitate to kick your ass to the curb. I don't care how highly recommended you come.” His eyebrows twitched. “Understand?”
“Unquestionably.”
“I've got my eye on you.”
With that, Principal Reynolds turned his back. While greeting students, he walked across the quad, heading toward the main office building.
The groundskeeper shrugged his shoulders, lighting another cigarette. Sucking down a long, pleasurable drag, he headed over to the maintenance shed located behind the main building. He grabbed the clipboard with the list of daily work orders off the wall and rolled his eyes when he read that fixing Reynolds's office air-conditioning vent was first on the list. Of course it is. He tossed the clipboard onto the desk blanketed with old paperwork, instruction manuals, and empty coffee cups, and began gathering his tools. Picking up the cordless drill, he wondered if he could screw into the epicenter of the Principal's brain and how long such an injury would take to kill him. Would it be instant? Would it take an hour? Two? It made little difference. The groundskeeper had plenty of time, something he knew the rest of the world was running short on. It already had enough weak-hearted men like Reynolds slithering about, claiming to be capable of leading the world to a better, brighter future. It could certainly do without another derelict dignitary. The groundskeeper chuckled quietly to himself. Perhaps one day he'd have the tools to wipe the Earth clean of all the scum upon its surface. Perhaps someday he'd be the one people could confidently and faithfully follow.
Storming out of the shed with his tool bag in hand, the groundskeeper headed directly for Reynolds's office, smoking a new cigarette down to the filter. He savored every puff. He wanted to save the butt and hide it in the back of Reynolds's desk, hoping it would stink up the joint. Picturing the crotchety bastard's face when he couldn't figure out where the harsh odor was coming from made the groundskeeper laugh out loud.
Strolling into the office building, the cool air welcomed him like a refreshing shower. He waved at the young receptionist, who winked back, and made his way down the corridor until he reached the door with the nameplate that read “Principal Reynolds.” He approached it cautiously, hoping the boss was elsewhere, perhaps off at some “important meeting” or signing off on some policy that would “better the lives of the student body.” In all likelihood, if he wasn't in his office, he was in the faculty bathroom down the hall, clogging the plumbing, intentionally making the groundskeeper's day shittier.
Entering, he was relieved to find the office empty. The groundskeeper closed the door behind him, ignoring Principal Reynolds's family photos, and searching the ceiling for the busted vent. He only spotted two in the whole room, and went to work quickly. He pulled up a chair, hopped up, and placed his hand on the vent. The first one was working perfectly, so he headed over to the second, which he also found emitted cool air.
What the hell is this guy's problem? The groundskeeper had a feeling that the son of a bitch was just making extra work for him for his own sick amusement. He thought about breaking the vents on purpose, but that would require him to make another trip to the boss man's office, and once was enough. The less interaction with the man, the better. He had been riding the groundskeeper's ass the entire year. And if he didn't need the money so badly, he would have told the prick to shove off months ago.
With a deep sigh, he surveyed the files and books strewn across Reynolds's desk. Letters from parents. Memos from staff concerning the budget. Requests from students for letters of recommendation. Nothing unusual. The groundskeeper pushed the dull documents aside in hopes of finding something more appealing, something scandalous. He hoped to uncover some dirt, perhaps a note from the Principal's secret mistress. Something useful. Instead, the groundskeeper grabbed a memo from the bottom of the pile, titled Proposed English Reading Curriculum. He scanned the list quickly. 1984. To Kill a Mockingbird. Frankenstein. The Great Gatsby. Lord of the Flies. Same old, tiring tales. Placing the list back on the desk, he didn't bother to finish reading it. No wonder why the world was in a state of failure. Its people relied on leaders like Reynolds, who had been taught the same redundant lessons from decades ago. Unimaginative. Unproductive. Unconvincing. These people are supposed to be guiding us to a better tomorrow, he thought to himself. We rely on desperate fools in the darkest of hours. He shook his head. Maybe one day things would change. Maybe one day, someone would see things his way.
The groundskeeper heard loud noises coming from outside. Tires squealed, the anticipated crash coming shortly after. He thought he heard screaming. People were yelling at each other. Loud screams. Cries for help.
What the...
He rushed to the window, peering into the quad. He saw flames moving across the grounds in quick, fiery blurs. At first, his mind didn't piece it all together. Seconds later his mind put together what he was seeing. People. On fire. Human torches, running, screaming for their lives.
Holy shit...
A young student ran into the neighboring woods, his skin burning off his bones. Another rolled across the grass in attempt to smother the flames, but it was too late. The fire burned right through him, turning his skin to hot ash. A teacher's face began to boil, blisters opening up on her forehead, exploding with hot pus. The woman's screams were so loud that the groundskeeper thought she was in the room with him.
It's happening...
Before he could process that thought, a man appeared at the window. Despite the blackened patches of skin on his face, the groundskeeper recognized him immediately. He banged on the window
furiously, steam rising off his flesh in smoky wisps.
“Help me!” Principal Reynolds cried. “Oh my God! My skin!”
The groundskeeper watched, frozen with shock.
“I'm gonna die out here! Open the window!”
Slowly, the groundskeeper reached for the lock.
“Hurry up!”
The groundskeeper closed his eyes. He felt no sense of urgency to help Principal Reynolds from the horrors outside. Something came over him. Something reassuring. As if this was exactly what was supposed to happen, and he was not to interfere.
“I feel it in my bones!”
The man's face resembled coal.
“Goddammit, Jim!”
The groundskeeper sighed, removing his hand from the lock.
“No! What are you doing?”
Walking away from the window, the groundskeeper relaxed in Reynolds's chair, papers falling to the floor as he tossed his feet onto the desk.
“The world needs leaders, not followers,” he said, unconcerned whether or not Reynolds could hear him through the window and the chaos outside. “A new lesson needs to be taught. A lesson in...”
The groundskeeper paused, reviewing the stack of required reading on Reynolds's desk. He tossed many of them aside. None of them provided the right message. He grabbed the last book off the desk and began flipping through, reading passages at random. He glanced back at the cover, nodding. It was a title he had once been familiar with, but had forgotten about over the years. Moving back toward the window, the groundskeeper pressed the pages against the glass so Reynolds could see.
“This,” the groundskeeper said, “is a lesson we should all come to know.”
Watching Reynolds open his mouth for the last time, he stepped away from the window. The boss's body burst into flames, his screams heard simultaneously with the crackling fire.
Nonchalantly, the groundskeeper opened the mini-fridge next to the boss man's desk. A shiny red apple sat on the top shelf. He grabbed it, along with the small, flight-size bottle of gin. The groundskeeper unscrewed the cap, took a small swig. It was the best thing he had ever tasted.
Biting into the apple, the groundskeeper settled back into the former principal's leather chair. Quietly, he continued reading the book, his concentration uninterrupted by the horrific sounds resonating from the burning world outside.
TODAY
-1-
His mouth felt great. Warm. Soft. Not too watery. Not too sloppy, as other guys had been in the past. Just right. The way his tongue rolled over hers sent shivers down her back, titillating her senses. She opened her eyes, saw him staring, and giggled.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she said, smiling.
He went back for seconds and she met him halfway. This time, their lips collided with such force she thought she might have chipped her front teeth. Something grabbed her, and she realized he had gone for her chest. She broke away, looking down. Sure enough, the kid's hands were cupped around her breasts.
“I'm not ready yet,” she said, quickly removing his hands.
The kid rolled his eyes. “Come on, Becky. We've been making out in the broom closet for a month now. I think it's time we take things to the next level.”
She looked around. Wow. This is a broom closet. Mops, cleaning products, garbage bags, and a wall dedicated to toilet paper surrounded her. She had never stopped to take in the scenery before. Any time she snuck off with Chris Atkins, she had only paid attention to one thing.
Those lips... They appeared to be chiseled by God himself, or so Becky Wright thought silently to herself.
“I know. Look, it's not like I don't want to,” Becky said.
“Then what's the problem?” Chris asked. “Come on.” He took her hand, placing it near his belt. “Maybe you'll want to once you touch it.”
Her eyes rolled back. She did feel it, and she did want to, but still, a single thought popped into her mind, making her retract her hand as if she had been seared by a hot pan.
“I can't.”
“Why?”
“You know why.”
Growling, he folded his arms across his chest. “Let me guess. Your father.”
“What if he catches us? He'll kill you.”
“Please,” he said, digging into his pocket for his can of dip. “I can totally handle your pops.”
Smirking playfully, she arched her eyebrows. “You're a fool.”
Taking a pinch of chew and placing it inside his mouth, he nodded. “Pretty much. Hey, you going to the campfire later?”
Becky shrugged. “I don't know. I'm not really a fan of the whole 'campfire' thing.”
“Why not?”
“Because. It's kind of stupid. Those songs and people dancing. And then there's the whole 'fire' thing.”
“'Fire thing?'” he asked, wrinkling his forehead.
“Yeah. Camp-fire. I don't know about you, but I can't take so much as seeing a log burn.”
“Come on. Don't be so dramatic.”
“You weren't out there that day.” Her eyes drifted toward the floor. “You didn't see what I saw.”
“I saw some shit go down, lady. Alright? I saw plenty.”
“Not like I did.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Uh, no thanks.”
“Come on. It'll be good. Like therapy. Better yet—come tonight. Tell the group. Might help with the...”
“With the what?”
Chris shrugged. “I don't know. It just might help.”
“I'm not crazy to feel this way.”
“Whoa. I don't think you're crazy.”
“No?” she asked. “Then why are you looking at me like that?”
“Because I really want to get into your pants right now.”
She exploded with laughter. Covering her mouth, she rolled around the floor. Chris placed his hand on her bare stomach. His hands migrated without her permission, but this time, she didn't stop him.
Someone knocked on the closet door.
Chris's heart nearly exploded. Becky's shoulders jumped above her head.
“Who is it?” she called.
“It's... me.”
“Goddammit, Matty. What the hell do you want?”
“It's Dad. He wants... well, he's calling a meeting,” her brother said. “It's like a special campfire meeting and he wants everyone to attend.”
“Why?” Becky asked.
“I guess in light of what happened earlier. You know... with what happened to Clay.”
Chris looked Becky in the eyes. He forged his best puppy-dog face.
“Fine. We'll—ahem—I'll be right out.”
“Okay,” he said. Becky waited to hear her brother's feet shuffling away from the door, but several seconds passed and she still felt his presence. “Chris, you can come, too.”
Laughing into his hand, Chris suppressed his sudden outburst. “Okay!” he said.
Becky punched him in the arm. “Great,” she whispered, clenching her teeth.
They listened to the clapping of Matty's feet fade. Once it had diminished, they resumed their daily rendezvous.
“Good job, asshole. Now the whole community is going to know,” Becky said.
“Please. Like they don't already.”
“Well, you're probably right about that.” She buttoned her pants. “I just wanted to keep it from my father as long as possible.”
“Come on, Becky. Don't be a dumb-dumb. He's a smart guy. He already knows.”
“How can you tell?”
“Look, the man hated me before this whole thing happened. Since we've been here, I don't think he's spoken three words to me. Every time I see him, he gives me this look.”
“What look?”
“This look,” Chris said, scrunching his face, making it look like an old wrinkled shirt. “Something like that.”
“Oh, that face. Yeah, you're totally on his shitlist.”
Chris glared at her. “Come on. What do you sa
y? Tonight. You. Me. A small, harmless campfire. I'll even sing you a song.”
Rolling her eyes, she moaned. “Ugh. If I hear that guy Noah play the banjo one more time, I'm going to scream. Plus, I don't want to see my father anymore than I have to.”
“Don't go for him then.” Chris spit into an empty water bottle. “Go for Soren.”
“Soren?” she said, giggling. “Born-Again Soren?”
“Please, Becky.” Chris chuckled. “The guy's not the religious nut everyone makes him out to be. In fact, he's really smart. Has some pretty good ideas about how this place should run.” Chris squinted. “You should hear him out.”
“Oh, I'm sure my father would love that. Being told what to do.”
“It's funny watching him when Soren speaks. His face gets all red and puffy.”
“Hm. Maybe I will go.”
They laughed together.
“I don't know. Your father seems erratic lately. I think he's losing control of the situation. It was great in the beginning. People looked to him for guidance. But now... I mean, especially after what Clay did today. I don't know, Becky. People are starting to talk.”
Becky nodded. “What are they saying?”
“That your father is losing his mind. That turning Costbusters into a castle isn't the answer. That we're boxed in. With the attacks going on outside, how are we to protect ourselves from whatever's out there.”
“There's nothing out there.”
“You've heard the rumors.”
“They're just rumors, Chris.”
“Well, sometimes rumors can be true. Besides, Anita said that Clay said he saw them with his own two eyes.”
Becky shook her head. “Yeah, well, Clay is just as nuts as my father, if you ask me. I mean, he did walk out into the sun today.”
“I'm only telling you this because I like you, Becky. But maybe you should ask your father where he sneaks off to every night. Ask him what they're really doing on these so-called supply runs.”