Special Dead

by Patrick Freivald

  Banerjee. God, how she hated him.

  She stepped around the corner with a smile plastered to her face. “My turn for what?”

  Murderer. Monster.

  Dr. Banerjee patted the stool next to him. “Sit.” She sat and contemplated crushing his head between her hands. He looked at her mom. “Sarah, administer the dose.”

  Dr. Romero’s veneer of professionalism didn’t crack as she swabbed Ani’s arm with alcohol—a habit they never broke despite the utter lack of needed sterility—inserted the needle, and injected a bluish-green liquid. She pulled out the needle, placed it on the tray, and took off her gloves.

  “So, what was that?” Ani asked.

  Dr. Banerjee didn’t smile. “That was Stage VIII.” Her heart stuck in her throat, and she managed not to smile when he patted her knee. “Don’t worry, the issues with VII have been resolved. That won’t be happening again.” The warning touched his eyes but not his voice.

  “I hope not,” Ani said.

  She hugged her mom and left, wondering what came next.

  The worried stares of her fellow zombies didn’t help. They walked on eggshells around her, as if expecting her to disintegrate at any moment. And why wouldn’t they? It wasn’t their fault they didn’t know that Joe’s death wasn’t an accident.

  She spent the rest of Saturday reading The Azalea Assault by Alyse Carlson, a charming murder mystery with a gardening theme, and on Sunday she made breakfast for her mom—it only occurred to her afterward that this was a fiction orchestrated for the security cameras—and then sat at the piano. She didn’t get up again until bath time.

  * * *

  That Monday, she wrinkled her nose as Sam sat next to her. “What is that?”

  Sam scowled at her. “What’s what?”

  She sniffed the air. “It smells like vanilla and, I don’t know, acidy medicine.”

  “I’m wearing vanilla perfume,” Sam said. “Not sure about the medicine, though.”

  It clicked in her brain. “Formalin!” She grinned. “Sam, you stink.”

  “Smelled yourself lately?” Devon asked.

  She buried her nose in her armpit and inhaled. Yup. Bath residue. “Yeah, that’s it.” She looked at Mr. Foster. “Do we all stink?”

  He giggled. “There’s a certain aroma to the room, sure. I’m used to it, though.” His eyes widened as she shuffled to his desk, filling her lungs once she got there.

  “What are you wearing?”

  “Uh,” he said. “Old Spice.” He giggled again.

  “I can smell it!” She beamed at the rest of the class, and their return smiles were guarded, all but Mike’s and Jeff’s.

  “I got something you can smell,” Kyle said. “Jeff’s butt.”

  “Kyle,” Miss Pulver said. “Please act your age.”

  “Please act your age,” he muttered under his breath, just loud enough that everyone could hear him. Jeff guffawed, and Mike joined him.

  Mr. Foster ignored them. “If we’re done sniffing things, Ani, could you please take your seat?”

  “Sure.” She sat, got out her English assignment, and couldn’t help smelling the crayons. The odor was more memory than actual sensation, but a tiny hint of waxy nostalgia triggered in her brain. Maybe it’s only strong smells. She wasn’t about to test Kyle’s suggestion.

  * * *

  The next morning she made her mom breakfast and drooled on her nightie at the smell of eggs fried in butter. She blotted the spot with a paper towel and called out to the bedroom. “Wow, Mom, phase eight is pretty badass.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. I still don’t want to eat it, but this egg smells great.”

  “Mmm-hmmm.” Sarah came out of the bedroom dressed in a cream skirt-suit, in full makeup.

  “What’s the occasion?”

  “I’m going with the ACLU lawyers to the Second Circuit hearings today.”

  “Jeez, already? How soon do we find out?” She flipped the pan over onto a plate, then put the plate on the table.

  “Oh, a month or two on the inside. These things drag forever.”

  Ani grimaced. “Could be a good thing.” She grabbed a slice of light rye and put it in the toaster.

  “No toast for me, sweetie.” She looked down at the egg, the yellow yolk leaking out across the plate. “Actually, I’m going to skip the eggs, too. My stomach’s in knots.” She smooched Ani’s cheek and ducked out the door. “Don’t be late for the bus!”

  “Bye, Mom!”

  Alone in the apartment, she dumped the egg in the garbage, put the bread back in the bag, loaded the dishwasher, and went back into her room to change for the day.

  * * *

  Ani shuffled into the classroom and stopped so fast that Kyle bumped into her back.

  “Hey, what gives?”

  Dr. Freeman sat in the back corner, between Jeff Rock and Mr. Clark. She crossed her legs and favored Ani with a cool look. “Good morning, Miss Romero.”

  Kyle muttered “hubba hubba” under his breath.

  Ani shuffled inside, let Mr. Benson unlock the shackles, and took her seat. Only then did she turn and give the most pleasant smile she could through the bite guard. “Good morning, Doctor. Observing Mr. Foster again?”

  She nodded, though they both knew she was lying.

  This can’t be a coincidence—Mom’s gone, she’s here.

  Devon balled her hands into fists and planted them on her hips. “Why are you really here?”

  “I’m observing—”

  “—no you’re not. You’re not even Doctor Freeman. Freeman’s an old woman.” Devon’s eyes trailed up and down her body. “Older woman, no matter what you’re trying to say with that skirt.”

  Freeman, or whatever her name was, flushed crimson, but her voice remained calm. “I don’t appreciate your tone—”

  “It wasn’t meant to be appreciated.”

  Mr. Benson cleared his throat. “I think settling down would be an excellent idea.”

  Devon sneered but sat. For her part, the blonde woman observed the class for a half-hour without taking any notes, then left without a word.

  As soon as the door closed, Sam spoke up. “Mr. F, you got to spill. She’s not on the faculty at Geneseo, is she?”

  He giggled. His eyes dashed from Mr. Clark to the security camera to Sam and back to the camera before settling on his shoes. “Sure she is. Now that’s enough about that.”

  Devon leaned in to Sam’s personal space and stage-whispered, “Man, he’s a bad liar.”

  Miss Pulver scowled at her, but that was the end of the conversation.

  * * *

  As they trundled down the stairs to the bus, Ani leaned on the railing for support.

  “What gives, gimpy?” Kyle asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said. A dull ache spread through her upper thigh and into her abdomen. “My hip hurts.”

  Sam stopped, halting the line. “Your hip hurts? Since when do we feel pain?” She was right, of course. They felt the sensation as much as ever, but the dull realization that something was wrong with their bodies could hardly be described as pain.

  Ani hissed through her teeth. “I don’t know, but, man.”

  “Keep walking,” Mr. Benson said.

  Boarding the bus, a burning jolt shot through her hip. “Ow, fuck!”

  Their driver widened his eyes in concern. “You all right?”

  She gritted her teeth against the pain. “Think so. Sooner home the better.” She supported herself on the seatbacks, then collapsed into her seat. Stars exploded across her vision from the resulting agony. She hissed in a breath. “Devon, call Mom. Tell her to meet me at home.”

  “Are you...like Joe?”

  All she could manage was a shake of her head. “Don’t think so. Please.” She swam in and out of lucidity, aware but unaware of the starts and stops, concerned voices, a swaying sensation as someone carried her into the sterile confines of the lab.

  An hour later she lay in the open b
ath as her mom clucked her tongue at the X-rays. “I don’t know what to tell you, sweetie. The pins in your pelvis haven’t shifted, the crack hasn’t gotten worse—or better. There shouldn’t be any reason for the pain.”

  “Now it itches more than anything,” she said.

  “That’s the regenerates. I think. Stay in the bath through tomorrow and we’ll see if it gets better.”

  “For how long?”

  “Let’s start with twenty-four hours and go from there.”

  Ugh.

  “Okay.”

  “You want some music?”

  “How about an audiobook? Something long.”

  “Rowling’s new thing?”

  “Sure.”

  Over the next day, the itching got worse, then faded away altogether. By the time she got out of the bath, she felt great, better than she had in years.

  Tiptoeing into the living room, she smiled at her mom, who was scowling over a pile of paperwork and oblivious to the world. She did a pirouette, which ended with a slight stumble into the piano. Her mom looked up at the noise.

  “Hey, Sweetie. How are you feeling?”

  “Awesome. Really good, actually. My hip doesn’t hurt at all.”

  Her mom stood up, wiped her hands on her pants, and grabbed her keys. “You’re not limping, either. Let’s get you to the lab and have a look-see.”

  After more X-rays and a full-body MRI, Ani couldn’t believe her eyes. The fracture in her pelvis was a fraction of its original size, and the ragged tear that the tree branch left in her lung was gone.

  “It’s a miracle,” Ani said.

  “No,” came a voice behind her. She turned to find Dr. Banerjee in the doorway, holding her chart. “It is the primary thrust of our research.” His eyes flicked to her mom and then back to Ani. “Behind a cure, of course.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He stepped into the room and gestured in the air with his free hand. “When the Chinese virus became public knowledge, the United States government convened the best and brightest medical minds to counteract the threat. That included your mother and me, of course. We realized at once that killing the virus would be a vital part of the program but would not in and of itself be a cure. The human body dies as a result of infection, and due to the nature of the pathology, traumatic injury is an all-too-common ancillary condition. A cure, therefore, must come with tissue regeneration. A healing, as it were.”

  “So I’m getting better?”

  He shook his head. “The serum is at war with the virus in your body. I have no doubt at this time that the virus will win again, as it has in the past. It remains to be seen if the healing process we now observe will reverse when the virus regains hold.”

  “Well, that sucks.”

  Her mom tsked. “Language, sweetie.”

  Dr. Banerjee said nothing for a moment, instead flipping through her chart before setting it on the table next to the door. “Success is incremental. With each passing day, we get closer to a solution. Good evening.” He stepped out of the room and was gone.

  Chapter

  24

  Ani almost leaped onto the bus, her athletic energy ruined by the ever-present shackles. She bounded to her seat, sat, and smiled at the rest of the Special Dead as they got on the bus. The new day was bright but chilly, and the air had a crispness to it that reminded her of the holidays.

  They rolled through town, past the Wegmans, past downtown, and were almost all the way to school when she looked over at the cushion where Joe used to sit. Grief crashed through her, a physical, guttural tear in her soul. A sob escaped her lips before she knew what was happening, and she breathed in long enough to unleash another.

  “Jesus,” Devon said, standing over her. “Are you okay?”

  Devon fell sideways as Mike shouldered her out of the way. He scooped up Ani into his arms, cradling her against his chest, and cooed at her, petting her helmet. She wrapped her arms around his neck and cried, wet tears streaming down her face, his strong arms around her comforting and unbearable.

  “Oh, my God, is she crying?” Lydia asked.

  The bus lurched.

  “What did you just say?” the driver said.

  “Ani’s crying! Like, real tears!”

  The bus screeched to a halt, and the driver spoke into his radio. Ani could hear what he said, but not the replies. “Initiate biohazard containment protocol. Level six, nonviolent. Yes, Doctor Romero’s daughter is crying. That’s what I said. Will do.”

  Ani recovered as they waited, clambering off of Mike and trying not to cry again at the concerned looks of her classmates.

  “What the hell was that?” Devon asked. Her concern was spiked with more than a hint of jealousy.

  “Are you okay?” Lydia sounded, if possible, more timid than usual. Teah nodded along to the question, her brow furrowed.

  Ani nodded. “I’m all right. I just looked at where Joe used to sit and lost it.”

  “Think it’s the serum?” Sam asked.

  Kyle rolled his eyes. “Her boyfriend’s dead, moron.”

  Sam released a theatrical sigh and replied without looking at him. “I’m not asking about the emotion, Kyle. I’m asking about the tears.”

  “Oh.”

  Ani shrugged and tried to smile and not cry at the same time. “It about has to be, right?” She closed her eyes as another silent sob shuddered through her.

  The driver opened the door, and a mirrored helmet poked up into view. It moved out of the way and was replaced by Ani’s mom, covered head to toe in a white hazmat suit. She had to turn sideways to fit down the aisle, but the bus was only eight seats long.

  Ani read the concern in her eyes and gave her a smile. Dr. Romero’s lips whitened into a thin line as she swabbed Ani’s cheek and dropped the Q-tip into a phial full of blue-green liquid. She shook it, waited, and then held it up to the sun. They waited a minute, then two, before she reached up and pulled off her helmet.

  “We’re clear.” She kissed her fingers and reached through Ani’s faceguard to tap them on Ani’s cheek. “Love you, sweetie. Have a good day. We’ll talk later.”

  She stepped off the bus and was gone.

  Mike moved back to his regular seat, and Devon surprised her by sitting next to her. “Are you okay?”

  She shook her head. “Yes. No. I don’t know.”

  Devon hugged her, and she hugged her back. “I know this doesn’t mean anything in zombie-land, but if you need anything, we’re all here for you. I’m here for you.”

  Ani squeezed her close, then let go. “I know. Thank you. And I’m sorry about, you know.”

  Devon let out a low chuckle. “I’m so over it. Except once in a while when I’m not, just for a second, and want to break your face. But yeah, we’re good.”

  * * *

  The rest of the week brought a rollercoaster of elation and depression, which her mom attributed to “hormone slurry.” By Saturday afternoon, she’d mellowed into a more normal mindset and tried to get some homework done. Sam and Devon were tutoring Lydia and Teah, respectively, trying to get them through their math homework, so Ani curled up with Mallory’s Le Mort d’Arthur on the couch next to Kyle, who was reading manga, mouthing each word as he trudged from frame to frame. Mike sat in the corner, staring at nothing.

  “Stop it!” Kyle said.

  Everyone looked at him.

  “What?” Sam said.

  “Not you.” He looked at Ani. “I’m trying to read, here.”

  Ani looked at Sam, then Devon, then Kyle. “And?”

  “And it’s hard to concentrate with you breathing in and out all the time. Calm it, would you?”

  Ani opened her mouth, closed it, and tried again. “Sure, Kyle. Didn’t realize I was.” She stopped, but without volition her chest rose, then fell again. He rolled his eyes at her, and she grinned. “I’m not doing it on purpose! I’m breathing!”

  They crowded around her, everyone but Mike, and stared at her in amazement.
<
br />   “Try holding your breath,” Teah said.

  Ani did. Fifty seconds later she gasped for air, unable to stop herself.

  They all laughed. “That’s awesome,” Kyle said. His face twisted as somewhere in his reptilian brain he must have realized that he was being nice by accident. “Now can you do it somewhere else?”

  Later that night, her mom verified that her response to oxygen deprivation was biological. Her cells exhibited signs of limited respiration.

  By Tuesday she was starving. The “Italian Dunkers”— cheesy breadsticks with pizza sauce for dipping—brought to Mr. Cummings’s room were limp and drenched in lukewarm grease, a half-hearted impersonation of what pizza could be, but Ani devoured three servings and it took effort to leave it at that. She couldn’t help but compare her behavior to Joe’s only a few days before he crumbled to dust in her arms.

  Everyone stared at her with naked worry when they thought she wasn’t looking, but she knew what they didn’t. Still, a worm of doubt wiggled through her mind. What if Banerjee lied? What if it was the cure that killed Joe, and not something different? It didn’t make sense. He’d have no reason to admit to a murder he didn’t commit, and if it was the cure, he wouldn’t have risked Ani on the next dose. If he needs Mom as much as he says he does.

  When it came down to it, she’d never known Dr. Banerjee to lie to her. He made no effort to shield harsh truths and had the bedside manner of a dead fish. He killed Joe. The thought filled her with every breath, nourished her resolve with every bite of food.

  At the end of the day, Mr. Foster and Miss Pulver wished them a happy Thanksgiving. Ani hadn’t realized it was the end of a two-day week and felt bad about not saying anything to Mr. Cummings or Mrs. Weller. They’d be in the same complex, but never saw each other outside of school.

  On the way out to the bus, Ani brought the line to a halt. “Wait! Mr. Benson....”

  He turned around, one eyebrow raised.

  “No stopping, Miss Romero.”

  “But...I need to use the bathroom.”

  And it’s a matter of where, not when.