Resurrection X

by Dane Hatchell

  Andy bowed up his back and swelled out his chest, and then let out a sigh of relief when Byron stomped past like a petulant child.

  “The sun must be fryin’ that boy’s brain. I’d better get him a bigger hat,” Andy said. He trailed Byron acting as if he was expecting something to go awry.

  Byron deposited his linens in the hamper and took the last position in line, waiting at the showers.

  Andy passed him without incident, walked to the end of the room, and turned on the moving sidewalk for the guests’ morning feeding.

  Byron kept to himself, not offering Andy any more threatening stares, acting normal again, and following the routine along with the others.

  Andy checked each member off his list as the Non-Dead filed onto the bus, then he took the driver’s seat, and cranked the engine.

  Byron sat in his usual position, the right front seat, a privilege he had earned a long time ago for being such a hard worker. The tension lay thick in the air between them.

  “So, tell me, Tooty, is something not feeling right inside yer head?” Andy asked, shifting into gear.

  Byron stared out the side window. “Everything feels the same.”

  Andy gave it the gas and drove away. “Something seems different. I wonder if that sunscreen they add to your ATP is messing with your brain.”

  Byron didn’t respond.

  “Ain’t I workin’ you hard enough? Would you like more to do?” Andy asked.

  “No,” was all Bryon said.

  “Uh, no I ain’t working you hard enough, or no you need more things to do?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Fine my ass,” Andy said to himself and punched the button on the radio. “This here’s my favorite station. It plays both types of music, Country and Western.” He joined right in at the chorus. “But he’s a go getter, a go getter. When his wife gets off of work, he’ll go get ’er.”

  “You better turn at the next exit. Thirty-five is closed today for repairs,” Byron said.

  “Boy, what are you jabberin’ about over there? Can’t you see I’m trying to sing?” Andy stopped, and closed one eye. He turned down the radio. “Did you just give me directions?”

  “I said you need to turn before you get to Highway thirty-five. It’s closed today for bridge repair. Take the next right and follow Oak Wood to ninety-four, then ninety-four to I six ten. That’s pretty close to the jobsite.”

  Andy stuck his little finger in his ear and rubbed it around. “Well, I don’t remember any such thing. What’s the matter with you, boy? A spring come loose? Your kind can’t find his own ass without one of us telling you where it is.”

  Byron turned his head again to the window. Andy blew past the exit he had suggested.

  “I might have to let you sit in the bus today. Keep you out of the sun until we can get one of them doctors at the Institution to look at you. Something’s gone haywire.”

  The next sign on the road read ‘Hwy 35 3/4 miles.’ Andy slowed the bus from 65 to 50 as he rounded the curve, anticipating the exit.

  As the curve straightened, the exit came into view. Four road barriers with flashing yellow lights blocked the exit, just as Byron had said.

  “Well I’ll be a—how did you know about this, boy?”

  “There was a sign by the road that said exit two twenty-one was closed to Highway thirty-five for bridge repair. When you didn’t slow as we approached exit two twenty, I assumed you didn’t see it, so I told you. You chose to ignore me, and now you’ll have to drive ten miles in the wrong direction before you can turn around and head back to the jobsite,” Byron said.

  “Sunnuvabitch, the guys back at the Institution ain’t gonna believe this,” Andy said softly.

  Byron turned his attention back to the window, waiting patiently for the remaining pieces of his once sound mind to find its way back into place.

  *

  The bus arrived at the jobsite a good half-hour late, though none of the workers seemed to be aware of the delay. Andy marched them off the bus and set them up for their assignments. Everyone, including Byron, fell in line and started working, picking up where they left off the day before.

  Across the interstate, Larry Fillmore and his crew were hard at it. Larry whistled, getting Andy’s attention, and then pointed to his watch. Andy raised both hands in the air and shrugged his shoulders. Larry gave Andy the bird and laughed. Andy returned the gesture with both hands.

  Time clicked on by as usual. Concrete saws buzzed throwing white dust into the air. Jackhammers pounded in the background. Cement trucks dumped loads into forms where the rubber-booted Non-Dead waded through the thick mixture, leveling it with long trowels. Andy walked from back to front, smacking on bubble gum, and drinking bottled water. He kept busy making sure his workers stayed motivated and offered helpful instructions to keep things in line.

  As the clock neared noon, the daily lunch wagon arrived from the Institution. Larry Fillmore and his crew crossed the interstate for the daily respite.

  Tom, a mid-fifties Sub Y who had once suffered from a broken spine, hopped out the food van, and lifted the side door. Bottles of water and sodas cooled in a large ice chest. Foil packages of sauerkraut stacked in boxes set next to plastic forks on a shelf. A variety of sub-sandwiches lined the front of a glass door refrigerator.

  Larry was first in line, with Andy next. Byron and the rest of the other forty or so Non-Dead lined up behind the Living.

  “Hey, Tom. How are you?”

  “Fine. How’re you guys holding up out here? It’s pretty dry,” Tom said.

  “Not bad, it’s been worse. What’cha got for us today?”

  “Today is ham or turkey subs.”

  “I’ll take ham, corn chips if you got ’em, and a real Coke. Not one of them diet things.”

  Tom took a sandwich from the fridge and fished out a bag of chips from a box on the floor. He opened the ice chest. “Here’s your sub and chips. Help yourself to the drinks.” He turned to Andy. “What’ll it be?”

  “I’ll take ham and a bag of potato chips, plain.”

  Tom handed him his food, giving him a smile and a nod.

  Larry peeled the plastic off his sandwich and took a large bite.

  Tom grabbed a pack of sauerkraut and a plastic fork and tried to hand it to Byron.

  “I’ll have a turkey sub, barbeque flavor chips, and a pack of deli-mustard if you have it.”

  Tom’s jaw dropped, along with the pack of sauerkraut to the ground.

  Larry almost choked on his sandwich.

  “Oh my lord, he’s gone done it again,” Andy said.

  “What the? Did he ask for a sandwich?” Larry said.

  “I don’t know what’s gotten into Tooty today. He’s been Polly Parroting since this morning,” Andy said.

  “What do you mean?” asked Larry.

  “He read a sign by the road and made it sound like he understands directions. He hears you and me order a sub and he orders a sub. All he’s doing is repeating things. He don’t understand what he’s doing.”

  “But he wanted a turkey sub. You two got ham. He wanted barbeque chips. Neither of you asked for that,” Tom said.

  “Well, all I know is he’s been acting strange all day. I should’ve kept him in the bus and out of the sun,” Andy said.

  “Can that boy think for himself? I’ve never heard of that happening with a Sub Z,” Larry said.

  “I don’t know what to think. All I know is that Tooty here has me so embarrassed that I feel like I’m standing nekid in a room full of nuns. Tom, you got any other sites to visit, or we the last ones?”

  “This is my last stop before going back to the Institution.”

  “Good. Now, pass out that sour shit to the rest of the crew, get his butt in the van with you, and get back home. Take him straight to the med room and tell ’em what happened. I’ll put in my report when we get back.” Andy turned to Byron. “Get yer ass in the van, sit down, shut up, and don’t think about nothin’. Have I ma
de myself clear?”

  Byron nodded, walked past Andy, opened the door to the van, got in, and sat down.

  “See, he’s okay. He knows how to take orders. There ain’t no thinkin’ goin’ on in that head. Something’s wrong to make it look like there is. Maybe a doc can figure it out. It’s above my pay grade.”

  Tom curiously scratched at his chin, and then served the rest of the workers in line.

  *

  “My name is Tom Johnson. What’s yours?” Tom and Byron had been on the road for ten minutes. Tom had waited for Byron to speak first as a test. Byron had kept to himself with his face to the window.

  “Byron,” he said, not looking away from the window.

  “Well, Byron, how long have you been with us at the Institution?” Another test: was he aware of passing time?

  “I’m not sure. At first, it seemed I’d always been there. But now, I don’t think so. I don’t know.”

  Something was definitely different about Byron, Tom thought. His response was laced with an intelligence beyond a typical Sub Z. Is this an unprecedented event of Sub Class Z evolution? One thing for sure, it would be a topic of interest to discuss at his next Non-Dead Epicurean Society gathering.

  “You know, I’m just like you. See?” Tom held his hand toward Byron. “My skin is pale like yours. The alien virus is in me too. Because we are just alike, you know you can trust me, don’t you?”

  Byron turned to Tom. “You’re not just like me. You don’t have numbers written on your forehead.”

  “Er, ah, no, I guess I’m not just like you. We both have the alien virus, though. Mine is a different strain. I had the virus injected to cure a physical handicap. The strain of virus used doesn’t cause death. Whereas your strain did cause your death. But after your infection, you were given an altered virus very similar to mine. It made you more like you were before you were infected.” Tom was uncertain how Byron would react to the awkward explanation and wished he hadn’t started the conversation.

  Brake lights ahead pulled Tom’s attention back to the road. Byron continued his vigil at the window. The traffic slowed until eventually coming to a halt.

  “Great, what is it now? Eighteen wheeler jackknifed again?” Tom said rhetorically.

  Sirens rose in the distance, an ambulance approached up the shoulder. Tom craned his neck out the window for a better view, wishing he could move his vehicle over to give it some room.

  “Must be an accident up ahead. I sure hope no one’s hurt. I wonder how long it’s going to take to get this mess cleaned up? These things can take hours sometimes. Say, Byron, since we’ll be stuck here awhile, would you like something to eat or drink? Heck, I’ll even give you a sandwich if you promise not to tell anyone,” Tom said, as the ambulance rumbled past his window. “Byron?” Tom turned and found the passenger’s seat empty and the door slightly ajar.

  Tom cursed, mad at himself for being so distracted he didn’t hear Byron leave. He charged out of his vehicle in frantic pursuit, calling for him. The line of cargo trucks stopped along the highway hindered his view, he ran to the adjoining lane.

  Tom spotted a lone figure heading straight toward the emergency, a hundred yards away. Raging flames threatened an elementary school on the corner.

  Tom returned to the van and reported Byron’s escape to the dispatcher over the radio.

  *

  Byron arrived in time to see one of the two wings of the school’s roof collapse in the blazing fire. Three fire trucks streamed hundreds of gallons of cooling water from the big guns, but it was obvious they fought a losing battle.

  A mass of children and a few adults crept as close as they could in awe of the destructive power of the mighty inferno.

  Byron ran up to a woman who stood on the balls of her feet, looking in frantic anticipation toward the school.

  “Did everyone get out? Is everyone okay?” he asked.

  “No! Two children are still missing! The roof just fell in. Oh, God! Oh please let them find them,” she said, her eyes glued straight ahead.

  Three firefighters stumbled out the front door. Two on the outside held the one in the middle up under his arms. All three of their air pack alarms rang, indicating the cylinders were almost empty.

  “They didn’t find them! Oh no,” the woman burst into tears and fell to her knees.

  Byron rushed to the equipment vehicle and grabbed a pair of firefighter’s boots and pants. He kicked out of his shoes and put them on as fast as he could. He put on a jacket and cinched it tightly, backed into an air pack, then buckled it around his waist. He connected the mask to the cylinder, opened the air valve, and last of all put on a helmet.

  He pushed his way through the crowd and ran past the Fire Captain, who yelled something undecipherable at him as he entered the school.

  Once inside, Byron dropped to his knees, able to see ten or so feet in front of him. On his right, Byron heard a high-pitched squeal. He didn’t waste a moment wondering why, he knew it was a firefighter’s personal alert safety alarm, blaring to show where a firefighter lay motionless for more than ninety seconds. Finding a wall with his right hand, he crouched, and hurried toward the alarm.

  He slowed as he stepped on ceiling debris and came to a halt when his knee bumped into something solid. The alarm came from underneath the wreckage that blocked his path.

  Byron reached down and felt a gloved hand pushing up on the debris, perhaps the air conditioner ductwork and ceiling structure. Putting his two hands beside the downed firefighter’s, Byron lifted the structure high enough so the firefighter could free himself.

  As Byron let the structure back down, the Firefighter tapped him on the back of his leg. Byron understood why when an alarm continued to shrieked underneath the debris.

  The firefighter went down on his stomach and crawled under the ductwork. Byron struggled to keep the path open. The heat started to inch its way through the protective fire gear.

  The firefighter worked his way back out, pulling his companion free from his would-be grave.

  Byron let the structure fall to the ground and helped the firefighter drag the unconscious man out the front door.

  Two other firefighters raced to their aid as the three emerged from the cloud of smoke. They took the limp body and carried it to the team of paramedics.

  Byron caught a glimpse of a News 2 camera crew filming the event before he turned and headed back into the burning school.

  With the façade of the school threatening to cave in, Byron dropped to his knees, and crawled toward the other wing. This time he kept his left hand to the side of the wall until he came to the door of the first room.

  It was open, but visibility was limited to a couple of feet. He had to crawl on his belly as he made a quick check around the room for the two children. His heart pounded in his chest more from fear of their safety than from physical exertion.

  He heard a crash of splintering wood behind him.

  Time’s running out. If I don’t find them soon they’re goners. Think, damn it. Byron slammed a fist to the floor. Okay, the rooms up front were the most likely to be searched before the fighters had to bail. I’ll head to the back and try there.

  He crawled down the hallway crunching debris along the way until he came to the last room. His hand went to the left wall as a guide while he crawled the room’s perimeter. Come on. Come on. Be here, damn it! No successes.

  The light from the window allowed him to see two rows of desks. The children weren’t there. He crawled to the other two rows and went down each one frantically searching for a body. Please, God. Please let them be here. Let them be here!

  A rumble from the hallway followed by a loud crash told Byron time had run out. He crawled to the classroom doorway and found it blocked with debris. Is it my time to die too, God? Is this how it finally ends?

  His only way out would be the window. Byron crawled past the teacher’s desk and crashed into a chair. Realizing he hadn’t searched the front of the room, he reached in the
leg space. The two children were crammed tightly in under the desk. THANK YOU, JESUS!

  With little time to spare, Byron grabbed each one by the collar, stood, and dragged them along a wall until he came to a window, making sure to keep the children as low to the floor as possible.

  The window latch—thick with rust from non-use—didn’t want to budge. Bastard! You won’t beat me! With death only seconds away, Byron removed his air pack and crashed it through the window. Glass exploded inward, raining upon the children on the floor, as the fire sucked fresh air from the outside. Sorry, kids. I had no other choice.

  Byron brushed the larger pieces of glass away and carefully placed each child outside the window onto the cool grass. Then, he removed his mask and pulled the two to safety.

  Both children were young boys, somewhere around the age of six or seven, he guessed. One coughed and appeared to be okay. The other lay silent. “I’m sorry . . . I wasn’t quick enough.”

  He looked around for help and realized he was in the back of the school. All the help was staged in the front near the firewater supply. Byron pulled out a piece of glass embedded in the young boy’s cherubic face and immediately started CPR.

  He took his gloves off to get a better feel for the chest compressions, as he didn’t want to break any of the boy’s ribs. During the excitement of CPR, it was easy to injure adults, and easier to hurt children.

  The boy began coughing after about a minute, a minute that seemed to drag on for an hour. The other boy was on his feet and staring down at his friend as he opened his eyes to another chance at life.

  Byron fell onto his back and released his tension in a loud “Thank you,” voiced to the sky, his chest heaving to replenish the oxygen in his body.

  “Are you okay, mister?” the boy asked.

  “Yes, I think I’m going to make it,” Byron said.

  “Is Dexter going to be okay, too?”

  Byron turned to the other boy he left to recover on the ground. Dexter propped himself on his elbows, his head slowly bobbing as he looked around.