My thoughts are interrupted by Jesse as she springs up and announces “I’m going to explore!” She jumps off her cot and dashes through the door, my mother right behind her. I realize that while I’ve been absorbed in my interior dialogue, Ghost has disappeared just like, well, a ghost. KC hasn’t noticed any of this. She’s busy chatting with her friends, no doubt learning the ins and outs of this place.
With no one blocking the door I venture out. These halls are familiar, but they’re no longer filled with jocks and cheerleaders, Goths and geeks. They teem with tired refugees turned out in clothes that are faded and frayed with constant wear. If their kits are anything like ours, they only have three days’ worth of clothing to their name, and they’ve been wearing the same thing for the past two months. I wander past their empty expressions and find my way to the front of the building, passing classrooms filled with more cots and more refugees than there are cots. I try to find a window to look through but like the ones in the outside world, they’re all boarded up.
The panoramic windows at the front of the school are left uncovered, but they are heavily guarded. I look between the soldiers standing at attention at the entrance and try to get a look at what’s beyond them, maybe see the way we came in. It was too dark to look around last night and we were in a hurry to get in out of the rain. Now I want to see if there were any other changes to my high school, something other than the high walls topped with soldiers or security or patrols or gatekeepers or guards or whatever they’re calling these guys.
I didn’t gasp when Braden reminded us we were living under martial law, and I did not gasp when he told us there was no Internet connection, but I did gasp when I saw what happened to the high school grounds. It wasn’t the big concrete walls around it that got to me, I expected those, it was how far out they were. There are two main entrances to the school and neither used to have much space in front of them. It turned every morning into a gladiator-style fight trying to get a parking spot. Now I’m looking out the entrance with the Rock, the one with the least space because there were private houses just across the street.
At least there were houses there. It looks like they were leveled right down to their foundations, then covered in concrete. The lots where they once stood fit within the security wall creating a huge, flat, empty courtyard. The Rock is still there. Beyond that is a lumpy expanse of weeds and then a further wall with a couple of tall guard towers. Beyond the walls there’s even more space where there used to be trees. I can still see the tops of some trees in the far distance, so they must have left the forest alone. Otherwise it looks like all the homes and trees around the school have been wiped out so the refugee center could have a big courtyard in front of its doors. Is this supposed to be some sort of buffer zone? Why do we need so much space if the walls are too thick and high for a parasite to penetrate?
I half-walk, half-run to the other entrance, hoping I can find an unblocked window to look out of. I can’t find any that were left uncovered. I also can’t find anyone like Braden, but I do find that the classic school cretins from the football team—Buck and Nick and Neal and Lance—stayed with the school. Great. KC finds friends here and I find enemies. Is every high school required to come with a pack of bullies?
I discover that the same slash-and-burn technique has been used at the other entrance. Same walls, same courtyard where houses once sat, same empty space where trees once stood. We must have come in this way because the way of the Rock was a long paved driveway leading up to the gates. We had mud and an unexpected trench where the Jeep now sat. Who dug that trench? Were the parasites trying to trap us? Was it a further line of defense dug by the soldiers? What if we asked them for our weapons back? Could we return to the Jeep, dig it out, and carry on to the next refugee center?
One look at the soldiers’ faces tells me—no, no we can’t.
GHOST
I can’t believe they took the Jeep.
It took me a while to find an upstairs classroom that didn’t have a class in session or wasn’t full of refugees, but I managed to find one that faced the way we came in last night. My mind has been filled with thoughts of escape ever since we arrived. We came here for sanctuary, but it didn’t take long to realize that this is one of those out-of-the-frying-pan-into-the-fire types of situations. I mean, why are they so uncommunicative and controlling of our sense of time? What kind of soldiers go to the lengths of removing people’s watches in their sleep?
The best idea I could come up with last night was pushing the Jeep out of its rut, filling our packs with whatever we could scrounge from the kitchen, and being on our way. It’s clear from their faces these soldiers see us more as burdens than wards, so they should be happy to get rid of us. Of course I’ll have to convince the MacFarlanes to get out of here. We’ll have to leave soon, before we get attached to anyone.
Eric ordered that Jeep just for this type of world. “It’s a 2004 Jeep Wrangler,” he said proudly when he first showed it to me. “The Rubicon model. That’s right, the Best Supertop NX! One hundred-ninety horsepower, four point oh, six-cylinder engine, and a hard top with sunroof, luggage rack, and plastic side windows.”
I didn’t know what he was talking about, the numbers of horsepower or cylinders meant nothing to me, but I was afraid to ask questions in case he’d go into more detail. Instead I ventured a guess. “Did you go for the plastic side windows because they can’t be broken?”
“That’s right, boy, and they can’t bite you through the plastic either. It’s high-grade, premium sailcloth fabric that maintains its shape in all temperatures, mildew-resistant, has UV inhibitors…”
“I don’t think sunburn is our biggest problem at the moment…”
“Don’t be a smart-alec, boy. You know I like to cover all my bases! Yes, sir, this baby was designed for some serious off-roading. It’s quieter than other models so it’s not easily heard. It’s all black so it’s not easily seen, well, not at night. And it’s a more convenient ride than previous model years…” I don’t remember the rest of what he said. I felt I knew all I needed to know about our getaway vehicle so I let my mind wander.
My mind’s not wandering now. My mind’s wondering what happened to our premium-sailcloth-with-UV-inhibitors invisible-in-the-dark Jeep. I can see the ditch from up here, and it’s pretty deep. No matter how serious the off-roading capabilities that Jeep might have, it couldn’t handle a ditch that deep. If we had been going any faster, we would have flipped or died on impact, or both. Of course, there’s no worry about either happening since someone’s pulled it out of the ditch and taken it off to who-knows-where. The curious absence of tracks makes it impossible to see what direction it was towed in.
But the car’s not the only thing that’s gone. Where are the Infected? I guess they ran for the protection of the trees when the soldiers started firing; but then, where are the bodies that were hit? Did the soldiers go out there at first light and clean them up? And if they did, what did they do with them? If they were cremating them, where’s the smoke? I can’t imagine they’d go through the trouble of burying them.
What if it’s not the soldiers? Would the Infected come back to reclaim their own? For some reason, they seem unable to carry on without an undamaged brain; like that’s the only place they can set up a command center. That means a corpse with a bullet in the brain would be useless.
So do we stay here with the shifty soldiers, or take our chances in the open with the intelligent Infected? As I stand here looking outside the window, I can’t help but wonder which one’s the frying pan and which one’s the fire.
RENEE
I had the best sleep last night. It was a deep uninterrupted sleep, untroubled by nightmares, the sleep of the exhausted and worry-free. For the first time since this happened I could relax knowing we were safe behind heavily-guarded brick walls. We could stop worrying where our next meal may come from, stop looking out for the undead, just stop running period. I could connect with my better half as soon as I go
t to a computer and we would eventually be reunited. What I could really do with right now is my husband charging in on a white steed to whisk our family away.
I expected the others in the center to feel the same gratitude I did, but instead of relief I find people steeped in grief and unspoken fear. A few brave souls ventured in after our split kits were handed back, mostly the young looking to trade their contraband with whatever new items could be had in those packs. I made sure the kids had the necessary basics in their bags weeks ago, but the rest of the contents were up to them. I wondered what they might have left to trade. Jesse as always was free and open with her toys, but Houston, KC, and Ghost were unwilling to open up and part with whatever happened to be in theirs. We each have a trunk with a key for our belongings, which they encourage us to hang around our necks, so we shouldn’t have to worry about our most precious possessions (made even more precious because that’s all we have left) being stolen.
For the most part people keep their distance, eyeing us warily from afar. Every now and then someone will approach us in the cafeteria or in the halls to ask if we know so-and-so and if we do, are they still alive? I wish I had good news for someone. I myself am on the lookout for my friends and neighbors, but I find none among the residents. I’m just as disconnected as they are.
This disconnect explains only part of the unease. We have electricity, hot showers, daily structure, and food. What we don’t have is a cell phone signal, a working phone, or the Internet. The soldiers gave vague reasons for this. One excuse is that the government has been too occupied with a surge in Infected attacks to keep the cell phone towers and servers going. I was helpfully warned in passing whispers to not push the soldiers or their chain of command. Too many questions may result in you or your loved ones being assigned to training on the roof. I’ve been told there have been a series of freak accidents up there: rain percolates through protective layers of clothing, someone trips and falls over the edge, or someone stumbles and falls in a puddle. A few have been known to commit suicide (“…or are ‘suicided’ by the soldiers,” mumbled one little old lady under her breath). Martial law had been declared by the end of the second day of the parasite invasion, but it wasn’t until now that I felt its effects.
I’ve joined the ranks of the grieving. I’m happy that my children are safe and able to resume learning, albeit in classrooms too crowded to accommodate desks, but I dwell in doubt, not knowing if I’ll ever see my husband again. Is he still alive? Why hasn’t he come for us? What must he be thinking of our inactive email and Facebook accounts? What if he makes it home only to find a charred foundation? Will he think we’re dead, or will he come straight to the nearest refugee center? Mclean High School is the nearest refugee center, so why hasn’t he come for us? Round and round my thoughts go, but they always creep back to that one question: Why hasn’t he come for us? I desperately try to distract myself from the answer. I volunteer to teach classes in history and fitness, I help out in the kitchen, coming up with different ways to combine MREs to stave off tedium in the menu, I attend every survival class going with the kids, and I read anything from the school library that can make me forget what we’ve been living through. Yet in the quiet of the night when I pretend to sleep, I ask ad nauseum—Why hasn’t he come for us? Sometimes a gremlin of a voice speaks up from the back of my thoughts:
Because he has forgotten you. Because he has moved on. Because while he’s out there earning good money while appearing single he will attract the best gold-diggers around. In his position, he can have any woman who can be perfect, either naturally or out of sheer need. These are the kind of women that never lose patience with a man, women who don’t nag or look like the living dead in the morning. These are the kind of women who never seem to age with perfect skin and full-on volume hair with bodies that do not cry out for liposuction. These are the kind of women who make it easier to move on to a better life than look for the family who, by all signs, is already dead.
I could be that woman for him, if he’d find me.
KC
“You don’t have to keep checking your exits, you’re safe here.” The woman sitting across from me has a voice that soothes frayed nerves, but survival habits die hard.
“Why am I here?” I ask, perhaps with a little too much edge to my voice. Ghost warned me about this woman. He is a guy of few words, so when he talks I listen. He pointed out that this was someone who made her living from getting others to trust her regardless of whether you should. She has a kind, pretty face framed by soft brown hair and she looks almost young enough to hang out with us. But I decide to side with Ghost—she’s not going to lure me into talking. This isn’t easy because she really does draw you in with her inviting smile and the concern in her eyes.
“It’s not just you. Everyone who stays here comes to speak to me. You went through a traumatic series of events, then you were suddenly thrust into overcrowded commune living. We can’t help but be concerned with how your emotions play out in this pressure cooker of a refugee center.” She says this while staring right into my eyes like she can see through to the thoughts on the other side.
“You’re afraid I might go postal.”
“Hmmmm, yes, something like that. We also want to keep things running as smoothly as we can so we can all survive this and move on.”
Stupid cow. “Do you really think we’re going to ‘move on’ or get back to our normal lives? Do you think you can heal these people after what they’ve been through? Do you honestly think the government is going to come up with a solution to the Invasion and we can all go back home? Well guess what, most of us don’t have a home to go back to!” My voice sounds more bitter than I meant it to.
The psychiatrist looks at me with a congenial twinkle in her eyes like we had just been discussing the cuteness of kittens. “No, it’s impossible to get back to the ‘normal’ you once knew. You’re going to have to create a new normal that you can feel comfortable in. As I understand it, your sense of normal since the, uh, ‘Afterlife’ began was a relative degree of privacy and comfort while you lived with your family in your childhood home. Your ideal version of normal now may be living in a glass dome-covered compound that allows privacy and comfort with a healthy dose of interaction.”
“That would be nice, ‘cause here it’s all interaction and no privacy or comfort.” My words barely escape through pursed lips.
“Now we’re getting somewhere! Do you wish you could have more quiet time to yourself? If you like, I can put in a request for some time in the sensory chamber…”
Translation: we can give you time in solitary confinement. Does she really expect me to believe we have a “sensory chamber” here? If we do it hasn’t been working—everyone here is either tense or miserable. I’m not about to tell her any of this, so I go with, “It’s not so much the constant interaction but the kind of people I’m forced to interact with. I’m not a child. I can pick my own group of friends to do stuff with, and I can pick the ones I’d want to spill my guts to.” She winces at my words and for a brief moment I can see her mask slip away to reveal the scarred soul inside. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean that literally. Look, I’m really not in the mood to talk.”
We sit in silence looking at each other. I was hoping she’d realize by now that she wasn’t going to get enough out of me to analyze and let me go, but instead she takes a deep breath and says, “Let’s play a game. I’ll call it pros and cons. Let’s start with the pros. Can you tell me something you like about this center?”
“The security.”
“Okay, that’s a good start, but that’s also a given. How about the facilities? How does living here differ from living at home?”
My words tumble out in an uninterrupted stream of consciousness. “I like attending classes with my friends just like I did in the old days. I like that we no longer have to worry about our food storage running out. I like having people my age to hang around with. I like having a library in the place I live. I like having electr
icity and warmth. I like having the chance to spend some time away from my family. I like having a variety of things to do.”
“You don’t seem to be involved in any sports teams. I can’t recommend them enough—they keep you fit, boost your mood, and you get to experience a camaraderie that helps you feel a part of something good.”
“I’m part of the stage crew for the Drama Club.”
“They’re not a very social bunch.”
“I run on the track every day.”
“But that’s a solitary activity.”
“Exactly.”
We look at each other for a few more uncomfortable seconds before she says, “Now tell me the cons of living here.”
“There’s no privacy. The soldiers have taken away all forms of entertainment from our split kits. It’s hard to sleep comfortably on army cots. My brother Houston is constantly bullied by the same oily bohunks that picked on him in high school, and none of you will do anything about it. There are not too many places I can hide to get away from the girls who are annoying wenchbags. I always get paired with the most difficult whiners when I do my shifts in the kitchen or bathrooms. And worst of all, there’s no Wi-Fi or cell-phone signal here. I have no way of getting a hold of my dad to let him know we’re all right.”
“I understand, lack of connection to the outside world is the number one complaint I get. You realize they’re working as hard as they can to get the Internet up and running again?”
I shrug my shoulders and look at the ground. No one’s believing that lie.
I’m saved from further questioning by a gentle knock at the door. The shrink sings “Come In!” I think she’s eager to have something else to focus on. Her assistant pokes his head around the corner. “I’m sorry Pam, but can you take Cromwell in early? He’s bothering the other residents with his demands. His behavior has become even more erratic and he still insists that he came here with his family. He won’t stop running around asking everyone where they are.”
Notes from a Necrophobe Page 11