I see this as an opportunity to escape. I jump up and say, “Looks like he needs you a lot more than I do, doc!” as I make my way to the door. I hear her call out “Where are you going?” as I leave.
“The track,” I reply without looking back.
Once on the track I can relax. It never seems to be busy when I go. I’m always in yoga pants and sneakers, so I don’t have to stop to get changed, I can just hit the track and run and run and run. It’s my “me” time, my Prozac, my sensory chamber, my escape. When I’m on the track, I’m not running around in ovals for exercise, I’m running away from the past and all the bad memories that are wrapped up in it. I’m running away from the memory of the Lost Day, past the shock of seeing a friend rise from the dead and walk for the first time, past the confinement of security. I’m running past the loss of that security and the idea that all the things I treasure, things with sentimental value like my school yearbooks, have been reduced to nothing more than ash clinging to the bottom of a zombie’s shoe. With each thud of my foot on the rubberized track I stamp out the grief and anger attached to each of these mental images and more. I run from the past, I run from reality, and I run away from thoughts of a future with no room for me in it.
If I run long enough I can put distance between myself and the past and start imagining a future so unrealistic I dare not speak of it to anyone. Some people meditate for twenty minutes and empty out their minds so they can start healing again. I empty my mind out by exchanging the unfathomable horrors of this world with blue-sky thoughts of living out in the open again, without threat, without the unending stench of death. The track is the only place I can get away from everyone and if there is someone on the track at the same time, I don’t feel an obligation to acknowledge their existence. I’m free to remain lost in my own thoughts, with one exception.
Today I sense him before I see him. We’ve shared two daring escapes and the same room since we arrived, so now I feel his presence before my other senses acknowledge him. He keeps a respectful distance though, hovering around but never landing in my personal space. He catches up with me and without even a glance in my direction breaks the silence he’s kept for days with a mumbled, “Mind if I join you?”
I respond the way he would respond, with a curt nod that invites his company but not his conversation. We pound the pavement in silence, spending time together without really being together. I wonder if he feels the way I do as I run because his pace matches the rhythm of my thoughts. He’s such a strange character, and yet despite that, I find his company comforting. We carry on this way, running side by side without interrupting each other’s thoughts until I feel the weight of a ponderous stare. We round the corner of the track and see Houston leaning against the door looking mildly interested. I narrow my eyes at him and mouth, “Go away,” but he remains, his eyes never leaving my face. Just as we near him, we hear the words he came to say: “Dumb luck.”
Ghost and I break through the invisible barrier between us as we exchange a look. We know what this means; it’s time to talk.
HOUSTON
My message delivered, I turned on my heel and leave the gym. I could have stayed longer. I’m finding KC’s tolerance of a boy in her space fascinating, but I’ve got places to be.
I’ve also got people to avoid. I know I must get to the staircase at the back of the stage without being seen, but I can’t do that without passing one of Buck’s survival classes. Buck was my worst nightmare in high school before the parasites arrived. He’s as tall as me, but he’s muscled-out like Michael Keaton in a Batman suit. In high school he was the one who would shout “Retard!” at me on the way to class and he’s the one who encouraged his friends to slam into me or push me off to the side as they barreled their way up and down the hallways. He’s also the one who still finds it funny to shout, “Houston! Do we have a problem?” I’ll never understand why he feels the need to pick on me. He already has the looks, the athletic build, and the money to be popular, so why does he need to look good by stepping on me? When will he have enough self-confidence in his popularity to leave me alone? What gives him such a mean streak? It’s not like I’m in the way—I go out of my way to stay out of his way. All I can assume is that he enjoys torturing me when he feels the need for entertainment. Still, I had hoped he would have moved onto someone else by now. It’s not like I give him any feedback or reaction to his taunts, so where’s the fuel that feeds this fire?
I slip past the survival class as quietly as I can, but my relief is short-lived. “Hey, Retard! Get back here!” Buck’s voice booms. I keep walking, my head down, pretending I can’t hear. It doesn’t work; two of Buck’s minions come thundering down the hallway and take hold of my arms. I’m whirled around and half-dragged back to where Buck stands. He’s grinning a grin that reaches all the way up to his eyes. That might sound like a good thing, but Buck’s smiles are always bad news. I look around for anyone to intervene, but the hall’s empty. Just my luck, a thousand refugees crammed into one high school and I end up in the only deserted hallway. I guess that should have been the sign that Buck was near. The best way to stay off his bad side is to stay away from him, and many put great effort into just that.
“What’s the matter with you? I won’t bite. I just need you for an object lesson.” Buck sounds sincere and malevolent at the same time. What can I possibly do to help? I’m still thinking on this as Buck’s boys push me into a classroom filled with more of his fans.
“Okay, boys and girls,” Buck begins in a condescending tone. “Today’s lesson is Darwin’s Theory on ‘Survival of the Fittest.’ Can anyone save me from too much talking and explain what ‘Survival of the Fittest’ means?”
Lance is the first to speak. “It’s when nature selects the finest through a series of crisis. The useless die out leaving only those tough enough to survive, thereby improving the species.”
No-neck Neal goes next. “It means if you want to survive in today’s world, you make sure you don’t have rejects like Feeb there on your team.”
“Then why am I still here?” My words come out without thought. “Nobody escorted me here under armed guard! It took speed and preparation and strategy to get me through those gates.” I feel wrong as I say this, but I don’t care.
“Wrong fat-for-brains, you’re here because of dumb luck, and you’re still here because you are protected by the soldiers who protect guys like you despite you being a drain on our resources.” Buck’s not going to believe anything I say.
“If your expertise at survival got you this far, maybe you can share it with us so we can all increase our chance at survival.” Lance looks serious as he says this, but his words drip with sarcasm.
“Great idea,” agrees Buck. His voice changes into the mocking sing-song tone of a kindergarten teacher. “Houston, kindly share with the class the methods and means that got you here in the first place.”
My anger turns to shame. Blood rushes to my head. My face and ears glow red and pulse with the sudden flood of memories. I look at the floor while I remember that I choked in the face of danger. I didn’t get us here, Mom and Ghost did. “Fine,” I mumble. “You’re right. It was just dumb luck that got me here.”
Buck wasn’t finished with me yet. “And now that you’re here, what can you contribute to the group? What can you offer as a reason for the government to keep on feeding you and paying for your safety? What kind of investment are you? Can you offer strength? Speed? The accuracy of a sniper? A mind full of clever ideas? What is it about you that justifies your existence?”
I offer the only answer that will bring my release. “Nothing.”
“Then what are you doing here? Stop taking up valuable space and bugger off.”
I head for the door relieved but angry. It’s good to be angry because it keeps me from feeling scared when Buck calls after me, “Better watch your back, Dead Weight! The day we stop tolerating you is the day you become zombie chow!”
I race down the hall. The blood is
now pounding in my ears, making my head feel heavy and on fire. My eyes are narrowed to seething slits that make anyone I come across skitter off to the side. I’m scaring others and I don’t care. All I care about is getting to the one place I am accepted.
I run the rest of the way to the theater and onto the stage, not bothering to see if anyone’s around. I signed up like KC did to be a member of the stage crew for the little productions the current Drama Club put on, so I belong here. I do pause to look around to see if anyone is watching me as I climb the stairs to the top storeroom. There are no lights here, but I find the door easily. I knock two times and announce my arrival: “Dead Weight!”
The badly-painted black door creaks open and a pair of strong hands hastily pull me into the room on the other side.
It’s curiously dark in here. Even in the dark I can sense that everyone who’s supposed to be here is here, and yet no one has switched on the light. There’s an uncomfortable pause and then I realize—my detour took so long, they must have wondered if I gave them up to Buck’s goon squad. “It’s okay,” I say, “I got pulled into Buck’s survival class. They only wanted to have some fun. They let me go as soon as my feelings were pulverized. No one followed me.”
There’s another pause as they decide if my words were true and then a lantern comes to life, lighting up all their faces. Braden is the first to speak.
“Welcome to the Dumb Luck Club” he says.
GHOST
Clever little club with a clever little name. I’ve heard the term “dumb luck” bandied about by the thugs who run this show. They sized us up from the moment we arrived and saw us as nothing but a strain on their resources. The truth is, I could be of great help to their little production, but I don’t want to be a part of them. I’ve seen the emotional detachment in the soldiers’ eyes. They’re capable of anything. They’ll follow orders to the death. They’re willing to do anything for the good of the unit, and we’re not part of their unit.
I’ve noticed we’re not all rejects. There was an electrician in our group when we first arrived, as well as a mechanic; both were deemed too valuable to be discounted and both have been accepted into the soldiers’ inner circle. So unless you count this club, we’re on our own. Well, at least I predict we soon will be.
Braden interrupts my thoughts. “We have called this meeting together for two important reasons; the first being to welcome our new recruits.” He looks over to our side of the room. “Houston, KC, Jesse, John, and, um, Ghost. You have been selected to join our little band of rebels by demonstrating acts and attitudes of nonconformity.” I don’t think Braden would normally be this grandiose, so he’s probably trying to show he’s in charge.
I feel KC stiffen next to me as he speaks. Here we go again. What is she angry about now?
“Did you say Jesse? As in Jessica, my little sister? Where is she?!”
Jesse emerges from the shadows behind Braden and promptly sticks her tongue out at her older sister. “I get to be part of this club because I’m useful and you guys need me!”
“Jesse’s right.” Braden says. He ignores KC’s glare and continues, “We’ve had our suspicions about what’s going on behind the scenes, but until Jessica uncovered some new evidence, we had nothing but our doubts. Jessica has found something that confirms we’re in trouble.”
I derail the potential KC-Braden-Jesse fight by quickly changing the topic and ask, “May I make a suggestion?”
Braden lets out an exaggerated sigh at this and asks. “Can you make it after this meeting?”
Houston speaks up for me and says resolutely, “Ghost does not waste his words. If he’s got a suggestion, it’s a good one. Better hear him out.”
“Fine,” groans Braden impatiently. “Tell us what we’re doing wrong.”
“I’m not saying you’ve done anything wrong, I just have an idea to make it easier to carry on with our risky meetings. Is there anyone here who trusts the guys in charge?”
“We wouldn’t be here if we did!” snaps Braden.
I expected this of Braden—anything I say will be seen as a challenge to his authority. “Who do you think is the most dangerous character in this place?”
“The General,” came a few mumbled replies. “Buck,” comes from Houston’s lips. KC’s the only one who came up with the right answer. “The psychiatrist.”
“I agree with KC. Do you really think she’s concerned for our mental health, or do you think she’s working for the General?” A few more nods of the head urge me to go on. “She’s his greatest spy. She sizes up and vets who’s going to be the most use to his organization, and…” I say while looking at KC, “…who’s going to be the most difficult.”
“So?”
“Have you noticed that whenever you guys get together to have lunch or study or just hang out after Drama Club you’re suddenly assigned chores and jobs with the other spies and suck-ups here? Ever notice how they do their best to split you all apart?” Now I have their full attention. “Did you know that when we first got here, we were warned to stay away from all of you, the troublemakers?”
Braden sighs. “No, but I’m not surprised.”
“We look suspicious to them. The more we hang out, the better we get along, and the better we get along, the more of a threat we pose. While they search for evidence of a mutiny they’re going to tail us, eavesdrop on us, and catch us at something that will eventually get us into trouble.”
“It’s an occupational hazard.” Braden sounds resigned.
“It doesn’t have to be. Why don’t we make them think they’ve been successful at splitting us up? Make them think they’ve disarmed us in a way? If we’re no longer a threat, they might leave us alone.”
Jesse pipes up, her voice sounding as grown-up as she can make it. “That does sound like a problem. How do we nip it in the butt?”
Braden smiles. “Yes, how do we nip this problem in the butt? Do we need to go out there and kick some buds around?”
It is hard for me not to smile at Jesse, but I need to be serious right now. “We play their game. We can look like we’re fighting while we’re still talking enough to stay together.”
“And how are we going to do that?” the willowy blonde known as Lisl asks.
“By doing what they do. We call each other by demoralizing nicknames.”
There is silence for half a minute while everyone thinks about this. “They won’t believe we’re all fighting,” says Houston. “Look at us. We’re a family and when it comes to you, well, we owe our lives to you.”
“Yeah, but you still fight, you still call each other nicknames, and to them if you’re fighting you’re not getting up to anything beyond petty grievances.”
“You talk weird,” says Jesse. “You talk like a grown-up. A really old grown-up. You use language only a boring English teacher would use.”
“You are weird,” agrees Lisl, “But I’m with you on this. Besides, I’ve got a few nicknames for Braden already in my head.”
Braden fixes Lisl with a curt look and says, “I agree, but we all need to keep in mind that we won’t mean any of these nicknames. We’re just calling each other these things to throw people off our trail. We’ve got to stick together at all costs. Let’s write down nicknames for everyone here, put them on the board, and vote.”
“We have a board?” Jesse asks, looking around.
“No, it’s just a figure of speech. Here, let me write everyone’s name on a separate sheet of paper and we’ll pass it around. We can each add a nickname, or we can put a check mark next to one we already think is good enough.”
Everyone but Jesse passes around papers in silence. I could tell the stillness was killing her. Maybe she’s about to explode with the secret she’s harboring, a secret important enough to make her part of the club. This better be a good secret, because it’s putting her at more risk than a nine year old can comprehend.
Braden collects the scribbled forms. “That’s funny,” he says. “You guys did
n’t suggest much. You seem to more or less agree with the names already up here.” He would say that. He was the first to fill out the forms, followed by me. I’m glad he went first. He can take the heat for how insulting some of these are. He goes through the less insulting ones first. “Houston, you were already given your name by the Buck’s goon squad, so you can keep the password as your name. From now on you’ll be known as Dead Weight.”
“Anna, I totally understand your attachment to your blanket, so the consensus seems to be ‘Linus’ for you.” Braden’s right; she clings to that relic from her past to the point that it seems to be a permanent part of her outfit. We would never make fun of her for holding on to the only thing that reminds her of her lost family, but Buck would.
“Claire, the only name suggested for you was ‘mouse.’ You look and act like you ‘wouldn’t say boo to a goose,’ as my grandmother used to say.” Braden catches her look and adds “Don’t take it the wrong way. Your skill at listening and remembering is pretty useful.”
Houston, aka Dead Weight, tells her in a comforting voice “I learned about a famous super-spy in World War II. She was supposed to be too beautiful to be suspicious. The Germans gave her the nickname, ‘the White Mouse’ not because she was timid, but because she was pretty and she always managed to slip through their fingers.” Claire blushes at this and looks down at the floor with a slight smile on her face.
“KC, your brother suggested your nickname, and it looks like everyone put a check after it. You will be known as ‘Katatonic.’”
“That’s a great name!” Jess yelps. “She totally spaces out! That’s why we call her ‘Spacey-KC’!”
“It’s true,” agrees Houston. “She can almost daydream herself into a coma.”
Notes from a Necrophobe Page 12