Notes from a Necrophobe

by T. C. Armstrong

  “…and go right up into the atmosphere,” Doom finishes. He looks like he would have exploded if he didn’t say something. “And what goes up in the atmosphere there…”

  “…affects the rest of the Earth,” Mr. Cromwell wraps up.

  We all sit around all quiet for a bit, trying to digest this information instead of our food. We’re not the only ones listening to this Vostok idea. It looks like all the people at the nearby tables are leaning in and learning along with us.

  Mr. Cromwell starts talking again. “There’s this astronomer named Chris Impey who believed that the biggest danger to mankind’s survival was not necessarily wars or destruction of the environment but unicellular simple organisms. See, here’s the thing: microbes have been dominating Earth for millions and millions of years. If you look at the evolutionary timeline, large organisms with brains are a recent occurrence. And here’s the problem: Microbes have a tremendous advantage over us. They evolve millions of times faster than humans. There are more generations of bacteria every ten years than human generations since we began. They’re more adaptable to a changing environment, especially if something is introduced that accelerates that change.”

  Okay, he’s lost me. I want to do something else now. I must be the only one not getting this, because everyone else seems to be hanging on Mr. Cromwell’s every word. Well, I don’t remember studying this stuff in the fourth grade. I’ll get Ghost to explain it to me later…oh yeah… Oh.

  Now I want to find a hiding place to go cry in. I look at my mom and ask, “Mom, can I be excused?” but it’s like my Mom doesn’t even hear me ‘cause she just starts talking like Doom does, which is a bit scary, really. “It sounds crazy to say that microbes are going to destroy us, but then look at tuberculosis: that disease has plagued mankind for thousands of years and killed untold millions. It has achieved this even though we identified the pathogen that causes it in 1882. Yet we’re still struggling to destroy it. So yeah, I think it is entirely possible that some bacterium will figure out how to destroy us before we destroy it.”

  Doom starts talking really fast. “So they are suddenly released, after millions of years in isolation, and then they become part of the atmosphere, and they’re still evolving while doing this, and then they fall back down to Earth to infect the very thing we need to survive?”

  “Does this mean we have to be wiped out so they can survive?” asks the skinny red-headed kid.

  “Yeah, why can’t we live together? Why do they have to kill us?” says Nadia. “There’s enough dead bodies around. Can’t they just use those instead?” People screw their noses up at that last comment.

  “It’s the ultimate recycling program.” Kaboom says with a spooky edge to his voice.

  “Why can’t they wait to evolve like everything else around us? They didn’t give us a chance to defend ourselves!” says Doom.

  “They’ve been waiting for twenty million years. I guess they didn’t want to wait any longer.”

  I really need to get away from all this Doomsday talk. I need to run and find one of my favorite hiding places where it’s warm and not too dark and there’s sound so I know I’m not all alone but the sound is muffled so I don’t have to hear the bad things that people say about what’s going to happen to us.

  Or what happened to Ghost. I don’t care if I’ve got permission to leave the table. I’m outta here. I start running for the door, but I run straight into a soldier so hard I bounce back and hit the ground. He looks down at me with that blank mask-like face they all wear and I can’t help myself, I start to cry. No one notices because there’s a sharp and shrill sound that stabs my ears, a sound I’ve only heard once before.

  It’s the sound of the fire alarm.

  HOUSTON

  Another fire alarm, but this time the announcement orders us to assemble in Gym 1. This has never happened before, so we’re not sure how to react. A blanket of quiet settles over the crowd, except for the clueless drifters who chatter in whispers. “I don’t know why I couldn’t finish my meal. What could be important enough to keep me from finishing my meal?” The rest of us know that we wouldn’t be summoned unless it was important, so we keep our mouths shut.

  We file in to the bleachers in the order we walked in until they’re filled, forcing everyone else to sit in lines on the floor. We’re lucky; we went straight there instead of milling about, so most of the Dumb Luck Club gets to sit in the bleachers. It’s too bad our lunchtime fact-finding expedition was interrupted; it was cool to play sleuth and figure out what happened to the world. I know it’s just an illusion, but it felt like we were getting a handle on something. I’m looking forward to the discussion where we speculate on how to defeat the invaders…if we can pin down where they came from, we can figure out how to destroy them, right?

  That’s what I’m focusing on right now because I’d rather not be thinking about why the General wishes to speak to us. The last time the bell rang it was because the dead were storming the gates.

  He’s at the podium now, flanked by his officers and backed up by the rest of the platoon. I have so many questions about these guys. Who formed them? Were they created quickly out of this crisis to complement Homeland Security or FEMA? Whatever happened to the National Guard? What are they called anyways? There are no names, no labels on their uniforms or trucks…does this mean they’re Secret Service? If that’s the case, this is the perfect place for them. It would also explain why they’ve cut off our communication with the outside world. Not even the drifters believe their dismissive and vague comments of why the Internet is down and the cell phone signals are gone.

  The General looks down his prominently hooked nose at us and speaks in a slow and exaggerated tone as if we are hard of hearing or too dumb to understand. To be fair, some of us are. Too dumb to understand, that is.

  “We are alone.”

  What?

  “We have been abandoned. We have limited communication with other platoons but have lost contact with the government. We have set off flares to attract attention without result.”

  Heck, we’ve known that for ages. No one came to our rescue either.

  “We have observed flares set off from a distance without any follow up from a helicopter rescue.”

  I could have told them that we were one of those desperate and futile flares. “We observed a cluster of flares close enough to send a small contingent as a rescue party. This turned out to be an ambush—the Infected have learned how to use the flares from abandoned seventy-two-hour kits.”

  Ah, that explains the fire alarm from the dance. The dead must have followed them back here.

  “By now you have noticed that we have not had a delivery of food since the week after Mclean High School became the Mclean Refugee Center.” He waits for his words to sink in and continues. “We have been very careful with the resources allocated at the beginning of this outbreak, but without further supplies we will starve.” The crowd stirs and pockets of anxious muttering break out here and there. You can feel the fear rippling through the crowd as they start to think the unthinkable. The General has no intentions of taking questions so he carries on talking. “We have been in communication with another base via our radios and have discovered a refugee center at Woodson High School in Fairfax that is willing to take us in. They claim to have more than enough food to share with us. They were fully stocked in preparation for the refugees from that area, but there were few who survived. It is a high school much larger than this one with enough supplies to feed thousands; yet it has only a handful of soldiers and about fifty residents.”

  Many supplies and few survivors? He’s making this sound like a good deal. I can see hope dawning on the face of the drifters. If they had an ounce of sense they’d realize what he’s about to say next.

  “This means we will have to leave this center for the Woodson one.”

  Gasps and cries of alarm erupt from the stands. You can see some of the masses swaying as if they’re about to break into a run.
What good would that do? Where do they think they’re going to run? Did they honestly think the refugees from Woodson were going to risk their lives to deliver the supplies here? The cynical side of me says the refugees from Woodson are not even aware of us. I think a scouting party discovered them and the General intends on taking them over. If that’s the case, what’ll we do when the soldiers start attacking the Woodson refugees? Stand by and watch? Risk becoming their targets? Nothing about this feels right.

  The General looks bored and fed up with this scene; I’m sure he anticipated this reaction. His voice booms more forcefully when he starts to speak again. “We have maintained and fortified a fleet of trucks to get us there. We will make it! We will wait until the temperature drops low enough to freeze the Infected. This will allow us to travel without fear of attacks.” The crowd stops in its movement, reassured by the General’s promises. I should feel reassured too…but I don’t. I really can’t believe he intends on wasting what’s left of his resources on all of us. I can’t wait to get the Dumb Luck Club back together so we can discuss this. I intend to suggest we step up our hoarding. If we’re caught stealing we’ll be “banished” like those who disappeared, but lately the soldiers have stopped paying attention to us.

  “I ask that you be ready to leave at a moment’s notice. All classes—apart from Survival—will be canceled. If there is anything of value to you, I suggest you have it ready to go in what’s left of your seventy-two-hour kits and have it on you at all times. That is all. Dismissed.”

  The General turns on his heel and marches out, closely followed by his camouflage-clad entourage. The rest of us remain rooted to the spot. We’re too stunned to move. My mind races through all the possibilities. Unfortunately so does Doom’s mouth. “What if it never freezes this winter? What if we don’t all fit in the trucks? What if Woodson High changes its mind and sends us back? What if the roads are blocked with abandoned cars? I bet the zombies have dug traps all over the place just like they did here! I bet they’ll put us in a truck at the back! What if the zombies thaw out before we get there? They could topple a truck with their numbers!”

  “And why can’t they just send out a few trucks and fill them with the supplies?” says KC, her voice low and weighted. “Why risk all of our lives by taking us out of the one place that has been impervious to attacks?”

  I don’t know where KC’s getting her big words from (Impervious? Really? She’s starting to sound like Ghost.) But she’s right. We all ponder this for a bit. My mother looks us each in the eye and says, “I think we need to plan an exit strategy of our own.”

  KC

  I was happily absorbed in Ghost’s writings till Nadia flounced in and ruined an otherwise peaceful moment. “We’re going to have another party!” she announces.

  “This hardly seems the time for a party,” my mother deadpans. I don’t think she’s fooled by Nadia’s cuteness anymore.

  “No, I’m serious! I had a word with our resident psychologist and she agreed that we should have one big blowout party before we leave this place. We’re leaving and never coming back, so we can do whatever we want!”

  “Kind of like an eviction party,” Mom says to herself. “We used to have those at Beach Week when I was your age…” She suddenly remembers she’s not alone and snaps to attention. “…so I’ve heard.”

  Nadia rarely hears anything unless it’s something about her so she ploughs ahead. “The General agreed we could use food that’s about to go off or takes up too much space, whatever that means.” She starts spinning in little circles like a puppy anticipating a treat. “I can’t wait! I’m totally going to dress up and I’m going to find some spray paint and paint the walls with my name so everyone knows I was here and I’m going to…” She’s tripping out of the room as she talks and her voice is soon thankfully out of ears’ reach.

  I turn to my mother and ask, “Do I have to go to this one?”

  “No, of course not. Just don’t be surprised if we’re forced to go.”

  Nemesis sits up on her cot and interrupts. “You might want to go this time, KC. You’ll probably get a chance to hear the song Ghost dedicated to you.”

  “I liked the other one just fine.”

  “Are you crazy? That was a breakup song! Didn’t you notice?”

  “Um, no, not really. I guess I only heard the good bits.”

  “Wow, you really did have it bad.”

  “I still do.”

  The three of us sit around in silence for a bit, and then Mom and Nemesis leave to give me some privacy. I really do appreciate it; it lets me get back to reading more on Ghost’s theory.

  Lake Vostok. Found in East Antarctica. Fresh water, 1,444 feet above sea level. Average depth: 1129 feet. Similar in area to Lake Ontario but with three times the volume.

  Coldest temperature ever observed on earth recorded at Vostok Station 21 July 1983: -89C/-128F.

  Bloody hell, how could anything survive at those extremes? I wonder where Ghost got his facts and ideas—the pirate radio shows he used to listen to or the Internet? I remember the rows and rows of books I used to see at old man Eric’s. Maybe he found something in one of them. I can totally see Ghost reading Eric’s entire library. I know I would if given the chance.

  Unusual life forms may be found in an ecosystem that has been sealed off from the rest of the earth for millions of years. Arguments against the possibility of life forms: The weight and pressure of the continental ice cap (350 atmosphere/5143psi) can result in a supersaturation of nitrogen and oxygen—50 times more than found in ordinary fresh-water—which leads to an oligotrophic extreme environment.”

  I start adding my own notes to Ghost’s, and I try really hard to sound just as smart as he did: “Any organisms present would not have a chance to evolve due to high pressure, constant cold, low nutrient input, high oxygen concentration, and complete absence of light.” I think that’s enough from me, I’ll let Ghost’s chickenscratch do the rest of the lecturing.

  However, extremophile microbes have been discovered in unique habitats before. There is a greater chance for ancient bacteria to exist in an isolated microbial gene pool containing characteristics developed as much as 500,000 years ago.

  What chance have we got against something that’s survived for half a million years?

  RENEE

  Something is not right. Am I the only who feels this way? I’m surrounded by a happy hive of people in constant motion. The kids seem to be relieved to no longer attend classes, well, apart from the ones that concentrate on endurance. They think the survival classes are more like games than anything else. I must admit they feel that way to me too. There’s the general fitness part with things like relays and circuit training, and then there’s archery, kickboxing, and fencing. I’ve been in charge of the circuit training, which has been a great help to me because I’m able to banish thoughts of impending doom while I put the kids through their paces. I’m in better shape than I’ve been my whole life as a result, but it’s a bittersweet experience. What’s the point of looking good if Grant isn’t here to notice?

  Unfortunately there have been other men who have noticed, and they’re harder to push away then the ones I dealt with before I was married. My wedding ring doesn’t repel them. They just assume that if my husband’s not here, it’s because he abandoned me or he’s dead. I can’t put them off with a simple “Not if you were the last man on Earth,” line because they feel like they are that last man on Earth, or close enough anyways. I used to have a gregarious personality, but I have to be consistently blunt and cold with these guys until they get the message that I will never be interested in them. I may be a refugee, but I’ll never be that desperate.

  There’s an air of, “This is it!” in the halls. In a way, people’s moods are eased with the idea that we’re finally doing something instead of sitting around waiting to be saved. We’re afraid of venturing out into the open but at the same time we’re excited for a new life. You can only live so long in an old
high school with hundreds of mentally scarred and scared strangers before you go mad. It’s one of the reasons people give for Ghost’s death. Those who didn’t know him thought he was crazy to begin with and that he completely lost it after being forced into close quarters with so many desperate refugees. Some of us can understand how these people can make you nuts. At this point, some of us would rather face the zombies than each other.

  So it’s with a light heart that people set about decorating this place for the dance. A few residents have raided the supply closets in the art department and are painting directly on the walls. Some of it can be interpreted as art, but most of it is the “I was here, please don’t forget me,” type of graffiti. Still, the place had never looked so festive and colorful.

  The kids and I have started to horde any food that will not spoil from our meals. I’ve noticed that all their friends are doing it too. Well, except for Jesse—self-control has never been her strong point. This makes us hungry all the time but less afraid, so it’s worth it. They do not seem too invested in this dance or excited about the mass exodus coming up. Their moroseness makes them stand out in the constant flurry of activity, but no one seems to notice or care.

  It’s as if they expect the worst.

  HOUSTON

  We decided in our last Dumb Luck Club meeting, at KC’s insistence, to store our split kits in the clubhouse. Doom rigged up some clever little plastic doohickey that should keep out any potential looters. He showed us where to press it and at what angle so we can unclip it. It’s a bit like the device people would put on the cleaning cabinet to keep babies out, but if you don’t know how to use it, you’re not getting in. We’ve also set up shifts to check the clubhouse. We’ve used the excuse of creating a skit to perform at the dance as a reason for us to be hanging around the stage so much; which makes me think that maybe we should actually come up with one.