A Plague Year

by Edward Bloor

  I didn’t regain my normal breathing until halfway through first period.

  And Coach Malloy didn’t notice a thing.

  I guess Wendy didn’t notice anything, either, when she entered Mr. Proctor’s room, although I still had a big red welt on my neck. She started right in, as if nothing was wrong. “I was talking to Mrs. Cantwell about the academics here. I’ve been trying to convince my dad that Haven’s not so bad. He calls it ‘a school for coal miners.’ ”

  I choked out, “Oh?”

  “She started telling me about her top students. Guess who’s the number one student, academically, of all the incoming freshmen.”

  I shrugged.

  “Tom Coleman.” When I didn’t reply, she added, “That’s you, right? The kid who works at the supermarket?”

  Trying to be funny, I flipped open my notebook. “Let me check.”

  She laughed. “Does everybody know this but me? Does everybody know you’re number one?”

  I shrugged again. “I didn’t even know.”

  “Well, congratulations! You stay number one, Tom Coleman!”

  I said, “I’ll try.” And suddenly I felt a lot better.

  Mr. Proctor started class by pulling out a poster, unrolling it, and taping it to the whiteboard (Coach Malloy–style). It was a movie poster with screaming teenagers on it. It was black and white except for the slime-green title: Night of the Living Dead.

  Mr. Proctor pointed to the board and explained, “This is the original poster for Night of the Living Dead, a cult horror movie that was filmed right here in western Pennsylvania.

  “George Romero, a college student from Pittsburgh, was shooting commercials and bits for a kids’ show called Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood. But he had something else in mind. Something very dark, and noncommercial, and non-kid-friendly—Night of the Living Dead.

  “This movie is not set in Transylvania, with some foreign-sounding Count Dracula as the monster. No. It’s set in a town like yours, with regular people as the monsters. Regular people who had been your neighbors and your friends and your family just a week ago, but who are all bloodthirsty zombies now.

  “We will watch this movie over the next two class periods. Then I want you to write an essay comparing and contrasting A Journal of the Plague Year to Night of the Living Dead.”

  He popped a video into the slot beneath the TV screen. Blaring, evil zombie music filled the room. It was cool stuff, but I thought, No way is this part of the county curriculum. Mr. Proctor’s going to get in trouble.

  Near the end of class, Mr. Proctor stopped the video to point out, “Karen, the cute little girl in the movie, is already infected with the zombie plague, but no one knows it. She’ll wind up devouring her own mother and father. That seems pretty bizarre, right? And unbelievable. But let me tell you, I think I’ve seen zombies walking around at the college.” Then he added darkly, “Meth zombies.”

  Arthur raised his hand immediately. “Yeah. I’ve seen meth zombies around, too, Mr. Proctor. Around my house. We definitely have them in Caldera.”

  Hands shot up all around the room. Other kids started to say similar things—that they had seen meth zombies around Blackwater. As I listened to their stories, I realized that I had seen one, too. I raised my hand, and Mr. Proctor pointed to me. I contributed this:

  “One night last summer, just after closing time, I was doing a roundup in the parking lot. A guy was sitting next to a cart, just staring at me. His eyes were black, his mouth was hanging open, and he had all these rotten teeth.

  “It was like I was looking into the eyes of a corpse. I went in and told my dad about the guy, but by the time we walked back out, he was gone. My dad said, ‘He was probably drunk. Just sleeping it off.’ But I’ve seen drunks before, and this was something else.”

  Mr. Proctor nodded. He continued to listen to our stories intently. People were still telling them when the bell rang, and he had to say, “Okay. That’s enough for now. I’ll see you all tomorrow for part two of the movie.”

  Arthur walked out behind me.

  He started talking, like to himself. “So, let me make sure I’ve got this right. Dork-man went after Mrs. Lyle in the counseling group, and then he went after young Tom before school today. My God! He’s attacking the women and children!”

  That was mildly offensive. I asked, “Who told you that he attacked me?”

  “Jenny Weaver. Why? Isn’t it true?”

  “Yeah. It’s true.”

  “So who saved your sorry ass this time?”

  “I guess it was Jenny.”

  “No way! She didn’t mention that part.” Arthur doubled over with laughter. He finally managed to say with real respect, “Those Weavers, man. They are awesome. When I was little, they came up to Caldera every Thanksgiving with food, and they came up every Christmas with presents. For the poor people, you know?

  “Some people would get pissed off about that, like it was an insult. Like Who asked you to give me stuff? But my mom never did. She took what they offered and was glad to get it. The Christmas presents were always crap—like Dollar Store stuff. But still, it was something to open.”

  He stopped at the senior high stairs. “But back to Dork-man. What was it about?”

  “I don’t even know. I think he’s just basically insane.”

  “Yeah. Could be. Could be genetic. Jimmy Giles had a hassle with Dork-man’s old man a couple of years ago. The old man was insane.”

  “A hassle about what?”

  “Jimmy got behind on payments on his big Ford, the F250. The bank sent Dork-man’s father out to get it.”

  “Why him?”

  “Dork-man’s father is repo.”

  “What’s that?”

  “What’s that? Man, you rich kids don’t know crap! The repo man works for the damn bank. He sneaks out to your house in the middle of the night, hooks up your truck, and hauls it away. Like Santa Claus in reverse. There’s no lower creature on earth than the repo man.”

  I pointed out, “So that makes Dorfman the son of the lowest creature on earth.”

  “Yeah. That’s about it. He’s like a repo man without a truck.” Arthur shook his bald head. “Did you hear he’s off the football team?”

  “No. For what, drugs?”

  “Nah. Coach wouldn’t know about that. Dork-man stopped showing up at practice. Then he came to the game on Friday and sat on the bench, pouting like a girl because Coach wouldn’t put him in. Then he quit.” Arthur started up the stairs. “I’m gonna miss him, though. He was the only senior who was worse than me.”

  I was surprised at this sudden flash of humility. My face must have shown it, because Arthur immediately added, “We’re talking about the skill stuff here—throwing, catching, kicking. For raw power, for pure destructiveness, like the wrath of God, I’m still the best.”

  “Good!” I called after him. “Glad to hear it.”

  Lilly actually offered to work a longer shift so I could go on the field trip. Or was it to spend more time with John/Uno? Whatever, it was decent of her.

  Everyone gathered in the high school parking lot at 3:00 p.m. Wendy, Jenny, Mikeszabo, Ben the Penguin, and I were there from the junior high side. Arthur and at least two of the stoners were there from the high school side.

  Jimmy Giles was there, too. I overheard him telling Catherine Lyle quietly but firmly, “I always have to be near an exit wherever I am. Just in case I get panicked.”

  She assured him, “Certainly, Mr. Giles. I understand.”

  “Can I sit up front next to the door handle?”

  “Yes. That would be fine.”

  The Suburban was like a cross between a van and a luxury car. It had two bucket seats up front and a big console between them. Behind those seats were three rows of bench seats, each wide enough for three people.

  Jimmy opened the front passenger door and claimed his place. Mrs. Lyle opened the side door, indicating that the rest of us should pile in.

  Arthur went fir
st. He stepped up and maneuvered his way to the back row, sliding over to the left window. A high school stoner followed him and took the seat by the right window. Then Jenny, Mikeszabo, and Ben climbed in and filled the next row.

  I think Wendy was planning on sitting next to her stepmother. She frowned when she saw Jimmy up there. Catherine Lyle pointed her to the seat behind the driver.

  I was still standing outside, not sure what to do. I climbed in, thinking I would take the empty seat next to Arthur, but Wendy surprised me. She leaned over, grabbed my sleeve, and pulled me into her row.

  And that was just fine with me.

  I started to strap myself into the outside seat, leaving a space between us. Wendy shook her head no and patted the seat right next to her, within actual hip and arm contact, so I slid over.

  I heard the sound of Catherine Lyle closing the door behind me. Then she got in, knelt on the driver’s seat, and looked back at us. “Before we go, I just want to say that I hope you all will benefit from this field trip. I have spoken to people at the university who have driven out to the flight ninety-three crash site. They said we will be met by volunteers there. The volunteers are people who actually saw what happened. They have set up their own schedule so that there will always be someone around to tell the story to visitors.

  “We need to keep in mind that the site is still a crime scene. Federal investigators have sectioned off the areas where we are and are not allowed to be.”

  Catherine Lyle swiveled back, sat down, and started the Suburban. She pulled out of the parking lot and headed west for the turnpike.

  Wendy looked out the window, but she spoke to me. “Okay. So here’s your chance to explain something to me.”

  I was happy to do anything for her. “What?”

  Wendy held up a letter. It was from a private school in Schuylkill County. She pointed to the return address and demanded to know, “How do you say this word?”

  I pronounced it for her. “Skoo-kill.”

  Her nose crinkled. “How do you get that? I’m thinking Sky’ll-kill. Like the sky’ll kill you. Like it’s raining down death or something.”

  “No. It’s Skoo-kill.”

  “What language is it? It’s not English.”

  “I don’t know. Pennsylvania Dutch?”

  She pronounced that to be “weird.” She put the letter away and pulled a paperback out of her large bag.

  I asked, “What are you reading?”

  She held up the book for me to see. “The Picture of Dorian Gray, by Oscar Wilde. Have you read it?”

  “No.”

  “You should. It’s about a handsome young man who does horrible things. But those things don’t show up on his face like they do for most people. Instead, they show up on a portrait he has hanging in his house.”

  “Cool.”

  “Well, more like creepy,” she pointed out. “That’s like heroin addicts. You know? They’re the best-looking drug users by far. Heroin actually preserves the outside of their bodies. But of course they’re rotting inside. Like Dorian Gray.”

  “You seem to know a lot about drugs.”

  “Well, it is the family business. Now, at the other extreme, you have the meth addicts.”

  “Are they the worst-looking?”

  “For sure. Their teeth fall out. Their hair falls out. Their skin erupts. It’s horrible, and it all happens very quickly.”

  “So if you had to date an addict, it’d be a heroin user?”

  She looked at me curiously. “I sure wouldn’t date a meth user. Their sex drive is down to zero.” She smiled mysteriously. “Your sex drive isn’t down to zero, is it, Tom?”

  I froze. My hands started to tremble, but I clenched my fists to cover that. “No. No, I’m above zero.”

  “You are?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then why haven’t you asked me out yet?”

  “Uh …”

  “This would be the perfect opportunity. I mean, if you’re interested.”

  “Uh, yeah, I’m interested. I just don’t know how that would work,” I explained. “I mean, I don’t drive.”

  “Oh. Well … what about meeting somewhere? Like a mall? We could meet at the food court. You could buy me a smoothie.”

  “Uh, we don’t really have a mall around here.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No.”

  “Okay, then.” She thought for a moment. “I’ll have to invite you to my house. We’re having a Halloween party on Friday night. My dad is really into Halloween. We always have a big, wild party.”

  “I’d still have a problem getting there.”

  Wendy was starting to lose patience. “Come on. You must know someone who drives.” She turned herself all the way around, like her stepmother had done, and pointed to Arthur. “How about him? Your cousin. Does he drive?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Does he live near you?”

  “Sort of. He lives in Caldera.”

  Wendy blinked. I could tell she didn’t know what that meant. I asked, “Have you heard about Caldera?”

  “No.”

  I looked back at Arthur and then up at Jimmy. “It’s famous around here.”

  “Yeah? Why?”

  I lowered my voice. “Well, because it’s on fire. Seriously.”

  She looked interested.

  “Caldera used to be a strip mine,” I explained. “Then it became a landfill dump. But instead of compressing the trash, they burned it. Big mistake. The trash was sitting on top of a vein of anthracite coal, which caught fire and started to burn. For years.

  “People started noticing that their basements were feeling hotter, and smelling like sulfur. Just about everybody cleared out of there. The U.S. government condemned the houses and sent in the Army Corps of Engineers. They put most of the fire out, we think. It still flares up sometimes.”

  Wendy pointed surreptitiously to Jimmy. “But those guys still live there?”

  “Yup.”

  Wendy shook her head at the weirdness of that fact. She muttered, “People make such strange choices.” Then she didn’t say anything else. After a minute, she opened her book and started to read. I passed the time thinking up interesting things to say when we started talking again. But she just kept on reading.

  We finally exited the turnpike and began to drive down old country roads. We passed a scrapyard with more wrecked cars than I’d ever seen in my life. There must have been a thousand of them.

  We turned left and bumped along a narrow gravel road. As soon as we crested the hill, I saw a brown car ahead—an older sedan, sitting on a muddy lot. A woman got out of the car, opened an umbrella, and walked over to us. She introduced herself. “Good afternoon. I am a local volunteer for the crash site.”

  A light rain started to fall as she launched into a prepared speech.

  “United flight ninety-three came in from the north. The workers over there in the scrapyard were the last ones to see it. It flew in just forty feet over their heads, upside down, with its jet engines screaming. The plane held seven crew members and thirty-seven passengers, including four hijackers. Most of you know by now what happened.

  “The four hijackers had seized control of United ninety-three approximately thirty minutes after takeoff. The passengers and crew were able to make secret calls from the plane. They learned from their loved ones that other planes were being used as bombs in a coordinated assault against our country. So they decided to take the plane back. They charged the cockpit and overwhelmed the hijackers. They lost their lives when the plane crashed, right over there. But their brave actions prevented another devastating attack, probably against the United States Capitol. Both houses of Congress were in session in the Capitol that morning. Our entire representative democracy was gathered there.

  “And think about this: Do you know how those passengers decided what to do? They took a vote! Like in a democracy. And the vote was to take the plane back and stop whatever evil plan was unfolding.”
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br />   The woman seemed genuinely moved by the story, even though she must have told it a hundred times.

  “So people started coming out here to say thank you any way they could—by laying a wreath, or saying a prayer, or just bearing witness.”

  The woman pointed to the exact spot where the plane had crashed. It was raining pretty hard now. We could barely make out a field in the distance.

  Suddenly Jimmy growled, “I can’t see it. I can’t see anything!”

  He yanked his door open and tumbled out. He bent into the rain and started walking toward the crash site. Our hostess’s umbrella was now flapping in the wind, and she was getting soaked. She told Catherine Lyle, “He’s not allowed to go out there! No one is.”

  Catherine turned on the wipers. We all watched Jimmy push on to the edge of the field. Catherine asked, “Should I go after him?”

  Before the woman could answer, though, Jimmy stopped.

  He fell to the ground, on his knees, in the driving rain. He leaned forward slowly, until his outstretched palms and then his face were pressed against the ground. I believe he was praying.

  The woman said, “As long as he doesn’t go any farther, I guess it’s all right. If he does, though, I’ll have to call the police.” She turned her umbrella so that it covered her head, and she worked her way back to the car.

  Jimmy did not go any farther. After about five minutes, he got up, clapped some of the mud off his hands and knees, and returned to the van. He opened the door, letting a cold squall of rain blow in. He flopped back onto his seat, soaking wet. His face and the front of his jacket were streaked with mud.

  Catherine asked us, “Does anybody have a towel?”

  I thought, Why would anybody have a towel?

  She called, “Is there one in the back, Arthur?”

  Arthur twisted himself so he could see. “No. There’s no towel back here. There’s a toolbox, and some kind of lantern-flashlight thing.”

  She asked, “Mr. Giles, do you want me to stop somewhere and get you a towel?”