The only cool thing about the Arts Complex is the roof, which you can access from stairs on the third floor. Last spring, the Horticulture Club made a super-nice rooftop garden up there. Too bad they didn’t grow one this year. I haven’t eaten anything since last night’s burritos, and I could totally go for a salad. My stomach growls as we walk through the empty halls.
The voices stay quiet, but that doesn’t stop me from pausing at each window on the second floor, checking the school grounds from different angles. No monsters in the breezeway between buildings. Nothing near the flagpole. Parking lot’s still empty—except for my car. No undead people behind the dumpsters.
“See any of them?” Deke asks.
“No, I think we’re okay for now—while it’s light,” I say. I hope I’m right. What if I’m not? What if zombies are hiding nearby, plotting how they’ll—
Hol-y crap.
We turn the last corner toward the auditorium, and there, sitting in the midst of a group of kids, is the ONLY thing in the world that could distract me from zombies.
Liam.
I’m astounded to see him. And discombobulated by his utter hotness. And overjoyed he’s un-zombified. I wonder if anyone will notice if I sit on the floor and hyperventilate for a few minutes.
“Oh. My. God.” I whisper, clutching Deke’s arm.
Following the line of my gaze, Deke gives one of his trademark sarcastic sighs.
I’ve liked Liam forever. Well, almost forever. At least, since sixth grade, when he moved here from Atlanta. I had pre-algebra with him that year, and he sat two rows to the left of me. When I turned my body slightly, stretching my legs in the aisle between desks, I could watch him out of the corner of my eye. I didn’t make very good math grades that year.
Liam might’ve noticed me one time when our teacher tripped over my outstretched ankles. I got detention, but it was so worth it.
When we started high school, we both joined the school newspaper’s staff. I found out he’s not only gorgeous, but incredibly smart. He speaks like he’s straight out of a classic novel or something. And now, here he is in the hallway. Waiting out the zompocalypse with the rest of us mortals.
I should not be in a “drooling over a guy” state of mind. After all, I’ve spent my morning being chased by the undead—running them over with my car and stuff. Still, when I catch sight of Liam, I can’t stop the heat spreading across my face. It doesn’t help that everyone else in the hall looks like survivors of Armageddon, while Liam looks like a model from a Burberry ad.
He sits on the linoleum floor, leaning his lanky frame against the wall. His expensive jeans fit in all the right places, and the sleeves of his black sweater are pushed up to reveal toned forearms. He’s always pale, but today, he seems positively chalky. Only Liam can make chalky look good. His pallid skin contrasts perfectly with his tousled dark hair. And green eyes. Emerald green eyes.
Liam is simply the hottest sophomore on the planet.
I recognize other kids in the hallway. Quentin from French class. Veronica, the nerd girl from homeroom who always wears her hair in two perfect braids. A couple of cheerleaders with the same lunch period as me, popular girls I’ve never spoken to before.
But Liam and I are on the newspaper staff together, and I guess that counts for something. He nods once in my direction and my heart literally stops. I let go of Deke’s arm, and walk trancelike toward Liam, sinking down on the carpet beside him.
“S’up?” he asks.
My voice rattles when I answer. “N-not much. You know, reanimated corpses chasing me on a cruise ship. Same old.”
He gives me a weak smile. Usually, when Liam smiles, you can see his dimples. But not today. This is so fricking surreal. We could be sitting in the hall, waiting for class to begin on a regular school day. Except Liam doesn’t sit with me. Ever.
He takes a deep breath and it sounds sorta shaky. This surprises me. I suddenly remember a human being lives inside this glorious shell of a body.
“Are you okay?” I ask, facing him.
“I don’t know where my mom is.” He focuses on his hands in his lap. “She’s not answering her phone.”
Liam’s mom works for the FBI or CIA or something like that. She goes to DC a lot for her job. I’m not exactly sure what she does, but when she’s in town, she picks up Liam from school in a newish Mercedes convertible. I’m guessing she makes mega-bucks.
“I was home with my stepfather when some sick people attacked.”
I’m silent. Liam fiddles with one of his silver rings. His fingers tremble.
“They got my stepdad.”
“Oh, Liam. I’m so sorry.”
I don’t need to say more. I guess Liam witnessed his stepfather changing into a member of the walking dead.
Liam shrugs, trying for his typical tough-guy nonchalance. “It’s okay. My stepdad was an ignoramus anyway.”
Any other high schooler would call his dad a butthead or a jackass or worse. Only Liam uses terms like “ignoramus.” This is why he’s the best writer on our newspaper.
“You know,” I reason, grasping for something to say, “somebody might invent a cure for this virus. A medicine to return everyone to normal—an antidote or antivenom or whatever. Your stepdad could be fine. You know, back to his old ignoramus self within a few days.”
Liam nods.
“And you were lucky they didn’t bite you,” I add.
He continues staring at his ring. “I just wish I could talk to my mom.”
“Keep trying. Call her. Text her. Don’t give up. I missed my dad’s text while a zombie was plastered to my windshield. Your mom might be, um, busy.”
“Okay, I’ll try, but…” He sucks in a deep breath. For a sec, I wonder if he’s gonna punch the wall or something. I can tell he’s on the verge of breaking down. After a few tense heartbeats, he stands abruptly and walks down the hall. I don’t even consider following him. Girls like company when they’re upset. Boys don’t.
I wait another ten minutes or so, watching students gather near the doors and listening to them talk in low voices. I sit by myself, feeling very alone. I’ve never been good at this kind of thing—making friends with people I don’t know. Strangers tend to stare at my bizarre eyes like I’m some kind of freak.
Ha. If they found out about my voices, they’d know for sure I’m a freak.
At least high school’s been better than middle school. Back then, kids gave me a really hard time about my eyes. When my dad finally relented and let me get contacts, I had the world’s worst allergic reaction—overnight, my eyes went from iridescent silver to iridescent red. The other kids called me Lord Voldemort for months. I wouldn’t have survived middle school without Deke, Phoebe, and my well-defined sense of sarcasm.
Phoebe. A dull, hollow ache spreads through my ribcage reminding me that I have no clue where she is. Every time another person rounds the corner, I glance up hopefully, half-expecting to see her bubblegum-pink hair. It’s never her.
I’m almost lonely enough to wish Deke would sit with me. A younger boy—around six or seven—has Deke cornered, pestering him for details about the cruise ship. I recognize the kid. He’s our journalism teacher’s son, Bo. He hangs out at our school sometimes when his mom works late.
“So how many of them did you crack in the skull?” Bo asks in one of those unnaturally loud voices that only little kids can get away with. His head barely reaches Deke’s elbow.
“Not sure,” Deke answers. He’s trying to sound humble, but I know Deke—he’s probably dying to brag about his new zombie batting average.
“More than thirty?” Bo asks.
“Maybe closer to fifty.”
I can’t help but smile. I knew Deke would keep count.
The boy’s jaw drops open. “Fifty?” he shouts. “Whoa, dude! You’re like the…the… Zombie Slayer!”
“Zombie Slayer?” Deke pats Bo on his close-cropped, white-blond hair. “That sounds like the name of a bad slasher movie.”<
br />
While I’m laughing to myself, a goth kid tries to get a drink from the water fountain next to me. He’s decked out in a gazillion piercings and steel-toed work boots. The boots are fluorescent purple. He’s also carrying a large, red fire ax.
He jabs at the fountain’s metal button a few times, but nothing comes from the water spigot.
“Still ain’t workin’,” Quentin from French class yells over to him. “Ain’t none of ’em workin.”
Goth Boy swears and slumps on the other side of the hall, carefully laying his red ax along the carpet.
“You new?” he asks, giving me the stink-eye.
I gulp. “Yeah. Just got here, like, half an hour ago.”
He stretches his legs into the hallway. “You’re Deke Greenberg’s girlfriend, right?”
I squirm, repositioning myself on the carpet. “Er, no.”
He arches his pierced eyebrows in a disbelieving look.
Dang, I really gotta stop spending so much time with Deke.
“I’m Donna,” I tell Goth Boy, not really knowing what else to say. “Donna Pierce.”
He leans toward me, holding out a hand, the nails covered in deep black polish. “Stanley.”
I expected a nickname like “Crusher” or “Raven” or “Edgar Allen Poe.” Stanley doesn’t seem to fit.
“What’s up with the water fountains?” I ask, releasing his hand. “Why aren’t they working?”
Quentin hears us and walks closer, hitching up his extra-baggy pants. A few years back, Quentin decided he wanted to be a rapper. He started talking weird—like he was trying to sound street or gangsta or something. He even asked everyone to call him Q-dog, but it didn’t seem to stick.
“Somethin’ wrong with them fountains.” Quentin shakes his head, making his stringy, blond hair fall into his eyes. “No water in the building, I guess.”
“The whole building?”
“They quit working yesterday morning,” Goth Boy says. He pulls a bandana from his pocket and cleans something off his ax. Possibly blood.
Quentin seems unconcerned about the water issue. “No big,” he says, dropping to the floor beside me. “We still got soda in the machines. And we got power. We’ll be fine.”
Quentin is one of those annoyingly upbeat people, you know, the kind who never gets in a bad mood. Still, his optimism seems out of place during an apocalypse. Especially an apocalypse where no one can flush a toilet.
“Uh, Quentin,” I eye him critically, “you seem, like, extra-super-duper happy. You’re not catching that post-traumatic stress stuff, are you?”
“Nah, nothin’ like that.” He shoots me a big grin, showing all his bright, white teeth. “I was supposed to get braces after Thanksgiving. See, I already got the spacers. And dang, girl, those babies hurt when they put them in.” He laughs. “Now, I don’t have to go to the orthodontist no more. So I’m fine with this whole worldwide-plague thing.”
He leans closer, so Stanley and the other kids can’t hear, “Also, I think my parents is safe. They went to visit my sister in Bermuda for Thanksgiving. They’d be okay on an island, right?”
I nod. “Makes sense.”
I don’t tell Quentin that the virus might spread on a tiny, isolated island in the same way it spread on our tiny, isolated cruise ship.
“I ain’t gonna say no more about my parents.” Quentin shakes his head. “Some kids, they can’t find they families. Been a rough couple of nights.”
I nod again, realizing most of the students in this building don’t know what happened to their parents. Or, in some cases, like Liam’s stepfather, the kids know exactly what happened to their parents. Either way—not a topic I’m going to bring up.
The theatre’s double doors bang open, letting a cloud of stale, dusty air into the hall. When I stand, I can see Gretchen through the doorframe—waiting center stage, surrounded by hundreds of empty plastic chairs. One of the spotlights has been aimed directly at her golden curls.
“Is Gretchen gonna have one of these meetings every damn day?” Quentin asks Stanley.
“Hope not,” Stanley answers, shouldering his ax. “Never considered myself the student council type.”
I file in behind them, joining Deke in the back of the auditorium. He stands in the shadows, away from the spotlight, his arms folded across his chest. Sometimes I forget how tall he’s grown. For so many years, he was on the short side. Now he towers at least a foot over the top of my head, and all that dark, spiky hair just accentuates the difference.
“Five, six, seven…” he whispers as kids come through the door.
“What are you counting?”
“Shhh. The number of people we have to rescue. Eight, nine…”
I do a double take before I find my voice. “You’ve got to be kidding. I’m only rescuing one person. Me.”
He opens his mouth to argue, but Gretchen starts shushing everyone. Her stance reminds me of a teacher trying to quiet a room full of rowdy kindergartners. She doesn’t speak until we’re 100 percent silent.
Deke and I take seats in the back of the auditorium, even though the room is practically empty. He stretches his long legs under the row ahead of us.
“Is this it?” I whisper, studying the handful of kids in the cavernous room. “We should meet in a classroom, not here.”
Deke waves at me to be quiet.
“We held our first meeting yesterday.” Gretchen projects her voice like she’s addressing a crowd of hundreds. “But since we’ve had two new arrivals, we’ll need to recap.” I can tell by her tone, she’s not thrilled. She gives me a pointed frown. I bet she wishes zombies had gotten me.
“First, let me tell you about myself. My name is Gretchen Moore, and I’m the sophomore class president here at Sacagawea High School.” I groan inwardly. I don’t want to hear Gretchen’s resume. I want to know if zombies are going to break down the doors of this building and eat me. She drones on for five minutes about her leadership experience—like being class president of a high school makes her capable of handling a zombie world takeover. As if.
While she prattles away, I become sleepy, like I do during science class. I snap awake as the auditorium door opens with a loud Clack. Everyone jumps.
It’s Liam, coming into the theatre late. There are a dozen empty seats near the door, but he makes his way down the aisle to sit beside me. His eyes are a little red. I try to come up with something to say. “Hi” would probably work, but my mouth goes dry, and I stare at my sneakers. Jeez, he must think I am The. Biggest. Dork.
He leans in and whispers in a husky voice, “It worked. I just talked to my mom.”
I spin toward him, delight spreading across my face. I’m so relieved for him, I forget to be shy.
“She’s hiding in some government bunker,” he explains.
“Yay!” We fist bump. I’ve never touched Liam before and my hands tingle from the contact.
Gretchen clears her throat, and I realize everyone in the auditorium just watched us do our happy dance. I shift back in my chair and pretend to pay attention, as she resumes her monologue. Beside me, Deke crosses his arms and stares straight ahead, like Gretchen’s the most fascinating person on the planet.
“So, day before yesterday,” she says, curls bobbing, “during extracurriculars, the football coach manifested symptoms of the Bleek-Burns virus.”
Liam tilts his head close to mine. “In other words, he bit the crap out of everyone.”
Oh. My. God. Liam just whispered to me. To me. Like we’re friends or something.
Gretchen continues, “The contagion spread among students participating in outdoor activities. This included the football team, soccer team, cheerleading squad, and that group of kids who sit by the dumpster to smoke. The adults—our club advisors—rushed outside to help. None of them made it back.
“We immediately locked and chained the main set of doors. We called the police, but the officers were bitten when they tried to subdue our attackers. After a few hours, Veroni
ca” she gestures at the freckled, dark-haired girl in the front row, “and other members of her Robotics Club, connected electricity to the main entrance. Now, anyone who touches the metal doorframes receives a severe electrical shock.”
In the front row, Veronica makes a loud bzzzzt noise that reminds me of a bug zapper. Immediately, three or four other kids from the robotics dork brigade start going bzzzzt, bzzzzt.
I elbow Deke. “How come you never joined that club? You’d fit right in.”
Deke smiles briefly, but keeps his eyes locked on Gretchen.
Liam shifts closer. “Actually, it’s a good thing Veronica’s here. That door invention works great.”
I know Veronica, but only slightly. I interviewed her for the paper when she organized the Robotics Club. She’s wicked smart, but looks way too young to be in high school. The pigtail braids and Coke-bottle glasses don’t help much. Freshman year, some of the girls on the soccer team got in trouble for bullying Veronica about her size. She’s probably hoping some of the zombie soccer players will try to open the main doors. Bzzzzt.
Gretchen continues, “Last night, we lost most traditional sources of information. No TV. No Internet. Some cell phones still work. If you’ve got a phone, try calling everyone you know. We may get lucky and band together with another local group. Let’s take that old adage to heart, and remember—strength and safety in numbers.”
Sheesh. Could she be any cheesier?
“That’s not true,” I say under my breath. “A large group of tasty humans might be a stronger magnet for zombies. I mean, if I were a zombie, I’d prefer an all-you-can-eat buffet over a light snack.”
Liam sniggers again. Liam thinks I’m funny. Well, okay then.
Deke continues to ignore me.
“Quiet back there, please.” Gretchen glares in my direction. “If you can’t listen politely, you’ll have to wait in the hall.”
“Whatever,” I mutter.
Down in the front row, Goth Boy Stanley raises his hand. Gretchen points at him. “Yessir?”
“What if the sick people try to break in? Some of us have weapons, but don’t we need more? How are we gonna defend ourselves?”
Donna of the Dead Page 6
