Generation Dead

by Daniel Waters

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  "I wish I'd gotten some sleep last night." That's all I need, she thought. My mind's playing tricks on me.

  "I slept pretty well, surprisingly," he said. "That violent lifestyle I have, always punching guys, living or dead. Gives me inner peace, you know?"

  "You're a jerk, Adam," she said, but when her eyes met his, she burst out into a nervous laugh.

  She wanted to catch a quick nap in the warm, safe confines of Adam's truck, but when she opened her eyes again, Oakvale High loomed ahead, ready to admit the students coming off the few buses parked in the looping drive. Adam found a space in the student lot, and they started toward the school.

  They approached just as Tommy Williams was getting off the bus. He was wearing new jeans, new high-top sneakers, and a navy blue polo shirt.

  "He doesn't look like a guy who took a beating last night," Adam whispered.

  "No," Phoebe agreed. She thought he looked good. Flawless.

  Tommy saw them and tried to smile. Then he waved, and suddenly Phoebe did not feel so tired anymore.

  Margi, who didn't have any of Adam's social grace or understanding, began badgering Phoebe the moment she saw her.

  "What's wrong, Pheeb? Ohmigod, you look terrible."

  "Thanks, Margi. I can always count on you to help build my flagging self-esteem." Phoebe laughed.

  "No, really," she said, her bangle-covered arm looping around Phoebe's shoulder. "What's wrong? Did something happen?"

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  "Yeah, something happened," Phoebe said, almost instantly-regretting her words. "What? What is it?"

  "Nothing." Phoebe tried to play it off. "I'm just kidding." Her locker popped on the first try, and Phoebe wondered if her luck was changing.

  "Phoebe, talk to me. Did you have a fight with your parents? With Adam? Did he ask you out?"

  Phoebe, having been interrogated by Margi dozens of times, knew that eventually she would build up to "the dead kid."

  "Colette," Phoebe said. "I saw Colette last night."

  Phoebe's strategy worked; she found the only topic on which she could get Margi to shut up completely, and she didn't even have to lie to do it. Margi's eyes narrowed under the fringe of pink spikes dangling from her forehead.

  "We need to talk to her, Margi."

  Margi sucked at the corner of her lip, the same corner she'd pierced last summer.

  "You couldn't have saved her," Phoebe said. "It isn't your fault she died. It's nobody's fault."

  Margi looked away, fellow students passing on either side of them in a rush to get to class.

  "We didn't handle it right," Phoebe said.

  "I know," Margi said finally, "I know."

  "But we have another chance. We can ...."

  "I know," Margi said, her voice rising. "I know, I know, I know! I just can't do it now!"

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  She turned on her heels and jingled down the hall at a rapid clip.

  Phoebe watched her go, wondering just why she'd felt the need to alienate all of her good friends in a single morning. "Wait up, Margi!" she called, hurrying to catch up.

  "Not another word," Margi said.

  "My lips are sealed," Phoebe responded, following her into the classroom.

  Moments later Principal Kim's reassuring voice came on the PA after the morning announcements to let everyone know that there would be a schoolwide assembly immediately after homeroom, and that students were to proceed in an orderly fashion to the auditorium.

  Margi, never one to enjoy silence, reached over and gripped Phoebe's forearm. She had pink smiley skulls painted over the black background of her fingernails.

  "Yes! No history today!"

  Phoebe returned her smile. Margi was always quick to bounce back from a tiff, which was a great equalizer for someone as excitable as she was. The bell rang, and they started to proceed toward the auditorium. The halls were already filled with students. Phoebe saw the pumpkin-like head of TC Stavis bobbing above a sea of students. The auditorium was twice the size it needed to be for the average enrollment at Oakvale High; she and Margi were herded into a pair of seats toward the middle of the cavernous half bowl.

  "Slide all the way down," Mr. Allen said in his monotone. "Fill every open seat."

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  Phoebe noticed that there were some open seats around the few dead kids who were scattered around the auditorium.

  "Is this about the fund-raiser?" Margi said. "I hope it isn't the fund-raiser. If it is, I hope it isn't the candles. Who wants to buy a candle anyway? For fifteen dollars?"

  Phoebe didn't think this was about candles. She watched Principal Kim, looking bright and energetic in a peach suit, lead two people onto the stage--the first a young woman in a pale blue suit. Her shiny blond hair was pulled back in an unassuming ponytail, and she wore glasses with dark frames and wide lenses. She was simply stunning.

  She stopped at the edge of the stage to help her companion, a frail old man who held her arm while being assisted on the other side by Mr. Hill, the gym teacher. Phoebe was terrible at guessing anyone's age over twenty, but she had him pegged as being in his eighties. He turned briefly to the crowd while making slow progress up the short stairway, and Phoebe thought there was something familiar in the beaked nose and shock of sculpted white hair.

  "Who's the codger?" Margi asked.

  Phoebe, not quite able to place his face, shook her head.

  Principal Kim quelled the crowd and made introductions.

  "Today we are joined by two people who have dedicated their lives to promoting and educating people on the topic of diversity. Prior to the events of recent years, the term 'diversity' had been most typically used to describe a diversity of culture, religion, ethnicity, or sexual orientation. Today the term may also be applied to diverse states of being. Alish Hunter and his

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  daughter Angela have created the Hunter Foundation for the Advancement and Understanding of Differently Biotic Persons, and are here today to discuss an exciting new opportunity that you will have here at Oakvale High. Please join me in welcoming Angela Hunter to the podium."

  The applause was halfhearted, but rose in volume when the hormonal males in the audience realized how gorgeous Angela Hunter was. With her intentionally bookish look, Phoebe thought she looked like a youthful teacher in an eighties hair-metal video, the one who would rip off the trappings of schoolmarmery as soon as the guitar solo kicked in, to reveal a hot-pink bikini and stunning tanned body beneath. Ms. Hunter smiled with pursed lips, almost a smirk, which made Phoebe think that she had calculated the crowd's reaction exactly.

  "Thank you, Principal Kim," she said. "And thank you, students of Oakvale High, for your attention and the opportunity to speak to you today about differently biotic people. The people that we at the Hunter Foundation refer to as differently biotic are those people that most of you would refer to as living impaired . They are the people that some of you, and many outside the walls of this school, would refer to as zombies , corpsicles , dead heads , the undead, worm food , shamblers , the living dead , the Children of Romero , and a whole host of other pejorative names designed to hurt and marginalize."

  "Wow," Margi whispered. Whatever hormonal restlessness Ms. Hunter had inspired in the auditorium was silenced by the quick, no-nonsense manner in which she had lobbed a mental hand grenade into the room. Virtually every student, Phoebe

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  noted, was as silent as--well, as silent as a differently biotic person.

  "We at the Hunter Foundation feel that even the term living impaired , although created I'm sure with the best of intentions, is in fact pejorative, as it implies that people who are no longer alive but still with us are broken and or defective. In much the same way that the term handicapped was widely recognized as being insulting to differently abled persons, so too is living impaired an insult to those who live differently biotic lives.

  "At the Hunter Foundation, we do not believe that the dialogue regarding the understa
nding and promotion of differently biotic persons begins and ends with its terms and definitions, however. It is one thing to create the appropriate language of discourse; it is another to actually move the culture to a point of acceptance, and we believe that the correct way to do that is through the application of science, both with traditionally hard science and the social sciences."

  "Whaaaaat?" Margi said. Phoebe shushed her.

  "We believe that differently biotic persons are, in fact, alive--and yet no one knows how they are alive. Part of what we do at the Hunter Foundation is aimed at discovering what makes a differently biotic person tick, for lack of a better term, from a biological perspective. But another part of what we do is discovering what makes them tick from a psychological perspective. Being differently biotic puts these people in a very small cultural group. They are a true minority--and the minority status is one that is sure to have deep psychological implications."

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  Head shrinkers for the undead set, Phoebe thought.

  "Another function of our foundation--and the one in which you can help us the most--is to take the results of our studies and tests and bring them to society at large. Our goal is the complete integration of differently biotic persons into society. We dream of a world where a differently biotic person can walk down a crowded city street without fear. We understand that for our dream to become a reality, everyone else on that crowded city street must be able to walk without fear of the differently biotic person, as well. To that end, we are asking for volunteers among you to participate in our learning lab. Your school is unique among Connecticut schools in that you have the highest ratio per capita of differently biotic persons among you; therefore you have both the responsibility and the privilege of helping teach the rest of the country and the world about what DB people have to offer, and vice versa.

  "What we are offering is a chance to learn about yourselves and those who are different from you. The Hunter Foundation, while economically solid, is not an organization that many members of the status quo want to participate in. The topic of DB rights is still politically incendiary. We understand that for someone to join us requires a certain degree of bravery and emotional fortitude. But for those of you who are interested in making a positive social statement, at the risk of attacking the norms of society, working with us can be a deeply rewarding experience.

  "We have some friends in the political realm, and we have been able to get our Differently Biotic Work Study program

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  accreditation. For those of you who sign up, you will be given three AP credits, providing you give your full and best effort to the program."

  She waited a moment for that to sink in. Phoebe wondered if AP credits were enough of a carrot to interest anyone. Many of the students in the audience were clearly put off by the whole topic, and she looked around to see if any of the differently biotic students had any feelings about the proposed course.

  "There are two components of the work study. First, you will have to work. We have a variety of positions that we need to staff: clerical, maintenance, and security. You will be paid for your time. The second component is that you must participate in a weekly DB focus group, where traditionally biotic students will meet in a moderated discussion with DB students. The goal at all times will be acceptance; we understand the road to acceptance can only be taken through mutual understanding."

  She paused, basking in the stillness of the room. "Are there any questions?"

  Very few hands went up. Angela pointed at one toward the front.

  "What do you mean by 'differently biotic'? Are you saying that dead kids are alive?"

  Phoebe couldn't see the girl who had asked the question, but she could see Ms. Hunter's wry grin.

  "No," she said, "I am saying they are differently biotic--that they are alive in a different way than, say, you and a mushroom are alive." Phoebe smiled; the smarter kids in the school laughed.

  "In truth, we do not understand the biology of a DB

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  person. It is one of the fields that our foundation is endeavoring to explore."

  "Why do only teenagers come back as zomb--as differently bionic?"

  " Biotic . We don't know yet; nor do we know why the phenomenon seems to happen only to American children. But surely there is a clue there; a popular theory is that there is something that triggers the process in the series of immunizations that American children undergo."

  Ms. Hunter nodded to a girl on the aisle near the front of the room.

  "My dad says that it isn't natural, people coming back from the dead. He says that there's stuff in the Bible that talks about the dead coming up out of their graves, and that it means the world will end soon."

  Ms. Hunter frowned, but Phoebe thought her expression was one of concentration rather than disgust.

  "With all due respect to your father's beliefs," she replied evenly, "we have found nothing in our extensive studies that suggests the phenomena of the differently biotic is a sign of the Apocalypse. Of course, we could be wrong, but we prefer to look at the phenomenon as a scientific puzzle to be answered rather than a metaphysical conundrum."

  There was a thin pale arm among the few that were raised, and when Ms. Hunter smiled and pointed, the question was slow in coming. Phoebe could hear Margi's sharp intake of breath next to her.

  Colette.

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  "Can ...dead ...kids ...join ...too?"

  Phoebe thought she could write all of Colette's post-demise speech on a single Post-it note.

  Angela's response was effusive. "Absolutely. As I said, Oakvale High has the distinction of being the first school in the state to commit to creating a DB studies program. I think the experience will be more rewarding for everyone if we get a strong DB enrollment."

  She focused on Colette as she spoke, as though the warmth of her smile could bring some color back to her pale dead skin.

  "I believe we have time for one more question ...Yes, in the blue sweatshirt."

  "How much do you pay?"

  Ms. Hunter laughed. "You could probably make more at the mall. But the educational work study is certain to look better on your college application than a part-time gig at Cinnabon."

  Principal Kim rejoined Angela at the podium. She waited for the polite laughter to end, then she said, "Thank you all for giving us the chance to talk to you today. I am hoping to see a good number of you at the foundation."

  Principal Kim began clapping and allowed the students to clap for a few listless minutes before talking about how the application process would work, what the qualifications were, and how many would be accepted.

  "Applications can be picked up at the front of the stage from myself or Ms. Hunter, or, if you prefer, in the office. The applications are due on Friday."

  "Well, that was still better than history," Margi said. "Too

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  bad it didn't cut into English. Phoebe ...where are you going?"

  Phoebe looked back but remained silent as she joined the few differently biotic kids walking against the tide of students eager to make their way out of the auditorium. She saw Tommy, Colette, that boy Evan who was in the woods last night, and a few others. Adam was waiting at the end of an aisle.

  "Are you going to sign up?" she asked him.

  "Yep. You?"

  "Uh-huh."

  There weren't many takers, but that fact didn't seem to drain any of the warmth from Angela Hunter's smile as she handed Phoebe an application, which looked to be three grayish sheets stapled together.

  "Could I have two?" she asked. "I'm hoping I can convince my friend to join with me."

  "Have a whole stack," Ms. Hunter said, peeling off copies. "I don't think I'll need them all."

  Phoebe passed Colette on her way back, and Colette seemed to see her for the first time since her death.

  Phoebe thought she was trying to smile.

  Pete Martinsburg wasn't smiling. He had sat through the entire assembly staring
up at the hot blonde.

  He hadn't slept well since the debacle in the forest. When he did sleep, his dreams were of Julie, but not the Julie of puppy love, ice-cream cones, and being thirteen. This was dead Julie, returned to the world. He dreamed of Julie holding

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  hands, but it wasn't his hand she was holding, it was Tommy Williams.

  She might not come back , this nightmare-Tommy told him. But in the dream it was Pete who moved at half speed; nightmare-Tommy was quick in getting to his car, the one Pete had driven around all summer. The one Pete had never sat in with his father.

  Now you know what it is like ... he heard the cold, hollow voice in his head say as the zombie brought the car to life ... to be dead .

  The car lurched into hyperdrive, accelerating as it approached a brick wall that had grown from the asphalt. The car struck the wall as a yellow blur that blossomed into an explosive flame, and Pete awoke with the sound of Julie's screams and the dead boy's laughter ringing in his head.

  But of course Julie, the real Julie and not the ashen, flat-eyed Julie who walked his dreams, had not been able to scream. Good old Dad had broken the news ever so gently in his classic style, over the phone with a continent separating him from his son. He'd called at Christmastime. It was right after Pete had tried to tell him what a football hero he'd been that season, how many tackles he'd made, how many interceptions he'd caught for the Badgers.

  "Oh hey, Pete," his dad had said. Pete could remember the conversation in exact detail, the way he could recall all of the conversations he'd had with his father since he'd left them."Hey, you remember that girl Julie you played with over the summer?"

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  Played with , as though they would be playing hide-and-seek.

  "Marissa's daughter? Remember Marissa, that woman I used to date?"

  Pete remembered, with growing dread. No news was the only good news Dad was capable of providing.

  "Well, her daughter, Julie, died about two weeks after you went back home to your mother. Helluva thing. She had a massive asthma attack. They said it was triggered by a spider bite or something."