Dead City

by James Ponti

  It was obvious he thought I couldn’t do it, so I just played along and said, “I’ll try my best.”

  Without taking a breath he rattled off, “Four, seventy-four, eighteen, seventy-five.”

  Just as quickly I answered, “Beryllium, tungsten, argon, and rhenium.”

  His jaw fell open a bit. He was impressed, but he wasn’t going to quit so easily. “That’s good . . . but can you write out their symbols?”

  I picked up a pencil and quickly wrote the symbols: “Be” for beryllium, “W” for tungsten, “Ar” for argon, and “Re” for rhenium. When I looked down, I was surprised to see that except for one extra R, they spelled out a word: BeWArRe. “Beware!” I said, a bit louder than I had intended.

  “Very nice,” he said. “To the Omegas the numbers four, seventy-four, eighteen, seventy-five are code for ‘Beware.’”

  I thought it was a pretty cool little code.

  “Can you do it in reverse?” he asked. “What code would you use to say ‘Help’?”

  “I’d go helium, lithium, and phosphorus. That’s two, three, fifteen.”

  He shook his head. “How did you know that so quickly?” he asked. “You haven’t taken chemistry yet.”

  “My mom,” I answered. “She made me memorize the periodic table the summer she was in the hospital. She drilled me on it over and over again. I had to know all the parts, but I got fifty cents for every one I got right. The periodic table earned me fifty-nine dollars.”

  Grayson thought about this for a moment and smiled. “That explains it.”

  “What explains what?” I asked.

  “Your mom,” he answered. “She was training you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “For this,” he said as if it couldn’t be more obvious. “She was giving you a head start on your Omega training.”

  I wondered if that could possibly be true. Did my mother suspect I would end up here? If she did, some of her decisions suddenly made more sense. The Jeet Kune Do classes came in handy when Alex and I were training.

  And when we were in the field, Natalie said I had to know my way around every inch of Manhattan. I had to know which subways ran to which stations and where all the little parks were located, because they were favorite meeting spots of the undead.

  Brownies and Girl Scouts may not know the parks, but Junior Birders do. My time with the Audubon Society had taken me to every little park and green space on the island.

  I realized that Grayson was right. My mother had been preparing me for this my whole life. Maybe, just maybe, I could go from geek to Zeke.

  The last day of my training was a Saturday. Natalie and I were walking in midtown, not far from the morgue, when I found a standpoint on the sidewalk. Someone had used a stick to draw an Omega symbol into the sidewalk when the cement was still wet.

  “Standpoint,” I said.

  Natalie looked down and smiled. “I’ve never seen this one before.”

  After a second, we both said it at the same time: “Race you!”

  We stood on the standpoint and scanned the neighborhood for the indicator. It only took about forty-five seconds until I said, “Got it.”

  I gave Natalie a couple of minutes, but she couldn’t find it.

  “I don’t see it,” she said, her pride a little wounded.

  “That’s because you didn’t spend five years in Catholic school,” I explained.

  I pointed out a bakery across the street. In the corner of the window was an old New York license plate.

  “Kind of a strange place for a license plate,” I said.

  “I guess,” she replied. “Maybe it was from their first delivery truck.”

  “R-E-V-2-2-1-3,” I said, reading the plate aloud.

  “What about it?”

  “It’s a verse from the Bible. ‘REV’ is the book of Revelation, then chapter twenty-two, verse thirteen. ‘I am the Alpha and the Omega.’ Check out the name of the bakery.”

  Natalie looked at the sign above the door. “Alpha Bakery. Very nice.”

  “Thank you,” I said, trying to convey modesty but failing miserably.

  “Do you know what that means?” she asked.

  “That my teacher has done a great job showing me how to spot an indicator?”

  “Well, yes. But it also means something much more important.”

  I looked at her expectantly. “What?”

  “It means you’re ready for your final exam.”

  Killing Time

  I don’t mean to brag, but as far as training goes, I pretty much killed it. Grayson told me it normally takes six to eight weeks to finish, and I was done in four. Of course, most Omega trainees haven’t been secretly prepared for it by their zombie-hunter mothers, so I tried not to let it go to my head. Still, it was kind of cool. And if you haven’t noticed, “cool” and “my life” aren’t very well acquainted.

  The biggest advantage to finishing early was that the team wasn’t ready for my final exam. That meant, with the exception of Thursday’s fencing practice, I had a week completely free to catch up on schoolwork. And, yes, I do realize being excited about having time to catch up on schoolwork might explain why “cool” and “my life” are such strangers.

  Of course, having time to catch up and actually taking advantage of it are two totally different things. It seemed that no matter how hard I tried to focus, I could not stop thinking about my mom, the Omegas, and what my life as a zombie killer might be like. Then, after fencing practice, I did something really stupid.

  I went back to the Alpha Bakery.

  I know that Natalie told me there should be no contact unless there was an imminent need, but I needed to do something Omega based or I thought I would burst. Besides, I wasn’t actually planning on making contact. I had an excuse. It was my father’s birthday, and although there are about a hundred bakeries closer to our apartment, I needed a cake.

  Before I went in, I stopped at the standpoint to make sure I hadn’t misread the clue. I hadn’t. The only thing that could possibly refer to Omega was the license plate with the coded Bible verse. My plan was to go into the bakery, get a cake, and get out. Since the baker would never know I was an Omega, there would be no hint I had broken any rules and I would still have the thrill of making a secret connection.

  I walked in, and a bell over the door announced my arrival. The smell was delicious. A man looked up from a sheet of fresh-baked cookies.

  “Can I help you?” he asked.

  I was determined to play it cool. “I’m looking for a birthday cake . . . for my pops.” (Apparently, something in my head suggested “pops” would sound cool. It didn’t.)

  “We have a book over here with different cakes you can order,” he said. “How soon is his birthday?”

  “Today,” I said sheepishly.

  “All right,” he offered with a smile. “Let’s skip the book and see what we’ve already got made.”

  There was a display case with about eight cakes in different sizes. They all looked amazing, and I started to worry about the price. Then he gave me something much bigger to worry about.

  “So, you go to MIST.”

  I panicked. My brilliant plan relied on him not knowing I was an Omega. But somehow he had spotted me. Then I realized my mistake. He must have seen me go to the standpoint and make the ID. When I came in, he thought it was a signal that I was in trouble.

  “I’m sorry,” I stammered. “I don’t really need . . . I mean, I do need a cake, but there aren’t any . . . you know . . . zombies. I mean, undead. It’s just, I figured out the code about Revelation, and, you know Natalie, my trainer, missed it, and I’m waiting for my test and I thought . . .”

  This was when I noticed the look of absolute confusion on the man’s face. Something was terribly wrong. So I just stopped talking, as if I had reached the end of a sentence or had at least completed a coherent thought.

  He waited for a moment before asking, “What are you talking about?”

&nb
sp; I very cleverly responded with, “What are you talking about?”

  “I thought we were talking about a birthday cake.”

  I put my hands on my hips. “Then what made you ask if I went to MIST?”

  He gave me a “duh” look and pointed at my shirt. That would be the shirt that read MIST FENCING. (The shirt is actually kind of cute. On the back it says, FENCERS ARE SHARP, but that’s really not important to this part of the story.)

  “Oh,” I responded as I quickly tried to think of a way out of the situation. We’ve already established that thinking fast on my feet isn’t exactly a strength. Luckily, a rescuer came from the back room.

  “Tommy,” he said, putting a hand on the shoulder of the guy with the perplexed look still on his face, “can you help unload the boxes from the delivery truck? I’ll take care of this customer.”

  He turned to me and continued his save. “You’re looking for a birthday cake, right? With a zombie theme?”

  “Right,” I answered, relieved. “My pops is really into zombies.” (Again with the “pops.” Argghhh.)

  “Sure thing,” Tommy said as he disappeared into the back, no doubt thrilled to be away from the psycho.

  Once he was gone, the man behind the counter looked down at me and actually glowered.

  “You’re only supposed to make contact when you have an imminent need,” he reminded me. “Do you have one?”

  “I really do need a birthday cake,” I said before adding, “imminently.”

  He leaned forward with an even angrier look. “Let me rephrase that: Do you have a need worth the risk of possibly exposing the identities of two Omegas?”

  I shook my head. Then I began to worry that this might lead to actual trouble. During one of his procedures lessons, Grayson described a whole suspension process with review boards. I wasn’t even a full member yet, and I might have already blown my chance.

  “Please don’t tell anyone. I promise I won’t do it again.” I gave him my best pleading eyes, which seemed to do the trick. There was something in the way he looked at me. A recognition.

  He stared for a moment, lost in a thought as a smile slowly grew across his face. Then he put a name to that memory: “Rosemary Collins.”

  Now it was my turn to smile.

  “My mother,” I said, confirming what he already knew. “We have the same mismatched eyes.”

  “No,” he replied, shaking his head. “You have the same everything. It’s like I’m back in the eighth grade.”

  I knew I had my mother’s eyes, but to hear that we shared other features was nice. Also nice was the fact that it seemed to have changed his mood for the better.

  “You knew my mom in eighth grade?”

  “That’s when she asked me to be on her Omega Team,” he answered, a large part of his attention still pleasantly reliving the memory.

  “Did you think it was a practical joke when she asked?” I wondered. “I did when they asked me.”

  “Absolutely,” he said with a booming laugh. Then he stopped and looked more serious. “But it isn’t a joke. It’s important. And so is following the procedures and protocols.”

  “I know,” I answered. “I really am sorry. Please don’t tell.”

  “You should know better,” he replied, although less harshly than before. “How long have you been an Omega?”

  “I just finished my training,” I answered. And then, realizing I might not be able to brag about it to anybody else, I added, “It took me four weeks.”

  He did a double take, and smiled. “You completed all of your training in four weeks? You’ve got more in common with your mom than your looks.”

  This actually made me blush.

  “Now, is it really your dad’s birthday?” he asked.

  I nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Let’s get him a cake.”

  We picked out a red velvet cake with cream cheese frosting—Dad’s favorite. The baker gave me a huge discount and reminded me I should not come back unless the situation truly demanded it.

  As I headed out the door, I turned back and asked him a question. “Out of curiosity, what made you become a baker?”

  He smiled. “What do you think?”

  “Does it have something to do with the lecture on the first day of school? When everybody eats the bread?”

  He nodded. “It has everything to do with it.” Then he winked at me, and I hurried home.

  Beth was not pleased that I was forty minutes late, but her mood brightened considerably when she saw the killer cake.

  She was hard at work at the stove and waved a wooden spoon toward a cutting board on the counter. “Start chopping mushrooms.”

  We were making beef Stroganoff, which is kind of an inside joke in our family. My mom had many talents, but cooking was not one of them. Baking she could do, but actual meals, not so much. Dad has always run the kitchen, which is great because part of his job as a paramedic is taking turns cooking for the other guys in the station house. He’s an awesome cook.

  One year he even won a contest for the entire New York City Fire Department and was asked to do a cooking demonstration on a local morning TV show. Beth and I got to skip school and go to the studio. It was a big thrill. As he was cooking, the host of the show asked him if there was anything he couldn’t make, and Dad joked that he knew how to make everything but beef Stroganoff.

  Mom latched on to this in the way that only she could. She decided that she would master beef Stroganoff and make it her one specialty. She researched online, consulted friends, and even took a class at a cooking school, just to learn that one recipe so she could surprise my dad on his birthday. Of course, it never occurred to her that the reason Dad didn’t make beef Stroganoff was because he didn’t like it. And, of course, it never occurred to Dad to tell Mom. So every year, on his birthday, she pretended to be a gourmet chef and he pretended to like beef Stroganoff.

  We’ve offered to make him something he actually likes, but he insists, so that’s what we make.

  He also insists that for his birthday, there are no friends or relatives, no Internet or phone calls—just the three of us and the Stroganoff.

  The deluxe cake, though, was a welcome addition. Before he blew out the candles, he closed his eyes to make a wish. Then he turned to the living room to see if it had come true.

  “Drat,” he said. (Only Dad still uses a term like “drat.”)

  “What did you wish for?” I asked.

  “Mrs. Papadakis and the Leather Bags . . . in their bathing suits.”

  Even my sister laughed at that one.

  We had a great evening, talking, laughing, and just being goofy. And because of his no-phones-or-Internet rule, I didn’t get the message from Natalie until the next morning.

  In typical Natalie fashion, the message wasn’t chatty. There was just an address, a time, and two words in all capital letters: FINAL EXAM.

  If You’ve Ever Wanted to Know a Good Place to Meet Zombies . . .

  Just as I’d suspected, Natalie’s building had a doorman. His maroon jacket and cap had gold braid that matched the stripe down each side of his pants. His name tag said “Hector” and his smile said that he had no idea he was giving me such bad news.

  “What was that?” I asked with a gulp, hoping that I’d misheard him.

  “They’re waiting for you in apartment 12-B,” he repeated. “You can take the elevator to your left.” Unfortunately, that’s exactly what I’d heard the first time too.

  “Thanks,” I mumbled as I began my walk of doom toward the elevator.

  I hadn’t even thought to ask Natalie what floor she lived on. The message had her address and said to be there Saturday at four o’clock. I’d assumed we were going to meet in the lobby and go somewhere for my final exam. Now Hector was telling me the meeting was a full nine floors above my normal limit.

  My knees got weak just thinking about it.

  Confession time: While I wasn’t lying when I said I’d killed it during trainin
g, I may have glossed over the fact that my fear of heights had been a major problem. That’s because sometimes the only way to escape the undead is to go up into buildings high enough that the Manhattan schist no longer gives them power. That usually means about ten to fifteen floors. My instinct to do everything but go up was something I’d have to conquer. I knew this.

  I just didn’t know I’d have to conquer it so soon.

  But I realized that as much as I dreaded it, there was no way I could possibly pass my final exam without actually going to Natalie’s apartment to take it. So I got on the elevator, pressed the button for twelve, and held my breath.

  I eventually made it to 12-B. Alex opened the door, greeting me with a big smile. “Come on in,” he said. Then he called out to an unseen room, “She passed the first part!”

  “What was the first part?” I asked.

  “We weren’t sure you’d make it up this high.”

  “I’m still not sure,” I answered, only half joking. “Either you’re wearing makeup or it’s actually affecting my vision.”

  “No, your vision’s fine,” he said with a laugh. “I am wearing makeup. It’s part of the test,” he added cryptically.

  Before I could begin to figure out what that meant, he led me through an apartment that was so amazing, I almost forgot my fears. There was a music room with a grand piano and cello, and a library with overstuffed chairs and floor-to-ceiling bookcases. The living room even had a wall of windows with a balcony that overlooked Central Park.

  “Crazy, isn’t it?” he said, shaking his head and pointing at the balcony. “It’s like something out of a movie.”

  “Yeah,” I answered as I stepped back to avoid the dizzying view. “A horror movie.”

  We reached a large bathroom with side-by-side sinks. Natalie was leaning over one to check the mirror as she carefully applied eye shadow. Grayson was at the other, rinsing his mouth with some orange liquid. The fact that all four of us fit comfortably in the bathroom is a pretty good sign it was nothing like our place in Queens.

  “Look who made it,” Alex announced as we walked in.