by Seth Fishman
“One day,” he replies, frowning defensively, “someone will want these pictures.”
He’s probably right. I think of the hazmat suits and the gates slamming shut and the sirens. I think of the parents cut off from their kids. Someone will want to know what’s going on. Someone will have to find out.
5
THE RUMORS OOZE THEIR WAY THROUGH THE WALLS and into every student’s ears:
There are soldiers around the school, and they’ll kill anyone who leaves campus.
We are being held hostage for ransom, for our parents’ money.
A nuclear reactor melted down in a secret facility, and we’re all going to die of radiation poisoning.
No one knows there’s anything wrong—no one in town, not our parents. We are alone.
Some rumors are probably entirely false; some undoubtedly true. Either way, we’re all on our last nerves. The dorms feel like prison, and it’s not hard to imagine every person you know sitting on their bed, staring at the cracks in the wall.
The faculty is fairly conspicuous in their absence. The RAs are patrolling the floors, making sure everyone stays in their dorms, but they’re just overwhelmed seniors. We haven’t seen a teacher in hours, and there hasn’t been an announcement on the PA system for longer than that. The last one was a frantic plea by the dean imploring us to stay indoors. I wonder if Mrs. Applebaum is okay, if the dean was so frantic because he was concerned about his stalwart secretary.
Amber, the ever-initiative-taking class president, apparently snuck up onto the roof of the dorm and reported to everyone that there’s a ring of soldiers surrounding the school, and yes, they are in hazmat suits. She said she couldn’t make out any roadblocks near the town, but it was hard to be sure. Westbrook is its own estate by design, hidden from Fenton and the rest of the world. Dad said the sirens didn’t go off in town. Maybe the rumors are true.
Jo, Rob and I sit together, saying very little. There’s a good view out the window, and we take turns staring across the field. It’s dark, the school strafed in the light of hundreds of lampposts, and I’m in the perch now, watching for glimpses of the soldiers through the gate and along the walls. I’ve never felt this helpless before. Sometimes I even find myself tearing up, but mainly because I don’t know what to do. It’s like trying to thread a needle or solve a Rubik’s Cube or some other doable but frustratingly difficult thing where I must clench my fists and hold my anxiety in. I wonder if Dad’s arguing with the soldiers, trying to get through, trying to get me out. I draw trees in the fog on the window. I keep forgetting that my phone has no service and picking it up to check for messages. Jo’s taking it all much better than I am. Todd’s in another dorm, but he promised to sneak over whenever he could, and she seems content to wait. She flicks on old-school Madonna, which Rob grunts at—I know he secretly has a thing for her. I wish I could be as composed, but instead I’m crawling through my own skin. Other students are gathering in their rooms, huddled together, whispering about how their parents are best friends with the governor, a general, the president, and how they’ll be airlifted soon. I remember the urgency in Dad’s voice. We can’t wait for help; we have to leave now.
I’ve just started to create a mental map of any and all possible escape routes when I see a figure stumbling from the infirmary. Since we’re all sequestered in the dorms, no students should be coming from that direction. The figure trudges off the path and through the snow, struggling all the while, until finally he comes close enough to make out and I see that it’s Devin. I feel a surge of joy, glad he’s alive, glad there’s something going on, and I shout, “Devin!” I turn to Jo and Rob. “Guys, come see this! He’s okay!”
Devin gets closer, and apparently we’re the only ones who’ve seen him so far. “He doesn’t look okay,” Rob mutters. And for once, he’s not being sarcastic. There are a few bandages on Devin’s face and neck, but they are bled through, and he’s limping really badly. Behind him in the white of the snow, there’s a blood trail. It’s too dark to make out anything more, but he looks wrong, bigger in some way, like . . . swollen or something. Why’d they let him out like this?
Someone else has seen him now, and the front door to the dorm opens. A few kids hurry to put their arms around him and help him into the building. I hop from the window and head to the door.
“Where are you going?” Rob asks.
“Did you see him? Something’s not right. I’m going to find out what’s going on.”
“But you don’t know Devin.”
“So?” I spit, exasperated and tired of Rob’s indifference. I’m angry now, at Rob but also at myself. Maybe I could have done something, somehow. Maybe that’s what Dad meant. “Who cares if I don’t know him? I’m here, and he got shot at, and we’re obviously in danger, so I’m going to figure out what the hell happened. I didn’t ask you to come along, so don’t give me any of your shit, Rob.”
Without waiting for an answer, I open the door and head into the hallway. A few others have done the same, and when I look back, Jo and Rob are following at a discreet distance, appearing chastised. I’m huffing air but manage to be secretly pleased; this anger feels new and good to me. A channel for my helplessness. I hurry down a couple floors to the lounge near the entrance where some of the students have been hanging out near the fireplace and watching movies and playing pool and foosball. Devin’s been placed on a couch in a seat of honor, and he’s slouched, in clear pain, clutching his ribs.
“Are you okay?” This from Mindy, an RA. I know Mindy—she’s in my calc class and likes to complain about her 3.9 GPA. She’s also smitten with Devin, talks about him all the time, which is mainly how I know of him. “They let you go already? You don’t look so good.”
I peer in and frown. Devin doesn’t look swollen, as I had initially thought. He looks . . . older. Like a bruised version of himself ten years from now. His jawline is full, stretching out from under the bandage. His torso and arms seem elongated; even his hair appears longer.
Jo’s managed to catch up, and she whispers, “What’s wrong with him?” I shake my head.
“How’s Will?” someone shouts. “And Tom.”
Tom. His name was Tom. The boy who bled on my jacket.
Devin doesn’t say anything, just puts his hand to his eyes to block the light. Someone else calls out, “What did you see past the gate, Dev?” This rouses him. He moves his hands and speaks in a voice that needs to be lubricated. There’s blood on his teeth, and someone gasps.
“Soldiers. Wearing those suits. Full mask and everything. A tank.”
Everyone gets really quiet. A couple of people discreetly back away from him.
“They’re dead.” His voice cracks.
Mindy takes his hand. “Who, Devin? Will? Tom? Are you sure?”
He’s shaking his head. “No. I mean . . . Yes, Tom and Will died, a long time ago. From the crash. At least, I think so.” A few people have slumped to the floor. Zadie King is crying, holding a friend close. She was Tom’s girlfriend. Others start to sob, bodies shuddering all around me. And I’m embarrassed that I’m not. But my mind is whirling; I can feel it trying to put this all together. I glance across the room, and there’s a large mirror where I can see all the students in a semicircle facing Devin. I see Rob grimacing behind me, Jo using her finger to pull a tear from her eye. I see myself, my forehead creased, my eyes dark and empty, and I hate it, this feeling. That I’m stuck here and helpless. Zadie draws in a deep breath and controls herself, but Devin isn’t done. He’s still shaking his head, and I wonder how much that movement hurts him.
“I don’t mean Tom and Will. I mean the others.”
“Who, Devin?” Mindy is using the voice she uses to coax information from students about drug stashes and unwanted sexual encounters. Devin looks so tired, so gaunt, and as he sits there, breathing hard, I notice the tear in his shirt, the blood behind his right ear, the st
ubble on his knobby chin. He’s a wreck, and he sounds it. Which makes everything he says actually feel all the worse.
“Everyone.” He rattles, swallowing hard. Then he coughs, a long cough, wet and mucousy, right into his hand. It reminds me of Mr. Banner’s cough, which sends alarms surging through my body. “Doctor Seymore. The nurses. Maybe Dean Griffin. They were sick . . .”
My stomach drops, and I immediately seek out Jo. My best friend looks like she’s got a steel rod implanted into her spine, she’s so stiff and unmoving. The room is dead silent, no one sniffs, coughs or even breathes. Mindy keeps stroking Devin’s hand, like nothing has happened, but even the girl in the corner stops sobbing. I think they all think he’s delusional, but something about the way he spoke has me inexplicably convinced he’s telling the truth. I sidle closer to Jo, grab her hand in mine.
“Now, Devin,” Mindy admonishes him, “what do you mean, that the others are all sick?”
“I . . . I don’t know. Maybe the teachers too.”
I raise my hand to Jo’s shoulders, give a squeeze, but it feels like a hollow gesture of comfort. Maybe because I’m terrified myself. We’re both stuck, rooted in fear, mesmerized by Devin’s story. I can’t help thinking, If my dad knew this was coming, why didn’t he try to protect us? If he knew this was coming, what else has he been keeping secret?
Devin shudders and continues. “Some weren’t sick. Like, Dr. Seymore, Mr. Geller, Mr. Brent, Mrs. Applebaum. They weren’t sick—they were dead.”
Now there are gasps, and my stomach takes a bigger lurch. I saw her, Mrs. Applebaum. Right before the sirens. I saw Mr. Geller, right before the sirens. I saw Dr. Seymore, not hours ago. Now they’re dead. And I find myself hoping that it’s just them . . . Just six people dead. The room feels smaller, tiny, with all these people in it. The ceiling lights seem to glare, and everyone can’t stop talking over one another.
“We have to help them,” Jo mutters to herself. I look at her, and know she’s right. But she’s not going to say it again, not louder. I was the only one who heard her. So without thinking, I take a deep breath and repeat what she said for the whole room to hear, ignoring the quiver in my voice.
I swear someone coughs, “Baby!” Real appropriate, dickweed. But everyone’s paying attention, so I go on, feeling my nerves steady. I look in the mirror at Rob’s and Jo’s reflections, and they’re watching me, listening, urging me on, I can tell.
“We have to help them,” I repeat, pushing each word out of my throat. “No one knows what’s going on, and people are getting hurt. We need to control the situation. Which means we need to confirm Devin’s story.” A few murmurs of agreement. Devin raises his head to protest but coughs instead, spitting up some blood on his shirt. Someone screams. Everyone except Mindy has backed away now. She wipes his mouth with her sleeve.
“Devin,” I say to him directly, “you’re sure about what you saw?”
He nods, so weak it’s all he can do.
“If someone’s hurt,” I go on, to everyone else, “we have to help them. We have a responsibility.” I pause, take everyone in with my stare, these blank, terrified faces. “Any volunteers to come with me to check on the dean and the infirmary?”
Rob’s hand is up, like we’re in a competition. Jo’s is too, and that makes sense; she wants to find her dad. No one else has moved a muscle. There must be sixty kids crowded into the lounge now—word leaked that Devin is here—and they all stare at us, the townies, doing the dirty work.
“This is your school too, you know,” I shout loud enough to feel my throat scratch. I’m suddenly so angry at everyone that I want to punch something.
“What if it’s Ebola?” Freddy Prince says, just loud enough to make out.
People move even farther from Devin. Mindy stops petting him and stares at her hands, wipes them on her pants.
“It’s not Ebola,” I reply, shaking my head, thinking of the odd symptoms Devin is displaying. “I don’t know what it is. None of us do. And we won’t unless we go find out. To do that, we need more volunteers.”
Devin, out of nowhere, stands up and tries to walk but then collapses onto the floor and sort of lolls his head around, letting out a long sigh like a tire deflating. Half a dozen girls scream, and I’m kind of surprised I don’t myself, if only because of the shock. Someone steps out of the crowd near the stairwell and hurries forward, and I’m taken aback at seeing Brayden. He’s clearly worried, his lips pinched tight, and he pulls up the sleeves of his waffle shirt. I can’t help but notice the fine thread of muscle, an athlete’s body—I guess I know why he’s at Westbrook. Probably plays football, a quarterback poached from another school or something. He doesn’t look my way, instead he kneels next to Devin and checks his bandages and his forehead, and carefully peers into his eyes. I know it’s a stupid thought, but I remember when Brayden said how awful things would be for him here, and I bet he wasn’t imagining this.
“I need some ice,” he says to no one in particular. “Does anyone here have any codeine?”
A dozen hands shoot up. Brayden shakes his head.
“I’ve got Adderall!” someone shouts helpfully.
“One of you get the codeine.” He looks expectantly at Mindy, but she just shakes her head and sniffs, like there’s no way she’d leave Devin’s side. Brayden keeps searching, his eyes landing on those that have already volunteered. “You—Rob, right? Go get the ice and also a cloth and a bowl of water. Someone get Devin here to a room and lay him down, and Rob, I want you to put the cloth over his head and the ice against his ribs here,” he says, pointing to where Devin’s holding his side. “Then I want you to give him codeine, two pills, and let him sleep. Someone watch over him, okay?” This boy, this mysterious boy, stands up with a groan like an old man, then claps his hands together, his face bright and angular and so full of determination that I’d think he’s been training for this. “I’ll go check out the school with you.”
Everyone’s suitably impressed, murmuring and moving to do what he said, but there are no more volunteers. Rob gives Jo a squeeze and then looks at me and, through his glasses, I see his dark eyes flick significantly at Jo. And why wouldn’t he be worried for her? We haven’t heard from Mr. Banner for hours, and now Devin’s telling horror stories. She’s fine, I mouth, not convinced myself. And with one look back at the useless mass, we open the glass doors and move out across the shifting snow.
6
THE HALLWAYS HAVE NEVER SEEMED SO EMPTY. THE lights are on, and they fill the place with a buzzing glare so bright that our footsteps have shadows. Some of the classrooms are lit as well, but all are empty. We check each anyway.
When someone tells you everyone’s dead, it makes peeking your head into a room a terrifying thing. I find myself tiptoeing and have to mentally force myself to stop and put my heels on the linoleum. We scuffle our way past trophy cases and the Wall of Giving, a list of donor names on gold plaques—fourteen-karat gold plaques. I bend, involuntarily, to check out an old one: SEBASTIAN AVERY, FOR HIS WONDERFUL DISCOVERY AND THE CURIOSITY THAT GUIDED HIM. Dad used to talk about him, Avery, his favorite teacher from when he was a student here. A light goes out ahead, and I jump. “Sorry,” says Jo, her finger on a switch. It’s Mr. Geller’s classroom. I see the bloodstain still on the floor. Brayden is squatting like a tracker, staring at it.
“That’s mine,” I say.
He looks up, flicking his hair out of the way. “Really?”
“Well, I made that come out of Rory Boddington’s nose.”
Brayden smiles. “I don’t blame you,” he says. “But I didn’t think you had it in you.”
I’m not really in the mood for jokes or lighthearted conversation, so I can’t help it when my voice goes steely and I say, “Sometimes people just push you too hard, you know?”
“I do know,” he responds, without a trace of jest or mockery. Beyond the cute birthmark beneath his e
ye, I feel like I can tell who he really is for the first time. I remember him being pushed at the party, him helping the injured boys and volunteering. Maybe, wherever he came from, he’s a different boy, aloof and popular, but here, in this new and outsider place, maybe he’s forced to be a little like me.
Brayden stands and looks into the empty room, his gaze careful, like he’s looking for something specific. “Why are you so good at this?” I ask.
He turns to look at me, his deep brown eyes thoughtful. “I’m an Eagle Scout.”
I give a rueful chuckle, expecting him to admit he’s joking or something, but he’s already focused elsewhere, apparently being honest. More a nerd each second. And then he hushes me. He actually hushes me. He steps toward Geller’s desk.
“Check this out.”
Jo rubs her pale arms, a nervous habit of hers, and is clearly eager to move on, but the tone of his voice has her curious. Brayden is bent over a cloth on the ground. A handkerchief. It’s thick with red, a deep stain of blood.
“Oh, my gosh,” Jo cries, her voice literally echoing out the door down the empty hallway. She clamps her hands over her mouth, eyes wide.
I take her by the arm, knowing she’s transferring everything she sees here to her imagination about her father’s whereabouts and condition. “This doesn’t mean anything, Jo,” I say, but what I’m really thinking of is Mrs. Applebaum’s mouth, the blood dripping, and Devin coughing, hacking blood onto his chest.
Brayden kicks the handkerchief, then makes eye contact with Jo and holds it, his voice calm and reassuring. “Don’t worry about this. It’s from Rory, not Mr. Geller. You can tell by how it leaked onto the handkerchief in that weird pattern. It’s a drip; if it were a cough, it would look more splattered.”
Jo pulls her hands across her forehead, grabbing her blond locks and pulling them behind her shoulders. She sucks air deep into her lungs and nods, even manages a smile that seems to bring some warmth back into her pale cheeks. “Got him good, didn’t you, Mia?”
