by Seth Fishman
I laugh, each breath dissipating the pent-up nerves I have and steadying my hand. Brayden smiles, kindly—unnervingly adult of him—and says, “Let’s get going. I didn’t move here to spend all day in school.”
As we follow him out the door, I glance down at the blood on the handkerchief. I give it a kick, imagining Rory at that moment, and the handkerchief flips over. A splatter pattern. Jackson Pollock on a dark day. I peek to see if Jo’s looking but she’s not, which I’m grateful for, and hurry after them.
“So hold on, why Westbrook?” Jo asks Brayden out in the hallway, where we are starting to creep less and speak more normally. They walk side by side, and I notice that they’re almost the same height. She tall, he average. His Sambas squeak along the floor, and he reaches behind himself to scratch his back. It’s hard to imagine the chaos Devin spoke of.
Brayden glances over at her, shrugs. “My parents moved here. They found this enormous estate for sale and thought it would be a good retirement place. They love the country. I don’t know—I wish they’d waited for me to graduate high school, but they didn’t want to lose the property.”
Jo frowns, thinking. “Wait, you moved into Furbish Manor?”
“Yeah, their name is still up on the entrance to the drive.”
“Whoa, the Furbishes,” she goes on. “You must be rolling.”
The Furbishes were pillars of the community, early gold rush miners who hit it big, then bought the general store, took on real estate, cattle, and eventually built half the gas stations in the surrounding hundred miles. But about three years ago, their private jet crashed on the way to a family vacation, killing them all, every last Furbish. It was a huge local tragedy. I knew two of the kids; they went to the same elementary school as me. Their house, their estate, was hundreds of acres of prime forest, pasture and river. I knew that someone had snatched up the gas stations, but I didn’t know anyone had bought the manor. Whoever did had to be worth millions.
“You think that we must be rich because we moved into a ghost house in the middle of nowhere?” he replies, his voice becoming heated. His ears go flush.
“No,” Jo says, “I just . . . I was surprised, that’s all.”
“Me too,” I join in, backing her up. “It’s a crazy place. My dad and I used to hike behind the estate and in their fields. I thought it would be turned into a museum or something.”
We walk almost to the end of the hallway. He doesn’t answer for a while and then finally admits, “Yeah, it is a crazy place. We moved out here last week, and I basically spent every day roaming the house and the woods for hours on end. I’ve never had a backyard before.”
I try to picture him out in the woods behind the manor, backpack on, roving across trails and exploring the land. In the snow it must have been hard going. Lonely. I wonder what he thought of while he was out there.
“Do you like it here?” I ask.
He stares at me, his scar flashing white. “That’s a weird question. This is all really messed up.”
I shake my head, trying to ignore the hallway. “No, I mean in Fenton and at Furbish.”
He’s quiet. “Furbish isn’t exactly the place I’d go for fun.”
We turn the corner, the infirmary in sight, and everything changes. I had just started to relax, to disbelieve, when we see the feet. We freeze, all three of us, rooted there staring at the blue socks and the khaki pants and the brown leather shoes pointed toward the ceiling, halfway out the infirmary door. I can’t breathe, and I try to swallow this all away. Brayden crouches and steps forward like a fighter might, in a stance. I take Jo’s hand, and we might as well be at a haunted house, clutching each other close, following Brayden slowly, waiting to scream.
Brayden stops suddenly and stands up, stunned. He’s not even looking at the body, whoever it is. He’s looking into the infirmary, his face turning pale. I move my eyes down to this man, this old man I don’t recognize, whose face is marked with spots and lined with sagging skin. He’s pissed his pants, and is nose is peeling, and his chapped lips are stained with blood. His legs are splayed haphazardly, twisted over each other. I take a breath and follow Brayden’s gaze into the infirmary, then feel like I’ve been hit by a truck. The old man, his hair somehow plastered into a perfect part, is lying in the doorway because there’s no more room.
Every chair, bed, desk, inch of floor is covered with bodies sprawled in various positions. No one moves. No monitors beep. Just bodies upon bodies. And the weird thing is that even in my horror, I realize something: I don’t recognize anyone. They’re all old people. Really old and withered people. As if a home of geriatrics were bused in to die. That’s the last thought that flits through my head before Jo gags and vomits all over those brown leather shoes and then falls to her knees to try to clean it up with her scarf.
Brayden and I both move at the same time to help her up, and she gives in pretty easily. Apologizing, her eyes tearing. I can smell her puke, and it’s making me nauseated. Who are these people? Where are the teachers? I don’t understand. My hands begin to shake, and I tuck them into my armpits to keep them still. I have never seen a body before. Now I’ve seen thirty, forty. Now I’ve seen a graveyard.
“Hello?” a voice calls from up ahead, around the corner, down another hall. “Is someone there?” The voice is weak, frail. I’m reminded of that old commercial: I’ve fallen, and I can’t get up.
Jo and I look at each other, startled by the voice. We hurry on toward the sound.
“Hey, wait a sec,” Brayden shouts. But we ignore him, round the corner and there, on the ground, halfway down the hall and almost to the infirmary door, is a man, sprawled, looking at us, his face so wrinkled I can barely see his eyes. I don’t recognize him, but after seeing the infirmary, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.
The thing is, when you see something like that, a broken human being, you don’t keep running. I even put my hand to my mouth—I can’t help it—and suddenly Brayden bumps into us. We’re all sent falling, and it’s Jo who lies face-to-face with the old man.
“Help?” he whispers.
This close, I think my first inclination was wrong; maybe I have seen this man before somewhere. I’m embarrassed to think that I ignored this guy for my first two years and now he’s calling out for me. Maybe he was a janitor or something.
“Oh, God,” Jo says, her voice shaking.
“It’s okay,” I say to her and to the old man. I take his hand, with its thin skin and heavy veins. “We’ll get you help. Everything’s going to be okay.”
“Mia,” Jo says, her voice weak. She has a hand on my ankle and is squeezing hard. “He’s wearing my dad’s tie. I bought that for him for Christmas. That’s my dad’s tie! ”
I squint, take a closer look. It does seem similar to what Mr. Banner was wearing this morning, but I don’t really remember.
“JoJo?”
I freeze; so does Jo. The old man used her nickname—there’s only one person I’ve heard call her that.
“What did you call me?” she says, almost accusingly. The old man bends forward, his eyes rheumy and blank.
“Is that you, JoJo?”
She crawls forward, touches his face with a shaky hand. “Dad?” Her voice is so soft I can barely hear.
“No way,” I say, backing up. “Jo, no way.”
She turns to me, ignoring Brayden, her eyes melting in tears. She breathes deeply, sucking back snot. “Can you help me? I can’t do this. Please, check his wallet or something.”
The old man is twitching, like he’s having little convulsions. I don’t know if I can do what she’s asking. But Jo would do anything for me. She always has. I feel Brayden’s hand on my back, gently encouraging me forward. So I grit my teeth and move, my eyes almost closed, and pull the leather wallet from his back pocket. Inside, there’s a Colorado driver’s license registered to Brett Banner. I feel ill and try
to hold myself together for Jo. Biting my lip, I show her the license.
“What’s going on?” Brayden asks finally, as if thinking now were the appropriate time for clarity. We don’t answer him, just stare at this old husk of Jo’s dad. His bloody mouth and wheezing chest.
“This is impossible,” I whisper to her, to myself. “Someone must be screwing with us.”
“JoJo, I think I hurt myself. I can’t. I can’t move. I can’t really. Breathe.”
“Dad,” she says, steadying her voice, “this isn’t funny.”
But she reaches out a tentative hand to his head, which is now empty of hair but for a small tuft around his ears, white as the snow outside. His head is covered in spots, and he’s drooling into a small puddle. I wonder how long he’s been here. This impostor, this old Brett Banner. This man who seems to have aged a lifetime in a day. I can’t help but think of my own dad lying on the ground somewhere, calling my name. The hallway is quiet. He tried to get to the infirmary, just like all the others.
“Dad?” Jo asks. “Dad, tell me what happened.”
“JoJo. What’s going on? I can’t see. I can’t . . . Where’s your mother? Wait—don’t touch me. You might get it.”
Mr. Banner closes his eyes and lays down his head. I’d say Jo’s more scared than sad, and so am I. He seems to stop breathing, and I don’t know whether I’m supposed to mourn or start CPR. But he’s right—we might be exposed to whatever this is. Far too exposed already. I don’t think we should be near him; it’s too dangerous. I hate thinking like this, but I wrap my arms tighter around my friend to keep her from touching him again.
Brayden seems to get this, but still he moves to check for a pulse. His eyes flick up to Jo, then back down to the body.
“Jo, I don’t know what to say.” He’s doing better than I would. I’m surprised I can still stand. “He’s gone.”
I feel her body begin to heave and choke on her own tears. I hold her close, my eyes glazed. Whatever happened to Mr. Banner must have happened to the other teachers. I think of the infirmary and the bodies piled within. All faculty members grown inexplicably old. I think of Devin, looking like an older version of himself. Holy crap, my body is itching to move, screaming at me to run the fuck away from here as fast as I can. I imagine the feel of his papery skin. I look at Mr. Banner; is it too late for us?
“Mia?” Jo whispers. “What’s happening?”
I stroke her hair. “I don’t know. That might not be him. It can’t be.” I feel stupid saying this—everything makes sense, even if it doesn’t. Whatever’s going on is making people age and die. Fast and furious. And Jo’s dad is now dead. And my dad seemed to know something was coming. He tried to warn me. I feel her body shuddering against mine and try to ignore the fact that Dad didn’t try to warn anybody else.
“It might be.” We both turn toward Brayden, Jo snorting cry-snot, trying to control herself. He’s been back down, digging through the old man’s pockets, and has found his keys and cell phone. He hands them both over to Jo and steps back.
“What’re you doing?” I ask, disgusted both by his rooting around in a dead man’s pocket and by his touching an infected body.
“She has to know for sure. She has to believe. Otherwise she’ll never let him go.” He pauses, looks at me, and for the first time, I see that he’s scared too. He just knows how to hide it better. But I can see it in his eyes; they’re large, his thick brows higher, his forehead creased. He’s just a better actor than me.
Jo’s staring at the keys to her house. She flips open the phone, and it’s clearly her dad’s. I see something, but she flips it back down again.
“What’s that? A message?”
She sniffs. “So what?”
But I swore I saw something, a name I’m incredibly familiar with. “Open the phone. Look at it. Whose message is that?”
Jo does, and we both look. There’s a message icon—two, actually. They’re from my dad, clearly downloaded before the service outage. He did try to warn someone.
Jo’s eyes catch mine, and for a second, we just stare at each other. Yesterday we woke up and fought over who would shower first. Now this, this insanity. Jo retrieves the voice mail and presses the speaker phone, and after a delay, we hear my dad’s voice, saved on the phone’s message service.
Brett, it’s Greg Kish. I know this might sound weird, but I’m worried that something bad’s about to happen. I’m not sure what, but I wanted to call you to warn you. Mia is there alone. I can’t help her. I need someone, an adult, to keep an eye on her, and I hope that for the next few days, you can do that for me. If you see anything suspicious, call me, okay?
The phone goes silent, and we all look over at the body lying facedown. Brayden’s eyes shift from body to phone to me, puzzlement written all over his face.
“How did he call after the phones went down?” he asks.
I shake my head, looking at the time stamp on the phone. “He didn’t. He called yesterday.” Yesterday, right after I met with the reporter.
“Why did he call then?” Jo asks.
I consider telling them more, but instead find myself shrugging in confusion. Dad called Mr. Banner after we met with that fake reporter. He did know something was going on. I should have listened to him and run when I could. Jo pushes for the next message, which was left about fifteen minutes after the first, and I stare so hard at the phone that I think I see him, my dad, driving in the car from campus to the Cave, phone to his ear, speaking softly but earnestly, pleading with Mr. Banner to save our lives.
Brett, it’s me again. I know that last message was strange, and I’m sorry. Please, please, don’t say anything to Mia to alarm her. Just . . . listen. If something happens—anything you think that might be strange—take Jo and Mia and go straight to the aqueduct. The caretaker, Wilkins, he’ll get you into the back door of the Cave. If you can’t find him, if he’s gone into town or something, try my phone number.
The message ends, and I blink away tears, both at his voice and in relief to know that he wasn’t such a monster. That at least he tried to warn someone else. Dad told Mr. Banner about the aqueduct, about Wilkins. Suddenly I’m hit with a wash of frustration, of anger. It didn’t matter; Mr. Banner is still dead, and my father still knew something was coming. He knew. If he had acted on it, instead of just sending these cryptic messages, everyone might be alive now. Or at least Mr. Banner would be. Where is my dad, anyway? Why wasn’t he here before this all began, pulling me away?
“Listen, I know things are insane right now,” Brayden says, taking the phone from Jo, as if that will make things better. “But clearly there’s some sort of outbreak going on. Something moving quickly and killing everyone. We’re quarantined for a reason, and we shouldn’t be here. We could get sick. Your father, Jo—even yours, Mia, judging by the call . . . they wouldn’t want you to stay here. We have to go tell the others. We have to put Devin in an isolated room. Try to keep healthy.”
I let Jo stare for another moment, then say, “He’s right.” And he is right. He’s so collected and calm, even while being scared. I wish I had his poise and felt confident helping my best friend through this. I want to close Mr. Banner’s eyes. I bet the eyelids are soft.
I swallow my own grief and walk Jo back the way we’ve come. She moves slowly, being led, and finally I lean her against the wall, where her head bangs back hard and she sucks in her breath.
In the silence there is nothing, only the sound of my heart beating, reverberating in my head so fast I think I’m deaf. But I’m not deaf, because I can hear the front doors open, crashing against the walls with a bang. For the briefest of moments, hope swells in my chest. My father’s come to save us! I look around the corner, toward the doors, and see three figures. I see soldiers and guns. Brayden takes a step forward, but I grab his arm and pull him and Jo back around the corner.
“Oh, shit,” I say.
“What?” Brayden asks, confused. “Even if the soldiers are quarantining us, they still want to help.”
“Like they did when they shot at Devin?” Jo whispers, her bitterness fresh and raw, especially standing ten feet from her dead father.
“He was probably being an idiot, not stopping, trying to break the quarantine,” Brayden replies, somewhat callously.
I hear them, but can’t really understand. How can I explain it to them, what I saw? There were two soldiers with guns dressed in hazmat suits coming into the school. Between them, walking without a hazmat, was a third figure. Blake Sutton.
7
“WE HAVE TO GO.”
Jo knows me well enough to hear that there’s something different in my voice. “What is it, Mia?”
I stare at her, trying to push out the smallest whisper I can imagine. “I know that guy. I met him yesterday. He interviewed me and Dad, but afterward Dad warned me to stay away from him.” I’m feeling guilt bloom in my stomach; we don’t have much time, so I blurt out, “Right after the sirens, dad told me to leave campus. Just like he told your dad, Jo. He knew something bad was going to happen, and I think this guy’s the key.”
Brayden, who’s crouching at our feet and peering around the corner, whispers up at us, “He’s here in the quarantine with a killer virus and no hazmat suit. He’s more than just the key.”
“We have to get off campus.” I stare hard at them, willing them to agree, but it doesn’t take much. Jo nods immediately, her face grim, and though Brayden is new, is in an unfamiliar place, doesn’t know me or anyone, I can see that he trusts what I have to say. He mulls my words over in his head, checking angles, and I see the moment he agrees, his face almost upticking. I don’t know why, but I want to smile. I have to fight the urge. But he’s making me feel strong, purposeful. The opposite of the loneliness I feel in the swimming lanes.
“Okay, good,” I continue. “We have to get Rob.”
