The System (Virulent Book 2)

by Shelbi Wescott

Grant understood. He just wanted to hear Scott say it. It meant something to be told firsthand and not treated like an imbecile. “Spell it out for me, Mr. King,” Grant said. “I’ve been through a lot in my life. I can handle whatever you say.”

  “If we know how you lived…we can figure out what could possibly help you…expire. You in the collective sense. You, as in, people like you. Assuming I discover that there’s an explanation. Maybe you really are some singular miracle. Either way…if there are others like you, it would be our intention to…”

  “Kill us.”

  Scott nodded once.

  “Right,” Grant picked at the threads on his pants. “I see.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You’ll run tests and experiments…and ultimately, one of them will kill me.”

  Scott exhaled through his nose in a short burst and looked at Grant. “You are just one person. It would help if I had a room of people like you…only then would my data mean anything. For now, I will settle with seeing if I can find any markers or indicators that would appear to give you immunity. After that…I honestly don’t know.”

  Grant handled his sentence thoughtfully. “Do I have to stay like this?” he motioned to the shackles.

  “I can see about getting you permanently settled in a room.”

  “Honest and humane. I like your style,” Grant tried to muster a smile, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. “So,” he said after a moment, “no zombies from the virus…but maybe zombies sometime.”

  “What’s your fascination with zombies, kid?” Scott asked as he stood up and moved his chair back to the corner of the room.

  “No reason,” he replied. “Just a childhood fascination, I guess.” But as Scott unearthed the vial of his blood from his coat and placed it in a tray and began making a list of experiments to run on Grant, he knew why he was drawn to the creatures. They were tenacious and unrelenting. Even after claimed by death, they didn’t stay dead. He’d been drawn to zombies before the virus—their gruesome affect, his confidence in surviving them. Grant knew that if zombies attacked, he could help save the world from destruction. Only, the world had fallen into destruction anyway and he hadn’t been able to do anything about it.

  No, Grant realized. Zombies found a way to keep living.

  And he hadn’t given up hope yet that he would too.

  Scott left Grant in the lab for about an hour. Or two hours or fifteen minutes; time melded together in the empty room. Alone with his thoughts, Grant replayed the events of the last few weeks in his head. Starting with the fight with his dad the morning of the Release, where he had yelled the most unoriginal and painful insult he could think of at his father: “I wish you had died instead of her.”

  To which his father had said in a calm, even voice, “Right back atcha, son.”

  That was it: The last conversation he had with his dad. He’d been counting down the days to college; a beacon of hope just within reach—an opportunity to escape his father’s expectation that he’d continue helping with their land and keep up the farm. Or just a chance to forget that he would never be enough to fill the hole his mother left when she died. Grant knew his father loved him. It was just that he didn’t really enjoy parenting, and he wasn’t good at knowing what Grant wanted or needed. The man didn’t have help, didn’t ask for it—never wanted anything except peace and quiet and blind allegiance.

  Somewhere down the line, indifference turned into full-blown aggravation. The whole scenario reeked of some old-fashioned drama, but Grant was just an urban teen with a dream of a menial career that didn’t require effort outside the workday, like grocery store manager or office supply rep. He wanted to go to college to prove he could. And for the parties, maybe for a chance to join a club, or play keyboards for a garage band, do some charity work. Meet a girl.

  He wasn’t saddled with ambition or a lack of self-awareness. Grant just wanted to live a basic existence—achieve the minimal amount of happiness, go through life without ruffling a single feather. Drink beers on weeknights and watch movies. It all sounded like the perfect future until someone had to go and ruin it for him.

  But what he told Lucy back in Oregon wasn’t untrue. He wasn’t afraid of death. Not then and not now. Losing someone didn’t make him want to fight; it just paved the way to welcome whatever fate tossed his way. Not many teenagers would ever see it his way. All his friends had an unhealthy attachment to the world they lived in—a general expectation that they were destined for great and beautiful happily ever afters. Grant figured he was the most realistic and grounded teen he’d ever met and part of that was embracing the futility of fighting.

  His anger toward his dad was the only thing he wanted to keep.

  Like a wound he couldn’t stop picking, whenever Grant felt too complacent about his lot in life, he’d think of those final words and wish privately he’d handled that last conversation better.

  When Scott reappeared with a set of keys, Grant greeted him with a wave, even though his shackled wrists kept him from moving much on the slab: only a few inches in every direction.

  “I have good news,” he said as he unlocked Grant and let him sit up; Grant’s muscles were sore and he stretched upward, letting his hands plop back on the bed.

  “A room for Virus Boy,” Scott continued and he motioned toward the door.

  “For real?” Grant slid off the metal frame and his feet hit the floor. “It’s not like a trick or something? Not that I don’t trust you…it’s just…Virus Boy shouldn’t believe his captors have his best interests at heart, right? If I were a comic book, this would be a trap.”

  Scott shook his head. “You are not in a comic book,” he said as Grant moved toward to the door. “You’re in the EUS Two. Elektos Underground System Two. We’re bad at naming things, I suppose.”

  “No. Elektos? Underground System? Two? Crazy. Where’s EUS One?”

  “Brazil.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Yeah, he’d probably be in EUS One or here,” Scott winked.

  Grant didn’t even know what that meant, but raised his eyebrows, the magnitude of this enterprise dawning on him slowly. “There are more of these places?”

  “Six.”

  Grant waited and let out a sigh. It took a prolonged second, then Scott obliged. “Brazil, here in Nebraska, Saudi Arabia, Russia, Australia, and Botswana.”

  “Woah,” Grant said. “That’s nuts.”

  Scott dipped his head. “It…has been an undertaking. Financially. Emotionally. Spiritually.” Then he looked up, his big eyes meeting Grant’s and he motioned for the door. “The room is no trick. I understand what I’m needing from you…I don’t want to keep you uncomfortable.”

  “Yeah. I get it,” Grant replied, following Scott’s lead out of the lab room and into a larger room, with microscopes and other scientific equipment that he didn’t recognize. “Like when they give death row inmates a nice big meal before,” he drew his hand across his throat and made a scratching noise. He was probably being too irreverent, because Lucy’s dad turned around and shot him a disapproving look. There was something satisfying in making him squirm though, even if that wasn’t Grant’s intention.

  They reached the far end of the room and Scott opened a door marked “Supply Closet”. Grant made a face.

  He had genuinely hoped for a room, not just some glorified temporary shelter, but he supposed it was better than the alternative. Besides, he’d spent enough time in supply rooms to last him a lifetime.

  The door opened and Grant peered around Scott.

  To his surprise, the closet was huge. Fluorescent lights beamed down from the ceiling, illuminating shelves with various odds and ends. Surprisingly, Scott had been hard at work making the space habitable. He had set up an army cot against one of the walls and then Grant smiled. Stuck to one of the walls with long pieces of masking tape, was the iconic poster for George Romero’s Night of the Living Dead.

  “How did
you—” Grant trailed off then he looked at Scott, a bit bewildered and confused. Also, touched. Which made the reality of his situation take hold in his chest and suddenly feel oppressive; he wished he hadn’t made light of dying earlier—he was stuck between not wanting to care and believing that he cared too much.

  “I know a guy who knows a guy…who knows a guy…who brought some old posters with him here. You were in luck, purely coincidental. It was either that or Farrah Fawcett’s red swimsuit poster.”

  “Who’s Farrah Fawcett?” Grant asked.

  Scott clapped him on the back. “Yeah, believe it or not, I was just a kid when she was popular.” His eyes landed on the poster and he stared at the iconic image. “Forever ago.”

  “Three weeks was forever ago,” Grant said and Scott muttered agreement.

  “At any rate,” Scott continued, “this will be locked. But look…” He pointed to an old-school TV/VCR set and a stack of videos. “Entertainment. A bed. I can try to get you books?”

  “Sure,” Grant answered. He sat down on the cot and bounced on it a bit; Scott King’s own California King size bed had been his most comfortable night’s sleep since the Release of the virus, but he refrained from mentioning it, worried about how it would sound. “Why are you doing this for me?” Turning to his captor, Grant tried to search Scott’s face for any sign of what was to come.

  “Because,” Scott looked down, “I’d want someone to do this for my son…”

  “Do what?”

  “Treat him well. Treat him…like he mattered.”

  “Do I?” Grant asked in a whisper. “How can you say I matter?”

  Scott took a long time before he looked up at Grant. “You do matter. You matter very much…it’s just—”

  “I matter more as a science experiment than a person?” Grant crossed his arms over his chest. “I get it, Mr. King. I do.”

  “I wasn’t going to say that,” Scott said after a moment. “You matter as both. You need to know that I can’t save you. It won’t matter what happens, what you say, how much I think you deserve to live. There is a greater good, a bigger picture. And—”

  “Okay,” Grant interrupted and he put up his hand. Nothing had changed from before; the writing on the wall was bright red and clear.

  “But I don’t know how long you’ll be here…”

  “I already said okay.”

  Scott looked like he didn’t want to leave. His eyes scanned the room and he pointed out the blankets, he asked if Grant was hungry, he was stalling, and Grant didn’t know why.

  “Mr. King,” Grant said after there was an awkward break. “I’m going to be okay. You can go if you want.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ll be back. Running the blood work. Here, I need a swab too.” Scott uncapped a long cotton-tipped stick and instructed Grant to swipe the underside of his cheek with the tip. Then he capped it back and put it in his coat. “Thank you.” He hesitated and then left; there was a distinct clicking and locking, and then the sound of retreating footsteps on tile.

  Once Grant thought he was alone, he went over to the door and turned the knob, but it didn’t budge. Then he turned and rested his back and took a look around. He couldn’t help but grin: from one closet to another. Except this time he was alone. And there was no chance of clandestine mobility. And he hadn’t asked Lucy’s dad about going to the bathroom.

  While sharing a small space with two girls had been occasionally annoying, he also enjoyed Lucy and Salem’s company during their time in the Pacific Lake storage room. He knew that this would be different.

  Grant took a step forward and stared at the procured poster. An odd offering, to say the least. Yet, he was comforted by the small act of kindness. Scott King told him that it wouldn’t change his future, and perhaps that was true, but it did give him a strange sort of hope.

  Hope wasn’t bad. Hope could sustain him.

  That, and the thought of Lucy somewhere in the EUS Two: enjoying time with her family, eating a hot meal, maybe playing a game with her brothers, reading a book to her sister. He closed his eyes and pictured her enjoying a bath. A real bath.

  “Father God,” Grant prayed out loud, unsurprised by his own voice in the small space, “let her just forget I’m here. Just for tonight. Please? If she wants to take up a ‘Free Grant’ cause tomorrow, then I’m all for it. And you know that I’m asking because she deserves just some time…to adjust to her family. I, of all people, can understand that. Just protect her. And have her forget about me. I want her to feel normal again. I don’t want her to hurt anymore. Amen.” Even as the request left his mouth, he knew that he was asking God for a miracle.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The den was comfortable. Light poured in during the day. A fire flooded the room with an amber glow in the nighttime. Sometimes Ethan asked Darla or Ainsley to crank the Victrola and he’d listen to the scratchy records over and over—there was a surreal quality to his life, and the lack of electricity and the old-fashioned music helped transport him to a different time completely. His pain hadn’t subsided, but his general disposition moved into a more melancholy state, with brief periods of acceptance. When Ethan felt sad about his leg or angry that he wasn’t whole, he let himself daydream about Nebraska.

  His family would come for him. And then, when they did, maybe he would be in a place where a prosthetic was a possibility. Dreams of the future sustained him.

  “And crabwalk to the bookcase with a beanbag on your head!” Teddy giggled and Ethan smirked as Darla sighed and then set a blue beanbag atop her head and shifted into the crabwalk position.

  Darla’s parental resourcefulness crafted a game that kept Teddy busy and amused for long periods of time. The rules were fluid and the activities ever-changing, but the basic idea was the same: they would spread out 52 playing cards out along the carpet of the den. Seven of them were marked with a black X. The rest were marked with symbols that stood for Story, Activity or Task. While the activities varied, the person who drew the seventh X was the loser and the other remaining opponent the victor.

  Bemoaning introducing Teddy to the idea of the crabwalk, Darla shifted her body backward. “Mom is getting too old for this,” she huffed and then collapsed, sloughing the beanbag to the floor. Ethan smiled; it was a rote parental complaint—Darla was lithe and in shape, and her continual exploration of the surrounding neighborhoods was a daily activity.

  Teddy crawled over and gave his mother an impromptu kiss.

  “What was that for, Buddy?” Darla asked, smoothing his hair across his forehead.

  The child wrapped himself up into Darla’s lap, silent, and contemplative. Then he looked at her with watery eyes. “I miss Mama,” Teddy said. “I want to go to heaven too.”

  “Don’t say that!” Darla snapped at her son and Teddy recoiled, his eyes wide. She then self-corrected and spun Teddy to face her, and she cupped his chin in her hands. “Mommy needs you here, with her. Mommy misses Mama too.” She rocked him and kissed him. “Mommy misses Mama every day. But Mommy needs you, Teddy. We are a team now, okay?”

  Darla hadn’t talked about the death of her wife—a moment that Ethan had been present for at the Portland airport, amidst the chaos and pain of Release day. For either Teddy’s benefit or her own, she didn’t continually dredge up the loss. Ethan was impressed by her strength and resilience and he envied her.

  Ethan glanced away from the mother and son, to give the duo a bit of privacy, and his eyes locked with Ainsley who was standing in the doorway, shifting uncomfortably as if waiting for an invitation to come in. He motioned for her and she hesitated and then entered, shuffling her feet as she walked over to his dad’s desk—she palmed a baseball on a stand, a souvenir from a Giants’ game down in San Francisco. Scott King had caught a foul ball. The scientist juggled and almost dropped the trophy, but emerged victorious. In the eyes of his young sons, Scott was the hero of the day—saving the bored Kings from the doldrums of their own vacation.

>   Whenever the family wasn’t sure if a day could improve, Scott would say, a smile on his face, “You have to wait. It’ll get better. I haven’t caught the ball yet.”

  Out of loyalty and deference to the memory, Ethan wanted Ainsley to stop touching that prized possession. It belonged to his dad; it meant something. It wasn’t just a trinket for everyone to play with.

  “Hey,” Darla said, looking up to Ethan, and tears stained her cheeks. “Ted-bear and I are gonna go have some time together. You mind?”

  “Why would I mind?” Ethan asked and he shifted on the couch. The stump of his leg was exposed; he’d grown tired of the blankets.

  Darla sniffed and stood up—like an octopus, Teddy wrapped his arms and legs around his mother’s body as she walked out. The two were melded together, like one person. And once they were out of sight, Ethan turned to Ainsley and tried to smile.

  “Hey, Ainsley,” he started in that familiar tone that indicated he wanted her attention. “I’m sorry…for the other day.”

  The girl shrugged and deposited the baseball back on its stand. He relaxed as he watched her hand release it.

  “No,” Ethan continued, determined. “I had no right to kick you out. You were just doing what you had been asked to do. It was stupid. I was wallowing.”

  “Of course you were,” Ainsley said matter-of-factly, and she walked out from behind the desk and took a step toward Ethan. One arm hung at her side and she grabbed it with her other arm, scratching her fingernails into the flesh around her shoulder. “I know I’m not…” she paused and gnawed on the inside of her cheek, “always the best communicator.”

  “Well—” Ethan tried to think of something kind to say, but Ainsley was right.

  “No, I take a long time to warm up to people in general. It’s not you.” She tried to smile, but it was forced and looked more like a grimace. “I’m just bad at…life.”

  “I wouldn’t say that.” Ethan pointed to the couch. “You don’t have to just stand there. You can sit.”