Dead (A Lot)

by Howard Odentz

  69

  I STARTED RUNNING last year. Not that I had plans on joining track—I just thought I needed to be fit. I also had some dumbbells in my room, nothing serious, just something to keep my arms from looking like they belonged on an old lady. I was really glad I was semi-religious about using them, too, because Jimmy’s plan involved us leaving his wheelchair behind and me carrying him down that scary road and up to the iron gates of the McDuffy Estate. Let me tell you, he was heavy. Lugging his muscle-bound butt was one serious workout.

  Neither of us were surprised that the whole place was lit up like a beacon on a light house. I’m not sure where the electricity was coming from, but I had to guess that anyone who had a place this far out probably relied on a generator or three.

  I considered dropping Jimmy on the ground, but I noticed a video camera mounted on a ten-foot-high brick wall that extended off in both directions as far as I could see. Good for keeping poxers out. Good for keeping people in.

  “We’re being watched,” I whispered under my breath. “Be a good cripple and play dead.”

  “I am so going to beat the crap out of you when we’re done with all this.”

  “No you won’t. You’re too much of a pacifist. You’ll get Trina to do it.”

  “True.”

  “Now shut up.” The video camera whirred, pivoted, and pointed directly at us.

  I lowered Jimmy slowly to the ground. He lay there, sprawled out like he was dead. We both agreed that we needed to look helpless—helpless and weak. Jimmy also told me to act a little slow. After all, we were in the hill towns of Massachusetts where everyone was missing at least one tooth and probably only got as far as the eighth grade. Slow was believable.

  Still, I wasn’t as good an actor as Trina. ‘Slow’ wasn’t part of my repertoire.

  “Help,” I screamed at the camera. “If anyone’s there, HELP!”

  Jimmy moaned for effect. I bent down and felt his forehead before looking back up at the camera with the biggest, saddest puppy-dog eyes I could muster.

  “Please,” I sobbed and wiped fake tears from my eyes with my sleeve. “My friend’s hurt. I . . . I . . . I don’t have anybody else.”

  The camera pointed down toward me. I could see the dark, soulless lens, spinning round and round. I felt like I was being examined by a Cyclops.

  Suddenly, a spotlight exploded into life and bathed the whole front of the estate in daylight. I put my hand over my eyes and squinted. We were being judged. I had to make the most out of our little ruse, because I wasn’t leaving this place without my parents.

  I grabbed Jimmy by his shoulders and pulled him up to a sitting position.

  “See that, Jimmy,” I wailed. “They’re still good peoples left in the world.”

  Jimmy feebly hugged me, moaning the whole time. When his mouth was right next to my ear he whispered: “You suck at acting. You wouldn’t even make it on daytime soaps.”

  “Bite me, Special Olympics.”

  Jimmy swooned and threw himself to the ground again.

  “NO,” I wailed. “Don’t die, Jimmy. There’re people here who can maybe help us. Just hold on a little longer.”

  A hint of a smile crossed Jimmy’s face as he lay on the ground. He was trying hard not to crack up. His smile disappeared when we heard a grinding noise followed by a metallic ping. The gate had been unlocked. I didn’t turn when I heard footsteps running through the yard on the other side of the gate—I just hoped they didn’t belong to more soldiers with more guns. I had my fill of both.

  “Is your friend hurt or dead?” yelled a voice from the other side of the gate—not deep enough to be a guy but not quite high enough to belong to a girl.

  “He’s hurt. He fell off his bike. I don’t think he can move his legs.”

  I saw the silhouette of the person with the weird voice as he/she/it opened the gate and trotted over to us. When the figure came close enough, I narrowed the possibilities to she or she/it.

  A little troll of a woman bent down next to me. She was wearing a dark t-shirt and fatigues. Dog tags hung from her neck. I couldn’t tell if she was in the Army or making a fashion statement.

  “Call me Cheryl,” she said in a voice that sounded like she’d been screaming at a concert for twenty-four hours straight.

  “I’m Andy,” I sobbed. Jimmy and I had decided that we couldn’t chance using my real name. We didn’t know why, but it seemed like a bad idea if Diana, whoever she was, knew I was the doctor’s son.

  “My friend’s hurt. The soldier men said you could help.”

  “Soldier men?”

  “Yeah. The ones that talked funny. They said they were heading to North Carolina. They told us that there was food and water here but that they weren’t staying.”

  Cheryl the It knitted her brow. “Damn deserters,” she growled, and her face darkened. “What’s your friend’s name?”

  “His name’s Jimmy. We ran into each other a couple of days ago. He’s the only friend I got left.”

  “Andy?” Jimmy moaned. “I can’t feel my legs. Andy?”

  Cheryl the It reached down and heaved Jimmy over her shoulder like he was a sack of potatoes. His eyes flew open, and he mouthed a silent Yikes as she jostled him around, flexed her squat, little troll legs, and began marching back toward the gate.

  “Follow me,” she grunted as she marched into the light. “Don’t want to be caught out here without nothing to protect yourself.” She spat on the ground, and Jimmy and I both almost hurled.

  We were exactly where we planned to be. Still, as we walked through the gates of the McDuffy Estate, I somehow felt as though I was heading directly into the sun, and things that fly into the sun have brief but spectacular deaths.

  70

  “WE HAVE A medical doc,” said Cheryl the It, as we passed through a big brick archway. “He’ll take a look at your friend, kid. Probably just pinched a nerve or something.”

  When we reached the front door she banged on the dark wood with her tiny fist, which I had no doubt could pummel me senseless. “Open up, dammit,” she growled.

  She shifted her little legs from one to the other under the weight of Jimmy. The two of them looked funny because he was easily twice her size. Still, in arm wrestling I’d bet money on her against Jimmy any day.

  I heard the door unlock and watched as it creaked open with a sound that was lifted right out of one of the ridiculous horror movies I used to devour. On the other side was a greasy looking guy in a lab coat with a comb-over, trimmed moustache, and goatee.

  “What have we here?”

  “This one needs to see the doc,” said Cheryl the It to Dr. Greasy.

  “The Doctor might not be so compliant today, Cheryl.” The words slithered off his tongue. The guy was seriously gross.

  “We’ll see about that,” she huffed. The muscles on her neck bulged under the weight of Jimmy. She stormed past the guy like he was nothing but empty air.

  “Jimmy,” I cried like a four-year-old. “Don’t take Jimmy.” I was completely serious. Jimmy’s plan seemed easy enough—fake sick and get to see the doctor. There just wasn’t a provision in our plan for the two us to get separated.

  “He’s in good hands, kid,” growled Cheryl the It, and she disappeared down a corridor to the left.

  We watched them go. Finally, Dr. Greasy snorted, closed the door, turned, and stared at me from head to toe.

  “Where—where are you taking Jimmy?”

  Dr. Greasy just sneered. I felt like a frog in Biology class. Jimmy told me to act slow, but I almost didn’t need to act. I had no idea what was going on, and this whole place scared the tatti out of me. I knitted my brow, pouted, and put every mental effort I could muster into squeezing out a tear. Let me tell you, crying on cue is a special talent.

  I’m not
that talented—so I did the first thing that popped into my head. I threw myself to the floor and buried my face in my hands.

  “I want Jimmy,” I choked out through my splayed fingers.

  Dr. Greasy just stood there waiting for me to finish. I gave him a little bit of a show before quieting down. Finally, after what seemed like eons, he cleared his throat, bent down next to me, and lightly put his hand on my shoulder.

  “Your friend will be fine,” he said. “How about some cookies and milk?”

  I shook my head. Really? Cookies and milk? You got to be kidding me.

  He tried again.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Andy Caron,” I whimpered. Andy Caron was a kid at school who always had a booger hanging out of his nose. Nice enough, I guess, except for the booger. He was probably eating someone else’s nose, boogers and all, right about now.

  “Well, Andy Caron. My name is Dr. Marks, but you can just call me . . . well . . . you can just call me Dr. Marks.”

  Big of him—this was the kind of guy who demanded to be called Steven instead of Steve or Howard instead of Howie even though both names seriously sucked balls. This was the kind of guy who had absolutely no friends—ever.

  “Uh huh,” I managed.

  “So how about those cookies?”

  I shook my head fiercely and started to blubber, again. I was stalling, mostly because the idea of eating those cookies and drinking that milk sounded an awful lot like downing special Kool-Aid.

  He curled his lip in disgust. Without warning, he shot his hand out and grabbed hold of my hair.

  “Ow,” I yelped.

  Dr. Marks dragged me to my feet. This time there really were tears dropping on to my cheeks.

  “Shut up,” he hissed and let go of a fistful of my scalp, only to replace his hold on me with an iron grip around my arm. “I don’t have time for this. I don’t have time for sniveling halfwits, you . . . you . . . halfwit.”

  “Owee, owee,” I cried again. That’s what Trina used to say when she got a ‘boo boo’ when we were younger.

  He dragged me down a central corridor past paintings of old people who looked like they had to be sitting on broom handles to make them pose so seriously. At the end of the hallway we came to a door with a card slot underneath the handle—the kind you see in hotels. He pulled a plastic card out of his lab coat pocket and inserted it into the slot.

  The door clicked open.

  We pushed through into another corridor, but this one was all white, like in a hospital. Dr. Marks pulled me along, his fingers digging into my bicep.

  “Leggo,” I yelped.

  He squeezed even harder.

  “You listen to me, Andy Caron, and you listen to me good. I am bringing you for some milk and cookies. When you’re done eating them, and trust me, you will eat every last one, you’re going to meet some nice people. Got me?”

  “But . . . but what about Jimmy? What about the doctor?”

  “After your snack,” he snarled. His grip tightened even more. I prayed that Jimmy was being handled better by Cheryl the It. Actually, what I really prayed for was that Jimmy was being brought to my father. Dad would know what to do. With his help, we would blow this popcorn stand and leave these freaky people to whatever they were doing out here in the middle of nowhere.

  We made a turn and found ourselves in front of another door. Again, Dr. Marks inserted his card and the door unlocked. I made a mental note that I had to get me one of those cards if we ever had a prayer of getting out of this place. We stepped into a great room in the back of the house. Everything was deep, dark wood with shiny surfaces, the kind adults don’t let kids near until they are legally responsible to pay for damages. At the back of the room, a great glass wall separated us from the darkness outside. All we needed was a bunch of pretty vampires with sparkly diamond skin to make the picture complete.

  Barf.

  I counted six people in the great room besides us. There was another solider sitting sideways in a big, leather chair. He barely acknowledged us as he flipped through a magazine, clearly bored out of his gourd. In front of a bank of computer monitors sat some guys in lab coats and three librarian-esque women also wearing the fashion du jour and sporting granny glasses. The women’s hair was so tightly pinned up that the skin on their faces was stretched tight.

  The weird thing was that all of them, the guys and the ladies, looked a little too perfect—like robots or clones or people from Hollywood.

  Black and white pictures danced across the monitor screens.

  One showed the front of the house where Jimmy and I had enacted our premiere performance. Another showcased a room filled with people sitting on beds and talking, and a third showed another room filled with poxers. They were jammed in like sardines. A fourth monitor showed an empty room except for a young guy banging his head against the wall. I could tell he was a poxer without even seeing his face. The way he moved and his dirty hair—that’s what gave it away.

  Besides the soldier, who was engrossed in whatever rag he was reading, the rest of the ‘pretty’ people were watching the monitors with interest. Some of them stroked their chins or crossed their arms over their chests. One of the women had a pen wedged between her manicured fingers and kept pointing at the monitors filled with the living and the other one on channel dead.

  Although I didn’t hear their words, I knew what they were talking about.

  They were experimenting—the question was, for what?

  71

  DR. MARKS DEPOSITED me in a room adjacent to the great room. He called it The Library. I rubbed my arm when he finally let me go.

  “I’m getting your snack,” he grumbled as he eyeballed me again—like I was the biggest delinquent he had ever met. “Don’t touch anything.”

  He closed the door a little too roughly as he left. I heard the tumbler click into place.

  I was locked in.

  “Well that just sucks,” I whispered under my breath. I looked around the room. I suppose The Library was pretty remarkable, if you were Sherlock Holmes or some other old, dead guy. Hard covered, leather bound volumes lined the walls in ten-foot-tall bookcases. There was also a ladder attached to a metal track about three-quarters of the way up that circled the room. I’d never really seen one of those before. It was classy, I guess—if you were impressed by that sort of thing.

  I wasn’t impressed.

  In the center of the room was a big, mahogany desk topped with a neatly stacked pile of folders. There were also a couple of dainty, hard-backed chairs and a little table between them. An empty plate and glass sat on the table. I guess someone else had been offered cookies and milk before me. Maybe that person was now premiering on one of those monitors.

  I went to the desk and starting rifling through the folders. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for or what I would do with any information that I found, but Dr. Marks said don’t touch anything.

  That meant touch everything.

  Some of the folders had weird titles on the tabs like ‘Patient zero’ and ‘Exposure rate.’

  I opened one and skimmed a few pages before my eyes stopped on a highlighted sentence that read, ‘Current trending data estimates an immune response ratio of 1/132.’

  A few pages further I found another highlighted section that said, ‘We are still somewhat confused about the nature of the Necropoxy organism. Although synthesized with a turn-off switch at the molecular level, rapid mutation has eradicated all forms of said switch.’

  I read a little more before turning a page and finding another sentence circled in angry, red pen next to a small diagram of the world with arrows and numbers. It said, ‘Prevailing conditions, barring any unforeseen severe weather anomalies, estimate global infestation to occur in slightly less than sixteen hours and 37 minutes from equator to bot
h poles.’

  I felt like puking. I suppose I wasn’t surprised, but seeing the words in black and white was still a bit of a shock.

  The simple truth was that a bunch of eggheads killed the world. I read the comic books and the graphic novels. People have been writing about the zombie apocalypse for years, mostly because the idea was so freaking outlandish that the stories made for a good read without the real, live nightmares.

  Oops. That would be a big, fat mistake on that one.

  There was a bright, red folder in the middle of the pile. The tab read ‘Site 37—Opal, Massachusetts.’

  Inside, the corners of most of the pages were worn and tattered as though they had been read a zillion times. The very first sentence jumped out at me

  ‘In the unlikely occurrence of an exposure event, each Site has been staffed by five male and five female medical professionals of appropriate age and health along with two senior non-productive staff, all of whom who have tested immune to the Necropoxy organism. Their sole mission is to . . .’

  I heard the lock pop and watched the door swing open, and there I was, still standing at the desk with the red folder in my hands.

  Caught—um—red handed.

  This time, an old lady came into The Library. She looked like she was getting ready to play a game of golf or have afternoon tea. She was wearing khaki pants, a pink shirt, a tan blazer, and her hair looked stylized in that short, gym teacher sort of way. She wore glossy brown loafers that were so shiny I bet her pet soldier in the great room spent a good hour working on them.

  Half rimmed librarian glasses perched on the end of her nose.

  She stared over those glasses at me for a good, long time—long enough for me to notice I was still holding the folder. I carefully lowered my hand and let the folder rest back on the pile with all the others.

  She smiled and closed the door.

  “I like the color red,” I stammered. “Is Dr. Marks bringing me cookies?”