Kiss of Life

by Daniel Waters

  Adam was looking at her. She wished she knew what he was thinking.

  The van arrived at the same time as a sputtering compact car that followed them around the turning circle in front of the foundation. Phoebe could see Melissa riding along in the passenger seat, her coppery hair high enough to press against the car's roof. The girl turned toward the van. She had a different mask on today, still a blank white but this time with the corners of the mouth turned up in a slight smile.

  The car pulled to a stop, and the driver got out of the still-running vehicle to trot around to help Melissa out. Phoebe could see that it was Father Fitzpatrick, the Catholic priest that had performed the funeral service for Evan Talbot. She would have liked to have said hello to him, but by the time she'd helped Adam out of the van, he was back in his car, speeding off. Must have some souls to save, Phoebe thought.

  Melissa waved to her, holding the whiteboard in front of her like a shield.

  "Hey, Melissa," she said, watching the girl hitch from side

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  to side as she walked to the doors. Father Fitzpatrick was late; usually Melissa was already in her seat by the time they arrived at the class. The girl walked with great difficulty; her left leg especially seemed unwilling to move at the appropriate pace or bend at the appropriate angle.

  Adam took a shuffle-step forward, and Phoebe tried her best to steady his massive frame.

  "Good job, Adam," she said.

  He looked down at her, his expression unreadable.

  Cooper Wilson, Alish, and Angela were already seated as the students went through the motions of retrieving assignments and notebooks, stowing gear, and, in the case of the few traditionally biotic ones, helping themselves to the refreshments from the back table. Angela spoke over the din.

  "Cooper has asked for class time today," she said. "He'd like to tell everyone the story of the Dickinson House fire."

  "I've been ...waiting for a chance ... to tell... this story," Cooper said, managing to look shy as he brushed a lock of gray-black hair out of his eyes, "to ...people ...who will actually ...listen."

  Melissa, her arm swathed in loose green fabric ending in a tight cuff at her slender wrist, raised her hand. "Yes, Melissa?"

  The girl wrote on her board with as much alacrity as she could muster.

  MAY I B XCUSED?

  "May I ask why?" Angela asked.

  "Mel," Cooper said, "they've got ...to ...know. It's why

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  ...we ...came here." He was tall, rail-thin, and usually had a clownish half smile on his face, but Phoebe could see that his goofy demeanor masked a more serious nature. Melissa's presence in the room was very important to him.

  Melissa shook her head, her hair bouncing as she erased and wrote.

  "Mel ..."

  CANT.

  Angela said that she could leave. "I understand, Melissa. I'm sure all your friends do too. You can do work in my office for now, if you'd like. I'll come get you at the break."

  Melissa rose, with effort, and dragged her feet across the carpet and out the door. Cooper didn't look like he understood.

  "She should ...hear ...this," he said to Angela.

  "She isn't ready."

  "What is she ... scared of?" he said. "She's already... dead." "Cooper," Angela said, her voice as close to reproach as it ever got.

  "Okay ...okay. Dickinson House," he said, and everyone was rapt. A few weeks prior Tommy had read a news article he'd found on the torching of Dickinson House, which was a sanctuary for the differently biotic, similar to St. Jude's mission, but secular. According to the article, the fire had destroyed seven zombies and taken the lives of two employees.

  "The article that you ...saw ...was a bunch ... of crap," Cooper began. "Almost nothing in it ...was ...right except ...that...there was a fire.

  "The body ...count ...for example," he said, "ten

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  zombies ...burned to ... a second death. No ...trads ...died. Amos Burke ...was the alcoholic ...janitor ...and the only one ...who talked ... to the press."

  "How did the fire start?" Tommy said.

  "Oh ...yeah," Cooper answered. "That was the other ...thing in the article... that was right. There were ... white vans."

  Phoebe was a little shocked. She'd heard of the white vans so often without seeing any actual evidence of them that even she had begun to think that they were Tommy's personal conspiracy obsession, like the single gun theory or the alien autopsies at Roswell.

  Cooper spoke to Tommy. "I know ...people ...think you are ...nuts. Even

  zombies ...I've seen them ...call you a crank ... on your own ...Web site ...but it is true."

  If she expected Tommy to look smug or self-righteous, she was disappointed. He looked intent and serious, maybe a little sad. But Cooper was right, there were a number of surprised faces in the room, including, for a moment, Angela's.

  "Tell us what you saw, Cooper," she said, covering well.

  "I was in ...the house," he said. "Because I didn't ...feel ...like dancing."

  He must have noticed the looks of confusion. He closed his eyes and continued.

  "There was a ...dance. Miss ...Mary ...she was a volunteer ...from the college ...who spent... a lot... of time ...with us ...had arranged it. Miss Mary would bring ... art supplies ... puppets ... and scripts from... plays. She was always ...trying to get us ...to have 'fun.' Her idea of fun, anyhow."

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  The voice was a dead one, but Phoebe could hear a note of sadness there.

  "She brought... a radio ...and CDs and hung ... ribbons ... in the barn. The

  other ...employees ...did not ...like her. Or ...us. We were there ... to work. On the ...farm.

  "I ...wasn't going ... to dance. But Melissa ...came to ...the zombie ...room ...and ...asked me. Told her ... I'd think ...about it.

  "I read ... a comic book. Batman. Then ...went ...upstairs. Saw the vans. Two vans, white. Four men ...the men ...wore sunglasses and white suits ...Tyvek suits. Two had shotguns like ...Burke ...said. I saw them shoot ...inside the barn. The others had ...Super ...Soakers ...not ...flamethrowers."

  "Super Soakers?" Thorny said.

  Cooper nodded. "Filled with ...gasoline. They sprayed ...inside ...the barn ... I couldn't see ...inside . ... where I was but ...Miss Mary ...came out. She was ...screaming. Covered in ...gasoline. One of the men said ...she should ...shut up ...unless she ...wanted to ...burn ...with the dead."

  "She wasn't mentioned in the article," Tommy said.

  "Conspiracy," Cooper said, something like a rueful smile on his face. "The

  other ...employees ...had ...mysteriously ...vanished. One of the ...men ...punched her ... in the stomach and ...threw her down. Then his ...friend ...threw ...the

  bottle ...with the rag ... in it. It went up ... so quickly."

  "So it was the ...barn ...not the house?" Tommy asked.

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  "The house ... is still there," Cooper answered. "Free of...zombies."

  "What happened then?"

  "The killers ...watched. The flames ...threw ...shadows ...across the lawn and I heard ...silence. Nothing but the ...roar and ...rush ... of the fire. My ...friends ...didn't scream."

  He looked at the floor, his eyes unfocused, as though he was staring at the ashes of his friends. "Later ...there were ...sirens. The men ...got in ...their vans."

  "How did ...Melissa ...escape?" Tommy asked, his voice low, almost a growl.

  Cooper looked at him a moment, and Phoebe felt like something electrical was passing in the air between them as he answered Tommy's question.

  "She ...didn't."

  No wonder the poor thing couldn't stay, Phoebe thought. She felt her fingernails biting into the skin of her palms.

  "Miss Mary ...got up.. The flames ...were covering the ...barn like ... a coat of paint. A part of...the roof... gave way. She ...ran in ...used her jacket... on Melissa. I helped ...drag them out. None of...the ...others ...made ...it."

/>   "What did the police ...do?" Tommy asked.

  "They took ... a statement... from ... Miss Mary. And from ... Burke ... who was ... passed out... in the ... supply room."

  Thorny was incredulous. "They didn't talk to you?"

  Cooper shook his head. "One of the firemen said ...'they missed ...one.'"

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  "How did you get... to the foundation?"

  "Miss Mary ...drove us. She was ...afraid ...they would try ... to kill us ... again. She was ... arrested ... for helping us."

  "Really? For helping you?" Phoebe could almost see the wheels spinning in Tommy's mind; Cooper's story was hitting him on a number of levels, all of which he would be compelled to write about and act upon. Maybe it was hearing the story firsthand and not through the filter of a computer screen that made a deeper impact. That and seeing the evidence of the atrocity--Melissa--with his own eyes.

  "The owners ... of the farm ...claimed we were ...their property. An ...asset."

  "Because you worked there?"

  "Because they ...housed us," he said, looking at his hands. "I don't even know ... if my friends ...tried to get away. Or if...they let the gasoline ...and then the flames ... hit them. I don't know ... if they tried."

  He didn't take his eyes off Tommy as he spoke. "Melissa was almost ...happy ...before they came. All they wanted ...was to dance. That's ...all."

  Angela suggested that they take a break after a moment of silence. Tommy volunteered to go get Melissa. When they returned ten minutes later, Tommy was guiding her gently by the elbow. Angela spurred on a discussion about an article that had appeared in Time magazine about Slydellco and Aftermath, trying gamely to steer the class in a more upbeat direction, which worked for a little while until Tommy pointed out that the magazine had given equal time to Reverend Nathan

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  Mathers. Melissa sat quietly throughout their discussion without making a single mark on her whiteboard.

  There was less than a half hour to go when Angela brought the class to a halt.

  "Tommy," she said, her voice soft, "don't you think you should make your announcement before the end of our session?

  Tommy looked up at her and Alish, as surprised as the dead could look.

  "I am ...leaving ...the class," he said.

  There was a moment of protracted silence in the room, like that after a prayer at a funeral.

  "Mr. Williams," Alish said, leaning forward on his cane and clearing his throat "has stated his intention to pursue his studies elsewhere." He smiled, in what Phoebe thought was supposed to be a reassuring manner. "Fieldwork, if you will."

  "I'm leaving school," he said. "Dropping ...out."

  Thorny was the first student to speak. "Aw, man," was all he said. "Dude," Cooper said, "I am ...bummed. I ...am a ...big ...fan. I read ...My So-Called ...Undeath ...every ...day ...even before ...we came here."

  "I'm really sorry," Tommy said. Phoebe was aware of her own breathing, how fast it had become. "I ...really am. I will ...keep writing ...though."

  Kevin was looking at the floor, which is as close as his dead face could come to crestfallen. Margi and Colette watched Phoebe, afraid she was going to freak, but she remained calm.

  Karen was another matter.

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  "Tommy," Karen said, an edge to her voice. "I'm mad at you." He tilted his head in response.

  "I ...am ...very ...mad at you," she went on. "Very. Don't you think ...you should have ...discussed this with us?"

  Tommy's lip curled up in a fair approximation of sarcasm. "It's my ...life," he said.

  "It is ... a lot more ...than that...and you ...know it," she said.

  "Karen, maybe this isn't the best time to discuss this," Angela said.

  Karen's eyes flashed as though there were a flurry of hot responses blazing up inside her.

  "May I be excused?" Karen asked. "May I go ... to ... to the bathroom?"

  Angela sighed and gave her permission to go.

  Phoebe watched her short blue skirt waving like a flag as she hurried away. Margi raised her hand.

  "Can I...?"

  "By all means," Angela said, fluttering her hands in frustration. "Maybe the rest of you would like to start discussing how differently biotic people are represented by the entertainment industry today. Would that be okay?"

  There were a few nods. Phoebe watched as Alish made his way over to a wide square table that the students used to complete written assignments. He sat in one of the padded rolling chairs, leaning his cane against the table, and tapping his smooth chin with one long and wrinkled finger.

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  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  "TIT ... BY ... MY ... SELF," Adam said, just before he preceded Phoebe on the bus. As slow as his words were, it took them a moment to register.

  "Oh," Phoebe said. "Oh. I'll just sit over here, across ..."

  "No," Adam said. She realized he was trying to point. "Sit ...with ...friends."

  Phoebe looked at his pale gray face, searching for the meaning that he used to be able to convey with the slightest movement of his eye or mouth. Now he was an enigma, as unreadable to her as an ancient Aramaic scroll.

  "Oh," she said, knowing that he could still read her feelings and there was nothing she could do to hide them. Was he mad at her for talking to Tommy? Is that why he wanted her to go away? His stare was impassive and cold, and she couldn't help but shrink from the blankness of it. She let go of his arm.

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  "Okay, then," she said. "I'll catch up with you later."

  She turned and walked toward the back where the Weird Sisters held court, their voices audible over the dull rumble of the bus engine.

  Margi and Colette were in the last seats of the bus, and Margi stepped out of her seat to let Phoebe slide in. Margi was already into full monologue, so if she noticed that Phoebe and Adam weren't together she didn't say anything.

  "I am so glad to be out of the lab," Margi said, her hands a blur of motion as she went on. Colette winked at Phoebe, her mascara'd eyelid dropping and raising lazily, at half speed. "I just thought that was the creepiest thing in the world. Sorry, Colette, but it was. Batty old Alish sticking you guys with pins like you were life-size voodoo dolls or something, that was totally nasty. Totally nasty. Not that the letters are much better. Hell this and hell that, monster this and evil that. Can you believe some freaky mortician is marketing to the foundation? Every week we get an enouncement where he sends us pictures of all the coffins he has on sale. Phoebe, why didn't you warn me about stuff like that?"

  Phoebe shrugged, her gaze drifting outside as the bus rolled to a stop in front of the Oakvale mobile home park, where Tommy usually waited for it.

  "Probably ...could not...get a word ...in ...edgewise," Colette said.

  "Har-de-har," Margi said, "you are such the little comedienne. She should have said something, though. I haven't read that much profanity since I had to use the bathroom at El and Gee club

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  when we went to see the Shadowy Organization last month."

  Phoebe listened to Margi laugh and Colette pretend to laugh. She forced herself to smile, but she wasn't quick enough. Margi looped her metal-sheathed arm around her shoulders.

  "Aw, what is it, Pheebes? Are you still upset about Tommy?"

  "I am not upset about Tommy."

  "Is it because he's leaving? Or because you still have feelings for him?"

  "I am not upset about Tommy!"

  "Okay, okay," Margi said, squeezing her tighter. "Jeez, sorry I mentioned it. Bite my head off."

  "I didn't bite your head off," she said, knowing that she did. Margi was right on both accounts.

  Margi looked at her, pink lips wrinkling. "Clearly, I have erred. There is obviously nothing bothering you, so let's just move on, shall we?"

  "I'd appreciate it."

  "Good."

  "Because it isn't like it's my fault or anything," she said, but her hands were shaking in the frilly sleeves of her
blouse.

  "That's right. We all agree that it wasn't your fault. Don't we, C.B.?"

  Colette was also wearing her hair spiked lately, but no matter how much product she and Margi put into it, the lank strands wouldn't stand up like they did on Margi's head. Margi's spikes swayed, Colette's gave a limp bounce.

  "We ...agree."

  "Good," Margi said. "See? We agree. What exactly are we agreeing on?"

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  Phoebe blew the bangs out of her eyes with a huffy breath. "That it isn't my fault. Tommy leaving."

  "Ah. No. No, that definitely isn't your fault. You breaking up with someone is not to say you are responsible for them going on a zombie vision quest."

  "A zombie vision quest?" Phoebe said. "So you do think I'm responsible."

  "Didn't I just say the opposite?" Margi looked out the window, then she asked, "Are you and Adam fighting?"

  "Why? Just because I'm not sitting with him you think we're fighting? Am I such a terrible monster that you think I just go around picking fights with people?"

  "You mean like you're doing now?" Margi said, poking her in the ribs as though trying to puncture Phoebe's cloud of gloom. "No. It's just when you turned away from him, he reached for you, like there was something else he wanted to say. But he was too slow, and you kept moving."

  Phoebe looked at her friend. "He reached for me?"

  "Yeah," Margi said, "like he was afraid you were upset or something. It's so hard to tell what he's thinking now, he just hasn't got the 'expression' thing or the 'inflection' thing down yet. What do you think he was doing, C.B.? Can you give us a little help with the zombie-to-English translation?"

  Colette tried on a smile. "I think... he was ... going Romero."

  Phoebe, being a great fan of Night of the Living Dead and all of George Romero's movies, couldn't help but smile even though she knew what was coming.