“There’s no need for sudden needle plunges,” Grant called after him. “I’m not a big fighter. I’d rather know what you’re doing.”
Scott nodded without turning around. “Noted,” he replied absentmindedly. They fell into an uncomfortable silence.
“You want to know why I’m alive,” Grant said to Scott, hoping to extend the conversation.
Scott turned to Grant. He tucked the capped vial of Grant’s blood into his lab coat pocket. “Yes,” he replied. “It’s perplexing.”
“Up until a few hours ago, I thought it was sort of like a super power,” Grant replied. “I mean…Virus Boy. Has a good superhero ring to it.”
Scott kept his eyes trained on Grant; then he smiled.
“Virus Boy,” Scott repeated and he chuckled. Grant shrugged and put his hands in his lap—he tried to think of more virus jokes, but they eluded him. He wished he had paid more attention in biology class; there had to be a good zinger about antibodies.
For a brief moment, Grant thought maybe it would be exactly like Lucy suspected—they’d free him from his metal bed, invite him up for supper, and bygones would be bygones. If Scott King appreciated humor, maybe Grant could win him over with puns and superhero jokes all night.
He had nothing else.
No leverage.
No parents searching for him; no living family hoping for his return. Only Lucy and her friendship was the only clout he had, but he didn’t want to use her. It wasn’t fair.
“I can see why my daughter enjoyed your company,” Scott replied and he turned to leave. “It’s clear that you are a good guy, Grant. And you’ve been good for her. I appreciate that.”
“We were separated,” Grant said, his voice trailing off. “I’ve been worried. But… I mean, just, it must have been a great reunion. So, she’s happy now? I guess, I mean…” he stopped. He didn’t know what he wanted to say. He lifted his wrist and the chain lifted with him. “I just want her to be happy, you know? So, is she? Does she seem happy?”
Scott paused and he ran his teeth over his lips and made a clicking noise with his tongue. “She’s concerned about you, actually. She’s having a rough time understanding this place.”
“Huh,” was all Grant could think to say. He wished she wouldn’t. He wished she would just enjoy seeing everyone again. “Will you tell her that I said that…”
“I’ll stop you right there,” Scott interrupted. “You have to know Lucy well enough now to know that telling her something won’t change what she thinks.” He leaned against the counter. “This is a huge adjustment. There’s no easy way to explain—” Scott motioned around the room in a sweeping gesture.
Grant let the chain rise and fall and hit the metal bed. It clunk-clunk-clunked in the small room. Then he let his eyes scan the small room; all the vials and science equipment.
“Hey, I have a question…it’s embarrassing,” Grant said after a moment.
“I don’t do embarrassing,” Scott answered quickly and turned to walk away. “I’d send an assistant in…but I’m afraid it’s just me and you, kid. So, sorry. I’m sorry. Never could do any of that stuff even with my own kids—”
“No—” Grant called to him, backpedaling. “No. Not like, you know, physically embarrassing. Or personal…no…nothing like that. I wanted to ask about…” he paused and then decided just to say it. “Zombies?”
“Zombies.”
“Yeah, you know, the undead. Flesh-eating dead people.”
“I know what zombies are,” Scott answered. “What do you want to know about them?”
“Can they happen? In real life?”
Scott took a tentative step back toward Grant and tilted his head to the side, regarding Grant with equal parts amusement and concern. “You want to know if zombies are real?”
“Could be real. It’s just…you’re a scientist and all. You study viruses, right?”
After a delay, Scott nodded.
“Mythologically speaking a virus is one way zombies happen. Virus. Zombies. And so, could all of the people who died of the virus…just…you know…”
Scott laughed and the sheer volume of it scared Grant into silence. He stopped talking and looked at the man sidelong. All of the pictures at the King house showed him with a reserved smile—never showing his teeth—his arms wrapped around Maxine, who always looked a few years older than him. The patriarch of the King brood mastered photographic stoicism. But here, he seemed lively and jovial; endearing even, and Grant did not know how to marry the Scott King he expected and the Scott King standing before him. He waited until Scott was done laughing and then looked at him, unblinking.
“I’m sorry,” Scott said and he held up a finger. Then he grabbed a chair from the corner and dragged it over to Grant’s bedside. Sitting across from Grant, crossing one leg and leaning over, Scott smiled. “Okay. No. The bodies killed by the virus are dead. Gone.”
“Okay,” Grant answered, waiting with baited breath to see if Mr. King would indulge him.
“If you’re asking whether or not zombies are scientifically disproven, however, then I can’t answer no. I don’t have empirical evidence, but there is some anecdotal evidence that might support zombies.”
“English,” Grant replied.
“I haven’t seen any. Don’t expect to. Research suggests…maybe.”
“Maybe.” Grant smiled.
Scott leaned in a bit further. “We’re not talking about an army of the undead. That’s impossible. Once people are dead, they are, in fact, dead. But there are medicines that can simulate death and chemicals that can cause a zombie-like reaction. People have been known, anecdotally, to die and then have vague recollections of their behavior for an extended period of time. But those are not real deaths…they are chemically simulated deaths.”
“That’s not the same,” Grant said and he felt a bit let down. He was hoping Lucy’s father could answer this question for him once and for all.
“Maybe not a Hollywood version of zombies, but if someone was close to death and spent time in a zombie-like state? And perhaps that state had lowered inhibitions or hallucinations? Well, then, that is quite remarkable.”
“Would those zombies like brains?”
“No way of knowing,” Scott replied. “Seems a trial would be needed to measure a chemically simulated zombie’s desire for human flesh.”
Grant smiled. “Awesome.”
“We wondered if the virus we were creating would in fact create a zombie-like phenomenon,” Scott revealed in a whisper. “If the virus damaged part of the brain, but left vital organs working and functioning. But that wasn’t our desire. And, ultimately, none of our test subjects succumbed in that fashion, which is good.”
“You wanted to kill people. Done and done.”
Spoken plainly, Scott bristled. He frowned and tapped his hand against the metal bedframe. Then he lifted his head and nodded. “Yes. We did.”
“You’re very honest,” Grant replied.
“When discussing science, I appreciate the truth. Other things? Not so much. I appreciate the good white lies, the social niceties. By nature I’m inclined to lie…but honesty is a precept of our new world. I’m getting used to it.” Scott clapped his hands and then put them in front of him. His forehead glistened.
Grant tried to force a smile: honest murders, such a relief. “Okay…what happens to me? Since we’re being so truthful.”
The question took Scott off guard and he leaned back in his chair. He glanced to the door and then to a small camera in the corner of the room. For a few seconds, he was gone in some faraway place, and then he looked right at Grant and shook his head.
“We planned on survivors. Those who escaped, somehow, exposure to the virus. Pockets of indigenous people untouchable for a time. However, within populated areas, those who witnessed the fall and the chaos and didn’t die? We couldn’t have that. So, if there is a group of people who are immune? It’s a problem. You are, to be blunt, an overlooked and missing piece
in my plan. If I figure out how you survived, then I can prepare.”
“For?” Grant raised his eyebrows.
“How to…go forward.”
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.”
The Virulent Chronicles Box Set Page 53
