Special Dead

by Patrick Freivald

“What’s amazing?”

  “I didn’t realize how dull I’d gotten. Everything feels so...real.” He ran his fingertips down her cheek, and she felt a blush she knew wasn’t real. “Smooth.”

  She laughed. “You’re not being very smooth, no.”

  He smiled. “No, but you are.”

  She touched her own cheek. The rubbery, too-hard skin didn’t yield as a living person’s would. About as close as her head got to “smooth” was “hairless.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do.” He grabbed her hand with both of his, gliding over her fingers with his own. It was too forward, and she meant to pull back but didn’t. He sighed. “Timing.”

  She opened her mouth to ask him what the hell he was talking about, but he kissed her cheek and took off down the hallway. She stared after him, mouth open. Okay....

  She turned around and stepped around the corner almost right into her mom.

  “There you are, sweetie.” She kissed Ani on the cheek, right where Joe had. “I thought we were going over precalc after dinner.”

  “Oh, have you eaten?”

  “It’s eight o’clock.”

  They turned toward home.

  “Sorry. Sam and I were studying virology.”

  “What was it tonight? Retroviruses?”

  “Bacteriophages.”

  “Oooh, bacteriophages.” She prattled on about why bacteriophages were so interesting as they settled in and opened Ani’s math book to the upcoming chapter. She seemed disappointed to get back to math.

  If I knew it was this easy to distract her, I’d have studied virology years ago!

  Chapter

  15

  School was agony. It took them three times as long to get anywhere because Kyle couldn’t move faster than a drugged kindergartener. The steel rings protruding from his flesh were surrounded by raw, red tissue, making it obvious that he’d struggled against the chains while in the bath. Ani could feel his frustration in every clank. His obnoxious, praise-me-for-my-stupidity confidence had vanished into a sullen funk that cast a cloud over the whole class.

  Teah wouldn’t stop crying, and Lydia wouldn’t stop enabling her pity-party with hugs and sympathetic looks and coos of sympathy and sad smiles and little broken-heart drawings made in red crayon. Mike was Mike, struggling to comprehend as Mr. Foster broke up third grade material into fifteen-minute chunks, happy to color or play Jenga by himself when Mr. Foster turned his attention elsewhere. At least his brooding, love-professing memories hadn’t returned.

  Mr. Gursslin’s class didn’t improve. He ignored Ani, and she chose politeness over self-advocacy. By mid-week she’d stopped even trying to ask questions. It took effort, but she ignored both Kate Jackson’s snide, cheerleader’s glare and the fawning reverence of the black-clad nuts. At least she was learning some math.

  Mrs. Weller’s attitude didn’t improve, either, but she did start teaching. They moved from Catcher in the Rye to Le Morte d’Arthur, when it became obvious that Lydia and Kyle wouldn’t even try to understand what they read. Devon loved it, though, and buried herself in Sir Thomas Malory’s work when they got back to the lab.

  Joe’s color improved over the next few days, though Ani saw little enough of him. Every evening they whisked him from the bus to the lab to monitor the progress of the Phase VII inoculation, and he didn’t get back until bath time.

  When she got home Thursday evening, the sound of her piano greeted her through the door, a mix of melodies overlapping and overriding one another in a B-flat, A, C, B-sharp motif. She took care not to make a sound as she stepped through the door, closed it, and set down her helmet.

  Dr. Herley’s hands danced across the ivories. He wore a gray tweed suit that matched his hair and bushy, Santa-like beard. Without turning around he said, “Do you know what I’m playing, young lady?”

  She nodded, then realized he couldn’t see her. She stepped up next to the bench and said, “Busoni’s fantasia contrappuntistica. The B-A-C-H motif is a dead giveaway. But you’re improvising a bit.”

  His mouth quirked up in the barest hint of a smile. “Am I?”

  “You are.”

  “And how do you know?” He held the chord and looked her in the eyes.

  “Because there are just over a hundred pianists in the world who are known to be able to play the whole thing from memory, and in the August edition of the Rochester Review you admitted that you’re not one of them.”

  He didn’t smile. He played another three lines, then slid off the bench. “I heard a rumor that a talented girl from Ohneka Falls can do it.”

  Ani looked at her feet. “Mostly. My fingers aren’t as nimble as they used to be, so the tempo lags on the most intricate parts.”

  He said nothing for a moment, then, “Show me.”

  She sat and played. Twenty-five minutes later she sat back, her foot on the pedal to prolong the last chord. She didn’t dare look at him.

  “Interesting.”

  Ani waited better than anyone alive. The silence stretched, and she let it. He broke before she did.

  “You’re not a natural virtuoso. How did you accomplish this?”

  She grunted at the frank appraisal. “Practice. I’ve had nothing but time.”

  She waited again until he spoke.

  “Do it again.” She did it again, but he cut her off three minutes in. “Let me see your hands.”

  She held up her hands, conscious of their pallid, dead appearance. He grabbed them, and knelt to look her in the eyes.

  “These, they’re gifts from God. They’re wondrous and capable of anything.” He let go and rubbed his hands on his pants. “But they are cold. Too cold.”

  She smiled. It felt weird to not be in the slightest self-conscious. “Dull, we call it. There’s no warm-up, no cool-down. Everything is what it is, all the time. And I can’t feel the keys like I used to.”

  “These are excuses. We’ll crush them.”

  And they tried. He gave Ani exercises, all of them difficult, and barked corrections when she screwed up. His sparse praise drove her onward. At some point she became aware of her mother standing off to the side, watching. Ani had never worked so hard in her life, and at the end of an hour her exhilaration matched her frustration.

  When their time ended, Dr. Herley gave his mother a quick pianist’s bow. “Good evening, Doctor Romero,” and then he was gone.

  Her mom’s slow clap sounded mocking, though Ani knew it wasn’t. “Well done, sweetie.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” She turned to the piano and repeated the exercises. Then again. And again and again and again. At ten fifteen her mom interrupted by cradling Ani’s head to her breast.

  “You’re overdue, sweetie. Bath time.”

  Ani sighed and tore herself from the piano. Five minutes later she sank into the viscous, slimy, ice-cold liquid, making sure to suck it down her throat. As it filled her lungs, she contemplated the mixture of confidence and impotence that would’ve haunted a normal girl’s sleep.

  Chapter

  16

  Friday’s half day of parent-teacher conferences presented an interesting problem for the district: they couldn’t both hide the zombies from public view and hold conferences that included Mr. Cummings and Mrs. Weller, as contract required. Dr. Romero insisted that the Special Dead and their parents be allowed to attend conferences just like anyone else but was turned down by the board of education.

  Devon’s and Teah’s moms stopped in right at noon but stayed just long enough to verify that their daughters were performing to expectation—A’s and C’s, respectively. By 1:00 pm, under the watchful eyes of Foster, Pulver, and Romero, Ani and the others had already played a psychologically crippling amount of Jenga. Ani, Sam, Devon, and Joe broke off from the others to play Scrabble. Ani was struggling to find a use for an X and a J when the door opened.

  Mr. Benson entered, followed by two soldiers, four civilians, then three more soldiers. The room got crowded fast.

  Sam’s
dad’s permanent scowl held even his daughter at bay. Lydia’s mom stepped in for a hug, as did Joe’s dad. Mike’s dad lurked by the door, shoulders hunched beneath a light jacket. Ani didn’t think they’d been in the same room together since he’d broken up with her mom.

  “Hi, Mr. Brown.” Ani forced a smile. Her mom’s murderous eyes could have flensed skin off him, but he wouldn’t meet them. Instead he gave Ani a half-hearted wave and approached Mike with a reluctant shuffle, cutting off at the last minute to talk to Mrs. Pulver. Ani hugged her mom, careful not to crack her jaw with the helmet. “I see everything’s normal on that front.”

  Her mom clucked her tongue. “We are not having this conversation. Now or ever.”

  Ani squeezed a little harder, then let her go. “Is there anything you want to talk to my teachers about?”

  She shook her head, her eyes still on Mike Sr. “It’s not like I don’t know how you’re doing or why. I already took off Mr. Gursslin’s ear, and don’t have any issues with anyone else.”

  Mrs. Stuber’s raised voice caught her ear. “—can’t have an ‘F’. She’s here all goddamned day, there’s no way she can be failing.” Lydia tugged at her shirt, her wide eyes filled with anxiety. What little brain she had couldn’t handle being the source of acrimony.

  As the badgering continued, Ani’s mom kissed her on the helmet—an odd gesture by any standard—and walked over to calm Mrs. Stuber down. Deprived of her Scrabble partners, Ani sat next to the only person not engaged in conversation.

  Kyle’s sullen glare shifted to her as she made herself comfortable in Teah’s seat. “What do you want?”

  She shrugged. “Nothing. Just figured I’d keep you company while everyone’s talking.”

  He spat nothing at her feet. “What, pity party for Kyle ’cause his daddy didn’t show? Fuck off, I don’t care.” His flat, dead eyes didn’t reflect the hurt his voice betrayed.

  Ani tried to downplay it. “No, I’m just bored and thought you would be, too.”

  “I’m not bored.”

  “Whatever.”

  She grabbed a crayon and a piece of paper and used doodling as cover to eavesdrop. Lydia’s mom finished badgering Mr. Foster and started in on Ani’s mom, who told her she wasn’t in charge of academics. Mike’s dad exchanged a few sentences with Mr. Foster, then waited by the door without even talking to his son. Joe and his dad spoke in low tones, impossible to decipher in the cacophony, but they ended the conversation with a big hug. Sam and her dad saw each other regularly, so they spent their time watching the rest of the group.

  Minutes later, all the extra people filed out, leaving the usual crowd, plus Dr. Romero and Mr. Benson. Devon rolled her eyes toward Ani’s mom.

  “What now, Doc?”

  She responded with a loud sigh. “Now we go home.”

  * * *

  Ani did the math in her head as the syringe stabbed through her midsection. A minute to log samples, two minutes to detox, two more to change. It would take Dr. Banerjee at least five minutes to get from the examination room to his office, where Mike waited in his guest chair. She could make it in three.

  Ani had seen Mike through the little safety window when she’d walked by and had made up her mind. Whatever Dr. Banerjee was doing to him, it wasn’t on the books. She had to know, and that meant getting a sample of...of whatever it was.

  She hugged her mom and changed back into her clothes, dropping the empty phial that she’d palmed into her pocket as she stepped into her jeans. She worked fast but tried not to look rushed; her mom’s raised eyebrow told her she’d failed. At least Dr. Banerjee didn’t seem to have noticed.

  “Put the wash in the dryer when you get home, sweetie.”

  She grinned. “I will.” She pulled the T-shirt on and ducked out the door. “Bye, Mom! Bye, Doctor Banerjee!”

  They called their goodbyes as she shuffled through the hall, conscious of the cameras at every corner. Her shuffle dragged into a limp, her old hip injury slowing her as it always did when she tried to hurry. Thirty seconds later she passed Dr. Banerjee’s office, stopped in feigned surprise, and waved. She just managed not to look at the security cameras.

  “Hi, Mike!”

  He sat inside, cradling a huge teddy bear in his massive arms, and didn’t seem to hear or notice her. On the far side of the desk sat a large syringe filled with a thick, emerald liquid.

  She stepped to the door and opened it. “Sure,” she said for the benefit of the surveillance weenies. “What do you need?” Stepping inside, she shut the door and patted Mike on the cheek on the way by.

  He smiled up from the bear, his white teeth huge where his gray gums had receded. “I have a teddy.”

  “He’s very nice,” Ani said. She pulled the phial from her pocket, picked up the syringe, and injected a tiny amount of the green fluid through the hydrophobic rubber top. She tucked the phial in her bra, looked down to make sure it couldn’t be seen, and set the syringe back exactly as she’d found it. “What’s his name?”

  “Teddy,” Mike said. “He’s fluffy.”

  “Yes, he is.” Soft footsteps approached in the side hall, the back passageway reserved for the living. Here goes. She kept her voice as natural as she could and turned her back to the door. “I told you. We can’t play Jenga right now because we don’t have any blocks.”

  Mike beamed. “I like Jenga. You want to play?”

  She sighed. “We can’t, Mike, and you’re not even supposed to be in here. Come on, let’s go home before you get into trouble.”

  Mike’s eyes drifted over her shoulder, and he grinned.

  “Ani?” Dr. Banerjee’s soft voice came from inches behind her ear. She turned around and didn’t have to fake a worried look. Don’t see through this. Please.

  “Sorry, Doctor. Mike was in here messing with your bear, and he asked me to come in and play Jenga.” Don’t babble. “We were just leaving.”

  He didn’t say anything. Instead, he set down his briefcase, draped his suit coat over his chair, and leaned on the desk.

  Mike grabbed her hand and held it to his cheek. “Ani?”

  The recognition in his voice terrified her. She looked down, and for once he wasn’t smiling. He looked desperate, lost, alone. “Mike?”

  He smiled his dumb smile, the moment gone as fast as it came. “Hi, Ani.”

  Dr. Banerjee cleared his throat, drawing her eyes up. “Ani, go home. Mike and I have a little business left.”

  “It’s not his fault. He doesn’t know any better. I can take him home no prob—”

  “I’m not going to punish him. Now go on.” The up-turn of his lips couldn’t be a smile. “You’ve got laundry to do.”

  She was halfway out the door when he spoke again.

  “And Ani?”

  “Yeah?” She poked her head back through the door, eyebrows raised.

  “I won’t find you in my office again. Not without my expressed invitation.”

  “No problem.” She schooled her face to neutrality as she walked down the hall, humming Brahms all the way.

  She got home and pulled out some blank sheet music. She spent ten minutes composing utter crap, and wrote between the clefs: He’s giving Mike this.

  She buried her nose in the pages as she walked to the laundry room and loaded the dryer. She folded the top page into an envelope with the phial, then tucked it into the top of the lint trap on the dryer.

  * * *

  Her mom got back minutes before the washing machine buzzed.

  “Can you get that?” Ani said. “I’m in the middle of this coda, and I don’t want to lose it.”

  She heard the sigh from a room away, then forced herself to keep working as her mom banged around out of sight. She heard the telltale squeak of the lint trap lid, then nothing for a split second before regular sounds resumed.

  Smart as her kid.

  After the dryer kicked on, her mom called out. “Sweetie? Why don’t you get out that precalc? I have a few minutes before I run out.�
�

  “Where are you going?”

  “The store.”

  “Okay.” Ani put away the disastrous excuse for a composition and pulled out her math book, notebook, and a second pencil. She was halfway through the homework when her mom sat beside her.

  She picked up a pencil and scowled down at the problems. She scrawled out a few solutions, accurate as far as Ani could tell, and amidst them wrote, What did you do?

  What I had to.

  Not smart. AT ALL.

  I know. You have to find out what it is.

  Her mom frowned at the page for a moment, then wrote, Yeah.

  They did the rest of her precalc together.

  * * *

  At 1:00 pm Joe slid into the doorway, his socks gliding across the tile floor. “Saddle up!”

  Ani looked up from the piano and raised an eyebrow. It was impossible not to match his grin with one of her own, but she had no idea what he was talking about. “What?”

  “Mr. Benson has a Christmas present for us! Get your shoes on!”

  “It’s October fifteenth,” she protested, but she got up.

  “Exactly,” he said, as if it made sense. When she didn’t move he continued, “Homecoming.” When she still didn’t reply he threw up his hands. “Mr. Benson’s taking us to the game. Let’s go!”

  “That’s...not possible.”

  “Are you coming or not?”

  She put on her shoes.

  * * *

  Ani stumbled into the zombie yard and squinted through the afternoon sun. The small set of bleachers in the grass told her that this actually might not be some kind of cruel joke. A crowd had gathered next to the athletic fields, in blue-and-white or green-and-white, depending on their loyalties. Those not staring at the Zombie Yard stood, stiff backs toward the school, steadfast in their determination to neither acknowledge nor validate the dead students behind them.

  Ani clambered up and took a spot next to Joe. “You weren’t kidding.”

  He shook his head without taking his eyes from the crowd. “Nope. The park’s totally flooded, and Red Jacket’s field is hosting the girls. It was either here or postpone the game.”