Special Dead

by Patrick Freivald

  “Just to satisfy your curiosity?”

  “That’s correct. We need to know what effects the serums are having.”

  “Is that what’s going on with Mike’s arm?”

  His thin-lipped smile was the most terrifying thing she’d ever seen. “You’re bright, like your mother, but no.” The smile disappeared into his typical, expressionless face. “That’s one of Doctor Freeman’s experiments.”

  I knew it.

  “Who is she?”

  “She’s a researcher in the Department of Homeland Security, Bioterror. Her interests at least to some degree parallel mine, and in return we receive a great deal of material support for the lab.”

  “So you just rent Mike out, like a guinea pig?” If her accusatory tone had any effect, he didn’t show it.

  “That’s right. I, like your mother, have had to make compromises I’d rather not have made in order to get what I need.”

  She picked her jeans up off the floor, folded them, and set them on the lab bed. “We’re nothing but lab rats to you, aren’t we?”

  He sighed, as close to a human emotion as she’d ever seen from him. “I have dedicated my entire life to curing ZV, to guaranteeing that the population-destabilization events like we’ve seen in Los Angeles and Rio and other cities never happen again, and I will do what is necessary to accomplish that goal. We have tolerated your mother’s stupidity in regards to her adopted daughter because without her we cannot replicate her work. I have tried. But what I will not do is let her sentimentality interfere with our end goal.”

  They stared at each other while she processed what he’d said.

  “Did I answer your question to your satisfaction?”

  “I guess so.”

  Loud and clear. Squeak, squeak, where’s the cheese?

  “Good.” He pulled off his surgical gloves and dropped them into the biohazard bin. “Perhaps, then, you’ll behave in such a manner that control and cooperation are not an issue. If not, remember Joe and think of your friends.”

  Oh, I’ll never forget. Never never never.

  Her mom walked in and clasped her hands together. “All right, MRI time. Time to take another look at that lung.”

  * * *

  They looked at the MRI together, Ani peering between Drs. Romero and Banerjee at the blown-up, black-and-white still-frame of her torn lung.

  “You see?” Dr. Banerjee said. “The delicate tissues sprang back remarkably but have withered with the regression.”

  “I see it,” her mom said. “But I can’t explain it. We’ll take samples of both and see what shows under the microscope.”

  “And we’ll try it again, on Mike.”

  Ani and her mom locked eyes, and Ani didn’t like what she saw. She turned to Dr. Banerjee. “Why Mike?”

  “Because Mike has the most extensive fine tissue damage of any of you and should thus give us the most data.”

  Ani frowned but said nothing. There was nothing to say.

  * * *

  “No!” Dr. Herley slammed his hand on top of the piano. “The counterpoint is staccato, intense, driving, but not aggressive. Do it again.”

  She played the nameless tune for the fourteenth time. With each repetition, it got harder not to play with aggression. She tried to drive all emotion from her body and let her fingers play the exact, technical notes. She passed the twenty-fifth bar and smiled in satisfaction. A new record!

  He stopped her on the thirty-second. “Too cold. Again.” Dammit.

  If the previous week’s lesson was a dud, this one was an atom bomb. Dr. Herley drove her without mercy, wringing out of her what he wanted and suffering nothing less than utter perfection. He stayed for three hours and didn’t once sit down, take a break, or even so much as sip some water. His pitiless critique drove her again and again over the same lines, focused on tone and emotion rather than technique, and no matter how she played it wasn’t good enough.

  At 8:30 he stopped her for the last time. Ani couldn’t imagine how much pain she’d be in if her hands had working nerves. “You’re an excellent student, but not a virtuoso. Continue as you have been, and nobody will know the difference.”

  Without another word, he left.

  Ani looked at her mom, who was buried behind a pile of papers on the kitchen table. “Was...was that a compliment?”

  “Yeah, sweetie. A big one.”

  “Huh.”

  * * *

  That Saturday, Ani walked Lydia through the finer points of sonnet-writing, their papers spread out all over the coffee table in front of the TV. Lydia had a great feel for poetry, but her limited vocabulary didn’t help her end product any. Teah sulked on the couch in Kyle’s old spot, refusing to say so much as a single word in Ani’s presence.

  Teah had been like that the whole week, especially after she saw the new cordon line that prevented her from speaking to Bill through the fence by virtue of being sixty feet farther back, right next to the road. They’d stared at each other all through yard time both Tuesday and Thursday, with a shouted “I love you” their only communication.

  At the far wall, Sam groaned in frustration and picked up her king. She handed it to Devon. “You’ve got me. Checkmate in three.”

  Devon smiled. “Don’t feel bad. That was a good game.”

  “I don’t feel bad. I feel frustrated. How’d you get so damned good at this?”

  “I’ve been playing since I was three.”

  “But,” Lydia said, shriveling a bit when they looked at her. “But you were never on the chess team.”

  Devon snorted. “You couldn’t pay me enough to hang with those dorks.” Her bitter laugh filled the room. “Not that they’d have me now.”

  Lydia looked at her feet and mumbled, “Sorry.”

  Impatient with timidity even on her best days, Devon ignored her. Ani tapped the paper with her fingernail to draw Lydia’s attention back to the poem—and away from herself.

  Instead, Lydia grabbed her hand. “Do you think Kyle’s in heaven?”

  Ignoring Sam’s snort, Ani smiled. “Sure, Lyd.” Is there a heaven? If there were, would any of us go there? “Why wouldn’t he be?”

  She looked away, and then back, and then away again. “He could be mean. Sometimes.”

  “Sure he could. But we all can.” Don’t look at Devon. Don’t look at Devon. Don’t look at Devon. She glanced at Devon, who stared right at her and smiled. Ani couldn’t read it—forgiving or predatory?—so she looked back at Lydia. “I don’t think it would keep him out.”

  Sam opened her mouth, and Devon put a hand on her arm. Thank you, Devon. Sam didn’t believe in an afterlife and had a hard time suffering fools who did. Her mind was too analytical to give quarter on the topic, and beating up on Lydia’s shattered, glued-together faith wouldn’t accomplish anything worthwhile.

  “But do you think—”

  Mike appeared in the doorway, Ani’s mom right behind him. He sat down next to Teah, smiled at her, and said, “Want to play Jenga?”

  Her glare dissolved into a crestfallen, twisted grimace. “Sure, Mike. I’ll play Jenga.”

  He clapped his hands in excitement, turned his joyous smile on Devon and Sam, then to Ani and Lydia. “Want to play Jenga?”

  * * *

  Mike wasn’t smiling at his math worksheet. Crayon clutched in his fist, he scribbled across the page in neat, blocky numbers while Jeff looked on, drooling.

  Mr. Foster meandered over to them, his eyebrows raised in curiosity. “What’re you doing, Mike?”

  Mike looked up at him. “Math.” He looked back down and kept working. As soon as he finished the sheet, he slid it across the desk to Mr. Foster.

  “These...these are all correct, Mike.”

  “Yeah.” He smiled. “They are.”

  Mr. Giggles giggled, then grabbed a manila folder off his desk. He removed a sheet and set it on Mike’s desk. “Here, try some two-digit multiplication.” Mike attacked it with gusto and finished minutes later.

/>   “Can I see that?” Devon asked, hand outstretched for the paper.

  “Sure.” Mr. Foster handed it over. Ani and Sam crowded behind her.

  Every answer right.

  “How about something more complicated?” Devon said. She flipped the paper over and wrote out an equation in crayon:

  (37 x 12) + (16 x 3) - 40 = ?

  Mike scrawled six neat lines on the paper, each below the previous, pushed it back to her, and pointed to the answer: 452.

  Mr. Foster checked it on his calculator as Devon and Ani smiled at each other. “Holy shit,” Mr. Foster said. They looked at him, and he cleared his throat. “I mean,” he giggled, “that’s impressive.”

  “Not for a senior,” Devon said.

  “He could barely add last week,” Sam said.

  “What’s that, three grades in three days?”

  Mike groaned, drawing their attention. He looked constipated.

  “What’s up, Mike?” Ani asked.

  “I’m here.” He scowled at them, but then he smiled his vacant smile. A spark of intelligence remained in his eyes. “Talk to me. Not about.” He scowled again.

  Oh, my God. The wonder of his increasing recovery dueled with her terrified thought that he’d regain his memory.

  * * *

  They sat in the lounge, everyone but Teah.

  Ani patted Mike's arm. “How’re you feeling?”

  “Itchy.” He scratched his other arm. “Weird. Something...different.” He reached up and caressed Devon’s cheek. Ani fought a spike of jealousy. He shivered. “Cold.” Then he smiled. “Want to play Jenga?”

  Devon looked at Ani, then Mike, then Sam, then Ani, then Mike. “Sure, Mike. I’d love to.”

  They played four games, and Mike showed no sign of recovered dexterity or intelligence. Ani almost felt comfortable, and then he grabbed her hand. “Prom.”

  Her heart leapt into her throat. She swallowed, and tried to speak, and then swallowed again.

  Sam put her hand on top of theirs, drawing his gaze. “We don’t talk about prom, Mike.” She ran her free hand through the remains of his hair. “Never, ever.”

  He looked at Ani and bit his lip. He hadn’t done that since fifth grade. She tried smiling at him through tears that wouldn’t fall, but he furrowed his brow in confusion. “I...dancing?”

  “Yeah, Mike. We were dancing. But shush.” She hoped that Devon interpreted the guilt that must be painted all over her face as the simple girl drama it wasn’t. She put a finger to his lips. “We don’t talk about prom.” Please, please, please. “Another game?”

  “Okay.” He scattered the blocks across the table. “Who’s first?”

  They played three more games, and Mike won the last. As Sam rolled her eyes and dropped her block on the pile, Mike hefted himself up. “I’m going for a walk.”

  “You want company?” Devon asked.

  His gaze drifted between Devon and Ani. He put the heels of his palms to his eyes and sucked in a breath. “I’m confused,” he muttered. “I’m...I don’t....”

  Ani jumped when Devon grabbed her arm and squeezed.

  “It’s okay,” Devon said. “It was a long time ago. Things are different. Weird, but okay for now.” The vulnerability in her smile took Ani off guard.

  Devon’s strength of character, her sense of self, had been unshakable. Even when her life as a psycho plastic jock bitch fell into decay and ruin, Devon had always known who she was, what she was, and why she was going to conquer whatever situation life put her in.

  Ani patted her hand, then grabbed Mike’s. “Hey. Christmas is Sunday. Want to call your dad?”

  “Holy shit,” Sam said in the background. “I totally forgot.”

  Mike shook his head. “No. Not Dad. I don’t want to talk to Dad.” He took his hands from his face and looked at them, back and forth. “I don’t know what to feel, here.” He reeled, then stumbled toward the door.

  Ani moved to follow, but Devon pulled her back. “He wants to be alone.”

  Ani didn’t know what to say, so she sat back down.

  * * *

  Mike didn’t come back. At 10:30 pm, her mom came into the lounge, where she sat on the couch, alone.

  “Hey, sweetie. It’s past bath time.”

  Ani didn’t reply, except to pat the couch next to her.

  Her mom sat and hugged her, one-armed. “What’s up?”

  “Mike’s regaining his memory.” Ani wasn’t worried about the security cameras. The research staff and soldiers—enough of them, anyway—already knew the truth of what happened at prom. She didn’t think the conversation would warrant scrutiny. Apparently her mom agreed.

  “And?”

  “And he might tell, Mom. Don’t be dense.”

  “I’m not dense.”

  “Then don’t be an asshole.”

  Instead of scolding, she hugged Ani tighter. “So what do you want me to do about it?”

  “Is there any way you can keep him away from everyone? Out of school for a few days or something?”

  Her mom kissed her on the temple. “That’s a terribly cynical plot, sweetie.”

  Ani kissed her on the cheek. “I learn from the best, Mom.”

  They sat in silence for a while. The clock struck eleven, and her mom rubbed her shoulder. “Bath time, sweetie.”

  “Okay.” She got up, and they meandered back toward the apartment. “But what about Mike?”

  “I think he’s scheduled for some tissue tests tomorrow. Very important. Can’t wait.”

  Ani leaned her head on her shoulder. “Thanks, Mom.”

  * * *

  The next day flashed by in a blur. Her math test came back an A, and Mr. Cummings assigned a paper due in three weeks, but other than that everything seemed too normal. The realization that drooling, stupid, happy Mike had no impact on her daily life shocked her. She’d always equated Mike with love, even when she and Joe had started to get serious, and the sudden disconnect disturbed her.

  She tried not to dwell on what that might mean and instead obsessed over it. What kind of monster am I? A dozen worried thoughts later and she got off the bus, shuffling out into the blinding sun.

  Mike leaned against the lab door, flannel shirt unbuttoned in defiance of the late December air. It might have been cold—Ani couldn’t tell anymore. Mr. Benson’s breath frosted when he got off the bus, which was confirmation enough.

  Mike stared at Ani as they approached, his face the same calculated neutral expression he used when talking about his dad before prom.

  “I think Mike wants to talk to you,” Lydia said, cringing away from her gaze. “Sorry.”

  Ani put her arm around Lydia’s shoulders and squeezed. “Don’t be so sorry all the time. You didn’t say anything wrong.”

  “Sorry.”

  Ani chuckled, and broke away from the group when Mike stepped up to her. “Hi.”

  He didn’t smile. “Hi. Want to go for a walk?”

  No, almost definitely not. “Yeah, sure.”

  She wheeled around and they paced along the perimeter of the compound, a healthy ten feet between them and the electrified fence. He didn’t say anything, and she let the silence play out. They made a complete circuit, no more than two thousand paces, and passed the lab entrance before he spoke.

  “I remember.”

  Her throat closed. She cleared it, tried to speak, and tried again. “Remember what?”

  “Everything. Devon. You. Dylan.” He held up his hand and wiggled the stub of his missing finger. “Losing this.” He stopped, forcing her to do so, and they locked eyes. “Prom.”

  She opened her mouth to protest, to explain, to apologize, to beg forgiveness. He kissed her. She froze in shock, then yielded to it. He wrapped his arms around her and squeezed, compressing her ribcage, all the while keeping his mouth on hers. She felt more weirdness than passion, at least on her part.

  At last he pulled back, grinning. “You didn’t try to eat me.”

  She shook her h
ead. “I’m so sorry.”

  He grabbed her hand and walked, forcing her to do the same. “Do they know?”

  She shook her head again. “Know what?”

  He sighed. “You’re too smart to play dumb well, Ani. Do they know that you’re...‘Patient X’ or whatever? That you and I started this whole thing?”

  “You and I?”

  Do you think Dylan infected us?

  He shrugged. “Okay, then, you.” He leaned down to kiss her temple. “I was trying to be nice.” His lips felt warm, but that could be psychological. Lips are supposed to be warm.

  “You can’t tell them.”

  He grunted. “I have to. Devon, at least. I owe her that.”

  “What about me?” She hated to ask it of him, after everything she’d taken from him, but she had to.

  They walked a full section of the wall before he replied. “I don’t know what I owe you, Ani. I guess it depends.”

  “On what?”

  “Did you know?”

  She stopped and dragged him to a halt. She brushed a strand of stringy hair out of his face, still handsome despite the pale, waxy quality. “I didn’t. I was dead, and I was lonely, and I had never wanted anything so much as for you to love me as much as I loved you.” Her voice cracked. “But I didn’t know that would happen, what I would do.”

  He hugged her, and she wrapped her arms around his neck. He shuddered, and she marveled at the wet tears that ran from his cheeks to hers.

  “I’m so sorry, Mike. For you and for the dead and for everyone back at the lab. This is my fault, all my fault, and I didn’t mean any of it.” The weight of twenty-six deaths, not counting the Special Dead, Mrs. Weller, and Mr. Cummings, crashed through her as if it were brand new. She’d come to terms with it long ago, but Mike’s raw grief brought hers back to where it started. But she couldn’t cry.

  He recovered after a few minutes and pulled away, his face torn with sorrow. She held his hand as he backed up, but even that contact broke.

  “I have to tell them,” he said. She shook her head. “Have to.”