Celia looked through the window again, trying in vain to catch a glimpse of a full face. She wanted one person, one face to lodge in her memory, but between her height and the hands in the way, she couldn’t see anyone’s face.
Celia stared at the window. At the hands. She was going to remember those hands, so she wouldn’t forget anything else.
Finally, Celia turned away from the sight. Lowensen had left her far behind in the hallway, and even Simon had started to move on. She hurried to catch up. At the end of the hall, a door had been left slightly ajar, the light inside still on. Through the slit left in the door, the light fell ahead, casting a line of bright whiteness onto the hall floor. Celia could tell that the teacher’s attention was dead-set on that room, so she focused on it as well, assuming it to be the teacher’s office.
When the three of them reached the door, Lowensen paused briefly, one hand on the doorknob despite the fact that it was already open. He glanced at the two before pushing it the rest of the way.
The room inside looked like it had been occupied for months, maybe years. Celia didn’t know how long the teacher had been at Morgan College, had been staying there, but his office had the look of one that would belong to a tenured professor, not one in the first days of a school’s existence.
Just inside the door, barely avoiding getting beaned by its inward swing, sat a desk. There was a boxy, ancient-looking computer atop it, projecting some kind of flickering light, though Celia couldn’t see much of the screen from her vantage point. The keyboard was surrounded by papers with scribbles all over them, though those too she could not see clearly.
To the left of the doorway was a garish purple loveseat that was also filled with papers. The two bookshelves on the wall opposite the desk were similarly cluttered. In fact, nearly every horizontal surface of the room seemed to have some sort of paper on it, as though the teacher was in the middle of grading a thousand term papers at once.
Two small spots of the room were uncluttered by the reams upon reams of papers. One was the spot right in front of the computer, where there lay only a keyboard, a mouse pad and a short, empty glass. The other open space was just beyond the desk, atop the filing cabinet in the corner of the room. Instead of the mass of disheveled papers that Celia saw everywhere else, the top of the filing cabinet held only a square glass bottle that tapered at the top, ending at a cork-shaped glass stopper. Inside the container, reaching almost to the top, was a dark amber liquid.
It was this then that the teacher made his way toward as he entered the office. He plucked the bottle from its home on the cabinet and turned to leave the room again.
Just before reaching the door, the teacher stopped and turned again. He looked around the room, his eyes stopping on some of the papers that were stacked around. Finally, he turned to Celia.
“Hold this,” he said, holding out the bottle. She took it, confused, and watched the teacher step back into the center of the room.
He stood silently, his gaze circling the room. His eyes watered over as he looked, and Celia heard him sniffle twice.
Celia started to approach him, to ask him if he needed anything, but before she could move, Lowensen acted first. He reached out to the bookshelf nearest him and grabbed it by the top with both hands. Before Celia or Simon could react, he yanked on the wood, pulling the whole shelf down.
The teacher leapt backward as it fell, letting books, papers, tiny tchotchkes fall ahead of the shelf at large. The shelf’s contents crashed to the ground in a large “whoomp” noise. The shelf itself was caught by the loveseat and rotated as it fell, winding up at an angle above the floor.
“Damn, that felt good,” Lowensen said, nodding.
“What do you mean?” Simon asked.
He laughed, the tears from a moment early nothing but a memory and lines on his cheeks. “I hated this office, kid,” he said. “It was mine, and that matters, but I hated it. Didn’t care about keeping it up. I wanted to be in the classroom, be out there, doing things. The office was a requirement; it’s what teachers do. But I don’t think I’ll ever have use of it again. I tell you, not much releases frustration like a bit of well-placed destruction.” The teacher looked at the two of them and his smile grew. “You guys wanna try it?”
Celia wasn’t sure what to make of the offer, but after a bit of coaxing, she handed the bottle back to Lowensen and she and Simon went in. The boy made his way to the other bookshelf, while Celia opted for the computer.
Almost simultaneously, the two of them felled their targets. Just before she threw the monitor to the floor, Celia saw a website that said “Out-Theres” across the top in a harsh, angry font. Below that, the screen was white, with plain black text that said “Out-Theres is gone. Get to safety NOW.”
She didn’t stop to consider the screen any further, ripping it down with as much force as she could muster. It toppled from its station on the desk, falling onto the space below. The small glass shattered under the monitor, taking the Out-Theres.com screen with it. A few sparks came up as the screen died, but the cables ripped from the wall next, and the monitor continued its descent, knocking into the desk chair as it fell to the ground with what Celia had to admit to herself was a wholly satisfying crunch.
As this happened, Celia heard behind her a louder crunch. She turned and saw the other shelf, the one Simon had taken on, lying flat on the floor, its fall unimpeded by couch or desk. One of the walls of the shelf had clearly cracked in the fall, but other than that it looked to be none the worse for wear, merely lying flat instead of upright.
Simon watched the shelf on the ground for a full thirty seconds, as though daring it to get back up. When it refused to move again, he looked up, meeting Celia’s eyes. Though his shoulders still slumped, though he still wore a frown and looked beaten-down, his eyes blazed, alive for the first time since father and son had separated in Barnstable. Lowensen, it seemed, was right that some well-placed destruction could do wonders.
Chapter Seven: Beyond Saving
Preston hadn’t spoken again after saving Michelle and dictating that she get to Hyannis. He had dropped Emmanuel’s weapon and began tending to himself. Michelle turned the lamp back on, reignited the light, and tried to help Preston as best she could.
It was to no avail, as the blood spilling from Preston’s gut wound was almost black. In the best of conditions, that meant Preston was done for. With no hospitals and no way to get him to one anyway, though, Michelle didn’t even try.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I never wanted to do this. I just need to get to my daughter.”
Preston coughed and inhaled deeply four times before groaning out a few words. “If you’re right,” he said in a breathy, fading voice, “it’s okay. If you’re right.”
“I am,” Michelle said.
“I understand,” he grunted. “They would, too. All four of us had kids in Hyannis. It’s why we were chosen for the job. They knew we wouldn’t run.”
Preston tried to speak again, but he could no longer create words. Through heavy breaths, he let out the slightest of nods, then lay back on the floor. Michelle, not knowing what to say next, just held her hands over his wound and watched the man suffer.
For four or five minutes, they sat there, him dying, her watching, before Preston finally spoke again. In a voice that was significantly more pained than it had been only moments earlier, he forced out three words. “Shoot me again.”
Michelle moved her gaze from his stomach to his face. Preston, through his pain, had focused his eyes, and they met hers. She knew what he was asking—he was not long for the world either way—but if she ended it herself, at least he would stop suffering sooner. It was almost merciful.
But Michelle shook her head. “I can’t,” she said, her tears forming again. “I can’t do it again.” The effect of having taken lives suddenly hit her full-force, and she knew, without doubt, that she couldn’t shoot Preston again, merciful though it may have been.
She couldn’t put him
out of his misery, and she couldn’t watch him suffer, so Michelle did the only thing she could—she walked away. Michelle gathered Preston’s and Emmanuel’s weapons and left the small booth, walking away from it in a direction that kept her as far from the other bodies as she could get. When she was ten or twelve feet away, Michelle sat on the ground and dropped her head between her knees, her tears returning with reinforcements.
She cried again, but this time for different reasons. Stacy, Madison, and all the other dead were still on her mind, of course, but this time, Michelle cried for herself.
She had always believed that genuine remorse and a genuine request for forgiveness was enough to save oneself in the event of committing such heinous acts as she had just committed, good reason or no good reason. Regardless, in the immediate aftermath of having been responsible for the deaths of four people, in addition to the other deaths in Stamford, at the toll booth, even back home, so many years ago, when Kellee had died, Michelle felt like her own soul, her own salvation was slipping away. This was the second zombie outbreak she had experienced; Michelle had only dealt with the first, especially considering her sister’s death, by consoling herself with the fact that a better fate lay in her future, whenever death found her.
But in the aftermath of these… murders, she didn’t feel so sure anymore. And that scared her, more than zombies, more than guns, more than the thought of danger to her own stepdaughter—Michelle worried that she was now beyond saving, and she no longer knew how to deal with that.
And so she sat on the sidewalk, yards away from the Sagamore Bridge, and cried. She stayed there for ten minutes or so, without knowing what to do next.
The decision, though, was made for her, when a pair of headlights fell upon her as she sat. It took Michelle a few seconds to realize it, but either way, she had company.
For better or worse, the arrival snapped Michelle out of it, and she brandished one of her growing supply of weapons as she scanned her surroundings for another safe haven, as she would be damned if she would venture back to that guard booth again.
Her quick machinations proved to be moot, as the car honked twice and slowed as it neared Michelle’s spot. The engine was turned off, the lights were turned to their lowest setting, and Michelle heard a familiar voice.
“Need a lift?” Donnie said, obviously trying to sound as casual as he could as he leaned out the window.
Despite herself, Michelle smiled at the familiar face, at the friendly tone, at the smile he was offering. It was necessary, in that moment.
She stood up and, trying to echo his casual tone, said, “You going my way?”
Donnie tried to maintain his smile. It was difficult, considering the fact that Michelle couldn’t help but look devastated. Nonetheless, he said, “I just may be.”
The invitation notwithstanding, Donnie noticed that Michelle made no move toward the car. Instead, her attention seemed to drift more behind her than anything. He removed the keys from the ignition and stepped from the car.
“Are you okay?” he asked, walking toward Michelle. She looked smaller than Donnie remembered ever seeing her, even when she discovered Madison’s death.
Michelle didn’t answer him, standing silently and holding her hands close to her body. Donnie got close to Michelle and pulled her into a hug, wrapping his arms as tightly around her as he could. For the first time since leaving Stamford, Donnie had no weapon on him, his attention devoted completely to Michelle.
The hug was for her. There was no question of that, as she clearly needed someone to console her as she dealt with whatever had happened in the past handful of minutes. But the hug was just as much for Donnie. He now knew there was never going to be a future with him and Michelle, that she never had been and never would be interested in him as anything more than a friend, confidant, and traveling companion, but Donnie could not deny the feelings that he had been feeling for months now, the feelings that he and Michelle belonged together, and the hug only cemented in his mind that Michelle belonged with him. Even if it was only as his friend, even if he was destined to only ever be Stacy’s “Uncle Donnie,” he was never going to let them go without him. Not as long as he still had a say in the matter.
So Donnie hugged Michelle, held her as close as he could. He could feel her tears soaking through his shirt as she held him back, felt her breasts pressed against his chest, fought off the arousal he felt at being closer to Michelle than he ever had before.
The hug lasted at least a minute, and was only broken up by Salvisa exiting the vehicle. “We going?” the crazy old man said. “Sun’s due up before too long, be damned if I’m going to be out here when that damn light starts to fall. Be damned.”
Rather than question the old man’s determination to avoid sunlight, Donnie broke his embrace with Michelle and recomposed himself. “So…” he started, though he wasn’t sure how to finish the sentence.
“Four,” Michelle said suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere.
“What…?” Donnie started, but Michelle cut him off.
“Four guards, Donnie,” she said, pointing behind her. “There were four guards patrolling the bridge. One way or another, I killed them all.”
The tears on Michelle’s face weren’t going anywhere. Donnie couldn’t figure anything to do but nod, so he did that and hugged her again.
“They all dead?” Salvisa asked from his spot leaning on the car door. Without waiting for an answer, he lumbered across the space between himself and the first body, which belonged to the zigzagging guard Michelle had shot—the one who hadn’t died right away. She watched as the old man checked his pulse and, finding what he wanted, moved on to the next body, the one that Preston, not Michelle, had felled.
Some distance away, Salvisa got to the body, which Michelle could barely see even with the increased light, and stopped. “It’s a woman!” he called back.
Michelle hadn’t had any notion that one of her targets was a woman. Rationally, she figured, it couldn’t change much, but emotionally, it changed a lot, at least for her. It was far easier to picture a female guard who, like Preston, was on duty for the sake of a child, an offspring, someone dependent on the supposed safety provided by the guards, that Michelle felt herself collapsing all over again. She watched Salvisa confirm that the woman was dead, but couldn’t watch anymore, as he hobbled to the booth, presumably to check the corpses of Emmanuel and Preston.
Instead, Michelle turned her face back to Donnie’s shoulder. The tears hadn’t stopped, though she had momentarily been able to lessen their flow. Now, she cried freely into his arms, still devastated by the things she had done.
Seconds later, a shot rang out from the direction of the booth. Michelle didn’t even open her eyes, just listening as Salvisa called, “One of them wasn’t dead!” Preston, she now knew, was well and truly dead, and it did nothing to change Michelle’s mood. She just continued to cry, and Donnie continued to hold her as she did.
Chapter Eight: Nothing To Burn
The teacher hadn’t spoken again after Simon and Celia had wrecked his office. He just watched their performance, such as it was, nodded, and turned back to the hallway.
Celia and Simon hustled after him, exchanging puzzled, but a bit less stressed, looks as they did. The teacher was moving with more determination now, walking at a brisk speed that made Celia walk almost double-time to keep pace. He navigated through a few more turns in the hallway—once, Celia felt sure they had made enough right turns to make a circle, though she recognized none of her surroundings—before stopping at a double door that looked finer and more ornate than the others they had passed.
“Is this the teachers’ lounge?” Celia asked between breaths, having worked up a sweat keeping up with the teacher.
He nodded grimly, staring at the door. “It is,” he said, though he failed to move.
“What are we doing here?” Celia asked, with a glance at the bottle of what she assumed was alcohol in the teacher’s hand.
“Like ev
erything else,” the teacher said, “the chem lab wasn’t stocked. No chemicals, no compounds, nothing you kids could have done experiments with.” He paused for a minute, still staring at the door, before continuing. “Nothing to burn.”
“‘Burn’?” Celia repeated.
“Burn,” Lowensen repeated. He didn’t elaborate, though, finally stepping forward and opening the door to the teachers’ lounge.
Celia and Simon followed him into the room. Inside was richly appointed, more like a restaurant than a faculty room. There were a handful of tables spaced about, complete with tablecloths and sugar caddies, and a kitchenette on the far left.
To the right, though, was what caught Lowensen’s attention, and where Celia and Simon looked as well, following his lead. The right side of the room was lined from end to end, save a small opening for a person to pass through, by a long counter and stools.
“You guys had a bar?” Simon asked, incredulous.
Lowensen laughed. “Good thing we did,” he said. “Only damn part of the building that’s stocked. Didn’t bother to get a kickball, but got enough bourbon to drown Kentucky.” He went behind the bar and started loading boxes and bottles onto the counter.
“Why is it good?” Celia asked.
“Don’t have anything to burn in the chem lab,” Lowensen said, still moving liquor, “but we do have fire. Lighters, torches, Bunsen burners, plenty of things that’ll light. Just need something to carry the flame.”
“So… you want to burn this place down?” Celia said. She gave him a minute, but the teacher didn’t answer, still moving the cargo. “Mr. Lowensen? Mr. Lowensen, what are you going to burn? And why?”
The teacher paid her no heed, continuing his efforts, until Simon finally stepped behind the bar and started helping. He met eyes with Celia, signaling that he didn’t understand, but he started working nonetheless.
After Life | Book 1 | After Life Page 27
