by Mira Grant
“I am very sorry, Scott,” she said gently, and began pouring bleach into the bin.
It was hard not to reflect, as the bleach fumes filled the enclosed space and the clear liquid lapped against the plastic walls of the bin, on the strange irony of the situation. There was a time when a teacher who forced a student to bathe in bleach would have been fired, for good reason, and charged with child abuse. Bleach was a caustic chemical. It could burn sensitive skin. And that didn’t really matter just now, because bleach was the only thing stable enough to store in a classroom, and this was an emergency—and while she didn’t want to burn Scott, she didn’t want to leave him for dead, either.
Elaine Oldenburg gasped, just a little, behind her mask. Before that moment, she hadn’t fully realized that she was planning to leave the classroom.
It was a risk. The classroom, for all its faults—no water, no restrooms, large, if locked, windows taking up much of one wall—was at least familiar and semisecure. They could stay inside and ride out whatever was happening on the rest of the campus, and while the alarm would probably start upsetting the children soon, there were things they could do. Quiet things, things that wouldn’t attract any monsters that happened to be wandering the halls.
But there were no monsters wandering the halls just yet: the halls were echoing and empty, and completely free of dangers, at least for as long as the office door held. If they moved now, they could get to the airlock and get outside. They’d be able to run. There would still be a quarantine, of course, and all the students would need to be thoroughly tested for traces of live Kellis-Amberlee, but they would live. She could save them if they moved fast and moved smart, and didn’t stand around waiting for rescue… because rescue wasn’t going to come. The very flaw in the school security that would allow them to escape was going to delay any sort of rescue effort, and could make things a lot worse.
The doors hadn’t locked. The doors were supposed to have locked—and whenever a live outbreak was happening in an enclosed space, like a school, any door that wasn’t locked was considered an infection risk. Even building barricades to keep the infected out wouldn’t make any difference; barricades could be broken, barricades didn’t have the weight of a securely locked door. Everyone on campus was infected now, legally speaking, and anyone who came onto campus was likely to come on shooting. It didn’t matter that the victims were children. It didn’t matter that many of them were too small to have amplified. The school had failed to lock down properly, and while their parents would mourn them, the safety of the city was more important than a few little lives.
Sometimes Elaine thought the most unfair thing of all was that she had to live in this day and age, where children were collateral damage. But then, before there were the walking dead there had been school shootings, and those had been much easier to get rid of, hadn’t they? Ban the assault rifles, make the background checks tighter… save lives. And none of that had happened, until the dead rose and people found something better to shoot at than kindergarteners and cafeteria workers. So maybe every day and age was bad, in its own way.
“Please take off your clothes and get in the bin, Scott,” she said, and handed a sponge to Brian. “We need to wash him all over. I know it’s hard. But we have to do it, or we could get sick.”
Brian was crying. So was Scott. So was she. But they had to do it, or there was no way she could justify taking Scott with them when they left—and they had to leave. They had to get out alive. They had to try.
The Evergreen incident raised several questions. How had the security systems been allowed to fail? How was it that human error—the guards at the airlock first missing the blood on Scott Ribar’s hand, and then missing the live viral particles on Nathan Patterson’s lip—had been compounded by computer error, leaving the doors unlocked and the alarms that would have notified the authorities unsounded? Why did none of the teachers have the ability to contact the police or, better yet, the CDC? Why were there no clear evacuation plans in place for incidents of this nature, and how could they be put in place for the future?
What very few people bothered to question were the rolls of the dead. Name after name, student after student, all of them killed by a cascading combination of failures that should never have been permitted to happen. Some would try to place the blame on Elaine Oldenburg, after review of the school security records proved conclusively that one of her students had been the flashpoint for the outbreak. Others would wave their hands and say that it was a regrettable but ultimately blameless combination of factors, one to learn from and prevent. The teachers unions began petitioning for more and better weaponry. The school board began petitioning for more and better security.
The parents of the students who had died at Evergreen Elementary were virtually forgotten. The few who bothered to sue the school district for damages were paid off quickly and quietly. The lucky families whose children had stayed home that day said nothing, perhaps feeling that their good fortune would be taken from them if they dared to flaunt it. Who can blame them for a little nervousness, given the circumstances?
None of the students who survived have ever spoken to the media. We reached out to them, to ask whether they would break their silence and speak to us. There have been no replies. Whatever happened in the halls of Evergreen Elementary has been lost to posterity, save for those fragments captured on the school’s security cameras… and given the horrors that those fragments imply, perhaps it is better that way.
Perhaps there are some truths better left forgotten.
—FROM UNSPOKEN TRAGEDIES OF THE AMERICAN SCHOOL SYSTEM BY ALARIC KWONG, MARCH 19, 2044
Wednesday, March 19, 2036, 12:01 P.M.
Elaine Oldenburg’s class was one of five in the first grade. The school extended from kindergarten through fifth grade, although there were only three fifth-grade classes; many students were withdrawn from the physical school system after fourth grade, or transferred to a middle school where they would be less likely to endanger smaller children through their mere presence. All told, thirty-three classes were in session when the alarm began to sound. It was too much to ask for that many students to remain calm and collected, especially when the restraints failed to activate correctly, resulting in fewer than half the students being locked into their desks.
Nathan Patterson had started feeling unwell fifteen minutes after the end of recess, and had been sent to the nurse’s office for observation and blood tests. Mr. O’Toole had followed school policy and not asked Nathan to take a blood test before leaving the classroom. If it had come back positive—which it couldn’t, there was simply no way Nathan had been exposed; it was a ridiculous idea—the door would have locked, and the safety shutters on the windows would have descended, containing the infection, yes, but also containing the entire class. Blood tests were only requested in the case of student illness when the student could not be safely transported from the classroom to the office.
Joseph Lee, who sat next to Nathan, kept casting anxious glances at his friend’s empty desk. Nathan should have been back by now. But instead, the alarm was sounding, and Mr. O’Toole couldn’t get the office on the phone. Something was seriously wrong. And why wasn’t Mr. O’Toole calling for help? Someone needed to tell the police that something was going on at the school.
Cell phones were forbidden during class, but with Mr. O’Toole pacing back and forth in front of the whiteboard and half the class distracted by crying, or sitting very still and trying not to cry, Joseph decided he could risk it. He slipped his phone out of his pocket, swiping his thumb across the screen to unlock it. The familiar glow of his background sprang into view. Habit made him fold himself around the screen, trying to keep from attracting Mr. O’Toole’s attention. He needn’t have bothered. In that moment, his teacher wouldn’t have noticed the students beginning to dance on their desks and sing the national anthem. His mind was miles away, following a trail that would have been familiar to everyone in the room: like the rest of them, Mr. O’T
oole was trying frantically to convince himself that this wasn’t what it looked like.
It wasn’t an outbreak.
It couldn’t be an outbreak.
Joseph brought up his keypad and considered it for a moment, waffling between calling home and telling his dad what was going on, and calling 911 and letting the authorities know what was going on—although he wasn’t really sure what he’d say in the second instance. Like, was it prank calling if you told the police that the alarms at school wouldn’t stop ringing, and the desks weren’t locking right, and the doors weren’t locking at all? It seemed like something that somebody ought to know.
Finally, he decided that he should call his father. Dad could take care of the difficult part, like deciding whether or not to contact the police. Joseph brought up his father’s number and pressed “call.”
Nothing happened. Joseph frowned at the phone. The display said he had five full bars of service, so why wasn’t the call going through? He tried again, this time dialing his mother’s cell, and got the same result: nothing. Fear began to gather in the space behind his eyes, swelling and twisting until it filled the entire world.
Mr. O’Toole was still pacing back and forth, paying virtually no attention to his class. Joseph worried his lip between his teeth, trying to decide where the line was between “reacting normally to a crisis” and “losing your shit.” He was pretty sure Mr. O’Toole was on the wrong side of the line. He was just terrified of slipping and joining his teacher there.
Joseph wiped his mouth dry with the palm of his hand before he resumed worrying his lip between his teeth. The small abrasions this created were perfect for the fomite specks of Kellis-Amberlee that he had picked up from Nathan’s hand when they were sitting under the slide—Nathan, who had touched the ground where Scott Ribar had scraped himself. The virus was invisible to the naked eye, but not to Joseph’s immune system, which promptly launched an all-out defense against the invaders. This defense included the boy’s own store of Kellis-Amberlee virus, which recognized its brethren, even in their new, strangely folded configuration, and began to refold itself in viral sympathy. The cascade was beginning.
Joseph was unaware of all this; Joseph would not begin to feel unwell for another five minutes, by which time it would be far too late to take any precautions or attempt any quarantine. In many ways, fomite transmission was more dangerous than the flashier and easily detected bite or splatter transmissions, because it was so quiet, so easy. Touch a contaminated surface, touch your mouth, nose, or eyes, and wait for the virus to do what comes naturally. Joseph had become an incubator for Kellis-Amberlee.
Hands shaking—with nerves, nothing more; not yet—he raised his phone a third time and dialed 911. Again, the call did not go through. Fear fully bloomed in his chest, setting his heart hammering against his ribs and speeding the infection through his body. The faster the blood circulated, the more quickly the live-state Kellis-Amberlee would be able to convert the slumbering stockpile in his veins. “Mr. O’Toole?” he said, thrusting his hand into the air.
Mr. O’Toole stopped pacing and turned, frowning blearily at the room for a moment before his attention finally focused on Joseph. “I cannot approve any trips to the restroom while the alarm is sounding,” he said stiffly.
“It’s not about the bathroom,” protested Joseph, cheeks flaming red as uneasy giggles broke out around the rest of the room. Unlike Sharon in Miss Oldenburg’s class, Joseph didn’t ask to go to the bathroom very often. He found the idea of broadcasting his bodily functions to his classmates faintly mortifying. “I tried to call my dad and the call didn’t go through.”
Mr. O’Toole’s frown deepened. “No cell phones in class,” he said. He started down the aisle between the desks, heading toward Joseph. “Hand it over.”
Joseph pulled his phone back, out of his teacher’s reach. “You don’t understand,” he said, hating the thin whine that was beginning to appear in his voice. “I tried to call my dad, and my mom, and the police, and none of the calls went through. Their numbers didn’t even ring. Something’s wrong with the phone.”
“It’s not the phone,” said Mr. O’Toole. “If you had asked me before you decided to panic yourself and your fellow students, I could have explained that you would be unable to get a call out. When the alarm starts ringing, the cell blockers in the school’s communication network activate. None of us can make calls out right now.”
Joseph stared at him, slack-jawed. His tongue was dry, probably from panic, so he swallowed hard to moisten it before asking, “Why would they do that? Who thinks that’s a good idea?” Murmurs rose from the classroom around him, echoing the sentiment.
Mr. O’Toole pressed a hand to his temple, like it hurt, and thrust his hand out again. “The phone, Joseph, please.”
“But I didn’t even make a call!”
“The rules are still very clear about cell phones in class.” Mr. O’Toole gave his hand an admonishing shake. “You can have it back after the end of the day.”
“This is so unfair,” said Joseph, and slapped the phone—now thoroughly contaminated by fomite traces—into Mr. O’Toole’s hand.
“Life is unfair,” said Mr. O’Toole. “As for who thought blocking cell communications from the campus was a good idea, it was recommended by our state’s governor when he approved the current security plans used by this campus, and our sister schools. It prevents local law enforcement from being swamped by calls from students—like yourself—when the alarm goes off. If there is any need for law enforcement, they will be contacted by the office. It helps keeps things under control. It prevents a panic.”
“But you can’t get the office on the phone,” said Joseph, looking more concerned than ever. “What happens to us if the office doesn’t call the police?”
Mr. O’Toole—who was five minutes away from wiping his eye with one contaminated hand, and who would not need to worry about complicated issues like cell phones and law enforcement for very much longer—didn’t have an answer. “Everyone, take out your history books and turn to chapter twenty-three,” he said, turning and walking back toward the front of the room. “If we’re going to be stuck in here, we’re going to use our time productively.”
The groan that rose from the collected students was briefly louder than the persistently ringing alarm, and could almost have been mistaken for a moan.
When asked why he had approved legislation that included the installation of cellular and wireless communication blocks in all elementary and middle schools, Governor Wilson (D) replied, “This system was recommended by some of the top minds in private and military security. I am shocked and ashamed by the manner in which it has failed our schools. It has failed our students. I have failed our students. We will be auditing the entire security structure of our schools, and there will not be another Evergreen. Not on my watch. Not in Washington.”
Governor Wilson did not complete his review of the school security systems before the next election, when he was defeated by his opponent, Heather Benson (R), the mother of Emily Benson, who had died while under the care of Miss Elaine Oldenburg. Despite running for office on a school security and personal tragedy platform, Governor Benson did not change any of the previous governor’s policies. As of this writing, fifty-seven Washington elementary and middle schools are still designed to block all outgoing cellular or wireless transmissions during an emergency situation.
Thus far, Governor Wilson has been correct: there has not been another Evergreen. It is less clear whether his words will remain true as the years go by, or whether they will become one more lie in the tapestry of untruths that has defined the educational system in this country.
—FROM UNSPOKEN TRAGEDIES OF THE AMERICAN SCHOOL SYSTEM BY ALARIC KWONG, MARCH 19, 2044
Wednesday, March 19, 2036, 12:35 P.M.
Scott wept steadily but silently as Miss Oldenburg helped him into a pair of clean trousers and a button-up flannel shirt, both taken from the supply of emergency clothes at t
he back of the closet. It was always best to keep a few things on hand in case of “accidents,” and many of the children had borrowed a shirt or a pair of underpants from the general supply at least once. They teased each other about it when they thought she couldn’t hear, she knew, and she allowed a certain amount of it, stepping in only when it became actively cruel.
Brian had been pressed against the closet door since the bleach wash was finished, an expression of mixed terror and fascination on his face. It was like he was interested in the process despite himself, and wanted nothing more than to pretend that interest didn’t really exist; it was a trick of the light, maybe, or some sort of temporary psychosis brought on by the steadily beeping alarm—which, Elaine readily admitted to herself, was becoming unsettling. The alarm was never supposed to ring for this long. It was meant to sound, get everyone’s attention, and then be turned off, allowing teachers to communicate with students without an annoying buzz underscoring everything they said.
More important, it was meant to leave silence in its wake. Silence was a powerful weapon when you might be dealing with an outbreak. Without silence, how were you supposed to hear things coming? The infected could be on top of you and moaning before you knew that they were there in the first place.
The thought made Elaine shudder, which caused Scott to raise his head and stare at her, clearly terrified. She pasted a practiced Miss Oldenburg smile across her face and buttoned the last button on his borrowed shirt. “There you are, all better,” she said. “You’re ready to rejoin the class.”
“Okay,” he mumbled, and moved as if to pick up his coat from the floor.
Moving with a speed no one would have suspected she possessed—including herself—Elaine Oldenburg lashed out and grabbed his wrist before he could complete his reach. Scott froze. Brian froze. For a moment, stillness reigned.
Then, in a very small voice, Scott said, “Miss Oldenburg, you’re hurting me.”
