Dead and Beloved Read online

  ~ O ~

  When I return to class, Miss Reeves is gone, which means everyone is texting or talking. I think about taking out my phone but decide better of it. Breaking one of Miss Reeves’ rules, even one as petty as no phones during class, makes me feel guilty. Besides, who would I message anyway? The thought of Jessica makes me smile and I think about her while mindlessly listening to the chatter. I wish I had her number.

  ~ O ~

  Lunch is the same every day; I don't get a selection. Another part of my settlement with the state to let me attend public school. The woman at the counter hands me my plate and then rushes away to wash her hands. My meal consists of a dozen pills and two slabs of high protein meat infused with chemicals to keep my organs from overheating. No one can stand to watch me eat; some run away screaming; some yell at me, pronouncing their anger that I'm not a vegetarian; a few students accept dares and try to watch before losing whatever meal they had stomached earlier. I ignore them and devour the meat in loud, violent chomps. I'm not trying to be gross, but my urges around meat are too strong, and I'm too hungry to worry about how I look. I need to eat. I need to feel calm.

  I spend every minute at lunch today thinking about Jessica. It's as if someone has unlocked all the windows and has let the wind come in. She's refreshing to me, and now that she knows what I am, I feel like I'm alive again. I'm occupied with imagining her, thinking about what she must look like; her hair, her face, what color shirt she might be wearing today. I imagine that it's blue, her favorite color, and think that it could match her eyes.

  A janitor wearing a face shield and thick rubber gloves comes to collect my empty plate and I realize that it's almost time for Economics. I thank the man and rush to class.

  ~ O ~

  “Are you prepared, Mister Moon?” Miss Batcher asks me, loud enough to quiet the room.

  I'm not. In my haste, I forgot to stop by my locker and grab my backpack. My tablet, something she insists everyone bring each period, is inside. I slip to my seat and shake my head, hoping she'll let me off the hook, but the day doesn't seem to be going the way I'd like it to.

  “Mister Moon, if you are not prepared for my class, then you must leave. You may return when you're ready to participate.”

  I don't say anything, nod, and walk toward the door.

  “And this will be a tardy.”

  “Miss Ba—”

  “You know the rules, Mister Moon. You agreed to them when you agreed to join us at this institution.”

  Institution is right. “I just left my bag in my locker,” I say, stopping at the doorway. “It's right around the corner and down the hall. I was here on time, I just—I don't have it. This has nothing to do with being a—” I stop as everyone in the room seems to be staring, anticipating my next word.

  But I can't say it. Someone would use it against me; someone would add that to the list of reasons why I shouldn't be allowed here. My forehead burns and anger stabs my chest like a searing knife. Miss Batcher knows which buttons upset me and she's pushing them well.

  “Mister Moon.”

  “I'll get my bag and be right back,” I tell her. I leave class and run down the hall to my locker. When I return, I glance at the clock on the wall and take out my tablet.

  Two minutes past one. Two minutes that cost me another hour after school. Stupid teacher.

  ~ O ~

  “Back for more, eh?” Mister Montrose flashes a satisfied grin as he keys my attendance.

  I'm not alone in detention today, which is normal for the end of the week. Most students who earn detention get courtesy relief, argued by their parents. Sports practices, club meetings, family gatherings, and transportation problems are all suitable excuses accepted for a reprieve. As long as students complete their assignments prior to the end of the week, and pay a fine, it doesn't count against their grades. But not for me. I'm not like them; I don't have parents to petition on my behalf. All I have is a lawyer who I'm certain doesn't know I'm in here today.

  The only good thing about detention, I've decided, is getting my homework done early. Stanford won't wait for me. There are too many great students, normal students, who have applied as well. I don’t have a complete transcript, but Miss Reeves told me that there might be a chance to get on a waiting list. I need to finish high school strong, though. I start reading the assignment from English.

  When the hour ends, the room clears out like the lunchroom after chili. I'm following the others when my name is called.

  “I'd like to speak with you,” Mr. Montrose says without looking up.

  “I need to go,” I tell him. “My shuttle won't wait. The driver doesn't—”

  “They know you're in here,” he tells me, pointing to his tablet. “I updated your schedule.”

  “But he doesn't wait.” I lean toward the door. “I need to hurry.”

  “You think Stanford will let you leave as you please?” he asks.

  I curse under my breath. The whole world knows everything about me. “No, sir, I don't. It's just that—”

  “Your driver will wait,” he insists as he steps closer to me. It's the closest I've ever been to him. He smells like cheap cologne and coffee. “Unless he has some other privileged student waiting for him across town.” He twists his words enough to make me warm. Mr. Montrose knows we're being watched. All detention rooms have cameras and he's calculating his words to avoid an inquiry.

  “No, sir,” I tell him. I take a deep breath to control my frustration.

  “I think you should consider another school.” Mr. Montrose folds his arms and lowers his eyebrows. “Have you thought about the U? Or a community college? A local school might accommodate you better.”

  I nod my head. “Yes, I have. I've considered all my options.”

  “So why Stanford?”

  I don't know what his angle is, so I hide my reasoning. “It's a combination of everything,” I say. “Academics, experience, scholarships.”

  “You've been offered a scholarship?”

  “Not yet.” As I speak, I regret my words. I've said more than I intended.

  “Ah.” He folds his arms and leans his head back with pleasure. “Well, if you decide on another school, let me know. I'll write a recommendation for you.”

  Another school. That's his play. I glance around the room, searching for a hint of why he's against me going to Stanford, but this isn't his classroom. It's a detention room. Only military career posters and trade school ads cover the walls.

  “Thank you,” I say to him. Stupid jerk. “I'll keep that in mind.”

  Mr. Montrose tries to pat me on the shoulder and it startles me so much that I flinch away. People don't touch zombies. Since the infection spread a few years ago, contact has been taboo. Scientists proved it's a viral disease, but society has a way of twisting worry into panic. The only physical interaction I get with anyone is through rubber gloves and sharp needles. The man must have a death wish.

  "Remember what I said," he tells me.

  "Yeah," I mutter. I'll remember.

  ~ O ~

  Outside the school, it's exactly as I feared. The shuttle is speeding away, leaving a handful of protesters standing on the sidewalk near where it had waited. They see me when I turn to go back inside the school. A woman screams, a man drops his 'zombies are death' sign, and the rest stare. I'm not going to hurt them and I want to say that, but they don't give me a chance. Some of the people glance back toward the distant shuttle and seem to realize that there's no other place for me to go. They scramble toward their cars, shouting as they flee.

  It's not the first time I've had to walk home, but it has been almost a month since the last time. I lost track of time that day and missed my ride. I've tried hard since then to stay on schedule. Now I'm standing in the open without a ride and a dozen screaming idiots making me anxious. Don't they know they're not helping me?

  I pull out my phone and call the emergency shuttle number the hospital gave me, but no one answers. That doesn't su
rprise me. The last time he left me, the driver claimed I had never called him. Even with the number on my cell's call log, the administrators had blamed me for the error. With a groan, I tuck my phone into my pocket, tighten my backpack straps, and head down the street.

  Smack! I duck as something strikes the stop sign next to me. A man yells. I look back and see a rifle in his hands. Swearing back at him, I jump behind a tree, though its trunk is too thin to protect me. A police siren wails in the distance. Another smack vibrates the metal sign. Then one strikes the tree sending splinters flying past my shoulder. This day keeps getting better and better.

  I don't know what the man is thinking and I don't care. I don't want to get shot and I don't want to face a cop. I dart across the sidewalk and jump over a low hedge. I'm turned around. The man’s yells, a few whizzing bullets, and the approaching sirens add to my fear that I'm being hunted. Stupid Mr. Montrose. I could have been on a shuttle.

  I decide to run, and running is something I can do well. My condition makes me swift and nimble. The Virus constantly feeds whoever is infected with adrenaline, making us burn more calories in a day than a normal person would in a week. The body craves what it lacks and as calories decline, so does the flesh. I've never tasted human flesh, but the desire to fill my body's urges hasn't left me in the two years since I became infected. That's why the specialized meals are so vital. The protein fills my need while the drugs fight the adrenaline and other effects. The doctors have told me that missing a meal or taking the wrong dose of medication could turn me into the monster everyone fears. Luckily that hasn't happened yet.

  I round a corner before any sirens can follow me, and head east toward the mountain and to my home. It's almost two miles, but I hardly notice the distance as I go. In minutes, I'm passing the specialized surgery buildings surrounding the hospital. My shuttle is there and the driver is explaining something to the attendant at the entrance.

  “I'm here,” I announce, slowing down and strolling as casually as I can toward the conversation. “I was held up and missed the shuttle.” Arguing won’t help me escape the cops or the jerk who shot at me. I shoot a glance behind me as another siren sounds. “I'm sorry.”

  The driver smirks at the attendant, who quickly keys information into his tablet. Then I'm escorted inside to the Scream Room.

  ~ O ~

  I decide to shower, hoping it will help me calm down. The run from school has quelled my cravings, but I'm still on edge. I keep thinking about what Mr. Montrose said to me and how much I hate him for making me miss my ride. Once I'm clean, I glance at the clock. Fourteen minutes until my scheduled chat with Jessica. It's too long to wait. I decide to open the envelope from Stanford.

  Miss Reeves has gone above and beyond my expectations. Inside the packet is a thank you letter advising me that special requests for academic consideration are not a guarantee of admission. There's a note about my financial aid request, a questionnaire, an online code with links to personal assessments, and several small stamps.

  “I mail this in?” I wonder aloud while staring at images of eagles on the little stickers.

  Sure enough, the instructions for application include details of how to mail in the required essays. It seems odd to me; no one sends mail anymore. While I'm examining the instructions, my computer sounds an alert. Five minutes.

  “Jessica?” I type without waiting.

  “Hi, Ryan.”

  I grin. “Thought about you today.”

  “Wink. Me too.”

  “How are you?”

  There's a pause. Too much time passes, more than a minute. My mind worries. Is something wrong?

  “I'll be okay. It's good to talk to you.”

  I stare at the words, repeating them over and over with her imagined voice in my mind, searching for another meaning. She's not okay. Her words say she is, but they don't mean it. They don't. My fingers tremble. I can't type. I key letters, but they're wrong so I delete them just as quickly. I don't send anything. Instead, I jumble random characters on the screen, trying to decide what to tell her.

  “Are you there, Ryan?”

  I delete everything. “I'm here,” I finally answer. “Wish I knew what was bothering you.”

  Her response comes too quickly. “No, you don't.”

  My heart stops. My hands shake. “Will you tell me?”

  “Can't. It's good to talk to you, though.”

  I'm screaming inside. What's wrong? While I'm working on a response, something to tell her that I'm glad to have someone to talk to, she sends me another message.

  “Need to go. Talk to you soon.”

  Soon? “Soon!” This time I yell. I don't care if a nurse comes. For a week, we've had a standing arrangement. We always chat at the same time. It's our thing, our connection. Soon was never part of it. Soon means not tomorrow. It might not even mean the day after that. Soon means I won't have anything to get me through the weekend. Soon is too far away. Now the angst from my lack of enough exercise blows up inside me. My arms tingle and my face burns. I need to move, I need to go somewhere. I'm frantic for something.

  As expected, someone pounds on my door. “Are you okay in there?” asks the floor nurse on duty.

  I ignore her. “Jessica?” I type, relying on one word to help me solve my problem. "What's your last name?”

  The door pounds again. “I'm okay,” I answer. But I'm not okay. Not yet.

  The screen stays blank for the longest time, but then an answer appears. “Snow.”

  No other words come from her, but I'm not expecting any. I'm already searching the web. Jessica Snow. All I need is an address.

  Chapter Three: Angel

  I've sneaked out of the hospital before, but never like this. Not for as long as this will take. Quick trips to the closest gas station to buy Snickers bars and Dr. Pepper were meager tests of evasive skill. Tonight's adventure will take more than that. It'll take some planning and a lot of luck. After dinner, I shower again, brush my hair and my teeth, apply some skin conditioner to my neck, and dress as casually as I can. Then I examine myself in the mirror.

  “Is this who she'll expect to see?” I ask, shaking my head. I don't even recognize myself anymore.

  The drugs to keep the Virus under control have darkened my hair and thinned it. My eyes don't appear as sunken as they used to be, but the gap in my neck where I keep losing skin is obvious. I switch to a turtleneck from my wardrobe and throw on a faded old Broncos cap. It's the best I can do to look normal. Tonight, I need to look normal. Not for Jessica. She knows the truth about me. For the world.

  The walk home today had been more contact with people's hate than I expected. I'm used to people running away and screaming at school. I'm also used to the protests. I never want to get comfortable with someone shooting a gun at me. I'm crazy to do this, I keep telling myself, but I want to see Jessica. The risk is worth it. If I don't see her, I'll be awake all night worrying.

  My first year in the hospital, the nurses kept my door locked. I had been uncontrollable then; all newly infected are, so I understand the reasons now. But after the treatments cleared my head, and I learned to control my cravings, the staff started leaving the door unlocked. I still think of this place as a prison, though. My home is Lakeview Hospital, a halfway house for the living dead.

  The hallway is empty and the floor nurse is missing from her station. Luck. I need it. I dash to the stairwell with barely a sound, then pause to calm my nerves before taking careful steps down to the main floor.

  The nurses are gathered at the lounge, all focused on the television, and exclaiming that they know the doctor on the screen. I leave them to their entertainment and creep toward the utility entrance down the south hall of the hospital.

  Outside, cold air welcomes me to the living world. It's been so long since I've tasted fresh night air that it burns my lungs and freezes my face. I dash to the nearest bushes and plan my route. There's a bus station on Fourth West, a couple blocks away. I see it every day on th
e way to school. I’ll risk being seen there, but riding the bus is the fastest way to get to Cottonwood Heights and the address I found for Jessica Snow. It’ll be twenty-five miles, according to the map on my phone. I'm a good runner, but even that seems like too much for a night excursion. Plus, the bus will give me the cover I need.

  When we were in junior high, Andre and I used to take the bus to City Creek on Saturdays. There had been plenty of crazies on the bus then, people shooting up under overcoats or talking to themselves. I figure that I probably won’t appear much different from them now and I'm hoping that riders will leave me alone.

  When the bus arrives, I scan my pay card, snatch my printed ticket, and scramble to the empty seats at the back. The last thing I want is for someone to see the details of my face. Acting like a recluse is part of my plan, and the only way I'll get some privacy.

  There's a woman and her little girl on the bus, but they don't look at me when I take my seat. They're focused on the screen near the ceiling. A news story highlights a doctor, the same one the nurses were watching.

  “Will his enhancements work?” asks the broadcast narrator. “We pray that time will be on our side.”

  I smirk at the report. It was a cure that made me this way; the cure to end infection; the magic potion to end all disease. It had worked. Zombies don’t get sick. We violently consume and then we die. And fast. I shift to hide my face as the little girl on the bus turns to look at me.

  I'm ignoring the television, but then I hear my own name. I look up to see a photo of me. It's an old one. No, it's from today. I'm outside the school. I'm glaring at the shuttle as it speeds away. The image changes to a woman being interviewed. I recognize her as one of the protesters from school.

  “He came after us,” she tells the camera. “And we fled for our lives.” The woman wipes a tear from her face.

  “He's a danger to us all.” Another man peers into the picture. He's the one who dropped the sign.