Project Pallid (32 page)

I
roll on the stairs and relish in the aguish of my own self-despair until the
crinkle of paper brings me back. It’s my pocket, and it’s the letter, and it’s
the reminder of Catee, my mom, and what could still be out there, that
resurrects the reality of the moment. If I lay here to drown in my sorrows, I’m
as good as dead.

I
read it again and focus solely on its end:

.
. . I hope you find this letter and that we find each other before it’s too
late. I’ll always remember you.

I
love you.

Catee

And
it brings life to my soulless body, still collapsed on the stairs. I’m as much
a victim as those around me, and it’d be easy to succumb to the evils of her
dad, but I’ve got too much to avenge. I’ve still got people to defend. And I
can’t cave so easily when I’ve still got time. Four days, I think.

Onto
my feet, I dry my tears with the back of my hand and brush away gravel that’s
become embedded in my bare chest. My compress has slid from my wound, and I
push it fully aside to gauge the damage done.

The
bleeding’s stopped, but the bite’s deep—not quite perfect, but close
enough. A row of teeth punctures the front, and with a contortion of my neck,
the back of my shoulder, too. Seeing it makes my stomach turn. I’m not sure
what good it’ll do, but I’ve got to clean it out.

Careful
not to disturb her final resting place, I step around Nicole’s remains and make
my way to the next landing of the fourth floor door. Even though I should
hightail it out of here, I’ve got to take my chances if I’m going to regroup
and get to Damariscotta in fighting form.

The
bar of the door is cold under my hand, and I push it as gently as possible
until it clicks and comes loose from the lockset. With my breath held and my
stake gripped tight by my side, the door creaks behind the weight of my good
shoulder until I can cock my head through its opening and take a look around.

A
narrow beam of light illuminates the hall through its one, far window, and it
grows thinner and darker as it moves my way. The overhead lights, like those in
the stairwell, are out. I can make out the silhouettes of bodies … three … four
… five … six … slumped against walls and strewn across the floor. It’s too dark
to tell if they’re white or not, but the difference is negligible—unless
they’re alive.

Wiser
with each encounter, I look around the landing for a loose rock or anything
like it. I spot a beer can, tossed carelessly under the backside of the next
flight, and I release the swinging door to retrieve it.

With
a reaching, underhanded lob, it lands midway down the hall’s length with a
rattling clang. It bounces and spins before it clanks to a stop. And, breath
held, I listen and wait. For anything, really. A movement. A sound. Anything
that disrupts the dead of the empty building. But there’s nothing. The bodies
are lifeless and the air, untenanted. And I move in, uncertain of my end, and
totally ignorant to what I’ll find when I reach it.

As
much as I try to avoid looking at the corpses that litter the hall, I can’t
take my eyes off them, and I can’t avoid the red and white stains of the sick
and the maimed.

Door
one’s closed and locked.

The
one across from it is, too.

The
third one down is open, though—held that way by what’s left of a boy who
wasn’t fast enough to get inside before he was taken down; his neck’s torn
almost entirely away, and his rotting tissues are savored by swarming flies.

Over
him, I step into what I assume was his room. Two empty beds rest on opposite
walls, and a desk faces the window—its blinds are open, and the space is
untouched by the surrounding fallout. A laptop sits open on the desk. Pictures
frames of what I assume were family members, cluster at one side. Books and
papers stack in disarray, and they threaten to topple under the weight of
assignments, undone.

The
walls are college-typical: half-dressed girls, sports posters, and beer
advertisements cover most of them, while the opposite side, that of a more
studious roommate, are filled with inspirational ones: “Be the change you want
to see in the world.” “The longest journey begins with a single step.” and
“Strength through adversity!” give words to my feelings, and I stop to digest
them before moving toward what I can only guess is the bathroom.

From
outside the door, I stake the shower curtain and use my spear to slide it open
for anyone or anything that might still be hunkered behind it. Nothing. And to
be safe, I close the door behind me and lock it, before I begin rummaging
through the medicine cabinet and under the sink, until I find what I’m looking
for. Truth told, I find peroxide
and
rubbing alcohol. The difference
between the two is astronomical as far as pain’s concerned. I know the peroxide
will sting less, but I know the burn of the alcohol will mean it’s doing the
job better. I can’t wuss out when it’s something so vital, so I choose the
alcohol. Apprehensively.

Bandage
off, I gawk at my wound in the mirror. A crescent shaped ring of
teeth—save for the missing few—arches the front of my shoulder. The
same goes for its back. The reflection I see when I look up at
myself—pale from the darkness of seclusion—is only a glimpse of the
pallor that will soon consume me. It was his plan after all—he got what
he wanted. Mr. Laverdier will finally have me out of the picture, soon enough.
But little does he know that he’ll be first. And though I refuse to fade away
without taking him with me, time isn’t on my side anymore. It never really was.

Cap
off, I hold my breath and bite my lip as I turn the plastic bottle to a
horizontal and the clear liquid pours over my shoulder and down my chest.
“Fuck!!” Hushed profanity spills from my mouth as the alcohol eats at the deep
punctures of teeth. Some of the blood washes away in the burning bath, and it
streaks down my torso, drips to the floor, and I have to bite down even harder
to keep from screaming out and waking the dead—or worse, the white.

It’ll
only buy time, if anything, and the pain probably isn’t worth it anyway. But,
at least for now, it doesn’t look
as
bad as it did. It’s still not
pretty, but at least it’s clean. With some bandages and gauze from under the
sink, I wrap it tight and press an ear to the door for any new sounds in the
bedroom. And with nothing, I recheck the lock, turn back to the mirror, and
inspect the rest of myself. I know the approximate path of infection, but that
was then, and this is now. Everything could be entirely different. Who’s to say
that The Whitening hasn’t grown stronger? Maybe four days to white is only two
now, or maybe it’s only hours. Who’s to say I won’t be whited-out by tonight?

I
lean as close as I can to the mirror, and I pry my eyelids apart between two
fingers to look deep in my eye. They’re still blue, but I see flecks of white
there. Or maybe those’ve always been there. Maybe I’m just giving myself a
complex and imagining them there. I grab my hair, tug angrily at a handful of
it, and expect a clump to let loose from my scalp. But it doesn’t. There’re
only the customary few that anyone would’ve extracted, had they gone at theirs
with the same, determined vigor.

My
skin looks sickly, but I’ve already chalked that up to circumstance. Unless it
has
gotten paler. Has it? Arms outstretched and turning in the light, I try to
remember what my complexion used to look like, but I can’t. The lighting here
doesn’t help much, either—the room’s lit only by a small window,
positioned high over the shower.

But
there’s no sense overanalyzing it, because there’s only one thing to do, and
it’s what I originally set out to accomplish: to find my family and Catee. And
considering my mom’s all I’ve got left now, I’ve got good sense where to find
her. And where I find one, I’ll find the other.

And
then there’s that needle Mr. Laverdier stuck her with, back before all this
happened. And if that’s the vaccine I know it was, chances are, there’s a cure
out there, somewhere. And if I find Catee, I’ll find my mom, and I’ll find Mr.
Laverdier. And then I’ll have the solution to the virus that’s setting up home
in my body.

Staring
at myself won’t accomplish anything, and it’s time to go. As scary as it is to
go back out there, it’s all I can do.

For
them.

For
me.

And
for whatever humanity might still be out there.

May 11
^th:
1:12 P.M.

Exiting
the dormitory isn’t half as hard as entering it was, and I find the same things
leaving as I did going in: a whole lot of nothing. The dorm was a giant morgue.
And as suggestive of life as its street-side bodies suggested, the creator was
gone. He …
 
she … whoever it was …
was wiped out before they could finish the job. And while I’d like to think
they got away, and that they’re out there, alive like I am now, experience tells
me they’re probably dead by now, too.

My
doors are locked, my seatbelt’s fastened across a worn t-shirt that I snagged
from inside, and the car clangs noisily into gear as I pull its shift into
drive and peel out, now comfortable enough behind the wheel to burn a little
rubber. Assured in my escape vehicle and in my command of it, I recklessly draw
attention from any other hunters who might still troll the campus.

And
I don’t even pause at the main road’s intersection, because time isn’t on my
side anymore, and hesitation is my new, worst enemy.

On
bike, Damariscotta’s far. On foot, it’s even further. But cruising along in a
Mercury Grand Marquis, it’s a heartbeat away, and it’s one I’m able to tackle
in short time. I cross the town line and pass by its inviting placard: “Welcome
to Damariscotta: The Flowering Town.” Its irony hits me and makes me laugh.
Softly at first, but then louder. And then maniacally, as I roll along and
weave the sporadic, street-side corpses of the fallen. My occasional thump over
one or another is out of total necessity, but it comes with an uncontrollable
laughter that would sound sadistic to any anyone else. I’ve got to be losing
it. It’s the infection, I’m sure.

Images
of my dad and my sister flash before my eyes. I picture them laid out there,
like so many other loved ones, and I imagine some kid rolling over them; it
stifles my hysterics, and it returns me to the solemn reality of tasks still at
hand.

I’m
not far now. I remember the landmarks well from when Catee and I first took our
bikes here, before it all fell apart. There’s the long, wooden fence. And the
rock wall, to my right, that now conceals whatever disaster’s befallen the red,
gambrel house behind it. I coast over the green bridge, tarnished with age, and
I see the ominous, dirt driveway of Catee’s camp, just beyond it. But I don’t
slow down, and I don’t stop until I’ve past it, and I safely round the next
bend.

I’m
not in any position, or condition, to go storming in on their compound like I’m
conducting some one-man raid. If anything, this is a reconnaissance mission,
and it’s one I need to conduct with stealth and unprecedented caution. I’ll
launch my plan of attack after I’ve got a better understanding of what I’m up
against—whatever that might be. But, no matter what, I’m not coming out
without Catee. I’m not leaving without my mom, either. And if I’m going to get
them safely away from whatever anarchy they’ve become involved in, I’ll need to
protect the only escape vehicle we’ve likely got.

Around
the corner, a long driveway leads to a neighboring camp, and I pull the Marquis
far enough in that it can’t be seen from the road, but not so far that I can
see the house at its opposite end, either. The point I stop at is a quarter
mile in, and it’s wide enough that with a few careful turns, I’m able to get the
car turned around; I leave it’s nose facing the street to facilitate a swift
getaway. I consider leaving the keys inside to cut-down on their clumsy
jingling in my pocket, but I can’t leave anything to chance. Who’s to say
someone else, maybe even one of Mr. Laverdier’s own missionaries, hasn’t had a
change of heart, or that they’re not looking for their own getaway vehicle now,
too? Leaving the keys behind would be a foolish gamble to take, considering how
far I’ve made it already.

I
don’t know if I even breathed as I moved from the front to the back of the
car—climbing over the seat to organize my backpack arsenal, and to
reunite myself with my white-tipped spear: a stronger weapon than I could’ve
ever imagined, back when it was just part of a cot and before it became a
weapon for freeing the sick. I take in a deep breath, hold it, and close my
eyes to say a quick prayer before the handle lifts and the Marquis’ door drops
down from its frame.

And,
as slowly as I try to open it, and as quietly as I try to make my exit, it’s
not quiet enough. And even though its creak is probably only audible to me,
it’s more a sound than I care to make in such a precarious place. Discretion is
the only way I’ll be able to pull this off, and I know for fact that I’m
outnumbered if they’re still hunkered down out here.

Closing
it takes twice as long as my exit did, until it’s pushed snug into its frame
behind the weight of my body.