Dead and Beloved (12 page)

Ryan,

Thank you for your letter and invitation. I never knew you could write like that. I read your words over and over all night while trying to figure out how to tell you—what to tell you. Like you, I dream of a life where none of this has happened. I want people to be free, to be happy. I've seen and heard many things that you probably don't know. I think it's better that you don't.

I can't meet you for the dance. I'm sorry. It's not that my parents won't let me go, or anything like that. This is my choice. I've been thinking about the memory you mentioned. It's something that I want too. I told myself long ago that there were certain things in life I wouldn't compromise on. They were goals that I set, or rather wishes that I intended to help make happen. Prom was one of them.

You truly are a great friend and I think that we'll continue to be friends in memory. I like what you said about memories lasting forever.

I understand your situation. I think I know what you've been going through. But I also know that you are more creative, innovative, and willing than you're giving yourself credit for. At least, I hope you are. I will be at home Saturday night. At eight o’clock, I’ll be dressed up and ready for my dream date, waiting for the man who wants to take me to prom to show up in my driveway. I won't have it any other way.

If taking me to prom means as much to you as you say, you'll find a way. I'm confident in that. Come to my home. Come see me again.

If you're the one I'm dreaming of, I'll see you Saturday night.

With love,

Jessica

My stomach twists so much that I can't breathe. She said no. Wait, no, she's saying yes if I pick her up from her house. I drop the letter on my bed and scramble out the door and down the hall. I leap down the stairwell and land on the first floor with barely an effort. I crash through the doors and dash toward the front desk, but it's surrounded by SWAT team members. There's some sort of commotion.

“You need to be upstairs, Ryan,” says Rodriguez.

“I've got to talk to an administrator,” I say. I try to shove past him but he blocks me with his rifle. “It's about tomorrow. I've got to—”

“Get him out of here.” An older officer cuts me off and points back toward the stairs.

We shuffle, then a thud on the glass tells me there's more going on outside. Another thud and all the officers turn and point their weapons. I'm able to see over them. Someone is running at the glass again. Like before, he doesn't stand a chance of getting in, but this person is different. He's screaming at the glass, clawing at it, too. There's yelling outside, and then a flash of light. Pieces of flesh and pellets blast the window.

“Get him out of here!”

I'm shuffled toward the stairs and, though I crane my neck to see, I can't tell what's going on outside anymore. “Please,” I ask Rodriguez. “I need to talk to someone about my ride tomorrow.”

Rodriguez shakes his head. “You can talk to someone then.” He's about to close the door and shut me into the stairwell when he turns back to me. “Try to get some sleep. We'll keep everything secure down here.”

I return to my room, but there's no chance of sleep anymore. The windows aren't soundproof like down below and I hear screaming, yelling, sirens, screeches, and gunshots. I ignore the pages on my bed and stare at the darkness, trying to see what's happening. Every once in a while I catch sight of a fleeting body as it hurls itself into traveling headlights. The zombies are fast and they overrun any cars nearby with stunning swiftness. Most cars speed off at the direction of the armed men outside, but a few make the mistake of slowing down. That allows their attackers to pry open a door handle, or peel away the edge of the door.

The Virus has definitely gotten worse. I look at my arm, at the long gash that will never heal, and wonder how soon it will be before I'm chasing people for a meal.

I try settling into my ear buds and some loud music to help the night pass, but it's impossible tonight; there's too much on my mind. I flip on the light near my bed and examine Jessica's letter over and over.

There's truth in her words, I realize. I shouldn't have expected anything more. But there's also a sting that bites my heart. It's hard to love anything while I flip from page to page, studying the deep curve of her esses and crosses on her tees. I hear her voice in each sentence. It's scolding me, daring me, taunting me. I smell her hair and I taste her lips. And suddenly I'm sweating.

I take a midnight shower because my arm is bleeding again. When I'm finished, I wander into the hall and flag down the nurse on duty. She comes right away but her eyes are puffy and red. She's not one of the usual night nurses. She takes me into an examination room and cleans my arm. She's silent while she works. I want to talk to someone, to end the annoying buzz from the flickering light in the ceiling, but the nurse doesn't respond when I ask her if she knows what's going on outside.

An hour later, my arm is repaired and I'm back in my room. There's still a lot of commotion and gunshots outside my window; it doesn't feel like the middle of the night. Jessica's letter lies on my bed, taunting me. I ignore it and zip open the suit bag from Nurse Jennings.

The tux is nothing like I had expected. She spent a lot of money. I can tell because there's still a sales tag attached to the sleeve of the jacket. Matching black pants, a bow tie that I have no idea how to fasten, thin black socks, and the shiniest shoes I've ever seen. Behind the suit, a new white dress shirt and a black belt complete my wardrobe for later. Nurse Jennings has also included an enveloped note, which might be why she wouldn't let me open the bag earlier.

I stare at the papers on my bed and hesitate before reading the card in my hands.

The tux shop was out of suits to rent, but gave me a deal on this one. Consider it as a gift from Andre. Good luck.

I crinkle the card. Why did she bring Andre into it? There's another gunshot pop outside and suddenly I'm shaking. The lack of sleep hasn't helped me. I'm punchy and feel my forehead heating up.

Everyone in my life is gone. I have no friends, no way to talk to anyone. I'm locked inside a hospital room while people are being killed outside my window, and the girl I asked to Spring Prom demands I do something that I can't do. For the first time in a long time, I feel a tear break free and start its journey down my cheek.

I snatch Jessica's letter and hold each end, daring myself to tear it into pieces. I don't care anymore. There's nothing I wanted more than this. I gave up everything, and now there's nothing. There's no one. I want to scream. I want to break something. I collapse onto my bed, flip off my light, and cry myself deep into the night.

~ O ~

The morning comes early and my eyes burn when I open them. Jessica's letter is crumpled under my shoulder. I feel better, though, and caress the papers flat on my dresser. I don't want to destroy this letter. These are the only words I have from her.

I peer out my window, hoping for a sign of what happened last night, but the street is silent. There are blood stains on the pavement and in the grass, and the road is still blocked off. But that's all I can see. Whatever happened was cleared away, giving the appearance that this is a normal Saturday. Only, today isn't a normal Saturday—prom is tonight. I throw on a shirt and head downstairs.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Moon, there's no note anywhere.” The attendant taps his screen a couple times and shakes his head. “I don't have transportation scheduled for today.”

I make a fist below the counter where he can't see and then turn to make sure a guard isn't watching. “I spoke with someone on Monday,” I tell him. “It's my school prom. I'm supposed to have transport to the dance.”

He looks at me, indifference in his eyes. “There's nothing here. The schedule's locked me out. I can't add you.”

“But I need to go!” My voice echoes off the glass doors; now the guard is looking. I open my fist and take a deep breath. My fingers tremble. “Will you please check again? Is there someone you can call?” I glance back as a hand drops on my shoulder; the guard is standing behind me. “Please? I have a date tonight.”

“Nobody's going anywhere until things calm down.” The guard grips my shoulder tighter. “Didn't you see what happened last night?”

I saw plenty, but shake my head.

“We're on lockdown.” He points toward the lounge. Several SWAT officers are sleeping on the couches, in chairs, and on the floor. “Nobody's allowed in or out until this latest wave purges themselves.”

“Purge?” I shrug, which makes him remove his hand.

“Yeah,” he answers. “All your zombie friends who are trying to get in here. We're keeping you safe, kid. You should thank us for that.”

I'm hot again and the room starts to spin. “Thank you? Thank you for what?” I slap my hand on the counter. “I made a date. A promise. All I want is for someone to give me a ride.” I turn to the attendant. “If my appointment is lost, then set a new one. Please.”

The man shakes his head. I think I see the corners of his lips rise. “I told you already. The scheduler has locked me out. I can't do anything.”

“Then
call my lawyer.” Now I'm yelling. “Call him and get me someone who can tell me what's going on.”

The guard spins me around and shoves me against the small part of the wall next to the office near the corner. “You're going to calm down, mister,” he tells me, “or you're out of here.” He presses a forearm into my chest and points with his other hand. “We'll let you out, and you can go to your little dance, but you'll never get back in.”

He's glaring at me and I'm sure I'm giving him the same look, but I don't care. I'm heaving in oxygen, fighting the growing urge to tear him into pieces. If he didn't have quick injection needles of Daphenine on his belt, I'd do it too. I'm that mad.

“You're going to call my lawyer,” I tell the administrator between deep breaths. “His name is Darren Jackson. And when he gets here, I'll accept your apology for being an ass.” I pry the guard's arm away from me and march upstairs to my room.

I curse again as my door slams shut. Last night had been horrible and the morning is continuing with the world trying to ruin my life.

“I don't even have that much left,” I growl at the wall. “Can you give me something good?”

There's no breakfast today. The lockout is keeping the cafeteria people from getting into the hospital. Some doctors and nurses are snacking on foods from a vending machine, but no one will let me have anything other than my “prescribed” meal, which isn't available. Hungry and madder than ever, I join the grumbling few of us left and stomp back to my room.

By noon, my chest feels like it's on fire and I’m still hungry. When I go downstairs to check if Mr. Jackson has been contacted, the attendant at the desk calls a nurse over immediately.

“Are you dizzy?” she asks as she leads me into the Scream Room.

I nod my head. “I think I'm just hungry,” I tell her. “And nervous.”

“This will all be over soon,” she says. She presses her hand against my forehead and takes a reading in my ear with a thermometer. “We'll be back to normal by Monday.” I know she's trying to sound reassuring, but the frantic notes she enters into the computer indicate there's more trouble than she's telling me.

“I'm supposed to go to a dance tonight. I've got a tux and everything.”

She looks back up at me, confused at first, and then she smiles. “It's the prom tonight, isn't it?”

“Yes. I was supposed to get a ride, but there's been some sort of mix-up.”

“Tell me about it.” The nurse comes back and examines my neck with a flashlight. “I was coming into four days off.” She lifts my arm and studies the Second Skin. “Then all this happened.”

It feels good to talk to someone, and I feel the burning start to ease. The readings must indicate it, too, because the nurse leaves my arm and studies a monitor.

“Still dizzy?” she asks.

I shake my head.

The nurse sets me up for an EKG trace and then tells me to wait. I'm left listening to a hundred fifty beats per minute until she returns. A doctor follows her in. She shows him information on the computer screen and then removes the sensor from my chest.

“Mr. Moon?” asks the doctor.

“Yes, sir.”

My response makes him smile. “Have you been anywhere this week?”

“School,” I answer.

“Anywhere else.”

“No, sir.”

He grimaces and then keys information in. “Still dizzy?” He looks up.

“No.” I shiver as the forced air in the room activates and touches me.

“Hmm.” He alternates glances from the computer screen to the heart monitor. He stares back at me, examining me from across the room, and then keys more information. “What about cravings?”

I know what he means and don't answer right away. Cravings to a normal person means ice cream or pizza. To someone like me it means human flesh. It's a death sentence. I've been told by the others since first arriving. Once a person craves eating another, there's no turning around. That's what the drugs and the protein are designed to counteract. Anyone with the Virus is a killing machine, capable of only the unthinkable. If I say yes, I'm taken and killed.