Spontaneous (13 page)

T
hat evening someone threw a Molotov cocktail through the front window of the police station. I know what you're thinking, but stop. Dylan had an alibi. A solid one. Me, if you must know. We were chatting on our laptops when it happened and he lived at least a mile from the police station. Unless he's got a supersonic bionic arm, I doubt he could throw that far.

The more likely culprit was Keith Lutz. Why? Because minutes after someone threw a Molotov cocktail through the front window of the police station, he tweeted:

I THREW A MOLOTOV COCKTAIL THROUGH THE FRONT WINDOW OF THE POLICE STATION! #ForBilly

Oh, that hashtag. Boy did it get out of hand quickly.

#ForBilly started as a tribute to a fallen hero, a quick way to find a collection of selfies of kids blowing kisses skyward. In less than
twelve hours it mutated, became a flag to wave while screaming, “Watch me tear this town apart!” (A sentiment I can safely assume Billy never would have supported.)

Still, how could you blame anyone? We felt powerless. We felt expendable. The people who were supposed to guarantee our safety—the parents, the teachers, the politicians, the cops—they weren't doing a thing. If they couldn't keep a guy like Billy together, then there wasn't much hope for us, was there?

So after Keith firebombed the police station, Shaw Feeney put a brick on the gas pedal of her brother's snowplow and sent it down Main Street. #ForBilly. It took out the tables in front of Covington Kitchen, along with two streetlights and seven cars, before it flew off the Centennial Bridge and into Patchcong River.

Meanwhile, a gang of kids armed themselves with baseball bats and donned a variety of disguises—a grim reaper, a sumo wrestler, and a Disney princess to name a few. Then they broke into the school and smashed the night away. #ForBilly. Nothing was spared: trophy cases, the PA system, even the statue of our beloved mascot, the Snarlin' Quaker. They clogged pipes. Broken sinks spurted like cut veins. They set fires and sprinklers spit to life. By midnight, the place was flooded.

The Molotov cocktail didn't do much damage and there weren't any injuries as a result of it or the rogue snowplow. So when word got out about the school, the police sat on their hands.

“As long as they're not hurting anyone, let them do what they want,” Sheriff Tibble apparently said. “This is beyond us now.”

As chaos goes, it was meticulously documented. Live-streams of the destruction were carried by all major news outlets. Google maps
gussied up with icons showing movements of rioters were shared like war plans spread across a general's desk. Dylan and I watched it unfold online from the comfort of our respective homes. I suspect most of the country did. And the #ForBilly hashtag evolved again, into a catchall for civil disobedience around the world.

• Kids in Indonesia stole the cars of government officials and went joyriding. #ForBilly.

• South African students chained themselves to gates in front of the homes of Johannesburg's elite. #ForBilly.

•A German punk band named Scheiße Schneesturm (or Shit Blizzard) broke into a museum and shot up priceless paintings with paintballs. #ForBilly.

When the morning of November 16 came, everyone expected the same thing. The president would declare martial law, and the National Guard would roll into Covington to keep everyone in line. That wasn't an entirely inaccurate prediction, but all the closeted sadists hoping for an escalation of atrocities were sorely disappointed.

Because what we got was a fleet of shiny buses, two dozen doctors dressed in Ebola suits, and a team of Navy SEALs—also in Ebola suits, but packing considerable heat—knocking on doors.

Deploying actual troops was unprecedented, and likely illegal, but there was no noticeable uproar or insurrection. Tess and Rosetti may have been among the few who crunched the actual
numbers, but plenty of others had noticed that this was happening only to seniors from Covington High. And that's who the SEALs and doctors were visiting. Meanwhile, a collection of carnies and roadies were raising giant quarantine tents out at Brighton Orchards.

A doctor named Pei rang my doorbell at dawn. She was a kind-eyed soul, someone whose voice sounded trustworthy even when filtered through a medical mask.

“We are setting up a state-of-the-art facility where we can keep your daughter and her classmates safe and we can finally put an end to this awful ordeal,” she told my parents as she handed them release waivers. A bus idled in the road.

Now, let's be honest. A few weeks before and this shit wouldn't have flown. But given the state of our town and the fact that the death of Billy had made even the most innocent among us seem vulnerable, my parents saw no choice but to sign the waivers and send me off for some prodding. Almost all the parents did. They trusted the doctors more than they trusted themselves at that point. Most of Covington's anti-vaxxers and die-hard conspiracy theorists had hit the road long before this, way back in the wake of Brian's death. All that was left now were the optimists, pragmatists, and capitalists like my parents.

Tess texted me when a bus blocked her driveway and a doctor told her she couldn't leave.

Tess: Guess I'm not going to Uncle Andy's. Me (as my bus pulled up to the tents): See you at the circus!

There was already a perimeter, an electric fence circling the nylon village at a hundred yards. The ubiquitous reporters and bloggers were waiting on the outside, along with the parents who followed the buses. Everyone was leaning in, trying to get a glimpse behind the tent flaps.

Inside the tents, it wasn't a circus at all. It was orderly. Names and handprints were taken. Fingers were pricked and blood was dripped into boxes on thick, gridded paper. And we were all given these surprisingly comfy robes, told to change into them, and go relax in the tent labeled
COMMONS
, where we were to await further instructions.

There were sofas and armchairs spread throughout the commons. There was also coffee, bagels, juice—continental breakfast, basically—and every thirty minutes a fresh crop of kids arrived. Tess showed up. Then Dylan, thank God. Even Keith Lutz and Shaw Feeney were among the blurry-eyed masses. I was glad that Greg Holder asked them, “Shouldn't you guys be in the slammer?” so that I didn't have to.

They both responded with shrugs and Shaw said, “Gave us each a get-out-of-jail-free card. Mainly because they don't want to expose us to anyone else.”

By noon, the total number of rounded-up seniors was 89. The official class enrollment was 239—not counting the 8 we'd already lost. You didn't need a genius like Tess to do the arithmetic: 150 of our classmates had fled Covington. We were the pathetic stragglers.

I
t's a shame that my parents weren't catering because the soggy Wawa sandwiches they gave us for lunch were decidedly subpar and certainly didn't serve as an appropriate appetizer for what came next. Two SEALs led our not-so-merry band of pathetic stragglers into a small tent labeled
COMMUNICATIONS
and we sat on metal folding chairs. One SEAL plugged a laptop into a projector as the other positioned a small white screen and a tripod-mounted camera in front of us.

When the projector spat out its light, we were greeted by the smiling face of our president against a backdrop of—what else—an American flag.

“Good afternoon, you brave, brave souls,” the president said in that regal yet motherly voice of hers. “God bless you, each one of you. I cannot imagine the pain you have endured.”

There were gasps and whispers, following by clapping and a few people standing up. I think Skye Sanchez—the most promising
political prospect in our class—might have even put her hand on her heart.

“The president can see us?” Harper Wie asked.

The burlier of the two SEALs motioned with his rhinoceros chin at the camera, which was quite clearly poised on us.

The president chuckled and pointed at Harper the way she points at people during her State of the Union addresses. “I can see you, pal,” she said. “Looking good. All of you. And I can assure you that I have your back. The nation has your back. We are all rooting for you. Have been since day one. We will make sure you are cured of this terrible virus.”

This wasn't the first time we'd heard the word
virus
used, but hearing the president say it was something else entirely. We traded worried glances and the SEALs tightened the masks over their mouths.

Practiced concern fell over the president's face and she put out her hands in a gesture of acceptance. Granted, she was a couple hundred miles away, but she sounded genuine when she said, “If I could be there right now to hug each and every last one of you, I would. I know this is difficult and I can't promise there aren't still difficult times ahead. But the doctors I have dispatched are the greatest in the nation, and we will spare no expense until you are—
oh, for fuck's sake!
”

The nylon walls of the tents rippled from the blast and the burly, rhino-chinned SEAL plowed into the bloody screen like he was taking a bullet for our virtual commander in chief. Meanwhile, the other SEAL—I'll call him the hot one, because he was,
even all covered up like that—unholstered a pistol and pointed it at Harper Wie's bloody, but empty, seat.

“Oh, for fuck's sake! Oh, for fuck's sake!” the president cried as she pushed her wheely chair back from her Oval Office desk and threw up her hands. Her terrified face was now three times as large and projected on the dripping walls of the tent. “Turn it off. Good God! Off, off, off!”

People do what the president says, so the image of her face was immediately replaced on the tent wall by a screensaver of an eagle, only the eagle looked as bloody as the rest of us.

Yes, Harper Wie was officially victim number nine of the Covington Curse.

T
his is what happens when the president sees in real time what it looks like when a young man spontaneously combusts. You stay put. You don't leave those tents under any circumstances. You do as you're told because you're the problem, and the doctors and the men with guns are your only salvation.

That night we slept in cots in a tent marked
DORMITORY
. Clear orders stated that there was to be no “romantic canoodling,” but we were allowed to bunk down in coed configurations. So Tess was on one side of me and Dylan was on the other, and I held a hand each.

“How many times have they tested your blood?” Tess asked.

“At least four now,” I said. “Along with a CAT scan, an MRI, some X-rays. Then whatever the hell that thing was that they used on us today after . . . Harper.”

“What else can they find?” Tess asked. “What else can they do?”

“I didn't get a close look at the waivers our parents signed,” I
said. “Did it grant the doctors full and unfettered use of medieval torture devices on us?”

“The three of us are seventeen, right?” Tess said. “But there are eighteen-year-olds here. Their parents didn't have the authority to sign them away like that.”

Dylan had been relatively quiet up to this point. “I suspect the waivers were bogus,” he finally said. “To make the parents feel like they have even a little bit of control over this situation. Which they don't. The president is involved. That's all we need to know.”

That's when I lost it, giggling and making my cot rumble. “Did you see her face? Oh my God, that was priceless.”

“
Shut up
,” Tess whispered.

“What? Why? It was funny. The president said ‘oh, for fuck's sake.' Granted, it was quite a thing to witness, but—”

“Don't you realize that Harper was my first?” Tess said.

“You slept with Harper Wie?” I asked.

“No, you idiot,” she said. “This was the first time I actually saw it happen.”

“I didn't even see it because he was sitting behind me,” Dylan said. “Technically, I didn't see Perry either. Just the commotion and the videos later.”

I didn't really count Perry myself, but that still made this my fifth time. I'd seen more of these than anyone. I'd forgotten that. As much as this was a shared experience, I was the reigning champ of spontaneous-combustion-witnessing.

“Am I a horrible person?” I asked, because it was and still is a perfectly valid question.

“No,” Dylan said immediately.

It took Tess a bit longer to respond, but she finally said, “No.”

Which was quickly countered by a shouted “Yes! You are all horrible. And horribly loud. We are trying to sleep here!”

I knew that voice. It was Claire Hanlon, still the most annoying of my pre-calc compatriots. A fight with her could last all night and she did have a point. It had been an exhausting and emotional day.

After losing Harper, we'd all been whisked off to the
HYGIENE
tent, where we showered and put on clean robes—like a hotel, they seemed to have an endless supply. Then SEALs led us to the
EXAM
INATION
tent, where five separate doctors asked us to list our sexual partners, to detail our daily diets and the consistency of our stool over the last few days, and then to go ahead and declare if we'd been bitten by any skunks, bats, or monkeys lately. Then the doctors told us to strip down—in privacy, thankfully—and step into a glass chamber that looked like the ones on game shows that blow tornadoes of cash around giggling contestants, only this one assaulted our body with strobe lights and a fine pink powder before smacking us with a blast of air that smelled vaguely of maple syrup. Next they covered us with electrodes, plopped us down on treadmills, and told us to walk for three hours, or fifteen kilometers, or until we collapsed. Whatever came first.

When the day was through, did the doctors tell us what they were looking for? Come on, don't be so naive. They simply served us dinner, which consisted of pizza and a blue sludgy drink that was called a smoothie but tasted more medicinal than fruity. Then, in a fresh new communications tent, they showed us streaming video of our parents relaying their love and words of
encouragement at a candlelight vigil that was being held along the electric fence.

Before lights out, the head doctor, a lanky woman known to us only as Doc Ramirez, assured the group. “We're making progress. You'll be home before you know it.”

So, yeah. Exhausting and emotional and Claire was right to be mad. We shut up and tried to sleep.