Spontaneous (21 page)

T
hat evening, Tess, Dylan, and I gathered on my back deck, fired up the laptop, and easily located some scholarly articles Krook had written. There were lots of charts and diagrams and it looked sciency enough, but even Tess couldn't understand half the vocabulary. A much better introduction to the good doctor appeared at a seemingly legit site called FieldWorkHeroes.com, which had photo-heavy profiles of globetrotting scientists and was endorsed by none other than Neil deGrasse Tyson, who compared it to “
Vanity Fair
, but with hadron colliders.”

Krook's profile included a few shots of the scientist with her children (of which she had eight—four biologically and four by adoption), but most of the images came from her expeditions into the jungle. They showed her on a raft, at the edge of a cliff, pointing to a snake—always in khaki. There wasn't, of course, any
evidence of the Wooli other than some artist's interpretation: a charcoal sketch of a tribesman in flames.

“‘All humans are wired to spontaneously combust,'” Tess read aloud, which was a direct quotation from Krook. “‘It's part of their cells' natural evolution into cellular perfection.'”

“Cellular perfection?” I said. “Is that sort of like the genetic switch you were talking about? Did you hear about this before Krook showed up?”

“Inklings, but I was skeptical,” she admitted. “From what I can gather, cellular perfection has to do with cells freeing themselves from the organisms they are bound to, then quickly returning to a subatomic state similar to what was found shortly after the Big Bang. Purely theoretical and usually not observable in humans, because the process is supposed to take thousands of years.”

“What does that have to do with some tribe in the middle of some jungle?” I asked.

“Well,” Tess said. “According to Krook, the difference with the Wooli is that many generations ago some environmental factor mutated their genes and sped this process up. So they were reaching cellular perfection and spontaneously combusting after twenty to thirty years of life. The whole cannibalism thing was their solution to delay the process. Krook says the Wooli discovered that consuming the ashes of the dead put the spontaneous combustion off for a few decades.”

“O. M. Gag me,” I said. “This lady better not be suggesting that we lick up the remains of our classmates to live a long and fruitful life.”

Dylan, who had been digesting all the talk, snagged the laptop
from the table. “Let's not forget about the snooze button,” he said as he clicked the image of an alarm clock featured on a banner ad at the top of the page. It launched a pop-up with a screen-busting pic of a green pill bottle. Below it, the text read:

Dr. Krook and her husband, chemist G. W. Barlow, developed SnoozeButton™ by naturally re-creating the genetic sequences found in the ashes of deceased members of the Wooli tribe. For the Wooli tribe, it means an extended life expectancy without having to resort to the unpleasantness of endocannibalism. For the rest of the world, it may be the antiaging therapy we've sought for millennia.

I didn't need to see anymore. “So Krook is a crook, right?” I asked as I leaned back in my chair.

“There's some solid science here, and it's not far off from some other theories, but there are holes,” Tess replied. “Many, many holes. And the timing of her arrival does raise some concerns.”

“Some?” I said. “One. She's here to sell pills. That's it and that's all. That article is clearly sponsored content. Because, really, the Wooli tribe? Why didn't she go entirely racist and xenophobic and call them the Unga Bungas or something?”

“Jane believes her,” Dylan said. “And Jane isn't stupid.”

“Krook has a litter of kids and terrible fashion sense,” I said. “Jane sees her as a mentor.”

Dylan rolled his eyes, which, I'll admit, my comment deserved. “She's the mother of my nephews and a good person,” he said.
“Maybe taking it will at least provide her with some hope.”

“Wait,” Tess said. “What's happening?”

“Well, maybe you two aren't quite Rosetti-level detectives,” he said as his fingers raced over the keyboard, “but I figured you at least checked social media.”

He turned the laptop and showed us a picture of Krook, Jane, and the triplets, who were holding a cardboard sign that read:

SHARE THIS IF YOU WANT OUR MOMMY TO BE THE FIRST ONE TO TAKE SNOOZEBUTTON™.

It was posted that afternoon and had already been shared 258,349 times.

T
hankfully, Spiros wasn't buying into Dr. Krook either. While our peers and their parents were saying things like “How will it hurt?” he was replying, “How will it help? Putting poison in their bodies?” and they were countering, “At worst, it's probably a sugar pill and what about the placebo effect?” and he was shooting back, “False hope is the provenance of politicians and every variety of con man and I won't have my students led astray by some charlatan.”

In short: Krook was not welcome in Livin' 101 anymore.

However, our Ashtanga yoga teacher, Mr. Harmsa, was more than willing to humor the woman. And he did. The very next night.

“The secrets to health are not found in your corporate laboratories but in the oral histories and nearly forgotten medicinal practices of the world's indigenous peoples,” he told us as he introduced Dr. Krook on the stage of our recently refurbished auditorium (now known as the Tinder Theater, thanks to a generous cash infusion from everybody's favorite hookup site).

Yes, Dr. Krook was there to administer the first dose of Snooze-Button™, and she was decked out in her formal khaki, all pleats and button-down. Of course, the democratically elected first recipient of the pill was there too. Jane Rolling was sitting in a plush, white armchair and weeping from happiness. The entire senior class, as well as many parents, filled the auditorium seats, eager to watch and record the historic moment.

After Harmsa bowed to Krook approximately 168 times, he shuffled backward offstage, leaving Krook to run the show. Because that's what it was, a show, an even better show than my reincarnation celebration at Laura Riggs's house. It was a medicine show, as they say, with a hulking yet elegant woman pacing back and forth and holding a bottle of her wares aloft.

“I do not promise a cure,” Krook said. “Anyone promising a cure is a liar. What I am promising is a treatment. I am promising that three little boys will have a bit more time with their mother. Thanks to SnoozeButton™.”

Under the harsh stage lights, the tears on Jane's face looked like pearls and even my dark heart ached for the girl. Boy oh boy, did she want this more than any of us.

“You are not interested in my promises, though,” Krook continued. “My words are empty vessels unless they are filled with results. So I will be brief. I want it on record that Ms. Rolling has chosen this therapy under her own volition and I will be administering it free of charge. Is that so, Ms. Rolling?”

“It is so,” Jane squeaked, her eyes squinting and tearing. Pearls, all over her ruddy face.

“Excellent,” Krook said. “I will apologize to those who came
here expecting a big production. There isn't much pomp and circumstance to swallowing a pill. But make no mistake, this may be the most significant moment in this young woman's life.”

“Besides the birth of my boys,” Jane remarked.

“Of course,” Krook said. “Who could forget your prides and joys?”

Then Krook winked to the front row, where those sweet little guys were sitting. Goddamn their tiny blue suits. Like cutting onions.

Jane blew a kiss to them and they each started clapping. Which was adorable, obviously. Then Krook nodded offstage and Harmsa returned with a glass of water. As he handed Krook the glass, Harmsa announced, “I will be meditating during the treatment and everyone is welcome to join me.”

He sat cross-legged on the stage, made a temple of his hands, and closed his eyes. “
Ommmm
,” he chanted, and his chant was echoed by Becky Groves, and then by small pockets throughout the auditorium.

Krook nodded respectfully and did not interrupt the chant with her voice. Instead, she handed Jane the glass, then took a pill from the green bottle and held it up to show the crowd. It wasn't much bigger than a vitamin, but from my seat in the fifth row, I could still see its lime sheen.

“
Ommmm
,” went Harmsa and the ever-growing chorus of yoga enthusiasts. Rosetti, who was standing by the emergency exit with her arms crossed, was clearly not among them. I hadn't spoken to her since Krook's arrival, but I had texted her the night before.

Me: So what do you think of Krook?

Her: False flag, phase four. Be ready.

I didn't know what that meant. All I knew was Rosetti meant business. She was watching the stage with the intensity of a predator. I want to say she was like a jackal, but I'm not sure what a jackal is. If it's a stone-cold killer with eyes of fury and a hand close to its holster, then she was a jackal all right. Either that or a wolf with a concealed carry permit.

Up onstage, Jane's hand shook and water spilled from the glass and onto her lap as she moved it to her lips. As nervous as she was, she still managed to fill her cheeks with water and hand the glass back to Krook.

“
Ommmm
.”

Krook passed her the pill and rather than examine it, Jane jammed it in her mouth, like a kid enduring the last vegetable on the plate in order to get an ice-cream reward.

“
Ommmm
.”

Then Jane swallowed. And squinted up at the lights above her. Then gazed down to the crowd. She smiled and mouthed,
I love you
, to her three little boys.

There was an explosion of clapping and cheers. Jane stood, thrust her hands in the air. Krook grabbed one of the wrists and held it like Jane was a prizefighter. Together, they walked offstage.

Namaste, motherfuckers.

S
chool on Friday was full of an apprehensive excitement. At the end of the previous night's presentation, Krook had come back onstage and announced that she'd be providing Snooze-Button™ free of charge for a thirty-day trial to any student who wanted it. The Daltons would have been proud of this typical drug-dealer move. Get 'em hooked and then gouge the price. Make boom-boom-bonkers bucks.

Clearly, she was playing the odds. The last spontaneous combustion was Gayle Heatherton, all the way back in November. Nearly five months had passed, our longest stint without an incident. It was possible that the threat was over, even though there was no obvious reason. Krook was trying to fill the reason void. Because if this never happened again, she would receive credit and not only would she have two hundred customers who'd be paying her for the rest of their lives, she'd also have the world's attention. FDA approval would quickly follow. She'd be hailed as the next Jonas Salk.

Or that's what I assumed she was thinking. The satisfied smile she wore that morning when she arrived at school with Jane spoke volumes. The two walked the hall together like they were the friggin' homecoming court. And yes, there was applause. For what? Because Jane had taken a pill and survived one more day on earth, I guess.

Now, I wasn't a total monster. I could sympathize with the girl's predicament. I certainly hoped that I was wrong, that Krook was not a crook and that the pill was our salvation, but we'd been down so many dead-end roads already. I was tired of it and I couldn't believe I was the only one.

Dylan and I were on our way to Livin' 101 during Jane and Krook's triumphant procession. Seeing Jane so happy made him so happy and I loved his capacity to love, but I wasn't thrilled about his capacity to be public about it. Still, he tolerated my admiration of Rosetti, so it was only fair that I extend an olive branch to Jane.

“Go congratulate her,” I said. “Or whatever.”

“I should,” he replied, and he ducked under a few arms that were distributing high fives and he approached Jane. He gave her a big hug and she whispered something to him. Krook could obviously hear what she said, because it made that shit-eating grin even wider. Dylan whispered something back. And then she was gone.

Pop. Blood. Gone.

No more Jane.

Only one person made a sound: Krook. It was one of those primal, horror-movie shrieks. She jumped backward, slammed into the lockers, and flailed like she was walking through spiderwebs. The rest of us stood there, stunned, but not exactly surprised.
Dylan's arms were still curled in embrace but he was embracing nothing but air and the blood that dripped from his clothes.

As Krook's racket faded to a whimper and she cowered on the floor, Becky Groves, our former scream queen turned yoga junkie, stepped from the crowd with arms outstretched, offering a hug of comfort. But instead of giving it to Krook, she gave it to Dylan.

“There, there, kiddo,” she said. “We all—”

Then Becky was gone too, splattering all over Dylan and commingling with the remnants of Jane.

That was more than enough for Krook. That was plenty. She leapt to her feet and tried to haul ass out of there, but she slipped on the blood, hit her head on the floor, and knocked herself unconscious. Or she pretended to be unconscious. She lay motionless on the ground, in any case.

“What the hell is wrong with you!” Claire screamed at Dylan. “You did this! You brought this back!”

Dylan didn't respond. He hardly moved at all. His face was bathed in blood and regret. These were the only explosions he'd actually witnessed, and I instantly thought back to the original texts that had brought us together.

Invigorating. Invigorating. Invigorating.

Was this invigorating for him? Not by a long shot.

“
Let's get out of here, sweetie
,” I said softly. “
There's nothing
—”

“Take him down,” Clint called out.

“No,” Steve Cox replied. “Don't touch him. It's touching him that did it.”

I spun and stuck out a finger at Steve and said, “If touching him did it then I would have been dead a long—”

Then Steve was gone too, his splatter shooting down the hallway like a burst of confetti from a party popper. Now there were screams. Now there were swears. Now there was slipping, grasping at the lockers and walls for support, like novice ice skaters at a rink. Now hell was upon us.

Krook's body shot up like a reanimated corpse and she bulldozed down the hall through the pack of students. I desperately needed someone to blame, so I abandoned Dylan and started my chase. I slid across the slick terrazzo floors like a socked kid on hardwood. When I reached a dry patch, I broke into a sprint.

Boom!
More screams.

It was another one, behind me, so I didn't see it. I'd find out later it was Taylor Ventner, a guy with a Broadway-quality voice and kennel-quality BO. RIP and so sorry, Taylor. I wish I knew you better. I wish that day didn't go down the way it did. But it did, and I was too furious to think of anything but my fury.

I kept moving, focusing on the blur of khaki. Yoga had made me nimble, so I caught up quickly.

“You're the one who brought it back!” I screamed as I plowed into Krook, slamming her into the lockers.

“What in the—who in the—how in the—?” Krook said, her face spasming in confusion.

“She had kids,” I shouted, my nose pressed to hers. “She
was
a kid!”

Krook tried to push me away, so I grabbed her shoulders to hold myself in place, but then suddenly someone was tearing us apart.

It was Rosetti, fresh from the bathroom, her hands wet and her shirt half tucked in. “What the hell is going on?” she asked.

“
Who the hell is going off
is more like it,” I said. “Jane, Becky, Steve. God knows who else.”

Around the corner came a mob of blood-drenched kids. They streamed past us like they were at a Black Friday sale. Mad eyed, taking no prisoners. Rosetti tried to shield us from the stampede, wrapping her arms around us and pressing us against the lockers until they passed, but Krook slipped away from her and into the crowd. When the pack was gone, so was the doctor.

“Are you okay?” Rosetti asked.

“We have to go,” I said, breaking free. “We have to arrest her. We can't—”

“To my vehicle, now!” Rosetti commanded as she grabbed my wrist.

No amount of yoga could have helped me out of her iron grip and she started dragging me like a delinquent to juvie. Before I knew it, we were in the parking lot and at her Tesla. She pushed me into the backseat and climbed up front. The motor automatically hummed as soon as she sat down. She turned on the radio to drown out exterior noise. The music was thick with jangly guitars.

Leaning back over the center console, she whispered to me, “
Gordon Laramie basically predicted this in his manifesto. This is the next stage in the false flag operation. Don't be surprised if the executive orders that follow make a mockery of the Constitution. We were at a precipice here. Krook pushed us off. Don't touch her. Don't even talk to her. You do not want the attention of her superiors.
”

“Wait,” I said. “You think she's . . . ? What exactly do you think is happening here?”

Rosetti shook her head, as if pitying me. “This woman's work
with the Wooli? You really think it was observation? No. It was experimentation. Of course SnoozeButton doesn't work. It's a smokescreen. Build up hope in private enterprise, then strip it away. So that trust turns back to the government.”

“That's not what it seems like to me at all. To me, it—”

Rosetti put up a finger. “Phase One of the false flag was most likely instituted decades back, during World War II, deep in the jungles where the human experimentation wouldn't be noticed. Phase Two was set into motion four years ago in Washington, DC, when they secretly implanted their detonators in our country's most prized and privileged resources: upper-middle-class, northeastern, liberal-leaning, suburban adolescents. Phase Three occurred in the tents when they added tracking devices to make sure none of you could escape and seek out the truth. Now we're in the thick of Phase Four, where all hope is lost and all rights are surrendered to the government. Before you know it, we'll be in Phase Five, and everyone you know will be implanted with detonators and trackers and there will be two countries: one with the people who can afford to stay whole and one that is a wasteland of death. If you don't believe in the power of the Illuminati, then—”

“Slow down!” I yelped. “I can't follow any of this.”

Rosetti gulped, as if swallowing her vomit of words. Her eyes settled and she whispered, “
First thing that will happen is they'll close it down. And then where will we go? Then what will we do?
”

“Close what down?”

Rosetti reached into the back and opened my door. “You should go. So should I. It was a failure. They're coming. They're coming.”

I still wasn't sure what she was talking about, but I knew it made
me uncomfortable. And I agreed with her on one thing: I didn't want to be in that car. I slipped out without uttering a word and took a few paces across the lot. The car moved slowly past me as Rosetti mouthed a wide-mouthed
go!
And then she was gone, sliding silently away without giving me a chance to ask her anything else.

Since students weren't allowed to drive, the only vehicles left belonged to Krook and the four teachers, but the lot was now full of kids who'd fled the building. It was like that first time with Katelyn, only this time was much, much bloodier.

Dylan was part of the crowd, stumbling toward me in a daze. He was like an oasis in this endless expanse of horror. I ran to intercept him, and when I hugged him, he basically fell into my arms.

“
I love you
,” he whispered.

“I'm so glad to see you,” I replied as I held him up.

“Jane is gone. I'll never see her again. They're gone too. I'll never see them again either.”

Thank you very much, Captain Obvious. I know these should have hardly been revelations, but it really did take all that death for the implications to sink in. With Dylan, at least. At that point, I wasn't sure if they'd sunk in with me. Because as much as I'd wept and hurt and shivered and worried and tried to bury my feelings in all varieties of bullshit, I had never really gotten to the point of feeling bad for the ones who'd lost someone they loved.

“You'll get through this,” I told Dylan. “I promise.”

“They need . . . someone needs to tell their stories,” he said. “Honest stories. The good and the bad. Or else, they'll be forgotten. Or worse. Remembered for the wrong things.”

“Of course,” I said as I stepped back and put my hands firmly on his shoulders. “We can do that. Me and you. We'll be like historians. We'll chronicle their lives. We'll honor Jane and all of them and we'll be good people. Both of us. Heroes.”

“I'm not a hero. I'm not anybody. I'm nothing.”

It was an interesting choice of words. As I stared into Dylan's lost eyes, did I see “nothing”? Is this the moment when I reveal that Dylan was merely a figment of my imagination, the moment when you rethink everything I've told you and you say, “Holy shit! She's right! He never had a conversation with anyone but her! He didn't even touch any objects!” Is this the moment when I admit that Dylan wasn't real, and never was?

No. This is the moment when I tell you he was realer than he'd ever been. When I tell you I saw
everything
. Holding him, staring at him, I could hardly remember what I used to think of Dylan all the way back in the fall. When he was a redneck, a hardened soul, an arsonist, a father. A mystery.

He wasn't a mystery anymore. I
knew
him. Which was, I'm ashamed to admit, rather heartbreaking. Though not as heartbreaking as what happened next. For as I was touching him, thinking about who he was and what he meant to me, and feeling all the feelings that such thoughts inspire, Dylan disintegrated. He blew up right before my very eyes. Exactly as I always feared he would.