Zombified (27 page)

“Care to elaborate?” she asked.

“Not really,” I said.

“Okay,” she said reluctantly. “Have you heard back from Columbia yet?”

“Not yet.”

“I'm sure you will soon,” she said. “And I know what the answer will be.” She opened up a drawer in the desk and pulled out a gift-wrapped package. A small one. She set it on the desk in front of me.

“For me?” I asked.

“No wonder everyone thinks you're so smart,” she said.

Ms. Bjorn was sassing me. I liked it.

“Go ahead,” she said. “Open it.”

I picked it up—it was obviously a book—and tore open the paper.

“It's hopelessly out of date,” Ms Bjorn said. “I mean, the last year they printed an updated guide was back in 2005, after all.”

I held a battered copy of
The Rough Guide to New York
in my hands. It looked like it had spent a lot of time in someone's backpack.

“That was the copy I used when I went to New York,” Ms. Bjorn said. “The maps will still be good, at least. God knows what businesses will be open when you head back East.”

I didn't know what to say. No one had ever given me such a thoughtful gift before. The only thing that came close was when my dad bought me my first revolver.

I felt tears welling up in my eyes, but I blinked them back. I stood up and went around the desk. Ms. Bjorn, not being fresh off the turnip truck, knew what was coming and she stood up to receive my hug.

“Thank you,” I said.

“I know you're going to do great there,” she said. “You're one of the most interesting and unique students I've ever met with.”

Most unique?
I let it slide.

She pulled away from the hug and smiled at me.

“Even if half of the things you've told me have been bull,” she said.

My face must have fallen because she laughed. For a long time.

“Don't worry about it, Courtney,” she said. “No one who comes in here ever tells me everything. God, I'd probably run screaming for the hills if they did. I figure that the important things will come out eventually.”

“Okay,” I said. She'd known all along that I was hiding stuff from her, and she hadn't called me on it or let on she knew at all. Crazy. My opinion of her grew by an order of magnitude.

I went back around to the other side of the room and put the book in my backpack. Our time was just about up.

“I wrote my e-mail address on the inside front cover,” she said. “I'd love to hear how you make out.”

“I'll write you,” I promised. “Thanks.”

“You're welcome,” she said. “It's just an old book.”

“Not for that,” I said. “For everything. For caring.”

“I think a lot more people care than you know, Courtney,” she said. “Or are willing to acknowledge.”

We hugged one more time, and then I left her office for the last time.

Phil waited for me at my locker.

“Are you okay?” he asked. “Were you crying?”

“It's Ms. Bjorn's fault,” I said. “She waited until the last possible moment to reveal that she's cool.”

“By making you cry?” he asked. “That is pretty cool.”

For someone who claimed not to understand how comedy worked, he was funny when he wanted to be. Not that I'd ever let him know I thought that.

“What do you want to do tonight?” Phil asked.

“Let's get something to eat,” I said.

“Let me guess,” he said. “Bully Burger.”

“This may be the last time I ever see Chacho,” I said. I knew I'd been acting all confident about how the kegger was going to go, but I guess I still wanted to be prepared in case something went wrong.

“Okay,” Phil said. “As long as you let me buy. It's been kind of weird having you pay for everything lately.”

“Don't you like having a sugar mama?” I asked.

“Ugh. Please promise never to say that ever again.”

“No can do,” I said. “I never know when I'll need to gross you out.”

We headed out of the school and to Phil's car. God, I wouldn't miss looking up at guard towers and seeing the sunlight glint off rifle scopes.

“Hey, can we stop at a hardware store on the way?” I asked.

“Sure,” Phil said. “What do you need there?”

“I've just been thinking of a little project,” I said.

He didn't ask any more questions, and we climbed into the car and drove off through the security cordon.

The old dudes at the hardware store were super helpful. I love that about old guys, actually. What I could live without was their condescension. I've never been called “hon,” “sweetie,” and “little lady” so much in my whole life. But at least we walked out of there with everything I thought we'd need for my task.

After that, we headed to Bully Burger, which was a little disappointing. Mr. Washington, the owner, was there, which meant Chacho had to stand outside and do his guard thing. Mr. Washington was happy to see Phil and me, though. So happy that he bought both our dinners.

“I still get credit for wanting to pay for your meal,” Phil said.

“Whatever,” I said, “cheapskate.”

We only got to talk to Chacho for fifteen minutes when he took his state-mandated break. Well, less than that because it took him a while to get his armor off and use the bathroom.

He knew something was up, but he didn't press it. He thanked us again for coming to his barbecue, and told us the next one was going to be on the Fourth of July.

“We'll be done in time for you to go see some fireworks somewhere,” he said, “and whatever other trouble you kids get up to.” He even told Phil he ought to bring his aunt and uncle.

We talked about not much at all, but when we all stood up—me and Phil to leave, and Chacho to get back to work—I surprised him by giving him a huge hug.

“You're making me worried,” he said. “Tell me you're not going to do anything stupid any time soon.”

“Nothing more stupid than the usual,” I said.

“Oh, boy,” he said. “Well, be careful.”

“Always,” I said.

“And you take care of her,” he said to Phil.

Phil took my hand in his and squeezed it. “Always,” he said.

He held my hand so rarely. I'd be damned if it was going to be the last time.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

I
slept in late the next day. I figured that later I'd appreciate all the rest I could get.

I found Phil in his room, at his drawing board, of course. A large white envelope sat on the table next to him.

“What's that?” I asked as I sat on the floor. I didn't have the energy to climb up onto his bunk bed.

“What's what?”

“Don't,” I said. “You know what I mean.”

He finished up whatever he was drawing and then set his pencil down. He looked down at the envelope.

“That came today in the mail,” he said. “It's from the Kubert school, the comics school.”

I sat up on the bed, the last bit of sleepiness chased away by excitement.

“What's it say?” I asked.

“No idea.”

“What the hell does that mean?” I asked. “ ‘No idea.' ”

“Just what I said.” He turned and looked at me. “I'm not going to open it until tomorrow. Whatever it says might not matter after tonight.”

“Oh, my God,” I said. “I can't believe you're doing this to me!”

“I'm pretty sure I'm doing it to myself,” he said.

“You only think that because you're so incredibly selfish,” I said.

I really didn't understand what he was doing. If I got a letter like that from Columbia, no force on earth could stop me from opening it.

“What did your aunt and uncle say when it came?” I asked.

“They weren't here,” he said. “They still aren't. They went to the nursery and some other places, I think. They'll be gone for hours.”

“Oh,” I said. “You know what we should do while they're out?”

He turned his swivel chair around to face me and grinned.

“What?” he asked.

“We should work on the project,” I said.

“Oh,” he said. “That. Sure.”

“Why?” I asked innocently. “What were you thinking?”

“Funny.” He stood up and stretched. I heard his spine crack. “Go get dressed. I'll get the tools.”

It only took about an hour to install the hardware I'd bought to the crawl space's trapdoor. We tried it out a few times and it seemed to work perfectly.

After that, I showered and ate. Then came the long, fidgety wait for it to be time to leave for the party. I tried reading, listening to music, watching TV, surfing the web. None of it held my interest. Phil was no help, either. I eventually decided to leave him alone because he was in some sort of Zen trance with his drawing. I knew it annoyed him every time I interrupted him.

Gene and Diane finally came home, and I leaped up to help them unload the car. Anything to take my mind off the waiting. They'd bought a small forest's worth of plants, along with potting soil and fertilizer. It was very domestic.

“Thanks, Courtney,” Diane said. “If only we might get someone else to be helpful.”

“Don't be hard on Phil,” I said. “He's lost in his drawings.” I declined to mention anything about the letter he'd gotten.

When we got back into the house, I pointed to the rug that covered the trapdoor and said, “I did something to the crawl space door, and I hope you won't mind.”

“What'd you do?” Gene asked. He craned his neck to look, even though I hadn't pulled the rug back.

I bent down to do that, then stopped.

“I hope you won't think I'm weird or paranoid,” I said, “but I've been thinking about how my dad died, and I don't want the same thing to, you know . . .”

They looked at each other, then turned back at me with identical strained smiles.

“Oh, sweetie, we'd never think that of you!” Diane said, and Gene nodded vigorously.

“Okay,” I said. I pulled back the rug. They looked underwhelmed.

To be honest, there wasn't much to see. Just the tops of three flush-head bolts.

“Give me a second,” I said.

A small ring was screwed into the top of the trapdoor and sat in a little recess. I pried the ring up, and pulled up the door—which was made of plywood a couple of inches thick. On the underside of the door, each bolt attached to a short length of chain secured by a big washer and nut. The three chains were joined together with another bolt and nut. It formed a sort of cradle that you were able to slip your hand through to hold the door closed from inside the crawl space.

I explained all of this, then got into the space. Standing on the hard-packed dirt floor, the floor of the kitchen was still at waist level. “Try and open the door,” I said to Gene, then I closed the door behind me, sat on the ground, and grabbed on to the chain.

After a few seconds, I felt resistance on the chain, but the door barely budged at all. All I had to do was let my weight hang from the chain and there was no way Gene was able to open the door without using tools. No matter how smart and coordinated zombies got, I doubted they'd ever become little undead handymen.

I felt the individual links biting into the flesh of my palm.

“Okay,” I yelled at Gene. “I'm going to let go now.”

I waited a second, then did like I said. I pushed the door open and stood up.

“You couldn't open it, right?” I asked even though I knew the answer.

“There was no way to get leverage,” Gene said. He was smiling at me like I was a kid who had just spelled her first word.

“Right now,” I said, “the only problem I can see is that holding on to the chain hurts your hand. I can rig something else up, but for now, you might try to keep some work gloves handy. You know, just in case.”

“I think it's great just like it is, Courtney,” Gene said. “I only hope we never have to use it.”

“Me, too,” I said. There was no way I wanted to tell them they might be using it sooner than they'd like without sounding like a loon.

“It's very thoughtful of you,” Diane said, and she gave me a hug.

“Thanks,” I said. “It was nothing.” I suddenly felt really tired. Maybe it was from having installed the hardware onto the door, but it felt more emotional somehow.

“I think I'm going to go take a nap or something,” I said.

“You want to be fresh for tonight,” Diane said as I started walking out of the kitchen. I stopped, startled.

“Phil said you two were going to some sort of party,” she said. “Have a good rest.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I will.

I closed the bedroom door behind me, closed the drapes, and lay down on top of the covers. After a few seconds, I stripped off my socks and jeans, then lay back down again. Finally, I got under the covers. I just couldn't get comfortable. Wasn't that the worst? You have the chance to take a nap and your body just rebels. I was just about to admit defeat and get up when sleep finally crashed down on me like an iron anvil in a Warner Brothers cartoon.

I stood on the shore of the lake where the kegger was going to be several hours from now. It was night, and moonless. The only light came from the cabin behind me, which was burning out of control. Water lapped up on the beach even though there was no wind. Was something out in the lake?

I heard footsteps behind me on the sand.

“Hi, Sherri,” I said. I pulled my sweatshirt closer around myself, even though it was a warm night.

“You realize it was a year ago?” she asked. She stepped up beside me. “Exactly one year ago that you were here before. Of course, I never got to be here in person.”

“What are you here to tell me this time?” I asked. “'Cause I have to tell you, I'm getting really tired of the Ghost of Zombies Future thing.”

“Technically,” she said, “I'd be the Ghost of Zombies Past.” She grinned at me.

I refused to play along.

“Fine, be that way,” she said and rolled her eyes. “You could always get so pissy. No, Courtney,” she went on, “I think I'm just here to be here. To see you. No matter what happens tonight, I don't think I'm coming back for any more visits.”

I didn't know how I felt about that. On the one hand, scary dreams starring your dead best friend kind of sucked. On the other, I'd miss her if she was truly going to be gone forever.

“You're just part of my imagination, right?” I asked her. “Or my subconscious?”

She shrugged. “Would you believe me if I said anything different?”

“No,” I said.

“Then let's just say that.”

We stood watching the water for a while. I knew it was only a dream, but it felt so comforting just to stand with my friend on the beach. The house burning behind us gave the scene a lot of atmosphere.

“Say,” I said, “I've been wondering. How come Willie never came back to say hi?”

“I don't think he was smart enough to find a way back,” she said. Then she covered her mouth and looked both horrified and really pleased with herself. “Oh, God, that was terrible!”

We both laughed.

“God,” she said, “I loved that kid, but, you know.”

“I've missed this,” I said. “Standing around, bullshitting.”

“Me, too,” she said. “Hey, maybe tonight you'll screw the pooch and we'll get to hang together more often!”

“Bitch,” I said, but I wasn't mad. It was just her way. What I did do was reach over and grab her hand. She didn't pull hers away or accuse me of being gay or anything; she just let me hold on to her.

“No offense,” I said, “but I don't plan on seeing you again for a long time.”

“That's cool, too,” she said. “I can wait.”

And we just stood like that as the house fire behind us started to wind down.

A knock on my door brought me back to the real world.

“Yes?” I asked.

Phil's voice came through the door. “It's time to get ready to go.”

“Okay,” I said. “Give me a minute.”

I heard him walk away and I burrowed my face into my pillow. It was wet with tears.

A half hour later, we had Cody in the car and we were driving through Silverton on the way to the kegger. We didn't say much; everyone seemed wrapped up in their own heads. I was trying to shake the feeling that there was something I hadn't thought of. That I was going to get a lot of people killed—myself included. Well, I told myself, if I died, I wouldn't have to deal with the guilt of knowing I'd been wrong. I didn't really believe it, though.

Phil suggested we listen to music.

“Oh, yeah!” I said. “I forgot that I brought this to listen to.” I pulled a CD out of my sweatshirt pocket and handed it over.

“Lucinda Williams?” he asked.

“Put it in,” I said. “You'll like it. And if you don't, don't say anything.”

Lucinda's desperate voice sang out as we drove, and I suddenly didn't feel so worried. We lived in a world where she'd been born and been allowed to make music. Things weren't all that bad, I thought.

“So I decided I'm going to Chemeketa Community College in the fall,” Cody said. “I'm going to do the Occupation Skills program, then see about maybe going to a four-year state school or just getting a job after.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I don't know.”

“That's good, Cody,” I said.

“Yeah, I decided to sign up after you talked about making plans past the other night,” he said. “I figured I'd better get on the stick and figure out what the hell I wanted to do with my life.”

“It's good to have plans,” I said. “And to realize that we'll probably make it past tonight.”

I looked at Phil. He didn't say anything, but he shook his head slightly. So he hadn't told Cody about the letter, either. I guess tomorrow was going to be a surprise for everyone but Phil and me.

We made a few more attempts at small talk, but every time our talking died out before it even started. Eventually we gave up and drove on in silence. It was silent except for the music, anyway. I watched the trees and fields slide by outside the window.

Sherri had been right. In my dream, she'd been right. It had been exactly a year since I'd been out to the cabin and helped repel a zombie attack. It made a kind of sense that I was doing it again, but I promised myself there'd be no third time.

We eventually came to a drive cut into the surrounding forest, a steel tube gate blocking the way. A couple of kids I barely recognized, a white kid and a Latino, stood at the gate, rifles hanging off their shoulders. Phil pulled up and braked long enough for them to open the gate.

“Are you guys juniors?” he asked.

“Yeah,” the Latino kid said. “Dillon said we could come to the party if we stood guard at the gate for a while.”

I recognized them then. They were both on the varsity football team even though they were juniors. The fact that they were here tonight probably meant that they'd be planning the thing next year. That was how it worked, I thought. Jock kings handing down the responsibility for the kegger to their hand-chosen little princes. It made a majestic sort of sense when you thought about it.

“Just follow the drive all the way up to the cabin,” the Latino kid told us. I didn't bother to tell him I'd already been here a few times.

“Thanks,” Phil said. He drove on past the gate.

It took a few minutes before we came to a large clearing, maybe a couple of acres of lawn that was bordered by forests on three sides and a beach on the fourth. The cabin we'd burned down a year ago had been rebuilt, or replaced. I wasn't able to tell if it was the same as the old one. The building was dark; none of us would be going inside it tonight.