All Together Now: A Zombie Story (7 page)

"Any student or faculty member found in breach of this ban will be subject to immediate discipline up to and including possible expulsion or termination."

Principal Stender paused awkwardly, then added, "Thank you."

The entire school erupted with voices of students in every classroom and teachers asking them to be quiet. Just as the noise started to hush, the overhead intercom pinged on again.

"Teachers, please consult your email inboxes. Thank you."

There were students drinking bottles of Chrome Lightning as these announcements were made. Teachers made them throw their drinks out and fired up their email accounts as quickly as they could.

By second period, most classrooms had their televisions on, everyone watching coverage of the first attacks in Chicago and the fire that spread to five city blocks in less than an hour. Even the reporters weren't entirely sure what we were seeing.

"Chicago police appear to be shooting at citizens," one reporter said. "No one is certain why—did he just get up? He's getting up!"

In third period, a freshman girl brought a message to me from the office. It was from Dad. All it said was "coming to pick you up at 11:30."

If only he'd come sooner, I might've missed the deaths of so many of the kids I'd grown up with.

24

IF THERE'D BEEN A FIRE or a shooting at Harrington High School that day or a bus crash or some other tragedy that took the lives of 200 or 300 students, it would've been a big deal.

I don't know the actual number of students who died, but Harrington High School had over 1,300 students and a lot of them never made it out.

Anyway, my point is: if there'd been a normal tragedy that took the lives of so many students, Harrington would've put up plaques, held memorials, people would've given interviews for all the major news, and we maybe even would've created a town-wide holiday honoring those lost.

But by that evening, most of the people who would've done those things weren't alive to do them.

Even after the cure gets distributed, I can't imagine survivors making a big deal about Harrington High School when schools everywhere have been wiped out.

This journal may be all the memorial Harrington ever gets.

I'm not up to the task. If I write a memorial for them, I have to write one for the whole world and Michelle and I will be out of crackers and tuna long before I could finish that.

But I'll do my best.

25

—IN MEMORIAM—

MIKE MULLIN
, SENIOR, CLASS PRESIDENT. Being a sophomore, I didn't really know Mike. He was into martial arts and a lot of girls giggled when he passed. I know he was popular, obviously, so he must've been a nice guy or admirable in some way.

Mike came in the back doors of the cafeteria a little past 11:00. No one was paying attention. I was at a center table talking about the news reports from Chicago and eating a chicken sandwich, just like everyone.

How I wish I had that chicken sandwich now, breaded and warm and served with waffle fries. I can almost taste it.

No one noticed Mike, an athlete, staggering as he walked.

No one noticed Mike's eyes were pure milky white from top to bottom.

No one heard Mike's moan over the bluster of students at lunch.

Lisa Fipps
, junior, one of the prettiest girls I ever saw. We used to ride the same bus and I spent a lot of trips home trying not to stare at her. She had light brown hair and freckles and she lived about three stops from the school. I never really worked up the nerve to talk to Lisa, so I don't know a lot about her.

Lisa wasn't the only girl approaching Mike, but she got there first. I was too far away to hear what she asked him, probably if he was okay. I didn't really pay attention until Lisa started screaming.

Then everyone was looking.

Girls screamed in the cafeteria—not every day, but often enough.

Sometimes it was followed by someone storming out, sometimes it was followed by a lot of laughter and a very angry girl, and sometimes, and this is what we were all hoping to see when we turned to look, it was the start of a fight.

It was no fight.

Mike had Lisa bent back, one hand clutching her hair, the other snaked around her waist. His head was buried in her breasts, which might've been awesome if blood hadn't been pouring down her front.

Lisa slapped at Mike's head, hard at first, then lighter, then not at all. Her screams choked.

Shannon Alexander
, freshman, bookworm, tennis player. Shannon and I went to the same elementary school and I can't ever remember seeing her without a book in her hand. She made honor roll every report card and probably would've grown up to be a teacher or someone important.

Shannon punched Mike in the back of the head. He dropped Lisa, who slumped to the floor like a vampire's drained victim.

Mike turned and had his fingers wrapped around the belt of Shannon's jeans before she could punch him again.

Mike took no notice of Shannon's blows. They bounced off his face like she was punching a wall. He leaned in as though to kiss her and tore her throat out with his teeth.

Virginia Vought
, freshman, stoner. I don't know a whole lot about Virginia, except she sometimes sat with Shannon. First thing in the morning, her eyes were usually red and glassy. She laughed a lot (and coughed), and considering how things finished up, I say good for her.

Some of the students were already running for the exits. But there were plenty of us who stayed right where we were, transfixed, like we were watching a car accident or a fire.

I watched as Virginia swatted Mike the way one might swat a dog for dumping on the carpet. I don't think she knew what she was doing, but in no time Mike's hand was clasping her wrist and raising it to his mouth.

Jody Sparks
, sophomore, God's warrior. Jody scared me. I shouldn't say that in her memorial, I guess. She was pretty, when she wasn't yelling at Mr. Curts, our biology teacher, for teaching "the fallacy of evolution."

She hosted prayer circles before school, always wore a dress past her knees, and got in trouble for wearing T-shirts featuring pictures of aborted fetuses and dead homosexuals to class. I never saw her without her Bible.

She was cradling Lisa's head in her lap and praying for her when Lisa turned. Jody screamed as the reanimated Lisa bit the flesh from her stomach and maybe God's warrior finally went home to Jesus.

I sort of doubt it, but it seems only fair.

I don't know what happened next. After that, I ran.

26

MR. WAYNE GOODWIN
, SOCIAL STUDIES teacher, father of two (I'd write husband, but I think he was divorced—not sure). Mr. Goodwin made me nervous. He used to pace between desks and yell when he taught. I never fell asleep in Mr. Goodwin's class.

I tripped over him on my way out of the cafeteria.

I was running like a panicked rabbit and so focused on the people running farther up the hall, I didn't look down.

I sprawled, smacking my chest and elbows, but I managed to keep my face from hitting the floor.

Mr. Goodwin groaned. He was sitting just outside the cafeteria with his back against the wall of bright orange lockers.

"Mr. Goodwin?" I said. "Are you—"

All right
was how I meant to finish, but when I turned to face him, I saw he was the furthest from all right any of us will ever be.

He was dead.

Had to be.

The bearded right side of his face was the same as ever, but the left half ended in ragged patches of skin and hair where the flesh from his cheek to his ear had been torn away along with a good chunk of forehead and scalp.

There were spongy layers of skin covering his skull, but I could see parts of it as well as the bottom curve of his eyeball, which must've rolled back in its socket. It was milky white from beginning to end.

Mr. Goodwin turned toward me.

I swore and leapt to my feet.

Mr. Goodwin's mouth opened and I could see what was left of his facial muscles working.

"I'll get help," I said.

He planted his hands on either side of himself and pushed, sliding his back up the lockers.

I meant to run, but then there was screaming and a crash to my right.

Molly Hale
, sophomore, slut. I guess you shouldn't call someone a slut in her obituary, but she and I dated for two weeks last April and the whole time she was making out with Kyle Farris behind my back.

We only made out once, but it was my first time making out with anyone and now I know I was probably tasting Kyle the whole time. She cheated on him with Shane Trips, and last I heard she was dating some senior from Brownsborough.

Now that I think about it, maybe Kyle, Shane, and I should be grateful she was willing to make out with so many of us. Otherwise, we might not have gotten to make out with anyone. How's that for a memorial?

Thank you Molly Hale and sluts everywhere for your years of public service.

Teresa Gilreath
, sophomore, flute player, honor roll student. Teresa was in marching band and she must've been good as she had a letter on her jacket and a bunch of ribbons pinned on it.

A classroom door banged open and Molly and Teresa came into the hall at the same time, fighting. Teresa had hold of Molly's hair and was attempting to bite her.

Molly tried to get away and they collapsed to the floor, Teresa looking as though she were the newest to suck face with Molly, except Molly was screaming.

I would've gone to help—I think I would've, but before I could react, Mr. Goodwin was standing.

He gripped my arm, and his fingers were like steel. They pinched with the pressure of a shark's bite.

He snarled and dove his head, jaw first, toward my shoulder.

27

BEN TOBIN
, SOPHOMORE, THE GREATEST first baseman in Harrington High history and my best friend since the third grade. I don't have the words to tell you about Ben.

We were in Little League together and his dad worked at Kirkman's, so we've known each other our whole lives.

In third grade, my mother went through a religious phase and dragged Chuck and me to church every Sunday for a year. Everywhere she drove us, we listened to gospel music like "What a Friend We Have in Jesus," "Where No One Stands Alone," and "All Together Now."

Then she got in a fight with the minister's wife and we stopped going.

Anyway, every summer the church sponsored kids for church camp and the summer my mother found religion, I got to go for a week.

We had to memorize a bunch of Bible verses and listen to stories about Jesus, and it seemed like we never stopped praying. But in between all that we went on hikes, played games, practiced archery, had camp fires, and slept in tents.

It was a good time.

Most activities required a partner, and Ben and I were the only two third-graders from Harrington Christian Church, so we did most everything together.

The last day of camp we went canoeing and ours flipped over. That's not quite accurate. I was bent over waving my butt at a canoe of girls and I tripped and capsized our canoe.

We were in a shallow creek. It's not like the counselors took third-graders into whitewater. But I plunged in and the water went above my head, which was unfortunate as I caught my foot in the marsh below.

I was probably only under about 30 seconds, if that, but 30 seconds is a lifetime for a third-grader.

In those 30 seconds I knew I was going to die.

I didn't imagine any bright white light filled with floating angels leading me to a paradise where the streets were paved gold like the Land of Oz.

I knew I wasn't going to be reunited with Grandpa Zack and Jesus wasn't going to be there to thank me for all the songs I sang about Him that week.

The world would keep on going the same as ever, just no me.

Even though Ben could barely swim, he kept one hand on our canoe and pulled me up by my shirt with his other hand. If he hadn't, the counselors who were already swimming toward us would've saved me, but they didn't get there. Ben did.

That night we said a special prayer thanking God for giving Ben the courage to save my life. And the last day of camp when they gave out the camper awards, Ben received the Moses award for "parting the waters and leading me to safety."

Ben and I've been best friends ever since.

Seven years later in the halls of Harrington High School, Ben saved me again.

28

I SAW MR. GOODWIN INTENDED to bite my shoulder before he tried.

Never mind he was a teacher.

Never mind adults, whether they're teachers or not, aren't allowed to bite students.

Never mind Mr. Goodwin was missing half his face and should've been dead or on his way to the hospital.

I jammed my left palm against the portion of Mr. Goodwin's forehead that still had skin and pushed.

He forgot my shoulder and tried to bite my wrist.

I grabbed his hair with my right hand. It was slick and sticky and smelled of blood.

With both hands I held him back, but it did no good.

Zombies are slow and stiff, but they're as strong as they were in life. Stronger, in a way, because they have no second thoughts or moral qualms, and no concern for themselves.

Looking into Mr. Goodwin's milky white eyes, I knew they didn't see me, Ricky Genaro, the kid from his 10th-grade social studies class. Those eyes saw only what they wanted: meat.

He charged.

I could no more hold him at bay than I could've held a grizzly bear. I was driven backward against the lockers.

I did the only thing I could: I let my legs go limp and dropped.

Mr. Goodwin banged his head on a locker door, but appeared not to notice. Instead he reached down as I was crawling away and grabbed my ankle.