The Day the Dead Came to Show and Tell (14 page)

Well. It probably wasn't hours.

“There's nothing past me, Miss Oldenburg,” he said. “Everyone's dead. You can't go back that way.”

“We have to,” she said. “The halls behind us are full of the infected.” Jenna was crying, pressing her face against Elaine's hip and burying her free hand in the fabric of Elaine's skirt. Elaine couldn't allow herself to be distracted, not now, not under the circumstances. She kept her eyes locked on Guy, begging him to understand—begging him to still be human enough to let her go.

“Don't know how the damn things got inside,” muttered Guy. He glanced past Elaine and the children, looking down the hall. The corner blocked the mob of the infected from his view. “Thought we had protection.”

That was always the problem, wasn't it? People thought of the infected as things that could be kept out, and didn't think of them as the virus that was already there, just waiting for the opportunity to stir and open its eyes. Kellis-Amberlee hadn't managed to “get inside.” It had just found a way to wake.

“Guy, please, focus,” Elaine said. We need to go past you. We're trying to find a way out of the school.”

“Oh, yeah?” For the first time, he looked interested; the barrel of the shotgun dipped slightly. “But you won't be taking me, will you? I'm just a janitor. Not good enough for your little escape plan.”

“You're already infected.” The words were harsh. Elaine pressed on anyway. “I can't take you with me, or they'll shoot us all as soon as they see us. They might shoot me anyway. I'm over the amplification threshold.”

“But none of your students are.” Guy hesitated before asking, “Roof?”

“If we can get there.” There was no sense in lying to him: he was the one who'd told her about the vents, and more, he was the one with the shotgun. If he didn't want her to make it any further, she wouldn't. “The infected can't climb.”

“Not once they're fully amplified,” he said. “What will you do if there's already something up there, waiting for you?”

“Die.” More of the students started crying. She could feel her control over them wavering. It was a miracle that they'd been able to keep calm for as long they had. Once she lost them…it would be the three kindergarteners running down the hall all over again. She'd never get them back. “This is our only chance. Now please, let us pass.”

“I don't know—”

He didn't get the chance to finish his statement. A low groan echoed from one of the nearby classrooms, followed by a chorus of answering moans. The children instantly clustered around their teacher, clutching her dress and casting terrified looks at the open door.

“We have to go,” implored Elaine.

Guy—who was close, yes, to full amplification, but whose ability to think was still intact, if somewhat slowed by the infection raging through his veins—took a deep breath, forcing down the thoughts of blood and skin crushed between his teeth that were starting to overtake him. “Go,” he said.

Elaine looked at him and nodded. Then: “Children! Come with me!” She took off at a run. The surviving students of her class and Ms. Teeter's kindergarten took off with her, keeping up as best they could.

They had almost reached the end of the hall when Guy's shotgun blared, the sound echoing through the school like a beacon to the remaining dead. Elaine kept her head down and kept running, pulling Jenna along with one hand, trusting the others to keep up.

A door, already half-open, slammed all the way open as they ran past it. Arms emerged, questing arms attached to blood-drenched bodies and hungry, relentless teeth. Three of the kindergarteners were ensnared and dragged, screaming, into the classroom, where their bodies were quickly obscured by the teeming sea of hands.

The infected hadn't been hungry before. Elaine understood that dimly, even as she kept running, and kept urging the remaining students to stay with her, to run, to not look back or slow down for any reason. She had been able to travel the halls in relative safety before because the infection had just been getting started, and later, because the infected were satiated, their bellies stuffed tight with the flesh of their teachers and classmates. But zombies burnt through calories so fast that it was inevitable that they would have become hungry again, and started reacting faster to anything that seemed like it might be food. Anything, like the sound of footsteps that were just a little too swift, just a little too steady, to belong to the living dead.

If they hadn't fallen through the roof, Elaine and her students might have all made it out of the school alive, because the infected hadn't been actively hunting. But now they were, and all the remaining children and their teacher could do was run.

Three more students had been lost by the time Elaine and her remaining charges—only four; how did it ever get to be only four? There should have been seventeen in her class alone, not three—turned another corner and found themselves facing something that might have been salvation. Elaine slid to a stop. The four students did the same. The surviving kindergartener wailed as she grabbed hold of Elaine's knees, panting and shaking from the effort of running. Elaine patted the little girl's head with her free hand before carefully easing her gun out of its holster.

The sound of the shots would bring any remaining zombies running. That, more than anything, was why she had chosen flight at every opportunity: better to run and live than to make a heroic stand and die when the bullets ran out and the entire school descended, hands outstretched and hungry. Unfortunately, she didn't see another avenue. There, straight ahead of them, was the door to her classroom, where she knew the closet was unlocked. They would be able to get back to the roof. They would be able to get
out
.

And there, standing between them and the all-essential door, was Mr. O'Toole.

He seemed to be alone, which wasn't unusual for a member of a mob that had been confined in an enclosed space: sometimes they would split up to shamble into new areas, looking for food. When they began to moan, it would attract the others, allowing each individual to become a whole new potential food source. It was practical in a way that was almost unnerving.

The former teacher was looking squarely at her, his mouth hanging very slightly open. He hadn't started to moan yet, but she knew that it was just a matter of time; any second now, he would realize that he was in the presence of good, untainted flesh, and he would begin to moan. That, or the zombies they had left behind them would catch up. Either way, she had seconds to decide what she would do.

“I'm so sorry,” she said, and put three bullets in his head.

The children—who had remained almost preternaturally calm throughout their long ordeal, understanding on some level that calm was the only thing that had any potential to save them—all began to scream. Not in unison, which would have been disturbing but not as disorienting; they screamed on four different pitches, in four different speeds. Jenna, who had been almost stoic, sobbed as she screamed, breaking up her wails into small, shattered gasps.

“Almost there,” said Elaine. She holstered her gun and scooped the kindergartener into her arms, bracing the little girl against her shoulder as she ran for her classroom. The other three followed, too stunned and scared to do anything else. She was their teacher. She would protect them. In that moment, the children she had already failed to save were the furthest thing from the thoughts of her small, scared survivors.

They weren't far from Elaine's thoughts. Those children were all she could think of as she barricaded the classroom door with her own desk—the only piece of furniture not bolted to the floor. As she led the survivors to the closet and helped them, once more, up into the empty dark of the crawl space.

They moved quickly this time, the teacher and her four charges: they moved without hesitation or lingering long enough to let the tiles grow weak beneath them. When they finally reached the far wall, they found the grate that should have covered the air shaft hanging askew.

“Class dismissed,” said Elaine weakly, and boosted the first of her students into the dark tunnel to freedom.

The public defender assigned to represent Elaine Oldenburg in the initial hearings to determine her culpability in the deaths of twelve of the students in her care stood in front of the courthouse, glancing anxiously at his watch. Elaine was three minutes late. Not a horrible offense, not yet, but one that was worrisome in light of the charges that might be brought against her if this inquiry found her to have been at fault. She clearly didn't understand the depth of the trouble she was in. He would have to explain it more clearly when she arrived.

When nine o'clock came and went with no Elaine, he notified the police.

At her apartment, they found all her personal possessions…even her identification and teacher's certification, which she was meant to have taken with her to the courthouse. There was no note. There was no indication that she had gone anywhere. Elaine Oldenburg had simply disappeared into the night, leaving everything behind—everything but the contents of her savings account, which she had drained the night before. She was gone.

Maybe it was better that way. It gave the school system a scapegoat and prevented the parents of the survivors from being forced to endure a lengthy trial, arguing against the compelling stories that could so easily have been theirs, if their children had been slightly slower, slightly differently placed in the order of events. Elaine Oldenburg vanished, and she took so much of the blame with her. People looked for her, of course, but not long enough, and not in the right places.

Where she went when that long, terrible school day ended was anybody's guess. The only person who knew for sure was Elaine Oldenburg…and she wasn't saying.

Mira Grant lives in California, sleeps with a machete under her bed, and highly suggests you do the same. Mira Grant is the pseudonym of Seanan McGuire—winner of the 2010 John W. Campbell Award for best new writer. Find out more about the author at
www.miragrant.com
or follow her on twitter @seananmcguire.

 

Author photo by Carolyn Billingsley.