Zomburbia (4 page)

“Are you okay, Chris?” Mr. Santori asked. Chris sort of shrugged. He tried to play it cool—a feat that would have been easier if blood wasn't leaking out of his nose and covering his top lip.

“Okay,” the teacher said. “Regardless, you're going to have to come along to Ms. Ibrahim's, too.”

Mr. Santori turned his gaze on the ranks of us gathered around.

“I think you all have classes to get to,” he said.

We all kind of evaporated like smoke.

As Sherri and I walked away, I heard Mr. Santori's voice again.

“And you,” he said. “What the hell do we pay you to guard, exactly?”

He said this to the guard, who now had his face shield down and his shotgun in his hands, I might add. Mr. Santori didn't seem intimidated at all. Not even by the fact that the guard was like a half-foot taller and kind of towered over him.

“Far as I could tell,” the guard said through the face mask, “all of those kids had a pulse.”

“That's brilliant,” Mr. Santori said. “Just . . . lovely.” He studied the dude's badge. “I'll be talking to my principal about you,
Officer
Daniels. We'll see how long
your
pulse holds out.”

He started to turn, and I hightailed it out of there before he caught me lollygagging.

Sherri waited for me by our lockers again. Even though the bell had rung, a ton of people still milled around talking about what they'd seen, so we felt safe in our truancy.

“Mr. Santori is a badass,” Sherri said. “Did you see him stare down the guy with the assault rifle?”

“I totally get dibs on him for my side in the coming zombie apocalypse,” I said. “And it's not an assault rifle, it's a shotgun.”

“Because that's important right now,” Sherri said.

“It's important to be precise,” I said with a straight face.

“It's important for you to smooch my pucker.”

“Hmm,” I said. “That's an image that's gonna stay with me. Unfortunately.”

“Yeah,” Sherri said, “I guess I'd better get to Home Ec. Those cookies aren't going to bake themselves.”

“See you at lunch,” I said.

Sherri walked off, careful to avoid a pod of popular girls who were also rushing to class.

I started off down the hall in the other direction, then stopped. There was a big spot of Chris's bright red blood on the white tile floor. I stared at it until the final bell rang, then I ran to class.

L
ater that day, a group of us—me, Sherri, Willie, and a few others—sat eating our lunches in the commons area near the school's designated smoking zone, Cancer Corner.

We weren't talking about anything really important, just shooting the breeze. Sometimes we seem to really think we're like junior Oscar Wildes or something. However, actually recalling our conversations makes me cringe.

Case in point: Brandi Edwards looked down at her tray of industrial-strength goop, what passed for lunch in our school district, and said, “Sometimes I really envy you guys.”

There was a moment of silence before I bit. “How's that, Brandi?”

“If I was a welfare case, I'd have a sack lunch, too, and not this crap,” she said. She stirred her food and pouted.

“That's funny,” said Sherri, a bright smile on her face. “Not as funny as the alignment of your bottom teeth, but still . . .”

Brandi isn't that bad—and she certainly isn't ugly—but in our group, any complimentary statements are seen as highly suspect. Sometimes it feels like being mean to each other is a kind of sport. I mentioned it once at a party and I thought I was going to be run out of town on a rail. A huge, sarcastic rail. For weeks I kept finding travel-size tissues in my bag and in my locker, and people kept offering me a hankie. “You look like you're about to squirt a few, Courtney, do you need this?”

Like I said before, we're all the most hilarious.

“I have a new piece of business to bring up with the group,” Sherri said. She waved her fork around like a drunken judge might wave her gavel. Everyone looked up at her, expectant. “It seems that our little Courtney has attracted the attention of one of the men-folk 'round these parts.”

Oh,
Jesus. I groaned and hid my face in my hands. I really did not need this to become common knowledge.

“Who is it?” asked Brandi.

“A member of the jocktocracy,” Sherri answered, dragging it out. “Yes, Courtney has managed to catch the eye of a member of the date-rape set.”

“Again,” said Brandi, “I ask: who is it?”

Sherri could hear the encroaching boredom in Brandi's voice just as well as I could. If she didn't stop playing it out, she'd lose her audience.

“Brandon Ikaros,” she said.

There were a lot of murmurs and guffaws. I did my best to tune it out. Seriously, I could give a shit what those people thought about something that Sherri just made up anyway. Then one voice cut through the clamor of chimpanzee chatter.

“I know Brandon,” the voice said. “He's a good guy.”

The ensuing silence was almost a physical presence. I looked up from my hands to see who had made such a grave breach of bitchy etiquette. Elsa Roberts met my gaze, a half-smile on her lips. I liked Elsa. As much as I liked anyone I hung out with, anyway. She's kind of quiet and more than a little frumpy. She's also the most consistently positive of all of us. Why she hangs out with us is sort of a mystery, actually.

“He lives in the same neighborhood as me,” she went on as everyone gawked at her. “And he's helped me out with my Calculus homework.”

Calculus and not Trigonometry,
I caught myself thinking. Jesus, I could be a real bitch.

Sherri glared at Elsa and went on in an icy voice, “Thank you for a dissenting opinion, Elsa.”

“No,” Brandi interrupted, “Brandon
is
pretty nice. Even for a jock.” She looked me up and down. “
You
could certainly do a lot worse.”

“Thank you, Brandi,” I said.

Sherri could tell she'd lost control of this talking point, and she needed to steer the conversation somewhere else or it might fall on some shortcoming of hers.

“Well,” she said, “that might be true,” her gaze shifted to Willie, “but I know someone who isn't so happy that Courtney's got herself a fella!”

The pack rode that wave for a good half-hour before everyone started drifting away to classes. I felt bad for Willie, bad enough that I only made a couple of jabs—and not even my best ones!

Sherri was the last to go and she asked if I was going to stay. That was the plan, and I told her so. We had a substitute for AP History, so I planned to skip and work on my assignment for Journalism class later in the day. She left and I sat there wondering how I'd fill the blank piece of paper that sat in front of me.

It felt like someone was watching me, but the only kids out there besides me were the Goths smoking over in Cancer Corner. I shook my head. Again I wondered why the Goths thought it was worth all the crap they took just so they could wear lots of pancake makeup and black clothes. I know I liked to play at being an outsider, but those kids took it to a whole other level. They carried their battle scars with pride. I saw Ray Simmons standing there among a small clutch of black-clad Lolitas. They must have thought his neck brace was sexy as hell. He got the brace after some drunk guys in town took a disliking to his pale skin and dark eye makeup. The fact that he didn't pee all over himself and stood up to them hadn't helped. At least that's the way he told the story.

Anyway, the Goths only had eyes for each other.

I went back to my paper and tried to ignore the feeling of being watched. Every few seconds I'd scan the school yard. I checked the guard towers, too. Sometimes you'll catch a guard perving and watching you through the scope of his rifle. It's creepy on a few different levels. Despite how much I liked to think ill of the guards, they were all doing their jobs that day.

Finally, I looked out at the fence that surrounds the school. For the most part, it's a double fence: one that completely surrounds the campus and one about six feet beyond that
should also
surround us. They ran out of money while they were building it, and none of our city's lovely taxpayers wanted to pony up the dough to complete it. Because, you know, we were their children and it was just our lives at stake. Along the back of the school there's a section about fifty feet long where it's just a single layer of fencing. The two open ends were closed off to prevent any shufflers from getting in. They could still theoretically get right up next to the school yard, though.

Some movement out along the tree line caught my eye. I looked deeper into the woods, trying to see what was out there. A patch of shadows removed itself from another patch of shadows, and the zombie came into view. He was a skinny blond kid, or at least he had been. I felt myself blush when I realized he was naked below the waist. Then I felt stupid when I noticed everything that might make me blush had been eaten away. His top half looked pretty complete. He wore a pink polo shirt with a popped collar. A preppie zombie. It seemed redundant to call him that.

He swayed back and forth gently, as if he was underwater and the current was pushing him back and forth.

After a moment I realized I'd been holding my breath, and I let the air out of my lungs. It sounded too loud for some reason. I couldn't take my eyes off him. He wasn't the first zombie I'd seen, not by a long shot. I'd seen plenty, and a couple a whole lot closer, but there was just something about him. Or maybe it wasn't him. Maybe that stupid talk show from the night before had affected me more than I wanted to admit.

I waited for him to either move closer to the fence and get zapped by the guards in the towers, or else disappear back into the trees. If I didn't know any better, I'd have sworn he was looking back at me. But I don't think that could be right. If he had seen me, or sensed me, or whatever the hell it is zombies do, he'd have charged the fence and tried to get at me.

I was suddenly filled with the urge to get up and approach the fence myself. I wanted to force him to do something, not to just stand there like a dummy. I was just rising from the bench when a hand clamped down on my shoulder. A tiny shriek escaped from my throat, and I recoiled back onto the bench.

I looked up at Astrid Milne, who stood over me giving me this weird half-smile.

“Hey, are you okay?” she asked.

I busied myself with arranging my papers, papers that I still hadn't touched. I glanced at the trees. The kid was nowhere to be seen. Where had he gone?

Astrid still had that weird half-smile. She seemed unsure if I was safe or certifiable. Astrid was a senior, a year older than me, and she used to be sort of pretty. Maybe a little plump, but pretty. The girl who stood over me now was no longer either of those things. She was rail thin, her eyes bloodshot. Acne bloomed all over her face. She flashed that smile at me again and exposed gray teeth. They looked dead. What the hell happened to her?

The prep zombie was no longer out by the trees. Had I imagined him? I returned Astrid's smile. I'm sure it looked fake.

“I'm fine, Astrid,” I said. “What's up?”

She glanced back over her shoulder, making sure no one could hear her. For some reason this made me feel uneasy. “I heard you might be holding some Z,” she said. For a second I thought I was going to be sick.

Of course that's what it was. It totally explained how this plump, pretty girl had become a skinny, blown-out skank.

That wasn't the worst of it. The worst of it was that she had approached me
at school
to ask if I was selling. If she knew, or suspected, who else knew? My mind spun at a million miles an hour, trying to think this through. Any way I sliced it, I was dicked.

“I don't know what you mean, Astrid,” I said slowly.

“Hey, listen,” she started to say, a pleading tone creeping into her voice, “I just heard that I could maybe—”

I cut her off. “No, you need to listen,” I said. “I don't know who you heard that from, though I'd be very interested to find that out, but I don't sell drugs. Even if I did,
I certainly wouldn't sell them on school grounds
.”

Tears welled up in her bloodshot eyes. “C'mon . . .” she said. This time the pleading tone didn't just creep in, it danced out front and center.

“No, I'm sorry,” I said. “You've got the wrong girl.”

Before she could start to outright beg, I gathered up my stuff and hurried off to my next class. I forgot all about the zombie out there.

 

Journalism class didn't have desks; it had tables that sat two people each. I moaned a little when I got into class because (1) I was late, which I loathe—I always gave the stink-eye to people who walk into class late—and (2) the only seat available was next to Brandon Ikaros. The expectant smile that lit up his face did not make me feel any better. I was definitely starting to pick up a serial killer vibe from him. Why else would he turn his attention on me?

“Courtney, so nice of you to join us.” Mrs. Johnson stood up at the chalkboard and watched me make my way to my seat. Normally I'd have said something sarcastic—
Well, I didn't have anything else better going on right now
—today all I managed was to mouth the word, “Sorry.”

Every sound seemed amplified. The scraping of the chair against the floor filled the room, my bag's zipper was as loud as a jet taking off. I swear I felt every eye on me as Mrs. Johnson resumed writing on the board at the head of the class. She'd written, S
TORY
I
DEAS.
When I read that, I groaned again. I was supposed to have written down my ideas for next week's issue of the
Quotidian
before I got to class. Watching that stupid zombie and talking to even more stupid Astrid had distracted me from doing my homework.

“Are you okay?” It was Brandon. He was looking at me with real concern.
Jesus
.

“I'm fine,” I whispered. “I just forgot to generate any story ideas.”

He pushed his notebook in my direction. “You can use some of mine,” he said. “I came up with more than we had to.”

The first item on his list read:
Cover the pep rally from the perspective of Sully.
Sully being our school's mascot, a huge seagull. Or, more accurately, a poor misfit sophomore who didn't make it onto the cheer leading squad and was offered the chance to wear a sweltering seagull costume to sporting events. I think that story could only be of interest to furries or those with a sweat fetish.

“Thanks, Brandon,” I said. “I think I'll just scribble down some ideas of my own.”

Mrs. Johnson put down her chalk and faced the class. “Okay, let's hear what you've come up with. Who's first?”

The Journalism class often took a while to get started. We could be a little cutthroat so people didn't like to offer themselves up for sacrifice early in the running. Once ideas were being thrown around, it became easier to speak up. I started racking my brain, because I knew that if no one volunteered soon, Mrs. Johnson would call on someone. The law of my shitty life would demand she pick me.

I sat hunched over, trying my best to be inconspicuous, while also trying to be a creative genius.

“No one has any ideas?” Mrs. Johnson asked. “Okay, Courtney, what do you have?”

Damn. Shit. Damn.

I sat up and gave her a tight-lipped smile.

“What about the fence?” I heard myself ask.

“What about it?” Mrs. Johnson asked right back.

I cleared my throat. “Well,” I said, “it's supposed to be a double fence to keep us safe, and they never finished it.” I started to warm to the topic. “The, uh, district says there's no money to finish it, yet the uh . . . the football team just got a bunch of money for next year to buy all new uniforms and equipment.” I shrugged at Brandon.
Sorry, dude
.

Mrs. Johnson nodded. “Sure,” she said. “Who were you thinking of talking to?”

“You could talk to Principal Ibrahim and the coach—”

“Coach Amara,” Brandon chimed in. “Sure, he'd give you some choice quotes.”