away, but he grabs my arm. “Wait, Cindy.”
“Yeah?”
“She not…one of them, is she?”
“No.”
Not yet.
***
After school, I find Nick sitting on the highest bleacher alone. The wind blusters his hair widely and he looks like a boy from one of those magazines. Except for his expression—mouth a tight line, jaw clenched. He waves and I come up, not especially graceful.
“I thought we’d have a better chance if a Shambler discovers us out here. I haven’t seen one who can climb very well,” he says.
“Seen a lot of them lately, I assume?”
“More than I want to see. My grandma turned last week.” The tone of his voice gives away nothing, but his throat works hard like he’s holding in a sob. Or a scream.
I touch his hand. “I’m so sorry, Nick. I had no idea.”
“Someone getting the N-Virus is hardly big news lately. They sent her over to the Pastures. They said it would be fine, but it was horrible. Those poor people. They’re monsters. They’ve become monsters and they’re keeping them around just to pacify the living.” He squeezes my hand back and his blue eyes glisten with tears when he looks at me.
“I’m still having nightmares,” he whispers. “Is Audrey like that?”
“No. No!” I tell him. “Not at all.”
“Why? She was bitten, according to that asshole. I saw the photo—he sent it to me like he was proud or something.”
“Well, she’s okay.” Part of me wants to tell him that she wasn’t bitten—it’s all a joke. A bad, tasteless fucking joke and he’s the target. Teenagers aren’t above that sort of behavior, you know, but I can’t lie to him again. “She was bitten, but she hasn’t contracted the N-Virus.”
“How?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“You have to,” Nick says. “I need to know she’s not going to be one of those things .”
“Nick…”
“Tell me, Cindy.”
“Why does it matter, anyway? She cheated on you with a douchebag. You shouldn’t even care what happens to her.”
“I don’t know why,” Nick nearly shouts, staring straight ahead now rather than looking at me. “Audrey has always been … above it all. Above us. She’s sorta untouchable, you know? If this gets her, it will get us all.”
I nod. He made his case. “My dad was able to get an experimental vaccine. It seems to be working.”
Nick smiles. “So there’s hope for those of us who are left.”
“There’s always hope. We just can’t give up.”
I grab my backpack and pull out my lunch bag. Mom made up her famous “funky-chunky chicken salad,” which is usually fresh avocado, roasted chicken and whatever else she deems worthy being including in her gourmet delicacy, stuffed into a whole wheat pita. Today, it’s canned chicken and pre-packaged guacamole. Not exactly inedible, but not the same, either. I offer Nick half. He takes it, mutters a thanks and takes a hearty bite.
“Not bad,” he said. “Better than mystery meat.”
Agreeing, I remove two bottles of water from the bag next and hand him one. We sit, eating in silence in a row on bleachers that overlook an overgrown soccer field that may never be used again. Overhead, white clouds float by like fat ghosts. The sun is like a caress, a reminder that summer and normalcy was only a few months behind us. There are no sounds around us. I find myself missing the low chaos of track practice or football practice or even cheerleading. Band practice is canceled for the time being, so the missed notes on trombone no longer echo from the music room, followed by Mr. Wigg’s bitchy comments. Nice one, Leslie. Now try and play the song the rest of the band is playing, how about it? Yes, I even miss that.
The constant hum of traffic on the highway beyond the fields is now only a whisper. Looking up, I spot a lone aircraft that appears to be some sort of military jet. My heart jumps in behind my ribs, but I don’t say anything to Nick.
I hadn’t felt like eating at lunch and opted for
“Yeah?”
“She not…one of them, is she?”
“No.”
Not yet.
***
After school, I find Nick sitting on the highest bleacher alone. The wind blusters his hair widely and he looks like a boy from one of those magazines. Except for his expression—mouth a tight line, jaw clenched. He waves and I come up, not especially graceful.
“I thought we’d have a better chance if a Shambler discovers us out here. I haven’t seen one who can climb very well,” he says.
“Seen a lot of them lately, I assume?”
“More than I want to see. My grandma turned last week.” The tone of his voice gives away nothing, but his throat works hard like he’s holding in a sob. Or a scream.
I touch his hand. “I’m so sorry, Nick. I had no idea.”
“Someone getting the N-Virus is hardly big news lately. They sent her over to the Pastures. They said it would be fine, but it was horrible. Those poor people. They’re monsters. They’ve become monsters and they’re keeping them around just to pacify the living.” He squeezes my hand back and his blue eyes glisten with tears when he looks at me.
“I’m still having nightmares,” he whispers. “Is Audrey like that?”
“No. No!” I tell him. “Not at all.”
“Why? She was bitten, according to that asshole. I saw the photo—he sent it to me like he was proud or something.”
“Well, she’s okay.” Part of me wants to tell him that she wasn’t bitten—it’s all a joke. A bad, tasteless fucking joke and he’s the target. Teenagers aren’t above that sort of behavior, you know, but I can’t lie to him again. “She was bitten, but she hasn’t contracted the N-Virus.”
“How?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“You have to,” Nick says. “I need to know she’s not going to be one of those things .”
“Nick…”
“Tell me, Cindy.”
“Why does it matter, anyway? She cheated on you with a douchebag. You shouldn’t even care what happens to her.”
“I don’t know why,” Nick nearly shouts, staring straight ahead now rather than looking at me. “Audrey has always been … above it all. Above us. She’s sorta untouchable, you know? If this gets her, it will get us all.”
I nod. He made his case. “My dad was able to get an experimental vaccine. It seems to be working.”
Nick smiles. “So there’s hope for those of us who are left.”
“There’s always hope. We just can’t give up.”
I grab my backpack and pull out my lunch bag. Mom made up her famous “funky-chunky chicken salad,” which is usually fresh avocado, roasted chicken and whatever else she deems worthy being including in her gourmet delicacy, stuffed into a whole wheat pita. Today, it’s canned chicken and pre-packaged guacamole. Not exactly inedible, but not the same, either. I offer Nick half. He takes it, mutters a thanks and takes a hearty bite.
“Not bad,” he said. “Better than mystery meat.”
Agreeing, I remove two bottles of water from the bag next and hand him one. We sit, eating in silence in a row on bleachers that overlook an overgrown soccer field that may never be used again. Overhead, white clouds float by like fat ghosts. The sun is like a caress, a reminder that summer and normalcy was only a few months behind us. There are no sounds around us. I find myself missing the low chaos of track practice or football practice or even cheerleading. Band practice is canceled for the time being, so the missed notes on trombone no longer echo from the music room, followed by Mr. Wigg’s bitchy comments. Nice one, Leslie. Now try and play the song the rest of the band is playing, how about it? Yes, I even miss that.
The constant hum of traffic on the highway beyond the fields is now only a whisper. Looking up, I spot a lone aircraft that appears to be some sort of military jet. My heart jumps in behind my ribs, but I don’t say anything to Nick.
I hadn’t felt like eating at lunch and opted for
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