/ sweet melody / you'll be singing in your sleep /
Cassie’s crying again, grabbing at Clyde like she’s drowning. Which is possible, considering the fact neither of them seem to have noticed it’s raining. I guess I can sympathize with her. Seeing the future’s pretty horrible, that’s not news. The fact that she introduced herself as Cassandra the first time we met her is pretty good evidence she knows it too.
I don’t think she’s ever realized that I got her reference. I’ve got no idea what her real name actually is.
I clear my throat loudly. I’m freezing, the rain soaking all the way through my hoodie and dripping down my neck.
“Five minutes,” I remind, watching the face of my watch distorted under raindrops. I resist the urge to slam a hand at my temples. My head's killing me and everything's gone blurry. My vision's horrible, but I lost my glasses a long time back.
They break apart, Cassie still shivering. It might just be the rain. None of us are wearing anything heavier than a hoodie. The rain washes the teardrops from her face, and she scrubs at her eyes with her hands.
“There’s definitely an Immune in this school,” she says when she’s done, tone more cool and confident than anyone who didn’t know her would expect her to be able to manage.
“Well let’s go get them,” Clyde says, gung-ho as ever.
***
I’m in band. I’m in band and I’m bored to death. There’s nothing for drumline to do, so I’m sitting on the windowsill, staring out at the parking lot. The conductor’s harassing the flutes.
There’s a girl crying in the parking lot. I’ve been watching for a solid moment, and I’m pretty sure she’s crying. She’d got her head buried in her boyfriend’s shoulder and they’re both out in the rain.
I’d rather be out in the pouring rain than stuck in here.
I don’t notice the other boy until he comes around from the side of the car. He must’ve been sitting on the other side of the rusty old car, squarish and seventies and probably a monster with gasoline.
The couple separate and they all turn to the school, heading for it with hunched shoulders.
Do they even go here? I don’t know any of them. It’s a big school, but I usually at least recognize faces.
The question become a lot less relevant when Nita Munich starts coughing up in the trombone section, hacking away until there’s blood on her hand.
***
Clyde goes in like a hero. He goes in tall and victorious and any day now I expect him to dye his red hair blond and get himself a sword and a horse, to go for the whole knight-in-shining-armor effect.
Clyde goes in to rescue the girl, charging in proudly to rescue the Immune against the corner, surrounded by Infected.
Of course, I notice a couple things Clyde doesn’t. Like the fact that there’s half a dozen Infected out on the floor-unconscious or dead, there’s not much of a difference once they’ve caught the disease. Or the way the instruments and bleachers have been made into barriers and set up with obvious strategy.
Clyde sees a damsel in distress; I notice she’s been putting up quite the fight already.
It’s not exactly going well, however, and the forty or so Infected who were probably her classmates half an hour ago are edging her into a corner.
“Hey!” Clyde shouts, and Cassie reaches into her bag, getting a handful of flaxseed. She tosses it back towards the hallway, in the opposite way as the exit, and we scramble out of the way.
I climb up the bleachers, onto a platform covered in drums, scaling the metal lattice hand over hand. I’ve always been told I’m about three-quarters monkey.
The stampede of zombies is always a pretty comical thing to watch. They compete to get to the door, and they’ll be spending the next hour picking up individual seeds with already-rotting fingers. I don’t know where the compulsion comes from, but it’s damn useful.
The girl’s up on the platform too, and she’s got a pair of drumsticks sticking out of the back pocket of her jeans. I think she’s forgotten that they’re there.
***
The boyfriend’s sneakers make squeaking sounds on the floor as he walks up to the percussion section. They’re probably still wet from outside.
“Hi,” says the other boy, not two feet away, and I can see there’s bright red streaks in his black hair, or the fringe of it falling over his forehead not obscured by sopping wet hood. His hair’s wet so the streaks are bright as rubies.
There’s something practically demonic about his smile, just barely coming down on the mischievous side of up-to-no-good.
“I’m Neil,” he introduces, giving me hand up.
There’s a black rubber band on his wrist.
He smiles again. “You might be interested to know, there’s a zombie apocalypse on.”
My fingers worry at the hole in my jeans, exactly halfway between my knee and my belt.
“But here’s the good news,” he says. “You’re immune.”
.
I don’t think she’s ever realized that I got her reference. I’ve got no idea what her real name actually is.
I clear my throat loudly. I’m freezing, the rain soaking all the way through my hoodie and dripping down my neck.
“Five minutes,” I remind, watching the face of my watch distorted under raindrops. I resist the urge to slam a hand at my temples. My head's killing me and everything's gone blurry. My vision's horrible, but I lost my glasses a long time back.
They break apart, Cassie still shivering. It might just be the rain. None of us are wearing anything heavier than a hoodie. The rain washes the teardrops from her face, and she scrubs at her eyes with her hands.
“There’s definitely an Immune in this school,” she says when she’s done, tone more cool and confident than anyone who didn’t know her would expect her to be able to manage.
“Well let’s go get them,” Clyde says, gung-ho as ever.
***
I’m in band. I’m in band and I’m bored to death. There’s nothing for drumline to do, so I’m sitting on the windowsill, staring out at the parking lot. The conductor’s harassing the flutes.
There’s a girl crying in the parking lot. I’ve been watching for a solid moment, and I’m pretty sure she’s crying. She’d got her head buried in her boyfriend’s shoulder and they’re both out in the rain.
I’d rather be out in the pouring rain than stuck in here.
I don’t notice the other boy until he comes around from the side of the car. He must’ve been sitting on the other side of the rusty old car, squarish and seventies and probably a monster with gasoline.
The couple separate and they all turn to the school, heading for it with hunched shoulders.
Do they even go here? I don’t know any of them. It’s a big school, but I usually at least recognize faces.
The question become a lot less relevant when Nita Munich starts coughing up in the trombone section, hacking away until there’s blood on her hand.
***
Clyde goes in like a hero. He goes in tall and victorious and any day now I expect him to dye his red hair blond and get himself a sword and a horse, to go for the whole knight-in-shining-armor effect.
Clyde goes in to rescue the girl, charging in proudly to rescue the Immune against the corner, surrounded by Infected.
Of course, I notice a couple things Clyde doesn’t. Like the fact that there’s half a dozen Infected out on the floor-unconscious or dead, there’s not much of a difference once they’ve caught the disease. Or the way the instruments and bleachers have been made into barriers and set up with obvious strategy.
Clyde sees a damsel in distress; I notice she’s been putting up quite the fight already.
It’s not exactly going well, however, and the forty or so Infected who were probably her classmates half an hour ago are edging her into a corner.
“Hey!” Clyde shouts, and Cassie reaches into her bag, getting a handful of flaxseed. She tosses it back towards the hallway, in the opposite way as the exit, and we scramble out of the way.
I climb up the bleachers, onto a platform covered in drums, scaling the metal lattice hand over hand. I’ve always been told I’m about three-quarters monkey.
The stampede of zombies is always a pretty comical thing to watch. They compete to get to the door, and they’ll be spending the next hour picking up individual seeds with already-rotting fingers. I don’t know where the compulsion comes from, but it’s damn useful.
The girl’s up on the platform too, and she’s got a pair of drumsticks sticking out of the back pocket of her jeans. I think she’s forgotten that they’re there.
***
The boyfriend’s sneakers make squeaking sounds on the floor as he walks up to the percussion section. They’re probably still wet from outside.
“Hi,” says the other boy, not two feet away, and I can see there’s bright red streaks in his black hair, or the fringe of it falling over his forehead not obscured by sopping wet hood. His hair’s wet so the streaks are bright as rubies.
There’s something practically demonic about his smile, just barely coming down on the mischievous side of up-to-no-good.
“I’m Neil,” he introduces, giving me hand up.
There’s a black rubber band on his wrist.
He smiles again. “You might be interested to know, there’s a zombie apocalypse on.”
My fingers worry at the hole in my jeans, exactly halfway between my knee and my belt.
“But here’s the good news,” he says. “You’re immune.”
.