Gods of Anthem (15 page)

In the seats next to me, Serena and Gregor make out voraciously; she’s practically in his lap, head ducked down in a hidden pocket of darkness.

I’m officially solo.

The movie’s male lead is saying, “Our leaders are here to help us, Jamie,” when I’ve had enough.

There’s
only one toilet, but there’s no line. Inside the stall, a small drawing of a skull has been carved into the metal door, and I’m sitting on the toilet lid, staring at it when the bathroom door squeaks open, letting someone inside. A long moan has me stepping up onto the toilet, hands over my mouth.

I inch up to see over the top, but instead of the walking dead, Gregor and Serena are there. She’s pressed up against the wall, and he’s got his mouth on her neck. Her glazed eyes aren’t undead, just lust-filled.

This goes on while I plug my ears and mentally say the alphabet fourteen times over.

Once they leave, my glance in the mirror reveals pink, blotchy skin from having to listen to their noisy tryst. While I’m drying my hands, a girl rushes in, almost crashing into me as she runs for the stall.

She barely makes it to the toilet before hurling.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“Yeah,” she gasps, and then pukes again. “Yeah. I just had something bad. Damned moldy bread.”

I slowly approach. “Should I get someone?”

“
No
. Don’t do that. I’ll be fine.”

She throws up again, and this time, she stares down at the toilet bowl after. Eyes widening, she slumps back against the side of the stall.

Her lips are foamed red.

Blood.

“Wait!” she cries, scrambling to her feet. “Don’t leave. Help … me.”

But I’ve already grabbed the door handle when she tackles me from behind, hitting low so we connect solidly with the wall before bouncing back in a wild tangle. We fall together, and she crawls desperately up my body.

“I’m okay, I’m not … it’s not. I’ll be fine. If they come, they’ll shoot me. Do you understand? They’ll think—”

“Get off of me!”

A jolt of adrenaline aids my shove, and she flips backwards, head striking the floor in a dull thud. Her eyes flutter, then close.

Now she’s lying between me and the door.

I reach across her carefully, trying not to touch her, but the handle slides through my grasp. My hand’s slimy with blood. It’s all over the front of my shirt, too.

At the sink, I try to mop it from my chest, but soon give up on the shirt, pulling it off.

With the shirt pushed down as deep as it will go into the trash, I zip my hoodie. My eyes catch the mirror, making me freeze.

She stands behind me, perfectly still, gaze vacant.

We stay like that for a moment before my dive for the stall breaks the trance. She’s halfway through the door as I’m trying to close it, arms fitting through the space just big enough, hands leaving bloody prints anywhere she touches.

She withdraws long enough for me to latch the lock.

I back away, frantically trying to decide the next move while she repeatedly throws her body against the flimsy door.

Panic begins to override my senses, and I clap my hands over my ears, trying to block out the sound, when it suddenly stops. She’s still again, quiet. I peek through the crack to see she’s standing out there, sort of weaving.

She moves out of my line of sight. First, a hand appears under the bottom of the door. Then, another joins the first. Like a worm she inches underneath, sliding her head along the floor. It twists backwards, and her teeth snap at me where I’m standing on the toilet.

There’s no choice but to attempt to climb over the top, and I’m halfway up when she grabs my legs, pulling me back down. My still-wet hands slip. As I fall, my leg strikes the side of the toilet hard enough to make me cry out.

She’s on me instantly, teeth inches from my vulnerable neck.

But then … it’s like with the guard—my hands clasp each side of her face, and I twist. Her milky eyes move restlessly, blood pouring from her nose. When her head catches and can turn no more, I push it even farther. A single pop vibrates through my arms before more follow.

Letting go, she slumps, unable to do more than quiver. She’s prone, neck broken, jaws snapping impotently, head at an impossible angle.

The vision makes me gag.

Another rinse of the blood at the sink, and I’m out of the bathroom and through the theatre door.

I go back at my seat, having left her there in a permanent seizure on the floor, hoping the darkness can hide the blood on my hoodie.

The film finishes and we leave.

Serena’s busy daydreaming and doesn’t notice I’m not gripping the seat on the bus anymore, or even talking.

She and Gregor hold each other tight and neither notice the strange dampness of my hoodie.

Back at my apartment, even though it’s freezing, I sit through a second ration of shower water trying to get clean.

In bed, bundled up to get warm, I wait.

I wait for them to come and take me away.

To ask how I’d killed a zombie.

What will I say?

Saturday’s breakfast is
a must at Journee’s. He gets the best pastries for it, fresh ones; to miss it would cause suspicion. The twins are nosy anyway, so to give them any reason to suspect something is a bad idea.

“Where’d you go last night, Mozart?” Journee asks.

The doughnut sticks in my throat. “I went with Serena and Gregor to the movies.”

“Oh, really?” He stares at Serena, who keeps careful eyes on her newspaper. “You still hang with that rich old man?”

“Mm-hmm,” she replies, not looking up, but an eye roll was in there somewhere. She dramatically turns the page. “I wouldn’t call him old.” Serena seems to search for the right word. “Sophisticated,” she finally says.

“Hmm.” Journee watches her over his mug before he reaches across to brush her hand with his. “You be careful, all right?”

She looks up in surprise. “Sure,” she says, and rolls her eyes again, but with a softer smile than I’ve ever seen, even with Gregor.

When she returns to reading, Journee’s expression turns pained.

Manda talks with her mouth full. “I’ve told you,
Muñeca
, that man is nothing but trouble. Mm-hmm, my ass. Just like our daddy. All play but no stay.”

Serena spouts something rapid in Spanish, pinning Manda with a glare.

Manda tosses her pastry down. “All right. Sarry. I just calls it like I sees it. A warnin’ is all.” She turns to me, and it’s difficult to take her seriously with her hair in pink rollers. She fixes one and purses her lips. “I have a sick sense about these things. You know…?”

“Sixth, Manda.” Serena sighs. “The saying is ‘sixth sense.’”

Manda screws her face to the side. “Huh? That makes no freakin’ sense. I saw that movie, okay, and if everyone was dead, they had to be
sick.
No offense, Mozart.”

My shrug goes ignored.

Serena slaps her hand on the front headline. “A girl died at the movie theatre last night.” She gestures between us. “That’s where we were!” She takes a bite of her muffin and with a head shake, reads, “Doctor Pica Ciudad comments on the loss of yet another life. ‘The dreadful virus strikes again.’”

The table erupts with groans, and I glance around in question.

Journee taps the page. “Find a comment from the leaders.”

“Yup. Here it is.” Serena snaps the paper taut. “Karma Cromwell makes a statement to the people: ‘The Authority is saddened by the loss of one of our citizens and promises to find a cure.’ Reginald Cromwell adds, ‘We have to keep hope.’”

Everyone groans again.

Journee snatches the paper from Serena and searches it, reading, “Doctors work round the clock to find a cure for the dreaded influenza.”

“Is that what they call it?” I ask. “It has a name?”

“Yes.” Manda snorts. “Hey, are you feeling okay, Mozart? Do you feel …
dreadful
?”

My mouth curves dryly. “Indeed,” I say, trying to keep my voice light. “So, have you had any epidemics here recently? I mean … zombies…?”

“Well …” Journee takes a sip of his coffee, eyeing me with new interest. “They don’t
say
we have, but … Tell her your theory, Serena.”

Serena brushes her hair back with an almost eye roll, though her expression changes to one of superiority before complete rotation. “I have this thought about them. The zombies, I mean. And, of course, the ‘oh-so dreadful’ virus. That’s all we’ve heard about lately,” she says, “when people change into zombies, they seem to do so when they’re tired. I’m sure you know the majority of transformations happen at night, right? That’s why maybe the Authority got the idea sick people are more susceptible, too, because of their immune systems. No offense,” she says to me, and I shrug again.

Serena continues, “But anyway, back when it first started, it seemed like that was a clue. We haven’t had any outbreaks—or supposedly we haven’t—but lots of these people die of the ‘dreadful flu,’ and guess what? All of them are found at night or very early morning. Supposedly. This girl…? Dead at night. Suspicious, if you ask me.” Her dark eyes narrow, and I shrink in my seat.

My cup has suddenly become very interesting. “You think they’re all zombies?” I ask. “That it’s a cover?”

“Of course.”

Manda smacks her lips. “My sistah, inspector freakin’ gadget, here.”

Serena leans in, and Journee does, too. Manda watches too carefully, and I feel like they know my secret.

Serena says, “They say purging is the only guarantee. You purge, you never zombie out.”

“But they say a lot of crap,” Manda adds.

“Purging…?” I whisper.

But before they can answer, Manda squeals and runs to the window. “Oh. My. God! Guys, check it out!”