Project Pallid (7 page)

Her
words made me smile.

“So,
I’ll see you at home, after work?” she told, more than asked.

“I’ll
see you there.” The ease of my response was surprising.

“Great.
Can’t wait. Have a beautiful afternoon, Damian.”

“You
too, Catee. Thanks.”

“No,
thank you.” And with that, she turned for last period and forgot about Justin,
who still skulked on the periphery.

It
only took a second for him to reanimate.

“I
warned you, Farm Boy. You’re dead now,” he snarled and pushed by me to chase
her down the hall like some lovesick puppy.

Funny
though, I’m still here.

I’m
still alive.

Captive
to this rock walled fortress, I’m safe.

Can
he say the same?

The
staggered dismissal of Madison High was designed to decrease hallway
congestion, to expedite our exit from the building, and to cut-down on fights
by thinning the herd and limiting our contacts.

My
only contact that afternoon was between my head and Catee’s locker.

I
remember looking down to my opened palm and trying to make out the numbers
that’d begun to smudge and smear together.

I’d
already deciphered a blurry 4, a 26, and was squinting my eyes, straining to
make out the 12, and I didn’t notice him there until his hand wrapped around my
head and clanged it off the metal door of my new locker. My vision went hazy,
and my eyes welled with tears. Without even looking, I knew who it was. But I
refused to shed a single droplet that would empower him more.

“What
the hell, Justin!?” I asked, holding tight to the side of my banged-up skull.
“What was that for?”

“What
are you doing touching Catee’s locker, Farm Boy? And what were you two talking
about in the hall today? If you even mentioned my name, I’m going to rip your
face off!”

His
word choice, though not really funny, was ironic. Before it all happened,
rip
your face off
was just an expression. None of us had actually
seen
it done before. Now, faces, fingers … you name it, we’ve become victims to it
all.

“We
share a locker, Justin. This is my locker now, too,” I announced, trying to
sound assertive, but coming off more meek and nervous than anything.

“Like
hell it is, you little shit. Get out of here!” He gave me a two-handed shove
that stumbled me backwards, over my bag, and onto on my backside for the second
time that day. I glared at it through squinted eyes. I had almost as much
contempt for it as I did for him. It was like they’d teamed-up to take me down.

Splayed
across the ground, I held my palm out for him to see what Catee had written on
it, and he sneered down at me with a look that sillied the one I’d given my
backpack only seconds before—like I were subhuman. Disposable. If I
could, I would’ve climbed into my bag and zipped it up tight. I was about to
become a dead man.

“What’s
going on here, guys?” Catee stopped her run between us, having witnessed the
exchange from the other end of the mostly vacant hall,.

Justin
spoke first. “Oh. Um, Catee … Hey. I was just waiting for you so we could walk
home together. Damian and I were just talking and he tripped over his backpack,
here. Clumsy kid.” He forced a laugh and extended his hand for mine, looking to
come across as some good guy who was helping me up.

“No
thanks, man. I got it.” I rejected his offering, and his eyes turned and bore a
hole through my head. He would’ve killed me then and there if he could’ve
gotten away with it without showing Catee what a super-douche he really was.
Even he knew he wouldn’t earn any extra points with her by pummeling the small
guy. Dumb as he was, he understood that much.

“I
think you should be going now, Justin.” Catee spoke in a calm, non-negotiable
manner.

“What
are you talking about?” His look was genuine confusion; blissful ignorance is
one of the few perks of stupidity.

“I’m
saying you should head home. Without me. I’m going to help Damian get moved
in.”

“I
can wait,” he insisted.

Mystified
by his persistence, I sat in awed silence on the tiled ground and watched their
conversation unfold.

“That
won’t be necessary,” she replied.

“Okay,”
he consented. “I guess I’ll just grab you on the way by your house in the
morning then … ”

“That
won’t be necessary either, Justin,” she answered and shut him down completely.

The
way she stood up for me then was unprecedented. No one had ever put their neck
on the line for me before—at least, not like that—and I didn’t know
any other reaction to give besides speechless stupor as I looked up at the two
of them.

“I
think it’s best if we walk separately from now on,” she continued. “And if you
could do me a favor? Don’t speak to me if we ever
do
cross paths. I’d
appreciate it.” Catee’s words slapped him hard across the face, and it could’ve
been his first sting of rejection, but I doubted it. As sadistic as it was, I
reveled in every second of their exchange.

Eventually,
he collected enough bearings to formulate a reply. “Hey, if you want to go and
settle down with
Farm Boy
here,” he flicked his chin toward me, “go for
it. You’re a little bit of a hillbilly, too. You guys will be perfect together.
Maybe you can both move to Platsville and raise some chickens of your own
someday.” Predictably, his words came with little thought; they were the
ramblings of desperation.

Catee’s
response began with a snicker. “As you know, Justin, I’ve already been to and
seen more than you
ever
will in your sad, pathetic, life.” She stepped
so close to him that they were nearly chest-to-chest. “And if that makes
me
a hillbilly, that makes
you
a totally ignorant asshole,” she declared.
“I don’t want you near me. And I don’t want you anywhere
near
my locker
again either.” She punctuated her words with a firm poke to his chest.

If
she’d been a boy, it would’ve been grounds for a fight. She’d made first
contact and, according to the rules of high school, he had the right to strike
next. Still, this was an entirely different situation. No way would he hit a
girl. Especially not one who’d so quickly mesmerized the masses of Madison
High.

His
brow furrowed and he looked curiously her way. I don’t know if he was trying to
figure out what had just happened, or if he was deciding what move he had left
that would allow him to walk away with some semblance of manhood intact.

He
turned to me, then back to her.

“You
guys deserve each other,” he stammered, turned, and disappeared down the hall.
“Good luck!”

Catee
dismissed it fast, turned to me, and extended her hand to help me to my feet.
“C’mon,” she prodded with a snap for my attention. “Give me your hand.”

I
did as she ordered, took hers in mine, and instant electricity surged through
our palms. It raced up my arm, jolted my heart, and I could feel my eyes dilate
to enamored quarters. Everything I liked about her before then became
immeasurably magnified.

I
didn’t know if Justin was entirely gone from the picture or not. I hoped he’d
be, but given his persistence until then, I didn’t figure he’d be so easy to
shake.

Still,
the looming threat of his reentry didn’t stop me from pushing forward with the
opportunity that Catee presented to me. I don’t know what she first saw in me,
but there was an interest there that I couldn’t ignore, and I vowed to do
everything in my power to explore it, and her, to the fullest extent she’d
allow.

May 9
^th:
Day 8

Filtered
sunlight fights through the overhead planks, and it signals the end of my
seventh night. It’s been a full week now, and I’m not sure how many more
restless ones I can take.

The
one, small mirror down here is jagged and broken. It’s been a wall fixture for
as long as I can remember, and I used to have to stand on my toes to look into
it.

Now
I face it head-on, and a stranger looks back at me.

My
eyes have grown sunken and dark, and the reflection I see is becoming less and
less my own with each passing day. It catches me off-guard—how sad and
pathetic I look—and I do all I can to appear strong, instead. I clench my
teeth and harden my jaw. I take the fire I’m feeling inside and translate it to
my face, because even if I don’t feel strong, I can’t be weak.

Today
could be the day when I fight for my life, and if I’m nothing but my best, I
might as well end it, here and now.

My
pocketknife sits on my bedside crate. The morning sun gleams off its blade, and
it beckons my head to a worst-case scenario. I imagine what it would feel like
to drag its razor edge across my wrist and to bring quick closure to the
tormenting uncertainties of my world.

There’s
comfort in knowing it’s there if I need it.

But
it’s a selfish option.

When
the time comes and that door opens, I know what I’ll have to do. I’ve seen how
quickly they move. I’ve seen how bloodthirsty they are. They need it, and they
must be running out. That explains why there are fewer and fewer lately; it’s
survival of the fittest, and their numbers are waning. How much longer until one
of them finds me? Will they? And will I be able to defend myself when it comes
to it? Am I strong enough to kill one? For me? For the family I’ve got left?
For Catee?

I
don’t know if I can.

And
it’s that doubt and that weakness that leaves me cowering down here, like an
abused animal who waits them out in whimpering solitude. Because what good
would I be to anyone dead? Or worse, as one of them?

I
shake off the thoughts, move from the mirror, and walk cautiously by my
makeshift bed and the three others that line up, empty alongside it. Seeing
them there, unused, is hard to take. Blinded by tears, I almost step into one
of the cloudy puddles that snake across the ground, fed from bloodletting
bodies above.

The
gravel crunches loudly under my sneaker as I sidestep it, and I freeze with my
head crooked sideways and my ear toward the boards above.

I
heard something.

Or
am I just being paranoid?

Every
sound I make is like a firework shot into the air.

It
was nothing.

“All
in your head.” My words are barely a whisper, and I continue forward, more
cautious of my foot placement this time around. At the opposite wall and its
rows and rows of Doomsday ration, I grab a jar of something red—cabbage,
beets, radishes, it doesn’t matter what they are—and the vacuum lid pops
open to release a pickled pungency that makes me reel in disgust.

I
add its unidentifiable contents to a smile pile that I’ve been building in the
corner, but I eat nothing. I know I should be, but I’m not hungry, and I’ve
barely eaten a thing in almost a week. I’m growing thinner and thinner with
each passing day, and as much as I should be fueling for the inevitable battle
ahead, I’m not. But I will. Soon.

I’ve
only emptied jars to take a leak in, because if I’m going to be trapped down
here with the smell of anything, I’d rather it be decaying vegetables than my
week-old stink.
 
And if those things
are hunting by scent, like I think they are, recklessly marking my territory
could prove a costly mistake.

And
if that’s the case, the mounded preserves might be working in my favor by
covering my smell with their acrid, vinegar wafts. The last one to enter was
clearly sniffing me out. Albeit unsuccessful, I can still hear its breathing; I
can still feel the moving air of its heavy inhales and exhales. The remembrance
brings a wave of fear that stands my arm hair to end.

With
its metal lid screwed tightly back on, I add my waste to the half-dozen others
that collect along one wall, then grab a couple more of the red, pickled jars
from the shelf.
 
I try hard to
muffle the audible
Pop!
as the first opens, and I strategically spread
its contents across the floor. I do the same with the second, and the air
becomes filled with the noxious aroma of vinegar. This scent-masking epiphany
might be grasping at straws, but it’s worth a shot when I’ve got few other
cards left to play.

With
the emptied jars stacked in my designated bathroom, I retake cross-legged safety,
and I stare up at the splintery door from my bed.

The
quiet is unnerving.

I
haven’t heard the sound of a live person in days. No voices. No cars. Nothing.

I’m
alone.

Another
droplet adds itself to one of the cloudy puddles nearby, and it’s a constant
reminder that safety’s only an illusion now.

Long
before Mrs. Arnold lost it at the bank, Catee and I suspected the disease’s
source. Their neighbor’s transformation was what Catee’s dad had been
maniacally warning everyone about, and it’s likely the thing that kept him so
distracted in the months before.
 
Mrs. Arnold’s sickness was the time of judgment he’d prophesized; it was
the start of The Whitening, and it had his hands all over it.