Voice of the Undead (5 page)

Chapter 5

In the Kingdom of Cots the refugees slept fitfully, Alex and Sid and Paul next to one another. Sheets were strung from metal pipes that had been rolled in, making the place look even more like a wartime hospital than it had before.

There were countless basic necessities that everyone was slow to realize he was missing—Alex, for instance, needed contact solution because he'd been wearing his contacts for two days. They were the extended-wear kind; he could keep them in for two weeks if need be, but ever since he'd gotten them he'd been in the habit of taking them out every night, anyway. It went with preparing for bed as surely as did brushing his teeth and changing into pajamas; on went the glasses.

Alex was pretty sure his glasses had melted clean away in the fire. He would need to go into town and get a new prescription and some new glasses, any glasses. Just for some normalcy.

Breakfast in the morning was brought into the Kingdom of Cots on long tables, and Headmaster Otranto addressed them as they filed like zombies through the line for bread and juice.

“This is not a permanent solution,” Otranto said.

“Sir, when are we going back to the school?” Javi the RA asked cautiously. Alex leaned against the wall, sipping his orange juice. When indeed.

“Ah, yes,” Otranto said. He thrust his hands in his pockets. “It will take some time. There is considerable damage to Aubrey House and the inspectors have only begun to look at it. And unfortunately before we can repair, there are certain requirements that we will have to meet, requirements that we were allowed to ignore as long as no new construction was going on. I'm talking about things you may not keep track of, air conditioning, old insulation in the ceilings. The answer is, months.”

Everyone was stunned. Alex looked back at the cots and hanging sheets and the students' looks of horror.

“If we're lucky,” Otranto continued. “So. It is time we discuss what we are going to do now. This school, LaLaurie School, was founded in 1834 by the same American and French investors who founded Glen-arvon, converting a number of grand houses left in a patron's will. There is one house that has not been used in over seventy-five years. It has rooms enough to house us. Some of you who have been in double rooms will now be in triples—we can't help that.” Alex glanced around again and judged that tripling up might not be necessary: There were already fewer students anyway. Some boys had trickled out in the wee hours. Alex had even seen Fred Schunk, another of the RAs, shaking Otranto's hand, a valet in the hall behind him holding what was left of Fred's stuff.

Another boy, a senior Alex had never met, raised a hand. “Sir? What caused the fire?”

Alex stiffened and shot a look at Sangster, who stood calmly nearby.

Otranto scratched the back of his neck. “It's not final, but I can say that this morning the inspectors brought me a burnt-out electrical plug. So at this point it looks like a wiring mishap.”

Alex blinked. Sangster nodded an impossibly tiny nod, a micro-expression that said,
We've got this covered.
The Polidorium: good friends to have, and likely terrible enemies.

Otranto continued, “The Board of Regents at Glenarvon has released sufficient funds for us to prepare the house to live in. This will be done with workers and with the help of the students, and I trust all of you will volunteer to assist in the effort.”

Otranto looked around. “Am I correct?”

Paul whispered, “What do you think that place looks like? A bunch of rotten beds, covered in sheets? If there
are
beds.”

“Am I correct?” Otranto said again.

Alex loved the thought of the boys of Glenarvon forced to do manual labor. Loved it. He had spent his life choosing things that didn't fit the family name (the public version, not the secret, thought-to-be-fictional one). He abandoned the violin as soon as he could ditch the lessons, hating the gentility of it and the incessant repetition of “The Children's Waltz.” He was expected to learn to sail, and did, though he preferred to use his muscles in other ways, entering more and more dangerous pastimes. He was always amazed that “people like us” would spend hours in a gym but couldn't be bothered to lift a couch. So he was eager to see these guys at work.

Alex leaned forward. “Absolutely.”

This broke the silence, and many more boys spoke up.

Otranto was satisfied. “That too is not a permanent solution. Glenarvon will be repaired. Even now we are assessing the damage. Glenarvon will not die on my watch,” he said flatly.

“What do we do now?” Paul called. “What about classes?”

“Class assignments are posted on the board,” Otranto said, pointing at a bulletin board that someone had installed overnight. Alex saw rows of yellow legal paper there. “What you do now is get back to being students. We are guests of LaLaurie, but we are Glenarvon still.”

Sangster cleared his throat. Otranto looked back and said, “Mr. Sangster will now pass on another word.”

Sangster came forward and pointed at a number of giant cardboard boxes on the stage. “Those are uniforms.” Alex looked and saw the RAs beginning to haul out hundreds of pairs of slacks, shirts, and sport coats and lay them on the edge of the stage. “In a minute we'll start calling names; come forward and pick up your clothes. If your shoes do not fit, trade or hang tight and we'll get more. You will be issued a footlocker—those are over there—and three uniforms each; laundry day is Thursday. At the end of the line after the uniforms are supplies: towels, T-shirts, underwear. By ten o'clock this morning, I want you all looking like soldiers. Here's why,” he said, and stopped, thrusting his hands into his pockets. “We are guests.” He repeated the word emphatically. “
Guests
. I don't have time to tell you guys what I mean by that because there are a million things that'll flow through your heads over the next few days, some good, some pretty damn stupid. So remember it:
guests.
We are overwhelming the space, the materials, and likely soon the patience of the ladies of LaLaurie. This means that I am demanding of you that you think at every moment,
Is this what a guest would do?
And if so,
do it
. And if not, I beg of you,
don't
.” He smiled. That gave everyone enough of a release of tension to laugh.

“Yeah, I know. It's an adventure. Keep your cots squared away, do whatever our hosts ask. Be polite, be cool, make friends. I know it doesn't seem like it, but it's all gonna be fine.”

Alex got three uniforms that appeared to fit, and a pair of shoes that didn't, so they clopped when he wore them. He wandered around until he found someone whose shoes were too tight, and that was that.

He realized that his possessions now consisted of a towel, pajamas, underwear, and three identical sets of a T-shirt, button-down, pants, and one jacket.

On Monday, with everyone still fumbling around in complete confusion, they were forced to go back to class. It was a mercifully short half-day schedule, compressed to allow for familiarizing and starting late, with classes coming in half-hour sessions.

At ten o'clock, Paul, Sid, and Alex wandered until they found the right class. The room was crammed full with desks, and they saw Minhi in a row at the back. As they took their seats, Alex understood. Every last class had been shuffled and merged.

Literature was taught together by Sangster and Ms. Daughtry, LaLaurie's assistant headmistress and a lit expert to match Sangster. They didn't alternate sentences or anything; rather Sangster was to lecture on one topic and Daughtry on the other.

“Did you know we'd be in class together?” asked Minhi. Next to her was Vienna, who Alex recognized as much by her faraway look as by the scarf she still wore.

Paul shook his head. “We don't know a bloody thing.”

“That is totally true,” whispered Alex. “It's insane. We got a speech yesterday telling us not to, I don't know, run around naked or something.”

“I would recommend against it.” Minhi nodded solemnly.

“I'm thinking it's not something guests would do,” said Alex. “But there actually wasn't a list.”

Vienna looked up and leaned over. “I will bet you by the time the week is out? You will have a list.”

She speaks,
thought Alex, and he thought instantly of Steven Merrill, who was also always silent, and now was—jeez—still in the hospital, he could only assume. He looked around and did not see Bill. For a moment it all came flooding back. And then Ms. Daughtry began to teach.

This wasn't a perfect setup; in lit, Sangster had been teaching
Idylls of the King
and Daughtry had been teaching William Blake's
Songs of Innocence and of Experience.
The guests toed the line: Blake it was. Alex marveled at the idea that while he had been settling into the Kingdom of Cots and Otranto had been calling the ends of the earth to summon hundreds of uniforms, the instructors had been laboring into the night merging their syllabi.

“Those of you from the Glenarvon contingent,” said Ms. Daughtry, “may not be familiar with Blake, and I'll spare you the week we just spent on his biography. But the
Songs
has a lot to say about us, as human beings, as thinkers, as students together. Mister Sangster!”

Sangster was seated behind her to the left, thumbing through the book, and looked up as if startled. She didn't look back at him, but continued, “Would you care to share with the class something appropriate from Blake?”

Sangster nodded and rose, thumbing through a copy of the book. “I would choose . . . I would choose . . .”

“You do know the book?” she asked, smiling.

“It's funny,” Sangster replied. “I think the message of this morning is ‘The Divine Image.'”

Someone cleared his throat. All eyes turned to see Bill Merrill standing in the doorway.

Bill looked haggard—he was still muscular from countless hours at soccer practice and beating smaller students senseless, but his cheeks were hollow and his eyes were lined with mottled blue. Bill handed Sangster an official-looking note, probably from the office, and Sangster nodded. Alex made out,
Like to take a seat?
and Bill slowly made his way to an empty desk.

Vienna sat up with interest and waved at Bill as he sat. She leaned over, whispering about Steven. Bill gestured back with open hands,
I'll tell you later.

Sangster said, “For those of you who want to send a card to Steven, I think you can give them to Bill. I understand some of the students are organizing a visit if any of you want to go.”

Several people patted Bill on the shoulder. Alex was thinking about Steven once coldcocking Paul on the side of the head to distract Alex so Bill could punch him in the nose, and of the Glimmerhook landing on Steven's back.

Ms. Daughtry spoke, bringing the class back to form. They went over Blake, but Alex felt befuddled by the obscene and forced normality of trying to have a class when students were homeless and Steven was in the hospital. He kept dropping into the lecture and then zoning out until finally she said, “Before we wrap I need to catch you all up on the Pumpkin Show.”

The what?
The boys in class were obviously lost as to the meaning of this, but the girls chattered sotto voce to one another. Ms. Daughtry continued, “This is a LaLaurie tradition, so those of you who are new get a chance to join us at our best—well, our best next to Christmas.”

Minhi whispered to Sid, “You're going to love this.”

“Starting this week, with available slots after school, students will be presenting original works—generally written, but if you choose you can sign up to sing, dance, display a collage; it doesn't matter. The theme is the autumn season.”

“You mean like Halloween?” Sid asked, a little too excitedly. “Like, vampires and ghosts?”

Daughtry opened her hands. “Whatever suits. Vampires, ghosts, meandering stories about the decay of the fall; we get a fair amount of those. The theme is the season; the prize is the Plaque,” she said almost wistfully. “Next to the library you'll find a case displaying the names of our winners going back to 1945. It's like a harbinger of success; every single winner has gone on to great things. Not that there's any pressure.” Ms. Daughtry smiled. “Performances will be voted on by the attendees.”

“Performances,” Sid muttered, slumping a little. He clearly liked the idea of writing, but reading aloud sounded a bridge too far.

“Come on,” said Alex. “You could do that.” At least, Alex thought so. Sid seemed to spend every moment writing something or other, most of it descriptions of characters from his vampire games. Alex had never met anyone who carried around so much information on one subject—if it might be called a subject—in his head.

“We start reading on Tuesday, so get those stories written and those monologues practiced and get your names on the sign-up sheets,” Daughtry concluded. And with that, class was over.

As the class filed out, Alex turned to Sid excitedly. “This is a
great
idea, man.”

“I've never read a story aloud before,” Sid said. “I've never even written that kind of story.”

“You've written whole books on that vampire game,” Paul said.

“Those are more like articles,” Sid protested. “They're in a folder where you already know the game. This is . . . harder.”

Alex watched Vienna go talk to Bill, who glared at Alex hatefully but then softened when he talked to her.

“Well,
I
do this every year,” Minhi said. “I mean, I don't get anywhere, but you'll love it. Everyone reads from a big chair in the library, surrounded by candles. They move the chair for the singers and actors to perform.”

“Oh my God, I don't have any of my articles and books,” said Sid, thinking of the items Paul had mentioned. “All that stuff is gone.” He looked ill suddenly, as though he'd forgotten.