Special Dead Read online

  Special

  Dead

  By

  Patrick Freivald

  JournalStone

  San Francisco

  Copyright © 2013 by Patrick Freivald

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  JournalStone books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

  JournalStone

  www.journalstone.com

  www.journal-store.com

  The views expressed in this work are solely those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

  ISBN: 978-1-936564-80-4 (sc)

  ISBN: 978-1-936564-93-4 (ebook)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2013936307

  Printed in the United States of America

  JournalStone rev. date: July 12, 2013

  Cover Design: Denise Daniel

  Cover Art: Philip Renne

  Edited by: Dr. Michael R. Collings

  Dedication

  To The Redhead™, who told me there was a sequel,

  and what it's about.

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you so much to Christopher Payne, Joel Kirkpatrick, Dr. Michael Collings, and all the other folks at JournalStone for their support, flexibility, and hard work.

  Thank you to my beta readers: The Redhead™, the real Mrs. Weller, Erika Rowley, Dina Strasser, Allison Plante, Keegan Leslie-Taylor, my brothers Mark and Jon, Mom and Dad, and the formidable Kevin Bartell, whom I missed last time. Honest critique is the most valuable commodity a writer can have.

  Thank you to the students on FIRST Robotics Team 1551, who remind me every day just how awesome and funny high school kids can be—sometimes on purpose, and even if they aren't zombies.

  And to you, the reader, who makes this crazy venture just plain awesome.

  Endorsements

  Kirkus Reviews – “Freivald follows up his successful debut, Twice Shy (2012), with an equally enjoyable sequel. As in the first book, dark humor balances deftly with out-and-out horror, the mundane realities of undeath providing ample opportunity for both. Another fire-and-brimstone end sets up a third outing; fans will be slavering for it.” (Horror. 14 & up)

  "Ani is back, and high school's never been worse - or funnier. Think your high school sucked? Try manacles, guards armed with flamethrowers, and zombie classmates. I LOL'ed and gasped throughout Special Dead an awesome sequel to Twice Shy." – Lisa Morton, Bram Stoker Award®-winning author of The Castle of Los Angeles and The Halloween Encyclopedia.

  "Ani returns in this highly anticipated sequel to Twice Shy. Patrick takes us back into her world, a world mostly confined to a school that’s being used to hoard all of the undead. However, things are not as they seem and as the reader progresses further into the story, the real truth behind this school of zombies is revealed. A powerful and engaging sequel that will have you fall in love with Ani all over again. I truly enjoyed this." – Charles Day, Bram Stoker Award®-nominated author of The Legend of the Pumpkin Thief, and The Hunt for the Ghoulish Bartender

  Chapter

  1

  Ani Romero blinked in the sun’s harsh glare and worked her teeth against the bite guard. The leather-wrapped steel tasted like nothing against her tongue. Her shackles clinked against her ankles as she shambled into the cool September air.

  “Keep walking, please,” Mr. Benson said, shouldering his assault rifle and nodding toward the front of the line. Ani bumped into Devon Holcomb’s back, their bright orange helmets clacking together—Devon had stopped, fists on her hips. The chrome ring on the back of her helmet gleamed in the sunlight.

  “Oh, you have to be goddamned kidding me,” Devon said, her voice mushy around the bite guard. Ani followed her gaze to the eight-seater, yellow-orange bus emblazoned in black with Ohneka Falls Central School District. “A short bus.”

  Ani patted her on the shoulder to get her moving. “At least they’re letting us come back. I wouldn’t.”

  Images flashed in her mind—prom, fourteen months previous. Blood. Screams. The soft warmth of human blood gushing hot and red. The taste of brains. She swallowed and closed her eyes against the memory, then opened them and looked at Mike.

  Mike Brown looked as he always did; tall, athletic, missing the index finger on his right hand, and a bit sallow and slack-jawed since the Prompocalypse. His helmet covered most of the scars.

  “Devon?” Mr. Benson tipped the end of his rifle toward the bus door.

  Without turning around, Ani grabbed the rail and dragged herself up the stairs, then helped Mike to his seat. She smiled at the bus driver, a burly black stranger in full body armor, then sat in the empty front seat.

  Teah Burnell bounced into the seat across from her. “Hey, Ani, can you freaking believe this?” She rubbed her hands together and wrapped herself in a hug. “It’s been a long time.”

  “Court proceedings are real slow, Teah,” Ani said. “Mom says the district had to spend a lot of money to make ‘reasonable accommodations.’ She says that—”

  Mr. Benson vaulted onto the top step and slammed the butt of his rifle onto the floor. “Okay, listen up!”

  Eight orange-helmeted heads turned his way as he dropped into his drill-sergeant cadence. “You WILL be on your BEST behavior as we enter AND exit the school. You will have NO physical contact with anyone NOT already on this bus, except for Doctor Romero, Doctor Banerjee, OR one of the orderlies. ANY funny business WILL result in termination.”

  “Can I get an ‘amen’?” Teah muttered.

  Mr. Benson glared at her and lowered his voice to a growl. “A lot of people in this town want you in graves. Don’t give them any excuses.” He looked at them all in turn, then marched off the bus.

  “Bye, Mr. Benson!” Mike hollered.

  Kyle Lee’s voice mocked him from the back. “Bye, Mr. Benson.”

  “Don’t be a dick,” Devon said.

  “Hey, I may be dead, but I’m not a retard,” Kyle said.

  “He has brain damage,” Devon snapped. “What’s your excuse?”

  The driver cleared his throat and peered at them from under the brim of his helmet. His deep baritone reverberated through the bus. “Kids, this ride will be hard enough without your bickering. So keep it down.”

  They settled in as the bus pulled out of the parking lot and through the three inner checkpoints, tailed by a camouflaged passenger truck. Ani was used to the hostile glares of the army guards and the implacable, visor-hidden faces of the burn teams, but it had been ages since she’d been in a vehicle. The sense of novelty was exhilarating. She smiled at the guards as they drove out each gate. If they saw, they didn’t respond.

  As the bus approached the outer wall, Ani heard a dull roar, like a waterfall or something.

  “What is that?” Samantha Kickbush asked from the back.

  Flickering lights caught Ani’s eye as they pulled up to the final gate. A line of state troopers and army soldiers held the crowd at bay, their cars parked, lights flashing, to block civilian access to the road. A mob screamed and spat, faces twisted in hatred under signs and banners reading:

  BURN THEM!

  ‘NO!’ ACCURSED IN OUR SCHOOLS

  BURN IN HELL ACTAVIST JUDGES

  Learn to spell, Ani thought, he
r eyes skimming the rest of the images. And the issues. Decapitated corpses, the scales of justice in flames, Christ standing over a lake of fire swimming with zombies. She closed her eyes as they pulled onto the street and accelerated.

  A few minutes later, Kyle grunted from behind her. She looked up.

  A line of forty or so people stood by the road in front of the Wegmans grocery store. They wore black—clothes, makeup, hair dye, everything—held white candles in brass holders, and were chanting. A banner above them read “Teach us the Wisdom of Death” in scarlet. Below the words shivered a crude painting of people kneeling before a corpse. Their lips moved in unison, but their voices weren’t loud enough to be heard over the bus.

  “Creepy, much?” Teah asked.

  “I think I liked the mob better,” Samantha said.

  Ani shuddered.

  * * *

  As they pulled up to the high school the crowd was smaller but no less weird. Clusters of black-clad weirdos stared in open rapture while police held back a throng of screaming, spitting protesters. An isolated knot of people led by Ani’s former neighbor, Mr. Washington, carried a banner emblazoned, “Zombies are people, too!”

  Joe Simonton laughed. “No way! It’s totally a prison!” A grin split his patchy, reddish beard, revealing white teeth and black gums. His right eye sagged from prom-induced trauma, but his left was green and bright.

  Ani’s mouth dropped open when her eyes shifted to the school. Joe was right—Ohneka Falls Central School looked every bit like a prison. A double-layer of chain-link fence surrounded the campus, each post anchored in concrete. Soldiers patrolled the ten-foot gap between the fences, though of course there were no dogs. Riveted steel guard towers flanked the entrance, with others at each corner. A cluster of students stood on the sidewalk, smoking and pointing at the bus.

  Mike clapped his hands. “This looks fun!” Kyle rolled his eyes, and Joe punched him in the shoulder.

  A mewling noise from the front of the bus drew Ani’s attention. Lydia Stuber sobbed in her seat, tearless and snot-free. Joe sat next to her and put his arm around her shoulder. “Hey, it’s just school. It’s cool.”

  “What if they don’t like us?” Lydia’s wide eyes quivered in fear.

  “They will,” Joe said. “They will.”

  Liar. Ani couldn’t blame him. Lydia was too nice to tell the truth to, and she’d figure it out on her own. Or not.

  The door opened, and Mr. Benson sprang to the top step. “Okay, listen up!” Lydia cringed, and Joe rubbed her arm. Mr. Benson lowered his voice. “You will line up single file upon exiting the bus. Once directed, you will walk to your classroom. You will not try to touch anyone or anything unless given explicit authorization to do so. That authorization will come from me, Doctor Banerjee, or Doctor Romero. Once inside the classroom you will comport yourselves to your assigned seats and will stay in them unless directed otherwise. Questions?”

  Lydia’s hand shot up. Mr. Benson rolled his eyes with more theatrics than was nice. Lydia’s hand dropped halfway down, her grin anxious.

  Mr. Benson sighed. “Yes, Ms. Stuber?”

  “Um, do we have the same lockers as last year?”

  Ani suppressed a smile. We spent last year at the lab, Lydia.

  Mr. Benson shook his head. “All of your school effects will be in your room. Additional questions in that regard will wait for Doctor Romero.” He gave her a curt nod. “Any other questions about deployment to the classroom?” No one said anything. “Good. Follow me.” He got off the bus.

  Negotiating the stairs was awkward in the leg irons, their already-jerky movements exaggerated by the inability to take more than baby steps. Shackling them together added insult to injury, but that’s what Mr. Benson did before leading them inside. Students gawked as they shuffled past, as did more than a few teachers.

  The halls looked the same—same crappy, too-small lockers, same faded tile reminiscent of a 1950s hospital, same age-stained drop-ceiling tiles. Ani’s heart caught in her throat. Mr. Bariteau stood outside the band room, crying as they walked by, his face a mask of pity. Ani smiled and said, “Hi,” but he turned away before she could say more. His door slammed in her face.

  Frowning, she followed Mr. Benson to the far end of the hall, to the Resource Room. He stepped out of the way and pointed inside. “I’ll see you at fourteen thirty hours.”

  “Hey, my old room!” Kyle said, grinning as he lurched inside. They followed and stood still while Mr. Benson removed the chain that connected them together and left the room without another word. The metal door shut, and Ani heard the external crossbar slam into place.

  Eight desks were arranged in a circle between the back wall and the smart board. Naked ductwork snaked across the ceiling between two banks of fluorescent lights. A bookshelf leaned against the far wall next to a man holding a flamethrower, his face hidden by the mirrored visor on his helmet.

  The old-school wrought-iron desks were bolted to the floor. They had name cards on them, in alphabetical order: Mike Brown, Teah Burnell, Devon Holcomb, Sam Kickbush, Kyle Lee, Ani Romero, Joe Simonton, and Lydia Stuber. They took their seats as the dial clock on the wall hit 8:00 am.

  A ding, and the high school secretary’s voice rang through the wall speaker. “Good morning and welcome back! Today is day one. Please rise for the Pledge of Allegiance.” Miss Pulver, a plump, motherly aide Ani remembered from life before, stepped up in front of the class and put her hand on her breast. The students echoed her movements. Ani mumbled her way through the Pledge and spent the rest of the announcements sizing up the young man at the teacher’s desk.

  Skinny, average height, with a conservative crop of sandy-brown hair and a suit that was a little too big, his OFCSD nametag read “Mr. Foster.” Drenched in sweat, he tapped his pencil on the desk in a constant staccato that reminded Ani of some of Stravinsky’s more frenetic pieces. He looked at the desk, the wall, the clock, the speakers, the flamethrower-toting soldier, his shoes, anything but them.

  As the announcements ended with a perky, “Have a great year!” a nervous giggle erupted from his throat.

  Miss Pulver gave him an encouraging smile.

  He shot to his feet. “Hi!” He ran his hand through his hair, waking a dormant cowlick. “I—I’m Mr. Foster. I’ll be your teacher for the year.”

  “What happened to Miss Johnson?” Kyle asked. Joe shushed him, and Kyle flipped him the bird.

  “Ah, she was, uh, transferred to another room. I’ll be your teacher this...this year.” Another giggle punctuated the thought. His face took on a greenish tinge.

  Oh, this does not bode well.

  “Hi, Mr. Foster!” Mike said, a little too loud. For the first time Mr. Foster looked at them.

  “Hello, Mike. Nice to meet you.” His hand, jittering at his side, dove into his pocket, still shaking. “Do you, are you, happy to be, um...back?” His eyes darted to the clock and then back to Mike.

  Mike nodded, grinning. “I like school!”

  “I like school!” Kyle aped.

  Ani tried to bite her lip but couldn’t manage it with the mouth guard. She raised her hand.

  “Yes, um, Ani?” Mr. Foster’s eyes were bloodshot and terrified, but they held her gaze.

  “Can I have a pencil and some paper, please?” She hated the thick, mushy sound of her voice through the guard.

  Mr. Foster giggled. “No.” Ani sat back, frowning. “I mean no sharp implements,” he continued. “Rules and stuff. You can have a white board and marker or paper and crayons.”

  Devon snarled. “Oh, this is fucking ridiculous! We can’t have a goddamned pencil?”

  Miss Pulver put a hand on Devon's shoulder, managing to smile and look serious at the same time. “It’s okay, Devon. The rules for you are going to be quite strict. Nobody’s happy about the court’s decision to allow this—”

  The door opened with a clang.

  “Some of us are,” Sarah Romero said, pinning Miss Pulver with a stare. “Happy, th
at is.” She smiled at Ani. “Hi, sweetie.” Her face was hard, too lean from her battle with cancer; and her eyes were baggy from not enough sleep. She had a new wig for the New Year, and fake blonde hair fell to her shoulders in a river of curls.

  “Hi, Mom,” Ani said.

  “Hi, Mom,” Kyle muttered. Ani ignored him.

  “Miss Pulver, the injunction is in place until the Second District Court makes its verdict. Until then, the Ohneka Falls School District is obligated to educate these children.” She emphasized the last word. “Some of us are overjoyed that the lower court felt the need to put the injunction in place, regardless of the cost, because a society that chooses not to educate children because they are sick is no moral society at all.”

  Miss Pulver averted her gaze. “Yes, Miss Romero.”

  “Doctor,” Sarah said.

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  Way to make friends, Mom.

  “Now, I’m here to make introductions. Let’s make this as pleasant as possible.” There was nothing pleasant in Sarah's smile as she faced the class. “Mr. Foster comes to us from SUNY Geneseo, where he recently earned his bachelor’s degree in special education. I believe you all know Miss Pulver.” Miss Pulver twiddled her fingers and smiled. “Mr. Clark you know.” She nodded at the man with the flamethrower, and he nodded back. Ani was happy for a familiar face, even if she couldn’t see it behind the visor. She liked Mr. Clark, and he seemed to like them, even if he was paid to convert them to small piles of ash if they started acting funny. “The guards outside the door will rotate on a daily basis. You will not get to know them.”

  “Now, to establish some ground rules.” She touched the smart board and opened a PowerPoint presentation. She narrated as she flipped through slides. “All school rules are in effect at all times. This includes swearing.” She looked at Kyle, who shrugged, and Devon, who averted her gaze. “In addition to appropriate dress, you’ll wear your helmets and leg shackles whenever we’re not at the lab and will be chained in a line when moving through the halls. Any attempt to remove any of these protective devices will result in the suspension of the program for everyone, and Mr. Clark will deal with the offender.”