The System

No, Grant realized. Zombies found a way to keep living.

And he hadn’t given up hope yet that he would too.

Scott left Grant in the lab for about an hour. Or two hours or fifteen minutes; time melded together in the empty room. Alone with his thoughts, Grant replayed the events of the last few weeks in his head. Starting with the fight with his dad the morning of the Release, where he had yelled the most unoriginal and painful insult he could think of at his father: “I wish you had died instead of her.”

To which his father had said in a calm, even voice, “Right back atcha, son.”

That was it: The last conversation he had with his dad. He’d been counting down the days to college; a beacon of hope just within reach—an opportunity to escape his father’s expectation that he’d continue helping with their land and keep up the farm. Or just a chance to forget that he would never be enough to fill the hole his mother left when she died. Grant knew his father loved him. It was just that he didn’t really enjoy parenting, and he wasn’t good at knowing what Grant wanted or needed. The man didn’t have help, didn’t ask for it—never wanted anything except peace and quiet and blind allegiance.

Somewhere down the line, indifference turned into full-blown aggravation. The whole scenario reeked of some old-fashioned drama, but Grant was just an urban teen with a dream of a menial career that didn’t require effort outside the workday, like grocery store manager or office supply rep. He wanted to go to college to prove he could. And for the parties, maybe for a chance to join a club, or play keyboards for a garage band, do some charity work. Meet a girl.

He wasn’t saddled with ambition or a lack of self-awareness. Grant just wanted to live a basic existence—achieve the minimal amount of happiness, go through life without ruffling a single feather. Drink beers on weeknights and watch movies. It all sounded like the perfect future until someone had to go and ruin it for him.

But what he told Lucy back in Oregon wasn’t untrue. He wasn’t afraid of death. Not then and not now. Losing someone didn’t make him want to fight; it just paved the way to welcome whatever fate tossed his way. Not many teenagers would ever see it his way. All his friends had an unhealthy attachment to the world they lived in—a general expectation that they were destined for great and beautiful happily ever afters. Grant figured he was the most realistic and grounded teen he’d ever met and part of that was embracing the futility of fighting.

His anger toward his dad was the only thing he wanted to keep.

Like a wound he couldn’t stop picking, whenever Grant felt too complacent about his lot in life, he’d think of those final words and wish privately he’d handled that last conversation better.

When Scott reappeared with a set of keys, Grant greeted him with a wave, even though his shackled wrists kept him from moving much on the slab: only a few inches in every direction.

“I have good news,” he said as he unlocked Grant and let him sit up; Grant’s muscles were sore and he stretched upward, letting his hands plop back on the bed.

“A room for Virus Boy,” Scott continued and he motioned toward the door.

“For real?” Grant slid off the metal frame and his feet hit the floor. “It’s not like a trick or something? Not that I don’t trust you…it’s just…Virus Boy shouldn’t believe his captors have his best interests at heart, right? If I were a comic book, this would be a trap.”

Scott shook his head. “You are not in a comic book,” he said as Grant moved toward to the door. “You’re in the EUS Two. Elektos Underground System Two. We’re bad at naming things, I suppose.”

“No. Elektos? Underground System? Two? Crazy. Where’s EUS One?”

“Brazil.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah, he’d probably be in EUS One or here,” Scott winked.

Grant didn’t even know what that meant, but raised his eyebrows, the magnitude of this enterprise dawning on him slowly. “There are more of these places?”

“Six.”

Grant waited and let out a sigh. It took a prolonged second, then Scott obliged. “Brazil, here in Nebraska, Saudi Arabia, Russia, Australia, and Botswana.”

“Woah,” Grant said. “That’s nuts.”

Scott dipped his head. “It…has been an undertaking. Financially. Emotionally. Spiritually.” Then he looked up, his big eyes meeting Grant’s and he motioned for the door. “The room is no trick. I understand what I’m needing from you…I don’t want to keep you uncomfortable.”

“Yeah. I get it,” Grant replied, following Scott’s lead out of the lab room and into a larger room, with microscopes and other scientific equipment that he didn’t recognize. “Like when they give death row inmates a nice big meal before,” he drew his hand across his throat and made a scratching noise. He was probably being too irreverent, because Lucy’s dad turned around and shot him a disapproving look. There was something satisfying in making him squirm though, even if that wasn’t Grant’s intention.

They reached the far end of the room and Scott opened a door marked “Supply Closet”. Grant made a face.

He had genuinely hoped for a room, not just some glorified temporary shelter, but he supposed it was better than the alternative. Besides, he’d spent enough time in supply rooms to last him a lifetime.

The door opened and Grant peered around Scott.

To his surprise, the closet was huge. Fluorescent lights beamed down from the ceiling, illuminating shelves with various odds and ends. Surprisingly, Scott had been hard at work making the space habitable. He had set up an army cot against one of the walls and then Grant smiled. Stuck to one of the walls with long pieces of masking tape, was the iconic poster for George Romero’s Night of the Living Dead.

“How did you—” Grant trailed off then he looked at Scott, a bit bewildered and confused. Also, touched. Which made the reality of his situation take hold in his chest and suddenly feel oppressive; he wished he hadn’t made light of dying earlier—he was stuck between not wanting to care and believing that he cared too much.

“I know a guy who knows a guy…who knows a guy…who brought some old posters with him here. You were in luck, purely coincidental. It was either that or Farrah Fawcett’s red swimsuit poster.”

“Who’s Farrah Fawcett?” Grant asked.

Scott clapped him on the back. “Yeah, believe it or not, I was just a kid when she was popular.” His eyes landed on the poster and he stared at the iconic image. “Forever ago.”

“Three weeks was forever ago,” Grant said and Scott muttered agreement.

“At any rate,” Scott continued, “this will be locked. But look…” He pointed to an old-school TV/VCR set and a stack of videos. “Entertainment. A bed. I can try to get you books?”

“Sure,” Grant answered. He sat down on the cot and bounced on it a bit; Scott King’s own California King size bed had been his most comfortable night’s sleep since the Release of the virus, but he refrained from mentioning it, worried about how it would sound. “Why are you doing this for me?” Turning to his captor, Grant tried to search Scott’s face for any sign of what was to come.

“Because,” Scott looked down, “I’d want someone to do this for my son…”

“Do what?”

“Treat him well. Treat him…like he mattered.”

“Do I?” Grant asked in a whisper. “How can you say I matter?”

Scott took a long time before he looked up at Grant. “You do matter. You matter very much…it’s just—”

“I matter more as a science experiment than a person?” Grant crossed his arms over his chest. “I get it, Mr. King. I do.”

“I wasn’t going to say that,” Scott said after a moment. “You matter as both. You need to know that I can’t save you. It won’t matter what happens, what you say, how much I think you deserve to live. There is a greater good, a bigger picture. And—”