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Little gasps issue from Baxter’s lips.
“I’m sorry,” he tells Cary. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t know how to be comfortable, that’s all. I don’t—”
“It’s okay.”
“You have to understand—I’ve been outside so long—”
“We get it—”
“I don’t know how to be comfortable.”
“It’s okay.”
Cary helps Baxter to his feet. Baxter winces, falters a little, and rights himself at the same moment Trace and Harrison return with the water. Baxter takes it from them and presses the bottle against his sweaty forehead.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispers.
“Who is Roger?” Rhys asks, because for some stupid reason he thinks this is the time to ask. I brace myself, expecting Baxter to go into another round of hysterics but thankfully, he doesn’t. He flinches at someone else saying Roger’s name, though. It’s undeniable now, that something happened between them out there.
“I’d like to take a shower,” Baxter says. “I need to—clear my head before we talk about this. Mr. Chen, maybe you could find me some clean clothes…”
“Sure,” Cary says. Baxter nods, dazed. He drinks the water and then hands the half-full bottle to Trace. Cary hauls Mr. Baxter up by the arm. “Let’s just … get you set up…”
We watch them exit the auditorium.
“If he’s going to be like this the whole fucking time he’s here,” Trace says, “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
“He’s worse than Harrison,” Rhys agrees. Harrison gives him an indignant look. Rhys ignores it and turns to me. “His name was Roger.”
Roger. The man outside was Roger. Knowing his name makes it worse. I could have gone the rest of my life without knowing his name. My hands still feel what it was like to push him. If I think about it, I can hear him die, access that part of my memory easily. It makes me cold all over. The man outside, that I killed, was named Roger and Mr. Baxter knew him. I killed a man named Roger. My brain frantically tries to make excuses for me:
He was bad, he had to have been bad if Baxter left him out there, Baxter’s scared of Roger enough to want to get the gun back, Roger was bad so it’s good that I killed him …
“You should hide the gun somewhere else,” I say to Rhys.
It’s almost fu
Before we can react, he’s onstage, past the curtain.
When he reappears, the gun is in his hand.
“What are you doing—”
“He’s bitten—he’s infected—”
Trace drops Baxter’s water bottle and leaps away from it. “Holy shit—”
“Where?” Grace asks. “Where? I didn’t see a bite—”
“His arm.” Cary looks like he’s going to vomit all over himself. “I got him some clothes from the drama room and when I got back he was getting undressed and I saw it. He didn’t know I saw him but he’s bitten. If he stays here, he turns and it doesn’t matter how he got in because we’re all dead anyway—”
Harrison covers his mouth. “Oh my God.”
Cary stares at the gun and he looks so young, younger than Harrison, and then his face changes, becomes more resolved. He strides for the door.
“Wait!” Rhys grabs Cary by the arm and pulls him back. “You’re going to kill him? You’re going to go in there now and just fucking shoot him in the shower—”
“What else can we do?”
“Are you sure it’s a bite?”
“Yes! It’s—” Cary’s throat hitches. He presses his hand against his mouth. When he’s more sure of himself, he lowers it. “He’ll turn.”
“Is he hot? How does he feel?”
“What?”
“Like—like his temperature! Does he have a temperature? Is he cold?”
“He’s fucking bitten, Rhys! There are teeth marks on his arm! I don’t care how he feels!” Cary points to the hall with the gun and it looks like it belongs. A natural extension of his arm. “We have to get rid of him—”
“Are you absolutely sure? This is not the time to be wrong—”
“How many times do I have to—”
“Look, if you two pussies can’t come to an agreement, just give me the fucking gun and I’ll do it,” Trace interrupts. “Or do you want to wait until he’s turned?”
“What if he’s turned right now?” Harrison asks.
Rhys sticks his fingers in his mouth and lets out a whistle loud and sharp enough to silence everyone. Even after we’re quiet, he doesn’t speak. We just stand there, staring at each other helplessly. And I think—at least with Roger, there was no time to think about it. This—there is time, enough of it. It’s a decision so big it makes the room feel small and the only conclusion I can come to is we kill him, I think. He can’t be in this school alive anymore. We can’t keep him if he turns.
“He just got here,” I say weakly, like it makes a difference. “He just got here. How do we tell him? Do we just tell him…?”
Rhys shakes his head. “Don’t—”
“You have to do it fast.” I’m babbling but I can’t stop. “Maybe it’s dark enough that he won’t see, so you have to do it fast and you have to do it—you have to do it right … so you have to get him in the head—”
“Sloane—”
“And then—his body. We can’t keep it—”
“Sloane, stop,” Rhys begs. “We don’t even know if he’s really bitten.”
Cary turns to him, mouth open. “I just told you he was.”
“Even if he’s not, he’s clearly unstable,” Trace points out. “And he woke up freaking for his gun. What happens if he finds it the next time and accidentally shoots one of us?”
“He’s lying to us about not remembering how he got in and he lied to Sloane about being out there alone,” Cary says. “He’s not acting normal—”
“What the fuck is normal?” Rhys demands. “So he freaked out a little and he lied—these are not good enough reasons to end someone’s life!”
“You want to kill me?”
My insides disappear. Baxter stands in the doorway. His hair is wet, flattened against his head, and he’s in fresh clothes, dress pants on, a new shirt. He walks into the room looking more our teacher than he ever has—but his eyes are so sad, so disappointed in us.
“You’re infected,” Cary says.
“What? What are you talking about? I didn’t—”
“Your arm. I saw it.”
Baxter shakes his head slowly. He steps forward and the rest of us take a collective step back and I know at that moment this is settled. Even if we spend the next hour letting Baxter try to negotiate his own survival, we have already decided he’s going to die.
“Can I see it?” Rhys asks. “The bite?”
Baxter studies us. I’m hoping for something but I don’t know what it is. I want him to handle it the right way. I want him to make it easier on all of us. In a way, he does.
He does the most condemnable thing ever.
He tries to run.
“Get him!” Trace shouts. He actually shouts that.
The world comes down on Baxter. Rhys, Cary, and Trace have him on the floor and the gun skitters beyond them. I grab it while Cary and Trace hold Baxter down and Rhys asks Cary, “Which arm? Which arm?”
Cary says, “Left! It’s the left—”
Rhys rolls up Baxter’s shirtsleeve. Grace shines the light on it. I’ve never seen a bite close up. It’s raw and angry, red and yellow teeth marks. The skin is clean—thanks to the shower—but inflamed. Weeping, sore. It looks like a fever.
“It’s not what you think. I promise, it’s not—”
Rhys presses his hand against Baxter’s forehead.
“If it’s not a bite, what is it?” Rhys asks. “You have to tell us what it is.”
“It’s—it’s not—” We wait. Baxter’s face crumples. “It’s a bite.” Harrison runs to the farthest corner of the room. “No—it’s not—it’s a bite—but it’s not—you have to listen to me—it’s not from one of them—I promise you—”
“But it’s infected,” Grace whispers. “Look at it—”