Free The Day the Dead Came to Show and Tell by Mira Grant

wouldn’t stop ringing, and the desks weren’t locking right, and the doors weren’t locking at all? It seemed like something that somebody ought to know.
    Finally, he decided that he should call his father. Dad could take care of the difficult part, like deciding whether or not to contact the police. Joseph brought up his father’s number and pressed Call.
    Nothing happened. Joseph frowned at the phone. The display said he had five full bars of service, so why wasn’t the call going through? He tried again, this time dialing his mother’s cell, and got the same result: nothing. Fear began to gather in the space behind his eyes, swelling and twisting until it filled the entire world.
    Mr. O’Toole was still pacing back and forth, paying virtually no attention to his class. Joseph worried his lip between his teeth, trying to decide where the line was between “reacting normally to a crisis” and “losing your shit.” He was pretty sure Mr. O’Toole was on the wrong side of the line. He was just terrified of slipping and joining his teacher there.
    Joseph wiped his mouth dry with the palm of his hand before he resumed worrying his lip between his teeth. The small abrasions this created were perfect for the fomite specks of Kellis-Amberlee that he had picked up from Nathan’s hand when they were sitting under the slide—Nathan, who had touched the ground where Scott Ribar had scraped himself. The virus was invisible to the naked eye, but not to Joseph’s immune system, which promptly launched an all-out defense against the invaders. This defense included the boy’s own store of Kellis-Amberlee virus, which recognized its brethren, even in their new, strangely folded configuration, and began to refold itself in viral sympathy. The cascade was beginning.
    Joseph was unaware of all this; Joseph would not begin to feel unwell for another five minutes, by which time it would be far too late to take any precautions or attempt any quarantine. In many ways, fomite transmission was more dangerous than the flashier and easily detected bite or splatter transmissions, because it was so quiet, so easy. Touch a contaminated surface, touch your mouth, nose, or eyes, and wait for the virus to do what comes naturally. Joseph had become an incubator for Kellis-Amberlee.
    Hands shaking—with nerves, nothing more; not yet—he raised his phone a third time and dialed 911. Again, the call did not go through. Fear fully bloomed in his chest, setting his heart hammering against his ribs and speeding the infection through his body. The faster the blood circulated, the more quickly the live-state Kellis-Amberlee would be able to convert the slumbering stockpile in his veins. “Mr. O’Toole?” he said, thrusting his hand into the air.
    Mr. O’Toole stopped pacing and turned, frowning blearily at the room for a moment before his attention finally focused on Joseph. “I cannot approve any trips to the restroom while the alarm is sounding,” he said stiffly.
    â€œIt’s not about the bathroom,” protested Joseph, cheeks flaming red as uneasy giggles broke out around the rest of the room. Unlike Sharon in Miss Oldenburg’s class, Joseph didn’t ask to go to the bathroom very often. He found the idea of broadcasting his bodily functions to his classmates faintly mortifying. “I tried to call my dad and the call didn’t go through.”
    Mr. O’Toole’s frown deepened. “No cellphones in class,” he said. He started down the aisle between the desks, heading toward Joseph. “Hand it over.”
    Joseph pulled his phone back, out of his teacher’s reach. “You don’t understand,” he said, hating the thin whine that was beginning to appear in his voice. “I tried to call my dad, and my mom, and the police , and none of the calls went through. Their numbers didn’t even ring. Something’s wrong