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

country.
    â€”from Unspoken Tragedies of the American School System by Alaric Kwong, March 19, 2044
    *  *  *
    Wednesday, March 19, 2036, 12:35 p.m.
    Scott wept steadily but silently as Miss Oldenburg helped him into a pair of clean trousers and a button-up flannel shirt, both taken from the supply of emergency clothes at the back of the closet. It was always best to keep a few things on hand in case of “accidents,” and many of the children had borrowed a shirt or a pair of underpants from the general supply at least once. They teased each other about it when they thought she couldn’t hear, she knew, and she allowed a certain amount of it, stepping in only when it became actively cruel.
    Brian had been pressed against the closet door since the bleach wash was finished, an expression of mixed terror and fascination on his face. It was like he was interested in the process despite himself, and wanted nothing more than to pretend that interest didn’t really exist; it was a trick of the light, maybe, or some sort of temporary psychosis brought on by the steadily beeping alarm—which, Elaine readily admitted to herself, was becoming unsettling. The alarm was never supposed to ring for this long. It was meant to sound, get everyone’s attention, and then be turned off, allowing teachers to communicate with students without an annoying buzz underscoring everything they said.
    More important, it was meant to leave silence in its wake. Silence was a powerful weapon when you might be dealing with an outbreak. Without silence, how were you supposed to hear things coming? The infected could be on top of you and moaning before you knew that they were there in the first place.
    The thought made Elaine shudder, which caused Scott to raise his head and stare at her, clearly terrified. She pasted a practiced Miss Oldenburg smile across her face and buttoned the last button on his borrowed shirt. “There you are, all better,” she said. “You’re ready to rejoin the class.”
    â€œOkay,” he mumbled, and moved as if to pick up his coat from the floor.
    Moving with a speed no one would have suspected she possessed—including herself—Elaine Oldenburg lashed out and grabbed his wrist before he could complete his reach. Scott froze. Brian froze. For a moment, stillness reigned.
    Then, in a very small voice, Scott said, “Miss Oldenburg, you’re hurting me.”
    She was squeezing too hard, she knew that she was squeezing too hard, but she couldn’t force herself to loosen her grip. “Scott, I don’t think you understand the situation,” she said, and it was a struggle to keep her voice level. She didn’t want to start yelling at him. If she started yelling, she was never going to stop, and it didn’t matter how much he deserved it—these kids started learning never to hide blood before they were out of diapers, and he’d turned her classroom into a biohazard zone because he didn’t want a time-out—it would frighten the rest of the children, and she couldn’t afford that. Not now, not with the alarm ringing steadily in the background and her control over the classroom eroding with every deviation from the norm.
    Scott stared at her, eyes wide and glossy with tears. That should have been enough to make her let go, but she still couldn’t.
    â€œScott, if you touch your coat, you could get exposed again, and then we’ll have to bleach you again,” she said, slowly and calmly. “But because bleach is hard on your skin, if we do that, you could start bleeding more, and then we’d have to leave you here. We can’t take you out into the classroom if you present a danger to the other students. Do you understand?”
    â€œYes, Miss Oldenburg,” he whispered.
    Finally, wonderfully, she was able to make herself let go. Her fingers ached from squeezing so hard. There was a livid red mark on