Catholic Guilt and the Joy of Hating Men - By Regan Wolfrom Page 0,10
or whatever and they go a little off.”
“Off?”
“So if you see one of your friends looking at you, that means you either grab a cattle prod or you run. Oh... I guess you don’t get a cattle prod.”
“I’ll just pick yours up the next time you leave it lying around.”
“You know what? I hope one of your friends eats you.”
“Eats me? What the hell?”
“Yeah. That’s what happens.” She smirked. “Have a good sleep, Amanda.” She walked down the hallway to the door. “Lights out.”
And then she flicked the switch.
Obviously I didn’t sleep, since there was something unnerving about the idea of the team’s center and point guard nibbling on my elbows in the middle of the night.
I didn’t know what the drugs were doing to them, if it was something that’d be permanent. Were they as good as dead? Or was there a chance we’d all be back at Cousins in a few days, humming and hawing over whether or not we should get dessert?
I could see them both lying there, staring into nothing, their blank eyes shining in the dark.
I started to cry.
“Don’t cry,” someone said. A man’s voice; I didn’t recognize it.
I looked out to the hallway, but I didn’t see anyone there.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“I’m a friend,” he said.
“You expect me to buy that? Some creepy guy’s watching me sleep and I’m supposed to be happy about it?”
“You don’t remember me. Florida Marlins t-shirt. Ugly ass pants.”
“What? But you’re supposed to be a zombie.”
“I just play one on TV,” he said. “My friends call me Pouchon.”
“So you guys are just faking it? Is this some kind of prank?”
“I’m faking it. The other guys probably aren’t.”
“Probably?”
“How the hell should I know? They certainly act like zombies.”
“So you’re saying you’re immune to those toxins or whatever?”
“I guess so.”
“So they kidnapped you, too?”
Pouchon chuckled. “Not really,” he said.
“What?”
“I really am on some sort of work release program. Sugarbush Correctional Centre. Private prison equals business opportunity.”
“You’re a convict?”
“I accidentally killed a man over a decade ago. They got me for first-degree and decided I shouldn’t get out pretty much ever.”
“So they sent you here?”
“It’s a good deal for the corporation. They still have me on the books so they still get paid, plus a nice little cut of the profits from this place.”
“Profits? But this is a horse barn.”
“There are other activities.”
“Like marijuana or meth or something?” I asked.
He chuckled again. “Nah. Counterfeit teddy bears.”
It felt good to laugh.
“That’s not a joke,” he said. “There’s big money in teddy bears. And free zombie labor is a lot cheaper than trying to keep Chinese factory workers from killing themselves. All that suicide netting ain’t cheap.”
“But why have you come here? How did you get in here?”
“I have a keycard. Cadance loses hers about once a month, and they don’t bother deactivating the old codes. I guess they don’t think a zombie would have had the brains to use them.”
“So what do you want from me?”
“I don’t want anything from you. I want to help you escape.”
“Why?”
“I’m not a bad person, girl. I don’t want you to rot in here.”
“What about my friends? Can you help them?”
He paused. “I don’t think I can. I don’t think there’s any way for them to come back from that. If you’d seen what I have... what happens when the macoutes need to feed...”
“Something doesn’t add up,” I said. “If you’ve had that keycard for however long, why haven’t you escaped already? Why are you still here?”
“You’re a smart girl. I’m a convicted felon. If I show up in town with some crazy story about zombies and phony plushes no one’s gonna believe me. But they’ll believe you. I need you to come with me, to tell them what happened here.”
“I can’t leave without my friends.”
“You need to.”
“We need to bring them with us. End of discussion.”
“There’s no way we can sneak two zombified teenagers out of here.”
“Why not?”
“Our best bet is to get out of here and get help for them.”
“What if these assholes kill them? Once we escape they’ll want to cover their tracks.”
“That’s a fair point,” Pouchon said. “Tonight might be our best chance, actually. It’s Saturday night. The big man’s out of town until sometime tomorrow, and Kathleen Shannard never drops in on Sunday mornings.
“What’s so special about that woman?”
“Just be glad you won’t get to meet her.”
“What about her?” I asked.
“I was locked up for nine years with the worst criminals in Vermont... that’s scarier than it sounds.”