2nd Night

"How was the homework?" Ms. Rogers asked cheerfully.

The class stared at her. She had arrived right on the dot, whereas the students had arrived as soon as the school gates opened. Those who hadn't finished their homework were understandably traumatized from their experiences, and those had finished their homework were a little bit calmer but still disturbed at the secondhand accounts. No one had been hurt, but there had been close calls.

And no one could quite believe it when their families stopped being zombies. Home felt a little less safe.

"You did that, right?" Samara spoke first. "You're the reason they became zombies."

"Oh, no." Ms. Rogers said. "You didn't do your homework? That's not good. I hope that everyone will do their homework on time in the future."

"You can't do this!" Carrie shouted. "This is murder! Stop it now!"

"Now, Carrie. It's only a little spell to encourage you to do your homework. If you did your homework properly, your family wouldn't have changed. Isn't it nice to know that you can keep them safe?"

"You're having fun," Samara stated emotionlessly. "You don't really care about the homework."

"That's not a nice thing to say." Ms. Rogers said. "This is my important thesis. And all of you are helping me to develop future educational policy that will guide students in the future. I know it's hard work, but I have faith that you are all up to the task. You did very well in class yesterday."

"Stop changing the subject," Damien interjected. "Samara's right. This could have been anything else, but you chose zombies. You're having fun seeing us scared."

"You wouldn't feel encouraged to finish the homework if you didn't feel a little worried, right? I've seen your teacher's notes. This class has particularly poor participation grades." Ms. Rogers smiled, and unlike the day before, this time she didn't even try to disguise the off=putting aura, her canines glinting almost inhumanly. As the main target, Damien broke out in a cold sweat, and he clutched at his watch for comfort. "So do your homework properly, kids, and together we will happily pass these next six days."

"Will it stop then? In six days, I mean." Bill asked quietly.

"Once you take the exam, the study will be over and I'll leave," she replied.

"No!" Carrie slammed her hands on her desk. "Stop it now! You're crazy!"

"If we end it early, it will be permanent."

A deadly silence invaded the classroom.

"You can't be serious," Samara finally said.

Annie tugged at her hair. "They're going to stay zombies?! No!" She started crying, and Carrie rushed over to hug her.

"I think you're lying," Damien said. "You would get in trouble if this was permanent. I bet your school doesn't know."

Ms. Rogers tapped the side of her nose.

"Very good, Damien. But it is true that I can't stop the spell. So, I hope that you will all do your best to do your homework before midnight." She pulled out the textbook and a marker. "The functions we're learning in class today will be necessary for completing the homework tonight, therefore you should pay attention. Please take out your notebooks."

Pamela stared at her hands, curling them into fists. Her parents had been perfectly fine when she returned home. They hadn't remembered changing, and there had been no evidence of it either. Freddy said that in his rush to escape his house, he had broken a vase that was mysteriously whole again that morning. There was nothing that they could do. She physically couldn't tell anyone outside of this classroom, and it wasn't like they knew magic themselves.

"Get her!" Pamela whipped her head around at Jason's shout. Several of the guys, including Jason, rushed Ms. Rogers, their hands reaching to grab her.

"That won't do." Ms. Rogers snapped her fingers. The guys went flying, crashing into the desks and the walls. The non-attackers screamed and jumped out of the way of the flying bodies, instinctually protecting themselves over helping their classmates. They didn't get up immediately, instead they lay where they landed, moaning in pain.

Pamela's heart dropped. They truly were helpless in the face of Ms. Rogers' magic.

"Everyone up." She lifted her palm to the ceiling, and simultaneously the attackers' floated to their feet. Based on their expressions, this had only increased the pain. "Back into your seats and no more antics. We've already wasted fifteen minutes, and we have lots to cover. Every minute wasted is a math problem you can't solve before midnight."

As their feet touched the ground, Jason clutched at the arm in his cast. Damien gingerly felt at his head for bumps. Freddy stumbled, but went to Jason to see if his arm was okay. Jack almost fell down again, but was caught by Norman. They slowly walked to their seats, the heads hanging low.

Although the others wanted to at least thank them for trying, no one was brave enough to risk earning Ms. Rogers ire. As they walked by, some of their classmates gave them the barest of nods before quickly looking down at their desks again.

They had never realized that school could be more than just a metaphorical prison.

"Oh, right!" Ms. Rogers took out the attendance sheet. "Where's Michael? Is he missing school today?"

"He's sick, Ms. Rogers." Bill said. Bill had actually called him before she arrived. Michael lived with his divorced mother and his younger sister. He had been one of the students who hadn't done his homework, and he had been devastated. He had managed to trick his mother and sister into closed rooms, and spent the entire night guarding them, making sure that they couldn't leave the house. He spent the entire night listening to their growls. When Bill had insisted that Michael should come to school, Michael yelled at him, and said that they were all idiots for playing along. He couldn't imagine that the magic was omnipotent, and he wasn't going to leave his family's side or stop until he found someone who would punish their crazy substitute teacher. Bill couldn't convince him otherwise.

"I'll take his homework to him," Bill offered.

"That won't do." She turned back to the board. "He has to come get it himself."

"But he's sick!"

"Then I guess he's too sick to do his homework also." She said. "Oh well. In a study, there's always a few subjects who drop out."

"Will his family still turn into zombies if he doesn't do it?" Bill said.

"Of course. It wouldn't be educational guidance if it was inconsistently applied. Enough about that. No more talking."

--

After school, the students gathered in the empty gym.

Bill shook his head. "Michael says he won't come as long as Ms. Rogers is here."

"He's being stupid. He can't do anything by staying home," Damien said.

Jack shrugged. "Maybe he has a point. Shouldn't we stay far away from her?"

"And then we won't get the homework assignments and our families will turn into zombies every night." Damien said.

"But she couldn't do anything more. As long as we make sure that the doors are locked, it should be fine." Jack countered.

"It would be too risky." Damien said. "It would be better to make sure that they don't turn at all. Right now, they're slow, but what if they evolve? Haven't you ever seen zombie films? They might become strong enough to break down doors."

Although the fourteen of them had decided to meet to discuss the situation, they were actually separated into vague groups centered around their close friends. Pamela, Freddy, and Jason were sitting on the lower bleachers. Carrie and Annie were standing by the door, whispering to each other as they listened to Damien's group. Tiffany was on her phone while her boyfriend Chucky watched over her shoulder; they were looking for news articles on zombies. Margaret, Asami, Norman, and Samara were sitting on the floor doing the homework. It was already good work bringing them all together in one place outside of the classroom. Any more cooperation and it would have been a miracle.

Damien clearly wanted to make that miracle happen. He was one of the more extroverted of the bunch, and he often floated between the friend groups for small talk anyway. He had suggested the meeting and was now trying to lead it.

"We have to help each other out. We'll make sure that we've all completed the homework before midnight. And we shouldn't go to sleep before we know that our families are safe." Damien looked around at the groups. "What does everyone think?"

"I think it's every man for himself," Asami declared. "I don't want to be dragged down by someone who can't do the homework."

"You're such a bitch," Jason said.

"Hey!" Margaret jumped up. "Don't call her that!"

"Why not? She says that she doesn't care that people are turning into zombies!" Jason jumped up too.

"I'll take care of my family; you take care of yours. This is going to be over soon anyway." Asami said. She hadn't moved from the floor. She was lying on one side, her head propped up on one hand while she wrote with the other. She barely looked at them, staring at the homework and making marks. "This is easy. Just do the homework, nothing happens. The only people who should be panicking are the people who are too lazy to work."

"I wonder if it's that easy," Samara murmured.

"Sure, it is," Asami replied. "Ms. Rogers is even properly teaching us. So, what are you complaining about? You guys just don't want to work. This might actually be good for you."

"See?" Jason said to Margaret, pointing at Asami. "Bitch!"

"Isn't this too early to start turning on each other?" Pamela asked. "Jason, stop it. Margaret's right; don't call her that."

Jason huffed, but sat down. Margaret looked like she would be more than happy to start a fight, until Norman tapped on her ankle. Damien opened his mouth to continue—

"Oh, shit! I'm going to be late!" Chucky gave Tiffany a quick hug and a "call me later", grabbed his backpack, and ran out.

Damien looked to Tiffany. "Where's he going?"

"Soccer practice," she said.

"Now?"

She shrugged.

--

Everyone has priorities in life. Chucky's priority was soccer. They competed against high schools from other towns, and someday he hoped to go pro. Maybe. He wasn't the best, but he worked hard. Often at the expense of his schoolwork.

Hours later, he was sitting in front of the very math homework they had been discussing, tearing his hair out. This was nothing like yesterday's homework. Yesterday's homework had been bad, this was Mt. Everest. He flipped through the textbook, but he couldn't make heads-or-tails of it. His class notes were sloppy scribbles that swarmed on the page, laughing at him. He wanted so badly to close the book and then ask Tiffany for help in the morning like usual.

His eyelids sank. He would take a nap, just for a bit, and then he would call Tiffany. He would have plenty of time to finish. He wouldn't even close the book, just nap here. Just a short nap. Then he would feel refreshed and he could do it. That's all he needed. He crossed his arms over the homework, and buried his head into the crook of his elbow. He fell asleep instantly.

A searing pain threw him out of sleep. He screamed, as he slapped his hand over his neck, trying to stop the pain. Instead of his neck, he ended up hitting what felt like a head. He had grown a second head. He must still be dreaming.

His shoulder was wet, his shirt was wet. He looked down – his white shirt was red. Why was it red? His thoughts were wreathed in fog. And the pain was still there. No, it was getting worse. He slapped again at the head-like object, trying to dislodge it. But it was stuck on him. He was afraid to push at it. His shoulder might come off. Or was it his neck? The pain was everywhere. The red was everywhere. The red had splashed onto his homework.

His homework.

He screamed again, and kept on screaming as he pushed violently at his desk, throwing himself and the chair backwards. Gnawing, gnawing. Something was gnawing. The red had migrated down his arms. His hands were slick. But then the fall completed, and he was on his back but the object was gone and it was still painful, but not increasing. It had been increasing. Now it felt cold, like he was missing something.

Cold, wet, red.

Light-headed.

He was on his feet. The desk behind him, in front of him the object… his brother.

He was still screaming. His brother was growling. His mouth was red. His shirt was red too. They matched. His brother's eyes were pure white. His mouth gaped open. The inside of his mouth was red. Spilling red. Chucky's red.

The door was behind his brother. Chucky grabbed the chair and threw it. It knocked his brother back even closer to the door, but off balance. Chucky ran.

And almost ran into his mom. Her eyes were white, but there was no red. She reached for him with a moan that was sickeningly similar to when she saw her favorite chicken wings on the table at dinner.

"GO AWAY!" Chucky back-pedaled into a wall, and almost fell in his panic to run down the hall. Where was his dad? He shut the kitchen door. The kitchen had a door to the garage. He had a bike there. He needed to leave. Where?

He looked at his red hands.

Hospital.

He was scared to feel his neck or try to look, so he kept looking forward. Everywhere he touched, he left behind red handprints. He tripped over the trash can. Why was it over here?

Oh. He had veered too far left. He corrected course.

He bumped into the kitchen table. Too far right. He corrected course.

The knob was slippery in both his hands and his eyes. For a while now, there had been pounding at the door connecting to the hall. Scratching, too. Where was his dad?

There he was. His father lunged at him from the now open door. Sometimes his dad worked in the garage when he couldn't sleep, which was often because he had insomnia. So, he had been in the garage.

Hi, dad.

Chucky reeled around the kitchen table, keeping his white-eyed, 6-foot dad on the other side. At first his dad tried to catch him over the table. Then he seemed to think better about it, and shambled around it. When Chucky was finally on the same side as the garage, he bolted.

The door shook as his dad crashed into it. Chucky's screams had long dissolved into sobs, each one punctuating his pleas for the door to stay strong. The lock was on the wrong side. Please don't know how to open doors. Please be a stupid zombie.

He slammed his hand on the garage door button and it had barely cleared two feet before he ran and rolled under it. He didn't have time to look for the bike. What did he have time for? Call someone. No phone. His phone was… next to his homework, so that he could call Tiffany when he woke up.

The hospital. Where was it? Where as he? He had been running and now he was on a quiet street. There were very few street lamps in their town, and darkness prevailed. He didn't hear growling or moaning or the thud of footsteps. He felt pain and wet and scared and cold. Where was he? The light slipped into shadows and the shadows into trees that stretched over him in waves that were going to crash down in any second.

Before he realized it, he had stopped. He stood in the middle of the street and stared wildly around him, always turning with his full body so that he wouldn't move his neck. Or his shoulder. Maybe it was his back. The pain scratched at his back like icy fingers.

Then he was blinded. He screamed and threw his arms over his face as two glaring yellow eyes rushed towards him.

"Hey! Hey!" He trembled and blinked. "What happened?!" His non-wet arm was grabbed at the elbow. "Can you hear me?" The voice was human. It was human. He was human. He had a car.

"Hospital," Chucky gasped. "Please!"

"Oh, man. Come on. I think I have a towel. Come on." The hand pulled him and he followed. He was settled in the car. He closed his eyes as the door slammed and his head fell against the seat as the car jolted forward.

He was still alive. Hands pulled him out of the car. He was in a wheelchair. Stretcher? He couldn't tell which way was up. He was now in a bed with bustling people nearby. He was safe. There were so many adults. They could take care of everything. He closed his eyes again.

There was screaming.

Still half asleep, he rolled out of the bed. He bit back a shriek of pain as he crashed onto his stomach. But he heard screaming. Screaming was bad.

Woozy, he tucked his legs under him, steadied himself on the bed. He was no longer red. The pain was less. Oh, no, there was a little red on his hand, and some tape left behind. He looked over the bed. A needle swung from a metal stand with a plastic bag. Too small to be used as a weapon. Nothing here. Nothing but screaming.

And crying.

He was surrounded by curtains. He needed walls. He was supposed to be safe.

No, don't think about that. Walls. Doors. A small room. A big room?

What time was it?

He needed walls, a door, and a clock. To throw at zombies. No, wait. Why a clock?

This would be all over at 6 am.

But he was at the hospital. He was supposed to be safe.

He shook his head in frustration. His thoughts were piling on top of each other and falling apart. They race down a drain and punched at him like a drunken boxer.

Someone was pulling at the curtains. They pulled, pulled… the whole thing fell down.

Chucky ran. As he ran, he saw red everywhere. Red on white. Stuff thrown everywhere. People running. People crying. People biting. A nurse suddenly entered his field of his vision, her eyes pure white.

He never wanted to see a sexy zombie nurse costume again. As she reached for him, he pushed her away and kept running. Running into the hall. Run to where there are no screams. No red. No reaching, biting, growling, white-eyed people.

He stumbled over flat ground. Panting, he crawled to standing and kept going. A closed door. Please, please, please, please, please, please—

Brooms. Jackpot.

He shut the door and sat against it, trying to quiet his breathing. He couldn't go any further. His vision was swimming, his thoughts were as white as their eyes, his shoulder was cold and wet again.

As he sat there hoping that they wouldn't find him, wouldn't be able to open doors if they did, all he could think, as nonsensical as it was, was this:

He really hated math.