“What about the rest of them? How far is it spreading?”
“How do we know it’s permanent?”
“Everyone, listen,” Rosso says, but the crowd has reached a boil.
“What if we leave the stadium and then they all change back?”
“Yeah, what if it’s a trick?”
“A trick?” Rosso says incredulously. “Okay, this is—”
“We don’t know anything about them!”
“What if they’re faking?”
“What if they—”
“People!” Rosso shouts into the mic, and a piercing howl of feedback derails the runaway Q&A as everyone shoves hands against ears. Bob the sound guy winks and gives Rosso a thumbs-up.
“People,” Rosso sighs, letting the mic fall against his thigh. “These are valid questions … some of them. But there’s only one person in this room who might be able to answer them.”
I scan the crowd, wondering who this mystery sage might be.
“So if you’ll all kindly shut up a moment …” Rosso looks in my direction—no. He looks at me. He holds the microphone out to me. “Mr. R?” he says to me. “Can you offer any insight into the current state of undead affairs?”
Rosso blurs in my vision and the McDonald’s mural behind him comes into focus. The clown’s small, black eyes. His red-smeared lips. The unfathomable anatomy of Mayor McCheese.
“R,” Julie whispers, nudging me forward. I step onto the stage and stare at the mic. Its dark barrel is aimed straight at my face. I stare at the mic.
“R?” Rosso prompts, pushing it closer.
I take it. “H-hello,” I say, and the sound of my rarely used voice amplified and fired back at me makes my eyes go wide. Imagining it sprayed over the entire stadium into twenty thousand sets of ears makes my jaw fall open.
“Weapons ready, boys,” Balt chuckles. “Looks like he’s about to convert again.”
I pull my eyes away from the crowd and all its mistrustful faces, and I look at Julie. Her face contains so many things. Fear, urgency, a little annoyance, but mostly that emotion I’ve come to know as love. Julie loves me. She believes in me, far more than I do in myself. And she wants me to speak.
My lips brush the mic. An electric spark snaps against them and I jolt back, rubbing my mouth in surprise. “That hurt,” I mumble, accidentally aloud.
“Sorry, what?” Balt says, cupping a hand to his ear.
I look up and blurt, all in a rush, “I can’t answer your questions.”
Not the strongest opening for my great speech of reconciliation. Balt laughs and throws up his hands.
“What I mean is … all I know is …” My mind races, searching for words to explain things I don’t understand. “I don’t know what … cured us, it was … different for everyone, but for me … I decided to … I wanted to be … I just tried to …”
My lips freeze in a slack-jawed O, waiting for the next syllable, but nothing comes. My eyes dart toward Julie. She couldn’t have expected much more from me. We’ve discussed the mystery of the cure many times and have never gotten far, even with her unencumbered articulation. But she still looks disappointed. My big moment onstage, my chance to redeem myself and my fellow former Dead in front of the whole stadium, and my tongue goes flaccid.
“Well, there you have it, folks,” Balt says. “Now that our resident zombie has cleared everything up for us, let’s dynamite our walls and go dance in a fuckin’ meadow.”
Rosso walks up, shaking his head, and takes the mic from me. “Okay, honestly,” he says, jabbing a hand at Balt, “who elected this man? What’s your building, Balt?”
“Twenty-One Cock Street, bitches!” he says in an exaggerated baritone, pumping a fist in the air, and I hear the sound of a crowd hooting somewhere outside.
“It’s Rooster Street, you idiot,” Julie says.
Rosso’s face is hidden behind his palm. “I thought we were past this,” he says into his fingers, and the mic barely picks it up. “I thought we were done with brutes.”
“What’s that, Larry?” Balt says, cupping his ear again. “I’m getting old, my hearing’s not what it used to be.”
“Blessed are the deaf,” Rosso mutters to no one but himself, “for the loud shall inherit the earth.”
I can hear a shift in the room’s acoustics as Bob cranks the mics, trying to pick up Rosso’s dwindling volume. Being the pro that he is, he’s raising the room mics instead of the stage, and the small sounds of the crowd become audible: creaking chairs, grinding teeth, heavy breaths. I brace myself to be deafened when Balt inevitably starts shouting again, but just as he’s sucking in a breath to do so, a curious sound appears in the background.
Three musical tones, followed by a warm, reassuring male voice.
“Thank you for calling the United States. If you or your township is currently under attack, please hang up and contact your local militia.”
“The fuck is that?” Balt says, and his voice booms so loud even he cringes. Feedback begins to build in the speakers: a low, threatening hum.
“Shut it off, Bob,” Rosso says. Bob mutes the PA and the room goes quiet.
“Please listen to the following options …”
It’s coming from the lobby. Rosso hops off the stage and works his way through the crowd, shoving Balt aside with surprising strength. I go around the stage to join Julie and Nora—their faces are as nonplussed as everyone’s—and we follow Rosso into the lobby.