The Typhon Project

Chapter Twenty-Three: The Truth About Zombie Epoch

Swallowing back tears, I shuffled down the hallway to the boys' rooms. Which room was Dean's? Some of the doors were open, some were closed. I was not in the mental state to go door to door and make apologies when I got the wrong one.

I pressed my eyes closed then open again. Memories of the psychiatric ward flashed in my thoughts. I had to do this. I couldn't end up catatonic, imprisoned in my own head. "Dean!" I shouted. "Dean where are you?"

I waited, watching all the doors. He poked his head out of the third door on the left. "Hey, Leah. What are you doing?"

I took a few steps closer. "I need to talk to you."

"Sure, come on in."

He opened the door wider and motioned me in. I had to step over clothes strew all over the floor to get more than two steps inside. His Zombie game was paused on a large screen that took up most of the wall opposite his bed, blankets strewn. It smelled like boy—feet and armpit. Tinsely voices crawled from a set of headphones resting on the foot of the bed.

Dean dropped onto his bed and picked up his controller again. "What's up?"

Books sat in small piles on every surface. The walls were plastered with posters: one of Einstein with a wide curling handle-bar moustache drawn on it in purple marker, one showed characters from Star Wars jamming in a rock band together, and another sported a black and white kitten  with the phrase, "Every time someone calls tech support, a kitten dies."

I stared at Einstein. He stared back knowingly. Was he smirking? I couldn't do this in here.

"Sorry for the mess, if I knew you were coming . . . ." Dean scratched the back of his head.

I skimmed my teeth over my bottom lip. "It's okay. Don't worry about it."

He fidgeted with the buttons on the controller. "Are you okay?"

I nodded and then sat down on the bed beside him.

"So . . . what did you want to talk about?" he asked.

My throat dried. I swallowed. "Um, I thought maybe you'd show me how to play that game."

"Really?" He placed his hand to my forehead. "You don't feel feverish."

"No, I'm serious." I wanted to sound more convincing.

His brow furrowed. "You look kind of sick."

"I'm not. Just tired."

The creases between his eyebrows deepened, and he blinked a couple of times before he got up and went to his dresser. He opened a drawer and dug around for a moment, then pulled out another controller. He returned to the bed and handed it to me.

He described what each button did. My cloudy mind couldn't focus. Everything he said seemed like a foreign language. I didn't want the clouds to clear. Maybe what I had to do wouldn't seem real when it was over.

"Make sense?" he asked.

"Not really."

"Okay, well you can watch me play, and when you feel ready to start, let me know."

I nodded. I watched his character stalk through the ruins of a city and slay zombies with axes and machetes, blood splashing over the screen. Once he got them all, he moved on to a new level.

His character dropped into a scene, different from the one in the previous level. This scene was a modern city in perfect condition—brick buildings with ivy growing up the sides, wide colourful flower beds. His first target moved toward him. The creature had scaly, muddy green skin with yellow eyes. It wasn't a zombie at all—it was one of those soldier creatures.