The Most Uncommon Cold I - Life in the Time of Zombies (29 page)

     For an instant, Glen Davis considered going over and asking Tim some questions about the desk and how it had found its way to storage.   However, before he could act upon his idea, Terry Larson and several other English instructors surrounded him.  “We’re just heading over to room forty-nine for the meeting of the English Department.” Larson’s smug smiling face was enough reason for Glen to want to run the other way, but instead he found himself part of the group moving toward the meeting place.  “I was telling everyone that I have lots of great ideas for improving our class reading score which I will share at the meeting.” Glen thought that this might indeed be the longest meeting of his life.

     As the group entered the building that housed room forty-nine and also Glen’s classroom, he was surprised by a sudden feeling of apprehension at passing room forty-six.  The usually logical teacher tried to shrug off the anxiety.  He was a little angry with himself for allowing such childish fear to even present itself.   But as they drew closer to his classroom, the anxiety grew.  Glen could feel his breath becoming heavier.  He felt the eyes of the other teachers.

     Deanna Sullivan, a third-year reading specialist with buckteeth, stared at Glen and finally asked, “Are you feeling all right, Mr. Davis?”�

     Before he answered Glen glanced quickly through the door of room forty-six, what he saw made him feel entirely ridiculous.  There was a big dark desk, rows of smaller student desks, and piles of books that need to be shelved.  Only thing to be anxious about was having to finish work that should have been done yesterday.

     “Oh, I’m fine, Ms. Sullivan.  Just excited to be back,”� he replied.  Even as he gave his reply, Glen knew that it was not entirely correct.  He was not fine.  If he were fine, he would not be afraid of going into his own classroom.

     The group gathered around the door to room forty-nine as Larson fished through his ring of keys.  After a few overly bright comments to the keys themselves such as “Are you the right key?’ and “Oh, here you are!”, he found the correct key and beamed with pride as he opened the door and welcomed the group inside.   The classroom was brightly lit with colorful decorations everywhere the eye traveled.  The book carousels were well stocked and neatly arranged.  In the corner was the teacher’s desk complete with a ceramic apple that served as a paperweight.  The student desks arranged in sharp rows looked scrubbed and polished.  Just in case one might get the urge to practice a little spontaneity in this classroom, Larson had taped 3 x 5 cards displaying each teacher’s name on the assigned desk.

     Glen had the urge to defy the structure set forth by the poster boy for obsessive-compulsive disorder and sit in any desk other than at the one displaying his name.  He could imagine Larson’s reaction at discovering that his almighty seating assignment had been disrupted.  There would be an affected heavy sigh or two.  Next, the head of the English department would resort to nervous laughter and a big, exaggerated smile.  To finish the performance, the tall, thin teacher would stand up straight with his hands on his hips and say, “I guess some people just need to be the center of attention!”�Seeing the scene played out in his mind was enough to satisfy the rebellious part of his personality.  In the end, Glen’s more mature side won the battle, and he sat in the assigned desk.  He wondered if any of the sixteen other teachers had a similar reaction to the assigned seating.

     “Good morning and welcome!” Terry Larson began with a beaming smile.  “For those of you who don’t know me, I am Mr. Larson, and I am the chairperson of the English department here at Theodore Roosevelt High School.”�He paused as if expecting applause from the group.  Getting none, he simply nodded and smiled at various teachers. “The most important thing that I want everyone to take from today’s meeting is the knowledge that they are part of a team.”�

     “And there is no fucking ‘I’ in team!” The male voice delivered the line with the dryness it deserved.

     Glen stifled a snicker and looked around amazed that someone had said such a thing.   To his surprise, all the other teachers were still looking toward the front of the room, and Larson continued his interminable babbling.  Apparently, he was the only one who had heard the comment, other than the speaker, of course.

     “…to substantially raise test results.  However, before we move on to group activities, I would like each person to stand up and introduce themselves to the group.  I know that most of us have worked together for several years and need no introduction, but we have a few new faces with us this year that have not gotten to know you.  Besides, I like to think of a new school year as a new beginning...a new chance to start over…a new opportunity to succeed.  So I hope in the spirit of a new beginning, you will introduce yourself just as if no one in this room knew you.   Okay, I guess I will start.  I would like to introduce myself.  My name is Mr. Larson.  In addition to being the chairperson of the English department at Roosevelt High School, I teach senior English and advance placement English classes.”�Again, he paused seeming to anticipate wild, spontaneous applause that never came.  “When I’m not at school or preparing for school, I enjoy spending time with my wife, Sandra, and six year-old son, Billy.  Okay, that’s it for me.  Let’s start over here on the right and hear about you.”�  He walked over to stand in front of Gretchen Winters in the first desk in the row.  “Please stand up and speak loudly and clearly.”�

     The chubby, redheaded, third-year teacher giggled throughout her introduction.  After her, other teachers followed suit and introduced themselves.  Glen was fourth in the row.  When his turn came, he stood up quickly and began, “Hello, my name is Glen Davis.  I have been teaching at Roosevelt for six years now.  Prior to coming here, I…”�

     A calm voice with a slight European accent interrupted his introduction, “Did you forget about your new desk?  Remember there’s a surprise inside!”�

     The mention of the desk brought a flood of emotions and images of children in drab school uniforms to Glen’s mind.  The children seemed unnaturally solemn and pale.  He was sure that he had never seen them before and wondered how they could now find their way to him.  Whether his mental activity had taken five seconds or five minutes, Glen was not sure, but he did know that all eyes were upon him when he came back to the moment.

     Aware of the confused faces looking on, Glen resumed speaking, “Uh … sorry, I blanked out for a minute.  Where was I?   My name is Glen Davis, and I’ve been teaching at Roosevelt for six years.”�He felt very self-conscious as he sped through the first part of his introduction. “Before coming here, I taught English in South Korea, Australia, Kuwait, and Japan.  I am married and enjoy camping, reading, and watching movies.”�

     Once finished, Glen felt a moment of silence hanging in the air before Larson broke it by saying, “Okay, thanks, Mr. Davis.  Next?”�

     It was one of the only times that Glen Davis could remember feeling happy to hear Larson’s voice.

     The introductions continued, but Glen could not have repeated anything that the others said.  His mind was elsewhere.  It was mainly occupied with questions as to what had been happening to him over the last few days.  The gaps in consciousness and memory combined with visions and voices were more than enough to cause serious worry about his health.  He decided that he would make a doctor’s appointment as soon as he got out of this meeting.  He never again wanted to see the kind of pain he had seen on Christine’s face early that morning. 

     The rest of the meeting passed without incident.  The time was devoted to the type of team-building activities that Glen detested.  There was plenty of forced laughter and imitation camaraderie.  However, he did his best to hide the dislike and participate to an acceptable degree.  The group had lunch in the room, and the day passed quickly.  At about a quarter to three, Terry Larson praised the teachers for their participation and dismissed them.

     On his way out of the room, Glen Davis heard his name called by a male voice, “Uh, Mr. Davis … Glen.”� 

     He turned to see one of the new teachers, a short, bearded man in his mid-twenties.  Glen had been preoccupied during the earlier introductions and had no idea as to the man’s name.  Apparently, Glen’s ignorance was clearly visible on his face, because the bearded man said, “I’m Mark Green, the new ESL teacher.  I heard you mention that you taught in South Korea.  I was there for a couple of years in Seoul.  Where did you teach?”

     “I taught at an English school in Pusan.  It was an interesting place.  When I was there, I didn’t always appreciate it, but now I sometimes miss it.  How about you?”�

     The two teachers shared their experiences and impressions of South Korea and Korean people, and Glen found that he was thankful to have some distraction from the things going around in his mind.  Glen explained that his wife was Korean and promised to have him over for some authentic kimchi, the pickled cabbage that was the staple of Korean cuisine.  Matt Green and Glen continued their conversation on the walk to the parking lot.  It wasn’t until they were standing near Glen’s Mustang that he realized that he had passed his classroom without giving it a thought.  He was certainly grateful for that.

    After Matt had headed to his car, Glen sat in the driver’s seat and felt joy at the prospect of leaving the school grounds.   Of course, he had had similar feelings in the past, but this was not simply happiness at the idea of having finished work and heading home to see Christine.  This emotion was relief at having avoided any major strangeness.

     As he was leaving the parking lot, Glen remembered the need for more garbage bags.  He had no idea how the supply of trash bags was something about which he knew, about which he should care, or about which he should act.  He had no recollection of discovering that in a time of need they were out of bags.  Nor could he recall Christine mentioning it.  All that Glen Davis really knew was that he needed to get more bags, so he stopped at a convenience store near the school and bought a brightly-colored box of twenty extra-strength, heavy duty, reinforced, jumbo-sized trash bags.

     As he climbed back into the car, the teacher was still wondering about this sudden notion that garbage bags were a must-have item.  Given the recent flood of irrational thoughts, strange behavior, and lost hours, Glen shrugged this one off as another indication that he needed to get into the doctor for a checkup.

     He started the car and was just putting it into reverse when a voice boomed around him.  “You haven’t seen the surprise inside your desk!”  Glen easily recognized the voice as the same one he had been hearing for the last two days but still instinctively looked around to find its source.  The loud blaring of a car horn behind him abruptly ended his search.

     He suddenly realized that his car was rolling across the store’s parking lot and stomped on the brake pedal before hitting anything.  The older man behind the wheel of the car that had honked and was now parking simply glared at him.

     Glen pulled his car back into the parking spot, called Dr. Kellogg’s office, and made an appointment for Tuesday afternoon.

Also available now from Jeffrey Littorno,
Soul Hostage
- a paranormal thriller.

Chapter 1

     “I guess we should just shoot every damn one of ‘em.”  Joey said with a wink as if to signal some kind of joke between the two of us.

Was he serious?  Could this be some sort of inside joke?

     If so, Joey had not let me in on it.

     Any trace of humor vanished as I looked through the big   windows at the two cops walking on the sidewalk in front of the Plymouth Quality Market.  The little grocery store only stretched about two hundred feet front to back, so the hostages had to be kept absolutely silent. My breath stopped. The cops paused for a moment, and I waited for them to come through the front door.  Everything froze for a moment.  My heart skipped a beat, and then began pounding quickly with a jolt as the pair kept walking.  Even so, I felt like all of the energy had left my body.

     I looked around at the people forced to huddle in the back of the store. There was a frazzled, dark-haired young woman with two small, ebony-haired children clinging to each of her hands, a fortyish businessman in a dark blue suit looking irritated and inconvenienced.  Nearby, an elderly couple held hands resigned to whatever might happen.  Next to them was an attractive, nervous, blonde in her late thirties wearing too much makeup and clothes clearly designed for a teenage girl.

     The thought struck me the whole bunch seemed straight out of central casting for some B-grade television crime drama.  The idea of my life being any sort of entertainment almost caused me to laugh out loud.  A glimpse of the room’s remaining occupant made me choke off my chuckle. 

     The old man had a head topped with a wild tuft of thin silver hair that looked as if no attempt to comb it had ever been made.  This guy used to be called a bum or a hobo or a tramp, but now he was simply called homeless. His wrinkled, dirty clothes looked as if he had not only slept in them but spent a number of days living in them. He was a few feet away sitting on the floor in the corner with his legs stretched out and trying to get a round white breath mint out of a little shiny blue roll.