Page 17 of What Rough Beast

“Oh, kiddo,” the art teacher says, rubbing Ava on the back as another wave crests. She’s assessing the situation—Ava’s jeans are soaked, the hem of her shirt positively dripping—while I’m focused on the sink and what’s coming out of Ava. It’s thin and watery, but there are dense clots of gelatinous white, nearly translucent. One of them circles the drain, sticks to the edge . . . and squirms.

Ava’s spread over the sink, eyes closed, arms shaking as she sobs, Mrs. Avern completely focused on her. I turn on the cold water, watching as the clot thrashes against the tide, gripping the edge before it loses the battle, and goes down the drain. I tear off more paper towels and wet them.

“Look at me,” I instruct Ava, who is so shaken she doesn’t put up a fight when I wipe her chin, hoping she doesn’t feel it when a glob of white shit tries to crawl back inside her mouth.

“Hailey, could you please get some clothes from the lost and found?” Mrs. Avern says, looking at me across Ava’s shoulder blades as she bends over the sink, cupping water in her hands and rinsing out her mouth.

“Yep,” I say tightly, not thrilled that the yoga pants I’d spotted in there yesterday aren’t going to make it to my closet. I circle back to Ava’s workspace and grab her phone, wiping it off as I eye the puddle on the floor. A few of the larger clots are still twitching, but most have gone cold and still.

Carrie and Meredith jump me in the hallway as soon as the art room doors swing closed, everyone else huddled in groups on the floor, scrolling their phones.

“Oh my God, what was that even?” Meredith says.

“Seriously, that was not normal,” Carrie adds.

“What, like you’ve never had anything white come out of your mouth?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Well . . . no . . .” Carrie says, torn between defending herself and making me angry.

“You’ve got some on you,” Meredith says, pointing at my sleeve. “You should clean that up, fast. Who knows what all diseases Ava could have, working out at the Zedeker place.”

“Yeah,” Carrie says, edging away from me. “Mom and Dad said back in the eighties there was this whole thing out there, the deer got funky sick. Like they turned into zombies.”

“That’s not a real thing,” Murphy Ricks says, sliding into our group and running his hand across the small of my back as he does. I allow it, because there’s a chance he’s going to be in the major leagues someday.

“No shit zombies aren’t real,” Meredith says.

“It’s called chronic wasting disease,” Murph hits back. “Don’t get me wrong, plenty of creepy-ass things went down out at the Zedeker place back then, but the zombie-deer thing is bullshit.”

“What kind of creepy-ass things?” Carrie asks.

“Like cats started disappearing,” Murph says. “I guess the Zedekers went to the state, tried to get cats labeled an invasive species, and when that didn’t work . . .” He raises one shoulder, shrugging. “They declared open season.”

“They killed cats?” Carrie asks, hugging her phone to her chest, where her background—a selfie of her holding a tabby—is clearly visible. “Like they were shooting them?”

“That’s what I heard,” Murph says. “Old Man Zedeker was a trigger-happy son of a bitch. Even took a shot at the census man.”

“Why in the world would you shoot at a census worker?” Meredith asks, clearly skeptical.

“I don’t know,” Murph says. “Didn’t want anybody counting how many Zedekers there were, I guess. All I know is, there was one less a couple weeks later.”

“What do you mean?” Meredith asks, eyes narrowing.

Carrie edges closer to me, remembers I’ve got vomit on me, and decides to lean into Murph for comfort instead.

“One of them disappeared, the son,” he says, slipping an arm around Carrie’s shoulder.

“Typhus,” I say, clearing my throat. “He was Widow’s older brother.”

“They’re your neighbors, aren’t they?” Carrie asks.

“Yep,” I say, not giving her anything else.

“Is it true they’ve got their own graveyard back in the woods?” Murph asks. “I heard there aren’t any Zedekers in the cemetery in town, because they keep them all out there, together. If they’re even burying them, at all.”

“What else would you do with a dead body?” Meredith asks, crossing her arms.

“With nobody paying attention? Whatever you want,” Murph says darkly.