Monday.

  A $250 ticket for “Reckless Endangerment” sat crumpled in Frankie’s back pocket. Sheriff Burke’s lecture still rang in her ears. Stay away from the pier. Stay away from trouble.

  Easier said than done.

  The school smelled of bleach. Stale sweat. Silence.

  Frankie kept her head down. Norchester High. Usually thick with body spray and desperation over unfinished homework. Today, different.

  Quiet. Too quiet.

  Locker banks. Conversations dying as she passed. Heads turned. Eyes narrowed.

  Frankie gripped the straps of her backpack. Knuckles white.

  Linoleum floor. Gray tiles. Scuffed. Left foot. Right foot. Breathe.

  Buzz.

  A phone vibrated nearby.

  Buzz. Buzz.

  Whispers moved like a wave.

  “Is that her?”

  “Yeah. The one from the rumors.”

  “I heard she touched the slime. My brother said she’s patient zero.”

  Frankie’s jaw tightened. She didn’t look up. She heard heartbeats elevating. Smelled the sharp, metallic tang of anxiety.

  She reached her locker.

  A surgical mask taped to the metal vent.

  Red Sharpie. HAZARD.

  Frankie stared at it. She reached out, but a hand stopped her.

  Damon.

  A human shield. He didn’t look at the mask. He looked at her.

  “Don’t,” he said. “Don’t give them the reaction.”

  “They think I’m contagious, Damon,” Frankie hissed. “Sheriff Burke released me with a trespassing ticket, but according to the rumor mill, I’m carrying the zombie plague.”

  “People are idiots,” Damon said. He ripped the mask off the locker, crumpled it into a ball, and tossed it into a nearby trash can. He glared at the students. They scattered like roaches under a kitchen light.

  “It’s everywhere,” Frankie muttered, spinning her combination lock. 18-24-06.

  “Let them talk,” Damon said. “Ignore the noise. Focus on the plan. Hawaii. Remember?”

  Frankie opened her locker. Shoved her books inside.

  “It’s hard to focus on Hawaii when the National Guard has a tank parked at the pier.”

  “It’s precautionary,” Damon said. Voice flat.

  “Is it?”

  Dee Dee appeared at Frankie’s elbow. She looked like she hadn’t slept. Her orange hair was a frizz of static. She clutched a tablet to her chest.

  “Library,” Dee Dee said. “Now.”

  “We have Chem,” Damon said.

  “Screw Chem,” Dee Dee said. Eyes bloodshot behind her glasses. “I cracked the manifest.”

  The AV room. Dust. Hum of servers. Door locked. The one safe place.

  Dee Dee plugged her tablet into the main monitor. Fingers flew.

  “Okay,” she said. “So, the SS Borealis. Officially, it’s a deep-sea dredging vessel owned by a shell company called ‘Oceanic Solutions.’”

  “Sounds boring,” Ted said. He leaned back in a swivel chair, spinning slowly. He looked green. “Boring is good. I like boring.”

  “It gets better,” Dee Dee said. “I ran the hull registration through a backdoor in the maritime database. Oceanic Solutions doesn’t exist. The billing address is a PO Box in Virginia.”

  “So?” Damon asked.

  “So,” Dee Dee tapped a key. A document appeared on the big screen. Blacked out heavily. “That PO Box redirects to a budget line item for the Department of Energy. Specifically, a sub-division for ‘Biological Containment and Retrieval.’”

  Frankie stepped closer. “Biological Containment,” she read.

  “Look at the cargo list,” Dee Dee said.

  She scrolled down.

  Item 001: [REDACTED]

  Item 002: [REDACTED]

  Origin: Atlantic Trench, Sector 4.

  Status: UNSTABLE.

  “The entire manifest is redacted,” Dee Dee said. “This is heavy ink. You don’t get this kind of security for dredging mud. That ship was carrying something the government didn’t want anyone to know about.”

  “And now it’s in our living room,” Frankie said.

  She thought of the dried-out crewman. The man with the worms in his face. The blue light.

  “We have to go back,” Frankie said.

  “No,” Damon said.

  The word was a door slamming shut.

  Frankie turned. Damon stood with his arms crossed. Leaning against the doorframe. Not smiling.

  “Damon, look at this,” Frankie pointed at the screen. “Unstable. Biological. That thing I saw on the bridge… it wasn’t a sick person. It was a host.”

  “And the Sheriff has it handled,” Damon said. “They have a quarantine. They have guns. We are seventeen. We are not the Men in Black.”

  “The Sheriff thinks it’s a chemical spill!” Frankie argued. “He’s going to get his men killed. If that thing spreads…”

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  “Then the National Guard deals with it,” Damon said. He walked over to her. Hands on her shoulders. “Frankie. Look at me.”

  She looked up. Eyes dark. Pleading.

  “You promised,” he said. “Last night. At the restaurant. You said you were done. You said you wanted a life.”

  “I do,” Frankie said. “But—”

  “But nothing,” Damon said. “You can’t save everyone, Frankie. You’ll die trying.”

  He looked at the scar on her arm. The physical receipt of her last “hero moment.”

  “Please,” he whispered. “Let someone else be the hero. Just be Frankie.”

  Silence. The hum of the computer fans seemed deafening.

  Frankie looked at Dee Dee. Dee Dee bit her lip, looking away. She looked at Ted. Ted stopped spinning.

  “He’s right, Frankie,” Ted said quietly. “We got lucky last time. Really lucky. Maybe… maybe we sit this one out.”

  Frankie felt the weight of it. Heavy air. Tight chest. She remembered the feeling of the wrench hitting the infected man. The sound of his bones breaking. The way he didn’t care.

  She was the only one who could stop it. She knew that deep in her bones.

  But she looked at Damon. At the terror behind his brave face.

  “Okay,” Frankie lied.

  She forced her muscles to relax. Forced the tension out of her shoulders.

  “Okay,” she repeated. “You’re right. It’s above our pay grade.”

  Damon let out a breath. He pulled her into a hug.

  “Thank you,” he murmured into her hair.

  Over his shoulder, Frankie looked at the screen. At the word UNSTABLE. She closed her eyes.

  Fourth period. Pressure cooker. Rumors growing stale without new fuel. Tasia hadn’t posted anything since yesterday.

  Saw her eating a raw pigeon behind the gym.

  She’s a government experiment.

  Frankie sat in the back of English Lit. Staring out the window. From the second floor, she could see the smoke rising from the harbor. Black, oily plumes against the gray sky.

  The fog hadn’t lifted. A lid on a jar.

  “Ms. Rivera?”

  Frankie snapped her head forward. Mr. Berry staring over his bifocals.

  “Are you with us?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Frankie said.

  “Then perhaps you can tell us what the albatross symbolizes in Rime of the Ancient Mariner?”

  Frankie blinked. “A burden,” she said. “Dead weight.”

  The class was silent.

  “Cheery,” Mr. Berry said dryly. “But correct.”

  The bell rang.

  Frankie grabbed her bag. Bolted. Couldn’t do this. The whispers. The staring. The thrum that she could still hear, faint and maddening, every time the room got quiet.

  “Beach,” she texted the group chat. “Now.”

  North end of the island. Away from the harbor. Away from the smoke. High dunes. Brittle, yellow grass. Fierce wind. Sand whipping in little tornadoes.

  They sat in the lee of a large dune. Huddled in coats.

  Ted passed a bag of chips around. “Salt and vinegar.”

  Frankie took a chip. Cardboard.

  “I talked to Jessica last night,” Frankie said suddenly.

  Dee Dee looked up from her phone. “Jessica Tumblelee?”

  “Yeah,” Frankie said. “I called her before bed. You know, before… everything happened. Just to see how her date went.”

  “Let me guess,” Ted said. “She had a perfect, candlelit dinner and didn’t get arrested by SWAT.”

  “Not exactly,” Frankie said. A small smile. Weird on her face. “She told me she and her boyfriend, Kevin, ended up in an abandoned church.”

  “Kinky,” Ted said.

  “No, terrifying,” Frankie said. “Apparently, they stumbled onto a cult. A secret society of guys who hate happy couples because they can’t get girlfriends.”

  Damon choked on his soda. “You’re kidding.”

  “I wish,” Frankie said. “Kevin had to fight them off. With a mop, I think? Jessica said it was like a bad kung-fu movie. But they got out.”

  “See?” Ted threw his hands up. “Valentine’s Day is cursed. It’s a conspiracy by the chocolate companies to cull the population.”

  “It was funny,” Frankie said, looking at the ocean. “Hearing her talk about it. Like it was just a weird Tuesday. It made me feel… I don’t know. Normal.”

  “Normal is relative,” Dee Dee said. Drawing circles in the sand with a stick. Quiet. Staring at the sand. “I met someone,” Dee Dee blurted out.

  Silence.

  “Whoa,” Ted said. “Pause. Rewind. You met a human?”

  “Shut up, Ted,” Dee Dee said, but she was blushing. “Her name is Sam. I met her at the skate park last week. She has a killer kickflip and she reads manga.”

  “And?” Frankie leaned forward. “Did you go out?”

  “We were supposed to go out last night,” Dee Dee said. She stabbed the sand with the stick. “After the surf session. We were going to get pizza and watch The X-Files. But then I found the book. And then the ship crashed. And I… I ghosted her.”

  “You didn’t text her?” Damon asked.

  “What was I supposed to say?” Dee Dee asked, voice rising. “‘Sorry I can’t make it, I’m currently translating a Sumerian death prophecy and hacking the NSA’? I panicked.”

  “You should call her,” Frankie said.

  “It’s too late,” Dee Dee said miserably. “I ruined it.”

  “Hey,” Ted said. He grabbed a handful of sand. Let it sift through his fingers. “At least you have a ‘her.’ My only relationship is with Mary Jane. And frankly, she’s getting expensive.”

  He looked at them. Grin fading. Brittle.

  “I hate this,” Ted whispered. “I hate that we can’t just have pizza. I hate that I’m sitting here wondering if I need to sharpen a spoon again instead of wondering if I passed my history test.”

  Wind howling. But no phones buzzing. No sirens. Just the wind and the ocean.

  Frankie looked at Damon. Staring at the horizon. Jaw set. She took his hand.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  Damon looked at her. “For what?”

  “For last night,” Frankie said. “The restaurant. The dress. The watch. It was supposed to be perfect. And I ran away. I ran toward the danger again.”

  “You ran toward people who needed help,” Damon said.

  “I ran toward the fight,” Frankie corrected. “Because I don’t know how to do anything else.”

  She squeezed his hand.

  “I’ll make it up to you,” she said. “I promise. We’ll lay low. We’ll let the Sheriff handle the scary stuff. Today, we just… exist.”

  Damon smiled. Actually reached his eyes.

  “I’m holding you to that,” he said.

  Dee Dee stood up. Brushed sand off her jeans. “Well, if we’re ignoring the apocalypse, I’m going to go home and draft a text to Sam that doesn’t sound psychotic.”

  “And I,” Ted said, scrambling up, “am going to find real food. Cardboard chips aren’t cutting it.”

  “You guys go,” Damon said. He squeezed Frankie’s hand back. “I’ll make sure Frankie gets home.”

  Frankie’s house. Warm. Quiet. The smell of her mother’s coffee lingered.

  “You didn’t have to come in,” Frankie said, tossing her keys into the bowl.

  “Yes, I did,” Damon said. He leaned against the counter. Watching her. “I know you. If I left you alone, you’d be building a flamethrower out of hairspray and a lighter within ten minutes.”

  Frankie laughed. Soft. “You have very little faith in my chilling abilities.”

  “I have zero faith in your chilling abilities,” Damon corrected.

  Frankie’s mom bustled into the room. Scrubs. Tired. Hair in a messy bun.

  “Oh, good, you’re here,” her mom said, grabbing her travel mug. “I picked up an extra shift at the hospital. Apparently, the ER is swamped with… well, flu cases, they’re saying. I won’t be back until morning.”

  She kissed Frankie on the cheek. “Stay inside, okay? And Damon, make sure she eats something green. Not just mac and cheese.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Rivera,” Damon said politely.

  Her mom grabbed her purse. Headed for the door. “Lock up behind me!”

  Door clicked shut. Deadbolt slid home.

  Suddenly, the house felt very large. Very empty. Close. Quiet.

  Frankie looked at Damon. Leaning against the counter. Arms crossed. Safe. Solid. The one thing in her life that didn’t feel like a ticking time bomb.

  “So,” Damon said. Voice dropping. “We have the whole place to ourselves. No monsters. No mysteries. Just us.”

  Frankie walked over to him. Stopped inches away. Looking up into his dark eyes. He uncrossed his arms. Hands on her waist. Pulling her closer.

  “Just us,” she repeated.

  She traced the line of his jaw with her thumb. Always so controlled. Always the protector. The restraint.

  Frankie bit her lip. Heat rising in her chest. Not fear. Not adrenaline. Life.

  She needed to feel alive. She needed to drown out the memory of the dried-out corpse and the worms.

  She didn’t wait for him to lean in.

  She grabbed the front of his shirt. Fistful of cotton.

  She pulled him to her. Hard.

  “Frankie?” he breathed.

  “Shut up, Damon,” she whispered.

  She kissed him. Desperate. Hungry. She kissed him like it was the last quiet night on earth.

  Because maybe it was.