9 hours and 59 min...
I gulped and followed Cynthia inside the massive room.
All at once the reporters--who had been visiting with each other, chatting, adjusting equipment, texting--all at once they sprung into action.
Cameras turned to face me, phones were held out at arms length, white-hot lights were trained at me, flickered at me, zoomed in on me again, and again, and again until I felt my own skin compress into pixels!
Dear God--I hoped my pores looked small!
No wait, that’s not what I should be worrying about right now, right?
Lights flashed on and off, causing speckle spots to appear in my vision. My heart pounded in my head. Unwelcomed, I felt the sweat gather along my forehead, my palms, and my back felt slimy as the coral bloused pressed against me.
I took a step back. More flashing lights. Like a flashlight in someone’s face…
A guttural noise that wasn’t human…
The smell of iron in the air…
The crack of a makeshift bat against someone’s head…
Cynthia placed a hand on my shoulder, drawing me back out of my thoughts. I jumped. She gave me a reassuring squeeze that brought me out of that nightmare and back into the room. A room filled with expectant faces.
Leaning in, she whispered, “You don’t have to smile, in fact, it’s better if you don’t.”
“You didn’t tell me that it was a press conference,” I gasped.
Nodding, she said, “I know. But I have so much confidence in you.” She gave me a firm squeeze, as if she was trying to keep me rooted in the room, to this moment.
I can’t disappoint her.
In the wave of all of those flashing lights and the nausea that rolled through me like some horrible tide, I did the oddest thing: I smiled.
I smiled at the blinking lights.
I smiled as the camera lenses turned me into consumable pixels.
I smiled despite the flicker of memories at the edges of my mind.
I smiled until I thought I heard my cheeks strain with effort.
I smiled.
And then I wondered, how do people say hello in a press conference? Do they wave. No, too casual. It’s not like I was here to talk about my latest album or new line of sneakers. No, that wouldn’t do. Should I salute? Dear God, I’d probably get it wrong. No, better not piss off veterans or active military. Might need them later on if E.O.W. Prep goes full apocalyptic, which they’re probably capable of. I understood that now...especially after the bridge.
Should I bow? Bowing’s respectful. Maybe just a tiny bow. Not a full blown half-way bow, or a touch the forehead to the ground in a reverent way. No, something tiny and delicate. Or a courtesy? A courtesy with a tiny nod of the head. That would be perfect!
Cynthia smiled at the cameras and then turned back to me. “I want you to be genuine,” she whispered. “Warning you would’ve given you time to do your makeup, your hair, and to practice. You can’t sound practiced.”
She was right. I would’ve gotten my makeup professionally done and those eyelashes extensions I’ve been depriving myself of. Damn it, I should’ve gotten them done. Karen even marked the press conference with an asterisk. It’s not like E.O.W. Prep was going to get away with it. They had to answer to the public, the police--everyone. Everyone wanted to know what happened that day in the office, on the bridge. And why not? Who wouldn’t want to know about the first documented case of a zombie outbreak?
“Deep breath in, deep breath out,” Cynthia said and steered us to the table. Waiting there were a few official looking employees in sharp suits, the E.O.W. Prep logo pinned to their lapels and Captain Ileum. Using his chin, Captain Ileum gestured toward me. I felt my stomach grumble. Ileum gestured at the empty chair beside him, his movements sharp and unrelenting.
It’s hard to explain to the Captain of a specialized unit that my tummy hurts and I think it’s gas and I really don’t want to move fast enough to embarrass myself. I doubt he ever had gas. He probably would just scare it out of his body with a grunt or something.
Without any real feeling in my legs, I floated to the table. It was amazing how silent an entire room of people can be, as if everyone held their breath in unison, refusing to blink until I wrenched out the chair and settled into it.
I wish I could say it was a graceful movement. A fluid transition of me crossing my legs and letting my skirt slip over my legs with a soft ruffle.
But we all know that’s not what I did.
With an awkward squeal, I wrenched the chair across the floor. With a grunt I sat and sent my phone clattering to the phone, which meant bending down to grab it, only to have my ID swing against the arm of the chair and catch the corner, so that when I tried to sit up I nearly choked myself.
Ileum gave the crowd a stern look, as if daring them to laugh. That or he was scaring gas out of his body.
Cynthia tapped the microphone in front of her and said, “Thank you all for coming. Please welcome Sandra Mingle.”
Click.
Click.
Click.
Flashing lights…
Click.
Click.
Click.
How the hell did I wind up here?