Humor him, his eyes seem to say. Now is not the time to protest.
He's right, of course. As much as I might hate what Reuel has done to these animals, I can't make a fuss about it without risking his fury. My safety, Atlan's safety—that's the priority right now. I shut my mouth and move away from the observation window, toward a cage of hamsters with bat wings.
I might not agree with what Reuel is doing, but it's not my place to object. Not yet.
18
Finley
After the menagerie, Reuel takes us back to the room with the big zombie cage. The teenage boy I controlled is still in there, and he perks up when I enter, lifting his head in a way that's almost human. Five other zombies are in the cage with him. Each of them has a few feet of space to move around, but they're motionless, heads handing, mouths sagging.
"I had the rest of our wiped zombies brought in here," Reuel says. "I have to meet with Dr. Corbin and Dr. Krupin, but in the meantime, get comfortable with controlling the zombies. See how many you can imprint on at once, and test how long the control lasts, whether it weakens when you move further away, if it continues once you leave the room, etcetera. Mr. Cass will take notes and record any pertinent data." He nods sharply at a tall man in the corner of the room—dark skin, late thirties, bushy black hair and a weary face. His brown eyes carry the quiet, heavy pain of personal loss. I wonder who died—wife, husband, child? Parents and friends? Maybe everyone he knew, besides his team of crazy colleagues in this bunker.
At Reuel's command, the lab tech bows his head in assent and picks up a nearby tablet. The device has several scratches across its surface and the corner looks—chewed. But apparently it still works. He flicks a finger across it, probably opening a note-taking app.
Atlan moves past me, peering with interest at the slack-jawed zombies. I take a step toward the cage as well, but Reuel catches my arm and whirls me back to face him. "I want to spend some time with you alone later," he says in an undertone. "Could you spare me a couple of hours this evening?"
"To talk?" I arch an eyebrow at him suspiciously.
"Yes, if that's all you want to do."
"I'd be glad to talk with you, as friends." I smile at him.
He smiles back. "I'll see you later then."
When he leaves, he takes all my pent-up tension with him. I'm suddenly eased, relaxed. Here in the room with Atlan. Safe. And I have a job to do, a purpose. I need to connect with each of the zombies in this room and find out how reliable my control over them really is.
Slipping out of Atlan's coat, I lay it over the back of the chair near the tech's computer. Then I approach the zombie cage.
First I face the teenage boy I connected with the other day. He stares back at me, each pupil and iris a single ebony mass, branching in black cracks outward through the yellowed sclera of his eye.
"Hello," I say, and his jaw flexes, his darkened tongue flopping as though he's trying to respond. It's pitiful and gross, and I shudder. His shoulders jerk in response, an imitation of my movement.
"Your connection with him is still very strong." The tech gives me the stiff shadow of a smile. "Without you in the room, he's been blank and docile. The minute you re-entered, he reacted. I wonder if it's a visual thing, or proximity?" He snatches a tarp from a cluttered corner of the room. "You, vampire—help me hold this up. We'll block her from his view and see what happens."
They hold the tarp between me and the cage. I wave and twirl, feeling incredibly silly. "What's he doing now?"
"Still copying you." The tech nods to Atlan, and they drop the tarp. "It's a brain wave thing, then, not sight-related. Although he does react to your visual presence as well. Let's have you try to imprint on another one."
I have no trouble linking to a zombie girl of eleven or so, with wispy blood-stained braids and a plastic barrette stuck through her hand, between her finger bones. When I move, both she and the boy move too.
"So you can connect with more than one at once." The tech looks more alive now, curious and fascinated. "You're as special as Reuel says. We'll need samples from you—blood, spinal fluid, brain tissue—"
"Whoa, whoa." Atlan holds up his hand. "Nobody's taking out her spinal fluid or brain tissue."
The tech looks confused. "But she agreed to remain here for testing. We need to find out exactly how this ability of hers works."
"I'd rather not be discussed in the third person," I protest. "And I'm with Atlan on the 'no brain cells or spinal fluid' thing. You can have some blood, if it will help."
The tech's lips tighten, as if he wants to say something but he's holding himself back. After a few seconds he says, "That's something to discuss with Reuel. For now, let's get back to the job at hand. Try imprinting on the others."
The two women in the cage aren't difficult to connect to, either, once I've examined their clothing, looked into their eyes, opened myself to feeling who they were, what they could have been. The last two zombies in the cage are harder to link with—one is a pudgy bald guy whose eyes are mere slits behind pouches of fat, and the other is an old man whose ample white beard is streaked with yellow, brown, and black gore. But I'm starting to learn how the connection feels, and I'm gaining some control over the tendrils of emotion and communication that I'm sending out from my brain to theirs. It's like focused meditation—slowing and quieting my own inner dialogue, imagining what theirs might have been, teasing out that feeling and letting it take over. Once the connection has clicked, the path is established, and I don't have to try any more. It just is.
After several minutes of staring, and thinking, and straining my mind, I manage to sync the last two zombies to my brainwaves or whatever. It's still very nebulous and spiritually esoteric, but it's working, and for now, that's what matters. Unfortunately I can't seem to control the zombies separately or give them distinct commands when there are this many involved. Or maybe I just haven't had enough practice yet.
Atlan has been quietly perched on a chair while I worked. I felt his eyes on me the entire time—a gentle pressure. When I turn to him, he smiles with such pride and admiration that I flush.
"You're amazing, Trouble," he says. "Look at what you can do!"
I swivel in place, watching the zombies turn in unison with me. "It's super weird."
"Can you make them stop copying you? Get them to do separate things?"
"I was trying, but it didn't seem to work." I massage my temples. "That might be something to try again tomorrow. My brain muscles are tired."
"Then let's loosen them up." Atlan turns toward the lab tech. "You got any music around here?"
The tech quirks an eyebrow. "Music? Why?"
"Well, she was making that one zombie dance the other day. I thought we could take it to the next level." Atlan shrugs. "Hey, if we've got to test the limits of the mind control, why not make it fun? Come on, man. Music?"
The tech sighs. "I think Dr. Gwan had some music in his files. Stuff he liked when he was a teen or whatever. I'll check."
He bends over one of the computers and starts clicking through files. After a minute, music thrums from the computer's speakers, a subtle beat growing stronger.
"Yeah," says Atlan, nodding along. "Turn it up!"
The tech obeys. "This one's titled 'Fly.' Band called Got7."
A boy's voice, smooth and masculine, ripples from the speakers, singing a couple of lines in English before dropping into a soft rap. I never listened to much K-pop, but his voice is beautiful and damn sexy, and the rhythm of the Korean lyrics is soothing and exciting at the same time. Maybe I've been missing something awesome. I make a mental note to investigate K-pop bands once I get back to Deathcastle. We have limited internet access there, and there are still music collective sites in existence. I can probably download a few songs before someone at Deathcastle yells at me for hogging the bandwidth.
"Okay, Finley." Atlan faces off opposite me. "Just do what I do, okay? We'll see if they copy you."
Atlan starts bouncin
g on the balls of his feet, and then he slips into a dance, his hands whipping out in sharp movements—jerky but somehow graceful. Now more than ever, it's clear that he's had hip-hop training at some point in his life, because he's popping and locking like crazy.
Interest lights in the tech's eyes. "Okay," he says, nodding. "Okay, okay. White boy vampire's got some moves." He gives Atlan a little salute.
"I can't copy those moves, Atlan," I say.
"Come on, Trouble." He gives me a sexy, mischievous smile. "Make the zombies dance."
"Try this one." The tech switches to another song, a little slower. "It's called 'Shoot Me.' Damn appropriate for these sons of bitches, I'd say." He gives the zombies in the cage the finger.
This song is slower, not really a dance number, but packed with intense vocals and soaring instrumentals. Atlan gets theatrical with his dance moves, slow fierce steps and sweeping gestures, his spine arching, body swaying. Honestly I'd love to just stand here and watch him gyrate and stamp and swirl his hips like he's doing now; but tentatively I begin to copy him, to move with him, and as I do, I can see movement out of the corner of my eye.
The zombies are dancing. All six of them. In sync, like the cast of a freaking Broadway musical.
"Oh my gosh," I mouth to Atlan, and he grins, nodding, continuing to dance.
"See?" he says. "Told you it would be fun."
The tech slow-claps, then swears. "I should be recording this." He seizes a webcam and clips it to the back of a chair near us. "Low-tech, but it'll work for now. Keep going."
"What's your first name, anyway?" I call to him over the music.
"It's John."
"Good to meet you, John."
The tech gives me a genuine smile this time. "You as well." He seems a lot more cheerful than he was when we first started the tests. In fact, he's tapping his toe, bending his knees with every pulse of the beat, looking as if he'd love to plunge into the dance party with us.
The next song is a peppy, fast-paced one. Atlan calls out, "Freestyle!" and goes off into some complicated dance of his own—pure joyful fun. "Come on, John!" He fakes pulling John with a rope, and John gives in, setting aside the camera and joining us in the center of the room.
I turn toward the cage, facing the six zombies, and let myself get a little more inventive with my moves. I manage a half-decent arabesque and a pirouette, thanks to my middle school ballet classes, and then I move into two-steps, with a hip roll and a body wave here and there. The zombies copy me as well as they can with their missing muscles and dangling tendons.
"That guy's finger fell off," I yell to John, wincing. "Does it matter?"
"Nah." He slides into a perfect moonwalk.
I'm loosening up, feeling my muscles and joints unlock, pulsing with the rhythm, music surging through me in glorious waves. This is living—this is freedom. I lift my hands above my head and let my hips go, tilting my head back, tossing my hair. I'm not even watching the zombies any more. I'm floating blissfully in a world where I can be anything, do anything. The bunker doesn't exist, the apocalypse doesn't exist, chimeras and zombies don't exist. I am woman, I am magic and sex and power.
I sense Atlan stepping in behind me—his heat and magnetism are palpable. His mouth brushes my hair as I sway. "I don't know whether to lust over you or laugh at the zombies." His voice cracks, breaking into laughter. "I mean, look at them. Keep doing what you're doing, and watch them."
They're all copying my sexy dance, every one of them. The worst of the bunch is the fat, balding male zombie. The backs of his pudgy hands touch each other above his head as he sashays his bulk around the cage. Glistening intestines bulge from a crevice in his abdomen, and his shirtsleeves are crusted brown with old blood.
"Oh my god." I burst into helpless laughter, bending over, and the zombie does the same, guts oozing out of the cavity. "Oh gross! So gross. John, why the hell did you pick that one?"
"We've got a limited supply of test subjects," he says breathlessly through a body roll. "We'll need to go topside soon to get more. Should be easy now that we've got a vampire to help with roundup."
"Piece of cake," Atlan says, tucking a hand behind his head and jerking his hips, his abs tightening gloriously as he moves. Good lord. My panties might be dissolving on the spot. "For now, let's dance. Come on, Trouble. You were doing so good."
I recapture my rhythm, letting myself go again. We step and swerve, shimmy and shake, rock and roll. A couple of techs passing by in the corridor pause in the doorway to watch, toes tapping, bouncing a little to the music. I wonder how long it has been since they enjoyed music in this place. Everything is so sterile and controlled, so cerebral. They could probably use a lot more music.
With a sweep of glass-sharp wings and a whip of his tail, Reuel shoulders his way between the techs and through the door, his narrow face hard and disapproving. "What's going on here?"
19
Finley
Our tech, John, falters mid-step, but he doesn't stop moving—a small gesture of defiance.
"Dance party. Join us." Atlan beckons to Reuel, but it's more like the "come and fight me" gesture of karate movies than an invitation to dance.
Reuel freezes, every muscle of his arms and torso hard with tension. He looks torn, as if he's not sure whether to leave or to demand an end to the fun. His eyes travel to the zombies in the cage as they twirl, stamp, and beckon to him in sync with my movements. A smirk hovers over that perpetually crooked corner of his mouth, and I grin, because who wouldn't feel like laughing when faced with this insanity?
When his gaze latches on me, I'm in the middle of a hip roll and side-step. Reuel's eyes widen, his lips parting slightly. Maybe I should tone down my sexy moves so I don't turn him on—but no. No. I refuse to let his internal lust-monster rule my life or spoil my fun. I will do exactly as I want, to please myself, and if Reuel can't handle it, too bad.
Atlan stalks past me, a soft snarl issuing from his throat. His upper lip is bulging a little and the tips of his fangs dent his lower lip. He's feeling jealous and protective, and it's manifesting physically. He can't control it. But instead of making me embarrassed or scared, like I thought it would, his jealousy reassures me. He's restraining himself—he won't be overly aggressive, but he's ready to defend me if I need it.
Atlan isn't Heath. He's not jealous for the sake of being jealous, or because he thinks I belong to him, or because he's insecure. He's jealous because he values my love, values me. Wants me to be safe, and happy. He's strong and smart, so he won't let the jealousy spur him to foolish violence, but neither will he ignore a threat to our mutual happiness.
"Dance with us, Reuel." I repeat Atlan's invitation. "It's a good way to let off steam. Did you ever see Footloose? Dirty Dancing? Step Up? Flashdance?" He keeps shaking his head. "Oh my god. Do you have any movies here, or any way to watch them?"
Again he shakes his head. No wonder all of them went crazy in this bunker. No movies, no fiction that I've seen, and very little music. Just crazy scientific theories, and interspecies experimentation, and zombies in cages.
Again that spark of pity ignites in my soul, growing stronger as I approach Reuel and take his hand. "After we solve this zombie problem, you're getting out of here," I tell him. "We're going to show you movies, play you more songs—it's going to be great."
Atlan has gone back to dancing, and his moves have snagged Reuel's attention. I don't blame him for staring—Atlan is a gorgeous sight, shirtless as he is, his lean torso shining faintly with sweat and rippling with hard muscle. His dark hair tosses over his forehead and his long legs swirl and step so fast sometimes they're nearly a blur. He's in a dance-off with John now, and winning outright because of his speed and grace. John isn't doing too shabby though. He may be out of shape and out of practice now, but I can tell that when he was younger, he knew how to burn up the dance floor.
Both of the men are glowing and grinning, but Atlan's face carries a special light—that joyous laugh, those sparklin
g blue eyes.
I stand motionless beside Reuel, watching Atlan dance. Enchanted.
"I can see it now," Reuel says quietly. "Why you love him."
I look down at our hands. I'm still holding his—carefully, because of the talons. "Come on," I tell him. "Let's dance."
He lets me lead him out into the room, and when I start to nod and bounce, he does the same. So do my zombie puppets—and of course it's too fun to keep it tame, so I jazz things up a little. I can't hope to compete with Atlan or John, but when I really let go, I have decent moves. Plus, it's sheer stress-releasing tension-breaking fun.
Whatever John added to the playlist apparently includes a couple of oldies from a vintage group I used to like—long dead of course—One Direction. My favorite is "Best Song Ever," and when it comes on through the tinny computer speakers I squeal with excitement. "I love this song!" I yell, and Reuel laughs outright.
The techs from the hallway are dancing with us now, too, and I'm so happy I could scream. I'm daring to hope this could be another breakthrough, that all they needed was an infusion of music and laughter and joy—that all the darkness and fear is over. Because how could anyone be cruel or scared or angry when they're jumping together to the rushing glory of this music?
We dance for another hour, until the music runs out and we're recycling songs we've already heard. I'm breathless, lungs aching from the laughter and exercise. It's getting humid and stuffy in here, and the smell of rotting zombie isn't helping matters. I could probably use another shower, and Atlan definitely needs one. But Reuel doesn't seem to want to stop. Even when the other techs drift out of the room, laughing and teasing each other about awkward dance moves, he keeps going, almost as if he can't stop.
I wonder where Clarice Corbin is. Maybe she peeked in the room and decided that fun was beneath her. Just as well—I'd rather not see her face ever again.
Atlan tugs me toward him briefly and whispers, "I want to go get a shower before they lock us up for the night. Are you good here?"
"I'm fine. John is still here. Go."
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