She doesn't remove it. “He isn't hurting her, Mitchell. Tara has gone through a shock.”
“Lots and lots of shocks,” Pax's mom says.
Amen. I blink slowly, suddenly weary.
“Yes,” I hear gratefulness in her tone, relief that someone else figured out that I'm a freaking mess of emotions. And physically, I don't know what I ate last, or when I slept. I was nearly raped, watched my brothers killed, and transported to another time and earth with people I don't know.
And my brother's a zombie.
It occurs to me then that he's the only family I have.
I find the strength to push off Pax and stare at Mitchell.
Trembling, I gasp out “Mitch,” still struggling with the weird lethargy that's blanketing my body.
He moves around Kim, and she steps aside. I take in Mitchell's unwillingness to touch me because I've been rejecting him pretty steadily since I found out he's the walking dead.
Our eyes lock.
“Are you really dead?” I bite my lip to stop the quavering.
He nods. “Yeah.”
I gulp back the ton of emotions that flow through me. Grief, rage, loss, then finally, regret.
I tip my head, my forehead landing on his chest—we were that close to contact. “I'm sorry. I know you're dead...” I release my breath on a sigh. “But I still love you anyway,” I admit so softly I'm afraid I'll have to repeat myself.
A breath shudders out of him. “You don't know how glad I am to hear that, Tara.”
My arms creep around his waist, and he's that same solid older brother who busted guysʼ balls when they came by the house to date me.
The one who picked up the pieces when we found out about my hypoglycemia. The guy who took a bullet in the heart because I harassed him into getting pizzas for me and Timmy—even though he was only home for one more day on leave.
“I'm a selfish bitch.”
“Nah, you're the sister I love.” His arms go around me, and he strokes my hair back from my face, making a ponytail of the length with a fist like he's always done when he hugs me. “And no amount of no was going to make me stop being your bro. I'm just that fucking stubborn.”
I laugh, leaning back to rest the base of my skull on his fist.
Tears pour.
With his free hand, he wipes them away.
“I can't believe you're a zombie. I feel like this is some nightmare and I'm gonna wake up and Timmy will be there and you...” I close my eyes, resisting the fantasy as images fly by like a deck of cards being shuffled.
Lifting my head, he releases my hair, and I step away, my arms reluctantly letting him go. “You're all the family I have.”
He nods, then Mitchell's eyes move to her.
I turn to look at Deegan, Pax's sister. She looks vaguely Native American, except for her rich mossy-green eyes. A color that's been accentuated by artful makeup.
Who the hell is putting on makeup at a time like this?
I look back at Michell. “Is it different now?”
He doesn't pretend to misunderstand me and nods. “Yeah. I'm still me. But my memories are different now. We changed history. So I died differently. I never made it to Afghanistan now, did I? And this is a future on their world. In our world of the future, there's these nasty-ass cyborgs.”
Cyborgs? I dismiss that new piece of info. The wheels of my mind whir. That's right. They said—Mitchell said—that he'd burned to death in our earth after he left our house, and our deaths, far behind.
But in this new reality, he died at the house, and I was the one who survived.
“But us coming back didn't change the fact that I was meant to die at that age. However”—he takes my chin in his strong hands, forcing me to look at him—“it does mean you lived.”
Timmy died. I clench my eyes shut against his disconcerting blue gaze. “So I start living,” I finish, not missing his not-so-subtle implication.
Mitchell's never been one to rub it in. I open my eyes to his shrugs as if he simply says without words: yeah.
“I don't know if I can get over it all that fast.” I shake my head, scattering fresh tears, and with a rough exhale, he releases his hold on my chin.
“Nobody says ya have to get over it,” Pax says from behind me.
Actually, I look around and notice for the first time that everyone is quietly eating their food.
Listening to every word.
God. I put my hands to my hot cheeks.
“No judge-y over here,” the Tiff woman says, lifting a hand between cramming hot dog bites into her mouth.
My skin gets hotter beneath my hands.
I'm at such a loss.
Pax is suddenly closer, and I get a little physical shock from his nearness. I'm sure the sensation is an aftereffect of the “healing” thing or whatever.
I watch him laser a glare at Mitchell.
“Please get along,” I plead. “I can't handle you guys fighting if I'm going to try and get through this.”
Pax's broad shoulders visibly settle.
“Amen,” his sister says.
I might like her, but I'm not sure. She's definitely weird by default—and Deegan Hart is partially responsible for this entire situation that we're all in right now.
Some of what I feel must show on my face because her eyes skate away, avoiding my probing glance.
“Okay,” the old guy says—or I should say, the oldest guy in the group. “Time to figure out where everyone's bedding down.”
Awkwardness descends.
Tiff waggles her eyebrows at the super-tall skinny guy with red hair.
Oh God. Really?
I look anywhere but at a couple of forty-somethings looking to hook up.
Walking a few paces from Pax to Mitchell, I stand by him. Sibling solidarity and all that happy crap.
I look up at him. Even if he is a zombie, I guess.
“It'll be okay, Tara.”
“What if she tells you to do something awful?” I ask, glancing at Deegan.
Her stare meets mine, and witnessing the pain flaring in her eyes, I get a pang of regret.
But I have my own pain.
Sorry, but hers just doesn't matter as much at the moment.
“Then I'll do it,” he admits in a low voice.
I pivot, facing my brother. “What?” My voice is loud to my ears. And my peripheral vision nets anxious glances at us.
“I am hers, Tara. I'm alive in a way, but I'm still hers.”
“It is not as bad as it is made to sound,” the other zombie says at Mitchell's elbow.
“What does that mean?” I ask, folding my arms.
“I am Clyde Thomas, by the way.”
Upbringing bites me in the butt. “I'm Tara.”
We exchange a nod.
“It is a pleasure to meet you.”
So weird. “Same here.” There's just something about the guy that commands respect. I'm not sure what it is, but undead or whatever, he deserves courtesy.
“What's your last name, Mitchell?” Deegan asks.
“Rasmussen,” he answers instantly.
No hesitation. No thought about anything. Deegan asks, and Mitchell answers.
I slowly revolve until I'm facing Deegan. “Would he kill me if you told him to?”
“And you said we were weird?” Pax's tone is light, trying to downplay the severity of my question.
Deegan walks up to where we're standing, and I notice she's a couple of inches shorter than me. I look her up and down. All that power within that small frame.
If what the group is telling me and the snippets of their discussions I've overheard are true, Deegan Hart can command space, mold it into a weapon of her choosing.
She can raise killers.
Supposedly, Mitchell wouldn't have been able to do this blinking thing if it wasn't in her arsenal of talents.
I guess I don't really like her after all.
“Yes,” she says without enthusiasm or a hint of guile. “M
itchell must do as I command.”
“You love that, don't you?” I snort derisively. “Having all that power over someone who didn't want to be this”—I wave my arm in my brother's direction—“thing.”
He flinches, and I ignore it, fully invested in my tirade.
“There's nothing I love about it,” Deegan says, knotting her hands together, then she suddenly releases them, jaw hardening, and she steps into my personal space.
I don't give an inch.
“Catfight,” someone mutters in the background, followed by a solid huff like an elbow landing in a solar plexus.
Deegan cranks up her chin. “Must be nice to be a normal. To look like you.” She studies me like I studied her moments before. “Be perfect. Not have to worry about what you'll make disappear or what demented freak will crawl out of their grave because you're nine years old and you don't know what you're doing; that you lack control because you haven't quite gotten that zombie-raising learning curve mastered.” She nearly spits in my face, putting her index and thumb almost touching.
She whips her hand to her side, disgusted.
“Or that there's hardly any females my age, and I'm tapped to be the master breeder like every other female of age.” Deegan leans in really close to my face. And if we were the same height, we would practically be Eskimo kissing. “But nobody wants me because I'm... Too. Fucking. Weird!” she screams in my face.
Her angry breath warms my lower jaw, lifting the hairs that have escaped my hair tie.
“I'd rather die than live—ya happy?” Her rage-filled grief washes over me like a tide.
Her mom gasps, running to her side, and I feel like the biggest bitch who's ever had the bad grace to live.
Nobody looks at me.
Not Pax.
Not Mitchell.
Total silence fills the void of the emotional vortex she just made.
“Don't, Mom,” Deegan says, when her mom moves to hug her.
Those dark-green eyes fall on me. “And for the record, I have enough control not to zap you.” A sad smile curls her lips. “Even when I want to.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Deegan
Tara looks like she was slapped.
Not with a handprint, though her face is red enough to hold one, but by words. Mine.
She takes a step back, clearly shaken.
Threatened.
I'm sort of a gentle human being, especially for the time in which I was raised. What life's thrown my way has molded me into what I am now. There have been so many obstacles that I've never had anything easy.
I look at Mom and Dad, with their matching expressions. Pinched and worried. I've had their love. And sometimes, they and Pax were all that kept me from being mental. “I'm not going to kill myself or something.”
Mitchell's inhale is painfully sharp, and I whip my head in his direction, our eyes meeting.
“Don't say that, Deegan,” his deep voice is resonant, strong. I could drown in his touchable words. It's as though he's speaking to only me. Through me. At me.
Is that because he's my zombie? Or because he's Mitchell.
I don't know.
And I'm not sure I care. Because Mitchell is here and a part of my life, I feel better now than I ever did before all the bot world stuff happened.
The knowledge that's slowly growing inside me is scary, but I think I'll feel better with whatever goes down from here on out if Mitchell's by my side.
His blue eyes drill me like a moth pinned to a board.
And his sister stares at us.
“Okay...” Tara looks between us. “I need the Zombie 101 speed course.”
“I got that,” Jonesy says, miming shining his fist against his T-shirt.
A collective groan comes from the group.
“I'm too beat for a Jonesy rendition,” someone says from the corner of the room.
I look over, and it's Ron, the cute guy from bot world. He's slouched on a low stool in the corner of the room, cowboy hat pulled low over his strong brow and feet crossed at the ankle. His strange shoes, which somehow match the hat, are perched on top of each other, scuffed and comfy looking.
Mitchell growls.
I turn back.
“You want him.”
Oh my God. I swear my head is blowing up. I think my blood's actually boiling. “What?” I screech.
Mitchell winces, but holds his ground, jerking his chin toward the resting Null.
“Want-want?” I ask, indignation dripping off my words.
“Are you asking my sister if she wants to do Null boy over there?” Pax asks, smoothly inserting himself into the knock-down drag-out.
“Stay out of this, Pax,” Mitchell barks.
Oh, this is so great. Let me die now.
“No—by all means, Pax—why don't you figure this out?” Tara purrs, fluttering her pretty eyelashes.
I am coming to think she might be a bitch.
Or she's jealous because Mitch is my zombie.
I cover my eyes, peeking through my fingers. I just want to disappear. And not the Atomic way.
“All right.” Uncle Clyde steps in. “I think there has been quite enough showboating and male testosterone to last one—I'm not sure—until the cows come home.” He smiles.
His mouth is a bit dark.
Dad comes up behind Clyde, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I think Dee is having a moment with her zombie.”
I drop my hands, mouth agape. Why does everyone have to embarrass me? Is it a part-time job? A goal?
Clyde's mouth goes pink.
I narrow my eyes at Dad.
“She's getting in a snit.” Thanks, Gramps.
I level him with a stare.
“Don't get uppity, Deedie. Mitchell's just airing his thoughts.” Gramps pats his pocket, and I have an insane urge to scream.
“At my expense,” Ron pipes in from the corner.
Kim crosses her arms. “I'd pipe down, Ron, if I were you. We know our place.”
Grampsʼs attention shifts from me to her more swiftly than I can track.
I look back at Mitchell. I’m pissed.
In fact, I'm so mad that the emotion chases the insecurities of having had my very first cycle, starvation portions for the last few days, no sleep, and my first crush right out the window.
I feel the Atomic power begin to fill the empty cup of my anger. It brims, and I gasp at how quickly it happened.
“Mom,” I say, shaky—and scared.
“Deegan,” she replies in a choked breath, her empath skills hitting the zapping ability charging up head on.
“What's happening?” Pax asks.
Losing it.
What? Is it the big lug? Pax scowls.
Yeah. I-help!
Pax’s face goes from irritated to concerned, and he moves forward, gripping me and jerking me against his body.
“Shhh, Dee.” His calm washes over me.
“Blink, it'll help.”
“I can't.”
He holds my forehead, pinning me against his chest. I try to match my breaths with his, but I'm freaking out too much.
“Breathe, Dee.”
I listen to the utter silence of people who are scared shitless. That kind of quiet has a quality to it. I know it by hearing the absence of it.
Then I feel Mitchell—and Pax's resistance to his nearness.
My arms lift and Mitchell wraps his hands around my forearms. My panicked eyes latch on to his like a drowning hand.
Cool death crashes into my living mind, breeching my defenses and mingling with my brother at my back.
Pax's inhale is tortured and raw. “Dee, what the fuck?”
Nobody chastises his language. And I'm just surviving the moment.
Mitchell's grip tightens, and I return my attention to him, taking everything he gives.
Finally, my power recedes like a wave pulling away from the shore. My breaths return to normal.
Eyelids that were sticky with tears slowly crack open.<
br />
Mitchell's gaze is carefully neutral. “So was it something I said?”
I laugh harshly, but my voice is subdued. “Yeah.”
“Can I say something?” Ron asks.
Ten nos answer him.
“Great, just great.”
Then he says, “I thought this world would be better?”
Pax releases me, and Mitchell retreats a step.
We're going to have to talk before I make people disappear.
*
“He has to sleep within a certain distance of Deegan, or he'll begin to rot,” Dad explains to Tara.
“Rot,” she repeats in a bald voice.
“She seems a little dazed,” Jonesy comments, cramming a bunch of powdered orange chips into his mouth.
“Give me that, vagrant,” Gramps grumbles, ripping the nearly-empty chip bag away from him.
His offended huff has Sophie saying, “We're dealing with serious, interpersonal relations, and you're still eating.” She flips a palm at the dusting remnants of orange crumbs on his chin.
Jonesy claps a hand on his flat stomach. “Metabolism is working just fine, sweetheart.”
“M-hmm. I bet you're taking a metabolism sequence.”
My eyebrows rise. Those don't always work.
I've brushed my teeth, and I’m wearing a pair of too-small jammies that were left at Gramps for the last three years. I kept meaning to exchange them for something I didn't wear in ninth grade.
Guess where they don't fit? Right across my boobs and butt. Yup. At least my horrible period has dried up.
I might even get a full night's sleep.
That's, of course, if a bunch of government guys, Brad Thompson and company, or some other mess doesn't fall into our laps.
“I don't need any rest,” Mitchell says.
Tara turns to him. Fresh from a shower, her platinum hair looks dark from still being damp. She has on a pair of pajama bottoms too. They're a newer set of mine, but everyone's borrowing my clothes, and I'm the only one small enough to fit into my middle school stuff. The bigger things went to all the other girls.
Tiff is the most disgruntled, wearing a pair that has sparkly unicorns frolicking in a pattern of multicolored happiness with a rainbow backdrop.
“This”—she sweeps a hand over the front of her legs—“is the hugest wardrobe insult of the last forty-eight hours. It's even worse than Soph's red-black-and-white safari getup.”
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