Oh My Goth

by Gena Showalter

I threw her a glance over my shoulder. She had paled, those golden eyes too old and knowledgeable for her angel face. “Yeah.”

  “What’s the damage?”

  “Nothing too bad. You’ll still be able to venture into public without shame.”

  “Then I consider this a win.”

  Me, too.

  People swarmed and buzzed in the lobby like bees, half of them lingering, half of them working their way to the doors. That’s where I found my dad. He’d stopped at the glass, his gaze panning the parking lot. Halogens were placed throughout, lighting the way to our Tahoe, which my mom had parked illegally in the closest handicapped space for an easy in, easy out. His skin had taken on a grayish cast, and his hair now stood on end, as if he’d scrambled his fingers through the strands one too many times.

  Mom was still trying to soothe him. Thank goodness she’d managed to disarm him before we’d left the house. Usually he carried guns, knives and throwing stars whenever he dared to venture out.

  The moment I reached him, he turned and gripped me by the forearms, shaking me. “You see anything in the shadows, anything at all, you pick up your sister and run. Do you hear me? Pick her up and run back inside. Lock the doors, hide and call for help.” His eyes were an electric blue, wild, his pupils pulsing over his irises.

  The guilt, well, it stopped flickering and kicked into a hard-core blaze. “I will,” I promised, and patted both of his hands. “Don’t worry about us. You taught me how to protect myself. Remember? I’ll keep Em safe. No matter what.”

  “Okay,” he said, but he looked far from satisfied. “Okay, then.”

  I’d spoken the truth. I didn’t know how many hours I’d logged in the backyard with him, learning how to stop an attacker. Sure, those lessons had been all about protecting my vital organs from becoming some mindless being’s dinner, but self-defense was self-defense, right?

  Somehow my mom convinced him to release me and brave the terrifying outdoors. All the while people shot us weird looks that I tried to ignore. We walked together, as a family, our feet flying one in front of the other. Mom and Dad were in front, with me and Em a few steps behind them, holding hands as the crickets sang and provided us with an eerie soundtrack.

  I glanced around, trying to see the world as my dad must. I saw a long stretch of black tar—camouflage? I saw a sea of cars—places to hide? I saw the forest beyond, rising from the hills—a breeding ground for nightmares?

  Above, I saw the moon, high and full and beautifully transparent. Clouds still puffed through the sky, orange now and kind of creepy. And was that...surely not...but I blinked, slowed my pace. Yep. It was. The cloud shaped like a rabbit had followed me. Fancy that.

  “Look at the clouds,” I said. “Notice anything cool?”

  A pause, then, “A...rabbit?”

  “Exactly. I saw him this morning. He must think we’re pretty awesome.”

  “Because we are, duh.”

  My dad realized we’d lagged behind, sprinted the distance between us, grabbed onto my wrist and jerked me faster...faster still...while I maintained my grip on Emma and jerked her along. I’d rather dislocate her shoulder than leave her behind, even for a second. Dad loved us, but part of me feared he’d drive off without us if he thought it necessary.

  He opened the car door and practically tossed me in like a football. Emma was next, and we shared a moment of silent communication after we settled.

  Fun times, I mouthed.

  Happy birthday to you, she mouthed back.

  The instant my dad was in the passenger seat he threw the locks. He was shaking too hard to buckle his belt, and finally gave up. “Don’t drive by the cemetery,” he told Mom, “but get us home as fast as you can.”

  We’d avoided the cemetery on the way here, too—despite the daylight—adding unnecessary time to an already lengthy drive.

  “I will. No worries.” The Tahoe roared to life, and Mom yanked the shifter into Reverse.

  “Dad,” I said, my voice as reasonable as I could make it. “If we take the long way, we’ll be snailing it along construction.” We lived just outside big, beautiful Birmingham and traffic could be a nasty monster on its own. “That’ll add at least half an hour to our trip. You don’t want us to stay in the dark, at a standstill, for that long, do you?” He’d work himself into such a panic we’d all be clawing at the doors to escape.

  “Honey?” Mom asked. The car eased to the edge of the lot, where she had to go left or right. If she went left, we’d never make it home. Seriously. If I had to listen to my dad for more than thirty minutes, I’d jump out the window and as an act of mercy I’d take Emma with me. If Mom went right, we’d have a short ride, a short anxiety attack to deal with, but a quick recovery. “I’ll drive so fast you won’t even be able to see the cemetery.”

  “No. Too risky.”

  “Please, Daddy,” I said, not above manipulation. As I’d already proved. “For me. On my birthday. I won’t ask for anything else, I promise, even though you guys forgot the last one and I never got a present.”

  “I... I...” His gaze shifted continually, scanning the nearby trees for movement.

  “Please. Em needs to be tucked into bed, like, soon, or she’ll morph into Lily of the Valley of Thorns.” As we’d long ago dubbed her. My sis got tired, and she left carnage in her wake.

  Lips pursed, Em slapped my arm. I shrugged, the universal sign for well, it’s true.

  Dad pushed out a heavy breath. “Okay. Okay. Just...break the sound barrier, babe,” he said, kissing my mom’s hand.

  “I will. You have my word.”

  My parents shared a soft smile. I felt like a voyeur for noticing; used to be they’d enjoyed these kinds of moments all the time, but the smiles had become less and less frequent over the years.

  “All right, here we go.” Mom swung the vehicle right, and to my utter astonishment, she really did try to break the sound barrier, weaving in and out of lanes, honking at the slower cars, riding bumpers.

  I was impressed. The few driving lessons she’d given me, she’d been a nervous wreck, which had turned me into a nervous wreck. We hadn’t gone far or cranked the speed above twenty-five, even outside our neighborhood.

  She kept up a steady stream of chatter, and I watched the clock on my phone. The minutes ticked by, until we’d gone ten without a single incident. Only twenty more to go.

  Dad kept his nose pressed to the window, his frantic breaths leaving puffs of mist on the glass. Maybe he was enjoying the mountains, valleys and lush green trees highlighted by the streetlamps, rather than searching for monsters.

  Yeah. Right.

  “So how’d I do?” Emma whispered in my direction.

  I reached over and squeezed her hand. “You were amazing.”

  Her dark brows knit together, and I knew what was coming next. Suspicion. “You swear?”

  “Swear. You rocked the house hard-core. In comparison, the other girls sucked.”

  She covered her mouth to stop herself from giggling.

  I couldn’t help but add, “The boy who twirled you around? I think he was considering pushing you off the stage, just so people would finally look at him. Honestly, every eye was riveted on you.”

  The giggle bubbled out this time, unstoppable. “So what you’re saying is, when I tripped over my own feet, everyone noticed.”

  “Trip? What trip? You mean that wasn’t part of the routine?”

  She gave me a high five. “Good answer.”

  “Honey,” Mom said, apprehension straining her voice. “Find some music for us to listen to, okay?”

  Uh-oh. She must want him distracted.

  I leaned over and glanced out the front windshield. Sure enough. We were approaching the cemetery. At least there were no other cars around, so no one would witness my dad’s oncoming breakdown. And he would have one. I could fe
el the tension thickening the air.

  “No music,” he said. “I need to concentrate, remain on alert. I have to—” He stiffened, gripped the armrests on his seat until his knuckles whitened.

  A moment of silence passed, such thick, heavy silence.

  His panting breaths emerged faster and faster—until he roared so piercingly I cringed. “They’re out there! They’re going to attack us!” He grabbed the wheel and yanked. “Don’t you see them? We’re headed right for them. Turn around! You have to turn around.”

  The Tahoe swerved, hard, and Emma screamed. I grabbed her hand, gave her another squeeze, but I refused to let go. My heart was pounding against my ribs, a cold sweat beading over my skin. I’d promised to protect her tonight, and I would.

  “It’s gonna be okay,” I told her.

  Her tremors were so violent they even shook me.

  “Honey, listen to me,” Mom soothed. “We’re safe in the car. No one can hurt us. We have to—”

  “No! If we don’t turn around they’ll follow us home!” My dad was thoroughly freaked, and nothing Mom said had registered. “We have to turn around.” He made another play for the wheel, gave another, harder yank, and this time, we didn’t just swerve, we spun.

  Round and round, round and round. My grip on Emma tightened.

  “Alice,” she cried.

  “It’s okay, it’s okay,” I chanted. The world was whizzing, blurring...the car teetering...my dad shouting a curse...my mom gasping...the car tilting...tilting...

  FREEZE FRAME.

  I remember when Em and I used to play that game. We’d crank the volume of our iPod dock—loud, pounding rock—and boogie like we were having seizures. One of us would shout freeze frame and we’d instantly stop moving, totally frozen, trying not to laugh, until one of us yelled the magic word to shoot us back into motion. Dance.

  I wish I could have shouted freeze frame in just that moment and rearranged the scenery, the players. But life isn’t a game, is it?

  DANCE.

  We went airborne, flipping over, crashing into the road upside down, then flipping over again. The sound of crunching metal, shattering glass and pained screams filled my ears. I was thrown back and forth in my seat, my brain becoming a cherry slushie in my head as different impacts jarred me and stole my breath.

  When we finally landed, I was so dazed, so fogged, I felt like I was still in motion. The screams had stopped, at least. All I heard was a slight ringing in my ears.

  “Mom? Dad?” A pause. No response. “Em?” Again, nothing.

  I frowned, looked around. My eyesight was hazy, something warm and wet in my lashes, but I could see well enough.

  And what I saw utterly destroyed me.

  I screamed. My mom was slashed to ribbons, her body covered in blood. Emma was slumped over in her seat, her head at an odd angle, her cheek split open. No. No, no, no.

  “Dad, help me. We have to get them out!”

  Silence.

  “Dad?” I searched—and realized he was no longer in the car. The front windshield was gone, and he was lying motionless on the pieces a few yards away. There were three men standing over his body, the car’s headlights illuminating them.

  No, they weren’t men, I realized. They couldn’t be. They had sagging pockmarked skin and dirty, ripped clothing. Their hair hung in clumps on their spotted scalps, and their teeth...so sharp as they...as they...fell upon my dad and disappeared inside him, only to reappear a second later and...and...eat him.

  Monsters.

  I fought for my freedom, desperate to drag Em to safety—Em, who hadn’t moved and wasn’t crying—desperate to get to my dad, to help him. In the process, I banged my head against something hard and sharp. A horrible pain ravaged me, but still I fought, even as my strength waned...my eyesight dimmed...

  Then it was night-night for Alice, and I knew nothing more.

  At least, for a little while...

  Excerpt from Alice in Zombieland

  Copyright © 2012 by Gena Showalter

  Tenley “Ten” Lockwood just wants the right to choose

  for herself where she’ll live...after she dies.

  Read on for an excerpt from chapter 1 of

  Firstlife

  Book 1 of The Everlife Novels

  by Gena Showalter.

  Firstlife

  by Gena Showalter

  “You are better off Unsigned than a slave to Troikan law.”

  —Myriad

  I’ve been locked inside the Prynne Asylum—where happiness comes to die—for three hundred and seventy-eight days. (Or nine thousand and seventy-two hours.) I know the exact time frame, not because I watched the sun rise and set in the sky, but because I mark my walls in blood every time the lights in the good-girls-gone-bad wing of the facility turn on.

  There are no windows in the building. At least, none that I’ve found. And I’ve never been allowed outside. None of the inmates have. To be honest, I don’t even know what country we’re in, or if we’re buried far underground. Before being flown, driven, shipped or dropped here, we were heavily sedated. Wherever we are, though, it’s bone-deep cold beyond the walls. Every day, hour, second, our air is heated.

  I’ve heard friends and enemies alike ask the staff for details, but the response has always been the same. Answers have to be earned.

  No, thanks. For me, the price—cooperation—is simply too high.

  With a wince, I rise from bed and make my way to the far corner of my cell. Every step is agony. My back hates me, but the muscles are too sore to go on strike. Last night I was caned just because.

  I stop in front of my pride and joy. My calendar. A new day means a new mark.

  I have no chalk, no pen or marker, so I drive the tip of an index finger over a jagged stone protruding from the floor, slicing through the flesh and drawing a well of blood.

  I hate the sting, but if I’m honest, I’ll love the scar it leaves behind. My scars give me something to count.

  Counting is my passion, and numerology my favorite addiction. Maybe because every breath we take is another tick on our clock, putting us one step closer to death...and a new beginning. Maybe because my name is Tenley—Ten to my friends.

  Ten, a representation of completion.

  We have ten fingers and ten toes. Ten is the standard beginning for any countdown.

  I was born on the tenth day of the tenth month at 10:10 a.m. And, okay. All right. Maybe I’m obsessed with numbers because they always tell a story and unlike people, they never lie.

  Here’s my story in a nutshell:

  Seventeen—the number of years I’ve existed. In my case, lived is too strong a word.

  One—the number of boys I’ve dated.

  Two—the number of friends I’ve made and lost since my incarceration.

  Two—the number of lives I’ll live. The number of lives we’ll all live.

  Our Firstlife, then our Everlife.

  Two—the number of choices I have for my eternal future.

  (1) Do as my parents command or (2) suffer.

  I’ve chosen to suffer.

  I use the blood to create another mark on the stones. Satisfied, I head to the “bathroom.” There are no doors to provide even a modicum of privacy, just a small, open shower stall next to a toilet. For our safety, we’re told. For the amusement of others, I suspect. All cells are monitored 24/7, which means at any given time during any given day, staff members are allowed and even encouraged to watch live camera feed.

  Dr. Vans, the head of the asylum, likes to taunt us. I see and know everything.

  A good portion of teachers scold us. Time waster!

  Orderlies belittle us. Put on a little weight, haven’t we?

  Most of the guards leer at us. They hail from all over the world, and though their language varies, t
heir sentiment is always the same. You are begging for it and one day I’ll give it.

  Just some of the many perks offered at chez Prynne.

  Not everyone is horrible, I admit. A small handful even strive to keep the others from going too far. But it’s no secret every staff member is paid to make us hate our stay, to make us want to leave more than anything. Because the more we want to leave, the more likely we are to do whatever our parents sent us here to do.

  My friend Marlowe dared to pawn her mother’s jewelry to buy groceries, and she needed help with her “kleptomania.” My friend Clay, a drug addict, needed to get clean.

  The institution failed them both. A few months ago, Marlowe killed herself, and Clay... I don’t know what happened to him. He planned an escape, and I haven’t heard from him since.

  I miss them both. Every. Single. Day.

  I begged Clay not to risk a breakout. I tried to leave once, and I had help. My boyfriend, James, a guard high on the totem, arranged for cameras to be shut down, certain doors to be unlocked and other guards to sleep on the job. Still I proved unsuccessful.

  For his efforts, James was shot in the head. While I watched.

  Hot tears well in my eyes and trickle down my cheeks as I slowly strip out of my jumpsuit. Every motion comes with another blast of agony. When finally I’m naked, I step under a tepid spray of water. Modesty has long since been beaten out of me—literally!—but I wash as fast as I can. We’re given a small ration of water a day. If we run out, we run out. Too bad, so sad. Something we’re never given? Razors. I keep my legs and underarms smooth with threads I’ve pulled from old uniforms. I already feel like an animal; there’s no reason to resemble one, too.

  Not that a well-groomed appearance matters. While we’re allowed to socialize with the opposite sex during mealtimes, I’d rather dig my heart out of my chest with a rusty spoon than date again. Yes, the rewards are tremendous, but the risks are more so. When everything comes crashing down—and it will—I’ll be shattered into a million pieces. I’ll have to rebuild. Again.

  I should have resisted James’s pursuit of me, but I’d been at a low point, desperate for any show of affection. He’d risked his job every time he’d disabled the cameras to sneak inside my room. He sneaked in so many times, in fact, his memory still lives here. Every night when I climb into my twin-size bed, I’m reminded of the way he teased me out of my initial shyness. Of the way he cleaned my wounds whenever I was hurt. Of the way he held me in his arms, offering comfort and kisses. He’d wanted to do more. I hadn’t. Not here. Not with a potential audience.