The White Rabbit Chronicles

by Gena Showalter

  In a panic, I shoulder my way outside. A cool night breeze greets me, but it’s tinged with unsavory odors: old food, urine and vomit. A street lamp illuminates the alley, revealing a row of Dumpsters and a mouse scurrying between them. Bits of shredded paper float through the air like snow.

  Kat died soon after a snowstorm.

  Can’t lose her again. “Kat,” I shout, desperate now. A few feet away, a black bird takes flight. “Kat!”

  “Dude. I prefer your indoor voice. Let’s tone it down a notch—or twelve.”

  Her voice is soft and comes from directly behind me. I swing around, every muscle in my body knotting with anticipation …and there she is. The love of my life.

  Suddenly I feel as though an elephant is sitting on top of my chest. I’m struggling to breathe. I’m trembling. I want her to be real. I want her to tell me she faked her death, just to see how many people would show up at her funeral—I put the “fun” in funeral, Frosty. But she remains quiet, and I reach out.

  She’s stoic as she awaits contact. Then—

  My fingers ghost through the tendrils of her hair, and I unleash a stream of profanity.

  “Wow,” she says with a grin. “I’m not sure some of those things are anatomically possible.”

  Her burst of humor calms me. This isn’t a memory, which means it’s a hallucination. But so what? I’ll take my kitty however I can get her.

  She’s wearing what she died in, a white shirt and a pair of my boxers, looking adorable and beautiful at once. She’s no longer littered with the wounds caused by falling debris as the Ankh’s house crumbled on top of her, or the gunshot wounds she took to the chest; she’s injury-free and radiant with health.

  She’s everything my life has been missing.

  “You’re here,” I say, awed to the core. “You’re really here.”

  “Yep. But you, Frosty, are an idiot.”

  I smile with genuine humor. My first since her death. “Even your hallucination is mouthy. I like it.”

  “I’m not a hallucination, dummy. I’m a witness, and…get ready to be humbled by my greatness…I’ve come to help you.” She stretched an arm toward the sky. “Super Kat to the rescue!”

  I go still. I’ve never seen a witness, but Ali and Cole have, so, I know it’s possible. But my Kat has been gone for four months, and she never would have stayed away from me so long if she could get to me. Not on purpose, at least. So…maybe she is a witness, but maybe she isn’t. Even my fractured mind would demand a logical explanation for the presence of a hallucination.

  I don’t care. She’s here, she’s with me and that’s all that matters.

  “You want to help me,” I say, the words nothing but gravel, “you stay with me. You don’t leave my side.”

  “Tsk-tsk. Thinking only about yourself.” She walks around me, just as she used to do, pretending to be a predator who has selected the evening’s prey. An action she learned from me. “I know you’ve had trouble parting with me. Who wouldn’t? I’m amazing! But duuude. I didn’t expect a total meltdown. You used to dine on prime filet and now you’re nomming from old cuts of bargain mystery meat.”

  A very Kat way of mentioning my parade of girls. I bow my head, shamed by my behavior. A thousand apologies will not be enough. “I’m sorry, kitten. I’m so sorry. You were gone…I think I tried to punish us both. But I hate what I’ve—”

  She holds up her hand to silence me. “You’re ruining your life, and that is not acceptable to me.”

  “Are you kidding? Ruining my life? Kitten, without you I have no life.” The words explode from me with more force than I intend. I would rather cut off my left nut then yell at her. “I’m sorry,” I repeat. “I shouldn’t have raised my voice.”

  “Well, you are not forgiven!” She anchors her hands on her hips. “Since I’ve been living up there—” she hikes her thumb toward the sky “—I’ve had the opportunity to watch you behind the scenes. And guess what? You’ve turned Beefcake TV into Bama’s Crappiest Videos, and I’ve had enough! You’re going out there, and you’re doing good deeds.”

  For her? Anything. “What do you consider a good deed?”

  “For starters, you’re going to help your friends by participating in the zombie-human war. And you’re going to do it with a smile!” She stomps her foot. “Do you hear me?”

  “Yes. Help friends. Fight. Smile. If I do these things, you’ll stay with me?”

  She closes her eyes for a moment, sighs. “And I told the council I had this in the bag. Bad Kat. Bad!”

  “Council?” If she’s a figment of my shattered imagination, shouldn’t I have some sort of control over her? Shouldn’t her logic match mine, considering it’s, well, mine? Clearly, I have no control over this girl, and I definitely have no idea what she’s talking about.

  It suddenly hits me with the force of a baseball bat to the skull. She is a witness, real though not corporal, and she is here.

  Joy floods me. “Never mind,” I say. I stalk forward, and she backs into the brick wall. A wall I help douse in Blood Lines once every week, making it solid to spirits. That way, zombies can’t ghost inside.

  When she’s almost within reach, I push my spirit out of my body, an action that requires faith—the spiritual power source for all slayers, just like food is a power source for our outer shell—believing I can do it before I actually do it.

  Now, without my flesh to act as insulation, the air seems a thousand degrees colder. I endure because spirits can be touched only by other spirits, and I want to touch Kat with every fiber of my being. But the second I stretch out my arm, she jumps to the side to avoid contact.

  “Hold on there, grabby.” She gives a shake of her head, dark hair dancing over her shoulders. “I haven’t always followed the rules—or ever followed the rules—but all that’s behind me. You have no idea what I had to do to get here, or what will happen if I mess up, and there’s no time to explain. Not during this visit. Just know that one touch of your spirit to mine will ensure I’m never allowed back.”

  My fists clench and unclench as rage hurls through me, but I return to my body. We can’t touch, fine. We won’t touch.

  Her expression gentles. “I’m your past, Frosty, and for now, I’m your present. But you need to come to grips with the fact that I will never be part of your future.”

  “You are my past, present and future, kitten.” I’ll never come to grips with anything else.

  “Frosty—”

  “Kat.” I flatten my hands at her temples. “Why am I just now seeing you? Why did you stay away so long?”

  Her gaze remains on me, but for several heartbeats of time, I’m certain she’s no longer seeing me. Her attention is far away, somewhere I’ve never been. Somewhere I can’t go. “Like I said, there’s no time to get into the nuts and bolts during this visit.”

  “But you will visit me again?”

  She gives a sharp incline of her head. “For the next few months, you’ll be the lucky recipient of one visit a day, every day.”

  That’s not good enough. “I won’t be satisfied until you’re surgically attached to my side.”

  She rolls her eyes. “This isn’t a negotiation, and you didn’t let me finish. I will visit you once every day…as long as you’ve done something productive for our cause.”

  I arch a brow. “You’re bribing me?”

  “Oh, good. You understand.” She beams at me, making my chest ache. “And no, tonight was not a bonus. You still have to earn the privilege.”

  That’s my Kat, determined to get her way. It’s one of the thousand things I love about her. She takes what she wants when she wants it, damn the consequences.

  I wish I could kiss her, but if touching her means losing her, I’ll keep my hands—and my mouth—to myself from now on. “Get ready to see a whole lot more of me, kitten. I’ll do anything to spend time with you.”

  “Duh. I’m so cake I’m the cake.” Her image begins to fade, and I shake my head violently.

/>   “Kat!”

  “Listen, Frosty, I’m almost out of time and I haven’t told you what you need to do. It’s imperative—”

  “No. You stay with me. Do you hear me? We’re not done.”

  Her head whips to the side as if she hears a noise I do not, and her eyes widen. I follow the line of her gaze—and see a ghostly image of Ali’s younger sister, Emma, whose mouth is moving. Still I hear nothing.

  “Crappity crap crap. It’s worse than we thought,” Kat says as she faces me again. “She’s alone, and they’re surrounding her. She desperately needs your help, Frosty. You have to help her.”

  “Who? Emma?”

  “No, just—”

  “Who?” I demand again.

  “It shouldn’t matter who she is,” Kat says, and she’s peering up at me with a wealth of concern and dread. “She’s a human being and she needs help, so strap on your big girl panties, get to Shady Elms, and freaking help her! It’s almost too late.” A moment later, Kat is gone.

  Cursing, I slam my fist into the wall. Sharp lances of pain shoot through my knuckles, but okay. All right. My girl is gone, but she won’t stay gone. Not this time. She’ll be back. I just have to help the mysterious “her.”

  Shady Elms is roughly ten minutes away. Five if I break speed records. I race to my truck, only to stop once I’m behind the wheel. I’ve been drinking. There’s no way in hell driving will end well. Fine. I arm up with the weapons I’ve stored in the vehicle and shed my body, leaving it in the driver’s seat.

  As I run at a speed no human can ever achieve, pedestrians ambling along the sidewalk unwittingly move into my path, forcing me to plow through them or spin around them. I spin. Otherwise my spirit would pass through their bodies and hit their spirits, and that won’t do anyone any good. Dizziness swims in my head and nausea churns in my stomach, but I refuse to slow. The row of square brick buildings eventually gives way to a long stretch of road, paved and smooth. I’m on constant alert for the telltale signs of zombies—grunts carried on the wind, the fetid stench of rot and the crimson glow of hunger in eyes that are windows to evil.

  When the edge of the cemetery comes into view, I veer off the road, and as I pass a towering oak tree, a grunt assaults my ears, followed by another and another. A feminine shout of frustration causes me to pick up the pace, leaping over tombstones, shooting around a mausoleum—until finally I see the horde. At least twenty zombies have zeroed in on a single meal while countless others writhe on the ground, cut up like pieces of lunchmeat.

  The mysterious “her” is a slayer. Good. She can help me help her.

  Palming my semi-automatics, I push my way through the masses, putting bullets into every rotting brain that moves into my way. Not a fix-all, but at least the enemy will be slowed down, impact sending the bodies flying to the ground.

  As the creatures catch my scent and face me, I whirl the guns in my hand, gripping the barrels. With a press of my thumb against a hidden button, serrated axes pop out at the end of each handle. I start hacking, my arms remaining in a constant sate of motion. Rotting flesh tears and limbs detach.

  Because spirits are not bound to the same physical laws as bodies, and I’m able to fight at a speed the hunger-fogged zombies cannot track. By the time a creature reaches for me, I’ve already removed its hand…followed by its head. As more and more walking corpses topple into parts, forming a sea of goo and gore on the ground, a path finally opens up, granting me a good look at the slayer’s backside. She’s a blonde.

  She’s fluid grace, fighting with a ferocity and viciousness I admire, her short swords extensions of her arms as she slices and dices with perfect precision. Her body is lithe, displayed to perfection in pink camo, and I smile despite the situation. Kat might have worn something similar, had she been a slayer.

  For once, I can think about my girl without praying I die, too.

  The blonde takes down three Z’s with a single swing but doesn’t see the last two getting to their feet…now sneaking up behind her. I whirl my guns and squeeze off two quick shots, the boom of gunfire echoing through the night, the creatures flying backward. I race forward, there when the two hit the ground, slamming my axes into their mouths, separating their jaws. They won’t be biting me or anyone else ever again.

  Panting, covered in sweat and goo, I face the girl. She’s facing me now—and I’m struck dumb. She is, too, apparently. Her mouth drops open.

  A shoulder-length cap of white blonde hair frames a face more delicate than a cameo, despite the silver hoops in her jet-black eyebrows. Her eyes are a dark golden brown, like honey, her bronzed skin tattooed heavily in black and white. She’s beautiful in a punk rock Barbie kind of way. I’ve always thought so.

  When we lived in the same twenty-thousand-square-foot house for several months, we never had a conversation; I never had time for her, never paid her more than a passing, admiring glance, my sights always on Kat or a mission, very little else worthy of my time. But there’s no doubt I’m standing before Camilla Marks. Milla to her friends.

  I am not her friend.

  She is River’s sister, and she was once second in command to a group of slayers who haven’t always seen eye-to-eye with Cole and me. She’s the one who betrayed her own crew, and mine, destroying an entire security system so that Anima could get to Ali, all in the name of saving her brother—offering Ali’s life in exchange for River’s—not trusting the guy to safeguard himself.

  She’s the bitch responsible for Kat’s death.

  I understand the need to protect your family, but I will never be okay with putting innocents at risk to do it. And okay, yeah, that’s a lie. I would have done anything, betrayed anyone, to save Kat. That doesn’t mean I’ll ever forgive this girl.

  There’s no way in hell Kat would have sent me to save Camilla Marks. My kitten must not have known who needed aid. She made a mistake. One I can rectify.

  “Thank you.” Camilla wipes at her brow and I notice the word Betrayal scripted in bold black letters across her wrist. Sweat has caused several locks of hair to stick to her skin. “You saved my life.”

  “Keep your thanks. I don’t want it.” My tone is pure grit and menace. I’m close to snapping, and there’s no telling what I’ll do if that happens. I’ve never hated anyone more than I hate her—not even myself. “And why are you wearing pink camo? You’re not trying to hide in Candyland.”

  She blinks at me, though she doesn’t appear surprised by my malevolence. “I guess there’s no need for introductions.”

  “I’m fighting a killing rage right now, so, yeah, there’s no need.” I want to shout, You’re a traitor and the scum of the earth. But whatever is spoken in this spirit realm comes true in the natural realm, always and forever, as long as it’s believed when it’s said. I believe she’s a traitor and scum, but actually voicing the accusations will give power to them, perhaps making her evil side even stronger.

  She flinches but after a moment, raises her chin. “Well. I’m not taking back my thanks.”

  The metallic twang of cooper coats my tongue, and I realize I’ve bitten it. I spit blood at her feet. “Have you spoken to a witness? Kat Parker? You remember Kat, don’t you? My Kat.” What I really want to know: did Camilla lie to her? Convince my girl to aid the enemy? “The sweetheart you helped murder.”

  Another flinch before her chin lifts even higher. “Of course I remember her, but no, I haven’t spoken to her.”

  A zombie head rolls toward me, teeth snapping, and I punt the thing in the nose, sending it soaring like a soccer ball over a hill covered with tombstones. One point Frosty.

  “You’re lying,” I snarl. She has to be lying.

  “I’m not.” Camilla shakes her head for emphasis and rubs at her wrist. The one with the tattoo. “Trust me, I’ve learned my lesson about betraying other slayers.”

  I don’t believe her, but I know I’m not doing this. I’m not having a conversation with her. I turn away, striding out of the cemetery and saying to th
e sky, “I’ve done my good deed for the day. I let her live. I expect to see you tomorrow, Kat. Or else.”

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  ISBN: 9781760379056

  TITLE: THE WHITE RABBIT CHRONICLES: ALICE IN ZOMBIELAND/THROUGH THE ZOMBIE GLASS/THE QUEEN OF ZOMBIE HEARTS

  First Australian Publication 2015

  Copyright © 2015 Gena Showalter

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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