Death Series 08 - Death Blinks

by Tamara Rose Blodgett

  The man's sharp light eyes try to find me.

  Mitchell pushes me farther behind his body.

  But the man shifts his weight, and something iridescent on his chest glitters. I recognize what it is before he vanishes. A butterfly. He had a butterfly insignia on his uniform.

  Then he's standing in front of us.

  I scream. I literally shut my eyes for one second, then he was there before us.

  Up close, he's huge.

  Mitchell moves one inch, and the man hits Mitchell in the neck. I hear a snap and whirl, running in the opposite direction.

  My death energy is leaking all over the place, and it reaches for Mitchell, as it does for all things undead. My unique ability knits his wounds without my express will. For me, the ability to heal the dead is as natural and automatic as breathing.

  And I'm breathing so hard as I sprint, I can't get enough oxygen. My lungs burn.

  Then the man is on me, grabbing me with a hard hand at my nape.

  “No!” I try to wrench from his steely grasp.

  “I am sorry. Atomics are not allowed in Papillio.”

  What? I struggle, writhing like a snake, trying to get away. Papill-what?

  “Or any world,” his sinister voice finishes softly. He sounds like he's from earth, I think randomly.

  He squeezes.

  I yelp, still thrashing.

  “Sleep,” he says.

  And I'm not tired. I have to get to Mitchell. Pax! My parents.

  My eyes disobey me. They shut, though I've never wanted to be awake more than I do in that moment.

  Slumber comes, stealing my consciousness like a thief.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Pax

  “Where's Sister?”

  I hear the question vaguely, as if I'm underwater.

  Shake—roll. Somebody's hand is on my shoulder, rattling my teeth.

  What the fuck is this?

  My eyes pop open. Well, one eye does; the other one isn't cooperating. It feels like a golf ball of flame and misery.

  Someone's elbow nailed me, I guess. Beautiful.

  I roll my good eye toward the small figure dangling over me.

  Mom. I shut my eye then open it again. Jade Hart's black hair tickles my nose, and I flick it out of my face as her hand drops from my shoulder.

  “Mom—God. Let me get my bearings, would ya?”

  Mom's lips quirk, but she steps backward. Dad slowly comes into focus beside her.

  Wait. A. Second.

  Brad Thompson. Fake Parkers. Real Parkers.

  I swim off my back with flailing arms then stagger to standing—grab the nearest person to keep from falling on my ass again.

  Gramps rights my drunken stumble. Except—here's the fun—not drunk. “Whoa, Pax—steady.”

  I blink. Not the cool kind of blink that will jettison us to parts unknown, but the kind that soothes the eyes.

  “Where are we?” I ask with a mouth that feels like it's filled with dog shit and marbles. My throat clicks as I attempt to swallow.

  I take in the landscape. It's a beaut, I admit.

  “Looks like we're in a new world, son.” Caleb Hart—aka Dad—raises a dark-brown eyebrow.

  I get the message loud and clear. Where the fuck are we, and where is Dee?

  Here's the deal: I don't know where Dee is. I don't know where the bad guys are.

  Situation fucked.

  I inhale deeply, cough on the way out, and notice a city below us. On first glance, it looks very old-fashioned. Like Rome. The Rome I've seen in pictures anyway.

  Okaaay.

  Scratch that. Situation is definitely fucked and unknown.

  “Gramps,” I say in a hollow voice. Feels like I've been scooped out and put back together backward.

  “Yeah?” he answers, patting down the front of his Poindexter shirt. “I could use a smoke about now. Yup.”

  I turn slowly.

  Gramps winks, looking lost without a cig jammed between his lips. “Got a shiner, Pax. It's a beauty.”

  Thanks for stating the obvious.

  “Gramps, please,” Dad says, surveying our current disaster.

  “Honey—Pax—where'd you blink Sister to.”

  Hell if I know.

  Mom's face is pinched and miserable.

  Damn. “Not sure, Mom, but let's look at the good news.”

  “Oh yeah, pal? What's that? Dying to have some good news. Hell, Caleb breezes by the hood, and wham—I'm right back in the weirdness.”

  I turn to Jonesy. The Jonester. Jones. I don't know—I think his real name is actually Mark. Never heard anyone call him that, though. Oh yeah, Dad's burglar friend, Lewis Archer never gets called by his first name either.

  I shake my head. My life is not normal.

  My one good eye makes progress, scoping out green rolling hills. The sun is sinking for the day, like a dying crimson orb. Like spilt blood, it's creeping over the buildings of what looks like ancient Rome, placed about where Kent, Washington, would be on our earth.

  Not any Kent I've ever seen, though. I point at the place, which is flanked by field upon field of grapes.

  Clyde moves forward, coming to stand beside me. “I no longer feel you, young master.”

  My chest tightens like a brutal tug of fishing line, and I automatically send out my death energy. There isn't any.

  Fuck. Me.

  I face Clyde.

  Dad strides to me, holding Mom's hand tightly in his. “What?” His eyes scan my face.

  “Do you have AftD here, Dad?”

  “Yes.” No hesitation. Then his brows dump above chocolate-colored eyes. “You don't?”

  “Not a drop.”

  “Well, that blows,” Tiff comments.

  I cock an eyebrow.

  Tiff Weller grins.

  Show off.

  The semi-long pasture grass on the knoll overlooking the buildings below begins to undulate. Dead garter snakes wrestle the emerald-green blades apart, slithering toward Tiff. She's flexing her Affinity for the Dead muscle.

  Tiff's eyes meet first Dad's, then Clyde's.

  Dad puts his hands on his hips—his version of a thinking cap, eyebrow cocked at the snake parade. “The thugs haven't shown up yet. I propose we progress with caution. Knowing our skills…” Dad's gaze ping-pongs around the new digs, and he finally says, “Rome world,” then chuckles, “would be better than heading down there.” He tosses his thumb in the direction of the city below us, “And no one knows if the natives are friendly.”

  I like that. But we don't have enough knowledge to even go forward. Where's Dee? Better yet, where's her pet zombie, Mitchell? “I don't like my absent AftD.”

  Jonesy claps me on the back. “Hey, man, thought you hated being a corpse-boy?” He waggles his brows.

  Dad gives a little shake of his head.

  Yeah. Right. Jones of the No-Filter variety. Gotcha. “I like it fine when the shit hits the fan.”

  “Language,” Clyde cautions softly.

  John ignores my sullen bullshit. “Let's be exclusionary.”

  All eyes turn to him, and I do a speedy head count. Tiff and John Weller. One AftD and a Null. Dad, who still has AftD, and Mom, with whatever she has in Rome world. Sophie, Archer, and Bry are all unknowns. And Parker—both Parkers—are MIA.

  “John,” Sophie says with unhidden irritation, aqua eyes flashing, “let's get the ball rolling. I'm super hungry, and my feet are killing me.”

  Everyone looks at Sophie's feet. She's wearing really stupid sparkly purple leopard-print flats. Super-pointy toes. Fashion looks painful.

  Sophie stares back. “Hey,” she says defensively, stabbing upward with her finger, “I didn't get up this morning and go, ʻOh, I'm going to interdimensionally travel, so I better where ugly shoes.ʼ” She slaps her thighs, having perched on a sand-colored boulder.

  I'm tallying paranormal skills, and Sophie's worried about food and footwear.

  I toss Dad a look, and he shrugs. My face says
clearly, “You survived this?”

  His features arrange a sheepish expression.

  So lame.

  “Actually, Soph, it's not a dimensional thing.”

  Dad looks at John Terran and folds his arms across his chest. “John, no time for lessons.”

  Uncle John shakes his head. “I agree with Paxton.”

  I brighten. He does? Fucking great.

  Tiff pops a massive bubble, startling me and Mom. “Sorry,” she says, noticing she made us jump out of our skins, “but it keeps the booze at bay.”

  Great.

  Gramps smirks, and John's face turns red.

  John tries to ignore Tiff—no small thing—and continues, “This world hopping—blinking—that Pax executes? It's more of a parallel-world shift.”

  “John!” Sophie cries indignantly.

  He sighs. “Listen, if it was simply dimensional travel, there'd be a certain number of worlds. What Pax is doing is going to a world that has an infinite number of its own parallels.”

  Jonesy gives a slow blink. “Right. So… how does knowing that help us?”

  John scrubs his face. “Doesn't anyone ever want to know the why?”

  Archer raises his hand. “I enjoy backstory. However, John, I think we should ruminate on escape and avoidance at this juncture, rather than thinking about all the possibilities of inner-world travel.”

  “I don't give a shit,” Jones says, then turns to Uncle John. “I dig you, my man—I do. But you kinda delve when we should just dive.” Jonesy mimes the breaststroke.

  “Cripes, Jonesy,” Dad says, shaking his head, though he can’t hide the smile.

  “What?” He spins slowly, and the snakes that Tiff raised rotate, making the grass look as though a breeze has kicked up, but only at shin level. “I'm with Soph”—he pats his flat stomach—“gotta fuel up.”

  “Man-whoring must burn a buttload of calories,” Sophie retorts in a sullen voice, chin in her palm.

  Shit. Pissed woman alert.

  “We're getting off track,” John puts up a hand.

  Jonesy narrows his eyes on Sophie.

  Tiff barks, “Jonesy!”

  “What!” He dances away from the snakes, figuring they're the issue.

  When I see what's shown up, I realize that Archer might be right. Should have focused on the priorities right away.

  The dead stand a few meters away, regarding us. Waiting.

  Their eyes ignore me. A first. I'm usually The Shit with the dead. I crook my finger, and they come running. Or shambling. It's all the same.

  They come.

  But their eyes aren't on me. They're on Jonesy.

  “Oh, this is a treasure,” Gramps says in a caustic tone.

  Clyde's head snaps to Jonesy, who titters a laugh as he retreats a step from the tight little horde he unwittingly raised. “What is this slice of strange? Hart!” Jonesy calls.

  Dad steps forward, Tiff and Clyde flanking him. “Looks like we've fleshed out your ability on this world.” Dad's voice is Sahara Desert dry.

  Jonesy puts both palms on his chest. “No way, man! The Jonester refuses to be a corpse-man.”

  I feel the grin split my face. Sometimes life is so fine. I don't want AftD, and neither does Jones. I just passed the baton. Sweet.

  The dead shamble forward, and I give the rotting group a once-over. “Really a shit job, Jones,” I say with a critical eye.

  Dad turns, giving me a silence look. “He got the mouths, son,” he says, his tone admonishing me.

  I look back. Yup, all those yawning holes are pink. Then a few teeth fall out as one of the corpses actually does a pulsevision-worthy moan.

  I’ve never heard a zombie make that sound in my short life.

  “Hart—they don't seem right. They're straight from that pulse flick from the last century.”

  Really? We're discussing cinema?

  “Shaun of the Dead,” Bry pipes in for the first time. “Loved that show. British. Tight. Dry as fuck with the humor.”

  “Language,” Clyde says again with slightly less vim and vigor.

  “Sorry, Clyde,” Bry says.

  “Not to worry, my profane friend.”

  Our eyes meet those of the corpses and for the first time. I'm afraid.

  Dad frowns. “Jones, you're like a guy at the wheel of a car.”

  Jonesy turns, giving Dad a grimace like a slash of white in the dark skin of his face. “Is this the ten-second how to on reanimation?”

  Dad nods, not bothering with sugar-coated words.

  Jonesy whips his face back. “Hurry up, Hart. They're almost on my dick.”

  Sophie snorts.

  “I really need a smoke for this,” Gramps comments. “Jonesy corpses—bad. Very bad.”

  I silently agree.

  “If your control isn't absolute, they're like a rudder, and with you at the helm, I think your personality might just steer them in an undesirable direction,” John says the words to Jonesy, but his eyes are on the dead.

  “Caleb,” Mom says.

  Dad nods. “I'll help.”

  I shake my head. What? Did Dad forget the quintessential 101 of zombie raising?

  Only the raiser is in charge.

  “Rest,” Dad begins in a resonate command.

  I'm basically an AftD void in this world, but even I feel the weight of his power. His single spoken word lifts the fine hairs at my nape.

  That'll do it.

  The zombies, maybe a dozen in all, blink. The yawner of the group hisses at Dad, who frowns.

  Gramps cracks his knuckles. “Things are getting pear-shaped, Caleb.”

  Dad's brows meet. “Yeah, I got that, Gramps.”

  “Can't fix it?”

  Dad shakes his head. “They're only on one frequency.”

  All head's turn to Jonesy, including a few that make wet, snapping noises with the movement.

  “Stop playing around, Jonesy, and put all these nasty asses in the ground,” Sophie says, her fingers over her nose.

  Jonesy turns to her. “Do you think for one second I wanted Team Undead to show up?”

  Sophie sticks out her lip in an expert pout. “You're an attention whore, too.” She folds her arms.

  Lots of sour history there, I'm guessing. No time for that now. The rot is reaching my acute olfactory senses, and my fight-or-flight instincts are on full throttle. Time to vacate and find Dee.

  “Jonesy, just make them go to ground,” I state logically.

  “How, wise one?”

  I jerk my chin back. It's easy, just… My mind goes blank. I have no AftD here. It's impossible to explain. My smile is fixed on my face like it’s stuck with bad glue. “Dad, tell Jonesy how to get the dead back.”

  Dad's eyebrows jerk to his hairline just as the first zombie puts a loving fingertip on Jonesy's face.

  “Argh!” Jonesy wails like a pirate on crack, leaping backward. Zombie slime drips off the edge of his chin.

  We all take a collective step back. Somehow, my own corpses don't bug me—but somebody else's? Different story.

  “Looks like they're in love, Jones,” Bry says conversationally.

  Jonesy flicks the zombie sludge off his chin with a disgusted grunt. “Fuck you, Weller.”

  Clyde doesn't chastise on language, because just at that precise moment a pair of people pop out of thin air.

  The very space around them is charged with electricity. But not like they’ve stuck their fingers in one of those outdated light sockets from the pre-pulse days.

  No. Like ozone from the ocean. Crackling iridescent sparkles explode around them, and the memory of a smoking ribbon burns my corneas.

  There's one guy and one girl. The man is huge; the woman is the polar opposite. About Dee's size, I figure. Both have the look of soldiers.

  Whatever they are, they mean business. Kind of like our sanction police from earth.

  “Sector Three,” the male says. His dark-blond hair is sheared close to his scalp, above disconcerting eyes
almost the same color as Archer's gray gaze. But where Archer's are cotton tinged by pewter, this guy's are the threat of a storm. They bleed malice over the top of us.

  The woman is dark, and her hair is fashioned in tight braids laying flat against her head. Her hair’s like Dee's, black like a crow's wing, but where Dee's got forest green eyes, this chick's are so dark brown that they hide her pupil. Their contrast against the pale-ivory of her skin is startling.

  “Death Bringers,” she replies to the male by her side. Her face swings to Jonesy, Tiff, then Dad. “One. Two. Three.”

  The male snorts. “Easily dealt with.”

  “What are they speaking? You know, I'm getting sick and tired of never understanding what anyone is saying,” Gramps says, pawing his shirt pocket again.

  I whip my face to his. “You don't know?” My eyes travel the group. They're as blank as Gramps.

  “Some kind of ancient-sounding Spanish,” Uncle John pipes up.

  I understood every word.

  When the male utters the word for kill, I do what I must.

  “Hands!” I bellow.

  No twenty questions on that command. Palms slap inside one another.

  Twilight descended twenty minutes ago. I blink.

  The girl's eyes round as her image wavers in front of me. A smile stretches her face, and for a split-second, I believe she might have been pretty if she weren’t so tough.

  She throws something in the air with a practiced wrist flick. The spinning disc shimmers.

  My own eye appears on the smooth surface for a fraction of one second of its midair revolution.

  Then we disappear from the Rome world and the accidental zombies. Leaving behind the soldiers who identified everyone who had AftD.

  Or so we thought.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Deegan

  I sit straight up, my heart pounding. The base of my skull throbs where that man gripped me.

  Looking around, I notice about half a dozen prison-type cells. Narrow deeply set windows are high on the stone walls. Ceramic bars obstruct a flat, clear acrylic pane instead of glass. The floor is a smooth surface. It’s very similar to the recycled quartz of my world.

  The same ceramic bars blocking the squatty windows also cage me in on three sides; the stone wall is rough and cool at my back.