Death Series 08 - Death Blinks

by Tamara Rose Blodgett

  She's righter than rain on that score.

  Jonesy says, “Sick ʼem!”

  The zombies begin their sloppy shamble toward the man and woman.

  Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I stick my fingers in the sides of my mouth and give an eardrum-bursting whistle. The noise pierces the heavens with a bell-like insistence, shattering silence and arresting everyone mid-punch.

  Haven't blasted one of those suckers out in forever.

  The two strangers in matching uniforms straighten, looking at the rest of us with deserving caution. Their gazes linger a second or two longer on the tight rotting horde Jonesy barely has under control.

  Can't fault them for hesitating with the undead around.

  I raise my hand. “Hi, other-worlders.” I would give my eye teeth for a smoke, but instead, I grin like a loon at the pair who're soundly kicking our asses. “Do ya think you could not kill us long enough to let us ask a few questions?”

  They blink simultaneously, and that strikes me as funny. The hell with the crooked mouth that Caleb is always struggling with. I give a belly laugh that if I'm not careful, will morph into something edgier and not quite good.

  I chance a glance at the rotting group and note they're mid-stumble to the pair. Hmmm…

  All that malarkey about getting older is the God's honest truth. It sucks, and then you die.

  “Anyone volunteering?” I ask to the general crowd.

  Oops. Pax, John, and Jonesy are rolling around groaning on the grass. “Nice representatives, assjacks,” I mutter.

  The woman cocks her head and says something to her partner. I'm afraid she might have heard that last.

  Be that as it may, I walk over there, and as I get closer, I watch the bruises a few of the guys landed on Big Guy begin to heal.

  Well we're not in Kansas anymore, Toto. Mhhmm.

  The woman is small, like Deedie, and has black hair like hers, as well. But her eyes are jet black. They move to meet me. Unflinching. Cool.

  “You two speak English?” I swing my pointer finger between the two.

  The woman steps forward, and I take a cautious step back. I've seen her in action—I won't go up against her and win. Kinda fond of my balls. She looks like that'd be the number one strike.

  “Assume their diction, Jasper. Otherwise, it will seem too formal.”

  Surprise, surprise.

  The female assassin rolls her eyes at the guy then directs that dark gaze at me. “I am Beth Jasper.”

  “I'm Mac O'Brien.”

  She tilts her head at the same time she flicks a long braid over her shoulder. “This is my partner, Jeb Merrick.”

  I study the man for a full minute and finally stick out my hand to be shaken.

  Or cut off.

  “We are well met,” Jeb Merrick says, dropping my hand after a painful one-two pump.

  I feel my brows corkscrew.

  Jasper sighs, her brow wrinkling. “I will speak for us.”

  Merrick's jaw flutters, but he stays silent.

  So not everything is rosy in their relationship. Noted. I fold my arms.

  Beth Jasper spreads her arms away from her body. “You are from Three.”

  My eyebrows shoot up. Three-what?

  “Sector Three.” Her nose scrunches in her small face. “We are Reflectives. How is it that you find yourself in our sector?”

  I look around for Pax. Jade is with him, hovering over his wounds.

  The bruises and cuts Merrick inflicted begin to heal. So he's still Organic enough to fix himself. Good.

  I jerk a thumb over my shoulder. “Grandkid here can jump around different worlds.” I shrug. I don't know how to explain all the paranormal crap. I just work here.

  “Merrick.” She tenses a little when he is already at her side.

  His cold steel-colored eyes fall on me.

  They start speaking that gibberish again.

  I throw up my palms. “Hey, guys, stop with the foreign-speak. Plain old English, or this little convo is finito.”

  Their gazes swing to look at me. “Who is your grandchild?”

  Pax raises a hand from the ground. “Me.” He jerks his head off the grass, lasering in on Merrick. “The one you were trying to kill.”

  Merrick's lips curl, and he chuckles. The expression is the first thing he's wore on his face besides a perpetual scowl. “If I were trying, you would even now be dead.”

  Pax's head falls back on the grass, but he raises his arm, presenting the bird for old Reflective Blondie.

  Merrick glares at Pax in repose.

  I chuckle. That kid.

  Caleb claps me on the back. “He sounds like the sphere-world people.”

  I snap my fingers—the accent was tickling the back of my brain every time Merrick would speak.

  “Sphere-world?” he asks.

  Jasper says, “I think he means sector Thirteen.”

  Merrick tips his head back. “Ah.”

  “Thirteen?” Caleb asks.

  “The world of spheres,” Jasper elaborates.

  Cleared my confusion right up. Pfft.

  Jonesy snorts, voicing my thoughts aloud. “That makes sense. Thanks, guys.”

  The zombies shift. A wafting reek of rot reaches me.

  I smile.

  “God!” Sophie flops back down on a rock, assuming her prior version of bored, and slams her chin inside her cupped palm.

  “I'd like to know who you are and why you can,” Jade says quietly, making a back-and-forth motion with her palm.

  “We are the… police of thirteen sectors—worlds. My partner and I are born Reflectives.”

  Uh-huh. Nutbunnies.

  “What's a Reflective?” John asks.

  Tiff pops a bubble so loud, it's a small bomb in the field, and everyone jumps, including the Reflectives, who crouch, arms wide and hands loose by their sides.

  They look to Tiff and straighten from their defensive postures.

  “What is she doing with her mouth?” Merrick asks, momentarily distracted.

  “I think it's called chewing gum,” Jasper replies, a small frown ruining the perfection of her forehead.

  The corner of Merrick's lips tweak. “And she would eat that for sustenance?”

  “It's just something to calm my nerves, guys. Get over yourselves.”

  Merrick's lips pull away from his teeth in what I suppose passes for his version of a smile. “Foul disposition.”

  They have no idea.

  Tiff grunts. “Yeah. Whatevers, Reflection Wonder Twins.”

  “Tiff,” John says in a low voice.

  “No, I like it,” Jonesy says, obviously in the moment. “I want answers, and they're asking about gum.” He glances at his zombies, and they move forward a stride.

  Merrick's face has changed expression several times. The one he wears now is a perfect combo of contempt and irritation, with a dash of unease (probably those corpses give a fella pause). He opens his mouth to comment, clearly thinks better of it, and turns to John. “A Reflective is a person…” He pauses, and I notice how Jasper stiffens slightly when Merrick says the word person. “A person who is born with the ability to Reflect. We then travel to other primary worlds to ensure justice and sustainability.”

  “Huh,” Tiff says, popping another bubble.

  How does she have gum? I’m grumpy about my lack of cigarettes.

  John pinches the bridge of his nose, his eyes lighting on the small disc secured to Jasper’s belt. “You use inanimate objects that possess reflective material.”

  The Reflectives nod.

  “You hop between worlds?” John presses.

  They incline their heads at the same moment, looking like the bizarre twins Tiff accused them of being.

  John strokes his chin. “Why did you attack us?”

  “We did not attack you. You attacked us.”

  I frown. Had us there. Pax had delivered the blow that started the brawl.

  “I heard you say ʻkill,ʼ” Pax says, warily join
ing the conversation.

  Merrick grins, and the expression utterly changes his face from serious stick-up-your-ass to approachable human being. “Not to kill you. But to save you from being killed. There are a few…” Merrick pauses, as though thinking of his next words carefully. “Skills”—his light eyes find mine, then each one of the others’—“which are not allowed on Papilio.”

  We stare back blankly.

  “Animators a mortuis are not allowed. Death Bringers. It is illegal to exist in Papilio with this ability.” Jasper raises her chin, as if willing us to defy her. “It is not safe for you here.” She glances at Caleb, Tiff, and Jonesy. Jasper's smile is sudden, fierce. “Thank Principle you do not have an Atomic within your numbers, or any of us would be honor-bound to clean that human, regardless of world of origin. At the very least, he or she would be called before council.”

  Pax turns to me. The words he'll say begin to form in my mind. I know it'll be a bad a-ha moment.

  I'm not disappointed.

  “What's an Atomic?” Pax asks with slow deliberation. He's just like his dad, when the wheels are turning.

  “Oh,” Jasper says, waving it away, “I have never encountered such an ability. I mentioned it only as an example. We do know the ability exists. Atomics have been documented in the course of history.”

  The group gives her more blank face.

  Jasper, more patient than Merrick, answers, “An Atomic is someone who can manipulate matter.”

  “Make crap disappear?” Pax's voice is a thread of sound.

  Jasper inclines her head in a sage nod. “That is the least of what such a person is capable of.”

  Pax exchanges an uneasy glance with me and his parents.

  Better find Deedie.

  Before one of these Reflectives find her and she gets “cleaned.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Deegan

  “Mitchell!” I gasp, bent over with my palms flat on my lower thighs. I glance up. “I can't. Slow down.”

  Mitchell shakes his head. “No. Can. Do.” He turns around, casting a seething look beyond where I stand. His glittering eyes are demented sapphires in his face. “What if that dick comes after us?” He skates a hand over his short black hair, and a clump falls out.

  I straighten, staring at the stranded hair in Mitchell's hand, and my exhaustion becomes despair. I burst into tears. Again.

  We've already been through one “weak girl” round before. I swear I'm not one of those girls—the ones who can't tolerate a little stress and have to have a man take over. Lame. Unfortunately, I'm overloaded.

  Mitchell's fingers come away from his head with black hairs clinging to a piece of scalp.

  I slap my hands over my mouth. I can't keep my zombie perfect. I'm an AftD failure.

  “Now, listen here,” Mitchell begins as he walks back the two meters to where I stand, bawling my eyes out like a “big whah-baby,” as Pax calls me when he's pissed at me.

  Mitchell casually flicks the tuft of hair and scalp on to the ground.

  I wail harder. Can't I do anything right?

  Mitchell halts, tilts his head to the right, and cups his chin. Some of the skin sloughs away with the motion, and I hiccup a sob.

  “Is this like a PMS thing?”

  I stop crying and get mad instead. “PMS?” I splutter. Then I think quickly—Is my period close? Oh my God, is there a chance I might even have a period, and it would think to start in this weird-ass world? Gah!

  Mitchell studies my morphing expressions, and his shoulders start shaking as his face breaks in a grin. A laugh bursts out of him.

  My eyebrows fall like bricks above my eyes. “I'm going to kill you.”

  Mitchell grins—his mouth is dark, I notice with frustration—as his laughter peals out. “Already dead, sweetheart.”

  “Ah!” I yell, spinning in a slow circle, facing away from him. I don't want to see his rotting face right now. I fold my arms.

  Mitchell puts his arms around me from behind. The smell of Mitchell and vague rot suffuse my senses, and suddenly, I want to cry again.

  I bite my lip. Hard. “You didn't have to be mean.”

  “Don't know how to deal with the waterworks, Deegan.” His strong fingers trail down my arms, and gooseflesh breaks out like a wake behind a boat.

  I turn slowly in his embrace.

  Mitchell is perfect and whole again.

  “How?” I ask in wonder, stroking a finger down a jaw forever wearing a beard somewhere between stubble and full.

  Mitchell shrugs, his big hands cupping my shoulders. “I think—and, boy, don't hold me to this because I've been a zombie for less than a week—but it's your age.”

  I flinch. No girl in the universe wants the guy she thinks is hot telling her she’s too young. Even if he is dead.

  He instantly reads my face, my sloppy emotions zinging through our tight bond. “No, Deegan. I mean, you're young in your abilities. These psychic powers or whatever? Like X Men.”

  I frown. X Who?

  He waves away my confusion. “There were these movies in my time about a bunch of people that had paranormal abilities, and they threw everyone into a tizzy. It was good against evil. That kind of thing.”

  I just stare. Finally, I say, “Well, truth is stranger than fiction.” At least, that's what Gramps always says.

  Mitchell laughs, caressing my cheekbone with a calloused finger. “You're a crazy girl, Deegan.”

  I nod. “Yeah.” But my voice is unhappy. I want my family. I want Mitchell to stop rotting.

  I don't ever want to see Reflective Ryan again. That makes me think of something. “Who was that jerk?”

  “The soldier?”

  My brows draw together. I lean my head back to see him better and arch an eyebrow, leaning away from him. “How do you know he was a soldier?”

  “I was a Navy Seal.” Mitchell looks off into the distance. A small lake lies a kilometer or so away from us. Dark evergreens stand watch over its shimmering surface. “When my brother and sister were… taken—” He pauses over the word. “I was on leave from the Navy. After they died, I threw myself back into another tour in Afghanistan.”

  I rummage my brain for late-twentieth history then hit on it, grimacing at my knowledge base. We have not had real war since that era. There have been too many more important issues. Like having enough people.

  His blue eyes meet mine, and he takes hold of my hands. Mitchell shrugs. “I didn't want to live after what happened to them, Deegan. I was exonerated of all of it—my command saw fit to give me grieving time. I didn't want that. I wanted focus.” He points his index and middle fingers towards his eyes, then away.

  My heart pounds. I know Mitchell is going to tell me how he passed away. I don't want to hear it.

  Not yet.

  Every nerve is taut with listening anyway.

  The anticipation of impending doom is so much like when Uncle Clyde told us his story about saving the busload of kids during the accident that caused his death that I want to cover my ears.

  I raised this man in a desperate cast of the line. Mitchell came like a fish on a hook—saved me.

  But I didn't catch a minnow. I caught a shark.

  And Mitchell has teeth.

  So I listen, because I'm responsible for him being alive again. I listen because I care. Too much.

  And I think I'm falling for him. I'm too young—and he's dead.

  But none of those facts appear to matter.

  “What happened?” My hands escape his, and I wrap my fingers around part of his forearms. He's such a big guy that my fingertips don’t meet.

  A rough exhale shoots out of him. “We were on a mission. In and out. We used to call it ‘a burger.’”

  I frown, squeezing his arms in encouragement while my eyes search his face.

  Mitchell sighs, his gaze returning to the far-off lake. “Used to be a burger joint called In-N-Out Burger.” He gives an abrupt chuckle. “Anyway—burger.”

  Mi
tchell's face takes on lines of anguish. He won't want to tell the story twice. “Easy, right?” His voice cracks.

  I don't think. I just move into the circle of his arms.

  He crushes me against him, his body overwhelming mine.

  A heart I caused to beat thumps against my wet cheek. He strokes the back of my disheveled hair.

  “We're moving into the low-tech area—farmers, kids… civilians. We've lost one of our own, need to get him back. He scouted, then we lost contact. Simple.” His chin tucks against the top of my head. His Adam's apple vibrates against my forehead. “Burger,” he whispers.

  But I hear. I hear so much more than the words. See, because he's my zombie. And I'm his mistress. And in a really creepy kind of way, I get the melt-off from his emotions like an iceberg calving chunks of ice. Now? It's more like chunks of heart—broken and sliding into a miserable glacial ocean.

  Never to warm again. Feel. Live.

  I tighten my grip on his waist, feeling the muscles at his flanks as he tenses, preparing to tell me more.

  “Casper was dead, of course,” Mitchell recounts softly.

  Of course. I suck in my breath. Hold it.

  Like a ghost. I remember Gramps saying something about a ghost named Casper that was a popular show before pulse.

  An ugly coincidence.

  “They tortured him in such a way I know they didn't get anything outta him.”

  His breath warms my scalp.

  I dampen his slightly scratchy wooly flannel overshirt with my sadness. “Who?”

  Mitchell moves away, cradling my face, searching my eyes. “The common guy. The ones al-Qaeda uses. Expendable flesh.” His chuckle is dark this time, and a shadow of who he is breathes across his features. Merciless. Unyielding. “He didn't know who he'd captured.”

  I see the wink of silver-toned metal against his large neck and remember the sound of a necklace from before. Dog tags, Gramps calls them.

  His eyes bore into mine, and I swallow past the lump of fear and anxiety that's stuck in my throat.

  “When we got through with him…” Mitchell pauses, and a horrible mudslide of visuals pour through my mind. “We moved on to the higher sect. Should have taken back-up. But Eddie V. and me, we wanted first dibs. We let our vengeance get in the way of our brains.” His hand moves from his temple—as though pulled by an invisible string—to the spot directly over his heart.