My eyes move from Brad's back to the corner where the Null stares back. The corners of his lips tweak. “Don't even try it, Undead Princess.”
Dick. I fold my arms, glaring at him.
Brad grips the bottom of the windowsill, talking to the legs that stream endlessly past. “It doesn't have to be John Terran.”
Tiff's arms drop. “What, freak?”
I close my eyes. Aunt Tiff truly says whatever she wants. But in this case, it might be ill-advised.
The Null's lips curl tighter, and my heart rate picks up. He’s seen the Brad Show before—and maybe liked it.
“If you're truly fertile again—and man, do I hope you are—your husband doesn't have to do the deed. The process can be any viable male. Dead or alive.”
Tiff stands, rushing the bars. She grabs them, rattling them in their housing.
Mom and I exchange an uneasy glance.
Brad smiles. “Must have a touch of Body in this world.” He pushes off the wall, his face going blank for a moment.
The zombies file in through the door.
Sophie moans in the background, lifting her tear-stained face from her folded arms. “I can't do this,” she whispers.
Brad taps the end of Tiff's nose, and the sound of her teeth clicking are loud in the quiet as she snaps at his finger.
“I don't think you'll be the doer, Sophie,” he comments absently, giving Tiff a guarded look.
Mom's hand slides through the bars, and I take it.
She knows how I feel, and Mom's a powerful Empath in this world. Her ability's been restored to a five-point.
Though Mom had me and Pax a million years ago, this world messes with all of us, causing fertility on women who are facing menopause just around the corner.
Mom and I watch the zombies—they look so alive.
“Meet my pimps, ladies.”
My eyes travel the male zombies, all of them as big as Pax and Mitchell.
“Brad,” I plead in a quiet voice, “Don't do this.”
His small smile brightens his face again. “I need you, Deegan Hart. I need your power. For some reason, I don't have AftD anywhere but here.”
I don't say that with Pax, there'd be an infinite amount of Brad's because he could blink him anywhere. The thought ripens gooseflesh like hills of misery on my skin. If he doesn't have Pax, he can't travel anywhere else. And in our world, though we use a zombie slave force for menial jobs and tasks, we're not creating brothels. I didn't realize until just then that there are degrees of morality.
I swallow hard, my throat clicking. “I can't give you my ability, Brad.”
“But our child could.”
Mom's fingers tighten on mine.
Oh my God. Is he kidding?
I look at that GQ model face. “I don't—I won't ever be with you, Brad.”
He nods happily. “I know. That's why my zombies are here. They can give the right encouragement.”
This horde doesn't shamble; they stride smoothly to the bars.
Mom and I stand, our hands laced together. The metal heats against our twined fingers.
The zombies look on solemnly, hearing only Brad's voice. His will.
I open up the well of my death power. It beats against them, and they twitch like one body.
“Narco,” Brad clips.
“Got it.”
Cool swamps the heat of my power. The Null in the corner, named for the drug lords of the twentieth, grins.
The zombies harden before me.
Tiff backs away.
They tear the bars from their moorings and step inside.
“Cut the melodrama, Brad,” Tiff bites, but her eyes are tight with fear.
Blood runs down my leg. I guess my first menstrual period is the least of my concerns.
One zombie raises his nose to scent the air, and I shiver.
“Blood,” it says. His head tips down, and his soulless eyes find mine, roving to gaze at my head.
I know what it’s thinking.
So does Brad. He wags his finger at the enthusiastic zombie. “Now, now, you can't kill her, yet.”
The zombie trembles with want, tantalized by my lovely brains filling my skull.
“I think I believe in reincarnation,” Aunt Tiff says.
I guess for her, she's reliving the nightmare of Carson Hamilton.
But this isn't some pyrokinetic from before. This guy has unlimited resources in bot world. He wants more power. He wants what he can't have.
Me.
“Take them.”
Brad glances at the menstrual cleansers, and his nose scrunches.
My eyes roam his body. He resembles one of the convicts I raised on my earth.
I think of the Reflectives from Papilio. They can't Reflect or jump—whatever they call it here because this is a parallel of our world. What did they call it? Oh yeah, Sector Three. But this world could use a little justice. They have zombie prostitutes here.
I study the zombies with barely contained horror.
Bot world has zombie pimps. When we narrowly escaped this world, I shied from thinking about. I didn't really have the time for contemplation. It was onward and upward, toward the next disaster. Bringing unsanctioned zombies from this world to ours had thrown us to the sanction wolves in my home world. I'm certain they're still searching for us.
The elder Thompson has left his prodigal son in charge of this area of power.
No one but Organics are allowed. Their version is Healers.
My head snaps to attention as Tiff roundhouse kicks the closest zombie.
I back up against the wall, my hand and Mom's straining between the bars.
The zombie's head cants to the left, and I cover my mouth with my free hand.
The other zombie moves in, grabbing Tiff, and wraps his arms around her, containing her limbs.
She kicks the next one in the chest, and he flies three meters. His body hits the wall so hard that dust from the stone foundation falls like ashy tears.
Brad's laughter is the only sound besides Tiff's pants whispering together as she scissors her legs to escape three zombies.
And she's clearly a Body in this world. But even a Body can't overpower three zombies.
I could've warned her. But Aunt Tiff already knew. She just won't listen. She can't. Tiff’s not hardwired to give up.
They take her down. Blood stains her jeans as she squirms. “You fuckers!” Tiff screams, biting the arm that holds her. She spits the chunk of undead flesh, and it lands with a wet smack on the concrete floor.
The one constant: Zombies don't feel pain.
I feel her AftD well, and mine mingles with hers.
Narco flexes his Null muscle, and I drop to my knees.
Mitchell! I scream, still clutching Mom’s hand.
He doesn't hear me.
Pax!
A handful of seconds pound by. Then: Dee!
My eyes fly open. My head whips to Mom. Help, I mouth.
She nods.
I think.
Mom sends images through our amplified connection to Pax.
My brother's rage is tasteable.
“What the fuck are you doing, Deegan?” Brad seethes, his pretty-boy face turning ugly in a heartbeat.
I don't break my concentration for a second. I keep sending.
His slap on my cheek rocks my head against the wall, and my visual stream trembles. I send.
“Don't you hit my baby,” Mom says.
Brad's face whips to Narco. “Are you even fucking trying?”
Narco's small eyes become slits of hate. “You try holding back this much AftD and see how it works. I can't keep all their abilities locked down.”
Brad grunts, and my palm hits the solid rock wall behind me before I slide down.
“Fine, get the Cowboy.”
Narco's lips lift. “Already sent Cousin Kim.”
Brad's lips lift off his brilliant white teeth. “Tight.”
Narco's shoulders relax.
&n
bsp; Spittle flies from Tiff's lips, “Release me!”
I throw my death energy in with hers.
No, Pax says.
Have to try, I reply.
Suddenly, I can feel Mitchell. He and Pax are touching.
Hi, Mitchell. I feel the goofy smile form on my face, while the taste of copper sears my cut lip.
Deegan.
I breathe him in. Whatever combination makes Mitchell mine threads through me. His strength. His essence.
I don't really even feel Brad hit me again. The room tilts, and I fall on my side. Brad's shoes are all I see.
Mom's screams hurt my ears.
“You cowardly sonofabitch!” Tiff screams.
Scuffles reach me, then mumbled bits of cursing.
Then silence.
Large feet join Brad's.
Mom's hand is torn from mine, and there are no pictures now. Only words.
Help.
Brad grabs my wrist. He drags me across the floor, and the blood from my cycle leaves a trail behind me.
I'm still me enough to be mortified.
Sophie screams, and Mom joins her. The harmony of their fear paralyzes my own.
Dad and Pax would kill these guys. That's why they separated us, I guess.
Brad gets me out the cell door, and the zombie's follow. Their feet follow anyway.
As I'm dragged past Tiff, I scramble for her hand.
Brad hits her with his fist.
Tiff goes down, her knee hitting the cement floor, hard. She smiles up at him for a split-second, her teeth lined by red, and strikes out with her hand, nailing Brad in the crotch. His knees buckle.
Tiff bounds up.
“Subdue her,” Brad says in a low voice full of intent.
Tiff kicks him in the teeth. “No more pretty boy.” She breathes the words through her pain.
Brad lands backward, hands clutching his balls as blood flies in an arc toward the low ceiling.
I crawl toward the Null.
Narco backs away. “No touchy,” he murmurs.
I put everything I am into the one command. I don't know all that I am here, but I'll be damned if I let Brad force me to watch him take apart the people I love.
I lurch forward from my hands and knees, my hands encircling his ankle.
Narco tries to kick me and lands a solid hit on my shoulder. Agony sings through the joint, causing me to grit my teeth.
A zombie hand grabs my ankle, and I feel my abilities in my mind like a deck of playing cards.
I shuffle, dismiss my surprised irony at what I hope will help us the most, and give the command, “Narco, silence Brad Thompson.”
Narco stills.
The zombie jerks me backward, and I fight to latch on to any part of the Null.
A yawning mouth full of square yellow teeth draws nearer, aiming for my neck.
“Subdue!” Brad shrieks the garbled command from his position on the floor.
I hear a tearing sound and jerk away from the zombiesʼ mouth in time to watch Narco duct-tape Brad's mouth.
Narco stands from his bent position over Brad.
Holy shit. “Don't bite me,” I command the zombie, whose hot rotting breath bathes the lower half of my jaw.
His forward movement arrests like a pulse switched to off. The dead's eyes roll to meet mine. “Mistress.”
I've never heard a word I liked better in my entire life.
“Release me.”
He does, and I barely catch my body from smacking the concrete. Zombies are so literal. The undead guy never thought about letting me down gently—or slowly. The command was given; the zombie complied.
I turn to Brad, who’s writhing on the floor, rocking back and forth while holding his crotch. His eyes bulge with the need to talk.
Oh, what he would say—no, command—if he were able. But he's not.
I want to feel superior, but all I can manage is profound relief.
Mom runs to me, her eyes rolling over my body, clearly checking for injuries. There're plenty. I can feel my face already swelling from the slaps. “Did you get control of the zombies, Deegan?”
I laugh—control—and the sound becomes a sob.
I nod quickly, tears scattering like errant rain. I stand and sway. Mom slides her arm around my waist. We're the same size, so I lean against her, grateful for the support.
Sophie walks up to me, and I note we're all filthy, bleeding like stuck pigs while Narco keeps adding layers of tape over Brad's mouth.
Wow, love that. I give a weary smile. Took my command to heart. I suck in a gasping inhale. “That's enough, Narco.”
He gives an absent smile and stands. He sways slightly, awaiting further instruction.
I shiver in distaste.
“How did you know?” Mom asks, searching my face.
That I was a Manipulator in this world? “I didn't.” I try to regulate my breathing so I don't hyperventilate.
“So for goddamned once, we get lucky?” Tiff struggles to stand, beaten up but whole. “About damn time.” The corners of her mouth rise, and she kicks Brad in the ribs.
I jump at the violence.
His muffled yell is audible through the tape. His beautiful large dove gray eyes are wide.
Aunt Tiff gives a decisive nod. “I feel better now.”
Mom frowns. Her hands shake as she tucks my mostly loose hair out of my face. Her hands clasp the sides of my cheeks. “Deegan.”
The zombies shudder. My face whips to them. They have an alert edge that I didn't put there. “Someone's coming.”
Brad goes silent.
Narco is still vacant. “Who else knows about us?” I ask while giving him a nice mental shove.
His left eye twitches. “Only the other AftDs and Brad's dad.”
Other AftDs.
We need to go. I wrap my fingers around Mom's arm to speed our communication, and her eyes get round. “Okay,” she breathes, getting my sense of urgency through the Empath Highway.
Sophie makes a sound of fear low in her throat. “I want Jonesy.”
I swipe a tear from my face. I want them all.
“Let's get the fuck outta Dodge, girls,” Tiff says. She heads for the door and tears it open. One of the hinges comes away from the jamb. “Damn, I love this Body thing. Gonna suck to have to go back to my weak-ass body in our earth.”
If we get back.
As we leave, I send out the feelers.
Pax pings back immediately.
I move in that direction, one hand clutching the menstrual cleansers.
A girl has to be practical.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Pax
Gramps has got his eye on Kim, who's a closet Organic—or “Healer,” as they're called on bot world. She's not a Brad fan, too, as it turns out, and she wastes no time after Cowboy Null leaves, to heal us out of the worst of our injuries.
“He's worse than our Brad was.” Kim's fingers tighten on Gramps's last wound, where deep abrasions cross his hands.
“How is he getting away with this zombie brothel thing?” Gramps asks.
Kim's large brown eyes take in the foot traffic cruising past the window. “I don't know exactly how it all began—I was young. There was a scientist team responsible for inventing the first cyber technology.”
Gramps snorts, giving us guys a full look. “Remember their names?”
Kim bites her thumbnail. Her once-tidy hair has come undone into a curling mass of dark-brown hair with a few gray strands. She pushes a tendril behind her ear and replies, “Zoe-something.” Her eyes roll toward the ceiling, clearly trying to remember. “Zon—darack?” Kim gives a small shake of her head. “That's not quite right.”
“Zondorae,” Dad supplies in a cryptic tone.
Great.
She flashes a brilliant smile at him and snaps her fingers. Fingers that made us all well. “That's it, thanks.”
All of us guys exchange another loaded glance. Except Mitch. He doesn't have the history to understand the
implications.
So the Zondoraes are mad scientists in this world, too. Figures. Instead of just messing with all the teens here, they also had their fingers in the cyber pie.
Fucking swell.
Kim waves away her words. “So they began making cyborgs—prototypes. ‘Small nonessentials,’ I believe they were called. And eventually, the cyborgs became larger, more complex. After time, they evolved enough to take over the manual labor force. So the sanctioning of zombies for a workforce never materialized.” Her face grows sad. “But that didn't stop Clement Thompson from harnessing the sex trade potential of the undead.”
Brad's dad.
“I'm not embarrassed,” Kim says. “Not at all.” Her face flames.
Mitch glowers, and Jonesy, still sitting on his ass in the corner of the cell—now awake—rubs his chest. “Sounds like necrophilia any way you slice it.” He ignores the emotional vibe and goes straight for the bottom-line jugular.
Dad's lips quirk.
Jonesy gives Dad an incinerating stare. “Fuck off, Hart. When it comes to anything sex-related, I know my business.” He thumbs his chest. “Except for Alex. Now that dude is knowledgeable.”
Disgusting.
“Okay, I'd really like to know more,” Gramps says, ignoring their exchange, “but we need to find the girls.”
Kim's face pinches, and a large tear seeps out of her eye. “I might be a Thompson, but just because I'm Clem's first cousin doesn't mean I'll be given any latitude for letting you go.” She bites her thumbnail again. “Healing you is a compulsive ability. I feel ill if I don't use it. But they might kill me—or worse—if I let you guys go. Relative or not. And, I've kept my ability a secret.”
She doesn't say why, but I don't have to be a brain surgeon to figure it out. Thompson would exploit his own mother if it advanced his goals. Dicklick.
We're silent. Obviously, all our wheels are turning. Don't want to get anyone's ass in a sling because we're trying to escape. But I’m not looking forward to joining some kind of zombie ranks or whatever else that fuckknuckle Brad can cook up.
Gramps tilts his head to the side, capturing his chin with a hand bearing only faded bruises now. “Why don't you come with us? You could use your ability out in the open in our world, and you wouldn't have to be the lackey for your sick family.”
Go, Gramps.
Kim's lower lip trembles. “If I left”—she shakes her head, hair scattering from its binding and falling around her shoulders—“and they ever find me…” Her body shakes.
Death Series 08 - Death Blinks Page 9