Grampsʼs expression softens. “They don't have a blinker here, do they?”
Kim shakes her head.
“Or a Dimensional?” His salt-and-pepper eyebrows rise slowly.
“God no!” she laughs as if that's a ridiculous question.
I don't really think the question is that out there. I expect vampires and shit to ooze out of the cement at any time. They do have bots here, and zombie whorehouses. Is the possibility of a Dimensional a big stretch?
“So we go—you come with—and bye-bye bot world.” Gramps gives a mock-wave.
“Why do you keep calling it ‘bot world’?” Kim's forehead wrinkles between her eyes.
Gramps shrugs. “I don't know, but saying cyborg every time one of those bag of bolts opens its mouth to shriek takes time. Don't feel like giving it. Color me lazy.”
Kim laughs. She and Gramps gaze at each other for a few seconds. “Okay,” she says softly. “I don't have a husband or kids here.”
Gramps's face doesn't give anything away, but I'm pretty sure he's crushing on Kim, which is too surreal for me to inspect closely.
I shake off my bullshit. “Are there fertility problems here?” I ask, sure that there isn't since all the females of our group started cycling practically as soon as we got here. And Dee never had before.
“No.” Kim shakes her head. “Fertility's no issue, but the population is on the decline.” She lifts her shoulder.
“Why have children when the bots do everything that humans were needed for in the past?” John Terran comments slowly.
Kim nods. “And zombies provide sex for money.” Her voice is pretty bland. Guess the deal's been going on for a while here, so people are used to it.
“Who gets the money for that horrible trade?” Dad folds his arms, planting his feet wide apart.
Kim rolls her eyes and replies quietly, “All compensation goes to Thompson Enterprises.”
“So what if the zombies are aware?”
All eyes go to Mitch.
He regards us in turn. “I mean, if Dee said I had to have… relations with some girl, I'd have to—even if I didn't want to. But I'd know I was doing something against my will.” He looks at each of us.
“Too true, my friend,” Clyde says.
The two zombies exchange a glance of perfect understanding.
And that's when I notice Clyde is decaying. Bobbi Gale isn't here.
“Dad,” I say, jerking my jaw at Uncle Clyde.
Dad casts his eyes at the floor. “I know, dammit.”
“Still no AftD, son?” Gramps asks.
Dad shakes his head, his hands falling to fists at his sides. “Just a bunch of wildcard pyro. Feel like a toddler with a lighter.”
Whatever a lighter is.
There's no one to keep Clyde “alive” anymore. Dee and Tiff aren't here. And for some reason, only Bobbi and Dad can give him the juice to remain in perfect form.
This is sucking ass.
Pax!
I jump half a meter. Dee's scream is like a pulseified cattle prod up my ass.
“What was that?” Dad pulls a curious face at my sudden jerk.
Moving to the bars that separate all of us, John and Jonesy stare at me.
I don't answer because I can't. Images are flowing, and I can taste that Mom is driving this particular telepath freight train.
But I don't get bogged down in the how. I'm sort of a reactive type.
The images my sister sends scare the shit out of me. Brad is there, threatening Dee with zombie gang rape. The women are being bullied.
Knowing I’m responsible for bringing us back to bot world makes my blood boil. Basically, I served Dee up to Thompson on a silver platter.
I need to get to Dee. I reach for Mitch, and he doesn't hesitate. Our hands connect, and he sees what I'm seeing. Feels what I'm feeling.
His face goes murderous. And that figures since he is a murderer. And Mitch will be one again if he needs to bring it. Deadly force.
Everyone starts talking at once.
“Is Soph okay—”
“Tiff can't be…” John groans, putting his head in his hands.
“Where's Deedie?” Gramps's concerned face floats into view.
But Mitch and I have gone deep, and we clench palms in a grip so tight it hurts even me, a Body.
Kim's frightened voice says, “What's he doing? Are they coming back?”
I grit my teeth. Gotta get out of here.
I watch through Dee's eyes as Tiff kicks Brad's teeth in. Then Dee twists on the floor while a zombie jerks her back from a Null. Has to be a Null; my senses tell me he's a big void in the room.
Teeth bear down on my sister. Chompers loom large as they advance toward her neck.
“No,” I breathe out. He'll kill her with a single bite.
“No,” Mitch echoes in a hiss, hand convulsing around mine.
“Let's fucking go and get the chicks,” Jonesy says, looking at Mitch and me.
Sweat rolls down my face.
“Yeah.” I lift my chin and tear my hand out of Mitchell's grasp.
Clyde, gray-skinned, with eyes that roll in his sockets, nods. “We will retrieve Deegan.”
My eyes rove his compromised body. “You might stand out, Uncle Clyde.”
He tilts his head to the side and hisses, mouth dark. “It will not be the first time, young Master.”
Gramps looks to Kim, who's a little green around the gills, as he would say. “I know that you're scared sweetheart, but we won't hurt you. Might even give you a new lease on life.”
She gnaws her lower lip, giving Clyde a well-deserved look of fear. “I won't have a life if I'm caught.”
I grin, and Kim gives me a puzzled look, reluctantly taking her eyes from Clyde.
“I don't think Brad's up to much right now.”
She sighs in relief. “Maybe that'll buy us time.”
Or not.
Kim takes old-fashioned keys off the wall—the large brass loop holds about a dozen—and unlocks us all.
“No pulse technology?” Uncle John asks, surprised.
Kim turns to him. The keys make metallic music as she gestures with her hands. “Pulse what?”
John smiles. “They've got bots, and Zondorae's interference—”
“And the Helix Strand—their version of the Helix Complex.” Dad is tossing his words over his shoulder, already moving toward the door.
“But no pulse.” I can't believe what kind of bogus systems they have to be using to communicate.
Gramps doesn't waste any time from being freed, walking straight for Kim, and she backs up against the wall. “Please don't hurt me.”
I know Gramps won't hurt her.
But her reaction tells me where chicks fall in the hierarchy of this world.
Gramps halts then chuckles. “I'm not gonna hurt ya. I'm gonna lay one on ya.”
Seriously?
“What—” she stutters, flattening her palm against the stone wall.
Then Gramps pulls her against him and kisses her on the mouth.
Not great timing for a romance.
But I figure Gramps is gonna make the most of his golden years or something. No matter what world we're in.
“Gramps,” Dad says, interrupting.
“Mhmm,” he mumbles, macking with Kim, and she twines her arms around his neck.
Huh.
“Let's go.” Dad has his hand on the knob to freedom.
Gramps pulls away, taking a strand of Kim’s hair that got caught between them, and tucks it behind her ear.
Kim appears to be in a stupor, face flushed, eyes wide, breaths coming fast.
“Way to go, Mac,” Jonesy says in a dry voice.
I turn, and he shoots a tired fist-pump into the air. “Love that you're digging the ladies and all, but it's time to get our girls, ya old perv.”
Gramps grins. “Yup, but I'm a believer in timing.”
“Ah-huh.” Jonesy smirks.
Then Cowboy retu
rns, and everything goes to hell.
*
Cowboy
Ron moves with his usual quiet grace to where the other-world females are being held.
In the beginning, being the pet Null of Thompson Enterprises was king of fun. Brad was a sick fuck, but everything he did was legal. The cyborgs flipped burgers and picked up human refuse. Contemporary humans enjoyed a life where all our needs were summarily accomplished without us lifting a finger.
If a guy got horny, there was a brothel at every street corner—like the narcotics and alcohol bars of the past, brothels were a stone's throw from where a human could partake in the high of their choice and nail a little undead pussy—or cock. The Zondorae scientists made traditional labor obsolete.
Money was an archaic holdover that no longer mattered. People were assigned the same amount of credits annually, and cyborgs did everything we didn't want to do.
Of course, man still wanted to fuck and eat. Bots couldn't do that.
Then Ron’s Thompson Enterprises changed hands, and now we have a new Brad. This troupe of other-world paranormals blasted in and murdered the old Brad and burnt the Brad Thompson of this world to a crisp. Old Bacon Brad. I chuckle.
The Zondoraes were a busy pair, concocting a potion that allowed genetic markers for what was coined “sixth sense attributes” to manifest in a particular segment of the human population. The part of the human population struggling through the small window of puberty.
Simultaneously, the cyborg technology they'd been cultivating took an evolutionary leap forward and coincidentally came online when all the kiddies popped their abilities. The two technologies coupling turned out to be very bad timing.
Zondorae backpedaled when fifteen-year-old pimply faced boys began setting fire to everyone who pissed them off. No frontal lobe maturity and a huge amount of testosterone was a shitty mix.
And then there were the Manipulators. They were the first to get cleaned.
I can't help the grim smile that screws itself onto my face. It was a fucking thing. I shudder at the memories.
The solitary reason my ass stayed out of the camps for paranormals was that as a Null, I couldn't Manipulate dick, though I could limit the powers of all paranormals. Helix Strand made sure to find every Null higher than a level three and press them into service.
Even if they didn't want to give their service.
But this new Brad makes the former seem reasonable. This guy.
This guy.
He's got a pack of rats in his attic. And Clement Thompson, also an other-world transplant, is just fine with letting his almost-nineteen-year-old son be in charge of the zombie brothels in our region.
Zombies can take a fuckton of damage. If there's an AftD powerful enough, there's almost no limit to the injury-repair cycle. That type of scene is very popular to a certain group.
Except that zombies know what's happening to them.
And the new Brad is making noise about doing other things. Things I can't think about.
Then there's this dude named Parker and his twin from the other world.
I gotta make a stand. Get out of this world. The cyborgs are run by a mainframe, which is also artificial intelligence. And as soon as they don't need my level-five Nullness, I'm expendable.
There's no help here with the new Thompson regime.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Deegan
I scramble out of the holding cell and take a short climb of stairs two at a time. My eyes travel a long corridor devoid of people.
Old checkered vinyl tiles run like two-tone ugly diamonds of dull rust and cream down a path that gives no clue to the correct direction for escape. Weak sunlight stretches through sparkly glass windows.
Probably cleaned by bots. I shiver.
Sophie interrupts my search, “I see a restroom, and I'm going.”
I roll my eyes, but then remember that we're all on our periods, with no end in sight and only the supplies I grabbed from the prison.
Situated above the restroom door is the iconic symbol for women, glowing softly inside a small rectangle about the size of a supper plate.
I follow Sophie toward the restroom. Mom's at my heels, and Tiff brings up the rear. My hands are filled with the menstrual cleansers, and I can't hit the lever for the restroom.
Sophie sees me fumbling and pushes open the door. She steps aside, holding it open. When we're all through, Tiff turns the thumb bolt to the locked position.
“Holy crap, that was awful,” she comments. Her face is beat to a pulp. Her cheekbone is bruised, and one eye swollen half-shut. The visible slit of hazel iris is bright and pissed.
“Where are all the people?” I ask.
Mom looks at the solitary window. Textured glass obscures the view, and the light has grown dim since we came to the bathroom. “I imagine that the work day is through, and everyone's gone home.”
“That'd be a lucky slice of timing,” Tiff says, eyes traveling the generous-sized bathroom. There are six stalls, and like in our world, all the materials appear to be recycled.
Sophie is already at a sink basin, rummaging around in a screaming-hazard-orange handbag the size of a small suitcase. She sees us all staring. “What?”
I laugh.
Sophie raises her eyebrow above a perfectly aqua eye. “I never go anywhere without my purse.”
Even other worlds, apparently.
How did that purse make it through the blink? How does she still have it? My questions must show on my face.
She gives a delicate snort, excavating horrible clothes one at time from the cavernous handbag. Sophie also has a smaller purse attached to her denim belt loop. “I have everything we need right here.” Her voice is mildly triumphant.
“How come Brad and company didn't take that monstrosity?” Tiff asks, pointing to the ginormous handbag and giving the growing pile of clothes a suspicious review.
“They did, you sourpuss.”
Tiff folds her arms, ignoring Sophie for the moment. “I could use a shot of tequila right now.”
“That won't help us, Tiff,” Mom says logically.
“Don't give a shit.” Tiff slides a look my way. “Sorry about my potty mouth, Deegan. You're just gonna have to deal. I've been sober for about three seconds and feel like I just got jammed through a knothole then pulled back out.”
The visual's terrible. “That's okay, Aunt Tiff.”
“I hate feeling sharp,” she mutters.
Mom puts her hand on Tiff's shoulder. “We need you to be. We're up to our eyeballs in this mess.”
“I know, Jade.” She grins. “Kinda like old times.”
Mom sighs. “Not any of the ones I want to remember.”
“Yeah, well, you were always okay in the damsel-in-distress role.”
Mom puts her hands on her hips. “That's not fair, Tiff.”
Tiff shrugs. “I know your dad was the biggest dickhead who ever lived, and that made you gun shy, but all I'm saying is I can be hard. It's natural, and you're just…”
“Found it!” Sophie squeals while I think there might be people in the corridor now. Looking for us.
Bots. I remember the yawning mouths screaming at me when they found out I was paranormal. I wipe my hands off on my filthy denims.
Sophie holds up a small rectangular pack of cleansing wipes. Unreal.
“Cat got your tongue?” Sophie asks Tiff in a smug voice.
“Nope,” Tiff says with a smirk. “For once, your bullshit is going to do something important.”
Sophie sighs and hands us each a pair of paper-thin leggings and a handful of wipes. Once out of the package, the wipes begin to biodegrade after ten minutes of oxygen exposure.
“I can't believe this is happening to me,” Tiff mumbles.
I ask, “Why do you have six pair of leggings in there, Sophie?”
She blushes.
We go silent.
“I was thinking—when I got the pulse that Jonesy was getting together with the
old gang—”
“Don't tell me you were gonna hook up with his man-whoring ass?” Tiff asks subtly.
Gawd.
Sophie slaps Tiff with a hateful look. “I've never really gotten over Jonesy.”
“He's been married twice!” Tiff huffs, crossing her arms as her hazel eyes flash. “How do you not get over that number?”
“Three,” Sophie says under her breath.
“Oh, Soph,” Mom says, smacking her forehead. “Not Jonesy. He's too messed up with relationships.”
“I like Jonesy.”
They all turn to stare my way.
“He's nice to me,” I say.
“You don't have to date him.”
I make a face. “He's an old guy.”
Sophie glares at me. “I'm viable. Brad said so. I can pop out a baby if I get a volunteer.”
Oh, yes—Brad's the authority. Please. A guy barely a year and a half older than me.
“God, Sophie,” Tiff says, scrunching her nose.
Sophie's bright eyes slit on Aunt Tiff. “And you can't tell me you don't want to have a baby?”
Tiff's face goes soft. Her hazel gaze grows shiny. “Hell yes, I want to spit out a kid.” Tiff turns away from us, swiping at her eyes.
“Clean your crotch up—all of ya—and toss these awesome extra pants on I had in case I stayed over at Jonesy's.” Sophie waggles her eyebrows.
Her revelations give me pit sweat.
“That was super optimistic, Sophie.” Mom eyes her skeptically.
“That's me. I'm a half-full-glass kinda girl.” She winks.
I hand everyone a menstrual cleanser.
We each move into a stall and clean up, throwing our wrecked pants into the trash separator.
“What in the hell is this thing?” Tiff screeches from her stall.
“It's a menstrual cleanser, Aunt Tiff,” I say, inserting the cup-like device into the forward part of my entrance.
“This is just gross. I want my tampon,” Sophie laments.
“Listen, can a tampon last for half a day?” I ask logically. Who really knows if we can find the guys, and Pax can blink us back when we want. We need a longer-lasting solution.
“Deegan's right. Tampons are familiar, but really, they'll need to be changed frequently, and then we're right back to a mess.”
Death Series 08 - Death Blinks Page 10