“A gross embarrassing mess,” I emphasize. My words are greeted by silence.
“Fine,” Tiff grumps.
We exit the stalls, and Tiff glares at Sophie.
“What?” she asks innocently, but her voice is filled with laughter.
“You gave me the lamest leggings on purpose.”
We look at Tiff's leggings. They're a flaming-red-and-black zebra print.
I put my hand over my mouth. The red flames sparkle, too. I couldn't have selected anything less Aunt Tiff if I tried.
“And I look like I'm packing shit in the back!” she half-shouts, and pivots, grabbing some excess material at her butt region.
We all stare at Sophie's ample rear end, then at Tiff's little tiny one.
“They're clean, at least,” I offer, getting a class-A crooked mouth. You know the kind, where it's super inappropriate to laugh, but managing not to is impossible. Like at funerals. Church. A job interview. Seems to be a Hart Family Problem.
I glance down at my leggings, which are shimmering black with pink polka-dots. Not my choice, but it's okay.
Mom's are hot pink with red lips. Super bad. “Thanks, Sophie.” Mom smiles.
Mom's always so gracious about everything.
I'm grateful that I was able to ditch my grodie denims and wear something clean. I tell her thanks, too.
We look at Tiff.
“No, I look stupid.” She crosses her arms, and so does Sophie.
Stand-off.
They have a staring match.
“Fine!” Tiff says, huffing to the main bathroom door and tearing it open.
I guess I won't have blood crotch to deal with. That's an upside.
There's a man who looms into the open doorway.
I have a second to realize he's wearing a cowboy hat before that familiar feeling spreads over me. The same one that I get around Uncle John.
Shit, this guy's a Null.
Tiff doesn't worry too much about the finer points and punches him in the nose.
There's a dull crunch.
“Take that, peckerwood!” Tiff shouts and steps over him.
His hand snakes out and grabs her ankle. Down, she goes, a blur of black-and-red zebra stripes.
Here we go.
*
Cowboy
I survey the deserted hallway and note the time—straight-up six o'clock.
The cyborgs are deactivated, recharging for the mundane activities of the next day. I stride past where they're stored and notice the softly glowing chests of their semi-hibernation state.
The other world doesn't employ cyborgs, from what the Thompson's have relayed. That might be another plus.
The door I need is to the left, and that pain in the ass, Kim, has been with the other-worlders long enough. I don't want dickbag Brad up my ass because she got all sympathetic. Actually, Kim's not too bad—but I get pounded for anything she does wrong.
Sort of like babysitting but without the perks.
I trot down the steep cement stairs, which were installed long before using recycled materials became mandatory, and swing open the door.
Kim's not there.
And neither are the women. My heart surges up my throat, trying to knock its way out of my body.
There'll be hell to pay. Brad will have his daddy string me up by the gonads.
I look left then right before stepping forward. I trip and save my nose from getting broken by quick palms in front of my body. Still in push up style, I crank my head, glancing behind me to see what the fuck I tripped on.
Brad moans.
Oh fuck.
I swivel with my hands, tipping over, and lift one beat-up leather boot over the top of Brad's body, then the other.
I stand.
“Ron,” Brad croaks, grabbing at his nuts with one hand and beseeching me with the other.
He's got a case of pancake nose with a chaser of dried blood. His mouth is bleeding, and there is a heel print of an old-fashioned sneaker at the side of his mouth.
I retreat a step. This is bad. Any way I turn the circumstance over in my head, I end up with my neck on the guillotine.
“What happened?” I ask, though that should be obvious.
The women somehow escaped, and Brad got his testes tapped. I feel a pang of sympathy. Almost. Unfortunately, Brad nipped whatever compassion I might have harbored in the bud just by being who he is.
“Zombies,” he says, eyeballs bulging.
A stealthy noise to my immediate left alerts me.
I whirl as strong arms knock off my cowboy hat. I love that hat. Undead fuckers.
In automatic response, my Null ability washes over the room. Now that particular talent is no weapon against zombies.
Or their superior strength.
I dip down, snag the brim of my well-loved hat, and sprint back the way I came, leaving Brad to figure out the horde.
If he can.
I'll find the women, and maybe, if I'm really lucky, I'll get the hell out of this world where Brad can't follow me.
I don't think. Instead, I shut the door that's at the top of the staircase and use the key I've been assigned to engage the bolt. That won't hold determined zombies from coming after me, but as I look through the narrow rectangle of tempered glass, I watch Brad crawling toward the zombie that tried to give me a love squeeze.
I’m not hanging around to see what happens next.
Now, the women all began their cycles here. God, am I glad I'm a dude.
What'd be the first thing they would do after they were lucky enough to escape? My eyes shift in the direction of the bathroom.
Bingo.
I jog toward the door. How much trouble can it be to reason with them? The cute girl, Deegan, only appears to be a few years younger than I am, and the older women, well—they'll be more tame.
My hand hovers over the lever for the door entrance, and I hear a resounding click.
I frown, drawing my hand back as the thing swings wide, almost beaning me in the head.
There stands the skinniest one. Dark-hazel eyes peg me, one half closed. That gaze widens, and she punches me.
She's just a girl, I tell myself. But the girl busts my nose. Then she nails me in the fucking nuts.
I fold like a broken chair and mewl, breath wheezing through my tight esophagus.
I grab at her ankle, and she begins to topple.
As usual, easy just turned complicated.
Then I puke.
Perfect.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Deegan
“Oof!” I stumble into Tiff as she lays out the Null. “Aunt Tiff, he's down!”
“Shh!” Mom's eyes dive from left to right.
“Cyborgs,” the man at our feet gasps. “Not too loud, or they're gonna wake up.”
Gooseflesh has its way with me, crawling over every surface of my body.
Tiff whips her head from side to side then plops down on the Null, straddling him. Air leaves him in a harsh whoosh of breath. “Where, stud?” Stiff knuckles are poised above his exposed throat.
The Null blinks, gasping, “Everywhere.” He looks her over, eyes staying on her crazy pants the longest.
Tiff scowls. “Don't even think about saying anything, cowboy.”
“Hurting too bad to care about your lack of fashion sense, darlinʼ.”
Oh my God.
Tiff shifts her weight, and he groans. “Where's that bitch, Brad?”
The Null inhales deeply then lets it out with a wince, still eyeing her hovering knuckles. “I'm not going to hurt you guys. Can you—” He looks at her for an awkward space of seconds. “Get off me?”
Tiff shakes her head. “Surprise was my advantage. I let you up, and you'll clobber me with your big ass.”
His face reddens, his eyes shifting to mine.
The irises are a beautiful amber. I know this because the last of the dying sunlight strikes a wedge of pale, ambient light across his face, lighting them like soft lamps.
> I realize this guy isn't that much older than I am. “Hey, Aunt Tiff?”
She doesn't look at me, keeping her eyes trained on the Null. “Yeah.”
I hide a small smile by biting my lip. “Let him up, I don't think he's trying to hurt us.”
Tiff's hazel eyes become slits. “Birds of a feather and all that happy ho-ho shit.”
He sighs. “Listen, I'm not in any position to hurt anyone. Right now, I want to crawl off in a corner and lick my considerable wounds.”
Tiff smirks. “Okay, big fella.” She smacks him on his chest, and he grunts. “Next time, don't grab a girl that just socked ya in the schnoz and the nutsack. Doofus move.”
“Doofus?” He quirks an eyebrow, clearly puzzled by the term.
“Tiff-speak,” I translate a little helplessly.
The Null gives me a grateful look. “Okay.”
Then Tiff is standing, and he rolls over, moving to his hands and knees. He spits on the ground by his pool of vomit and takes a few seconds to fortify himself before standing up.
He's tall and well-built. Not monstrous like Mitchell (not that I'm actively comparing) but lean and muscular.
Of course, everyone seems tall to me, but this guy is at least six-feet, two. His hair is a honey color, like his eyes, and falls in disarray every time he twitches his head, like he needs a perpetual haircut. The deep dimple at the exact center of his chin looks like a crater.
He managed to keep the vomit off his clothes—and they're an interesting mix. Except I can't be interested.
We need to get my family. And Mitchell.
The Null limps to the wall and leans his palms against it, taking quick swallows.
“My brother can fix you,” I offer, feeling kind of bad about the Tiff-battering.
He swings his head in my direction. “My name's Ron.”
“Hey,” I say.
Sophie, Tiff, and Mom are silent.
He jerks his chin in their direction. “I know, I'm the enemy. But actually, I have a favor to ask.”
“Careful what ya wish for,” Tiff comments in a dry voice. She produces a piece of gum from I-don't-know-where, stuffing it in her mouth. Gum is gross. Never understood wanting to have something in your mouth you're not going to actually eat or drink. Yuck.
She's an expert, though, rolling the disgusting blob around in her mouth then blowing a big bubble that only allows her eyes to peek over the top of the neon-green growing ball.
“Don't pop that,” Ron squeezes out, barely managing to stay upright.
“Damn.” Tiff stabs the huge bubble with a finger and sucks the entire wad into her mouth.
Eew.
“I need to get out of here,” Ron says, clearly as repulsed by Aunt Tiff's habit as I am.
Tiff snorts.
“I don't think that's possible. I guess we're grateful you didn't attack us, but this is the most inhospitable place we've ever traveled.” Mom says.
“Amen,” Sophie chimes in.
Ron's whiskey-colored eyes narrow on mine.
“It's pretty bad. With the zombie whorehouses and the Brad of my world with unlimited power here?” I shrug.
His eyebrows yank together, and he grimaces as he crosses his arms in front of him. “That's why I want out. I'm viable because I can control the few paranormals who escaped the camps—”
I get a bad feeling. “Camps?” I whisper.
“You know your history?” Ron asks, eyes sharp.
I shift my weight. “Yes—the history of my world.”
“Well, there was this nutjob named Heinrich. German zealot type from the twentieth who thought it was a cool idea to wipe out everyone who was Caucasian.”
I blink. Hitler. He means this world's Hitler.
“You got that wrong, friend,” Sophie says, crossing her arms below her generous-sized breasts and creating a push-up-bra effect. “Hitler hated everyone of color. Had a real hard-on against Jewish people.”
Ron's face screws into a frown. “I said Heinrich.”
They stare at each other, then Sophie lifts her shoulders in an exaggerated shrug. “So you're saying in this world, being white is not cool?”
Ron chuckles. “Fair skin and eyes are not the ideal here. Caucasian people don't age well, aren't athletic, can't sing or dance or perform with the aptitude of people of color. So no, we're just around because we're part of the human race. Tolerated. Sometimes we get lucky, and a savant will crop up.” He shrugs.
We stare at him, open-mouthed. Maybe the worlds aren't as parallel as we'd assumed.
“What?” he asks, his warm eyes shifting to the others then finally back to me.
“Things are very equal now, but there was a time—nearly a hundred years ago now—that the Caucasians”—I sort of stumble over the word it's so odd on my tongue—“would not allow people of all colors to be together.”
Ron waves away my comment, dismissing the differences with a palm swipe. “Anyway, the camps are for paranormals. It's the first time since Henrich's reign in the 1940s that there's been that kind of segregation.”
Extermination? I wonder.
“So our worlds aren't completely parallel?” I ask, disquieted.
“What was your first clue?” Tiff says, restraining herself from smacking the gum. She slides me a look like she’s saying, “You're dumb.”
I scowl.
Ron pushes away from the wall, and Tiff tenses.
But I want answers. I guess four girls against one man is doable. Especially one who is Body here. “So what's happening?”
“In the camps?” Ron asks, fixing his hat and running a smoothing finger along the brim in a gesture that looks like he's done it a million times.
I nod.
“We don't have time for this,” Tiff says in a flat voice. “I want to break the guys out and get the hell out of this freak show. Too many clowns, not enough circuses.”
Ron gives her a look.
She meets his stare with one of her own. Unflinching.
“She always like this?” He jerks his jaw toward her.
Some of the color is returning to Ron's face, but his nose is crooked.
“Consistency is key,” Tiff comments in a Sahara Desert voice.
One side of his mouth quirks. “What I'm saying is, when the camps close down and they're done running their torture, experiments, and killing squads on the paranormals, they won't need me. And I know a lot about Thompson Enterprises and a helluva lot about the Helix Strand.”
Helix Strand. Helix Complex, my mind instantly translates. And on the heels of that realization is what he doesn't say. Why keep Ron the Null around when he's been witness to who’s participated in who knows how many horrible things?
“Pax can decide if he wants to blink you back to our world, but I'll be honest, Ron.” Mom looks up at him, seeming to take his measure.
“Just touch him, Mom.”
Ron frowns, giving Mom a speculative look. “What are you?” His eyes scan her face. Green eyes the color of Alaskan jade stare back wordlessly.
“Five-point Empath.” Then her hand lands on his forearm, and there's not a lie that will stand against that kind of sensitivity. Thank God I'm not a schemer, or every idea I have would be naked before Mom.
In this world, she's practically omniscient.
Ron's eyes widen. “I can shut you down,” he says softly, but he doesn't pull away.
“I know,” she replies, “but I can't make a case for you if you're a liar and a criminal, now can I?” Her large emerald eyes collide with his amber ones.
Ron gently shakes his head. “No,” he agrees quietly then cringes as Mom clearly skates over rough stuff. Really rough, judging by her expression.
When large tears brim then fall, I take her hand.
“No, Deegan. There are some things you can't unsee.”
I let my hand fall.
“You were five when they took you.” Mom's confident voice floats the corridor, striking me like a soft whip of horror mixed
with awareness.
“Yeah.” Ron's neck reddens.
“Gawd,” Sophie mutters. “It's like the Graysheets all over again in this world, too. Shrouded and cloudy, but always muddling people's lives.”
“Or taking them,” Tiff adds.
From what Dad says, the covert government segment was much better at taking. Just taking.
Mom lifts her hand, flicks a tear off her cheek, and sucks a shaky breath. “It's awful here.”
“Different awful?” Tiff asks, tossing her gum in a separator just outside the restroom door.
Mom's eyes skid in her direction. “Yeah. But somehow just as bad.”
“Well?” Ron lifts golden-brown eyebrows that disappear briefly under the brim of his hat.
Mom slowly nods, giving a shock of black hair an irritated shove behind her ear. None of us really have any hair ties left. A lone one encircles my wrist. “I'll do my best, but the only thing they have is my word, because your actions…” She flips her palm out.
“They suck hind tit?” Tiff finishes in her oblique way.
Sophie laughs. “You are so you.”
“Yeah, I'm gonna be me, and right now, that means you telling us where the men are.”
Ron doesn't smile as he limps away, but he seems more at peace, at least for the short amount of time I've known him. “Follow me, ladies.”
“Said the lion to the lamb,” Tiff mutters. But she follows.
We all do.
If Mom thinks we can trust him, it'll have to be enough. Ron knows where the other half of my family is, and without Pax’s ability to blink, all of us are trapped in this awful world.
We have a sanctioned reception waiting for us when we get back to our earth. And I'm scared about that unknown.
But what we do know about the bot world is worse. A future where Brad thinks he can breed a super race without recourse—that would mean his plans for my family would be really final. He can't have Dad, Mom, Gramps, and Pax around because they would never stop trying to safeguard me until their last breath.
And that's what I'm really afraid of. My abilities aren't the same on this world. I can't control the dead raised by others.
They feel me, but they're not mine.
And if they're not mine, then they're just zombies with criminal intent, superior strength, and awareness.
Death Series 08 - Death Blinks Page 11