Her arms on his arms.
Her legs on his legs.
Buuh-huuh. Buuh-huuh. Buuh-huuh. Buuh-huuh.
Muuh-huhr. Muuh-huhr. Muuh-huhr. Muuh-huhr.
Errrf-graurg. Errrf-graurg. Errrf-graurg. Errrf-graurg.
The others tossed and turned, moving restlessly around them, their sleep shallow and bothered. From deep within a dream, Estrada whispered softly, “Chula.”
Swann laughed and swept her hair across Nero’s chest.
Tickling him.
She let it cover his face, dragged it along his neck.
He pulled back, looking into her eyes.
Her crazy blue eyes.
And then her mouth was on his mouth.
Not biting.
Not tearing.
Not attacking.
Kissing.
Swann pinned Nero’s arms and tore off his shirt. Then held each of his wrists flat against the blanket.
She was covered in red, both dried and fresh.
Buuh-huuh.
Which meant that he was covered in red, both fresh and dried.
Muuh-huhr.
She stuck her thumb deep into the gash in his palm.
Errrf-graurg.
And then they were one.
NERO WOKE UP, NOT SURE WHERE HE WAS. The Infect voices had lapsed into a moaning rumble, followed by the usual scratching.
He sat up on the floor, alone.
His pants were on.
There was no blood.
There was no Swann.
The ceiling was dark, empty.
A surge of embarrassment washed across his chest.
They call that nocturnal remission.
Had the others heard him cry out?
Did they watch him toss and turn?
And even worse, did they know how much he’d enjoyed it?
Nero reached for the candle before remembering that Sad Girl had put it out before they went to sleep.
For those of you who “slept,” that is.
He felt his way across the room. The hallway was silent, the darkness almost physical, enveloping, not even a sliver of moonlight through the thick windows.
Nero listened at War Pig and Raekwon’s door.
No sound, except for a light snoring. He found the handrail and made his way down the steps. The fire was low, mostly embers, emitting an eerie orange glow that barely penetrated the room.
A long way across.
So go, already.
Nero forced himself to walk.
The scratching increased, as if the Infects could sense his movement.
All of them, just a wall away.
Hundreds of rending hands.
A thousand sharp teeth.
What if one had gotten inside?
One is inside.
Nero kept his head down, trying not to step on broken glass. At the three-quarter mark he could almost see the grain of the floorboards.
No way he should be able to see the grain of the floorboards.
Look up.
There was a light on in the dining room.
A light.
On.
In the dining room.
Better go back and get in bed with Sad Girl and Estrada.
Nero tiptoed over and pressed hard against the wall, taking shallow breaths, then forced himself to peer around the edge.
The bar was one long slab of mahogany. Two huge chandeliers hung from the ceiling. They sparkled softly, glittering across the leather stools. Art deco sconces glowed. Rows of liquor bottles refracted amber light, so much that he had to squint.
Behind the bar stood a woman.
Wearing a crisp white dress shirt, black pants, and a leather apron.
She appeared to be waiting for customers.
Don’t talk to her. Go see Petal.
Nero walked over, picked a stool, and sat down. In front of him were two small bowls, peanuts and olives.
“What’ll it be?”
“Bourbon,” he said, because it was the only thing he could think of.
The woman poured. Nero took a sip. The liquor burned, making him even thirstier.
“What’s your name, barkeep?”
“Lydia. My husband sometimes calls me Liddy. Or at least he used to.”
Nero’s head shot up.
His mother grinned, then held out her palms in a sort of jazz-hands pose.
“Ta-da!”
She looked good. New haircut. New nail polish. Happy.
“Mom? What are you doing here?”
“What am I doing here? What are you doing here?”
Nero thought about it, had no good answer, shrugged.
She picked up a martini glass and studied it for dirt. “Have you considered, Nick, the possibility that you’re starting to lose your shit?”
“Um . . .”
“You’re wearing an orange jumpsuit. Toting around an imperial nickname. Fighting ghouls. Having dirty dreams. And you smell like a compost pile. Sounds to me like someone needs a Ritalin script, pronto.”
ZOMBRULE #17: American teenagers are medicated 40 percent more than teenagers from other industrialized nations. Which means, by extension, that 40 percent of teenager-munching zombies now have vastly lowered serotonin levels, especially after they stumble upon an abandoned bus full of plump sophomore mathletes down by the river. Nevertheless, zombie chalupa, Arizona Iced Tea, and Almond Joy levels remain dangerously elevated.
“How did you know about my dream?”
“What else do boys dream about?”
Nero looked down at his torn palm, felt the sweat of a fever in his scalp.
And then it all fell into place.
“I’m infected, aren’t I?”
His mom shrugged. “Maybe.”
“That’s why I can see you. The virus is totally eating into my brain.”
“Why would it bother? Talk about a light snack.”
Nero frowned. “I thought bartenders were supposed to give advice.”
His mom leaned over the bar, looking to one side and then the other.
“You know what I’d do if I were you?”
Get divorced. Leave you at the mall with a twenty. That’s what she did last time things got tough.
“No. What?”
She pushed an ancient Zippo across the bar with one finger. “Start a big ol’ fire.”
Nero looked the lighter over. The gold was soft and worn. It had the Rolling Stones’ logo on it, huge cartoon lips with a tongue sticking out. Underneath, it said Altamont ’69.
She nodded. “Warm this place right up. It’d be the perfect encore.”
He spun the strike wheel but nothing happened.
“Wait, how is that going to help —?”
“Who are you talking to?” Cupcake asked, standing in the doorway. Nero spun around on the stool.
He was sitting in the dark.
There were no chandeliers. No bartender. No glass, no olives, no bourbon.
“Nobody.”
Cupcake stood just at the edge of the glow from the fireplace, hands stuffed into her pockets. She looked exhausted. Like she needed a hug. Or an IV of pureed steak.
“Then why are you sitting there?”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“Me neither. I don’t ever want to sleep again. But that didn’t make me want to hang out at the bar talking to myself.”
“No, I just —”
“You’re going down there, aren’t you? To see Petal.”
Nero didn’t answer.
“It’s okay — I won’t tell. She was my friend too.”
“Was?”
“I mean, she was nice to me. At camp. When some of the other girls . . . weren’t.”
Nero got up and felt his way toward the basement door. “Thanks for not saying anything.”
“If she’s turned, are you still going to untie her?”
“No.”
“Maybe you should. Anyway.”
“Why?”
Cupcake shivered,
hugging herself.
“I dunno. I mean, when it gets to the point that we have to be scared of Petal, there’s definitely nothing else left, you know?”
He nodded. “I’m sorry we haven’t had a chance to talk until now. I think I’ve . . . underestimated you.”
“Know what I like about you, Nero?”
“No clue.”
Me neither.
“I could tell right away, even when we were alone, you weren’t going to ask lesbian questions.”
“What questions?”
“You know — how does this feel? How does that feel? Is it just a stage I’m going through? The kinds of things boys always ask to make themselves seem open-minded but are actually just pervy and rude.”
“Oh.”
“It’s cool that you have no idea how cool you are.”
Cupcake turned and walked back to the stairs. “Good-bye, Nero.”
“Hey, don’t act like you’re never going to see me again.”
“We’re never going to see any of us again,” she said, and then was gone.
NERO GROPED HIS WAY ALONG, EXTENDING one hand into the darkness.
Wall.
Wall.
Wall.
Bookcase.
Wall.
Metal ball.
ZOMBRULE #18: An unturned doorknob is like a collection of Hungarian folk poems or discount sushi: best left alone.
As quietly as possible, Nero moved the hutch that War Pig had pinned the door with. Which wasn’t very quiet since it was heavy and awkward. He crept down the stairs one at a time until he reached the floor. Except the floor wasn’t there. He’d forgotten about the broken bottom step, tripped, and fell flat on his face.
Princess Grace.
He held totally still.
Nothing.
No noise.
No slither. No rasp. No howl.
Nero crawled past where the bodies of the hunters were. At least where he thought they were. With each foot, the smell got worse. It was hot and fetid. Stink blanketed his sinuses, settled in his nose. It bought furniture at IKEA, adopted a puppy, got a job, met other stink, went on a date, and talked about moving in together.
He slid through the wet and dry, the soft and hard. At one point, something tiny skittered around his hands.
Finally, he got to the boiler.
Where there was breathing.
Slow and low. Raspy.
“Petal?”
Chair legs scratched against the floor.
Nero got on all fours, ready to run.
And then a match was struck.
Z can light matches?
“I knew you’d come,” she said, wavering into view face serious but calm. Her eyes seemed normal, large, expressive. Her nose was still her nose, small and slightly flared. Her cheeks were still pale and drawn and soft. She smiled, partly obscured by tendrils of white hair, beautiful in the glow of the flame.
And you left her here. By herself. With them. All this time.
“God, I’m so sorry,” he said, immediately working at the knots. “I’m such an asshole for not getting you out of here sooner.”
“It’s okay,” she whispered.
“No, it isn’t.”
“Raekwon had a gun. What were you supposed to do?”
“I don’t know. Something besides go upstairs and be afraid.”
“You stood up for me.”
“I stood in front of you. There’s a difference.”
Petal lit another match.
“Where did you get those?”
“Lush slipped them to me. While you guys were arguing.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s my friend.”
Nero had forgotten that friends actually existed. That the whole world hadn’t turned into teeth and fingernails and betrayal and rot.
And voices in your head.
Hey, now.
“Is Lush okay?” Petal asked.
“No. She’s dead.”
“Dead dead, or . . . ?”
“She’s outside. With them.”
Petal nodded as Nero freed the final knot.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“No, Jett Ballou and I never hooked up.”
“Um . . .”
“What, that’s not what you were wondering? Every time we waited for the gates to open at Rebozzo’s?”
“It was that obvious, huh?”
“All boys are obvious.”
They are?
“Actually, I wanted to know how it feels to —”
“Be a zombie? Like, if it’s just a stage I’m going through?”
Nero smiled. “Sorry, I’m just trying to sound open-minded.”
Petal reached out and gripped his palm.
His immediate instinct was to yank it away.
Every organ in his body demanded that he yank it away.
Every voice in your head demands that you yank it away.
She could bite. She could drink. She could smell the fresh blood in his palm and be driven insane with hunger.
But he didn’t move.
Petal gently kissed his wound and then pressed it against her cheek. She was warm. Not cold. She was soft, flushed. He could feel a vein pulsing at the base of her jaw, just under her ear.
A cute pulse.
A steady pulse.
“Being Z feels normal,” she said. “If I even knew what normal was. Like the flu, I guess. Except there’s no pain.”
“So, are you like this . . . forever?”
“I don’t know.”
“But how can you be only partially infected?”
“Maybe I have some kind of resistance. Or whatever bit me had a weak strain. Or we’re all already building an immunity. Or I’m just too damaged to even turn Z right.”
Nero laughed softly. “If it makes you feel any better, I’m damaged too.”
True, you did just get done talking to your mom, who wasn’t there. And air-sexing a blond catwalk murderess, who, you know, may or may not have been there.
“You mean the way you’re always trying to act so hip and relaxed, leaning against your locker like an indie band drummer?”
“No, because I hear voices in my head.”
Petal cleared her throat. “You hear voices?”
“Actually, just one. The Rock.”
“The wrestler?”
Um, actor? Um, product spokesman? Also, I write poetry.
“You know him?”
“I guess not as intimately as you do.”
“Seriously, Petal? I spent half the night wondering if I was really in an asylum somewhere, high on Sugar Smacks and Thorazine and banging my skull on the rubber floor of a cell.”
She pushed his hair behind his ears, shushing him. “Trust me. This is no dream.”
“You swear?”
“I swear.”
“Because this part especially seems like a fantasy.”
“Which part?”
“Us. Finally being this close. All the way up the mountain, I was sure you weren’t dead. It was the only thing that made me not quit.”
They were quiet for a second.
“Actually, I can hear thoughts too,” Petal whispered.
She knows about Jayna Layne! She knows about Swann!
“Whose? Mine?”
“No, silly. Ever since I got bitten. I can hear them.”
“The Infects? Right outside?”
She nodded. “But it’s not really voices. They buzz. All at the same time. Like locusts. They communicate without words.”
“Okay, so what are they thinking about?”
“It’s hard to explain.”
“Then keep it simple. Why are they trying to eat us?”
Petal closed her eyes and concentrated. “Because that’s what zombies do in the movies. They’re going through the motions. Confused about how else to act. Embarrassed. When everyone’s bitten, no one will be left to judge, and then they can all just relax.”
“You�
�re shitting me.”
Petal lit the final match. “Actually, yeah.”
He smiled, absolutely loving how much smarter she was than him.
“What?” she said shyly.
Nero braced her shoulders and pushed the hair out of her face. It was dirty, with a slight gray tint. Her jumpsuit was in tatters. He could see glimpses of bra between the rips. Glimpses of panty. And her name tag.
“How come they never gave you a Trek Handle?”
She frowned. “Exene said I looked too much like a petal to ever call me anything else.”
“It’s so true,” he said, then leaned over and put his mouth against hers. She pulled back at first, but then gave in, holding him tighter. It was the exact moment Nero had been thinking about, creating, replaying in his mind for a year of Rebozzo shifts. All those nights in line, making small talk. Making jokes. Playing it cool. Feeling like a total Nick. Wishing for this.
Their tongues touched, electric.
It was fantastic.
At least until Petal stepped back and kicked him.
“Are you crazy? What did you do that for?”
“To prove something.”
“What, how easy it is for you to get infected?”
“No,” Nero said. “To prove that I don’t think you’re infected at all.”
“Yeah? Than what am I?”
He took a deep breath.
“I think you’re evolving.”
ZOMBRULE #19: Never. Kiss. A. Zombie.
Petal held his hand.
His throbbing hand.
You sure that’s just your hand throbbing?
There was nowhere else to go, and they both knew it.
There was nowhere else to hide, and they both knew it.
He thought of the picture of him she kept in her notebook. He thought of the picture of her he kept in his head.
Nero Sole and Petal Gazes were going to die.
Don’t say together! Don’t say together!
Together.
ZOMBRULE #20: Oh, hell, why not? Go ahead and kiss a zombie.
He reached for her waist.
They kissed again, slowly, in stages.
Eventually she drew back, into the light of the smoldering match end.
There was something in her hand.
Something she’d pulled off of his shoulder.
Four hairs.
Long, blond, catwalk hairs.
“Whose are these?” Petal asked.
And then a shotgun went off upstairs.
Twice.
The Infects Page 16