True to form, he answers with the trusty-dusty: “Yes.”
“Brilliant,” I declare. “A true masterpiece of architecture.” Billy squeezes me. I clear my throat. “Um . . . Where is everyone?”
Mark walks to the front door and opens it slowly. He utters something in a low voice and places his ear close to the knob. A few seconds pass before he straightens up and walks through the doorway, into the house and away from our vision.
“I’m not crazy about this guy,” Billy tells me.
“Me neither, but what other choice do we have than to trust him?”
“Why was he at our school when he clearly doesn’t go there? And why—”
“Save it,” I say. “We give him the third degree anymore, I’m afraid of what might happen.”
“What?”
“Like no potato chips or cans of tuna fish. That kind of afraid.”
“Typical,” Billy grumbles.
“He’s not very talkative either,” I go further. “No stress in his voice, no pain in his . . . something—I don’t know! His attitude is not what I expected from someone whose entire world has been turned upside down.”
“Humph. Have you taken a look at us lately?”
“Touché.”
“I know what you mean, though,” Billy says. “He isn’t exactly excited to see us.”
Mark emerges from the house, walking with swagger, two girls following behind. They’re shorter than he is, but from their shape and movement, I get the high-school-cheerleader vibe. Those hips rocking back and forth on teeny waists say pretty and prissy and popular. Billy’s arm tightens once more; this time, I imagine, for an altogether different reason.
“My girlfriend and her friend,” Mark succinctly puts it.
“Valerie,” says one, high-pitched and domineering.
Yep. Queen bee. Undoubtedly, Mark’s girlfriend.
“Christine,” says the other. Less arrogant, but decisive enough to mean she knows her place in the hierarchy; below Christine’s, though still commanding respect, especially from minnows like Billy and me.
“Charmed,” I say back. “I’m Tabitha, and this big lug is Billy.”
“H-Hi,” Billy manages.
“We’re staying in the basement. There’s light down there,” Mark explains. “You wanna come in?”
“Thought you’d never ask,” I respond gladly. The presence of the girls comforts me somewhat on Mark’s state of mind. I doubt either one would stick around if they thought he were dangerous.
Again: Knock on wood.
Mark starts for the house with Christine and Valerie.
“Well, Billy, it’s now or never. Are we going to trust him?”
He sighs. “I guess. Like you said, we have no choice.”
“You sure?” I poke further. “About a minute ago, you were about to punch Mark’s lights out. But, no, as soon as two hot young thangs come out, you change your tune.”
“Jiminy Cricket! Get me inside. You can tease me when we’re safe.”
Safe?
Safe is relative. Safe is descriptive. Safe is a word used in the worst of times, when we realize the best of times are gone, and when we pray for their return.
I don’t know if Mark’s basement is safe. Basements often have that gruesome reputation of death and torture, and other unmentionable happenings. And now it’s “safe,” whereas being outside is not.
“Come on,” I tell Billy.
We both blunder up the steps, across the porch, and into the dark house. Mark is already inside with the others. I can hear them arguing with one another in hushed voices. To the holiest spirits that exist in the world, I beg it’s nothing to worry about.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Carla Rossetti resides in Boulder, Colorado with her two cats and one dog. She is an avid chess player, pool shark, and the consummate nomad—transplanting every two years to satisfy her wanderlust. She looks forward to producing more content in the future for those who wish it. If you are interested in more stories about Tabitha, please rate and review this book, along with those that follow.
Tabitha's Zombies: Part 1 Page 7