Lipstick & Zombies (Deadly Divas Book 1)

by McKay, Faith

  They called her name and she sauntered forward without hesitation. The eyes in the room followed her, but she ignored them. This was exactly what she needed to have happen; she was the one everyone couldn't take their eyes off. She was the obvious choice.

  She stood in front of the judges, shoulders back, hands clasped in front of her. Less intimidating, yet still confident.

  Four people in suits stared back at her. The way they slouched back in their chairs with their legs spread apart, chewed on their pens, and barely bothered to look her way told her they were dismissive and uninterested in their jobs. Good. These were exactly the type of people she was used to dealing with.

  "God, she's the skinniest one yet," the one on the left end said. His hair was thinning, and he thought the way he brushed it was covering the worst spots. He wasn't checking the top of his head, though. With such an expensive suit, you'd think he could pay someone to take care of that.

  "I know, we want young ones, but there's not a tit on the bunch," the blonde woman on the right said.

  "That can be fixed," one of the middle men said. "Did you see her photos from this morning?"

  "Weird one," the blonde agreed.

  "So why'd they send her?" the balding guy asked.

  "No," the blonde said. "Weird can be good. She's hard to ignore. The notes say she didn't say a word, and they still passed her on. Her audition tape notes say she was chatty." She twirled in her chair, and then leaned forward. "She's strategic. Look at her."

  The men ran their eyes over her. Despite the ache in her shoulders, she stayed prim and poised.

  "Do you think she'll be a problem?" one of the middle men asked.

  "I'm not sure," the woman said.

  The lot of them stood and circled her, crowding her space, and still, she didn't move.

  "The nose," one of them said.

  "I see it."

  "But the lips are good," said the balding one. "Recognizable."

  "You're right."

  "What do you think of your lips, girl?"

  "I think they'll do whatever they need to in order to be a successful part of Deadly Divas," she said.

  They laughed. "See? Strategic," the woman said. "I think she's got enough of a suck-up in there to make it."

  "Agreed," one of the middle men said.

  "But round three?"

  The woman shrugged. "That's not our concern."

  JO

  "Well, this is interesting."

  "What were they thinking?"

  "Well, no, think about it, it could be smart. We do need someone intimidating."

  "There's intimidating, and then there's scary."

  "We have five girls. That's it. To appeal to the widest demographic possible."

  "This will turn off a large portion of our demographic, and you know it."

  "Or make them wildly curious. Seeing something scary, in a safe space? That's everything."

  "Right, okay. Hmm. Well, at least this one shouldn't die."

  They laughed.

  "There's promise." One of them rose and used a pen to poke at her pony tail. "You think she'll be willing to go along with the stylists? These ones are known to be difficult."

  "What do you say, sweetheart? Do you think you'll be a good girl and let us make you pretty?"

  She didn't know how to begin to respond to that.

  "Oh god, is she mute?"

  "Can you talk, girl?"

  "Yes," she said, and cleared her throat. "I'll work with your stylists."

  Another man in a suit stood and began circling her counter-clockwise, the opposite direction of the one who was poking her with the pen. "Good muscle tone," he said, and pinched her forearm.

  Her jaw jutted out, her body tensed, but she remained still. "And there it is," the suit who'd pinched her said. "The scary. Excellent self-restraint."

  "You know she'll pass round three, so if we give the go ahead on this one, this is it. We have to consider this carefully."

  "As in all things," the poker said. "How much of the population are survivalists?"

  "Twenty percent, at last estimate," the woman said.

  "One fifth. How fitting. You may be perfect after all," he said. "Once we're done with you."

  GERRI

  "I called those other ones too skinny, so you brought me the chunkiest one you could find? Is that what happened here?"

  “Oh honey, you're going to wish you hadn't said that.” Gerri smiled, but only because she knew the threat in her eyes was scarier that way.

  “Lay off,” the older guy with the bad hair said. He smiled at her, and Gerri pulled the straps of her top up higher. Gerri was all for using her boobs to give her an extra edge, until some creeper looked at her like that. Between the guy calling her chunky, and the perv, she was having second thoughts on this whole thing.

  “But she has boobs,” the girl said. She was chewing on the end of her pen, and had been doing it for a while now. The spit trail hanging off of it made it hard to look her in the face, but she was a safe haven, so Gerri kept her gaze locked in.

  “That I do.” Gerri winked.

  “I meant it when I said we need some talkers,” she said. “She is clearly the liveliest of the bunch.”

  Gerri nodded. It had to be true.

  “If you could describe yourself in one word, what would it be?”

  Gerri pretended to think about it. Taking people's questions seriously showed you were thoughtful and respected the questioner. “Adventurous,” she said.

  “I didn't mean chunky in a bad way,” the jerk in the suit said, backpedaling now that the woman in the group had shown him up.

  “Of course you didn't,” Gerri said. She hoped he wasn't sure if she was being sarcastic or not.

  “I hope Willa likes this band,” the woman said.

  The man scoffed, rolling his whole head instead of just his eyes. He looked up in the corner, where a blinking light marked a camera. “If Willa wanted an opinion, she would have been here. She knows that.” He pulled the sheet away from the woman and stamped right in the center of the page.

  Gerri was in.

  WATM NEWS

  "This just in from Fort Atlas Hall: the auditions for the all girl pop band, Deadly Divas, have entered the mysterious third round. The debate on the wisdom of such a group rages on, but the girls here today may as well—Oh! What's happened here? Excuse me! Miss! Miss!"

  "Help! I need a hospital!"

  "Yes, I see that. What happened here?"

  "I was first alternate. Alternate! I didn't even make it in!"

  "Yes, I see. But how did that piece of plastic wind up in your arm? And what happened to your face?"

  "God, does it look bad? My face!"

  "Yes, miss, I understand your distress, but could you tell us what happened here today?"

  "I was waiting in the room with the other alternates from my school, and they took in that bitch Carrie, and—"

  "Sorry, Carrie who?"

  "The freak! They chose her with her feathers and she went in and I was waiting, just like we're supposed to, and MELANIE FRISKER stabbed me and went at my face!"

  "Horrible, horrible. And did this Melanie Frisker explain why she was attacking you?"

  "Because she was second alternate! She should have been happy she got that far! Have you seen her?"

  "Well, no miss, I haven't. And what is that lodged in your arm?"

  "Her mascara brush. She went at my face with her eyelash curler. I'm going to tear that girl apart. If they hadn't ripped her off of me—"

  "And where is this Melanie Frisker now?"

  "She's—she's still in there! They let her stay!"

  "Horrible, horrible."

  "And—"

  "Thank you for your time, miss."

  "But—"

  "Well folks, you heard it here first. The first picks for the Deadly Divas have entered the third round. Among those chosen, a mysterious and much-hated girl by the name of Carrie. Will she be the first member of the
band, or will the vicious second—now first—alternate claw her way in?

  Meanwhile, the question remains. These girls may be tough enough to tear each other to bits, but can they truly be counted on as role models in the war against the undead? Stay tuned for updates and our next story in five: the products you need to get the concert-ready body you're desperate for, and the ones that just may kill you."

  Chapter Three

  SADIE

  The table of weapons was neat and clean and left lots of room for creative use, but it wasn't meant for someone who had as much to prove as she did. She'd already shown off her throwing knives. She needed to get creative here, and she needed to do it fast.

  A door opened up, undoubtedly letting the undead into the room. She heard its slow, thumping steps headed her way, but didn't bother to look. As long as she didn't let it bite her, she'd be fine. She needed to worry about the show she was putting on for the people who were watching.

  She gripped the edge of the table and tipped it over, clearing it of weapons, and righted it before climbing on top. Climbing on top of tables was not exactly easy in a dress, or with a prosthetic leg, but she moved as slow and smooth as possible so as not to stumble or appear panicked. The corpse had only made a few steps progress.

  Dancing was not Sadie's favorite thing, but that didn't mean she wasn't good at it. She had to be. She'd told Anthony she might have to prove she could dance, and they'd prepared something together. Now seemed as good a time as any.

  She lifted her arms up, shook her hips, dipped, and shot back up. Leg bent to the side, a kick, a hop, and arms again. Street jazz wasn't really meant to be done on a narrow table, but she adjusted. She'd taken a class a year before where she'd had about as much space in the crowded room.

  Spin around, arms down, and up, kick and kick...and the zombie was finally, mercifully, within range. Without losing her balance, Sadie pulled up her leg and kicked down and out with as much power as she could manage. She almost fell forward with the lack of resistance against her foot. While she'd been trying for it, it surprised her when the insides of its head splattered across the room.

  She kicked her boot clean and twirled herself around, facing the dark window high on the wall. “How's that? You got another? I can do this all day.” She was exhausted, but she meant it.

  DEE

  She looked over the table of weapons. None of them felt right to her. The zombie was staggering closer. She pulled her shoe free and said, "I know how to work these bitches." The spike of her heel drove deep between its eyes.

  "What the damn hell? No one told me to wear something splatter proof!" She put her hands on her hips. "I broke my shoe. Who's going to pay for that?"

  CARRIE

  Carrie didn't have time to hesitate—she knew that was exactly what they were looking for. She grabbed a blade and sliced slits in her skirt. She better make the band; there was no way she could afford to replace the dress otherwise.

  Instincts drove her to slash straight for the muncher's head, but then she remembered: this was a show. They'd put her in this long room, like a contained runway. She was auditioning to be an entertainer. Calmly, with the muncher still ambling over from the far end of the room, she went back to the table and grabbed a second weapon.

  This was improv. She'd done improv before. That had been interacting with a bunch of dancers on a stage, but who knew, the muncher could have been a dancer in its former life.

  Focus. Be present. Don't let it bite you.

  The sledgehammer was heavy in her hand, and she thanked her trainer for being such a hard-ass. She could swing this.

  But would it be enough of a show?

  She considered her options and flipped the table on its side so it blocked the runway. Now she had a shield to wait behind. And wait she did. It was a slow one; it must have been decaying for over a month. New munchers would have run right for her.

  Just another couple feet and its outstretched arms would reach her. She revved up the chainsaw. The noise motivated the muncher to pick up the pace. It was close enough that a puff of rotten breath moistened her face—her pores would never be clean again—and she ducked away from its grasp before slamming the chainsaw through the table, into its gut.

  So. Freaking. Gross. The spray was like holding your thumb over the end of a hose, but with chunks. Her dress was so done for.

  She still had a sledgehammer and a knife the size of her forearm. Maybe the sledgehammer would make the better show, but if the blood and guts fountain hadn't proven she could handle this, then there wasn't much else she could do.

  The chain got stuck on something—maybe bone, maybe the table—and the engine stalled out. She swung the blade into the muncher's skull, releasing another, thicker, spray of blood, drenching her hair.

  She had to look terrifying. Good.

  She bowed at the black glass in the wall above her, assuming that's where they were watching her from, and walked back out the door she'd come in through.

  JO

  They left her alone in a closet-sized room without a word. A door on the opposite wall popped open. Unsure what else to do, Jo walked through it. The oblong space was much brighter than the first room. There was a table covered with a variety of average looking weapons. Again a door opened at the other end of the room, this time letting in one of the moaning dead. Without hesitation, Jo grabbed the forearm machete, stalked to the end of the room, and ran the blade up through the jaw and into the brain. She plunked the blade back out, shook it off, and let the corpse fall to the ground, at peace at last.

  She watched, and waited, and was met with silence.

  "Is that really it? Where are the rest?" Her arm dropped to her side. She'd messed up. That wasn't much of a show; that hadn't proven anything. "Send me more! I didn't realize you were only going to give me one. I can play the cat and mouse game! I can give you a show! Send me three at once; I'll make it slow! I can do it!"

  The door she'd come in through opened back up for her, but she refused to go through it. She sat by the door for the undead, crossed her legs, dropped her weapon, and crossed her arms. She would not budge. There was no going back.

  GERRI

  There were two bats on the table, and Gerri thought it was so damned funny, she just couldn't help herself. She picked them up and drummed them down the length of the table, rattling the weapons into an echoing clatter, and then beat them down the wall. She twirled on one leg in front of the zombie, keeping its attention on her, and then hit the bats together in a slow beat that went really well with its high pitched groaning.

  The zombie was closing in. It was time to get down to business. The song was reaching its epic finale.

  Both feet firm on the ground, hip width apart, she swung the bats in wide circles at her sides while the zombie crossed those last two steps. She expected it to be excited and lurch forward quickly, but it hesitated, so her first wide swing had to wait an extra beat.

  "Hey honey, you feeling okay?"

  She swung at the zombie's shoulder.

  "You're looking a little gray today."

  She swung at its knee, and it fell on its side.

  "Well, that's disappointing." She kicked at its side, and it crawled toward her. She sighed in disappointment. "Weak," she said. "Hey look guys, left handed!" She slammed the end of the bat down into the skull, cracking it open with a sick splat.

  "So... is that it?"

  FENNEC NEWS

  “The critics have not persuaded Last Chance Records to change their mind about this band, which I consider to just be a travesty, a tragedy waiting to happen! These girls are bound to fail, and once they do, who's going to sign up for the military then? If they truly thought this would solve their problems, well, I just can't imagine a person like that. I can't explain it.”

  “But the band is moving forward?”

  “Yes, as I understand it, the girls have been chosen. May they be forgiven. I can't imagine they realize the damage they're going to do.”

>   “Absolutely, John, absolutely. So now that the tryouts are over, what do you believe we can expect to see next?”

  “Hellfire.”

  Chapter Four

  WILLA

  Half way through explaining her plan she realized she was assigning herself to the dreadful task. Forming a girl band as part of a rebranding effort to convince teens to sign up for the military on their own was just not something she could trust to anyone else.

  Before the dead started walking around, before the wall, she'd been on her way to becoming a popstar herself. Since the wall, she'd been one of the pioneers to bring order and commerce back to this undead polluted world. No one knew how to direct teen decision making—or the power in it—like she did. She'd spent the past thirty years making sure that anyone who could possibly fill that position found themselves desperately needed elsewhere. This was her world. And now, because of how she'd dominated the field, there was no one else qualified to lead such an endeavor. Honestly, if they had suggested someone else, she would have been so offended she'd have had to enact vengeance on the doubter. But that did not mean she wanted to do it. It had been a long time since she had to actually speak to a teenager; that was one of the benefits of being at the top: no conversation with little people.

  And now she had five needy, sloppy, self-entitled teenage people she had to turn into the perfect propaganda. And it was her own damned fault. It wasn't the first time she'd wished to shirk the responsibilities of being so intelligent, but what was she to do?

  Her peers—if that's what you could call that room of dull drones—thought it was a big joke. Oh there goes Willa, thinks she's going to save the world with pop music. And yet they'd given up on coming up with any other plan, and everything else they'd tried before had failed. They expected she'd come through, and then it would just be another silly thing she did. If she did fail, by magically becoming someone with the capacity for such an event, they'd act like they knew it all along.