Heroine Addiction

by Matarese, Jennifer

  A quick swipe of the security clearance past the keypad next to the stairwell door sends a loud click emanating from the lock.

  I grin and kick the door open with one booted foot, descending the stairs just as the aggravated screams in my father's voice rise from the elevators.

  Luck stays with me all the way down to the building's dimly lit parking garage. I pull out of the rear exit ramp in Nate's wee chocolate-brown Cooper with my sickly ripening body in the passenger seat just as the interior lights in the first-floor lobby reappear in my rearview mirror.

  I only barely resist the urge to laugh in triumph as I speed towards home.

  The ride itself is as painfully silent as you would expect. Obviously, intelligent conversation – or really, any conversation at all – is out of the question, unless you count my occasional one-sided complaints about the smell to distract me from where exactly the pungent scent of rotting flesh originates. I debate turning on the radio, but decide against it when I realize just how many songs there are that could pump through the stereo speakers to make this entire situation even more unbearably awkward.

  Tucking a blanket that Nate keeps in the backseat around the body, buckling it in, and pillowing my battered denim coat under its head does wonders to make my wayward corpse pass for a simple sleeping passenger. But it didn't do much to eliminate the uncomfortable absence of sound.

  I wonder briefly if Nate's even still in my body, but quickly stifle the thought. That's one road that will only lead to a hefty serving of guilt followed by a heaping slice of fear, neither of which I have the metaphorical appetite for right now.

  It begins to drizzle not far from home, just as I'm turning off the interstate onto the long winding country road that meanders for a while before finally deciding to cross through town. I zip through the familiar territory at just the right speed, fast enough to reach town as soon as possible, slow enough to keep from hitting any deer that might wander out into the middle of the road. The drizzling rain mists the windshield, barely heavy enough to worry about windshield wipers.

  The body shifts in the passenger seat, and I reach out instinctively to steady it, my hand landing on the bare fleshy skin of what would, under normal circumstances, be my very own forearm.

  I don't know what in heaven's name I'm even doing.

  I don't know why I'm driving home. I don't know why I cradled my dead body in my arms and buckled it into Nate's car and left the city so quickly I may have left skid marks from the exit to the parking garage to the city limits.

  I don't know ...

  “Oh, for heaven's sake,” I hiss, and gun the gas pedal to the floor.

  I'm barely within sight of the main drag before I nearly hit a zombie with Nate's car.

  The car screeches to a halt when I slam on the brakes, and the seat belt is the only thing that keeps the corpse next to me from sliding into an embarrassing heap on the floor. I might be more concerned about the state of the body I'm hoping to return to eventually somehow, but … well, it's hard not to focus on the walking dead. They make themselves very hard to ignore, particularly the one currently licking at the glass of the driver's side window.

  I wish I could say I'm surprised by this particular turn of events, but it's been one of those weeks.

  Sighing, I swerve around the zombie still tripping over himself in the middle of the road and drive towards town.

  “I am definitely going to have to take up alcoholism when this is all over,” I murmur to myself.

  The closer I move to town, the more of the walking dead I spot shuffling around people's yards and stomping through the woods in aimless circles. Approaching the heart of Main Street in Nate's Cooper does nothing to diminish the sheer number of zombies that trudge in slow but persistent paths across the road. They ramble between hastily abandoned vehicles and terrified passersby, the majority of the town's inhabitants appearing to have enough sense to stay indoors.

  I'm not the least bit shocked to see Hazel among the crowd refusing to duck for cover when they could be doing a little amateur zombie-wrangling, warding off a moaning female zombie so that a trio of screaming high school boys twice her size can duck into the safety of the town library.

  Shaking my head, I park the car on the opposite side of the street and get out.

  I lock the doors behind me. I don't expect the undead to try to turn my body into a buffet, but I'm certainly not taking my chances.

  Hazel doesn't see me at first, too busy storming through a groaning huddle of zombies. The metal snow shovel in her hands swings with impressive force considering it's being wielded by someone who appears to weigh less than the shovel itself. One of the zombies tumbles to the ground, still gnawing at the air with its blood-stained maw.

  Hazel doesn't even flinch. She presses the business end of the shovel down on the zombie's neck, the edge of the metal sharp against its graying skin, and steps down on the upper curve, putting all her weight into it.

  The body lacks blood. The only indication she's succeeded in stopping it is the way the zombie's jaw ceases its futile biting as it tumbles towards the gutter.

  Hazel doesn't even give herself a moment to savor the kill, giving the head a good thumping with one foot before moving on to tear a zombie away from little Timmy Collins.

  So much for respecting the dead, I suppose.

  I stalk towards her, pausing to punch a severely rotted cape-wearing zombie I sincerely hope is neither one of my grandfathers which attempts to take a bite out of my neck as I pass. Timmy Collins bolts towards the library as Hazel whacks a zombie's head into a messy splatter on the sidewalk. As I walk up, I catch her sighing a tired breath and reaching up to run a hand through her unkempt hair, only to stop herself as she grimaces at the gory spatters on her fingers.

  “Need help?” I blurt out.

  She turns to me in the middle of wiping her hand off on her ink-stained jeans, the muck blending in far too well with the numerous stains of faded tattoo ink. “Not even a little, but thanks anyway.”

  I can't resist a grin at that.

  Recognition dawns in her eyes, and for a moment she casually ignores the irritatingly slow chaos rippling through town around us. “Hey, you're that guy from the Nobles' party.”

  “Only physically,” I crack, and frown as it occurs to me that there has to be an easy way to explain this to her without starting an argument or dodging thrown appliances. Never mind that there aren't any random kitchen appliances nearby for her to pitch my way. I'm sure she could force them to appear out of thin air if she were truly angry enough, preferably directly above my head just to save herself the energy of tossing them at me.

  Her eyes narrow at the face I make, and she steps closer to study me.

  “Vera?”

  I almost flinch backwards, wondering if maybe while I was gone she suddenly developed a raging case of telepathy. She's just that good, a voice in my head jokes, but it's true. It's so very uncomfortably true. “You are remarkably good at this game, you know that?” I say, and when I speak my words shake.

  She takes another step closer. “How did you get in there?”

  “Can we talk about this later?”

  Frowning, Hazel gives the lumbering zombies currently touring Main Street at roughly the speed of strawberry jam a dismissive look. “We could talk about this now, really. This is easier than I thought it would be.”

  My gaze drops to the old clunky tool in her hands. “A shovel?”

  “I'm not as good a shot as Gram is,” she says with a shrug. “She took the shotgun.”

  A shot rings out from the opposite side of town, and someone hoots and hollers in celebration. Hazel beams at the sound, absently twirling the shovel around in her hand like an expert ninja with a bo staff.

  “You are having way too much fun with this.”

  “I didn't realize there was a limit of fun to be had during a zombie invasion.”

  “I suppose you wouldn't,” I say wryly.

  Hazel bounces up and
down a little on the balls of her feet, her itch for a fight thrumming excited energy through her veins as she searches for another zombie to take down. Her bright eyes dim somewhat when she spots something over my shoulder. “Is that your face trying to gnaw through that car's window?”

  I sigh heavily at that, but don't bother looking back. With a question like that, I can just imagine what she's seeing inside the Cooper without having to verify just how accurate my imagination can be. I'm not sure what's causing this zombie infestation, or whether or not it's simply a coincidence that it's happening now, of all days, but watching my reanimated self lick the windows in the Cooper is not something I particularly want to witness. “Long story,” I say.

  She pales, her freckles standing out in sharp relief against her skin, and the muscle in her jaw flickers an ominous warning. “Your body's … dead,” she says, and I can almost swear I feel our usual argument tap me on the shoulder and question if that's its cue to arrive.

  “Is that the most important thing you want to fixate on right now?”

  Hazel freezes. “Depends. Where did she go?”

  I whirl around, knowing as soon as she says it just what's occurred. Sure enough, there's no body in Nate's Cooper, reanimated or otherwise. Zombies aren't exactly the most dexterous of creatures, so unlocking the doors to get out is a bit out of its range. However, it seems like using my superhuman ability to teleport down the block to fumble its way towards elderly Mrs. Tomasso isn't outside of its skill set even after death.

  “You have got to be kidding me,” I say.

  I'm about to head down the street after it when I freeze in place. I lift one of my hands to stare at a palm lacking scars and lines. I study my body, not the one I'm trapped in but the one tramping towards anything that moves in my red silk dress. It bounces with deft superhuman power from one place to another with no firm grasp on landings or execution, more often than not tumbling to the ground as it materializes once again.

  I still have power, in more ways than one.

  “I wonder if that would be crazy enough to work.”

  I barely speak loud enough to be heard over the moans and groans of the thinning mass of the undead, but trust in Hazel to hear me no matter how riotous the background may be. “I don't want to know, do I?”

  I don't answer. I'm too preoccupied praying that what I'm about to try doesn't end too badly.

  It's simple, really, the idea that pops into my head. It boils down to me and me alone, dodging errant zombies still grasping at anyone who comes close, moving as deftly as I can manage until I'm near enough to my reanimated body to say, “Hey, gorgeous.”

  It turns towards me, recognizing the coaxing tone if not the actual content of my statement.

  I tilt my head to bare my neck, and throw my arms wide open.

  Hazel screams my name but I silence her with a simple hand gesture, just before I feel the sharp insistent sting of undead teeth tearing into my flesh. I wonder how this works, if my zombie self tears me to shreds and not a damn thing happens, if every bite it rips from my flesh fills almost instantly with another fresh strip of newly regenerated skin and muscle.

  It doesn't even take that long.

  One bite, one taste of Nate's blood, and the zombie crumples like the dead weight that it is. I catch it in my arms before it can sag all the way to the ground. In an instant healthy color washes over the skin, chilled flesh warming under my fingertips. There's a low choked noise, and maybe it comes from my throat and maybe it comes from Nate's, but there's breath in him yet and that's all that matters.

  There's breath in him yet, goddamn it.

  I very nearly burst into tears, but suddenly I can imagine what Nate's very vocal protest would be against doing something so silly and worthless, at least as long as I'm going to be residing in his body when I do it. Aw, hell, Vera. Save the waterworks for your own pretty face.

  By the time Hazel sinks to her knees beside me, threading her fingers through my body's limp dark hair, I can't stop laughing.

  Soon enough, Hazel joins in. “She's breathing.”

  The pronoun might be incorrect, but it can't be helped.

  Hazel smooths the tangled hair away from Nate's current face as I take a quick look around the main drag. Zombies have never been an effective weapon in any way, shape or form. They lack speed and intelligence and are expendable as hell. Even the ones aping a good drunken stumble along Main Street in search of brains don't really matter, at least not to anyone who doesn't live here.

  But a few of the bodies are fresh. Very fresh. I could swear I spot the teenage girl who died three months ago in a motorcycle accident, grabbing futilely at passersby who recognize her and immediately rear away from taking her down.

  I stare down at my wrist. It's not my wrist, not really, but …

  But I could save them. I could bring them all back.

  I'm halfway to my feet when Hazel pleads, “Vera, don't.”

  My gaze drops to her face, unsurprised to see the warning look in Hazel's eyes. I can't imagine she'd want me to coat myself in brains and throw myself to the zombies, as it were. But for a brief moment I know exactly what she's thinking. Underneath all of the usual concern for my continued existence is the worry that I can't save them all, and even if I can, what then? I'm a hero, born and bred. I'm built strong and tempered in battle. I've had the same SLB-approved therapist on speed-dial since before I could talk.

  I can handle coming back from the dead. Your average human might not be so agreeable to the situation.

  Hazel tucks a hand under Nate's neck as though she actually believes she can lug around my larger body. “Come on, let's get her somewhere safe and warm before she melts in the rain,” she says.

  It's only when she mentions it that I realize it's been raining since sometime during Nate's feast upon my neck. I was a bit too preoccupied to notice at the time.

  I take the body from her and cradle it in my arms, catching Hazel's eyes as I joke, “She's not that sweet.”

  She grins. “You'd be surprised,” she says, and props the shovel up on her shoulder as she leads me over to the car again.

  21.

  “She's going to wake up eventually, right?”

  A swift glance in the rear-view reveals that Hazel's given up on her seat belt and leaned forward to wipe the dried blood from my body's face with a spit-dampened napkin. It isn't the most hygienic method, but beggars and choosers, I suppose.

  “He. He's going to wake up eventually,” I clarify, daring another look at the body in the passenger seat before fixing my eyes on the blessedly empty country road. I hadn't been sure piling into the Cooper would work out, but Hazel being as scrawny as she is means she could fold herself into the cramped back seat. Hell, I imagine she could fold herself into the glove compartment with enough incentive. It still didn't eliminate the distinctive feeling of riding in a clown car, but we'd take what we could get. Small blessings are all we're allowed at the moment, it seems, since Nate has yet to come back to life again.

  “At least I hope he wakes up,” I add.

  I'm not sure I'll be able to live with myself if it doesn't work and I'm trapped in Nate's body for the rest of my new unnaturally extended lifespan, for more than a few reasons. I fidget in my seat again, still more than a little uncomfortable over those body parts which I'm not used to maneuvering just yet and with which I don't really plan on getting comfortable.

  As per usual, Hazel practically reads my mind. “You aren't the only one,” she says with a mocking sniff. “No offense, but if you end up getting stuck in that body, I'm never making out with you again.”

  I can't resist shooting her a teasing smile. “Are you saying there's a chance we might make out again if I do get back into my own body?”

  “Now's not the time to press your luck,” she warns. She peers out the window as I swerve around a zombie casually ambling across the secluded country road, her brow furrowing in concern. “You sure this is a good idea?”

  �
�Not even a little bit,” I say.

  My grip on the steering wheel tightens until my knuckles go white. Five years I've lived in this area, and it's only in the last few days that I've learned there's another superhuman and a hidden villain's lair within a ten-minute drive of my apartment. As idiotic as it makes me feel for not registering either one of those facts before I practically tripped over them, I refuse to believe there's more of those in the general vicinity. Fool me three times and I may have to sign myself up for an MRI to verify I still have a functioning brain.

  Speaking of Morris's lair, I turn onto the road leading to it with far more speed than I intend, scattering pebbles in my wake as the car skids and bumps its way from pavement to packed dirt. The zombies thin out as we approach, searching out far more populated areas in an effort to satiate their hunger, so the area is deserted when I pull the car to a rough stop in front of the trailer.

  Hazel stares at the dilapidated mobile home for a long time, then back at me with disbelief in her clear hazel eyes. “So you may be wrong about this whole secret-lair zombie-raising theory, right? Because if you just went through your whole superhero career resting your decisions on hunches, it's no wonder you quit.”

  “That's not why I quit,” I say, unable to tear my gaze away from the trailer. A rickety rabbit-eared antenna that wasn't there before sticks up at a cock-eyed angle from the roof, a completely innocuous decoration if not for the eerie blue lights flickering at the end of each frail metal prong. I may not know how it works, but I don't need to be able to take apart a transmission to recognize a Buick, either.

  Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner.

  “Besides,” I add, “you know of any other retired supervillains who built secret lairs out here? Because if so, I have no problem going to investigate them next.”

  Hazel frowns. “I kinda don't like you right now.”

  I'm unable to resist sticking my tongue out at her. I'm having that sort of a day.

  A groan sounds from the passenger seat, and both of us perk up as my body shifts with an audible moan of discomfort. I let out a breath I didn't even realize I'd been holding. I may not be in my own body right now, but it's moving and breathing and heaven knows that's a damn sight better than its condition only a few short hours ago.