A Mad Zombie Party

by Gena Showalter

  "Milla," I say. "We have to help her."

  "On it." He pulls me to my feet and takes off.

  I stumble after him, dizzy but fighting it. I will help Milla.

  I withdraw my semiautomatics, reload and fire at every zombie I come across. When I'm out of ammo, I use the axes anchored to the handles, soon clearing the immediate path and buying myself a few seconds to replace the clips. As I aim and shoot, aim and shoot, rotted brain matter splatters. Bone shards rain. Teeth fall to the ground like discarded pieces of candy.

  Where's Milla?

  I scan...scan...there. She shoves a zombie to the ground and follows him down. After jamming her knees into his shoulders, she uses her swords like a pair of scissors and lops off his head.

  Good girl. But another zombie plows into her from behind, throwing her down. Upon impact, red flames erupt from her hands, chest and feet.

  Her nightmare has come to life.

  Panicked, I run to her. Is she dying? Burning to death? I summon dynamis--fight fire with fire--but in an instant, I'm consumed by fear. It burns my mind, brands my heart, makes my limbs tremble. This isn't... I can't... Helpless, so helpless.

  The thought overtakes my mind. I don't understand what's happening, and it takes everything I've got to shake the fear. Even still, the flames never come.

  I reach Milla as she stabs the zombie in the mouth and stands. She's panting, the red flames growing stronger, wafting smoke in the air. Every other zombie focuses on her, moving closer to her, ignoring the other slayers.

  I join River, Cole, Love and Jaclyn to slice and dice our way through the masses while Ali, Gavin and Justin do the same on the opposite side. But we're all too late. Milla releases an ear-piercing scream. I stop fighting and run, just run. If I get bit, I get bit.

  I reach the front unharmed. But...Milla isn't being eaten as I feared. Her eyes are as red as the flames, and they are bloody pools of hunger.

  She rips out a zombie's throat while her attention is locked on me. She licks her lips, even bares her teeth and steps toward me.

  I'm on today's menu?

  River whizzes past me to jam a needle into her neck. But he is the one who bellows in pain, those crimson flames brushing over his skin.

  At last the red fades from Milla's eyes. I whip off my shirt to pat her down. The flames die--on her, on her brother--and the siblings collapse.

  I gather Milla close and scan the area. Cole and the others have finished off the rest of the zombies. Easy to do, really, considering the meat bags stopped fighting us.

  Milla moans. "Frosty..."

  "You're okay. You're okay now."

  "The flames--"

  "I know. They're gone."

  "The flames." She clutches my shirt. "The flames..."

  "Shh, shh. They're gone. I've got you, and I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

  Her eyes close and she goes limp. I hold her closer.

  A few feet away, Cole barks, "We need a new van and a tow." He's holding an unconscious Ali in his arms, a phone pressed between his ear and shoulder. "And hurry."

  "What the hell just happened?" River demands. "When I tried to light up, I got hit with a blast of fear instead."

  A chorus of "Me, too" rings out.

  "And Milla," he adds, "her flames were red. I'm not the only one who noticed it, right?"

  "Whatever Tiffany did to us," Cole says, his voice tight, "I think this is the result."

  Bronx scrubs a dirt-smudged hand down his face. "Fear is the opposite of faith, and faith is our source of power. Without it, we lose. Every time."

  "Why wasn't Milla affected the same way?" I ask.

  River shrugs. "Maybe those red flames protected her from whatever was done to us."

  Right thought, wrong direction. "I don't think thanatos protected her so much as itself." In her nightmares, the flames kill her. Predator versus prey.

  "Head to the car, everyone, and join your body." Cole motions to the left. "Justin's on his way."

  "Call him back and tell him to be on the lookout. Zombies aren't the only evil on the prowl tonight." I shift Milla in my arms and stand. "Someone set a trip wire at the west side of the cemetery and tried to put a bullet in my brain while I was down. He missed and I shot to kill."

  "You see any others?" Cole asks as he dials.

  "Yes. Three. They received the same treatment."

  "I'll hide the evidence and meet you back at the house." River doesn't wait for permission, just takes off.

  "Someone help me with Gavin." Tears spill down Jaclyn's cheeks as she tries to pull him up one-handed, her other hand tucked against her middle to protect a swollen wrist. "He's too heavy for me to carry."

  Like Ali and Milla, Gavin is unconscious. Bronx and Chance heft him up, each using a shoulder as a crutch to keep him vertical. Together, we make our way to the vehicles. We're a ragtag group, but we're alive. I tell myself that's enough. For now.

  When I open my eyes, the first thing I see is Frosty. His face hovers just above mine. Sublime heat envelops me, saturating me with his scent. His heartbeat drums against my temple.

  We're outside, the night dark. He's walking...carrying me. I smile...until memories swamp me. We just had our asses handed to us. On a silver platter. With a side of pork rinds. The servers of this ass-handing? Zombies we killed once before.

  How?

  I have a thing for faces and clothes. Even undead faces and clothes. The people I meet become photographs inside my mind--maybe that's a slayer trait, maybe not. Tonight I was able to pull the photographs from the last battle and play match. Vintage suit with stains on the tie--match. T-shirt with I'm Kind of a Big Deal stitched across the breast--match. Purple jogging pants--match.

  We ashed those zombies a month ago and now they're back? Impossible.

  That's not even the worst part.

  When I was bitten, the red flames mixing with a fresh dose of zombie toxin, I became aware of every slayer within my vicinity and even a few beyond the graveyard. I lost track of everything else, blindsided by a hunger I couldn't fight.

  I wanted to eat. To gorge.

  "I'm awake," I whisper, doing my best to hide my horror.

  "How do you feel?" Frosty sets me on my feet.

  We're at the entrance to the cemetery, where the van is wrecked and Frosty's truck awaits. "Sore, but grateful I'm alive."

  Our bodies surround the vehicles, and one by one, we join up.

  Justin arrives with a new van, and we pile inside. Everyone but Frosty.

  "Where--" I begin.

  "I'm staying to help River," he says.

  "I'll stay, too," I say. I don't want to be parted from him. He's injured.

  "You haven't seen yourself." He gives me a half smile, reaches out and squeezes my hand. "You need medical attention."

  "So do--" But he's already walking away. "You," I declare lamely.

  Justin whisks us to the mansion, where the recruits help us into the former ballroom on the bottom floor, which has been transformed into a makeshift hospital. One of the recruits is in medical school, another in nursing school, and Weber barks orders at them. We're examined one at a time, those in the worst condition first.

  Once Gavin and Ali are doctored, Weber focuses on me. I'm bandaged up and deemed "on the mend," but I'm unable to catch my breath until Frosty walks through the door.

  He scans the room and stops on me. My heart skips a beat as he closes the distance. Though I'm in pain--I refused painkillers, not wanting to be weakened or fall asleep--I stand and motion to the gurney.

  He sits without a word of complaint.

  "Where's River?"

  "Once we had the bodies loaded, he took off."

  "Serves you right. Now don't you dare move," I say. "I mean it."

  "Trust me. I'm not going anywhere."

  I gather the cleaning supplies I think I'll need. I'm as gentle as possible as I wash the blood from his face. He must have had a shirt stored in his truck because he's wearing a
new one.

  "Any injuries I can't see?" For some reason, the question makes me blush. I never blush.

  "I have a few under my shirt." He doesn't move, just sits there, his gaze glued to me and so intense it's as if he's seeing past flesh and bone.

  I gulp. "What are you waiting for? Take it off."

  "If you insist." He grips the shirt by the collar and tugs the material over his head.

  Is my tongue hanging out? Am I drooling?

  Cord after cord of strength greets me. And his tattoos! Mercy. I beg for mercy. In the center of his breastbone, there's a human heart pierced on the bottom by numerous daggers. On the handle of each is a name. Boots. Ducky. Ankh. Trina. Haun. Cruz. Willow. Roses grow from the top of the heart, the stems twisting and twining all the way to his shoulders, where the buds are in bloom. A curtain of mist floats between the thorny foliage, and in the midst of it is the name Kitten.

  I clean him of dirt, sweat, zombie goo and blood, my blush heating a few thousand degrees. Trembling, I turn my attention to his arms, a much safer area, and the bands tattooed around his wrists. There are three Z-bites, raw and angry, and I slather each with salve before adhering a bandage.

  I step behind him to finish up and have to swallow a whimper. There's an etching of hands in the center of his back. They are joined together to form a steeple, the Lord's Prayer scripted around them. Some of the words cover scars--name, kingdom, deliver--making them stand out as if they are alive with power.

  "You're good at this." His voice is tight with...I'm not sure what. "At playing doctor, I mean."

  "I should be. I spent the first part of my childhood acting like a nursemaid." It's something I wouldn't have said to anyone else, but Frosty knows about my past. He's seen it.

  The muscles between his shoulders knot. "Is that what you'd be if you weren't a slayer? A nurse. Or maybe a doctor?"

  "A doctor. Maybe."

  "Any plans for college?"

  "I wish, but I barely graduated high school because I missed so many days." And it isn't like I could afford college, even with loans. Loans have to be paid back. Anyway, who's going to hire the girl always covered in bruises? "What about you?"

  "I'd like to be a homicide detective. Take down human bad guys for a change."

  Admirable. "The streets will definitely be safer with you on patrol." I grab a clean rag, dip it in a bowl of soapy water, wring it out and gently scrub the scratches along his spine.

  "You're not going to tell me it's too dangerous?" There's true curiosity in his tone. "That maybe I should be a mailman or something?"

  "Uh, I've seen you fight zombies, remember? Nothing's too dangerous for you." But he is too dangerous for me, there's no doubt about that. I'm basically petting him right now. "Well. Nothing seems to be broken and the bites have already scabbed. You should make a full recovery."

  I toss the dirty rags into the laundry basket beside the gurney and hand the bowl of soiled water to a recruit with an order to drain it. Then I stand there, unsure what to do next. I don't want to leave Frosty, but I don't want to embarrass myself, either.

  He takes hold of my wrist and draws me closer...closer still...until I'm standing between his legs. I can only blink up at him as my trembling renews and redoubles.

  "Let me see your injuries."

  "No need, they're--"

  "I wasn't asking." He gently peels back the bandage on my forehead to study the slash. Well, okay, then.

  "I hit the window when the van crashed," I say.

  "No stitches."

  "It wasn't deep. It might scar, though."

  "You worried?"

  "No. Yes. Maybe. Maybe I'll cut bangs."

  "Why? You're beautiful the way you are," he says. "With or without a scar."

  My mouth falls open. I...have no idea how to respond.

  "Don't even think about accusing me of lying." His gaze heats as it studies mine. "I don't lie. Ever. I don't need to, because I don't care if I hurt anyone's feelings. The truth is the truth, forever unchanging, and it's better than a lie any day of the week."

  Dang. My crush on him soars to a new level.

  "Scars speak for you," he adds. "They say you're strong, and you've survived something that might have killed others. To me, there's nothing sexier than strength."

  "I agree," I whisper. One hundred percent. As slayers, we've lost friends, family, homes. At times even our sanity. We know the weak fall and never get back up.

  We can't afford to be weak.

  And oh, crap. I want to throw myself into his arms. Instead, I change the subject...fast. "Did you notice anything weird about the zombies tonight?"

  "Weird...how?"

  "They looked exactly the same as the last batch we fought."

  "Twin zombies are as likely as twin humans, I suppose."

  "Yeah, but all of the zombies were familiar to me."

  He frowns. "I didn't notice, but then, I'm a guy. I usually only notice short skirts and see-through shirts."

  I smile, and his gaze falls to my lips. The way he stares... My heart hammers in my chest, my blood heating. Awareness crackles inside me.

  "All right." Cole's voice booms through the room, startling me, and I leap away from Frosty as if pushed. I keep my back to him, not wanting to see his expression darken with disgust as he remembers who and what I am. "We need to talk about what happened tonight."

  In a snap, the room goes quiet.

  Cole moves to the center, ensuring he's the sole focus of the occupants. "Was anyone able to use dynamis?"

  "No."

  "Nope."

  "Not me."

  Not a single affirmation comes.

  "What about your abilities?" Cole asks.

  "I wasn't able to do anything," Ali says, and nods of agreement follow.

  I'm the only one who maintained the status quo. Too bad my status quo sucks. "Thanatos seems to make zombies hungrier. It surprised me. I wasn't prepared for that."

  "When you touched your brother, the wound on his chest worsened rather than healed." Ali tilts her head, thoughtful. "Light is purification. Dark is destruction. They are opposites."

  Wait, wait, wait. I hurt River? My stomach curls into a ball and drops to my feet.

  "Covered, covered, covered," Ali says, her eyes glazed as she remembers the journal passage. "Look inside."

  Inside what? Myself? Well, I have!

  "Our only defense--hell, our only real weapon--has been stripped from us." Bronx bangs his head into his pillow. "We all suspect Tiffany is the culprit. Let's find out what she did to us and fix it."

  "I'll question her," I announce. "I'm good at getting answers." And it's time.

  Cole shakes his head. "My house, my interrogation."

  "Tiffany slashed Milla's throat." Frosty places his hand on my shoulder, squeezes. "Give her a chance."

  I still don't turn to face him, even though I want to look into his eyes more than I want to take my next breath. His support is...well, it's miraculous and wonderful and completely unexpected.

  River strides into the room. "I second that." His pale hair sticks out in spikes. Crimson splatters mar his cheeks and arms, his clothes are ripped and dirt-streaked, his boots caked with mud. "You haven't seen my sister in action. You're in for a treat."

  "It's true." Sometimes a girl has to toot her own horn. "When you're good, you're good. When you're me, you're better." Toot, toot.

  "Let her try." Ali bats her lashes at Cole. "Please, Coley Poley."

  I snicker. Coley Poley?

  After a moment of hesitation, Coley Poley gives a stiff nod. "Fine. Do it."

  Relief spears me. "I won't let you down. You have my word."

  River spits out every bit of information he has on the girl. The more I know, the better prepared I'll be.

  "I'm going with you," Frosty says. "I'll make sure nothing happens to you."

  First he talks and jokes with me. Then he touches me of his own free will. Now he's worried about me? Me?

  Am
I being played?

  "Sometime today," Bronx says.

  "Right." Blushing--again--I stride from the room, Frosty close to my heels.

  *

  Tiffany is locked in an eight-by-eight cage in the basement. A cross between a prison cell and a kennel for large dogs. How appropriate. She's unarmed and by now, she's malnourished and weak.

  I scan her new living quarters. Dim and dark, though spacious. Very little furniture, only a table and a few chairs scattered about. There are other cages lined against the wall, but they're currently unoccupied.

  Tiffany's cage is the only one with a toilet, which is out in the open. Cameras are mounted in every corner of the room, allowing us to watch her from the safety and comfort of the security room, where numerous monitors are located.

  Noticing us, Tiffany scrambles to the back of her cage. Her hair, now bleached to a yellow-white, is matted, her eyes wild. One is brown, one is blue because of a contact. Some of her makeup has been washed away by sweat, revealing freckles. Blood is crusted underneath a gash in her chin.

  "You," she snarls at me. She's frightened. She's angry. And she blames me for her predicament.

  My gaze remains on her as I say to Frosty, "Get her out and put her in a chair." The key to any interrogation is confidence. The moment she realizes I have nothing to lose and she has everything to gain, she'll settle.

  To my surprise, Frosty obeys without hesitation and wrenches the girl from the cage.

  "Gently," I say. Kindness goes a long way in a situation like this. "Please... Saucy Frosty."

  Hearing my choice of nicknames, he flicks me a wry gaze. I shrug. It was worth a shot. He forces Tiffany to sit--and no, he still isn't gentle. As I scoot a chair in front of her, he remains behind her, his arms crossed over his chest. When Tiffany attempts to stand, he shoves her back down.

  "Normally," I say, "I would beat you with a hammer before asking my questions. Why don't we skip that part and get straight to the Q and A? I've mopped up enough blood for one day."

  She spits at me. "I'm not telling you shit."

  With the distance between us, the glob of grossness lands to the right of my feet. I hold out my hand. "Napkin," I say to Frosty.

  He tosses me his shirt.

  Do not focus on his chest.

  I wipe up the spit, and stand in front of Tiffany. She glares at me, even as she flinches back. I lean forward. She tries to push me, tries to kick me, but I slap her arm, bat her leg away and climb onto her lap, penning each of her limbs beneath my thighs.