“Call the police,” I said, “it’s their job.” Even to me, that sounded lame.
“It could get out by the time they get here,” he said. “We have to do it.”
Cody shook his head and turned away. He looked ashamed. Phil pointed at what I held in my hand. “You have a gun,” he said. “You could make it quick.”
I cradled the gun to my chest. There was no way I could kill a baby, even if it was a zombie baby. My cheeks burned and I was glad at least for the fact that it was dark. Phil couldn’t see me blushing.
“No?” he said to both me and Cody. “Well, I guess I’ll have to do it then.” He hefted his nail-studded bat over his shoulder. He hesitated and looked right at me. I couldn’t read the look. I’m sure it was hate or disgust. He swung the bat with a grunt.
I turned away just in time, though I still heard the sound of its making contact. A wet thump followed by a kind of sucking sound as he pulled the nails out. I know it took more than one blow to get the job done, but I didn’t hear anymore after that. I was too occupied with throwing up to hear much of anything besides my own retching.
I felt a hand on my shoulder as I finished dry-heaving. Phil stood over me and offered me a bandanna. I wondered how long it had been riding around in his pocket. I went ahead and wiped my mouth and tongue with it anyway.
“Thanks,” I said.
“C’mon,” he said, “we’ll walk you home.” I didn’t say anything, just started my feet moving.
Phil walked beside me with my bike. Cody held back a little and carried their weapons. We walked in silence for a minute, our feet on the pavement the only sound.
“Is this something you do?” I asked. “Saving people from shufflers?”
“This is only the third time we’ve gone out like this,” Phil answered. “And this is the first time we’ve even seen one of the undead.”
One of the undead. There was something in the phrase Phil used, but I left it alone. I didn’t have the energy or brain capacity to think about it.
“Well, thanks,” I said, “you’re right, I’d’ve been toast if you two hadn’t come along.”
“Sure,” was all he said.
I became aware of a distant buzzing sound.
“Is that your phone?” Phil asked.
I started digging through my bag, looking for my cell. It was probably my dad—oh, shit, my dad!—I was supposed to call him when I was done at Brandon’s house. I found the phone and looked at the caller ID. Sherri. I groaned; I didn’t have the strength to talk to her right now. I let it go to voice mail. I then checked for messages from my dad. He’d called from work and left me two voice mails and three texts. The last message said that if he didn’t hear from me in half an hour, he was coming home to look for me. He’d left it twenty minutes ago. I texted him right away and apologized for not getting back to him. I lied and said I’d been somewhere without service and I stressed that I was fine. I felt my chin and cheek throbbing and I let my dad know I wrecked my bike so he wouldn’t freak out the next time he saw me.
By the time I finished typing the message, we stood in front of my house. Cody opened the gate and Phil pushed the bike into the yard. I walked to the front door and let myself in. Phil and Cody waited outside the fence to make sure I got in okay, and I waved to them as I closed the door. They waved back silently, and there was something so crazy about these two guys in camo and face paint, both holding weapons—one of them covered in gore—waving good night to me that I got the giggles. I couldn’t help it, and I couldn’t stop it. I stood at the door, racked with laughter until I realized that it had somehow become sobs. I sat on the floor and just let myself cry and cry. I wasn’t even sure why I was crying, but, God, it felt good.
Phil and Cody stood there looking awkward. I waved them away, and they looked almost relieved to hightail it out of there.
When the episode passed, I went inside and cleaned up. Being covered in snot and tears when my dad got home, I’d have no choice but to engage him in conversation. I needed to head off that situation.
I took a shower and picked gravel out of my chin and both my palms. I hadn’t even noticed the damage to my hands what with the nearly dying. I dressed for bed: boy’s boxers and a T-shirt. Before I got under the covers, I figured I could use a pick-me-up so I decided to look on the web for news of the army retaking New York City. The latest gossip was that the city would be open by the beginning of the new year. I tried to not look it up too often because that led to heartache. I had a feeling that tonight had been so shitty, there just had to be good news to counteract its sheer lousiness.
I fired up my Mac—my dad got a wicked good discount at the college’s bookstore—and logged onto my Google homepage. I had a filter set that automatically sent me stories about the NYC situation. The first headline made me groan. PLAN TO RETAKE NYC MEETS SETBACKS. Long story short, the Army was looking at next spring before they’d try to take the city back from the mass of shufflers. My plan to save the world from the zombie hordes was going to shit the bed if the U.S. military didn’t get on the stick. This was a situation so massively screwed it demanded I update my Facebook status.
I opened a new tab and logged onto the site. Is it wrong to take global events as a personal insult? I typed and hit SEND. I was about to log off when a chat window popped up. It was Sherri. Damn.
Sherriberri: hey courtney!
I considered just logging off and telling her in the morning that I hadn’t seen her message. I hovered the mouse over the LOGOUT button for a few seconds before I decided to bite the bullet and answer.
Currently Courtney: Wassup?
SherriBerri: o nothing
SherriBerri: just had a great chat with elsa roberts
My heart sank. Why the hell would Elsa be talking to Sherri? This could only be bad.
Currently Courtney: Yeah? What about?
SherriBerri: well let’s see . . . she called to make sure it was okay if she came over to my party.
SherriBerri: how do you think she heard about my party?
Currently Courtney: I couldn’t guess, Sherri, but I think you’re going to tell me.
SherriBerri: turns out brandon told her about it and she wanted to be all polite and ask me if it was okay for her to come over.
SherriBerri: and i’m pretty sure you KNOW how brandon heard about the party.
Currently Courtney: Sherri
SherriBerri: YOU ARE A COMPLETE BITCH COURTNEY!
SherriBerri: inviting this boy you supposedly don’t like to MY party? That’s balls, courtney.
I stared at the screen, not sure how to respond. Not sure if I even wanted to respond.
SherriBerri: WELL . . . ?
Currently Courtney: Well, for now, Sherri, I’m going to bed. If you want to yell at me tomorrow, feel free. But I had a royal shitty night and want to put it behind me as fast as I can.
Currently Courtney: Toodles.
SherriBerri: DON’T YOU DARE SIGN OFF COURTNEY HART!
She might have kept on typing, threatening me in all caps. I didn’t see any of it, however. I closed the screen on the laptop, turned off my light, and crawled into bed.
I decided I needed to be optimistic. Tomorrow was another chance to not mess up my life too completely. I rolled over and went to sleep.
CHAPTER SEVEN
You’re Talking About the Wrong Girl
The next day was one episode of avoiding Brandon after another. Maybe he wanted to apologize or whatever. I was not interested. I swear that every time I turned around he was standing there scanning the halls for me. He was like the human equivalent of herpes—every time I thought I’d shaken him, he’d turn up again.
The worst was Journalism. I walked in only to see Brandon sitting there practically wagging his tail. He moved his bag off the chair next to him. He’d obviously been saving it. Ugh. A quick scan of the room revealed that the only other empty seat was next to Monty Rusk. Monty is the student managing editor of the paper, and he and soap ar
e not really on speaking terms. On the plus side, I knew Monty wouldn’t try to engage me in a discussion of our various emotions. My choice was clear.
Monty grunted a hello as I sat down and scooted my chair as far from him as possible as a way of saying “howdy” right back. I could feel—feel—Brandon staring at the back of my neck. I did my best to ignore him and concentrate on whatever was being discussed by the class.
I finally raised my hand and told Mrs. Johnson I’d like to be excused to the library to work on my story. People writing stories can often get away with this on Fridays, paste-up days. She eyed me skeptically and finally wrote out a pass. Some days I’d pull this stunt so I could leave campus, but today I planned to actually go to the library and work. Anything to get out of the same room as Brandon.
While I sat in the Brandon-free environs of the library, I realized I hadn’t seen Sherri all day. We only have the one class together, and she has been known to skip, so it wouldn’t be out of the question for us to not see each other. Though we almost always make a point to track each other down. I guess she wasn’t interested in finding me today. I was starting to get wound up about it until I realized that I hadn’t exactly mounted a mission to find her, either. Fine, we’d let the situation cool down today and see what happened tonight at the party. If she let me in, that is.
After school, Willie gave me a ride to Bully Burger. He seemed suitably appreciative of the road rash on my chin. Not wanting to be social at all, I’d texted him early that morning and told him I’d take the bus to school but that I’d appreciate a ride to work. When we got to the burger joint, I had more than an hour before I had to start my shift, so I bought us both Bully Meals and we sat there talking. It was sort of pathetic how much Willie seemed to appreciate the meal I bought him. Or maybe he appreciated the fact that we could talk without Sherri around.
We talked about his sister, avoided talking about his parents. Classes. Willie is in as many shop classes as the school would let him. I think he takes basic English, pre-Algebra, second-year Spanish (for the second year in a row), and four shop classes. But Willie is really good in shop. He can fix just about anything, and if he can’t fix it, odds are he can build you something to replace it. His face lit up when he talked about his shop classes. Almost as much as when he talked about his sister. I liked seeing him all happy. I wasn’t even tempted to call him a fag and spoil the mood.
And then, right in the middle of our little love-fest, Willie sprung his trap.
“You should come over to my place for dinner tomorrow,” he said.
“Oh, um . . .” I said. Damn me for lowering my ironic defensive shields. Tomorrow was Saturday, and while I didn’t have anything planned, that is an important day to leave open when one is an eligible young lady. Or a young punk who might get invited somewhere to drink until you puke. I was searching for a reason to say no when I looked at Willie’s big, stupid, hopeful face. I gave up on that idea.
“That’d be great, Willie,” I said. “Just let me check with my dad. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
And after that Willie just wouldn’t stop smiling and laughing. I decided I liked Willie best when he was happy, and I vowed to do what I could to make him that way more often. As long as I didn’t have to swap bodily fluids with him to do it.
Willie left when it was time for my shift to start. The franchise owner, Mr. Washington, was working that night, which meant everyone had to be on their best behavior. Ted wasn’t in the back office playing five-knuckle shuffle, and I had my uniform shirt buttoned and my hair tucked under my hat. Phil worked the fry station, a kid named Jamal was at the grill, and two sisters, twins named Mary Kate and Ashley—for real—worked the cash registers at the front. A thirty-year-old, ex-con-looking dude named Barry was a floater/greeter/whatever. Barry was on the schedule for the drive-thru window, but he knows about my side business and lets me do it as long as I give him a discount on Vitamin Z. Chacho was out in the parking lot in his full armor.
Phil barely made eye contact with me, which I thought was weird. On the other hand, I found going out at night in camouflage and killing zombies to be weird, too. I wanted to thank him again, but decided not to if he was going to have a stick up his butt for some unknown reason.
It was a pretty good night, both for Bully Burger and me. Although, to be honest, I’m sure I made a lot more than the drive-thru did. I actually sold everything I was holding. I’d have to go back to Buddha, my source, and get more.
After our shifts were over, anyone without a car could get a ride home from Chacho. It’s part of his duties as a security guy. I’m sure I could have gotten a ride with anyone else that night. The problem was, I wanted to go to the party and I didn’t want to invite along yet more people on Sherri’s list of undesirables. I’m pretty sure Chacho wouldn’t want to come party with us, and if he did, I think I’d have scored some points with Sherri because of it.
I was the only one riding with Chacho that night. We climbed into the big SUV that the company provided him for just this reason, and it rumbled to life with the push of a button. I usually hate these oversized hunks of crap as a rule, though I had to admit that I liked the feeling of contained power as Chacho stepped on the gas and I was pressed back into my seat. He fiddled with what looked like a TV remote with just one button, and the gate opened for us. We turned left out of the lot and he hit the same button. The gate closed behind us.
“You’re north of Madrona, aren’t you?” Chacho asked me absently as he got the radio and air going. Something with lots of drums and guitars started coming out of the speakers.
“Who’s this?” I asked.
“Big Star,” he said like I should have already known. “You know, Alex Chilton . . .” he tried again.
“Are they new?” I asked. “They sound new.”
He laughed. “New?” he asked. “No. They broke up when I was, like, two or something.”
I rolled my eyes. “Oh,” I said, “so they’re ancient. Why would I know them?”
Chacho shrugged. “You just seem like you’d know them, is all. You seem like you know more than the other kids at The Bully.”
“Oh,” I said, and I turned toward the window and smiled to myself. I didn’t think Chacho had ever thought anything about me, let alone that I might know this old band he thought was cool. Note to self: Look into Big Star.
“So, up past Madrona, right?” Chacho asked.
I turned back from the window and gave him a sheepish smile. “Well,” I said, “that is where I live, but I was wondering if you’d take me to Sherri’s place instead.”
“Nope,” he said. “Company rules are I can only take you home. You know what kind of liability I’d be exposed to if I took you over there and something happened to you?”
“If something happens,” I said, “which it won’t, just tell them you took me home and you have no idea what I did after that.”
“Okay, forget the liability,” Chacho said. “What about how lousy I’d feel?”
“And how lousy would you feel if something happened to me while I rode my bike over to Sherri’s because you wouldn’t give me a ride?” I knew I was being unfair. I just really did not want to ride my bike in the dark again. I knew that once I got to the party I’d be able to beg a ride home from someone.
Chacho mumbled under his breath. Something in Spanish, probably a curse.
“This one time, Courtney,” he said, “one time. I don’t like being put on the spot.”
“Totally,” I agreed. “I’m sorry, Chacho, I didn’t think it’d be a big deal. It won’t happen again.”
I think I did a lousy job concealing my joy because Chacho glared at me and muttered in Spanish some more. I tried to get him to talk. He just wasn’t interested. So we just sat there and listened to Big Star and didn’t talk until we got to Sherri’s place.
Toward the end of the trip, I gave him directions to Sherri’s, but as we pulled up in front, I wondered if we’d made a wrong turn. Past experience
with Sherri’s parties led me to expect three or four cars on the street and a somber group of sad sacks gathered in the living room listening to music and bitching.
What greeted me were cars lining both sides of the street. People flowed out of the house and into the yard, and music pounded out so loud I could hear it through the windows of the SUV. Every light in the house shone out into the night. Man, it was like they were doing everything they could to attract a zombie horde, short of hanging a banner on top of the house that read ALL-YOU-CAN-EAT BUFFET.
“I thought you told me once that you guys’s parties were pretty tame.” Chacho said as he peered out at the scene.
“I think the term I used was ‘lame,’ ” I said, “not tame. And I’m not really sure what’s going on here.” Except that I did have an idea what it was.
I thanked Chacho and climbed out of the SUV. I approached the house and was struck by the surreal nature of all of these faces hanging out at Sherri’s place. Jocks, cheerleaders, popular kids. It was like seeing British royalty hanging around in front of a strip club. Not that I would be making that analogy to Sherri.
I said hi to a few people as I walked into the house. I didn’t linger and talk to anyone. I needed to find our lovely hostess. I maneuvered through the crowd, doing my best to not have any drinks spilled on me.
I spotted Brandi Edwards and Carol Langworthy sitting on the couch staring sullenly at everything going on around them. They projected such an aura of contempt that no one else tried to sit on the empty cushions.
“Hey,” I shouted above the din of the music and got a frown in response. “Either of you seen Sherri?”
Brandi shouted something that I couldn’t hear. I shook my head and pointed to my ears. Finally she just pointed toward the kitchen. I gave her a thumbs-up and set about moving through the thirty feet of space that lay between where I was and where I wanted to be. Thirty feet otherwise occupied by hormonally unbalanced teenagers.
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