Colette, suddenly a celebrity, smiled at him without answering.
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"Wow, that's ...incredible," Trent said. "Do any of you ...go to ...the Hunter Foundation?"
"We all do," Margi answered. She was trying to look like she wasn't interested in Trent's living friend, but she was interested in Trent's living friend.
"Unbelievable," Trent said. "Skip has ...told us ... a lot ...about what you are ...doing there." He paused for a moment, looking at each of them with new interest, which made Phoebe want to sink into her plush cushion until it enveloped her completely.
"Did ...Tommy ...really leave ... like it says on the site?"
"He did," Margi answered.
"Wow," Trent said. "It isn't ...easy ...being young and ...undead ... in America. Lots of the ...kids ...here had a long ...distance ... to travel."
"I came here from ...Iowa," one kid said.
"I'm ...sorry," Colette said, making him smile.
"Hey," Trent said, "that stuff about ...dating ... a trad chick ...was that true?"
You would think that someone like Colette, who had to make a conscious effort to speak and move their limbs, wouldn't have been so quick to give Phoebe up, but not so. The smile left her face as Colette looked right at Phoebe. Bad enough, but Margi and Karen did the same.
Phoebe made a clicking noise with her tongue and looked away.
"Oops," Trent said. He had trouble cutting off the "oo" sound. "Um, yeah." Margi seemed to notice Phoebe's discomfort.
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"Maybe we could talk about something else? Where are the rest of you from?"
Most, like Trent and his pal who hailed from Staten Island, were from New York City or the environs.
"But who ...cares about that," he said, even though Phoebe did. "What's going to happen to mysocalledundeath ... without Tommy? Do any of you know? Just about... everyone ...here reads it."
"How?" Karen asked.
"Computers, upstairs," he answered. "Skip prints out the blogs and ...hands them out."
"It'll still happen," Karen answered. "Tommy is going to be sending his blogs in from the road. Phoebe and I ..."
The music cut out and the room went black. Phoebe shrieked.
"Some of you have been waiting an eternity for this, I know," the brash confidence of the voice cut through the darkness. "And you will now know that eternity was not spent in vain. Marking their record seventeenth appearance at Aftermath, please join me in putting claws and paws together in welcoming the band that you've been clamoring for, dead or alive.... Skeleton Crew!"
At the stroke of a razor-sharp opening chord, lights came back on. Phoebe looked below and saw Dom standing in front of a microphone. Next to him stood a short, shirtless, rail-thin boy who wore bright orange surfer shorts that ended below his knees. The thin boy was leaning on his microphone stand like he needed it to prop him up. Bee stood on the other side
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of the stage thrumming the low string on his bass guitar.
"Aftermath! Make some noise!" Dom yelled as Warren, hidden somewhere behind a ring of cymbals, began to play an escalating roll on his snare and double bass. Phoebe thought the greeting uninspired, but it provoked a healthy reaction from the crowd.
"Good ...day ....everyone," the thin boy said, his voice somewhere between the somber intonations of Peter Murphy and Morrissey, "My name ...is ...DeCayce ...and we are ...Skeleton Crew."
He's the dead one, Phoebe thought. Dom hit another blaring chord and the dead boy leaped three feet in the air without flexing his legs as Bee and Warren erupted into song.
Phoebe was dead tired on the ride home, although Margi was still bopping around in the driver's seat, reliving each moment of their club adventure with minute detail. On the train she was a bundle of energy, even when Karen and Colette seemed to be holding their strength in reserve.
"He was so totally into you, Colette," Margi said. This idea more than anything else seemed to be the wellspring of Margi's energy, and as such Phoebe didn't get tired of hearing it, even though she'd already heard it at least two dozen times.
"I ...don't ...know," Colette said. Her denials became weaker each time Margi repeated the statement. Phoebe smiled; it was good to see Colette so moony.
"Yeah, you do," Margi said. "Totally."
The "somebody" was DeCayce. When their set was over
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Dom had brought his band over to talk to the girls. As raw as DeCayce was onstage, he seemed very shy in person, and barely added to the conversation--which was mostly Dom bantering with Karen. Trent and his crowd drifted over, and the more people that were around, the more Phoebe noticed DeCayce retreating into himself. Trent was going on and on about what a groundbreaking band Skeleton Crew was, as Colette leaned over and said something that only DeCayce could hear. Whatever it was, it must have been pretty funny, because DeCayce laughed like the idea of laughter was new to him. They were inseparable for the rest of the night; Phoebe would catch glimpses of them talking animatedly, off by themselves in the hidden corners of the room.
Animatedly, Phoebe thought. Wrong word. Definitely the wrong word.
"Hey, Colette," she said. "What was it that you said to DeCayce that made him laugh so much?"
Colette turned back to her, smiling. "That... annoying boy ...kept saying the word ...'groundbreaking.' Not good ...word choice ...for a zombie."
"We couldn't even find you when it was time to go," Margi said, her pink-shadowed eyes glancing up at Phoebe in the rearview. "Just what were you doing, huh, kid?"
"Stop it," Colette said. She was smiling. "We were ... dancing."
"We were," and here the pause Margi took was three times as long as any that the New Improved Colette took, "Dancing. Is that what you call it?"
"Stop it!" Colette said, nudging her.
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"Careful, Colette." Karen said. "She's liable to ...kill us all. Besides"--and here Karen leaned forward in her seat--"she's just jealous."
"Of course I'm jealous," Margi said. "Who wouldn't be jealous? Did you see the way he was looking at her? Just once, I'd like for someone to look at me like that. Just once."
"I don't know," Phoebe said, "Bee seemed pretty interested in our pink-haired girl."
"Sure," Margi said, "all I get is the bass players."
"Big Christmas sales at Wild Thingz ! tomorrow," Karen said as Margi pulled into the driveway of the DeSonne home. "A great chance to stock up on all of your Z brand cosmetics."
"Colette will be needing some of those now that she has a boyfriend," Margi said, pretending to think aloud. "But I just don't think Santa is coming for her. She's been naughty."
"Will you ...stop," Colette said, clearly not wanting her to.
On their way to drop Phoebe off, Margi and Colette started making plans about going to the mall, the people they needed to buy Christmas presents for, and what those presents would be. Phoebe sat in the backseat and willed herself invisible just so she could listen in on their conversation and the easy friendship it represented.
"What about ...Norm?"
"What about Norm?" Margi replied.
"Don't...snap. And don't be ...mean ... to Norm."
"Being encouraging would be mean."
"You know he's going to get...you ... a present."
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"Tell him to save his money." "It doesn't...work that way."
Phoebe was happy for them, but she was a little sad too. It sounded a lot like the conversations she used to have with Margi.
"Well, it needs to work another way. Norm is a really nice guy but I don't feel that way about him. I don't feel the way DeCayce, the sexy undead rock star, feels for you."
"Don't change ...the subject."
"Who's changing? It's the same subject."
"I just ...think ...you might want to get him ...something. Something ...small. A CD."
"Then he'll read all sorts of deep meaning into the song titles and it'll be even worse than it is now."
"No love songs."
"All songs are love songs," Margi said. A car passed them going the other way and Margi checked her rearview to watch it recede. "What do you think, Phoebe?"
"Colette is right," she said, shocked that her veil of invisibility had been penetrated so easily. "A CD. No love songs. Maybe the Skeleton Crew CD?"
"Great idea!" she said. "Colette can probably get me a case of free copies!"
Adam was in the yard working out when they rolled up the driveway. She saw him revealed briefly in the bright swath of light beaming from Margi's headlamps, turning on his heels from left to right, his fists rotating from his hips to strike unseen assailants.
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Margi had seen him too. "You going to go practice your ninja skills with Adam now?" she said.
Phoebe started, but it was just a question. Sometimes she forgot that she hadn't told Margi what had happened. She got out of the car and watched her frosted breath curl in the air before her. Adam was just a vague shadow in the darkness, a flickering ghost half seen through the ambient glow of Margi's headlights.
"No," she said after a time. "I think he's probably pretty deep into it by now. You know how intense he gets."
Margi rolled down her window as Phoebe slammed the door.
"You guys are okay, right?"
Please, Phoebe thought, let's not spoil the evening. "We're fine."
Margi looked at her a long moment. "Thanks for coming today," she said, finally.
Phoebe leaned down and gave her an awkward half-hug through the open window, reaching over to grip Colette's shoulder as well.
"Thanks for having me after all," she said. "You guys are really good friends."
Margi waited until she was on her steps before backing out. Phoebe waved to them from the steps, and then she waved to Adam, but she couldn't tell if he waved back through the darkness.
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CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
"TOME OF THE Undead Studies students said that they've seen you working here at the foundation." Angela had this trick she did when they were in session, where she sort of cocked her head while brushing her long hair behind her ear with her fingers. Pete thought it was supposed to signify how interested she was in what he was saying. "Am I supposed to start talking about that?" She smiled at him.
"I don't know what to say. Am I supposed to hide or something when they come?"
She shifted in her seat. "I don't know. Do you think you should?"
He sighed. "No."
"Don't you think your presence might be ...upsetting to some of them?"
"Maybe. So you think I should hide."
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"I don't think we're talking about hiding. I think we're talking about not making yourself so ...conspicuous."
He hated the pauses in her speech. It made her sound like a worm burger. "Conspicuous."
"You were staring at them when they arrived at the foundation the other day, Pete. I would call that ...making yourself conspicuous."
"Fine. I'll make myself scarce when they're here."
She held his gaze. "Why were you staring at them, Pete?"
He shrugged.
"Is it because you want to say something to someone?"
"Like who?"
"Adam? Or Phoebe?"
"What would I say to either of them?"
"I don't know. What would you?"
He shifted in his seat. "What, you think I should apologize or something?"
She didn't answer, her smile and gaze remained steady.
"If you are asking me if I feel bad about what happened to Adam, if I'm, like, remorseful, the answer is yes. Yes, I'm sorry he died."
She nodded.
"I wasn't trying to hurt him. Her, either. They were just in the way."
"In the way?"
"Yes, in the way." He looked right at her. "In front of the corpsicle.
"Tommy.
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He shrugged.
"Why do you think you're so angry with Tommy, Pete?"
"We've already been through all this."
"Please sit down. Let's go through it again, okay?"
"Okay." He sat down. He hadn't really been aware of standing in the first place. "Okay, fine. I don't like zombies. I hate zombies. We talked about a girl I used to know, Julie, and how she died and she didn't come back and that probably fuels my anger. We talked about how my parents are separated and my father doesn't have any time for me and how I don't approve of my mother's choices or her second husband. These facts, or so you seem to think, contribute to what you consider to be my irrational hatred of zombies."
She nodded, her smile widening, as though they were getting somewhere. Pete couldn't wait until his six months were up.
He sighed. "So now we know ... we sort of know ...why I hate zombies. But I don't know what to do about it. I see them and I start getting angry all over again. I know it isn't rational. I know that they--the zombies, I mean--aren't really responsible for what happened to Julie. But I don't know what to do about it."
He looked back at her, afraid he'd laid it on too thick. He knew it was important for Angela to think her ridiculous "therapy" was rehabilitating him. Duke had been right, it was stupid for him to try and intimidate the necrophiliacs like he had been; Angela must have seen him on one of the security tapes. Stupid.
He looked at her, affecting a hangdog, contrite expression while trying not to overdo it.
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"Pete," she said, "I think it's time we start discussing some coping strategies for you to deal with your feelings about zombies."
He made as if the tension was slowly going out of his shoulders.
"I'd like that. I really would."
He hoped that she didn't notice him gritting his teeth the moment the words were out.
Pete cursed under his breath as some of the bleach slopped over the sides of the mop basin. The wringer didn't want to slide onto its mounting. He kicked it and it clattered to the ground. "Tough session?"
Pete started. Duke stood behind him, his large frame leaning against the wall. Normally the echo of Duke's heels filled the corridors he patrolled, but when he wanted to, the big man could move in total silence.
"Oh, it was great."
Duke laughed. He reached for the mop wringer and planted it effortlessly in place on the side of the rolling bucket. "I can tell. Isn't head-shrinking fun?"
"I'll be done with it in a few weeks."
"Sure." Duke pushed the bucket to him with the toe of his boot. Bleach water sloshed over the sides and onto Pete's shoes. "Oops, better mop that up. So you think you'll be all done hating zombies when it's over?"
Pete dunked his mop, then wrung it out. "I love zombies."
"I can tell."
Pete let the mop fall against the cement wall. "Look, is there
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a point to all your insinuations? Every time I come out of my sessions, I try to get to work right away and not bother anybody. And every day, you have something to say to me. Except I never know what you're saying."
There was a flicker of amusement on the pale man's face. "No?"
"No, I don't. Except you seem to be interested in what goes on in there." He ducked his head in the direction of Angela's office down the hall.
"True, very true."
"Well, why the hell should you care? Don't you have anything better to do than mess with me?" "Sure I do," Duke said. "Like hunting." "Hunting? What do you mean, hunting? Like, animals?" "Domestic animals, mostly."
"Domestic ...?" Pete stopped. He'd heard about the recent pet disappearances around town. The papers had been quick to blame the zombies.
Duke's smile had grown wider. "A whole bunch of them have died in town recently."
"What are you saying? That you ...that you killed them?"
Duke shrugged.
"You killed those dogs? Not the zombies?"
"Dog. One dog. A couple cats. Mostly it was just creative use of roadkill."
"You're serious? You killed them?" Pete laughed. "Why?"
Duke shrugged, a gesture of false modesty. "Doesn't matter who kills them. It matters who gets blamed."
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Pete couldn't believe what he was hearing. He knew Duke was sick, he just didn't know how sick.
"The zombies. The zombies get blamed."
Duke clapped his hand on Pete's shoulder and squeezed. "Of course the zombies get blamed. They're already out there causing trouble, acting clever with these little pranks they're pulling, the graffiti and the stupid posters. They think they're being cute, 'raising consciousness' or whatever, but that kind of activity just scares decent living folk. It isn't that much of a stretch to picture them killing the family pet, is it?"
"I don't even believe it. I don't even believe you're the one."
"Believe it." Duke let go of his shoulder. "Even better, it's your good buddy that's going to be left holding the bag on the crimes."
"My good buddy?"
Duke brought his hand up to his cheek, a gesture Pete instinctively copied, and he felt the rough threads of his stitches beneath his fingers.
"Yeah, your buddy. He's the main prankster."
"Good," Pete said, lowering his hand, "I'd love to see that scary dead bastard get his."
Duke raised an eyebrow so high it was almost comical.
"You would?" He leaned in close enough for Pete to smell the spearmint on his breath. "How badly?"
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CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
From: [email protected] To: [email protected] Hey Phoebe--
Here's my latest "adventure." I'd really appreciate it if you could check it over for mistakes before posting it.
How is everybody? Still dead?
Love,
Tommy
DEATH ON TWO LEGS: Aftermath
I stopped at Aftermath during my stay in New York City, which I'm told has more zombies per capita than any other place in the country. If that rather unscientific statement is true, they must all stay in the club itself, because I didn't see any zombies on the streets of New York. Either that or the zombies I did see were indistinguishable from the traditionally biotic people.
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