Kiss Me, I'm Undead
Tasha L. Driver
Published by Wolf's Crossing Press, 2019.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
KISS ME, I'M UNDEAD
First edition. October 28, 2019.
Copyright © 2019 Tasha L. Driver.
Written by Tasha L. Driver.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Smart Girls Take the Long Way Home.
Amnesia and Hunger Don't Mix.
Psycho Circadian Rhythm
Meet My Hot New Shithead Neighbor.
Still Hungry...
Jillesa Is #ThatBitch
Don't Trust a Dude that Runs Through the Ghetto at Night.
I'm No Gringa! Okay, I Am, but Still...
Work with What You've Got, Honey.
You Love Me, You Really Love Me!
What Is He Doing Here?
Mr. Gray Eyes
What. The. Fuck?!
Sorry, My Bad
#BFFGoals
I Caused This...
...I'll Fix This.
People Think They Know You, But They Don't.
Hey, These Babies Are Real!
Nothing to See Here. Just Rattling Off the Steps of a Plan to Myself.
Gawd! I Hate Exercise!
#SquadGoals
#SquadGoals, Part II
I Kissed A Ghoul And I Liked It.
Free Clinics Smell Like Pain and Misery.
"You're the Most Beautiful Dead Girl in the World."
Frank's Got the Connects.
The Butcher's Got the Connects.
The Po-Po Ain't So Bad. Maybe.
I'm Still Hot, Even Covered In Blood.
You Mean "WitSuck".
Two Years Ago...
Snitches Get Stitches
You're Such A Sweetie, But...
If I'm Going To Die Anyway, I Should Definitely Orgasm First.
The Mystery Box
Here's Jorge!
Those That Sleep Like the Dead...
...Are Actually Dead.
What About Miguel?!?
Find Me A Guru To Fix My Life.
A Vampire and a Zombie Take Down a Druglord... No Punchline.
You Can Still Call Me Kayla.
Only Bad Guys, 'Kay?
Good. I Was Getting Hungry.
Acknowledgements
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About the Author
For Marla and John.
Smart Girls Take the Long Way Home.
It wasn’t a dark and stormy night, but with the shit that went down, you would think it should have been. Instead, it was clear and a comfortable seventy-six-degree Tuesday night, with a bright-ass full moon overhead.
I finished my shift as a cocktail waitress at Gina’s Bar at 2:15 am. As I took off my name tag that read “Kayla”, I kicked myself in the proverbial ass for not bringing gym shoes to work with me. My piece-of-shit Chevy broke down—again!—and I couldn’t catch a ride home with the other waitress, Jill, because she took off early. That traitorous bitch went home with some trash-talking guy even though she'd promised me a ride.
There I was, standing outside of Gina’s in my four-inchers, hating life, and trying to decide which way to take home. I looked to my left. It was the smart way: a half block east to Jeffrey, south five blocks to 71st, another five blocks west to Trade, and five blocks north to 66th. It was a semicircle, but a very well-lit and well-populated semicircle. The way to my right, by contrast, was four-and-a-half blocks of abandoned buildings and dark alleyways.
So, despite my intelligent brain telling me to go left, my hand pulled the pepper spray out of my purse while my aching feet in the four-inch-tall torture devices turned right and started walking into the darkness.
I kept up a steady pace for the first block and hummed the theme song to Saturday Night Fever to give me a rhythm to move to, laughing at the way my heels kept a staccato beat. I felt so incredibly silly about it, but it kept my mind off the lack of noise on the deserted strip of low-economic real estate.
The streetlights sparsely lit my journey. Many of them hadn’t been working since I moved here six months ago. My guess was this neighborhood was not on Chicago’s top priority list. Too bad it was the one chosen for me to live in.
It was at the end of the second block that my mind began playing tricks on me. The catalyst was the crash of a garbage can lid a stray cat knocked over trying to get his late-night snack on. The sound made me jump, and I ran across the street screaming then berated myself not-so-silently after I’d made sure I hadn’t literally shit myself. After that, every noise creeped me out. Screw that. The lack of noise creeped me out. I started imagining I was being watched. As far as I knew, the Eye of fucking Sauron was on me.
If I had to throw a guess out there, I’d say I was going to get within view of home before something horrible happened to me.
I got close.
Amnesia and Hunger Don't Mix.
“Sweet baby Jesus in a manger! Someone please tell me they got the plate number of the truck that hit me.” I immediately regretted asking the invisible friends I imagined keeping vigil around my bed that question. My throat hurt. My face hurt. Screw it — everything hurt! What in the hell had I gotten myself into last night?
Grateful for the black-out drapery covering my bedroom windows, I opened my eyes and didn’t have to squint. I sat up slowly and looked around as much as my sore neck would allow me to. Everything looked to be in place. I mean...the walls were still bare, and there was a pile of dirty laundry on the floor.
I lifted my blanket to take a look at myself. I’d gone to bed with all my clothes on. Weird. A normal twenty-three-year-old woman would have blamed all this weirdness on too many shots of Fireball whiskey. But I wasn’t exactly normal. And I didn’t drink. Drinking led to relaxed inhibitions and stupid decisions.
Like walking a dark street by yourself in the middle of the night.
“Dammit!” I smacked myself on the forehead and the slice of pain through my skull let me know that I was in serious need of some Tylenol. I hopped out of bed and a wave of dizziness hit me and had me rocking back on my heels. I sat down quickly, bending forward and putting my head on my knees. As soon as the little pinpricks of light disappeared from my vision, I looked down and saw my purse and shoes sitting neatly on the floor by my bed.
I said a rare and wishful prayer as I snatched up my hot pink satchel and rifled through it in search of last night’s tips. Still there, all eighty-two bucks of it. So, I wasn’t mugged, but that didn’t mean I had a clue what happened to me after I left work. I always threw my purse on the kitchen counter when I came in. And I always took the time to pull out my tips and stick them in the coffee can at the back of my cabinet.
Then there were the shoes, placed flushed and perpendicular against my bed when they should have been kicked haphazardly to some vortex in the living room that would hold them hostage for at least a week. I reached down to pick them up and, I’d be damned, the heels toppled over onto the floor. They’d snapped right off at some point.
“Well, that explains it,” I said, as if my imaginary friends were gonna let out a sigh of relief with me. “My dumb ass tried to walk home in these things last night.” I shook my still throbbing head at my stupidity. I must have gotten a heel stuck in one of the gaping cracks in the sidewalk and face-planted into the concrete. I probably got the crick in my neck the same way. Though that didn’t exactly explain the dark, crusted stain left behind on the pale pink satin of the right heel.
The second time I tried to stand, I anticipate
d getting the spins and reached out for the wall right away. I had to take it slow, but I made it into the bathroom without falling over and searched through the cabinet for that familiar red and white bottle. I got one hell of a shock when I closed it again and looked up into the mirror.
“Fuck. Me. Sideways.” The entire left side of my neck was black and blue. No wonder it hurt so bad. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out what would have made such a ginormous bruise. A two-by-four? I my fingers inched up and felt for cuts or abrasions. There were none, but, man, was that tender to the touch. If I didn’t know better, I’d say some bastard choked me. It would explain my sore throat, dizziness, and headache. But I did know better. This bruising was different. For one, it was only on one side of my neck. There were also no finger pad marks and my eyes were clear. No red spots.
With a sigh, I palmed two pills and stuck my head under the faucet to wash them down. A glance at the wall clock let me know it was a quarter to two in the afternoon. I’d slept the day away and had to be back at work in three hours. That was not nearly enough time to track down the industrial grade concealer I was going to need to cover the bruise and the circles I was sporting under my eyes. I needed to call my boss, but my stomach grumbled and told me to take care of his needs first. Impatient bastard.
Confused and annoyed, I headed into the kitchen. Nothing was out of place there or in the living room either. The only thing missing was food in my fridge, and that was my fault and my fault alone. I stood there, still in my cigarette trousers and black lace-up tank top from yesterday, with the refrigerator door wide open. The incandescent bulb shined on me like I was the poster girl for Lifestyles of the Poor and Desperate.
My choices boiled down to week-old pizza or three-day-old convenience store sushi. The pizza was clearly the safer bet...but what I really wanted was a steak. Which was weird because this was not the right time for that. For five days every month, I bled like a gutted pig and ate beef like a goddamned Texan. It was a week and a half too early, but the craving was the same. I knew from experience that it wasn’t going away until I walked down the street to Supermercado Mas Grande and bought a couple of flanks.
It was time to prioritize. I needed to call work first.
My boss’s Neanderthal-like son answered on the third ring. “Gina’s.”
“Oh, hey Frank. It’s Kayla.”
“Yep.”
“I need to call off tonight.” I crossed my fingers.
“Why?”
I rolled my eyes. He never spoke in sentences longer than one word. “Well, I tripped and fell on my way home last night.”
“So.”
“So? I’m hurt real bad. I feel like shit.” You will not force me to come in tonight. You will not force me to...
“So.”
Fucker. “I look like shit, too. I’m all bruised up like a drug-addicted prostitute that picked up the wrong John.”
“Coke?”
“...no.”
“Meth?”
“Uh, no.” What kind of fucked up guessing game were we playing?
“Heroin?”
“God! Yes!”
I heard a loud sigh come through the receiver. “Fine.”
“Thank you so much, Frank. I’ll make it up to you, I swear.”
“Whatever.” Click.
Great. That was over. On to the necessities: Shower, comfy clothes, and some groceries. I washed up, pulled my wet hair into a bun, and threw on a threadbare “Pink” track suit from the thrift store. That was my version of going incognito.
As I got ready to leave the apartment, I noticed that I’d forgotten to set the latch and chain on my door. I pounded my head against the door, almost negating the Tylenol I’d taken. How could you be so fucking stupid, Kiera? I shook my head and pushed it out of my mind, heading out before a panic attack came on me full force.
One round-trip excursion to the market later, and I was in my kitchen pulling a flank steak off the electric grill. I halved a lime and stuck it on the plate. The cilantro chimichurri they marinated the meat in made it tender but lacked flavor in the citrus department. Then, I sat at the breakfast counter and devoured that dead cow flesh like my life depended on it.
Seriously. Meat had never tasted so good.
I saved myself some embarrassment by chucking the plate in the sink before I could start licking the crimson juices off it. Walking over to the front door, I patted my now achingly full belly —happy, you bastard?— and latched both security locks that I had forgotten about last night. I’d never be idiotic and careless enough to let that epic mistake happen again. Sore and full, I made my way back to the bedroom with the hopes I'd sleep like the dead.
Psycho Circadian Rhythm
Stomp, Stomp, Stomp.
I opened my eyes slowly as I came out of the deep REM sleep that I’d desperately needed. I grabbed my phone off the charging dock on my headboard and the lock screen showed it was 1:33am. I’d gotten five hours of sleep and it wasn’t enough. What in the holy hell woke me up?
Stomp, Stomp, Stomp.
“What the fuck?” I mumbled as I squinted at the ceiling. I’d lived in this apartment for six months. In that time, I saw my upstairs neighbor once when he was getting the mail. He was a ninety-something-year-old man who walked huddled over and favoring a bad hip. I felt awful for him at first. Then he looked me up and down in appraisal and gave me the dirty old man smirk. I didn’t feel so sympathetic anymore.
For the most part, he was a decent neighbor. He didn’t watch loud TV, have obnoxious kids, or constantly fight with his girlfriend. He had only one bad habit. His circadian rhythm was set to “Psycho.” I didn’t hear a peep from him all day long, but the minute ten p.m. hit, he was up and at ‘em.
It didn’t bother me too much. I worked most nights and could never get to sleep right away when I came home. I’d sit on the couch and read romance novels on my Kindle while listening to his soft, creaking steps shuffle across the ceiling. They stopped the minute the sun began to rise. Poor old guy. He lived alone and, as far as I knew, no one ever came to visit him, not even a nurse. They’d have to pass my door to get to the stairs, and I was always home during the day. I doubt anyone could adjust to his sleep schedule.
Stomp, Stomp, Stomp, a grunt, and then the sound of furniture moving.
My body screamed at me as I jerked upright in bed. That was not the old man. Someone else was upstairs. Was he being robbed? Oh god, was he still up there and being attacked right now?
Panicked, I got out of bed and fumbled around for my phone, getting ready to dial nine-one-one when I heard a series of booming noises followed by someone running back and forth across the floor from room to room. Someone may have hit me with a two-by-four last night, and now an elderly man was being attacked in his own apartment. This shitty neighborhood had gone to shit, and the police were not going to come this close to the South Shore in much of a hurry. He could be dead by then.
Without thinking things through very well, I grabbed my chef’s knife out of the kitchen and put on a pair of knock-off Crocs. In hindsight, I needed to make better shoe decisions. I was rushing up the stairs of my two-unit building toward one or more possible killers. What if they chased me? Have you ever tried to run in ill-fitting rubber clogs?
When I reached the upper landing, I grabbed the door handle and twisted.
Huh?
It was locked. Do home invaders usually lock the door behind them?
I stood there with a giant kitchen knife in my hand and a perplexed look on my face, trying to decide what to do next. I went with the least logical thing I’d done in the past twenty-four hours: I knocked.
Meet My Hot New Shithead Neighbor.
“May I help you?”
It was a simple question. I knew I’d come up here for a reason, but I stood nose to impossibly chiseled pectorals on a god of a man who glistened with sweat, and I couldn’t speak a coherent word. My gaze unabashedly traveled up his body from the impressive dick print—
god, I love men in gray sweatpants—to his well-defined six, er no, eight pack, soft lips, and deep brown eyes above which a dark eyebrow cocked as if to accent the question he’d asked me an eternity ago.
“Are you done with your appraisal?”
I blanched at being caught at the same time that I remembered my mission and I squared my shoulders. Summoning my inner badass, I raised my knife to his breastbone. Once I had it there, I realized the placement was stupid, but I wasn’t going to ruin my tough chick façade by readjusting it a couple of inches to the right. Instead, I played interrogator. “Are you attempting a B&E?”
He smirked momentarily and one eye twitched a bit. “Pardon?”
“You know. Breaking and entering. Or maybe murder?”
The smirk became a chuckle. “This is my home, young lady.” In addition to lying, he was being condescending with that "young lady" shit. I doubted he was that much older than me. Twenty-eight at the most.
“No. I know the guy who lives here. You’re not him. Mr... uh...uh...” I tried to remember the name on the mailbox. It was messily handwritten, insanely long, and started with an “S”.
“Schwinghammer. That’s me. I mean....my...grandfather.”
Schwinghammer? I couldn’t help the involuntary downward glance of my eyes. I guess that’s an accurate description. “Your grandfather?”
“Yes. My name is Frederich. Um...his is, too, so you can call me Freddie.” He paused, staring at me, then the knife, and then back up at me. He expected me to lower it. I didn’t. I wasn’t that stupid.
He tilted his head, glanced at my neck, and cringed.
“Yeah, yeah. Ugly-ass bruise, I know. I fell last night...I think. Where’s your grandfather?”
“Hospital.” Okay. My neighbor was old and frail enough for that to be believable. And from the way he lowered his eyes and appeared sad and remorseful, it must have been something serious.
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