A Living Dead Love Story Series

by Rusty Fischer

  It feels good, sipping and walking with someone other than Stamp for a change. It’s something you would do with a friend, which reminds me: in all this time, I haven’t seen or heard her say one thing to another human soul. Haven’t met her parents, haven’t even seen her swap high fives with another kid at school.

  The walk is slow and casual, the night air cool but not brisk. Here and there, orange or purple or green Halloween lights blink in a storefront window or a jack-o’-lantern flickers on a front stoop.

  I sip the cold, sugary soda, feeling it in my cells.

  The silence between us is comfortable.

  I put the cap back on my soda and clear my throat. When she looks at me, I ask, “So I’m not sure how to say this without sounding insensitive, but how are your friends doing with all these other kids going missing?”

  She smirks and sips some soda, her upper lip tinted purple until she licks it. “Is that your majorly awkward way of asking why I don’t have any friends?”

  I snort.

  The park comes into view, still a ways away: a vast opening just off Main Street, clean white sidewalks and a manicured lawn and benches and swings and monkey bars.

  “I guess so, yeah.”

  She shrugs.

  Our shoes pad on the sidewalk. From an open window somewhere, maybe even an early Halloween party, the strains of “Monster Mash” twinkle in the air.

  “You could say I’m not very good at being popular.” She tosses me a vaguely embarrassed look. Then she juts out her chin. “Plus, we just moved here not too long ago.”

  I nod. That would explain her loner status in the halls, the lack of friends knocking down her door, and the quiet cell phone.

  Then again, I get the feeling that even if Lucy had lived here since birth, she still wouldn’t be getting texts at all hours, sharing BFF stuff like which boy is cute and who dumped who and, OMG, did you see who they just voted off American Idols Who Think They Can Dance last night?

  Which is cool and actually quite familiar. If it hadn’t been for my own BFF, Hazel, back in Barracuda Bay, I probably would have been a lot like Lucy. Probably a lot less annoying and anal but most likely just as unpopular and vaguely restless and all kinds of lonely. I mean, when you’re actively seeking out the living dead as your friends of choice, you know you’re not quite socially adjusted.

  The park is quiet, dark, and big. We stand at the mouth of it, looking at the empty benches and the tall and not-so-tall palms dotting the nice green lawn. There is a gurgling fountain in the middle, a walking path of rust-colored pavers, and a swing set—all sterile, like something off a brochure cover.

  We sit at opposite ends of a bench by the fountain, leaning the plastic bottles of soda against the slats between us, kind of like cup holders. The air is cool and quiet, perfect for listening for Zerker noises. From here in the middle of the park, we have a view of most of Main Street and a few other streets.

  It feels good to be doing something. Frankly, I don’t know what else to do. At least this way if people come running out of a random building screaming, I’ll be close enough to do something about it.

  And this time, I will do something. You can bet on that.

  We sit quietly for a few moments, just listening. For Zerker noises. I’m not quite sure what that might be. Drool hitting the ground? Stupid shuffling? But I’m listening for anything nonhuman at this point.

  Then out of nowhere, Lucy says, “So . . . you and Dane? What’s the deal?”

  I chuckle, crossing my legs, and realize I’m still in my school uniform. Man, I really did want to get out of that house tonight. “We were kind of a thing for a while.”

  Her eyes get a little bigger. “Yeah? How a while?”

  I look to see if she’s poking fun or actually interested, but her face is a mask. We’ve got nothing better to do, so I answer. “Long enough to matter.”

  She nods. “Okay, I mean, but how does that work?”

  “It doesn’t, apparently.”

  “I meant how does that physically work?”

  I roll my eyes. Stupid Normals and their morbid curiosity. “I know what you meant, Lucy. It’s complicated, okay?”

  She puts her hands up, girl talk for Okay, okay, I wasn’t all that interested anyway.

  “What? It doesn’t talk about zombie anatomy in your little book there?” I tousle the strap of her messenger bag on the bench between us.

  She shakes her head. “If it does, I haven’t gotten to that chapter yet. Maybe I should read faster.”

  I snort. “I suggest skipping it altogether.”

  A surprisingly not-that-awkward silence follows.

  Then she smirks and says, “Was it serious?”

  “Yes,” I moan instantly, as if it’s been bottled up for weeks and just waiting to come out. Who else is there to talk to about it? Stamp? “It was hella serious, and I thought it would last forever, which really means something when you’re undead and, ugh, now he’s here with that zombie tramp, and it hurts major. I just can’t believe what a monumental tool he became.”

  She snickers a little. “That must have felt good, huh? Getting that off your chest.”

  “I’m sorry.” I almost gasp. “I just, you know, being a zombie is kind of lonely and isolated.”

  “I bet . . . So, probably, you tend to get a little clingy so you don’t feel as isolated.”

  I see where she’s going. “Heh. No, not clingy exactly, but I see what you mean. If anything, maybe I wasn’t clingy enough.”

  She arches an eyebrow.

  I think of Dane’s Sentinel training, his missions, my Keeper training, and Vera’s constant demands. Of my body, my mind, my allegiance, and my time. And then there was Dad, who I tried to see every night before he went to sleep. And poor Stamp, who I felt like I should pop in on every now and then. “What I mean is,” I say out loud, “if I had been a little more clingy, we might not have drifted apart.”

  She’s nodding encouragingly, so it just kind of spills out: “Whatever. I know how it sounds, but he was so nice, to me anyway. I know he looks thuggish, and I never thought I’d be one of those girls who dug that, but that wasn’t what did it for me. He was a very different person around me, with me. A calm and happy and safe person, you know?”

  Her gaze goes a little far away, like maybe she does know, all too well. Then she quietly nods.

  I sigh and look at my hands resting on my green-and-blue plaid skirt. “I thought he was the one, you know?”

  She nods. “Maybe he just got scared.”

  My lips go thin because what the hell does she know about it? Then again, what do I know? She could be the resident relationship expert in Seagull Shores, for all I know. “Go on.”

  She shrugs. “You guys are supposed to live a long, long time, right? So maybe he didn’t want it to be literally till death do you part, you know?”

  I scoff. Loudly. “It wasn’t like we were married or anything.”

  She takes a sip of her soda and puts it back down. “Maybe not, but maybe it felt like that to him. Was he dating anyone when you met?”

  I think of Chloe and snort. “Not hardly.”

  Lucy nods.

  “What? What does that nod mean?”

  She smiles, probably surprised by my desperate tone.

  Even I’m surprised by it.

  “He strikes me as a lone wolf, is all. Brooding . . .”

  “Go on.” She’s 110 percent dead-on so far.

  “Well, so, sometimes guys like Dane will pull a dick move just to end it fast rather than actually, you know, tell you about it.”

  “But why?”

  She shrugs. “Why do guys pull dick moves ever? So they’re done, over and out, free to walk away. He probably doesn’t even like this Courtney chick, but it’s better than dragging it out another few decades with—”

  I put a finger up. To her mouth.

  She winces because I’m sure it’s cold and she’s probably going to have to gargle with cherry-sce
nted hand sanitizer now. But to her credit, she doesn’t move and even shuts up.

  I remove it and turn around, pointing to the cluster of palm trees ringing the park. “Did you hear that?” I whisper so low she has to lean in. I repeat. “Did you hear that?”

  “No, ’cause I was giving you all that good love advice just now.”

  “I thought I heard a twig snap.”

  “Shit.” She looks around, panic clearly gripping her. “So this was a pretty stupid idea, huh? I mean, look at us here: we’re like fish in a barrel!”

  I shush her, but if someone is back there watching us, she’s right: our goose is cooked anyway.

  I slide the Eliminator from my front pocket, popping both ends.

  She looks down at the two kinds of metal hissing out. Her eyes get even bigger. “What’s that?”

  “That’s not in your book either?”

  She shakes her head.

  I shrug, feeling pretty smug about that. I hold up the weapon, just high enough so she can see but whoever’s snapping twigs behind us can’t. “It’s called an Eliminator. Well, I mean, I call it that, anyway.”

  She rolls her eyes, as if I don’t know it’s cheesy. I know it, but when you haven’t slept for over a year, yeah, you find cheesy things to name cheesy things so you don’t go stark, raving mind. That, and I never in a million years pictured myself sitting on a park bench in another beach town showing off a weapon to some Normal chick with a backpack full of zombie books.

  She nods toward it, eyes wide. “How’s it work?”

  “Well, the ice pick goes in the ear, killing the brain instantly. The scalpel cuts off the head, just to make sure.”

  She’s so still I feel the need to say something more, if only to convince myself. “In theory, anyway.”

  Her frown tells me that was probably the wrong ad to lib.

  “What? You haven’t killed a live Zerker yet?”

  I’m about to correct her when she says, “You know what I mean—a moving Zerker?”

  “Well, I was still in training when they Vanished me, so—”

  “You mean banished.”

  “No, I mean Vanished. But it’s kind of the same thing.”

  She looks at me expectantly.

  I sigh and look toward the palm trees, squinting into the yellow darkness but see nothing, hear nothing.

  I look back at her. “Basically, I got kicked out of Sentinel City.”

  I kind of worry I’ve said too much already, but she’s still listening and, besides, who is she going to tell . . . that would believe her, anyway?

  “It’s, well, it doesn’t matter. When they kick you out, they call it being Vanished. So I never finished my training or got to actually, you know, ice pick and decapitate a real Zerker.”

  “So, like, you’re not even an official zombie?”

  I shake my head. “It’s a long story—”

  There. Right there. I heard another one. I stand, senses on high alert, Eliminator at my side, forget whether or not they can see it. In fact, screw that. I want them to see it. Stupid Zerkers.

  Lucy moves too, her velour jumpsuit swishing, but I still her with a wave.

  She sits, and I turn. The palm trees sway against the yellowish sky. Shadows and shapes form just beyond the line of trees behind us.

  Shit, this was a stupid move.

  Really stupid. And now I’ve got a Normal along for the ride.

  Another twig snaps, and a leg appears, a running shoe attached, lemon-yellow jogging shorts, white hoodie, all blood splattered.

  Lucy has turned around. “It’s . . . It’s him. Armand Suit. The exchange student.” The fear rolls off her in waves.

  It’s one thing to buy a bunch of zombie books and slap some edgy skull stickers on your messenger bag, but to stand there staring one in the face, well, that’s a whole other story.

  I grunt. “It’s not just him.”

  A second later his girlfriend emerges, dried blood all over, hair still up in a freakishly neat ponytail.

  They move forward smoothly.

  I think how well Bones and Dahlia, Zerkers to the core, assimilated at Barracuda Bay High. Why not these two? What’s to stop them from taking a shower one day soon, putting their uniforms back on, and just showing up at school? They could say they were foolhardy, ran away, spent all their money, came home, and now they’ll be all better, just let them back into school and let them do their makeup work, pretty please.

  It could work, and it would work, so why are they still shuffling about like horror movie zombies, creepy and obvious to anyone foolish enough to venture out for a late-night stroll?

  Suddenly a third Zerker stumbles out, a vision of creep, face scarred horribly, teeth visible on the right side of her jaw line, half a nostril missing on the same side.

  And I blink to make sure. It is. It is the girl, the jogger, the one I could have saved.

  Unlike the other two, who look plenty bloody but otherwise normal, there’ll be no passing for her. Not in this afterlife. The right shoulder of her white track jacket is crimson, her one good eye wide and yellow and searching for brains.

  “Stand,” I tell Lucy.

  She doesn’t even blink. Just does it, and for once I don’t mind the gentle whispering of her maroon velour track suit nightmare.

  “Get behind me and stay there.”

  I should probably tell her to go get Dane and Courtney, even Stamp, but I’m afraid these aren’t the only three Zerkers in town. If I let her go alone, she could run into more and not have me or my Eliminator around to help her. The last thing I want is to see Lucy one-eyed and bloody, showing up with a bag of cold moo shu at my door tomorrow.

  She stands there at my back, sticking close. I keep the bench between us and the trio of Zerkers, not that it will do much good. But if all it does is buy Lucy a few extra seconds to get away, it’s worth it.

  The two with their faces still intact pause in front of the stand of palm trees. Jogger Girl keeps walking, stopping, turning for reassurance. The other two hiss at her. Hiss. I’m not even exaggerating. Even I cringe a little. I glance behind me, and Lucy goes pale.

  Jogger Girl turns and grits her exposed teeth, walking toward me. No, more like limping. Then I realize why. Her right sock is drenched with blood, her shoe missing. The shoe . . . The one I hid beneath the sink the other night.

  She’s coming right for us.

  “What should I do?” Lucy asks, fumbling for her phone. “I’m calling 911.”

  “And tell them what? A Zerker is coming? By the time you explain that, we’ll both have yellow eyes and matching teeth for the rest of our afterlives.”

  “Well, what, then?”

  “Just let me handle it!” I hiss, wishing I had asked Dane for his cell number first instead of just running out of the house, half-cocked and jealous.

  I look behind me, where the town is dark but the coast looks clear. At this point, screw it. I’d rather have her sprint home and get the others and stand a passing chance at living than keep her here with me. “Run, Lucy! Just get back to Lumpfish Lane. Go get the others. Tell them where I am, have them stay there and shut the door, and don’t answer it until one of us breaks it down.”

  But she stands there, clueless. Not that I can blame her, but she needed to be gone a few minutes ago if I’m ever going to get any help. But then, that’s my fault. I can’t be mad at the Normal because I got Vanished and old and rusty in less than a week. I shove her, and she blinks to life, sprinting off on her short legs.

  I turn to Jogger Girl, whose bloody socks squish with every step.

  “Good. Now we’re even.”

  She cocks her head, and a little drool runs out the toothy side.

  I look over her shoulder and see a few others have joined the Living Dead Cross Country team. Two, three, four, five more. Two girls, the rest guys. Two are still in their school uniforms; another is in a Burger Barn uniform, as if they got him just after he clocked out. This is happening fast. Faster
than in Barracuda Bay, faster than I know what to do about.

  They all look young, like the faces on the Missing posters lining up on the kitchen counter back on Lumpfish Lane. I’m quite certain, if I could stop the onslaught and poll them one by one, I’d learn they’re all from Seagull Shores Prep School. And who else would do that? Who else would turn only students into Zerkers but a twisted, wicked, revenge-fueled chick . . . like Val?

  Jogger Girl is closer now, a soft keen coming from her jagged mouth. God, she looks worse than some of the masks we’d wear to scare the audience in the Great Movie Monster Makeover Show.

  “Can you hear?” I ask, gripping the Eliminator, trying to keep her occupied, focused on me, on my mouth, my head, not the hand at my side. “Can you talk?”

  “Yeah,” she grunts, soft air moving through the hole in her cheek where I see her pinkish-white jaw muscles flex. It’s a reedy sound but weird because her voice is so Zerker deep. “I just don’t like to.”

  That airiness combined with that hoarseness—I figure probably the gash in her throat nicked some vocal cords when the Zerkers were chewing on her face.

  I shiver. “Stop. You don’t have to do this. I, I know there are a lot of them, but I have friends too.”

  She shakes her head, as if even she knows how stupid I sound. “Just don’t,” she says, limping faster now. “It won’t work.”

  I raise the Eliminator, hoping she’ll see it and stop, giving her one last chance. “Don’t,” I blurt, my voice raw with guilt. “Don’t make me do this.”

  “Do what?” she says, three feet away now. She pauses, giving me that creepy half smile that is her full smile because half her freakin’ face is missing. Her good eye narrows. “All you’re doing is finishing what they started. What you let them start.”

  “I couldn’t,” I sputter, “take them all by myself.”

  She cocks her head, drool drizzling onto her shoeless foot. “That’s not what she says.”

  “She? Who she?” I growl. “Tell me!”

  But she’s walking again. “Why should I help you”—that whistly voice croaks from her mouth and throat at the same time—“when you never helped me?”

  I shake my head, begging now. “Stop. Just. Stop.”

  She gives me that horror movie half smile. As if she knows what she’s doing, as if she’s doing it on purpose, and how can I blame her?