People who still have minor paranormal talent but don’t ping the radar.
Jonesy walks out the front door barefoot. Low-slung jeans wrap a lean, fit body as he crams his hands in his front pockets.
A giggling chick with creamy skin, long blonde hair, and a body from which I can’t tear my gaze totters out in heels.
Wow, he can get the hottest chicks. In between wives.
He just divorced his third.
Mom sighs.
We climb out of the Outback, and it lifts without all that body weight. Dead weight.
I guffaw, and Dee gives me a narrow-eye glare.
Jonesy laughs. The girl stops giggling. “What's with them, Mark?”
Jonesy doesn't answer but strides to Dad. “Hart!” he yells. Then he does a little dance step, hip thrust.
Dad laughs.
“Yeeeahhhhh—Hart!”
He shakes Dad’s hand and knuckle taps him.
Dad hugs him.
“Hey, Hart—settle down, don’t switch sides.”
Dad breathes deeply. He lets Jonesy go, and his smile remains.
The humor from Jonesy’s dark face bleeds away. “What is it, my man?”
Dad flicks his gaze to Blondie.
“Hey, Sammi… ya need to go.”
She puts her hands on her hips. It makes me have a physical reaction of hard dick syndrome. Swell. I shift my weight and look at Mitchell, who seems similarly stunned.
Okay. Not just me.
She stomps a high-heeled foot. “It's Skylie.”
Jonesy scrubs his face. “Yeah—it all blends, baby.”
“Gah!” she yells, tossing a bright pink purse over a shoulder.
“I'll take ya home.”
She brightens.
Jonesy's hover car comes around and her lips thin. “Nice, you swine.”
Jonesy puts his arms out. “Don’t have a lot of time for drama. Get in while the gettin’s good.”
She gets in.
I watch, taking notes for later.
“Are you going to be okay, Pax?”
I look at Dee. “I don't know.” I shake my head as the car slides off above our heads.
“Is she a prostitute?” Mitch asks, getting all judgy.
Jonesy gives him a look of insult. “The Jonester doesn’t have to pay, dude. As a matter of fact…”
“Jonesy, quiet,” Mom sounds off.
Dad laughs. “It’s good to see ya, Jones.”
“You too, you sentimental simp.”
Dad’s smile widens.
“Now what the trumped up hell is the deal?” Jonesy checks out the undead gang. “And are they the new rot?”
Dad nods.
Jonesy's hands land on his hips. “I don't want them stinking up my fine hood, you feel me?”
“Jones, get the basement door open so I can shuffle my old ass in there and fix a stiff drink.”
Jonesy's brows pop at Gramps suggestion. “Love the consistency, Mac.”
“I aim to please.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Caleb
We shuffle into Jonesy's basement, a place where a ton of good times happened. I have a pang of sadness his folks are gone.
Car wreck.
Kinda like his life.
Jonesy just ditched wife number three. We all thought he'd get together with Sophie.
Never happened.
“Okay, dish the bullshit, Hart.”
Jonesy moves gracefully to a fully stocked wet bar. With a blink of his eyes, low lights flicker on.
Jonesy is one of the Randoms that never lost his power. Even better, he can hide it on the mandatory testing required every five years post-sterilization.
Something to do with the way they administer it. Pulse delivery.
Jones commands pulse.
A giant ice cube clinks into a glass. Jonesy pours two fingers of Jack Daniels for Gramps.
He tosses it back, a trail of sure fire camps in his gut, and not a flicker shows on his face.
Jones pours a second in the thick glass tumbler.
Gramps wraps a hand around the glass but doesn’t move to drink.
“Talk, Caleb.”
I do. When I’m done, he whistles low in his throat. “Wow, I can’t make up that shit.”
Gramps cracks a grin, spinning the amber liquid in his drink. The clinking of the ice in the glass is the only noise.
“We haven’t had this kinda stuff since way back.”
I nod.
“Well”—he flicks his gaze to Pax. “You’ve done some crap.”
Has he ever.
“But we contain it and it blows away.” Jonesy's dark eyes roam the zombies. “Yʼknow, Hart, that big dude reminds me of Sims.” He chugs half his beer and points the bottle at Mitch. “Seems a little alert, if ya know what I mean.”
I do.
“He—Mitch, got Deegan away from the issues they have on his Earth.”
Jonesy barks out a laugh. “Issues? Yeah, effing robots. Nice.”
“Artificial Life Bots,” Pax says.
Jonesy scrubs his short hair. Bending his tall frame over the front of the bar, he jerks open the small fridge behind the counter and grabs another beer. He turns around, using his now-defunct wedding band to spin the cap off.
He takes a long pull.
“Don’t get a drunk on, Jones. We need you to be a meat shield or something of that sort.”
Jonesy laughs. “Nice, Mac. Love that about ya.”
Gramps gives a chin dip.
“Looks like what needs doing is getting the alien rot back to the robot Earth, then we need to find out why these government Random dudes are on Pax like flies on shit.” Jonesy shrugs.
Jones has already solved it. My lips twitch. He’s a great wingman.
Jade says, “Jonesy.”
He tips an imaginary hat. “Yes, ma’am.”
She sighs. “I think we need to call a powwow.”
“Mom!” Deegan says.
Jade blushes. “I can say that, I’m native.”
Jonesy finishes his beer, slapping it down on the surface of his contraband wooden bar. “You look like you could be on the rez, Deedie.”
My daughter looks very Native American, though she’s more or half. Genes. Buggers.
“Who cares?” she asks.
Jonesy grins, loving to stir everyone up. Some things never change. “Let’s get the old gang back for this mess. We’ll need all the help we can get.”
“What about Tiff?” Jade asks with hesitation.
The quiet has weight.
It's sad, heavy. “Let's talk to John. He can figure it out.”
“We'll pick them up, caravan style.”
I shake my head. “No, they'll have to meet us.” I think for a second. “I guess we can snag the Terrans.”
Jade moves to Jonesy. He waggles his brows. “You still have the juice, sweetheart.”
Jade's not an Amplifier, but she can use the little bit of Empath she has left when she's with someone like Jonesy.
Jonesy dips his chin, concentrating. He hacks the pulse system interface and instantly contacts everyone.
They pulse back, undetected and in agreement.
We don't need another Helix Complex threat. From our own kind.
*
John meets us at the door, closing it softly behind him.
“Where is she?” I ask, meeting his eyes.
“Drunk.”
An explosive sigh ushers itself out of me. “What? God—we need her, John.”
He pushes a hand through his shortly cut red hair. “I know that, better than most.”
His pale blue eyes meet mine.
“Can ya do anything?”
John's frustration takes up all the lines of his face and he shakes his head.
“What's the hold up, natives are getting restless,” Gramps says from behind me.
I put my hands on my hips. The damned zombies are degrading. And my kids are in charge. This is getting stu
pid.
John’s shame is like make up. He wears it on his face.
“Okay.” Gramps claps John on the shoulder. “I know you love her—she’s your wife. But she can’t live in a bottle because of the sterilization.”
John grits his teeth. “She can't get over it.”
“Right, well, this might be bigger than her not being able to have babies.”
John puts his face in his hands. “I love her,” he mumbles from between his fingers. I can hear the sadness through his exhaustion.
Jonesy squeezes his shoulder. “Yeah, I dig it, Terran, but we need her drunk ass on this.”
Terran's hands fall to his side.
He looks like he'll kick Jonesy's ass.
I step between them.
“Let me try, John.”
He stares at me. Rage, anger, and anguish war in that gaze. Finally, he moves aside.
I go into a house darkened by drawn shades.
Ice clinks.
I follow the sound and spot her huddled on the corner of the couch.
“Fuck off, Caleb.”
I hesitate to come nearer.
Tiff has something undocumented. Instead of the reversal happening, like the rest of my friends, she’s now a five-point AFTD.
Tiffany Terran is also a childless drunk.
“Tiff,” I answer neutrally.
“Don't make me insult ya twice, Hart.”
I ignore her warning. “I need you.”
She lifts her glass, a small bit of light illuminating the amber liquid.
“Nobody needs me,” she answers in a low slurred voice.
“John does,” I say immediately.
Her eyes rise to mine in the gloom.
“Not anymore.”
I feel Grampsʼ presence before I see him.
Her hyper-aware gaze drags to his, impaired but not absent. “That goes for you too, old man.”
Gramps moves in, batting the glass she lifted in a mocking salute out of her hand.
It crashes behind us, glass splintering. The powerful smell of whiskey permeates.
Tiff stands quickly, swaying.
“You!” she screams.
Gramps grabs her, jerking her to his chest.
“Let me go, you fucking old coot.”
“No, you selfish little bitch. Listen to me!” Gramps shakes her and I step over.
“Don't,” he growls at me.
I stay where I am, trusting Gramps won't hurt her.
He turns back to Tiff. “I am sorry you're all sorts of sideways over not having kids.”
Shake.
My teeth go on edge.
“I'm sorry you have ten times the AFTD you ever wanted. But we need you for something bigger than the bullshit you don't wanna face.”
A door smacks against a wall. I don't take my eyes off Gramps and Tiff.
“Take your fucking hands off my wife,” John says in a voice low with rage.
Things just got ugly.
“No,” Gramps says quietly. “If you can't handle what needs doing, John Terran, I'll be doing it.”
John launches at Gramps.
I move between them.
John hits me, taking some of the wind from my lungs and I duck for the second swing, grabbing his arms. “No—John, don't do it!”
I hug him.
Not in anger—in love. This intervention has been a long time coming.
“I can't stand it!” Tiff screams, beating on Gramps with her small fists, too drunk to inflict damage. “If I'm numb I don't have to!”
“Drinking isn’t going to bring you babies. Being AFTD isn’t the end of the world, Tiffany.” Gramps grabs her wrists.
She collapses against him. “It’s the end of mine,” she slurs.
Gramps hugs her tighter, speaking against the top of her head. “No, dear girl, it is not.”
John stops struggling, looking at Gramps holding Tiff.
“I love him. But I hate me.” Tiff sobs against his shirt.
Gramps strokes her hair. “I know.”
“I hate me,” she repeats in a whisper.
John and Gramps look at each other over her head.
John covers his face with his hands for the second time.
Sometimes there are bigger problems than zombies from an alien Earth.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Deegan
Gramps walks out, Auntie Tiff tucked under his arm. I cover my mouth at the smell coming off her in waves.
Booze.
She's looped.
Mitchell is standing next to me. “She is going to do something with our mess?”
I can’t blame his disbelief. Her dark blonde hair is hanging in strings, and she’s as tiny as ever, hazel eyes murky with hate and sadness.
But she takes the time to look at Mitchell and the zombie family Pax brought.
“What the fuck is going on?” she slurs.
Gramps tries to tuck the hair hanging in her face behind her ear.
I move forward, and Mitchell touches my arm. “I don’t like it.”
“It's okay, she's my aunt.”
“No she's not.”
I look up at him. “How could you know that?”
He taps his nose. “We smell great. I can smell who you're related to.”
Uncle Clyde and Gramps give each other a wary look then regard Mitchell together.
“You two,” Mitchell says. “I know you're related.”
Gramps grunts, saying nothing. He's always mentioning priorities.
I keep moving, Mitchell coming alongside me.
I slip my hairband off my wrist and hand it to Tiff. Recognition flickers. Shame follows.
“It's okay, Auntie Tiff.”
She plucks the band from my fingers and shakes her head. “No, it's not.”
She twists her hair through a couple of revolutions, and it sits in a fat, messy bun at her nape. Her bloodshot eyes study Mitchell then Fam Zombie.
“They don’t feel right,” she says in an unsteady voice. In a semi-panic, she yells, “John!”
Uncle John moves to her side and all but wrenches her away from Gramps.
Grampsʼ expression contains sad knowledge. “It’s not over, champ.”
John looks away.
I’m not an expert in adult drama, but I know something bad went down inside the Terrans’.
I know it has been almost a year since we’ve been over to dinner.
Auntie Tiff gets plastered when she comes to the house. Pax and I have a code word for it: weird.
Auntie Tiff gets weird when she’s over.
We both know she hits the booze, and Uncle John carts her away.
I love her. Everyone does.
The problem is I don’t think she loves Tiff. It’s as if she punishes herself.
For what? When I ask Mom, she tells me it’s not her story to tell.
What can be so bad that Auntie Tiff drinks instead of living?
Jonesy steps forward, and Uncle John bares his teeth like a wolf.
Jonesy ignores him, turning to Tiff instead. “Here’s the condensed version, Tiff. The Hart kids dragged some corpses from an alternate world, trying to escape some clowns from this one.”
Tiff regards him reluctantly.
“Now the clowns are looking for a few more freaks for their circus act and the SPs are after them for violation of undead—well, everything.” Jonesy points at her. “We need you.”
Tiff stares at Jonesy with every ounce of sullenness behind the glare.
“Sober,” he adds.
“Jonesy,” John warns.
Jonesy lifts a palm, the underside very white against the rest of him. “Can it, Terran or I'll get Gramps to do a repeat. We don't have time for whatever the hell is going on with her.”
Jonesy stands tensely in front of Auntie Tiff. His arms are stiff as he leans forward and says, “Where did ya go? We need that tough chick who knocked people on their asses and took names. We need her.” He sighs, adjusting his balls.
I about die.
The zombies stare vacantly at the group.
Tiff hiccups, covering her mouth. Eyes wide, she appears a little frantic.
Gramps races forward, jerking her away from John.
“Hey!” he bellows.
Gramps scoops Tiff and bends her over the outside separator.
She throws up everything she’s ever eaten.
John backs away, looking like someone just kicked his puppy.
Gramps holds her hair back. “Get rid of it, that’s it… good girl.”
He glances Mom's way. “Jade, get some coffee, hun.”
Mom runs inside the Terran house.
Soon light pours out of the windows.
She returns a few minutes later with a washcloth and a steaming cup of coffee.
Gramps takes the washcloth.
“We need you in the now, Tiff. We don't have the luxury of you figuring out your life on our dime.”
Tiff wipes her mouth using the cool cloth, giving him a sour expression. “I got ya, you tough old bird.”
Gramps cracks a smile.
*
Auntie Tiff sobers.
My parents’ other friends meet at the old dump.
It’s weird to see them all here at the hideaway they made all those years ago.
For one, it’s crowded.
For two, they’re all old—yet not.
Mia and Bry Weller have been married for a while, and neither is paranormal. They’re kinda like my parents in the way they interact. Bry sits by Tiff. His gaze lands on Gramps with accusation. He’s probably pissed Gramps took his sister in hand.
I know I shouldn't understand, but I do. Gramps does what nobody else has the guts to do.
They want to baby Tiff.
But what she needs now is someone to be tough on her. To make her see that even though her life isn't what she wants, it is the life she has.
And sometimes that has to be good enough.
I cause black holes.
I hate it. Sometimes I wonder why I was ever born. But being mad about it all doesn't make it go away.
So I kinda understand. I know there's more. None of us can help unless we know. My parents know but they're not telling me why Tiff looks haunted.
Sophie stands off to one side on her own. She's my favorite; says what she thinks, an individual. Somehow, I always thought she and Jonesy should be together but he keeps marrying other women.
Death 07 - For the Love of Death Page 11