Death 07 - For the Love of Death

by Tamara Rose Blodgett

  His deeds are so beyond what my mind can cope with, my body reacts for me.

  Brad jumps up. “God, you’re not any fun. You keep puking.”

  No fun.

  Brad is a zombie rapist. A pimp of the undead. And I’m bound, injured, and at his mercy.

  “Now”—he taps his square jaw, his brows cinching as though he’s concentrating—“where were we?”

  We’re at the part where he tells me he’s going to hurt me.

  But he surprises me. “Ah yes, we will do just enough to lure the rest of your ridiculous family to my efficient lair.”

  My hate is boundless.

  He sees it and a look of satisfaction skates across his features. “I’m going to pull back my awesome Null-ness just long enough for you to scream for help, and then the cavalry will come. I bet you’ve got the entire group with you.” Brad's gaze lasers on my silent assent. He slowly nods his head. “Yeah, Pax would have brought everyone. In fact, I think I saw a bunch of the Hart spawn traipsing around before I latched onto your delectable ass.” His eyes move to the ceiling, as though thoughtful. “I can get back in Dad’s good graces if I hand over that many to re-slave along with the other Earth’s bunch. And”—he gives a smug smile—“Dad is not a fan of the Hart clan. Not. At. All.”

  “I won’t do it. You can do whatever, but I’m not going to help because you want to kill my family—again.” I don’t even say the other stuff. The crap where a deranged Brad rapes me after beating me into submission.

  I taste my own vomit as I bite my lip to keep it from trembling. Brad’s like a shark in my earth. The scent of blood frenzies him. They’re so much alike. A world apart hasn’t changed the parallel.

  If I think about the potential, it'll make me scream. And then I won't stop. I can't even think about the zombie whorehouse. Full of women who are aware of their violation but unable to do anything about it. Without rights because technically, they're dead.

  How can an earth this corrupt exist? Is every scenario imaginable possible?

  Yes. Horror fills me.

  My gaze follows Brad’s hand as he lifts a pair of pliers.

  *

  After he tears off my third fingernail, I’d kill my own mother. Tears dry like glue on my face. You don’t think you can scream until there’s nothing else left but pain and voice. I’m an animal now, my humanity slipping away.

  When I pass out, he revives me with a bucket of cold water.

  I scream a name when Brad touches my breast.

  Mitchell.

  *

  Pax

  I halt, watching Dee’s zombie do some kind of convulsive dance in the middle of the woods. A puppet on strings, he springs around, jerking his limbs.

  This is not the time for bullshit. I turn away in disgust. We have to find Dee, and he’s become some fucking spaz.

  Parts of the bots jiggle after us in the grass that separates the border of woods from the strip mall.

  Headless, some without bodies, severed limbs scuttle after us.

  They’re strong as hell.

  Gramps has been chucking them as far as his altered limbs can. From the joint, not the hand.

  Mitch pitches face first into the moss at the forest floor.

  Shit!

  More bots’ creepy screaming echoes eerily behind us.

  I run to him, flipping him over. His eyes, dry in their sockets, snap to mine.

  He's degrading.

  That means Dee's in goddamned trouble.

  He grips my shirt and yanks me down almost nose to nose. “He's hurting her.”

  “Thompson?” It’s the only thing that makes sense as to why Dee’d be missing.

  He nods.

  My hands break out into a sweat, my heart speeding. This Earth is more advanced than ours is. More barbaric.

  “Where?”

  Mom races up next to us. “Pax, follow me!”

  I plant my legs on either side of Mitch, offering my hand. “Come on, tough guy. Let’s go break this dude’s legs.” I move backward, hauling him up as I stand.

  Mitch's eyes don't leave mine, and my heart sinks. “He's—he's hurting her.”

  It's bad when a zombie looks sick.

  And the look in her zombie’s eyes tells me things I didn’t ever want to hear or think about.

  “God,” I say. My voice is shaky, even to me.

  I scrub my face and Mitch says, “She called me.”

  Mom looks between us. Mitch retreats, and she moves into him like a dance step, latching onto his forearm before anyone can say a word.

  The bots close in as flames lick the clinic’s foundation.

  A minute of frozen time ticks by.

  Mom drops her hand.

  Her fright arrests me. She doesn’t look at anyone.

  She sprints in another direction.

  Mitch and I follow.

  Soon, we overtake her. Mitch scoops Mom up and tosses her on his back.

  Mom piggybacks on him as we race toward the psychotic asshole that has Dee.

  I guess he’s gotten over that headache she gave him when she broke his neck.

  Usually, I’m all about being uninformed. I’m not a news whore, stock watcher, or give-a-shitter about world events.

  But I’d give my left nut to know why the Brad Thompson of this world has my sister. Why he cares. We’re all dead here, so what is the deal?

  I remember my family as zombies on this earth.

  As I crash through the woods, Mitch bulldozes ahead of me, Mom’s hair steaming behind her like black water. I pour on the speed, Mitch and I matching blurs.

  I reach out mentally, tapping the signatures of my dead family on this earth.

  The energy finds them under AFTD lock and key.

  Another five-point is holding my dead family hostage. As we race for destination unknown, deep down, I know they’re the answer to this mess. Some of it.

  We slow, and I count heads.

  We've lost half the group.

  Clyde, Gramps, Dad, and Tiff are all behind us somewhere, probably dealing with the stupid fire.

  Jonesy’s dark face gives me the thumbs-up. Sophie is beside him, jogging in her stupid shoes.

  It’s Archer, the world-class burglar, who reaches us first. “I’m not certain what I can do to help. But good news.”

  I catch my breath, waiting.

  “If there’s a lock, it will fall to my will.”

  I raise my eyebrows.

  Jonesy grunts. “Looks like Lewis has his breaking-and-entering mojo back.”

  I nod. “Come on.” My gaze follows Mom’s finger.

  She points to a huge old building. Maybe mid-twentieth.

  There are enough locks to give that old Fort Knox a run for its money.

  Archer grins. “I have this.”

  He leads the way, and we follow.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Caleb

  I wind Mom's arm around my neck, Dad's on the other side. “Oh, Caleb, honey—see to your own family.”

  “No, Mom. There are plenty of guys with Pax. They’ll find Deegan.”

  I don’t mention they’re zombies. I’ll leave that little side note out of the verbal for now. I don’t cave to my fear, a living and breathing thing inside me.

  Dad gives me a knowing look.

  I beg with my eyes for him not to say anything.

  “She’s really not safe to move now,” the Organic of this world tells me. I look at her, feeling old. Though she’s not the same Jezebel, her slow movement toward her mortality reminds me of my own.

  I shake off my morbid thoughts, looking at the fire that has melted the veneer off the doors. “I think you and Pax didn’t save her to see us all die inside a burning building.”

  Jezebel snorts. “I remember you when you were a boy…” She shakes her head, but somehow, her face is sad around the edges. She casts her gaze away, hiding truths for which I’m not ready. The history of this world, some of which I can guess at.

 
; “Caleb, help me…” Dad begins, and a bot appears.

  It opens its mouth and states in a loud mechanical shout, “Paranormal, Pyrokinetic. Level Four. Full Extermination protocol.”

  Dad’s eyes go wide as he whips his head in my direction. His surprise would be comical if it weren’t for the killer cyborg issue. Dad drapes Mom carefully over Jezebel. We turn, and five bots climb inside the burning door. Coming for us.

  They ignore Dad. He jerks a fire extinguisher off the wall and goes for the home run into the nearest bots’ head.

  It shears the head clean off, and it explodes.

  We hit the deck, grabbing Mom and Jezebel down with us.

  Bot bits fly like metallic chunks of spinning flesh. They rain down on us as the sprinkler system switches on.

  I peek out from behind my hands. Seeing a bunch of twitching bot parts, I determine the coast is clear, grab Mom’s arm, and haul her up as gently as I can.

  Dad stands.

  A piece of cyborg shrapnel is sticking out of his thigh. Water and blood slide down, soaking his pants like diluted tomato splat.

  Terrific.

  We turn around, searching for Jezebel.

  She lies on her back, a robot arm buried inside her chest, sightless eyes watching us all. A robotic hand glows softly, appearing to wave limply at us.

  I groan, swallowing hard. Bad way for Jezebel to go.

  Mom turns away from the fresh death of the Organic that helped save her. “Caleb…” Mom’s not into violence or chaos. She was just healed from cancer. Her body is fragile. She’s well but not whole. Dad’s bleeding like a stuck pig.

  My wife and kids are who knows where.

  Cripes.

  I drag the parents outside.

  Leaving Jezebel’s body is one of the single worst things I’ve ever accomplished.

  “Gramps!” I yell, slowly spinning around. He could figure this out. No matter how sideways things get, Gramps is the man with a plan.

  Smoke and noise thicken the air like noxious soup. I can't see where he is. If he's here.

  I seek for anything that tells me where they are. I get something, a vibe… a feeling. Whatever vague shit it is I have on my Earth is stronger on this one.

  Still no AFTD.

  “Honey, I can’t—leave me,” Mom says.

  I check her out. Large blue eyes weep, and hair once chestnut is nicely silvered at her temples. It’s sparse now, just trying to grow back after the horror-course of chemo.

  Didn’t help. There is no antidote to the stage IV cancer she had, but it’s what we have in my world. “Mom—no. Brother.” I rake a hand through my hair, on the lookout for the BS bots.

  They swarm inside the toxic fog of smoke, everything all screwed up by noise and odd pulse tech gone haywire.

  Two ram together, fall on their mechanical asses and stumble to get up. They knock heads and fall again.

  The parents watch them crash into each other.

  “Not very bright,” Dad remarks.

  God, Dad.

  “Right, listen… you guys, we need to get to Pax. He’s taken off to find Deegan. He’s the blinker in the group, and we don’t want to be stuck with them.” I sweep my hand out, and they take in the idiot bots.

  “They appear to ignore mundanes and focus on the paranormal.” Dad is sliding into the default Scientific Observation Mode.

  Great.

  “Yeah, they’re juiced about everyone but Organics.”

  “Caleb.” Mom’s voice is a shadow of the strident Nazi-word queen of my youth. “I think we need to go wherever we’re going—right now.”

  A bot advances, its circuitry buzzing, some of the lightweight flesh of whatever alloy they’ve used in the manufacture torn away like a flap of scalped skin.

  Instantly, I think of the Skopamish.

  I repress a hysterical chuckle, the crooked mouth rising like a Phoenix. Don’t think the parents will dig the humor.

  “I think that one is a little brighter than the rest, son.”

  It shambles forward like a metal zombie. I have soundly torched it, but whatever covers its body has shielded it from the blanket of my bungled fire episode.

  Damn.

  “Dad, you take mom and head in”—I zero in on that vague sense of my children—“east.”

  “What will you do, sweet pea?”

  My chest constricts at the old nickname.

  I had reconciled myself to Mom’s death. Now she’s alive—it’s mental vertigo.

  In this crazy-ass world with killer cyborgs who murder paranormals.

  “I’m going for distraction, Mom.”

  She looks at me for a moment. Her hand falls from my face when the ALB wakes up and begins to scream.

  Dad nods, dragging Mom off. “Meet us.”

  Her eyes hold mine. I close mine against the look I see there.

  I turn and face the bots.

  Then something extraordinary happens.

  Jezebel is suddenly at my side.

  I didn't even feel it—my AFTD has come online.

  Perfect.

  Until she hits me, and I fly into the circle of bots like a bowling ball. I land hard, the wind knocked out of me as they tumble to either side like pins.

  A long figure casts a shadow above me as sunlight attempts to pierce the smoke’s hazy murk. Far off sirens wail.

  I don’t have death energy to recognize his. I don’t need it. His comment is answer enough.

  “Kill him,” he says.

  “Yes, Master,” the woman who saved Mom replies.

  Jezebel moves forward, scans the environment, and picks up a piece of rebar. It’s twisted, bent, and full of bot bits.

  She casually flicks them off.

  I gather myself and like a backdraft, I suck in the new ability and blow it out over the top of them.

  It’s like a scatter spray of buckshot. I don’t have control, so I don’t bother to try. I just blanket everything.

  But not before the rebar blows my shin away.

  My aim goes even wilder as my scream is lost in the blazing inferno of dead and living flesh.

  There is some satisfaction as Jezebel the zombie and the asshole AFTD begin to burn like torches.

  He screams, flailing, and finally rolls, trying to put my fire out.

  I can see why Carson enjoyed using the ability. It’s like pouring water over ashes. It’s not hot to me; it’s soothing.

  A flaming stick figure makes a mad dash for me.

  Jezebel.

  Zombies are single-minded on any world. I belch out a little extra fire... and her face begins to melt off.

  I try not to feel guilt over the living, breathing person she was fifteen minutes ago.

  Can't manage it.

  I turn away, limping, my crushed shinbone the least of my concerns.

  I can tolerate the pain.

  It’s the separation from my family that’s a bitch. I feel the beat of them far off.

  No one is here, and I move steadily in their direction.

  Then, vaguely, I see Gramps off in the distance. Thank God, the parents escaped.

  “Gramps!” I shout, swinging my bad leg around from my body in a crescent.

  He looks up after I call his name the third time. Really needs another ear transplant.

  “Just about done!” he yells.

  The cyborgs are piled high in the shape of a small head-height hill and twice as wide. I resist laughing. The crucifying pain in my leg helps a lot with squelching humor.

  I drag myself up to him. “Come on, gotta get the kids,” I whisper-shout.

  Gramps brows come together. “They took off while I was bot-cleaning,” he laughs.

  Not funny.

  “Right—Gramps. We need to get the kids and get the hell outta here.”

  “Uh-huh.” He wipes his hands and brushes off his pants. He plucks a stray hair, putting it back in place.

  “What’s the end game, champ?” Gramps gives my leg a critical look. He hikes his
eyebrows. “That’s going to need some attention when we get out of here.” He roots in his pocket for a cigarette.

  My patience is pretty much non-existent.

  I roll my eyes, gritting my teeth. “We need to locate the kids, save Deegan from whatever bullshittery she’s gotten tangled up in, then have Pax blink back to our earth.”

  Gramps takes a deep drag, cupping one hand around the flame while the smoke of the fire swirls around us.

  Unreal.

  He sweeps his arm out in front of us. “Lead on.”

  A bot struggles to remove itself from the center of the heap. It tumbles down, landing at the foot of the bot mountain Gramps made. He punts it. The bot loses its head as it rolls a few meters away.

  “Field goal!” he hoots.

  Gramps turns to me with a slight frown. His eyebrows jack to his hairline.

  My leg is throbbing like a rotting tooth.

  “What's the hold up? We got people to save.” He turns away, walking in the direction I never told him.

  I stare after him as a trail of cigarette smoke spirals behind.

  He hums a tune. I jerk myself after him with a grunt and scowl.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Deegan

  “What?” Brad pulls a face as my nail beds bleed, and I’ve screamed so much I have no voice left.

  My mouth opens anyway, like a fish gasping on an uncaring shore. Struggling to release pain with no place to go.

  “That’s it, baby—everyone begs.”

  Oh God. What have I ever done to deserve his hate?

  His hands crawl over my body as I slump in a folding chair with my arms taut behind me.

  I’m so grateful for my jeans when he moves between my legs that my stomach tingles.

  I distance myself from his hands. His voice.

  My thoughts are on my life. My parents.

  Paxton.

  Finally, they come to rest on Mitchell, and a despairing laugh gurgles out of me.

  I feel the tug on my jeans and find I still have enough tears to shed.

  My despair is so thick I don't even hear the door open.

  *

  Pax

  I blast through the doors Archer opens. After maybe half a second, I see Brad Thompson’s hands on the waistband of my sister’s jeans.