by Stacey Longo
Mickey nodded. “I should’ve guessed. Wait ’til you see what I found.”
Mickey, Blossom and I walked through the front door of Bleak House, past a round woman wearing scrubs with little ice cream cones printed on them. “Hey, Dottie,” he said, waving. “These are my friends I was telling you about. We’re just gonna check out the hoodoo, if that’s okay.” Dottie’s smile froze.
“Oh, no, Mickey, not today. Not now. We’ve had”—her voice dropped to a whisper—“an incident.”
Mickey raised an eyebrow. “What’s going on?”
“I really can’t go in to detail.” She sounded flustered. “All I can say is nobody’s allowed in the hoodoo wing right now. Maybe your friends can come back for a tour tomorrow?” She eyeballed Blossom and smiled tightly. “I think you’d find it much more presentable tomorrow.”
“Okay, Dot, no problem,” Mickey said, and turned around, ushering us out.
“You gave up fast,” I said. “What was that about?”
“Something’s up,” Mickey said. “And we’re gonna find out what. Come on. There’s a cook’s entrance through the kitchen.”
We made our way around the side of the imposing gray building, Mickey and me tiptoeing, Blossom lumbering. He led us through a discreet door on the end of a wing of the building, and we found ourselves standing among stainless steel counters and stacks of cold metal trays. Mickey held out his hand to Blossom, who took it.
“Careful in here,” he whispered. “One wrong step and everyone in the building will know we’re here.” I eyed the stacks of trays and nodded.
“Mickey.” I kept my voice low. “What’s a hoodoo?”
“It’s a whole section of the institution, just for zombies. I mean it. They’ve got everything—a DVD library with everything from Army of Darkness to the latest season of Walking Dead, rooms where they can meet for sewing classes to teach them how to reattach limbs, a dance studio . . . everything you can think of.” Blossom studied him as he listed off the amenities. “That’s how I got in here. They were looking for someone who could teach the zombies the ‘Thriller’ dance. Someone thought it would be a fun idea.” He grinned at my sister.
“Haajuhhh blaaghh gaa ‘Thriller’?” Blossom asked. Can you teach me the dance?
“Sure,” he said, and I realized with some surprise that I hadn’t needed to translate. How much time had Mickey been spending with Blossom?
“Please stop flirting for a moment and tell me why we’re breaking and entering,” I snapped. “Are you saying there’s actually more people like Blossom around here?”
“Yeah, there’s, like, twenty zombies housed in the hoodoo wing, which is weird, because before you”—he winked at Blossom—“I hadn’t heard about any zombies in the northeast at all. I seriously don’t know what’s wrong with Connecticut. ‘Lyme disease isn’t a problem, we don’t have zombies . . .’ talk about a state of denial.” He shook his head. “C’mon. We’re heading to the hoodoo now.”
Mickey hunched over, leading Blossom out of the kitchen and into the hallway, taking slow, cautious steps. I felt a little silly. What was the big deal? I’d seen a real-life zombie, in case Mickey had forgotten. He was holding one’s hand right at that very moment. It was cold, I had to pee, and Mom would be home soon. She might call.
I crept after Mickey and Blossom, inching my phone out of my pocket. I needed to switch it to vibrate before Mom called to arrange for a pickup time . . . at the library. We’d be grounded for life if she caught us lying. I let out a worried sigh.
“Shh!” Mickey said. “We’re almost there.”
He stopped at the end of the hall and pressed himself flat against the wall. Blossom followed suit, so I rolled my eyes and assumed the stance. Two female voices carried down the hall.
“Have you called the parents?” Voice One, a trill, sounded alarmed.
“Not yet. Not until we talk to her brother,” Voice Two, a flat monotone, answered. “He’s got something to do with this, I’m sure. She didn’t just get up and lurch on out of here. She had to have had help.”
Say that three times fast, I thought, snorting softly. Blossom turned and glared at me. I gave her an apologetic look and tried to listen again.
The voices were fading, the two women walking away from us. Mickey motioned for me and Blossom to follow him. He crept to a darkened room, pushed us in, and stepped in behind us. He shut and locked the door.
“I don’t believe it,” he said, then tilted his head, considering. “What am I saying? I totally believe it.” He held out his hands, showing us the room. In the dim light I could make out an empty twin-size bed, a steel nightstand, and a television on the wall, like in a hospital. I looked closer at the bed and realized there were thick leather straps attached to bars at the side.
“Mickey?” I asked nervously. “What is this?”
“This is the zombie containment zone,” he said in a hushed voice. “We’re in Andrea Strand’s room. That’s what I wanted to show you. Andy’s sister’s not pregnant. She’s a zombie. And now, apparently, she’s gone.”
SIXTEEN
I blinked in the shadowsa moment, then sat down on the bed.
“Andy’s sister is a zombie? That doesn’t make sense,” I said weakly. “Why didn’t he tell me?”
“I hate to say this,” Mickey said, sitting down next to me, “but I think—I think Andy’s the Frankenstein Killer.”
“Impossible,” I said. Blossom looked at me and frowned, perhaps in sympathy, or maybe at my denial. “What? You said the exact same thing about Mickey when I suggested it!” She turned away from me and bent down, peering under the bed.
“Gaah gleeb,” she explained. Just looking for clues. Don’t mind me.
My eyes started to fill. Was my boyfriend a serial killer? How was that even possible? Surely I would’ve known—would’ve sensed something was off.
No. There had to be another explanation.
“Haaaaaa-aah!” Blossom’s head popped back up. Between two bloodless fingers she held a delicate white goose feather.
“That could’ve come from anywhere,” I said weakly. “Her pillow, probably.” Mickey reached over me and pulled the white cotton case off of the pillow on the bed, revealing a foam rectangle. I shrugged. “Or from a Native American headdress or something.” Mickey glared at me. “Okay, okay. Or a goose. One of Youngquist’s geese.” I could see I wasn’t going to win this argument.
“I found something else, too.” Mickey stood and went to Andrea’s night table, opening the drawer. He pulled out a copy of the Glastonbury Citizen and dropped it next to me on the bed. I recognized the issue. It was the one with the article about Mom.
“So at least one Strand knew we’d moved into town before Blue Pixie was murdered,” I murmured. “Well, that just sucks.”
“What’s this?” Mickey said, reaching back in to the drawer and coming up with a withered strip that resembled spoiled beef jerky. Blossom sniffed the air, sidled up next to Mickey, and grabbed the strip. She grinned and popped it in her mouth.
“Hey!”
“Blossom! You can’t—is it—brains?”
My sister nodded, gumming the strip of gray matter before swallowing loudly.
“Blossom, you can’t just go around eating the evidence! We should’ve turned that over to the police. They could’ve run DNA testing on it to see if it matched one of the earlier victims.” I watched my sister lick her lips, feeling sick. I thought back to the conversation with Officer Pendleton and Detective Keeney, and realized they were right. It was easy for me to just think of Blossom in terms of black and white, as my sister and friend, and put out of my mind what she also was. She’d just eaten what were probably the remnants of a human brain, maybe from someone we’d known, like Jillian. Blossom was my sister, sure. But I needed to remember she was also a cannibalistic ghoul. It was dangerous to forget that.
“We should go,” Mickey said. “We’ll get in huge trouble if anyone finds us here.” He stuck his head o
ut the door, peering left and right, then motioning for us to follow. Blossom shadowed him, and I brought up the rear. We made it out to the car, and I sighed loudly when we finally pulled out of the parking lot. I checked my phone. One missed call from Mom.
“I’ll tell her Mickey’s giving us a ride home,” I said, dialing. “You can tell her and Dad you ate the evidence.” Blossom shook her head. “Oh yes you will,” I said, but I knew I’d keep her secret. Cannibal or not, she was still my sister, and we were in this together.
~~**~~
Mom chastised us for accepting a ride from a teenage boy, but she seemed preoccupied over dinner and didn’t ground us or anything. Dad was quiet, too.
“Okay,” I finally said when the utter silence except the clinking of fork on plate was too much to bear. “What’s going on?”
“Whatever do you mean?” Mom said, too sweetly.
“Come on, honey,” Dad said. “We might as well tell them, so they can be on guard.” He turned to me. “The police are looking at—they’re investigating the possibility that the Frankenstein Killer might be someone at your school.” He patted my hand.
“Jaglahh, marrr huhahhhuhla,” Blossom said. Yeah, like Jasmine’s boyfriend. I shot her a glare.
“What?” Dad said.
“She says she can’t believe it would be someone from our school. Who do they suspect?”
“They don’t know who, exactly, it is yet, but it looks like some of the physical evidence they’ve found might be tied to the high school. Just be careful. If anything seems suspicious, or anyone’s acting funny, let me or your mother know, okay?”
“Maybe we should keep them out tomorrow. You know, a mental health day,” Mom suggested.
“Nuuuug!” Blossom and I both protested.
“No?” Mom said, her brows rising.
“I have a test tomorrow, and Blossom has her history presentation,” I said quickly. “Pull us out Thursday if you have to. I don’t have anything that day. You, Bloss?”
“Gaah,” she said, backing me up. We had to go to school tomorrow, to grill Andy and find out what was going on. The police wouldn’t be able to finesse him like I could, I was sure. I flashed my most innocent Hamilton smile at my parents and tucked back into dinner.
All I had to do was go to algebra tomorrow. My boyfriend had some explaining to do.
~~**~~
Andy wasn’t in class the next day. Figures, I thought with a sigh. I just wanted him to give me a reasonable explanation so I could clear him as a suspect, find the real killer, and maybe meet his sister. I hoped she’d like me.
Mickey was at our usual bench at lunch. “Any news?”
“Nothing. I texted Andy during free period, but he’s incommunicado right now.” I looked at my phone, trying to will it to buzz. I almost dropped it when it did, with a text from Dad. The saw found at Youngquist crime scene came from GHS woodshop. Mom & I on our way. Don’t let cops cuff your sister.
“Oh, crap.” I filled Mickey in on the news. “Andy has shop class with Blossom—he has just as much access to those saws as she does,” I said somberly. “And you yourself said he played little league.”
“He was the star of the team, Jas,” Mickey pointed out. “He had his own favorite bat and everything.”
Crap.
I texted Dad back to let him know I was on my way to find Blossom. I looked up at the sound of a thumping motorcycle pulling into the senior parking lot. There were two figures on the bike, and I caught a glimpse of the Triumph logo flashing silver in the sun. Both riders wore dark Adidas jackets.
“It’s Andy,” I breathed, then turned back to Mickey. “We’ve got to get to Blossom. Now.”
SEVENTEEN
I sprinted past the rows of lockers toward Blossom’s history classroom, Mickey on my heels. We wheeled the corner and ran chest-first into Mr. Burgess, standing at the hall monitor’s desk at the intersection where the main hallway split into two smaller branches.
“Ho-ho there,” Mr. Burgess rumbled, putting up his hands to stop us. “You eager beavers have a hall pass?”
“Please, Mr. Burgess,” I said. “It’s an emergency!”
“No hall pass?” Mr. Burgess said, shaking his head. “That’s an automatic detention, I’m sorry to say. You know you can’t run around the school during class without a hall pass. In fact, you can’t run in the halls at all.” He picked up a clipboard from the desk. “Names?”
“We have a hall pass, Mr. Burgess,” Mickey said, and fished a small blue piece of paper out of his back pocket. He held it out to the shop teacher and waited. I shot Mickey a grateful look.
“Well, then, that’s different, isn’t it?” Mr. Burgess said, beaming. He glanced at it and handed it back to Mickey. “Where’re you heading in such a hurry?”
“To see Jasmine’s sister’s history presentation,” Mickey said, pointing a thumb my way. “Blossom’s worked real hard at it, and we promised to be there.”
“Oh, you’re Blossom’s sister?” Mr. Burgess peered at me. I smiled nervously.
“Yes, sir,” I said in a shaky voice. We were wasting too much time talking to this guy. “And this is her boyfriend.” Mickey winked at me, clearly pleased at his new status.
“Great student, that Blossom,” Mr. Burgess said slowly. He sounded like he was carefully selecting his words, and I remembered Mom mentioning he’d been at Woodstock. I believed it. He sounded like he was stoned—and I’d had enough conversations with Beki to know what that sounded like.
“Please, Mr. Burgess,” I begged. “We’re already late, and I’d hate to miss Blossom’s presentation. She’s put so much work into it.”
“Of course, of course,” Mr. Burgess agreed. “On your way then, but no running. Tell Blossom good luck from me! She’s worked so hard on that project; I know she’ll do well. Let me know how her teeth came out.”
“Mom had them pulled,” I said quickly, and then Mickey took my arm and led me down the hallway in a brisk march.
“Keep moving,” Mickey said, and it seemed like forever until we found Blossom’s classroom. The door was closed, the interior dark.
I opened the door as quietly as I could and poked my head in the room, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness. “Blossom?” I called out softly, trying to keep the panic out of my voice.
“Maarrrh. Gah-nuggh!” Blossom chastised me from the front of the classroom. Here! Stop embarrassing me! She was standing next to a white screen, a laptop and projector set up on the teacher’s desk in front of her. Her wheelchair was parked to her side, and a cardboard box was in its seat. Blossom was just starting her presentation.
“Sorry,” I said in a loud whisper, making my way to the back of the room, stepping on a few toes. “Sorry,” I repeated, and looked for Mickey. He was still following me, but he was grinning goofily and waving at Blossom. She waved back, and if she wasn’t undead, I would’ve sworn she was blushing. We stood with our backs against the wall, watching my sister. I looked over at the history teacher, who was napping soundly.
The computerized voice of the PowerPoint software began speaking the words I’d helped Blossom type when she was putting her slideshow together. “George Washington,” the synthetic voice started in its monotone. “The first president of the United States. One of our founding fathers. But how much of what we know about this great man is true, and how much is urban legend?”
Blossom rummaged through the box on her wheelchair seat and pulled out her first prop. “True or false: George Washington wore a powdered wig.” The computer advanced to the next slide. Blossom produced a white wig and took off her helmet to pull the wig over her hair. “True. This was high fashion among men of the time, and signified wealth and status among the colonists.” She beamed out at the audience with her toothless smile, and I gave her a thumbs-up from the back of the room.
The classroom door banged open. “There she is,” Jillian’s blond groupie shouted, pointing at my sister. “Get her before the cops show up!” A group of
kids wearing Anti-Zombie League shirts streamed in behind her.
“Not so fast,” one of the girls in Blossom’s class said, standing up. She was wearing two hearing aids, a camouflage outfit, and she was pulling on a baseball hat that read ANTI-ANTI-ZOMBIE LEAGUE. “This is our chance, guys,” she bellowed to the rest of the class, and I saw ten or twelve other kids put on similar caps and standing in defensive poses. “We’ve had it with your bullying. We’re taking a stand now!”
Wait . . . what?
It struck me in a heartbeat what was going on. The whole time I’d been worrying about fitting in at a new school, trying to make friends with people who maybe wouldn’t hold it against me that my sister was a zombie, Blossom had formed friendships of her own. With kids who couldn’t care less if she was undead or not, because Blossom was still a pretty cool chick. And now, they were ready to fight on her behalf.
A full-on melee broke out, fists swinging, hair being pulled, chairs flying. The other kids in the class were effectively blocking the Anti-Zombie League’s path to Blossom. I watched in amazement, almost missing the shadowy figure silhouetted in the doorway.
“You,” Andy hissed, pointing at Blossom, ignoring the chaos. “You.” Venom dripped from his words.
EIGHTEEN
I whirled toward Andy, just in time to see a dark, emaciated figure come snarling at me. The smell of death seeped into the room like a smothering blanket. It took me a moment to realize that the blackened face and withered flesh that was rapidly approaching me had, at some point, been the face of a young woman.
“Jaaah!” Blossom yelled, and I tore my gaze away from the wasted figure charging me and looked back at my sister. She pitched her helmet to me over the melee going on in the classroom. I leapt to catch it like a football, just like I’d seen those receivers do a hundred times on television. The helmet flew through my hands and bounced against the back wall. I ducked to scoop it up, pulling it over my head just as the creature set on me, teeth bared. I heard the chunk of the zombie’s teeth bounce off the helmet, and I’ll admit it: I peed my pants, just a little.