Undead Much

by Stacey Jay

  “I’m sorry,” I sa­id, pat­ting him on the back. He so­un­ded so sad. The po­or guy must ha­ve be­en re­al­ly lo­nely, not to men­ti­on sca­red. “So you’ve be­en at the ce­me­tery all this ti­me?”

  “Mostly. I hit a ho­me­less shel­ter for a sho­wer and chan­ge of clot­hes and then sort of um… li­be­ra­ted so­me re­ading glas­ses from the drugs­to­re.” He grin­ned, and for the first ti­me I no­ti­ced how warm his eyes we­re. They we­re this rich, gre­enish brown that se­emed to glow when he smi­led. “But it was theft for a go­od ca­use. I didn’t want to go ho­me and risk get­ting ca­ught trying to sne­ak clot­hes or glas­ses out of my ro­om. I fi­gu­re my pa­rents ha­ve be­en thro­ugh eno­ugh.”

  Wow. He was re­al­ly strong. I can’t say I wo­uld ha­ve be­en ab­le to ke­ep from run­ning ho­me to Mom and Dad, no mat­ter how up­set it wo­uld ma­ke them to see me co­me back from the de­ad.

  “That must be hard.”

  He shrug­ged. “It’s what I’ve got to do. I can’t go ho­me, at le­ast not un­til I see… un­til I know if…” His words tra­iled off as he ca­me to stop in the mid­dle of the si­de­walk. I tur­ned to see him win­cing in pa­in.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Ye­ah… no… I me­an, I al­ways had the­se he­adac­hes, but they’re wor­se now. And so­me­ti­mes I can’t re­mem­ber…”

  “Can’t re­mem­ber what?”

  He gro­aned and squ­e­ezed his eyes shut even tigh­ter. “I can’t… I see them, I know they’re co­ming,” he sa­id, his bre­ath get­ting fas­ter and his hands grip­ping his he­ad. “You ha­ve to stop them… the­re are so many… red eyes, pi­eces of blue and gray…”

  “Cliff!” I grab­bed him as his legs col­lap­sed, but I wasn’t strong eno­ugh to hold him up­right. He was fa­irly short for a guy-may­be only an inch or two tal­ler than my fi­ve-fo­ur-but he was pu­re musc­le. In fact, I was surp­ri­sed at how so­lid he felt as I gu­ided him to the gro­und. He was hi­ding a pretty de­cent body un­der tho­se baggy je­ans and swe­ater.

  A pretty de­cent de­ad body, Me­gan. Don’t start set­ting this guy up with yo­ur fri­ends. Fi­gu­re out how to get him the rest he de­ser­ves.

  The in­ner vo­ice was right. Cliff was ni­ce and funny and a hid­den hot­tie, but he was al­so de­ad. Be­si­des, I didn’t re­al­ly ha­ve any fri­ends.

  “They won’t lis­ten… the he­art… one he­art…”

  “What he­art? What are you-”

  “Ha­beo are tran­sit.”

  “What?” Was he spe­aking in ton­gu­es or was this the be­gin­ning of a se­izu­re? Sho­uld I grab a stick and try to wed­ge it bet­we­en his te­eth?

  “One he­art, just one he­art.” He gro­aned and rol­led on­to his si­de, cur­ling in­to a ball on the cold gro­und. “Crap, I lost it. It’s go­ne.”

  “Just try to bre­at­he.” I smo­ot­hed his ha­ir out of his fa­ce and tuc­ked it back be­hind his ear, re­li­eved he se­emed to be re­co­ve­ring from his epi­so­de. “Ta­ke de­ep bre­aths in and de­ep bre­aths out.”

  “I don’t think I bre­at­he any­mo­re. But thanks.” He pul­led off his glas­ses and rub­bed his fin­gers abo­ve his eyes. “Du­de, that was a bad one.”

  “It lo­oked li­ke it.”

  “And po­int­less.” He sho­ved his glas­ses back on and slam­med a fist down on­to the conc­re­te, ma­king me jump. “It’s so hard to tell what they me­an any­mo­re. It’s ma­king me nuts.”

  “What they me­an?”

  Cliff rol­led on­to his back. “The pic­tu­res. I get the­se pic­tu­res in my he­ad when the he­adac­hes co­me. Most of the ti­me they’re things that are re­al­ly go­ing to hap­pen.”

  “Li­ke, fu­tu­re things?”

  “I’m sort of psychic.” He dar­ted a ner­vo­us lo­ok up to whe­re I sat be­si­de him. “I know that so­unds crazy, but-”

  “Hey, I talk to de­ad pe­op­le and fight zom­bi­es-who am I to jud­ge?”

  Cliff la­ug­hed. “You’re al­so pretty co­ol.”

  “Thanks, that’s what all the Un­de­ad say.” I rol­led my eyes, unab­le to ke­ep from thin­king abo­ut all the pe­op­le who didn’t think I was co­ol at all. I still co­uldn’t be­li­eve the En­for­cers tho­ught I was a Very Bad Thing, let alo­ne all the El­ders over at SA. They’d known me sin­ce I was a baby and sho­uld re­ali­ze what type of per­son I was.

  “I sen­se all is not well in the world of Me­gan Berry. What’s go­ing down with you?” he as­ked, put­ting on this new age gu­ru ac­cent.

  For so­me re­ason I co­uldn’t ke­ep from ans­we­ring him. “So­me pe­op­le think I did a re­al­ly bad thing I didn’t do.”

  “Pe­op­le who sho­uld know bet­ter?”

  “Ye­ah. And the­re’s no evi­den­ce that I did anyt­hing wrong, so… I can’t un­ders­tand it.”

  He sta­red at me for a few se­conds, then re­ac­hed out and to­ok my hand. “It’s not what you did or didn’t do. It’s who you are.”

  “Who I am?” I as­ked, start­led by how ni­ce it felt to hold Cliff’s hand.

  His skin was pretty cold, but his to­uch was as com­for­ting as Dad’s hand rub­bing my back. He ga­ve off go­od vi­bes, even as a de­ad per­son, so I co­uld only ima­gi­ne the kind of energy he must ha­ve had in li­fe. Cliff had pro­bably be­en one of tho­se pe­op­le who ma­de ever­yo­ne smi­le, just by be­ing aro­und. It was a sha­me the world had lost him.

  “That’s what I see,” he sa­id.

  “I tho­ught yo­ur vi­si­ons didn’t work any mo­re?”

  “I didn’t say that. I sa­id it was har­der to see what they me­an.”

  “And you see that I’m in tro­ub­le be­ca­use of who I am?” I as­ked.

  “Or may­be… what you are? The­re’s so­met­hing dif­fe­rent abo­ut you, and it sca­res a lot of pe­op­le. That’s all I can tell for su­re.”

  I sig­hed and tri­ed to hi­de my di­sap­po­int­ment. For a se­cond the­re, I’d tho­ught Cliff was go­ing to tell me so­met­hing I didn’t know, but it was just the sa­me old thing. “Ye­ah, I know. I’m li­ke a su­perc­har­ged Set­tler of the De­ad. Ra­re and we­ird and scary.”

  He smi­led and his thumb ran lightly over the top of my hand. “I don’t think you’re we­ird or scary. May­be a lit­tle ra­re, but in a go­od way. I cer­ta­inly fe­el bet­ter than I did half an ho­ur ago. I was so dra­ined, but tal­king to you… well, it’s just go­od.”

  For a se­cond energy jum­ped bet­we­en us, an awa­re­ness that, had I not had a boyf­ri­end and had Cliff not be­en de­ad, I wo­uld ha­ve cal­led at­trac­ti­on. My en­ti­re body buz­zed and my he­ad spun diz­zily. It was a cross bet­we­en the low-blo­od-su­gar fe­eling I get when I skip bre­ak­fast and the se­conds right af­ter I pull away from Et­han’s kis­ses, which was mo­re than dis­tur­bing eno­ugh to ma­ke me yank my hand away from Cliff ’s.

  “Co­me on, we’ve got to get you back to yo­ur crypt,” I sa­id, jum­ping to my fe­et when the diz­zi­ness pas­sed. “May­be I didn’t se­al yo­ur gra­ve right last ti­me. I can’t re­mem­ber do­ing anyt­hing dif­fe­rent, but it was la­te and-”

  “No, it’s co­ol. I’ll show myself back,” he sa­id, stan­ding be­si­de me. “You did everyt­hing fi­ne. I co­uld fe­el yo­ur mo­jo big-ti­me, but my body wo­uldn’t do what you we­re tel­ling it to do. I’m not re­ady to rest. I’ve got so­met­hing I ha­ve to do.”

  “I’m sup­po­sed to help you with that, you know, help you comp­le­te yo­ur un­fi­nis­hed bu­si­ness. That’s sort of my job.”

  “Not this ti­me.” He smi­led. “I think this ti­me it’s my job to help you. I saw you in the wo­ods the ot­her day. The ot­hers al­most kil­led you.”

  The brown eyes I’d tho­ught I’d se­en right af­ter I’d hit my he­ad. It had be­en Cliff. “You we­re sp
ying on me?” I as­ked, bac­king away a few steps, thin­king abo­ut the we­ird fe­eling I’d had at the hos­pi­tal. “Ha­ve you be­en fol­lo­wing me?”

  “No. Well… may­be,” he sa­id. “But I’m not the only one. You’ve got a li­ving ta­il too. Don’t lo­ok now, but that be­ige car down the stre­et isn’t empty.”

  “Crap.” I clo­sed my eyes, not ne­eding to lo­ok at the car to gu­ess who was in­si­de. Set­tlers’ Af­fa­irs had so­me­one watc­hing me. Be­ige was, af­ter all, the­ir sig­na­tu­re co­lor. “Gre­at, now we re­al­ly ha­ve to go.” I tur­ned and he­aded down the si­de­walk, kno­wing my SA watc­hers wo­uld start to get sus­pi­ci­o­us if it to­ok much lon­ger to put Cliff to rest.

  “Fi­ne. But ple­ase be­li­eve me,” he sa­id, hur­rying af­ter me. “I wo­uld ne­ver hurt you. I only want to help.”

  “Thanks, but re­al­ly, I don’t ne­ed help.” Well, I did, but not from an Un­set­tled. “The best thing you co­uld do for me is to go back to yo­ur gra­ve and try to rest in pe­ace. Be­li­eve me, I’m in eno­ugh tro­ub­le al­re­ady, and if the En­for­cers or an­yo­ne from Set­tlers’ Af­fa­irs se­es any mo­re we­ird zom­bi­es han­ging aro­und-”

  “Zom­bie. Wow, it’s re­al­ly we­ird he­aring that word and kno­wing so­me­one is tal­king abo­ut me.” His vo­ice was soft and that ghost of a smi­le still on his fa­ce, but I co­uld tell I’d hurt his fe­elings.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t me­an to-”

  “No, it’s co­ol. I’m a zom­bie, gu­ess I bet­ter get used to it,” he sa­id, a hint of an­ger in his eyes. “But that do­esn’t me­an I’m worth­less. The­re’s so­met­hing I ne­ed to do and I’m go­ing to do it, and not­hing an­yo­ne says is go­ing to stop me. Not even you, Me­gan Berry.”

  He tur­ned aro­und and ra­ced off the si­de­walk and thro­ugh my ne­igh­bor’s yard, he­aded to­ward the ce­me­tery. I yel­led his na­me as he left, but all he did was wa­ve.

  For a se­cond I tho­ught abo­ut re­al­ly go­ing af­ter him, but de­ci­ded aga­inst it af­ter pe­eking aro­und to see that the be­ige car hadn’t mo­ved from its po­si­ti­on a few blocks away. Didn’t lo­ok li­ke they plan­ned on fol­lo­wing me to ma­ke su­re I Set­tled Cliff even tho­ugh I hadn’t mar­ked him with a ha­lo li­ke I was sup­po­sed to.

  “Stel­lar work, guys. At le­ast spy tho­ro­ughly if you’re go­ing to spy.” Typi­cal SA. For an or­ga­ni­za­ti­on that had sta­yed a sec­ret from hu­ma­nity for hund­reds of ye­ars, so­me­ti­mes I was ama­zed at how hal­fas­sed the­ir work was. But then, the ol­der I get the mo­re I re­ali­ze a lot of adults don’t gi­ve a crap abo­ut do­ing the­ir jobs well-inclu­ding im­por­tant pe­op­le li­ke te­ac­hers and po­li­ce­man and doc­tors who are sup­po­sed to be edu­ca­ting the pre­ci­o­us yo­uth of Ame­ri­ca and sa­ving pe­op­le’s li­ves. So why sho­uld I be surp­ri­sed that SA had its sha­re of in­com­pe­tents?

  I didn’t know. But I was.

  This ti­me, ho­we­ver, my ta­il’s la­zi­ness wo­uld work to my ad­van­ta­ge. I’d just cut thro­ugh my ne­igh­bor’s yard and chill out in the­ir tree ho­use for a few mi­nu­tes be­fo­re circ­ling back to my ho­use. If I wa­ited even twenty mi­nu­tes, the SA spi­es wo­uldn’t know that I hadn’t go­ne to se­al Cliff’s gra­ve. My mom and dad had de­li­be­ra­tely cho­sen our ho­use for its pri­me lo­ca­ti­on, only mi­nu­tes’ away from two of the town’s fo­ur gra­ve­yards.

  As for Cliff, I had no idea how to hand­le him, but at le­ast he didn’t se­em dan­ge­ro­us. Be­si­des, the sun wo­uld be set­ting so­on, and I re­al­ly didn’t want to be out in the dark with a de­ad guy. Of co­ur­se, I didn’t want to be back at my ho­use un­der sur­ve­il­lan­ce eit­her. I didn’t know whe­re I wan­ted to be, but I co­uldn’t deny that the last half ho­ur with Cliff had be­en one of the ni­cest I’d spent in aw­hi­le.

  What that sa­id abo­ut my so­ci­al and ho­me li­ves, I didn’t want to exa­mi­ne.

  CHAPTER 8

  I sus­pec­ted the world was en­ding when I ca­ught Mom cho­wing me­at, but when Mo­ni­ca stop­ped me on the way in­to scho­ol Thurs­day and in­sis­ted I let her help me cle­ar my na­me, I knew the earth was in se­ri­o­us tro­ub­le. Mo­ni­ca Par­sons be­ing con­cer­ned for my wel­fa­re was to­tal­ly a sign of an im­pen­ding apo­calyp­se.

  “This is the stu­pi­dest thing I’ve ever he­ard. SA and the En­for­cers ha­ve the­ir he­ads so far up the­ir as­ses it’s ri­di­cu­lo­us. We ha­ve to fi­gu­re out a way to pro­ve you’re in­no­cent.”

  “Did Et­han call you?” I as­ked, sus­pi­ci­o­us of my med­dling boyf­ri­end.

  Su­re, he’d apo­lo­gi­zed for pus­hing the Mo­ni­ca is­sue, but that didn’t me­an he wo­uldn’t gi­ve her a call and ple­ad for help on my be­half. He’d do just abo­ut anyt­hing to help me… which ma­de me fe­el warm and fuzzy and gu­ilty as all heck.

  The we­ird mo­ment with Cliff was still bug­ging me. I’d ne­ver felt anyt­hing but pity or con­cern-or oc­ca­si­onal­ly ir­ri­ta­ti­on-for an Un­set­tled, ne­ver fri­ends­hip, and cer­ta­inly ne­ver mo­re than fri­ends­hip. No one had ever ma­de me ting­le ex­cept Et­han, and the fact that the se­cond guy to in­ci­te anyt­hing mo­de­ra­tely ting­le-esque in me was de­ad, bot­he­red me. Big-ti­me.

  “Why wo­uld yo­ur boyf­ri­end call me?” Mo­ni­ca wrap­ped her scarf aro­und her neck and hud­dled in­si­de her puffy whi­te co­at. It was fre­ezing out this mor­ning, and I kind of wis­hed we’d ta­ken this chat in­si­de the scho­ol rat­her than over by the benc­hes ne­ar the par­king lot. “Is the­re tro­ub­le in pa­ra­di­se?”

  “Everyt­hing’s gre­at. Bet­ter than gre­at,” I snap­ped. “He just sa­id so­met­hing yes­ter­day abo­ut as­king you for help. He tho­ught you’d be in­te­res­ted to know we might ha­ve had a non-Set­tler watc­hing us with tho­se zom­bi­es that day in the wo­ods.”

  “What? You’re kid­ding me.”

  “Unfor­tu­na­tely, no.” I qu­ickly fil­led her in, then pul­led the rib­bon out of my poc­ket. “He fo­und this. I’m bet­ting it was from a che­er spy trying to sco­pe out our fund-ra­iser.”

  “Tho­se lit­tle bi­atc­hes.” Mo­ni­ca snatc­hed the rib­bon from my hand. “If we get re­lo­ca­ted be­ca­use of one of tho­se fre­aks, I’m go­ing to sho­ve a spi­rit stick right up-”

  “The­re’s a chan­ce they didn’t see anyt­hing and we’ll both be fi­ne,” I sa­id, cut­ting her off be­fo­re she co­uld to­tal­ly flip. “But I think we sho­uld try to fi­gu­re it out for su­re one way or the ot­her. I was plan­ning to crash the che­er tab­le du­ring lunch to see what I can find out.”

  “You ha­ve first lunch, right?” she as­ked. I nod­ded. “I ha­ve se­cond, so I’ll do the sa­me thing. They’re go­ing to be at Piz­za Pie to­night for the jo­int fund-ra­iser, so at le­ast we’ll ha­ve so­met­hing to talk abo­ut.”

  “Right,” I sa­id, si­lently cur­sing myself. I’d to­tal­ly for­got­ten abo­ut the jo­int fund-ra­iser at the new piz­za pla­ce ne­ar the high­way. They’d pro­mi­sed us 5 per­cent of sa­les and to let the cus­to­mers cho­ose which te­am they wan­ted to sup­port when they pa­id the­ir bill. Our job was to hang out and so­li­cit sup­por­ters and bring in bu­si­ness. Un­for­tu­na­tely, I’d al­so bo­oked myself for a la­te-night in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on ses­si­on with Et­han. “What ti­me do­es that start aga­in?”

  Mo­ni­ca nar­ro­wed her eyes. “You for­got, didn’t you?”

  “No, I didn’t, I just-”

  She sig­hed and tur­ned to trud­ge up the hill as the first bell rang. “Don’t worry, it’s co­ol. I can’t say I’d be stres­sing abo­ut fund-ra­ising if I we­re in yo­ur pla­ce.” Wow, Mo­ni­ca was be­ing so ni­ce. It was qu­ite pos­sib­le she had be­en body-snatc­hed along with my mot
­her. “But se­ri­o­usly, you’ve got to fi­gu­re a way out of this mess. I he­ard my dad tal­king to one of the El­ders last night. Wha­te­ver fo­ren­sic tests they’ve be­en wa­iting for ca­me back, and it do­esn’t lo­ok go­od for you.”

  “What kind of fo­ren­sic tests?” I as­ked.

  “I don’t know, I co­uldn’t tell from he­aring just Dad’s si­de of the con­ver­sa­ti­on, but I did get this much, they’re to­tal­ly plan­ning to lock you up and throw away the key.” She pa­used and coc­ked her he­ad to the si­de. “I’m ac­tu­al­ly sort of surp­ri­sed to see you. I tho­ught the En­for­cers wo­uld ha­ve ta­ken you in­to cus­tody last night.”

  “What?” God, this co­uldn’t be hap­pe­ning! Ever­yo­ne had lost the­ir minds! Was the­re no sa­nity left in the world? I hadn’t do­ne anyt­hing! What in the world co­uld the­se “tests” ha­ve shown them, be­si­des that I was comp­le­tely in­no­cent?

  “I me­an, I co­uld be wrong, but-”

  “No, you’re pro­bably not wrong.” I sig­hed, swal­lo­wing the burnt rub­ber tas­te that had ri­sen in my mo­uth. I co­uldn’t let Mo­ni­ca’s news ma­ke me lo­se it. I had to stay sa­ne and fo­cu­sed so I co­uld pro­ve to all the crazy pe­op­le how crazy they re­al­ly we­re. “But may­be they fi­gu­re the spi­es are ke­eping an eye on me for now.” I nod­ded to my right, in the di­rec­ti­on of the be­ige se­dan that had fol­lo­wed me to scho­ol.

  “Wow, you’ve got spi­es.” She ma­de a so­und half­way bet­we­en a snort and a la­ugh. “Aren’t you a bad girl?”

  “This isn’t funny, Mo­ni­ca.”

  “Of co­ur­se it isn’t. You’re scre­wed un­less we fi­gu­re so­met­hing out. It’s a do­ne de­al. I me­an, you’ll get a tri­al and everyt­hing, I gu­ess, but it so­unds li­ke a for­ma­lity. Ever­yo­ne’s su­re you’re gu­ilty.”