Undead Much

by Stacey Jay

  Ge­ez, how had this hap­pe­ned? How had she ma­na­ged to or­ga­ni­ze a co­ven of evil che­er­le­aders whi­le she was sup­po­sed to be rot­ting be­hind bars? Set­tlers’ Af­fa­irs had so­me ma­j­or exp­la­ining to do.

  “He’d bet­ter ta­ke ca­re of it,” Fe­li­city sa­id.

  “If I we­re you, I’d start watc­hing my mo­uth.” Aaron squ­e­ezed me so tight I co­uldn’t help but whim­per. “Unless you want yo­ur ass left on sho­re to­night.”

  “You wo­uldn’t da­re, you-”

  “Stop it,” Da­na sa­id, ra­ising her vo­ice to be he­ard. “Lee, ta­ke the next exit.”

  Lee Chin nod­ded and tur­ned off just af­ter we cros­sed the brid­ge. Now we we­re dri­ving right along the ri­ver, which was en­ti­rely too much of a co­in­ci­den­ce. Wha­te­ver the che­er­le­aders we­re up to, this must ha­ve be­en what Cliff was trying to warn me abo­ut.

  “This is not the ti­me to turn on each ot­her,” Da­na con­ti­nu­ed. “We’re a te­am, and if we ke­ep ac­ting li­ke one, everyt­hing is go­ing to work out just li­ke we plan­ned.”

  “But it’s so hard,” Ka­te whis­pe­red. “It wasn’t sup­po­sed to be this hard.”

  “Isn’t be­ing yo­ung and be­a­uti­ful fo­re­ver worth a lit­tle ef­fort?” Da­na as­ked, ba­rely con­ce­aling her frust­ra­ti­on. “I me­an, we didn’t win sta­te last ye­ar sit­ting on our bot­toms. We prac­ti­ced every day and ma­de sac­ri­fi­ces.”

  The van was qu­i­et for a mo­ment be­fo­re Lee Chin pi­ped up from the dri­ver’s se­at. “But no one had to die for us to win sta­te.”

  Da­na’s he­ad snap­ped aro­und to the front. “Fi­ne, Lee, if you want out, pull over.”

  “I don’t want out,” Lee sa­id has­tily. “It’s just that no one sa­id we we­re go­ing to kill her.”

  “And you don’t ha­ve to,” I sa­id, se­e­ing what might be my only chan­ce to inj­ect so­me sa­nity in­to this si­tu­ati­on. “I know black ma­gic can re­al­ly mess with yo­ur he­ad. Be­li­eve me, I un­ders­tand. But you guys don’t ha­ve to go thro­ugh with this. We can stop it all right now. Let me call SA and we can talk to them, exp­la­in what Jess was trying to ma­ke you do and-”

  “She isn’t ma­king us do anyt­hing. We went lo­oking for her and sa­id we we­re wil­ling to do wha­te­ver it to­ok to work the spell.”

  “Aaron’s right,” Da­na sa­id. “This was what we all wan­ted. The vo­te was una­ni­mo­us.”

  “Be­si­des, we knew pe­op­le we­re go­ing to die,” Aaron sa­id, not bot­he­ring to con­ce­al his con­tempt for the nay­sa­yers in the ve­hic­le.

  “What do­es it mat­ter if one of the de­ad pe­op­le hap­pens to be so­me­one we know? It’s not li­ke any of you are fri­ends with Me­gan.”

  The­re was much nod­ding of he­ads as this was ge­ne­ral­ly ag­re­ed to by ever­yo­ne in the van. Gah! What as­sho­les they we­re.

  “But what abo­ut Ta­bit­ha?” I as­ked. “I’m su­re she wasn’t sup­po­sed to-”

  “Ta­bit­ha scre­wed up,” Da­na sa­id. “She sho­uld ha­ve va­ca­ted the wo­ods as so­on as she drop­ped the zom­bi­es. I me­an, the­re are sna­kes and stuff in the swamp. And tho­se big rats they say aren’t rats but to­tal­ly are. What are tho­se cal­led?”

  “Nut­ria,” Ni­na, the new girl, sa­id. So far she’d be­en sit­ting pretty qu­i­etly in the cor­ner ne­ar the back, and I’d be­en ho­ping she might pro­ve to be a bit mo­re sa­ne than the ot­hers. No such luck. “They are so gross.”

  “To­tal­ly!” Da­na smi­led. “Which just pro­ves Ni­na is a way bet­ter cho­ice to be yo­ung and be­a­uti­ful fo­re­ver. I me­an, at le­ast she’s smart.”

  Mo­re mut­ters of ag­re­ement and nod­ding of he­ads en­su­ed. Ni­na be­amed.

  “This is crazy-you all re­ali­ze that, don’t you?” I as­ked, strug­gling to ke­ep the hyste­ria from my to­ne. “Wha­te­ver Jess has told you she can do, it’s a lie. She can’t ma­ke you yo­ung and be­a­uti­ful fo­re­ver. She’s just using you to get to me. She’s crazy! You know that, right? She’s be­en af­ter me ever sin­ce we we­re ten ye­ars old and-”

  “Shut her up, Aaron,” Da­na sa­id.

  “Gladly.” Aaron’s hand slam­med down over my mo­uth. “Slow down, Lee. I’m get­ting out in two blocks.”

  “What?” Fe­li­city as­ked. “But we’re al­re­ady set up-”

  “I told you I’ve ma­de plans. I’ve got a spe­ci­al da­te wa­iting for Me­gan and me at the old hos­pi­tal. I fi­gu­red if brin­ging the li­ving Un­de­ad to her wasn’t wor­king, I’d bring her to the li­ving Un­de­ad.”

  “Awe­so­me!” Da­na be­amed at Aaron as Lee Chin pul­led over to the si­de of the ro­ad. “So you’re go­ing to-”

  “Ta­ke ca­re of Me­gan’s part in this, get the blo­od of the li­ving Un­de­ad af­ter he’s bit­ten her, and then me­et you all at the si­te.”

  “Are you su­re?” Lee as­ked. “We can wa­it for you he­re.”

  “Ye­ah, Aaron. You don’t want to be la­te,” Da­na sa­id. “We can’t work the sum­mo­ning or the yo­uth and be­a­uty in­can­ta­ti­on wit­ho­ut that blo­od.”

  “Don’t worry.” Aaron pul­led me to my fe­et and drag­ged me to­ward the back of the van. “It’s only a co­up­le of blocks. I’ll be the­re in plenty of ti­me. This is so­met­hing I think I sho­uld do alo­ne. If I get ca­ught, I wo­uldn’t want any of you to go down for mur­der.”

  As we drop­ped to the pa­ve­ment, I ca­ught lo­oks of comp­le­te fre­aked-outed-ness on the fa­ces of a few of the girls. Crazy or not, the­re we­re de­fi­ni­tely tho­se who tho­ught this was wrong.

  It wo­uld ha­ve ma­de me ho­pe­ful… if any of them had sta­yed be­hind. Ins­te­ad, Ni­na and Fe­li­city slam­med the do­ors shut and the van pul­led away, di­sap­pe­aring down the de­ser­ted stre­et.

  Now it was only Aaron and I, he­aded to­ward a very cre­epy aban­do­ned bu­il­ding that was crumb­ling in­to the ri­ver a few fe­et away.

  The ri­ver. Just li­ke Cliff sa­id. If I’d lis­te­ned to him, may­be he and I wo­uld be nip­ping this army-of-the-de­ad thing in the bud, and I wo­uldn’t be loc­ked in a psycho che­er­le­ader’s arms on my way to die in a fas­hi­on I was su­re wasn’t go­ing to be fun.

  CHAPTER 20

  “This used to be a child­ren’s hos­pi­tal. For kids with tu­ber­cu­lo­sis. They clo­sed it in the fif­ti­es,” Aaron sa­id, his hand still clam­ped over my mo­uth. Gu­ess he didn’t want me to in­ter­rupt his ama­te­ur to­ur gu­ide ro­uti­ne. “You’re not go­ing to be­li­eve the vi­ew from the ro­of. It’s gor­ge­o­us.”

  He kis­sed my he­ad, clo­se eno­ugh to my ear to ma­ke me stumb­le on the stu­pid ska­tes I was still we­aring. If he tri­ed to ta­ke this kis­sy-kis­sy crap any furt­her, I was go­ing to pu­ke.

  “Co­me on, let’s get a clo­ser lo­ok.” Aaron drag­ged me to­ward the ent­ran­ce, a gre­at mass of gray sto­ne with sharp ang­les and ver­ti­cal li­nes.

  It al­so ma­de me think of te­eth-big, scary te­eth poc­ked with ca­vi­ti­es pro­tec­ting a black ho­le of a mo­uth that hadn’t be­en fed in a long ti­me. The bu­il­ding was hungry, and no me­asly cha­in-link fen­ce ac­ross the do­or­way was go­ing to ke­ep it from suc­king me in­si­de and pic­king my bo­nes cle­an. Call me crazy, but it se­emed li­ke a go­od ti­me to fight for my li­fe, be­fo­re Aaron ma­na­ged to get us in­si­de to me­et up with my li­ving Un­de­ad “mystery da­te.”

  I mo­aned, then let my en­ti­re body go limp, fa­king a gir­lish swo­on.

  “Hey now, we’re not the­re yet.” When Aaron bent to adj­ust his grip, I struck.

  Kic­king with my fe­et, I hur­led myself at his legs, knoc­king us both to the gro­und. My sho­ul­der exp­lo­ded with pa­in, but I ig­n
o­red it and the lit­tle black and whi­te spots pric­king at the ed­ges of my vi­si­on. I rol­led over, slam­ming my go­od fist in­to Aaron’s sto­mach as I went.

  “Bitch!” He grun­ted and re­ac­hed for me, but I kic­ked him up­si­de the he­ad with my ska­te, sen­ding him back to the gro­und with a gro­an.

  My hands sho­ok as I to­re at my la­ces, lo­ose­ning them just eno­ugh to slip the ska­tes off my fe­et, kno­wing my trusty we­apons wo­uld ha­ve to go if I was go­ing to ha­ve any chan­ce of out­dis­tan­cing Aaron.

  “Me­gan! Get back he­re!” Aaron sur­ged back in­to a se­ated po­si­ti­on-blo­od drip­ping down his fa­ce-but I was al­re­ady on my fe­et and run­ning for it.

  If I hadn’t be­en inj­ured, I might ha­ve sta­yed to fight even tho­ugh Aaron was six inc­hes tal­ler and out­we­ig­hed me by fifty po­unds. Bar­ker and Smythe had ta­ught me ways to ta­ke down big­ger op­po­nents, but not when I had a throb­bing, ga­ping wo­und and only li­mi­ted use of one arm.

  So I ran, sprin­ting down the dark stre­et in my sock fe­et to­ward the lights of a li­qu­or sto­re a few blocks away. This area of down­town was all but de­ser­ted ex­cept for gangs, crack ad­dicts, and bums, and was hardly the pla­ce for a six­te­en-ye­ar-old girl to be wal­king the stre­ets, but I wo­uld ha­ve be­en re­li­eved to see an­yo­ne at all. Even get­ting rob­bed to sup­port so­me­one’s co­ke ha­bit so­un­ded gre­at com­pa­red to de­ath by in­sa­ne ma­le che­er­le­ader.

  “Me­gan! Co­me back he­re!” Aaron ro­ared, ob­vi­o­usly not con­cer­ned abo­ut be­ing over­he­ard. “Co­me! Back! He­re!”

  My he­art ra­ced even fas­ter and a frigh­te­ned so­und es­ca­ped my lips. The boy be­hind me was crazy. To­tal­ly out of his mind. If he ca­ught me, he was go­ing to fe­ed me to a zom­bie. And it was go­ing to be unt­hin­kably aw­ful, far wor­se than anyt­hing the Un­de­ad co­uld ever ha­ve do­ne on the­ir own.

  Zom­bi­es-re­al zom­bi­es or the­se po­or co­ma vic­tims Aaron had be­en ra­ising-we­re only ves­sels, af­ter all, and co­uldn’t hold a cand­le to the pu­re evil of the pe­op­le who ra­ised them to do the­ir dirty work. A zom­bie wo­uld munch on yo­ur flesh, but it wo­uldn’t de­ri­ve ple­asu­re from watc­hing you suf­fer.

  But Aaron wo­uld. I knew that, and it sca­red me mo­re than any OOGP.

  “Help! Help me!” I scre­amed as I got clo­se to the li­qu­or sto­re. I was qu­ick, but Aaron had lon­ger legs and the spe­ed of the crazy. He was catc­hing up fast. I had to run har­der, had to get to the fre­aking do­or be­fo­re-

  “No!” I half sob­bed, half scre­amed the word as I fi­nal­ly re­ac­hed the do­or and jer­ked on the hand­le, only to find it loc­ked and the lit sto­re de­ser­ted. It was a Fri­day night, for God’s sa­ke! Why was a li­qu­or sto­re clo­sed at eight o’clock?

  Oh God. The loc­ked do­or from Cliff’s vi­si­on. I had to get away from this pla­ce. Fast.

  But I didn’t even ha­ve ti­me to re­le­ase the hand­le, let alo­ne try to run, be­fo­re Aaron was on me, slam­ming my body aga­inst the glass do­or.

  “Do not run from me! Do you he­ar me?” he scre­amed di­rectly in­to my fa­ce, hol­ding me cap­ti­ve with hands fis­ted in my ha­ir. I win­ced and grit­ted my te­eth as fresh agony blo­omed in my sho­ul­der and now in my scalp. “The­re isn’t ti­me.”

  “Okay, okay,” I whis­pe­red, si­lent te­ars rol­ling down my fa­ce as I strug­gled to bre­at­he. I felt li­ke I was go­ing to pass out. If only I’d slept mo­re than a few ho­urs last night, may­be I wo­uldn’t fe­el so we­ak-may­be I co­uld ha­ve run fas­ter or fo­ught har­der and wo­uldn’t fe­el so trap­ped and help­less.

  “No, it’s not okay.” Aaron’s eyes grew even flat­ter as he wrap­ped his hands aro­und my thro­at, ap­pa­rently de­ci­ding that me ha­ving tro­ub­le bre­at­hing was wor­king for him. It lo­oked li­ke Cliff’s vi­si­on was co­ming true, every hor­rib­le de­ta­il. “But it’s go­ing to be okay. We’re go­ing to ma­ke it okay.” Then, he smi­led li­ke we we­re BFFs aga­in.

  God, he was crazy. So crazy. I wan­ted my mom and dad, I wan­ted Et­han, so­me­one who co­uld ta­ke all this bad, scary stuff away.

  Why had Et­han and I fo­ught? Why had I kis­sed anot­her guy when I lo­ved Et­han mo­re than anyt­hing? And why did I ha­ve to get clo­se to dying to re­ali­ze it wasn’t the physi­cal stuff that had me fre­aked, but re­ali­zing I wo­uld fall even har­der if Et­han and I to­ok things to the next le­vel? That was what sca­red me, to think I co­uld ne­ed him any mo­re than I al­re­ady did.

  And that was why Cliff was sa­fe. I didn’t lo­ve Cliff, and by pu­re vir­tue of the fact that he was a de­ad guy bo­und for the gra­ve, I knew I ne­ver wo­uld. I wo­uldn’t get the chan­ce, and so Cliff wo­uld ne­ver get the chan­ce to hurt me.

  It all ma­de sen­se now. If only I co­uld ha­ve told Et­han, may­be he wo­uld ha­ve un­ders­to­od.

  “Ple­ase.” My vo­ice wasn’t much mo­re than a whis­per, a be­aten thing drif­ting in the bru­ised cot­ton of my oxy­gen-star­ved mind.

  “Just go to sle­ep,” Aaron sa­id.

  I tri­ed to re­su­me strug­gling, but co­uldn’t ma­na­ge mo­re than a twitch or two, even tho­ugh my in­ner vo­ice was scre­aming that I co­uldn’t let this hap­pen. I co­uldn’t black out. The­re was a se­ri­o­us chan­ce I wo­uldn’t wa­ke up aga­in. I had to fight… had to…

  “When you wa­ke up everyt­hing will be bet­ter. I pro­mi­se.”

  Aaron bent his he­ad, as if he wo­uld kiss me on the lips this ti­me, but everyt­hing went dark be­fo­re I co­uld know for cer­ta­in. As I lost cons­ci­o­us­ness, I tri­ed to be thank­ful for the lit­tle things.

  When I wo­ke up, I kept my eyes shut whi­le I did a qu­ick men­tal check in on my si­tu­ati­on to see if it was still Ext­re­mely Di­re or I’d be­en downg­ra­ded to thre­at-le­vel Ma­j­orly Aw­ful. Un­for­tu­na­tely, Ext­re­mely Di­re still se­emed the ru­le of the day.

  My he­ad hurt li­ke no­body’s bu­si­ness, my hands we­re bo­und be­hind my back, and I was very thirsty and very cold. Whe­re­ver Aaron had ta­ken me, I was still out­si­de. The cold wind whip­ping ac­ross my chap­ped lips and the soft prick of snow as it hit my che­eks and mel­ted con­fir­med that much. My fa­ce was numb and stiff and pro­bably in dan­ger of frost­bi­te, but I was ali­ve.

  Ali­ve was go­od. Sta­ying that way, ho­we­ver, wo­uld be even bet­ter. So I didn’t open my eyes right away. Bet­ter to try to fi­gu­re out whe­re Aaron was and what he was up to be­fo­re I-

  “I know you’re awa­ke. I saw yo­ur eye­lids mo­ve.”

  God! I ha­ted this guy. Ha­ted him with the whi­te-hot in­ten­sity of a bil­li­on Boy Sco­ut camp­fi­res. “I bet you we­re a Boy Sco­ut, we­ren’t you, Aaron? You lo­ok li­ke you we­re a Boy Sco­ut,” I cro­aked as I slowly ope­ned my eyes. It so­un­ded li­ke I’d ta­ken up a pack-a-day smo­king ha­bit… or ne­arly be­en strang­led to de­ath. Ta­ke yo­ur pick.

  “Yep, for fi­ve ye­ars. My dad was sco­ut le­ader.” We we­re in­de­ed out­si­de-on the ro­of of the old hos­pi­tal, if I had to gu­ess-and Aaron was sit­ting a few fe­et away, black and red cand­les bur­ning in a se­mi­circ­le aro­und him and what lo­oked li­ke a de­ad body wrap­ped in a sle­eping bag. The li­ving Un­de­ad he’d men­ti­oned, I sup­po­sed? So­me po­or co­ma vic­tim he’d ap­prop­ri­ated for his own evil pur­po­ses? “One of the perks of be­ing an only child. My pa­rents had a lot of ti­me to de­vo­te. If you’d ta­ken the ti­me to do yo­ur re­se­arch, you’d know that.”

  Okay. He was even cra­zi­er than I’d tho­ught. Which was pretty fre­aking crazy. “My re­se­arch? Why sho­uld I ha­ve be­en re­se­ar­c­hing you, Aaron? I tho­ught you we­re a fri­end.”

  “You tho­ught I was a cre­
ep,” he sa­id, pro­ving he wasn’t as ob­li­vi­o­us as I’d tho­ught. Nut­ti­er than yo­ur ave­ra­ge gra­no­la bar, yes, but not ob­li­vi­o­us. “You’d get this lit­tle curl in yo­ur lip every ti­me I to­uc­hed you.”

  “You had no bu­si­ness to­uc­hing me.”

  “You ha­ve no bu­si­ness be­ing ali­ve,” he snap­ped. “Not any­mo­re.”

  “Aaron, ple­ase,” I sa­id, sen­sing re­aso­ning with him was fu­ti­le, but kno­wing I had to try. Lying on my si­de with my arms ti­ed be­hind my back didn’t le­ave me many ot­her op­ti­ons. At le­ast not un­til I co­uld get my hands free. Slowly I wig­gled my fin­gers, wil­ling the ro­pe to stretch. “You don’t want to do this. That per­son ne­eds to be in the hos­pi­tal.”

  “The en­ti­re Ve­te­rans’ Hos­pi­tal smells li­ke piss. He’ll be bet­ter off de­ad.” Aaron wa­ved away my con­cern with a lit­tle smi­le. “And may­be lo­sing a pa­ti­ent will te­ach the staff a les­son. Get­ting him out was way too easy. I just wal­ked in, stuck him in a whe­elc­ha­ir, and wal­ked out. The­ir se­cu­rity blows. Shows how much we ca­re abo­ut the bra­ve men and wo­men who ser­ved our co­untry.”

  Okay, so much for ple­ading for mystery du­de’s li­fe. I was go­ing to ha­ve to chan­ge tac­tics. “Fi­ne, but you’re was­ting his li­fe and mi­ne. I swe­ar Jess can’t do what she’s told you she can do. She can’t ma­ke you and the rest of the che­er­le­aders yo­ung and be­a­uti­ful fo­re­ver. The­re’s no spell ca­pab­le of-”

  “I know she can’t. That’s just what we told the ot­hers to get them to co­ope­ra­te.” Aaron pul­led a small bag from be­hind him and be­gan to un­pack bunc­hes of herbs. “Jess ne­eded a co­ven of thir­te­en to ra­ise the army. I knew I’d ne­ver get Da­na or the ot­hers to ag­ree to do that just to help Jess, so I tho­ught of so­met­hing el­se they’d want and of­fe­red them that ins­te­ad.”