by David Beem
“S’up, Edge!” screams the old lady. “Check it out! Mr. Roboto! I’m a Golden Girl!”
Mom jerks me left, and my teeth clack shut. I glance over my shoulder. Mary’s finishing hasty goodbyes, then jogging after us, a double-handed grip on her firearm, which is sweeping left and right.
“Not so fatalistic after all,” I mutter, casting her a sidelong glance. “I knew you had a plan.”
“Her Anti-Telepathy Device is in her ring?” asks Mom.
“Yes.”
We pass another set of soldiers raising rifles, this time at a group of teenagers doing the robot. One of the soldiers straightens. The others follow. Like machines, they lay their guns on the ground in front of them, pivot on their heels, and strike robot poses.
“SECRET, SECRET,” the PA system blares, continuing the weird robot song. The newly zombified soldiers fall in with the teenagers and form a line. One by one, they each mime a robot whispering a secret into the ear of the person on the left. When the last person in the line turns to repeat the move and finds no one to mime-whisper the secret to, she faces me and makes a stiff, robotic shrug.
“What do you think of our choreography, Edge?” she yells. “It’s brought to you by Mikhail Baryshnikov! Granted, he usually does ballet.”
Mom steers me between a set of trees.
“We’ll be here when you get ba-ack!” cries a teenage girl.
I steal another glance over my shoulder. A burly, flak-jacketed solider moonwalking in heavy combat boots. Mom’s arm on my elbow directs my attention forward—duck! A branch whips overhead. The robot song fades into the background beneath the blood pumping in my ears and my heavy breathing. Mom releases my arm and we’re like athletes training on an obstacle course, our knees lifting rib-high in a crazed dash through tangled undergrowth. Man, she’s in good shape!
“Mom, tell me what to do,” I say, winded and pitching my voice above the blaring music. “Tell me the plan, quick!”
“Oh, sweetie.” She releases my hand to bob and weave around a branch, then snatches my elbow and pulls. “You’re the plan.”
“What?!”
Pain flashes through my leg. The forest blurs. Twigs poke my cheeks as my shoulder slams into the ground. Ew—grimy moss in my mouth—spit. Hands work beneath my armpits, close on my elbow. Getting to my feet. Mom on my left, Mary on my right. We lurch ahead, the top of my foot pulsing.
“He wanted to see if we could pass through the force field!” cries Mary, winded.
“What?” asks Mom.
“He knew you were using a force field—”
“Domo arigato!” sings a soldier, springing out from behind a tree, bending at the waist and then straightening, his arms all C-3PO. “Mr. Roboto!”
Mary sidekicks his liver, then spins to deliver a forearm strike to his jugular. The soldier stumbles and falls over.
Another singing soldier drops down from a tree stand, his rifle tracking us—
Mom’s arm flashes past my face, and the soldier gags and hacks. Her open hand jerks back from his Adam’s apple, grabs my elbow, and guides me away. She shakes out her hand, and our route empties onto a trail.
“Are you hurt?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Mom, you’ve got to tell me what to do. I don’t know what to do.”
“Follow your instincts, sweetheart. Focus. Don’t panic. You’ll know what to do when this is over.”
“When what’s over?” asks Mary.
“Our rebellion.”
She pulls us off the trail, and we skid down an embankment, pain shooting up my leg. A small stream at the bottom. Hopping over stones—slip. Cold water in my socks. I leap the final distance across, and then it’s scrambling up the other side. My face is fever hot.
Another clearing. We pass a row of two-person tents. Fire pits. A volleyball net. Mom grabs my elbow again.
“I’m going to give you an order, and I expect you to obey it.”
“Mom, don’t fool around. I know you’ve got something for us. You and Dad planned the whole thing out. I know you did. Tell me you and Dad—”
She releases my elbow and heads into another patch of wilderness. I exchange a hasty glance with Mary and then limp after her. But it’s a short trip. She’s stopped again.
“Both of you, —in there.”
The tent she’s pointing at is a small orange pup tent barely large enough for two.
“What’s in there?” I ask. “The plan, right? In there’s the plan?”
“Yes, sweetie, in there’s the plan.”
“Mom—”
“Where are you going?” asks Mary.
“I can’t tell you.”
She pushes us toward the tent. “Remember: Nostradamus will know you’re in this tent if he finds me. You need to buy time.”
Mary’s arm scoots over my chest as she reaches for Mom’s shoulder. “Thank you.”
“Hurry,” says Mom, and Mary breaks away for the tent.
“Eh-Edge,” calls a zombie from the direction of the rebel encampment. I peer into the woods. A shadow moves.
“Eh-Edge,” calls the zombie again. “Where ar-re yoo-oo?”
“Okay,” says Mom. “That’s it. Inside.”
“You’re going to be alive when I come out of this tent. Right? Un-zombified? You’ve got shielding tech?”
She thumbs her wedding ring for me to see, then strokes my cheek.
“Domo arigato!” a new, closer zombie sings. Mom slaps my arm.
“Go! Go!” she whispers.
I kiss her cheek, and I’m eight years old again. Her crow’s feet seem to vanish, and we’re both transported across some twenty-plus years. This isn’t like how it went down then, but it doesn’t matter. I reach for her. She jerks aside, shoves me, and then Mom is falling away, like before. I’m tipping backward into the darkness. My shoulder collides with concrete, and then my back, my elbows and knees. I crash into something soft, or it’s crashing on top of me, knocking my wind out. Mom’s youthful face, determined and scared, sears itself into my memory as I blink back stars and the head-to-toe pain of losing her again.
The weight on top of me climbs off. I sit up. It’s dark and cool. A beat later, my vision adjusts. A thin triangle of light shines from above. It releases a faint twang and snuffs out. Muffled voices gather near where the light was. I turn my ear forward.
“Not in here,” comes a muted voice.
An arm cuts over my chest, followed by a burst of lavender and Mary sweat. I lean into a cold wall as she pushes past me in the dark. I reach out—but she’s already sneaking up the steps.
My breathing is loud and uneven. I try to steady it. The cool wall behind me begins to warm as minutes stretch by, and then a hand gropes on the inside of my leg. My head smashes into concrete as I startle. I crouch down and rub the rising lump.
“Sorry,” whispers Mary.
“What did you find?” I whisper back.
“A…” She clears her throat softly, then pushes her lips against my ear. Her hair brushes my cheek, then her knuckles as she pushes it back. “I found springs. There’s a false bottom to the tent.” She presses her finger to my lips, her other hand gliding around my back. “Your mom told us we need time. If Nostradamus finds her, or anyone in the camp who knows about this hiding place, he’ll know the tent has a false bottom. He’ll come back and find us.”
My mental hard drive starts to smoke. My fingers curl into fists. Time? How the hell are we supposed to buy ourselves time by sitting down here?
“Wait!” I whisper. “The Collective Unconscious. Time works differently there, and we can remote-view what’s going on.”
I seize the back of her head and sweep her into a kiss—
Her taste, her scent, and pheromones light the spark—
The world explodes into a howling abyss. We splash into a bed of darkened soul-stars, which flutter like tiny wings over our skin.
Chapter Forty
My subconscious landscape is awash in
a nightmarish red light. The Tree of Life is barren, its trunk stripped of its bark, its leaves fallen. Mary gasps and covers her mouth. She throws her arms around my neck, and the red light darkens to blackout. The ground vanishes beneath our feet, and our stomachs lurch. Tiny invisible wings beat over our faces and necks. A jagged slash of purple light seeps into the void through flashing black glitter, swells to a brilliant white, eclipsing everything, and our feet touch down. The oversaturated world resolves into pinpricks of sunlight piercing the forest ceiling. We raise our hand against the brightness. The robot song is back. Peering through blurry fingers, I spot the teenagers, soldiers, and random old people dancing. We lower our hands.
“He used the elderly to get past the sentries,” says Mary. “He knew they couldn’t shoot silver-haired grannies and old men with walkers.”
I nod. “And he used us to see how the force field works. He sent us in, and when we didn’t get vaporized or anything, he figured it was safe. Why didn’t Mom listen to us?”
“She did.” She nudges my arm. “She knew he was never going to negotiate a surrender. The question is, have the rebels given up, or have they still got an ace up their sleeve? I say we find them. Get their intel. Then we wake up and regroup.”
I blow my air out, nod. “Yeah. Yeah, I like that.”
The ground blurs like a treadmill set to light speed. Trees phase through us. Tents, Humvees. I press my hand into my stomach.
Please don’t barf, please don’t barf, please don’t—Mary!
The motion stops. We’re behind a Humvee. The music is louder here. Boots stomp past, racing for a long trench. In the Collective Unconscious, their fear radiates like an open furnace.
“Mom! Dad!” Mary’s gun flashes up as she charges from our hiding spot. Across the way, her father’s salt-and-pepper hair disappears into the trench. I sweep my gaze down the line, over the tops of heads, my heart banging. Dark hair, brown hair, gray hair. Hats. I grit my teeth and search again, going back along the trench the other way.
Come on, Mom. Where are you?
Mary slides over the lip of the trench like a baseball player stealing home.
Concentrate. The world flickers, resolves.
I’m standing at the edge of the trench, above her parents as they squat back on their heels, their arms wrapped around each other, her father stroking her mother’s hair. It’s like World War I down there. Sandbags, ammo, heavy artillery.
“What’re you doing?” Mary reaches for her mom, but her fingertips phase through her mom’s arm. “Come on, fight! Stand and fight!”
Her dad, still hugging her mom, sways gently back and forth. “Shh. It’ll be over soon,” he whispers. “It’ll be over soon.”
A tear courses down Mary’s cheek. Charlotte’s head lifts. She peers through the space where Mary’s standing. Her forehead creases, and she cranes her neck forward.
Mary straightens. “That’s right. Get up. Fight. Kick his ass properly!”
My breath catches in my chest.
Charlotte’s shoulders slouch. She and her husband share an embrace. Mary reaches for them, but again her arms phase through.
I punch the top of my leg and scan the trench from my new vantage. Old faces, young faces. Children. “Come on, Mom… Dammit.”
Bang! Bang!
I duck and cover. Run to a Humvee—ah, stupid. I can’t get shot here.
I search for the shooter, trying to look everywhere at once. Mary. Her hands are phasing through her dad now, her face racked with pain.
But if she isn’t shooting, who is?
I clench my teeth, scan treetops. Snipers—two of them.
“Edger,” says Mary as one of the snipers lowers his rifle. I sweep my gaze to the other. His rifle’s down too.
“Edger,” she says again, and I raise my finger at her. The snipers lay down their rifles. Their legs swing out from their perches. Their feet find their ladders.
“Edger!”
I turn and face her. Everyone in the trench is standing. Mary’s parents too. Sunlight glints off her mother’s diamond ring as it and her father’s wedding band zoom past where I’m standing and disappear into the forest.
Mary’s forehead creases, her nose and lips pinch. She tries again to wrap her arms around her mom. Her parents’ faces glaze over as they and others crawl out on their bellies. The two snipers join them and lay down their firearms. Mary phases in next to me as all the rebels, including her parents, start doing the robot.
“Their rings,” I say, my stomach plunging. “Their shielding tech was in their rings. Like yours.”
“Mary!” calls her zombified dad, lying down on his stomach. “I know you’re watching!” Her dad starts flopping in the dirt, feet to fingertips along the ground. “I betcha never knew your old man could do the centipede!”
Mary lurches forward, but I grab her arm. Her dread pulses in me as I struggle to hold her back.
“Eh-edge!” calls her zombified dad, now doing the centipede the other direction. “I’ve got your mo-om.”
My knees buckle, and Mary stops fighting me to catch my elbow.
“Ever wonder about your parents making out?” asks the prime minister, now on his feet, covered in mud and dirt and standing in front of the first lady. “Kinda gross, right?”
She sticks her tongue out like she’s about to touch it to a frozen pole. The prime minister copies her. Their heads tilt.
“This was a bad idea.” I grab Mary’s head and, man, she’s really fighting it. I get her face buried in my chest. She punches my arms, punches my ribs, then, with shaking shoulders, relents. “We need to leave. I don’t want to see—”
“Here I am, sweetie!” calls my mom, and my head snaps up.
Mom emerges from the forest, and my air comes in raggedly through my open mouth. My eyes are pulled as if by gravity to her ring finger, but it’s bare!
Her grin is all teeth. Her head tips left and right. Her arms and legs dance like a marionette. She spots Mary’s parents making out and, dragging one leg behind like a movie zombie, and sticking her tongue out like a Pez dispenser, she lurches for them.
The ground opens and swallows us. The world falls up. We’re flung into the deep red nightmare light. Back to the dead Tree of Life, the park bench, and our despair. Numb, we collapse. Mary buries her head in her hands.
Chapter Forty-One
The red-and-gold tower shimmers and blurs on the horizon. At this range, their spot behind the greasewood couldn’t possibly be noticed. The two hundred postapocalyptic armored vehicles behind them on the other hand…? Well, they won’t be staying long. This is a suicide mission. And that’s just fine with Leo.
“We’re a long friggin’ way from the Haunted Bush.” Danny lowers the binoculars and passes them over.
Leo scratches the spot where his bottom lip meets scruff, then raises the binoculars to his face. The pagoda magnifies. Ornate dragon carvings glimmer; a huge golden Buddha on top is downright blinding. He sweeps the binoculars down and left: A truck backs up to an underground loading dock, the door opening from the earth, and desert camo flapping in the wind off the top. Zombies everywhere. Kick line, conga line, jazz hands. The whole friggin’ deal. Whatever they’re up to, it must be important. He lowers the binoculars.
“With money for an operation like that?” he says. “I bet a few of those conga kooks owe Madame Hooch a little mooch.” He peers over his shoulder to the drivers standing beside their armored vehicles, loops his finger in the air, and then clenches his fist. The drivers climb into their cars and start their engines.
“Tell me somethin’,” says Danny, and Leo shifts in the sand to face him. “Because I’m havin’ a hard time wrappin’ my head around this brave new friggin’ world we’re havin’ here.”
“Shoot.”
“Okay. Let’s say Johnny Gemini is one of those zombie bastards unloadin’ that truck over there.”
“Okay.”
“We never did collect that five mil.”
&nbs
p; Leo laughs. “You want we should roll up on his ass in the middle of that? Grand friggin’ Central Station for zombies? The belly of the beast?”
Danny shakes his head. “No, no, no. Don’t be an idiot. My point is, if this Nostradamus character has got the whole world, as they say, in his hands—”
“Head.”
“Whatever. The whole friggin’ world in his head, then, better?”
Leo nods. “I’m just sayin’, it’s not in his hands.”
“Fine. He’s got the whole friggin’ world in his head. That means he’s got Madam Hooch in his head too. See what I’m sayin’?”
Leo snickers. “Probably means he’s got Isis Sizzle-Thongs in his head too. Ah, Isis Sizzle-Thongs. Remember how she used to—”
“You are missing the point, my friend. Here we have Johnny Gemini.” Danny holds his right hand out. “Here we have Madam Hooch.” Danny holds his left hand out. “And here we have Nostradamus’s head.” Danny smashes his hands together and shakes them. Leo’s eyebrows lower.
“You’re sayin’ Johnny Gemini wouldn’t owe Madam Hooch a dime because he and she are the same person?”
“That’s exactly what I’m sayin’.”
“Which means the collection business, gah, sorry, the aggressive collection business…is obsolete.”
“As the friggin’ eight-track.”
Leo shrugs. “Then what’s your friggin’ point? Guys like us were never gonna earn an honest paycheck on Planet Zombie anyway. It’s not like Nostradamus needs a pair of highly specialized, classy guys to go crack some celebrity heads together, you know?”
“My point is there is no friggin’ point. Nobody owes nobody nuttin’. Nobody’s rippin’ anybody off. Nobody’s lyin’ to their husband about who they’re bangin’ when he’s not around. Nobody’s stiffin’ their boob docs no more.”
Leo scratches his scruff again. “Everybody’s behaving.”
“That’s right. Everybody’s behaving. Now how do you think that’s gonna work out? Lookit. Adam and Eve. Right? The way I see it, they had it all. Now, they didn’t have friggin’ Malibu beach homes, they didn’t have boob jobs—”
