Zombies Don't Kiss & Tell: A YA Short Story

by Rusty Fischer

“It’s not over yet.”

  Melanie’s face goes paler than usual, which is really saying something, as she watches us walk out.

  Tia’s hand slides from my own as we hit the street, which has calmed considerably since we’ve been inside.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “You don’t have to be nice anymore,” she says a little coolly, tugging on her hoodie as we walk down the sidewalk in front of Gouda’s. “And you don’t have to finish our blind date, either.”

  My car is in the overflow parking lot two blocks down. The café is behind us now, the twinkling lights in the bushes out front seeming father even than that. Here the light is dim, the buildings deserted, the storefronts cold and dark.

  “But I want to,” I say. “I’m having fun. Aren’t you?”

  We’re both standing there at the nearest crosswalk, she clutching her hood down tight, her face a gray mask with purple lips and black eyes.

  “Maybe,” she says. “I just mean, well, no one’s looking anymore, Jordy. You can go and it won’t hurt my feelings. No one told you you’d be having a blind date with a zombie. I know your buddy Cosgrove was having a go at you. You were nice and didn’t hurt my feelings. But I’ll understand, really, if you—”

  “Tia?” I ask, wondering why she’s left off in mid-sentence like that when she was just getting all fired up. “Everything… okay?”

  She shushes me, inching close, shoving me tight to the wall at my back.

  Her eyes are everywhere, all at once; up, down, sideways.

  “Did you hear that?” she asks, voice barely a whisper; breath smelling like raw sugar.

  I shake my head, straining my ears; then I do hear it.

  That telltale squeak of sneakers on pavement; one pair, two, maybe three.

  Maybe even four or five pairs.

  Okay, so it’s downtown Ambrosia on a Saturday night.

  What could possibly happen?

  It’s probably just some kids out past curfew, looking for some—

  Then I hear cackling, a particularly high-pitched cackling.

  Tia and I look at each other at the same time and mouth, “Cosgrove.”

  I try to move but she shoves me back some more, and is surprisingly… strong.

  And I’m no wimp, if I may be so bold.

  220-pounds, 6’2”, and she’s tossing me around like I’m some… some… café hostess or something.

  The sneakers round the corner at the same time; three pairs behind me, two out in front.

  It’s not just Cosgrove, it’s half the frickin’ defensive line!

  I see Chalmers, all 300-pounds of him, and Philips at 275!

  And Cosgrove’s no chump either; about my height, a little taller, a little heavier – all of it tightly-coiled muscle.

  “How’s your date going?” he asks, voice slimy as ever, to match his slicked back black hair.

  His eyes are glassy and watery, his words a little slurry; like he gets when he’s drunk, or high, or both.

  “F-f-fine,” I say cautiously, watching Tia watch me. “Great, actually.”

  “Ah,” slurs Cosgrove, slapping his giant pal Brody on the shoulder. “Isn’t that nice? The jock and the zombie, sittin’ in a tree.”

  “It’s not like that, Cosgrove,” I blurt through gritted teeth, fists clenched. “Whatever game you’re playing at, leave off. I don’t know why you suddenly have a bug up your butt about zombies, dude but… she’s cool, it’s fine.”

  “It’s NOT fine,” he shouts, white nostrils flaring as he clenches his giant fists. “Your date is one of them, dude; a meat-sicle, a dead head, a brain-muncher, man. How can you stand there, holding her hand?”

  I look down and see I’ve grabbed her hand.

  She tries to let go, to pull free, but not even Tia is that strong.

  Murmurs of “gross” and “rude” and tons of other stuff not fit for print ooze out of the guys’ mouths, and suddenly I’m thinking: It’s no accident, they’re here. It’s no prank, Cosgrove setting me up with a zombie; on purpose.

  He wanted it this way; knew I was the only one on the team who’d sit there with the undead all night while he and his buds drank beer in the car waiting for us to come out of Gouda’s.

  How could I have been so stupid?

  And what are we going to do now?

  I mean, me and Cosgrove in a straight up fight; that’s one thing.

  I maybe could take him, I maybe couldn’t but either way at least I could buy Tia enough time to get away and hide.

  “Gig’s up, girl,” says Cosgrove, inching forward on uncertain but massive legs. “There’s no going back to Z Street for you tonight.”

  “Shut up, Cosgrove,” I blurt, getting a whack upside the head from his buddy Brody that draws blood. “You can’t do anything to her; it’s against the Immortal Peace Treaty of 2016.”

  Another whack from Brody and I’m on my knees, wiping my busted nose with the sleeve of my jacket.

  Brody yanks Tia away from me in a weak moment, and when I stumble to get up two of the jocks hold me back.

  “Treaty my ass,” sneers Cosgrove, circling Tia like a shark with one of those cute baby seals everyone’s always clubbing on TV. “You see any Sentinels around here, guys?”

  “Leave her alone,” I spit, the coppery taste of blood on my tongue.

  Brody slaps me again, hard, until I can hear my jaw ringing.

  It hurts so bad I have to hold myself up with the palms of my hands flat against the pavement; it’s hard and cold beneath my skin.

  I’m thinking, “Great, five on one, so how am I going to save Tia now?”

  Then I hear screaming, and look up; Brody is on all fours, trying to avoid another rib being cracked by… Tia’s foot!

  She’s whipped back her hoodie top, revealing a mane of carrot orange hair tightly woven into braids that run alongside her head and are tied together in the back.

  Cosgrove is getting up from the ground, rubbing his jaw.

  Where was I when she slapped him around?

  That, I would have paid good money for!

  Another of the goons, a senior I’ve never liked named Chalmers, creeps up on Tia while she’s caving in Brody’s lungs and she turns, whip-fast, and punches his throat.

  I hear a crack and then air hiss out the gash on the left side of his windpipe.

  When his pal Philips goes to help him, Tia kicks him so hard in the shin I literally watch his leg explode from the knee down.

  He lands with a thud, but not for long; his screaming rouses the neighborhood, lights coming on in the floors above the street.

  “Come on,” Tia barks, dragging me along the deserted streets.

  I tug her back and she growls – growls! – at me but I huff, “My car’s back here!”

  She doesn’t say anything, just nods, and follows.

  We get in and drive away, the sound of sirens clamoring a few blocks back as I ask, “Uh, what just happened?”

  She’s calmer now, the rage has left her; she smiles and says, “I just saved your butt, is what happened!”

  “But… how? You just put down about 2 tons of fun back there, Tia!”

  She shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “It’s the muscles. When fat dies, it turns to muscle; lots and lots of muscle.”

  “I didn’t know that,” I say.

  “Stick around,” she threatens. “There’s a lot I can teach you about zombies.”

  “Promise?”

  She looks at me funny as we put some distance between ourselves and the sirens.

  Then she says: “Okay, here’s your first lesson: zombies don’t sleep.”

  “At all?”

  “Nope, never; not even a smidge. We don’t need to, you know… anymore.”

  “So what do you do all night then?”

  “Mostly watch TV, but… tonight?”

  “Yeah?” I prod when she doesn’t finish her sentence right away.

  “Well, tonight, I have a feeling anything might happen…”


  I drive, past the Gouda Café, past downtown, past my street, past Z Street; she doesn’t look back.

  It’s Saturday night in Ambrosia, I’ve got a badass zombie chick riding shotgun and the night is young.

  I ask you, what else could go wrong?

  * * * * *

  Rusty Fischer specializes in seasonal short stories for the YA paranormal audience. Read more of Rusty’s FREE stories at www.rushingtheseason.com.