Death Incarnate

by Tamara Rose Blodgett

  A shiver races through me like electrical current. I'd been privy to some of Brad's sick shit, and I was damn glad to be out of there.

  Glancing back at the inky waves coming off a lake a few meters away, I note that I'm back to the same old tired laws of nature: hunger and fatigue.

  I raise my hand.

  Everyone but Kim ignores me.

  Checking her out, I notice she's worse for wear and probably exactly where I am in the hierarchy of the group.

  Low.

  ’Cause pecking order matters. Kim's tired eyes confirm that much.

  Inserting my index fingers in the corners of my mouth, I let an ear-piercing whistle shriek through the air.

  Everyone shuts up, looking at me.

  Damn uncomfortable. But I've been scrutinized by worse.

  “I'm hungry.”

  “Really?” The handsome Jonesy asks like I've just been crowned King Moron. “Because I could eat the asshole out of a rhino about now—”

  “If they weren't extinct,” Sophie comments with an eye roll so obvious, I can see it in the near-total dark.

  “Damn zoos,” Mac mutters, stubbing out his twentieth cigarette.

  These guys.

  I've never encountered a less cohesive, more easily flung-off-track group of people in my short life.

  Unbelievable.

  Now we're on animals in the wild instead of the very basic principle of sustenance.

  And they think the “bot world” is strange?

  I snort.

  “The Null's circling an excellent point,” one of the zombies says.

  I frown.

  “Right. The brass tacks are: the cop gets released because he has to use my facilities,” Mac looks to McNeil on the ground.

  “Ah... yeah—finally, the reasonable one speaks.”

  Mac's lips thin. “So we get in the house, everyone takes a refresher, and I scrounge around for grub.”

  “Mac,” one of the middle-aged women calls out.

  He turns, already on his way into the house.

  “Do you think they've spoiled the food?”

  Mac shakes his head. “Doubt it. They wanted to toss my things and hunt around like rabid squirrels, not eat my stash.”

  Rabid. Squirrels.

  She frowns her confusion and slowly follows.

  My stomach growls as we walk toward a really old-fashioned-looking house.

  Haven't seen anything like this on my world. For one thing, it's all wood. A deck of crazy length and breadth spans the entire width of the back of the house. Two sliding glass doors made with real glass are perched at either end.

  A narrow water canal runs along the north side of the house, down a steep embankment. On the end closest to that is a large wooden picnic-style table that could seat at least ten, tucked neatly to the far northern part of the deck and completely under a deep eave. Looks handmade.

  A red and white checkered oilcloth is draped over the surface with stout butter-soft-toned silver alloy of a metal I don't recognize. Metal is being phased out on my earth. Mostly polys are used. And I don't see much of that here.

  We all trudge past with the big zombie dragging the cop behind him. He was a big man in life, and he's a frightening zombie in death.

  The cop's smarter than he looks and doesn't put up a fight or try to escape.

  Just as I think the word escape, Mac pipes in, “Any of you otherworlders who think it'd be a nifty idea to jump on the lily pad and launch outta here—think again.”

  “I thought you were saving Ron and me by taking us with you?” Kim presses, using the same stairs she was just kissing Mac on a few minutes before.

  Her reasoning seems solid, but when faced with the big make-out session on the stairs, it’s somewhat convoluted.

  “Everyone and anyone's free to go. But for someone not accustomed to all the funhouse features, this world would be like navigating a minefield.”

  “Gramps,” the tall guy who blinked us here begins, “you do have an actual minefield.”

  Mac nods blithely, and I freeze.

  Bombs in the ground is what my limited knowledge of weaponry inserts in place of the more innocuous minefield.

  With a dark chuckle, Mac clarifies as though the idea of bombs bursting around us is somehow amusing, “Those ass hat government types are lucky I have that on an auto-pulse sequence.”

  Huh? “What's pulse?” I ask, almost through the sliding glass door once I decided I wouldn't piss my pants in abject fear right in the center of all that wood.

  “I thought you were hungry,” Deegan says.

  I throw a sharp glance her way, struck by how hot she looks, and narrow my eyes. “I can talk on the way to the kitchen.”

  She laughs. “Good thing.”

  Hmm.

  Her zombie gives me a slitted stare, and I take a measured step away from Deegan.

  Don't need the full attention of that particular zombie.

  “Ow!” McNeil cries.

  “Sorry.” Ginormous Undead apologizes nonchalantly, loosening his grip on the guy's bicep.

  Gingerly stepping inside the main living area, I'm instantly struck by the spartan interior. The big, cheap laminate-covered table is eerily similar to what's most commonly used in my world, and the tacky-looking squat candleholder in the center of the table is deep brothel red.

  But mostly, it’s a mess everywhere I look.

  The woman who looks a lot like Deegan starts picking up the mess and begins to stack things on top of a low table under a wide bay window.

  “Jade,” Mac says, with a flick of his palm, “don't fuss. We can get after that once I round up some food.”

  “Unless they took a mighty piss in the fridge,” Jonesy says.

  He seems a little slow.

  “No,” Jeffrey Parker says, eyes roving the chaos of papers and household items scattered everywhere, “they were moving fast, looking for something specific.”

  I take a second look.

  He's right. Everything's been thrown around quickly, and it appears as if they moved on to the next room right away.

  “They couldn't find their ass with both hands.” Mac chuckles. “Besides, those pack of queers wouldn't know what to do with honest-to-God fresh food that a person prepares themselves anyways.”

  “No food rehydrater?” I ask in semi-wonder.

  Tiff slowly turns toward me with a toxic annoyance that causes me to retreat a step. Pretty soon, I'll be flat against the glass door.

  “It's okay. I could beat you up again, but I'm not a Body here.”

  That's why her punch was so effective. “That's what you call the Supers here?”

  “'Super'?” Tiff asks.

  “Yes,” I glance at Kim, and she shrugs, clearly as stumped as I am.

  “People who possess extraordinary strength are Supers.”

  “Huh,” Tiff grunts then puts a square piece of vibrantly colored green stuff into her mouth.

  She chews but never swallows.

  I frown.

  “Super-human strength,” I attempt to explain.

  Her head kicks back. “Ah, gotcha.”

  “Now that everyone's feeling up-to-speed on everything,” Deegan's dad says, rubbing his hands together, “let's fix something.”

  Mac is already parked in front of a fridge that looks a hundred years old, hand gripping a clear celluloid handle with starbursts embedded inside.

  The big zombie and McNeil move into the bathroom and shut the door.

  Got to be awkward.

  “That's wonderful,” Deegan comments.

  “Yʼknow, that poor cop was just at the wrong place at the wrong time,” Jade says.

  He sure was.

  Mac pulls a bunch of hot dogs from the fridge and closes it. Then he opens the freezer portion and pulls out buns.

  I was a kid the last time I had an actual cooked meal. The cyborgs do all the cooking, and if they're hibernating, there's a food hydrater.

  When Mac moves out to
the slider, he goes to a large square metal thing, and lifts the lid, I collapse on the nearest chair.

  “What in the hell is that thing?” I ask.

  Deegan giggles. “It's a barbecue.”

  “Made of metal?”

  She frowns.

  “Isn't that something?” Kim marvels.

  I slowly nod then turn to her. “You had real food in your apartment.”

  “Yes, remember my exemptions.”

  Right. Blood related to the Thompsons. “Must be nice.”

  “If I could have escaped notice, I would've given up all the perks,” she says in a resigned way.

  My exhale is weary. “Sorry, I'm being an asshole.”

  She puts a hand on my shoulder, excusing my conduct with a barely-there smile. “Forgiven.”

  I look up at her from my perch on the chair at the dining room table. “I guess we don't have the luxury of holding grudges here.”

  Kim shakes her head, and a small piece of hair struggles forward. Clearly tired, she absently shoves the chocolate-colored strand behind her ear. “Not really. We could, but I don't want to allocate energy in that direction.”

  I tense as literal flames shoot out of the thing Deegan calls a barbecue.

  Mac squirts water on them and keeps turning the hot dogs with a long fork.

  “Is that even safe?” I wonder aloud.

  “It doesn't look like it,” she concedes.

  Tiff comes up next to us, and I suppress a flinch.

  “Don't be a pantywaist, pal. I'm not gonna do anything to ya unless you ask for it.”

  Her husband—John, I think his name is—says, “Tiger, don't threaten him unless there's cause.”

  “You be quiet, stud,” she instantly replies without turning to look at him.

  He says nothing, but I get the feeling this kind of interchange is pretty common.

  “What?” I ask, feeling like it's her personal job to bust my balls.

  “Don't got a lot of trust for people I don't know.” She eyes Kim from her sneakered feet to the top of her dark head. “And folks from other worlds top that particular list.”

  Kim shrugs. “I guess we're not too far apart in age. And you should understand how economical thought processes become as we get older. Fifty's closer than forty for me. I don't have kids. I have no home. I don't even know if I'm a healer here. Oh, yeah...” She scratches her head. “I guess I did revitalize a few you out on the grass when we first... arrived. And I've sort of already proved myself in my own world.”

  She glances at a silent Jeffrey Parker.

  I'm not sharp on female emotions, but when Kim lists off all the negatives, her eyes shine with what looks like tears that haven't yet decided to fall. “And”—she scans the environment with a hint of the dramatic—“not much on this earth is familiar. So I don't really care if you think we're about ready to pull a fast one.”

  “Haven't heard that one in a while,” Mac comments from outside on the deck.

  Our heads swivel to him in surprise.

  He lightly taps his ear. “Got these babies brand-new. Hear things I don't want to.”

  The tall zombie shakes his head but can't hide the ghost of a smile.

  “Anyway,” Kim continues, offering a small smile to Mac, “I can't speak for Ron, but I don't think either one of us will be trouble.”

  “Speak for me.”

  A look passes between us.

  “We want to survive,” I say, meaning it from the bottom of my boots.

  Kim's resigned nod mirrors how I feel.

  “So beat us or whatever. I don't want to fight. I just want to manage.”

  Tiff frowns. “I was gonna ask how many hot dogs you wanted.” Her laugh is abrupt. “Might want to keep those cogs running simpler, guys.”

  She shakes her head, walking off.

  John raises his eyebrows, and I hold up three fingers.

  Kim holds up two.

  Everybody's got to eat, no matter what world we're on.

  While everyone else is outside, talking and laughing, the cop and zombie exit the bathroom, and the cop jerks his elbow away from the big undead guy. “You want to hold my dick next time?”

  The zombie grins. “It's not on my to-do list, but if I have to, I will.” His eyes creep restlessly around the group until they land on his mistress.

  Deegan smiles, and he leaves the cop like yesterday's recycling.

  The cop's eyes meet mine. “Are you from here?”

  Kim and I laugh. “Kinda,” she says.

  His shoulders slump. “Where am I?” he says in an angry, whisper-shout.

  “Not where—when,” I reply.

  Hate to drop a bomb, but there's something really cool about not being the most miserable person in a situation.

  His hands go to his hips, and McNeil scowls at the twisted lump of metal that used to be his gun. The leather holster has all melted and threaded through it.

  “Shit!” he hisses, unbuckling his belt and carefully laying it on the same table holding some of the mess Jade collected earlier.

  McNeil clearly wanted to throw it through the window.

  “We're on earth?” he asks, finally facing us.

  “Yes,” Kim says, meeting his eyes. That answer's the easiest one.

  “2049,” I add.

  He parks his ass in the seat next to mine. “Are you freaking kidding me? I thought maybe all that talk”—he jerks his thumb in the direction of the yard—“was just bullshit.”

  I shake my head.

  “I had a life there,” he says, already mourning the loss of it.

  I nod. “I did too, and it was mine.” I think about it for a second then give a sad chuckle. “Mine sucked.”

  Kim says with soft finality, “But it was ours.”

  We're all thinking the same thing when we look out at the strangers who changed everything forever.

  Is this the frying pan—or the fire?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Tara

  Okay, color me stupid, but why doesn't Mitchell stink?

  If he's this dead guy—and he must be the zombie he claims to be because my real brother died in front of me—then he should rot. Right?

  Grief sweeps in like a sickening wave, drowning me, and I bite the inside of my cheek until copper fills my mouth. I swallow my blood instead of the sadness trying to suffocate me.

  Don't think about it, Tara. Don't.

  “Ya gonna eat that dog?” the African-American guy breaks through my thoughts like a hammer to glass.

  I shake my head.

  “Cheer up,” he says, sweeping my second hot dog off a blue speckled metal plate. He shoves half of it in his mouth in one go, then adds “Now that ya've had some chow, everything will look better.” Bun and raw hot dog make an appearance between his teeth, and my stomach churns with my hastily consumed dinner.

  God, when will this end?

  He pushes the rest of the hot dog into his mouth with the flat of his thumb, and I swallow—hard.

  “Jonesy, you pig,” the woman who has wild, curly hair says, planting an elbow in his rib.

  He licks off his fingers, oblivious to the jab.

  “That's right, sister—oink-oink.” The dab of mayo at the corner of his mouth looks very white against his dark skin.

  “Pfft,” she says, huffing a loose spiral out of her face as she squirts mustard in a neat line on her bun, then she carefully plucks a hot dog from the stack on a cheerful yellow platter. Centering it between the folds of bread, she places in neatly inside.

  Looking at all the careful food arrangement sends nauseating heat from the soles of my feet, swirling to my head.

  I stand suddenly, and the black guy pauses his chewing as comical surprise washes over his features.

  “I think I'm going to be sick,” I say. I can't do this. Eat when my two brothers were killed not even a day ago. Be in this weird place with these people I don't know. Have a zombie for a brother.

  My eyesight narrows, and the b
lood rushing through my eardrums roars to the beat of my heart.

  “Hey,” the big cute guy—the one who might be a royal jerkoff—says from far away.

  Whipping my palms out in front of me, I struggle out from between the wide tabletop and the bench seating where my knees are still caught, and lurch toward where the bathroom is.

  The guy moves in front of me.

  Pax. I finally remember his name.

  Heat claims my head, smothering me. I fist my hands, nails biting into my palms. “Move—I'm going to throw up.”

  He shakes his head, curving his big hands around my shoulders.

  “No—no you're not.”

  Instantly, a feeling of tranquility settles over my roiling stomach, neutralizing the acids.

  A weightlessness envelopes me, and I can feel myself beginning to slide.

  “Whoa, it's okay. You'll be okay.”

  Strong arms wrap me, and I lean against Pax.

  In my head, I know I don't want to be here, relying on this stranger who has a second eyelid and can travel to other earths, punch a fist through three feet of concrete, and looks like a body builder.

  But I can't move. I'm numb. However, I'm not going to throw up. And my dead brothers aren't clogging every brain cell at the moment.

  I feel kind of high.

  My eyes flutter open, and my zombie brother fills my vision like a mountain of rage.

  “Get your fucking hands off my sister.”

  Heartbeats stack as I try to swim back to caring. “No, Mitchell, stay out of this.” I don't know if he hears me, because it's a whisper-request squeezed from between my cold lips.

  “Chill, numb nuts. She was getting some aftershocks from all the stuff that went down. I settled her stomach.”

  “Uh-huh. Looks like you put the whammy on her.” Mitchell hitches his jaw my direction. “Why is she lying all over you then?” His hands go to his hips; a tick appears in his strong jaw.

  My embarrassment flares, and I struggle to move—but can't. Crap.

  “I dosed her,” he says like my brother's an idiot. Bad move. I feel his shoulder lift against my cheek. “Sometimes it's more than just calming a rioting stomach.”

  “Let her go, Hart.” The sentence is delivered with a commanding growl.

  Kim comes between them. “I'm a Healer. That's sometimes what happens when I heal certain people.” She puts her hand on his chest, and he looks at it.