Death Incarnate

by Tamara Rose Blodgett

  Drool slips down the side of Dad's face, and he casually flicks it away.

  “Gross,” Tara whispers.

  I nod. Without realizing it, we moved closer together, hip to hip.

  Steering clear of the drool fest, Jonesy walks up to where Dad is standing and addresses the Skinny Guy. “Listen, bud...”

  The Skinny Guy raises his eyebrows, and Jonesy forges on, oblivious as usual.

  “We got people here at the Sanction, and to set the record straight, you don't have to get your boxers in a mondo twist and that. Just”—he looks at the Sanction in various stages of brushing off their butts and holding guns on my family and friends—“cease and desist with the weaponry and get your chill on.”

  “Is this how—” Tara begins.

  “Don't ask,” I reply.

  “It has come to our attention that illegal zombies were in your possession, Caleb Hart. And your parents have been unable”—a vague smile outlines his thin lips—“or unwilling to corroborate this.”

  Dad's grip on the mammoth tightens. The creature snorts at Skinny Guy in response, its dead eyes pegging him to the little bit of recycled quartz sidewalk unmolested by the expulsion of dead creatures.

  “You better not have hurt my parents.”

  Antiquated insects hover over the Sanction officers, but the biggest concentration is over Skinny Guy's head.

  The right side of his slash of lips lifts. “We're not savages.”

  Pax stands. “Yeah. Obviously, you beat people first then ask questions.”

  “We can't have a Random who is a Body, AftD five-point entering Sanction property who also has a billion-credit warrant on his head.”

  The group goes stone silent.

  Billion credit bounty?

  Pax jerks his head back with a laugh. “I'm not worth that much.”

  A man moves through the officers lined up behind the Skinny Guy like a ship's prow breaking the sea.

  He comes to stand next to the head Sanction guy.

  Classy guy, not Sanction.

  “I am Drextel Tate.” He turns to the Sanction. “I'll take it from here.”

  Skinny Guy points the burning tip of his cigarette at Tate, narrowly missing lighting his clothes on fire. “Fine.” He takes a long, drawn-out drag before tossing the exhaled smoke in Tate's face. “But if they disembowel our headquarters, it's on you.”

  Tate nods, unperturbed.

  Then he turns back to our group as the others return to the front entrance in more or less one piece.

  Minus clubs. (And if I'm honest, the tips of some fingers.)

  Dad keeps a reassuring hand on the prehistoric animal. Since I was home-tutored, I know exactly what it is. The Columbian Mammoth is even bigger than the woolly.

  I swear I can read its expression. Probably because I'm AftD, it's simply a matter of “tuning in.”

  The mammoth is keeping its beautiful doe eyes, which are about the same size as my head, on Drextel Tate.

  Zombies are suspicious by nature.

  “By now, I'm sure you're wondering what role I play.”

  “Sure”—Gramps rolls his eyes—“and that speculation won't help us right now. I want to see my Peanut and make sure the other kids are okay. Especially Weller. He seems to have the worst luck of anyone on the planet.”

  Tiff snorts somewhere in the background. There she is. I probably missed her because she's behind the mammoth's leg.

  Tate frowns, cupping his square chin. Finally, he straightens the already-neat lapels of his suit and nods, tucking his hands behind his back and folding them.

  “I will make you a deal.” He looks at the mammoth for a heartbeat then ducks his chin, obviously suppressing a smile.

  “No deals,” Pax says instantly. “We want to see our people.”

  “And you shall,” Tate says.

  “What assurance can you give us?” Sophie asks, and I feel my jaw come unhinged.

  “What?” she says to our surprised faces, cocking a hip. “I'm not a dumbass.”

  Jonesy wraps an arm around her neck and whispers something in her ear that makes her coffee-and-cream complexion bloom pink.

  Tate begins, “My organization—”

  “And heeerre we go,” Pax mutters.

  Tate ignores Pax. “Is intensely interested in Deegan's ability.”

  The zap.

  My fingers start to tingle.

  Atomic.

  “Yeah, we've gotten the dozen T-shirts on that,” Dad says.

  “Wait,” Mom says. “I want to hear what Mr. Tate has to say.”

  “Mom?” I frown her way, feeling slightly betrayed.

  Tate smiles again. He would be handsome if I wasn't coming down off adrenaline and feeling vaguely sick to my stomach.

  He spreads his arms inoffensively. “I believe if Mr. Hart would like to, ah...” He indicates the mammoth. “Retire to a more private meeting spot, after putting...”

  “The mammoth,” Pax says, a crooked grin taking over his face.

  I catalog the bruises covering his body and fight tears again.

  I look at Mom, and her face is set in angry lines.

  “I know you didn't hurt my boy, but you understand Sanction means nothing but harm, especially to Randoms.”

  “There is an innate prejudice, yes.”

  “Then how come you're not all frothinʼ at the chops to take us out?” Jonesy folds his arms, scrutinizing Tate.

  “Because,” Tate says, “I am Random.”

  “Code red!” Jonesy hollers, and I about jump out of my skin.

  “What?” Dad says, frantically looking around. The mammoth gives a snuffling huff from its hose-like nose.

  “I don't know, man,” Jonesy says, adjusting his crotch. Yuck. “Seems like with that handy little proclamation, bad shit would start happening.”

  “No.” He gives Jonesy a considering look, one I've seen a lot when it comes to Jonesy. “We are an organization of Randoms, helping other Randoms. We believe our talents can be used to advance humanity.”

  “Oh my God, I disappeared their hands, and other stuff.” Guilt overwhelms as I connect the dots of the last guys that tried to get after us.

  “Yes.” He turns to me. “That was unfortunate, though my thoughts on the subject were vetoed.” His sardonic smile returns. “I don't think my ideas will be so easily dismissed in the future.”

  “Nice,” Tiff says, still behind a furry leg that's as big as an old-growth tree stump.

  “Well hell, I want to see the fam,” Gramps says, rubbing his hands together. “Let's talk to Slick here and get some answers. If he wanted to take us out, he probably could have.”

  Tate inclines his head. “I could make you quack like a duck, old man.”

  Gramps flips him the bird, and I gasp, shocked. “Not as old as you think, Slick.”

  He scowls.

  “Manipulator?” Tiff guesses, blowing a bubble that I can see from behind the mammoth.

  The giant neon green globe snaps, and the dead animal shifts nervously away from her.

  Tate just smiles. After a few seconds, he says, “Mr. Hart.” His eyes shift to the dead beast.

  “Okay.”

  Dad gazes up at the mammoth, stroking its pale-brown fur.

  I stare at an animal that hasn't been seen by human eyes in thousands of years.

  Certainly, there were no humans that ever saw a zombie mammoth.

  Until us.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Ron

  If I had the balls, I would address that these people should never, ever, under any circumstances, say that my home world is dangerous or strange.

  So far, these guys have nothing but weird as a middle name.

  Prehistoric bugs and mammoths? Really?

  And they have Sanction, which regulates far more than illegal zombie ownership and use. Looks like Sanction's got its finger in all kinds of pies.

  All. Kinds.

  Kim and I exchange a full look (pretty sure she's getti
ng the same vibe as me), and follow the group through a back entrance of the innocuous building that houses Sanction.

  Zombies stand guard.

  How can I tell? Because they're all rotting around the edges. I'll give this to the Hart clan—they make good zombies. Fresh.

  I snort, and Kim arches a brow.

  “Nothing,” I mutter, waving away my inside joke.

  A zombie opens a regular, solid door without being told, and Deegan steps through, with Caleb at her elbow.

  A second, motion-sensored solid glass door slides inside the wall, as we walk into a climate-controlled building that looks remarkably similar to the building where we house the Randoms of our world. Of course, there, we just call them what they are—paranormals. Here, I guess they're called Randoms because there are so few left.

  Tate walks ahead of us, and I follow with a suspicion that borders on dread. My take has always been that entities with power don't make for integrity and good intentions.

  They're just greedy for more power.

  He stops at a door marked 3 and opens it, indicating with a sweeping palm that we should follow.

  We file in behind him.

  Interestingly, Deegan’s dad and the older guy who's crushing on Kim go to either side of the inside of the door and stand against the wall.

  Keeping watch. Makes me think better of them, because Hart could just rely on his awesome death skills. Instead, he's cautious. Impressive.

  Tate rounds a banquet table that could seat maybe twenty, and an orderly rectangle of papers sets at its center.

  Pax says, “What? No pulse or disc tech?”

  Tate shakes his head. “Too risky. Don't want telepathic hack. Too many Randoms to worry about getting their sticky fingers on our work.” He taps the top of the stack of papers.

  “Never thought I'd hear that,” Deegan says. “ʻToo many Randoms.ʼ”

  Tate chuckles. “There aren't many of us, true. But worldwide, there's probably a half dozen five-points roaming around with the skill set capable enough.”

  “Like buffalo?” Kim says.

  Mac snorts.

  I guess the reference just doesn't do anything for me. I move to a corner of the spartan room, balancing myself with a bent knee, positioning myself in the corner, and rest my boot against the wall. Like to see what can get in and out the only egress.

  I tip my cowboy hat low over my eyes, narrowing my attention on Tate. This is my new world, like it or not, and I want to know what direction the wind is blowing in this foul fucking place.

  “Randoms for Humanity is the name of our organization. RfH, for short.”

  Silence.

  I hold back a chuckle. Tough crowd.

  The elder Hart shrugs. “Okay.”

  “We are cleaning up the earth, giving purpose for the few of us that are left.”

  “And so”—Tiff begins walking slowly to Tate—“you're a Manipulator. I would love to know how you got past HC with that.”

  “Kept my talent quiet until that entity had been wiped.”

  “How?” Tiff laughs. “I'd be manipulating the world.”

  “It's lucrative now.”

  “What do you do with your talent?” Jade Hart asks.

  He meets her eyes. “I help people.”

  “How?” Deegan frowns.

  “I assist people in losing weight, beating illness, finding confidence...” He raises his palms and gives an aw-shucks shrug.

  “You're like a hypnotist or somethinʼ?” Jonesy asks, eyes hooded.

  “I get results.” His dark eyes move throughout the room, touching on each person. “I'm not sure one of those can be taken seriously.”

  “Okay,” Mac says suddenly, “so you're putting your paranormal mumbo jumbo to good use. Snazzy. How does this help Deedie, or the rest of the family, for that matter?”

  Tate nods. “There are horrible environmental disasters what occurred before the Clean World act of 2021.” He arches his brows.

  I don't know about this date. Must be a This World enactment.

  Everyone else nods. They're aware. Okay.

  “That damage has been done. We don't have the technology yet to undo it.”

  His deep-brown stare travels to Deegan. “But your ability to manipulate space could make things that are ruining the earth stop, or reverse it. We're not sure at this juncture. What we are sure of is that an ability as powerful as yours is wasted if it's not used for a purpose that progresses mankind.”

  Everyone looks at Deegan.

  She studies her shoes.

  I feel kinda sorry for her.

  Tate seems to sense her discomfort and smoothly moves to her dad. “And Caleb Hart is already being used. He moves the dead to places that are not as critical for human habitat so that those misused spaces can receive new use.”

  “For houses,” Deegan says.

  Tate nods. “They're not making new ground from what I understand.” His lips twist. “As far as I know, we're at nearly eight billion souls on this blue marble. Of course, that figure is greatly altered. It should have been, by scientific calculations, more like ten. But because of the Zondorae duo, we see a deficit as a result of their tampering.”

  “Zero populationists love it,” Sophie says morosely.

  “Yes, but even they see that the earth will perish without some significant replenishment of people.” Tate sits at one of the molded seats, hiking up his trousers and freeing his knees. He plucks the first sheet of paper from the top of the stack and slides it across the table at Deegan with a flourish.

  She walks forward and snatches it up. After a few seconds of perusal, she lifts her eyes, staring at Tate. “Is this accurate?”

  He nods.

  “There're more Randoms who are Atomic?”

  Tate's brow furrows slightly, then goes smooth. “Is that what you call your talent?”

  She squirms. “Ah, no, I heard it from someone and thought it was a better name than ʻzap.ʼ”

  He chuckles, tapping his fingertips once. “Yes, Atomic works.”

  A silence passes between them, and I can tell that he would like to ask her who assigned the name to her paranormal skill.

  He doesn't, though. Because Tate is shrewd. Deegan Hart is like a skittish colt, and he's trying to play this so it'll work his way.

  “So you're saying Deedie can be what? A hazmat chick?”

  Tate stares at Mac. “An interesting, yet old-fashioned ideology. You've had regeneration?”

  Mac nods, pats his pocket in what's clearly a habitual gesture, and says, “Yup. Took to it like a duck to water. Two lung transplants, ear transplants, and the regeneration protocol's got me clocking in around a bio at the nifty-fifty mark.”

  “Have you had a manifestation of talent, Mac?” Tate speaks very softly, and everyone, including me, lean forward to catch his words.

  Mac's eyes narrow on the younger Tate. “I don't know that I've given you permission to address me by my first name.”

  Cue the staring match.

  I change feet, plugging my right boot against the wall and hiking down my hat another centimeter. My exhale is irritated. I remember Mac doing some interesting time-continuum manipulations in my world. But I say nothing.

  “Okay, this isn't getting us out of here and seeing Mom,” Caleb says.

  “True. Okay, you have a pass, youngster, but don't get any ideas about swapping spit or taking long showers.” Mac grins suddenly as his fingers find something in the recesses of his shirt pocket. Plucking a lone cigarette out, he fishes a lighter from his jean's pocket then lights up.

  “Thank the heavens.” A perfect spout of noxious vapor shoots toward the ceiling, where it floats like a dark cloud against acoustic tiles mounted like pimpled squares of dull white.

  “I guess there's no point in telling you we have a no-smoking policy.” Tate knots his hands on the table, leaning forward. “The world has a no-smoking policy.”

  “Zero point,” Pax says, hiding a laugh.


  Tate relaxes against the chair, hands resting in loose fists on the surface of the table. The top gleams, specks of quartz giving it a gemlike appearance.

  “Right.” He raps his knuckles against the table. “All these reams of paper are mindless statistics that we've painstakingly collected. The bottom line is: We know there are Randoms. We want to find them, protect them from the prevailing prejudices that are so pervasive in our culture. We want to show the world that we are more useful than detrimental to humanity.” He cocks his head, lasering his gaze at Deegan. “Did you know that numbered IQs are also more common among Randoms?”

  “No,” Deegan answers in a quiet voice. “I didn't know that.”

  “Why would you, Deegan?” He casts a mild, accusatory glance at her parents.

  “We did the best we could. The children are...” Jade raises her narrow shoulders, and Caleb wraps an arm around her.

  “No guilting the parents,” Pax says. “They figured we'd be normal.”

  Tate laughs. “Not a chance. Moderate Empath breeds with AftD prodigy? No.” Tate shakes his head. “Wishful thinking. In any event, I have a job proposal.”

  Talking breaks out like scattered verbal rain, and Tate holds up a hand. “Just think about it. These were our terms. See your family, think about what we offer you, and then decide. Paxton”—Tate looks at him—“we could use you in terms of exploration. You could be the ʻastronautʼ of parallel earths. Not to harm, but to gain the wealth of knowledge that another earth might have. Healing disease, using resources to better advantage.” His eyes grow serious. “Maybe recruiting females whose reproductive health is not compromised.”

  “I'm not some messiah. I'm a guy. Just a guy. I'm not my grandpa who mapped genes.”

  “I know you're a guy. I'm a guy too. That's where we all began. But you've been given extraordinary abilities. You can't use them right now as they were meant to be used because there's no outlet. There's legal wrangling. But we've got those issues sorted. Randoms for Humanity is growing steadily. There's a place now for Randoms who contribute their skills for the betterment of the whole. We even have placement programs that protect the identity of the Random. Such as myself.”

  “You're not Drextel Tate?” the tall skinny, red-headed guy asks, an amused expression fixed to his face.