But if I didn't die all those years ago, I should be a couple years older than she is now. Things aren't penciling out.
Tara puts a hand over her nose. “You smell.”
I nod. I imagine any AftD, as Deegan says they're called, could put me back together. But I don't want that.
I want her.
Tara backs away. And a second bout of grief strikes me. My actual sister, from my home world is God knows where—and I can't help her, either.
This isn’t my sister. Not really. It's the other Mitch's sister.
Tate calmly walks over to me as the Sanction officers are huddled around a mewling doofus clutching his shinbones.
“Dumb move, Mitch.”
“Yeah. But he pisses me off. Bringing my sister into this mess. Screwing around with Deegan.”
Tate nods. Sighing, he puts his hands on his hips, dipping his head low. “I know you heard her screaming for you.”
Yes—God, yes.
My mouth waters with wanting to find Deegan. To protect her.
“The only way I can keep you from the flame is if you offer me information important enough to keep you alive.”
“But he's dead.”
Neither one of us look at Tara.
“Like what?” Feeling like a clown, I set the legs of the chair back on the floor and sit awkwardly.
“We need to find her.”
“Yeah.”
Our gazes lock.
I ask, “What happened? Where is Deegan?”
“It appears that there is another Atomic. One who wields a great deal more finesse than Deegan.”
Fucking nifty. “She's young. She was trained not to use her talent,” I say before realizing I'm defending her.
Tate puts up a palm. “No need to defend. She and Pax are priceless talents. We want them on our team. But this Atomic.” He knots his hands and looks to Tara, shaking his head sadly. “I'm sorry about your sister, Mitchell.”
“What?” The older Tara backs away as the Sanction goons advance.
Skinny hobbles over to her, pointing a rectangular device at her. “We thought your presence might loosen his tongue. Make him more forthcoming. But you're just dead weight, Tara Rasmussen. And now, you know a great deal more than you should.”
“What are you doing?” I ask, looking between Tate, and that Skinny fuck.
“Hold her.”
Sanction flows around her, holding her arms at her sides.
I stand, forgetting I'm tied up, and fall, my hands catching me at the last moment as my knees give a painful clap on the hard floor. I hop to a standing position, but it's too late.
Skinny has extracted this credit card-sized thing at the side of Tara's neck, right below her ear.
She screams, and I tense, ready to give a humpbacked lumbering charge just as he lightly presses the slim rectangle to the area right behind her earlobe.
But the sound of her screaming is cut off abruptly as Tara crumples at their feet.
“No!” I roar, loping toward them.
I can't keep my balance and fall on my face, rolling on my side against the cold quartz surface with a groan.
My eyes meet my sister's.
But the dead do not see.
*
“I got nothing to say to you,” I tell Tate before he can even open his mouth.
He never takes his eyes off me. “Are you the male who impregnated Deegan Hart?”
“Fuuuck you,” I reply, staring at the bland, acoustic-tiled ceiling.
Tate ignores me. “She has been moved to another world. And we think we know where.”
I say nothing, but the cogs of my mind are gnashing together.
I'm now strapped down to a table. It was carefully explained to me that the straps are made out of the same material they use to make seatbelts in the year 2049, with tensile strength a hundred times that of the seat belts from my era.
Probably tied down because I killed four Sanction. Couldn't get to that skinny bastard though:
Hugh Easter.
That's the fucker who murdered my sister in front of me. In cold blood. Because he didn't like my responses. And she was just that unimportant.
I concentrate on my breathing. Each breath rattles its way in. And on the way out. My lungs are rotting like the rest of me.
Three hours out.
“We don't have much time,” Tate says.
Gee—ya think?
“You are the last link to Deegan and Paxton Hart. The entire family is gone, along with some known extended close family friends of theirs.”
“I can't do anything, numb nuts!” I shout. “I'm fucking rotting, and I'm tied down with the super straps.”
I strain against the tethers, and they give—a little. Tate's eyes widen.
Oh, for the little things.
One great thing about being a zombie is the strength. I could chuck cars. I was a strong man when I was alive, and I'm nearly invincible now.
But I'm rotting.
Tate leans down, really close to my ear. So close that I can feel the warmth of his breath. “Then how is it that your sister is here?”
“My sister's dead.”
“The sister from your home world.”
I turn and look at him. My neck makes a sick sound like soft things coming undone—weakening rubber bands.
“What are you saying?”
“It's been hypothesized that if an AftD is talented enough, and the bond is strong enough with the zombie, said zombie can take on some of the talents of the human.”
The blinking thing. We all know that Deegan can zap—but what did she say? Oh yeah, that she must be able to blink because I could.
I can.
I can!
“Fuck me!” I shout, arms bulging against the straps again.
They give a little more. Can't say that doesn't please me.
“Problems, Agent Tate?”
Tate holds up his hand. “No,” he answers instantly, eyes intent on my face.
“Let me out of this thing!”
“To do what, Mr. Rasmussen?” His hands cage my hips, and we stare at each other. “Where are you going?”
“I'm going to my world. My world of the future.”
Bot world.
“How do you know Deegan Hart is there?”
“Because I do.”
She's gotta be.
Tate presses his fingers to a spot just below his ear, and the straps slither backward, disappearing into small slits of metal alloy at either side of my body.
The ones at my ankles release a moment later with a hiss like released snakes.
Standing, I tower over Tate, though he's easily six feet tall. His eyes tighten, but he stands his ground.
“What's the catch?”
“I go with.”
I feel a crooked smile twist my lips. “Maybe you can't handle bot world, bud.”
Tate gives a sage nod. “And maybe I just might.”
I stare at him for a solid minute. Nondescript kind of guy.
But here's the thing: a guy that blends is a dangerous man.
I should know. I always wanted to blend and couldn't, so I had to be twice as dangerous.
*
“We're going to have to ditch this guy on the other side, Tate,” a guy to Tate's left says.
Tate looks at me.
I spare him a glance with a pure slice of go fuck yourself. “I'm the guy who's getting you to the other side, ass clown.”
Three agents stand next to us as I brief them.
They're dressed in what I can remember the clothing was like in bot world.
My world. The future of my world.
Still, they're as stiff as fuck and couldn't blend if they were tortured. I grunt. “You guys all look like planks. What's with the pieces tucked everywhere?” I shrug. Or whatever those strange weapons are. They're kind of like guns, but ceramic and small.
I look around, seeing the audience of Sanction and understand that if I don't manage this, th
ey'll manage me. Then there's no getting to Deegan. Ever.
It makes my heart beat faster just thinking about her there in that fucked-up world. Pregnant with our baby.
Hugh Easter smiles at me. Just a twist of lips, really. I decide I could do him. Do him dead.
So much easier to kill again when I’ve already had that cherry popped.
Just get me there already.
“So this blinking?” Tate prompts.
“Deegan can't do it—Pax can. But she's got it in her arsenal somewhere, or I couldn't. Or so I've been told.” I lift a shoulder. It's all pretty surreal to me still. I remember my life before I died like it was yesterday.
My eyes scan my environment. I want to blow this place. Time to go.
“Yes!” Tate slaps his fisted hand in the other. “We knew it.”
Ah-huh. “These cyborg things. They're hardcore, fellas.” I check out the three assembled Random for Humanity agents. Unprepared for what awaits them.
“Hardcore?” Tate asks, clearly puzzled.
My exhale is pure impatience. “The real deal. Death to humans. No shits given.”
One of the agents laughs. “Always liked that one.”
“Shut up, Neal.” Tate says without turning.
Neal shoots a disgruntled glare at Tate's back.
Tate narrows his eyes at me. “Just get us there, and we'll do the rest. We're trained for this kind of thing.”
Right. “I guess talents are a real wild card there, Tate. And I told ya that these bots spot a paranormal.” Understatement times about a million.
“We're aware that our talents might rearrange.”
I snort. Definitely. “Deegan's dad lost his AftD, started setting people's feet on fire.” I raise my eyebrows. Could've been their pricks. That might still happen to some unlucky bastard.
Uneasy glances are exchanged.
“We'll handle it,” Tate promises.
I don't ask them if they're ready. They're big boys.
They can “handle” it.
A ball of late-day sun sinks like a molten orb of blood. Not that darkness is necessary. Zombies don't feel physical pain.
I blink.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Sophie
This is bullshit.
Back in bot.
How does this crap even keep happening?
Looking around, I see we've been blinked into the middle of nowhere. But off in the distance, I recognize the familiar lights of the city of Kent. This Kent. In Bot.
“Baby girl, you stay next to the Jonester.”
Oh my God.
“Jonesy,” I hiss, ignoring how hot he looks. “If you wanna live to see your baby grow up, you'll stay by me.”
“Whew, testy, baby—so testy.”
I whack him with my handbag. (Yes, I still have that. Never know when a girl needs extras.)
“Damn, baby!” He hops back a step, rotating his neck and giving me a considering look.
Consider away. God. Glancing around, I scope the rest of the gang.
Unfortunately, we have an add-on, and he's an old creeper of the first order.
Irvine, he's already introduced his repugnant old ass. I suppress a shiver.
Now, with a name like that, how is it even possible that he could be one of the good guys?
Of course, it's not possible. He’s landed us all back to this miserable earth with the dry grass, decaying leaves, and nippy early-autumn weather. Though all us chicks regained our fertility here, we never wanted to come back.
He's introduced himself like an old friend.
Kim and Ron look positively terrified, which is the first clue we're all screwed.
I bet if Brad Thompson got a hold of those two AWOL candidates, they would be toast.
“So!” Irvine clasps his hands behind his back, pacing back and forth in front of the group. “Now that we're all here and you know who I am—my part's done.”
“I am not staying here!” Deegan says.
This just gets better and better.
Her eyes narrow on him as she backs away. “How come you can blink during the day?”
Irvine jerks his narrow shoulders up like a hiccup. “Don't rightly know. Always been able to.”
I pluck a leaf out with the tips of my long nails. Shit's all in my hair.
Ugh.
I want a normal life. I want my house, Jonesy, and a non-alcoholic cocktail with an umbrella in it.
And a long-ass time in a hot sudsy bath with a book and a second cocktail. I frown. Non-alcoholic.
But I can see that's a crack pipe dream.
I'm all sorts of done. “Listen, you stupe—”
Irvine looks at me with vague surprise.
“I don't have time for the fat case of the dumbs you seem to got goinʼ on.”
Irvine blinks.
I cross my arms and jut out a hip. I got attitude, and he's about to get a piece of it. “We were back home before you pulled a slick willy and grabbed us all from our rightful world. I hate this place with all the weird robots.” I look around at all the dirt, grass, and leaves falling off swaying trees. “And nature.”
“And food rations,” Jonesy adds supportively.
Yeah, that.
I nod, couldn't agree more. As a matter of fact, a big juicy cheeseburger would go down pretty good about now. And a bunch of McDonald's salty fries. Yum.
His murky eyes slim down on me. “Listen, doll, I got a deal with Mr. Thompson, and that's that. Sorry about all you collaterals.” He gives a limp-wristed, dismissive wave and shrugs again.
“Collaterals? You twerp,” Tiff hollers, coming to life like a slow-moving hurricane.
“Babe,” John begins, and Tiff makes a cutting gesture with her hand. “Nope. Don't you Tiff me, stud.”
She turns to Irvine, baring her teeth. “I have a mind to call every dead thing for five square miles.”
“Me too,” Deegan says, crossing her arms.
Caleb opens his mouth. Then closes it. Poor man. Can't do his death juju here.
“I can set everyone's feet on fire,” he offers bravely.
Jade pats his arm. “It's okay, honey.”
“Call all the dead you like,” Irvine says like he's been interrupted checking his belly lint. “None of you are worth two shakes in this world.”
“Ah-huh,” Tiff says, stuffing gum in her craw from the never-ending supply she always seems to have.
Tiff's too calm. That's when I know she's done something.
“Tiff,” Caleb says, swinging his head in her direction.
But I can't move.
Crawling from every direction... are the dead babies from this world.
Tears are rolling down Tiff's determined face.
She tries to speak three times. Finally, she manages through the wad of gum in her mouth, “They came first.” She swipes at her face. “They wanted to. I freed them.”
Tiff turns to Irvine, clear challenge in her gaze.
“That won't do, dearie.”
I feel the suffocating power of a blink closing in around me. Jonesy jerks me against him, and I cling to his hard, large body.
That old weirdo is going to blink us somewhere even more terrible than this world. Where baby zombies are an acre deep and Brad Thompson can show up again like a bad penny.
Suddenly, with a horrible crackling sound, two people appear. Phosphorescence covers the air where they stand like an oil-slicked rainbow.
I know them.
I swallow hard. But fear doesn't ever go down easy.
Reflectives.
*
Gramps
I thought our gooses were cooked.
Now I know they are.
I move like I've got ants in my pants and get to Kim before she can protest.
“Who are they?” she asks, hanging on by a thread.
“Reflectives.”
Ron's eyes widen. “Reflect what?”
I give him a withering look. Nice fella for a Null, but a l
ittle thick in the skull.
“What are they?”
I chew that over for a handful of seconds. “Kinda like blinkers, but natural born.”
The small—and dangerous—woman stalks over to Irvine.
Well, goody, she can start with him straightaway.
“Don't bother, little girl. I'll Move you to an earth so far away, you won't remember your own name.”
I could've told him he wouldn't be Moving her anywhere.
Reflective Jasper smiles, never breaking stride, and tosses a shining disc from her wrist.
Then she's gone.
The disc lands at Irvine's feet. The old goat actually picks it up, critically looking it over.
Jasper appears and attacks in the same instant.
“What!”
She grabs him by the throat. “Morpher, Merrick!”
Reflective Merrick sprints to his partner's position, and Irvine becomes something else inside her iron grasp.
A python.
Its tongue splits and licks her, the tail sweeping around and quickly wrapping her small form.
“Merrick!” Jasper yells.
I remember something and slide my belt off my hips. My jeans threaten to fall off.
Dammit.
Anyways. I charge into the fray, past all my slack-jawed relatives and their friends.
Jasper's wide eyes meet mine.
Merrick begins hacking at the snake with a Rambo-style ceramic blade (always loved that show).
I hold my belt buckle up like the toy light saber I had when I was a kid.
The flat buckle is something I've had since Afghanistan back at the end of the twentieth. I shine the thing every day, and it's kept its luster really well for the last sixty-odd years.
Jasper's rich, velvety gaze goes serene, catching on to whatever she sees in the shining three square inches of the buckle’s gleaming surface.
The next moment, she's standing in front of me and the belt is on the ground.
Along with my drawers.
“Dammit,” I mutter, embarrassed that Kim just got an unflattering look at my backside. Yanking up my jeans, I hold on to the waistband while the snake moves in on Merrick.
“Thank you,” she says in a voice like polished stone.
“Welcome.” I'd tip my hat if I wore one. But she's already spun back around and raced back to Merrick's position.
Leaping, she extracts a knife from a side pocket of military-style navy pants and lands on the snake. With careful, unflustered precision, she saws at the snake's head.
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