Death Incarnate

by Tamara Rose Blodgett

  Dad inclines his head. “Typically.” He shoves his hands in his pockets.

  I chew my lower lip. “Gotta get them back in the ground.”

  “Yup,” Dad says. “Every day we have an other-world zombie family in our house is another day Sanction could find out.”

  Tomorrow, I decide.

  “Chow's ready!” Mom calls out.

  I walk over there, noting Gramps and Kim cozy together at our picnic table at the tiny house I was raised in.

  Ron is sort of the lone ranger, chin in palm, looking bummed.

  But Tate's got plans for him—if Hugh Easter doesn't dig too deep.

  There is no record of Kim, Ron, or O'Neil, who's adjusting badly to this new, high-tech life.

  So Drex plans to manufacture new identities for them.

  But they can't be disc-ed. Too risky.

  Kim's old enough to just have a pulse disc, the predecessor to the advanced one my generation has.

  Ron is different. He'll have to be buried within the ranks of RfH. Who doesn't need a five-point Null?

  And it appears as though Kim is an Organic here too. Her skills haven't been tested yet but we're thinking every bit a four-point, at least. Just based on what she did at Grampsʼs.

  We can't send the cop back, unless Tate is clever enough to bury him there like he's squirreled away Dee and Mitch. But he's made it clear that law enforcement in that time doesn't possess the technology. He could go back unnoticed, with some finagling.

  But sometimes people don't do well after being transitioned.

  I didn't ask Drex how he would know that.

  Scooting in beside Tara, I snake my arm around her, eating one-handed while I hold her against me.

  Feeling kind of awesome, even though bot world is hanging over my head like a dark cloud of doom.

  It'll be okay, I reason.

  At least, that's what I tell myself.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Reflectives Jasper and Merrick

  Eighteen months later

  “In good faith, I cannot take parents from their children,” Merrick says.

  “We could if they were working directly against The Cause,” Jasper murmurs. Her tight black braids reach nearly to her waist.

  He looks at Jasper and muses how little she looks the part of the warrior he knows her to be.

  “I know you could—and myself, as well.” Merrick lifts his chin while gazing at the young woman holding the infant. “The youngling is doing well in this non-primary earth,” Merrick comments.

  They watch the pair from afar, noting the infant the young Three carries on her hip has a thick shock of black hair. Even with their superior vision, neither can make out eye color. But that is unimportant. The smile on the baby's face tells them all they wish to know.

  She is happy.

  “They are coming,” Jasper says, breaking their minutes-long silence.

  Merrick nods. “Yes.”

  He feels the disruption of space that proceeds a jump from one world to the next almost as if he were in water, and ripples lap against his and Jasper’s bodies.

  It is odd watching non-Reflectives jump. Especially one who can jump to not only primary sectors, but all the ones in between. It boggles Merrick's mind.

  “She's not really a youngling if she can birth one,” Jasper says, smirking.

  He turns to look at her in profile, a slight frown bending his pale brows together. “Perhaps, but she appears so young.”

  Deegan Hart is the most troubling element for them as Reflectives. Almost always, an Atomic calls for immediate execution.

  However, an actual decent Sector Three specimen, Drextel Tate, is working toward humanitarian efforts and has tapped the Hart descendants to use their abilities for good.

  Initially, that caused a conundrum.

  Should they execute these Threes simply because of the potential misuse of their abilities?

  After conferring with Commander Rachett, it was determined that they would take a wait-and-see approach. Certainly, the directives of The Cause take precedence. Yet so far, there has been no breech.

  Now the Hart pair have children of their own.

  They both appear to be advancing in the right direction. Deegan Hart has covertly moved huge toxic tragedies from this earth to a parallel earth. It is not an earth Merrick and Jasper can jump to. But preliminary intel suggests it’s a trench of space absent of life, like a holding tank of debris, both toxic and benign.

  They have followed some of Deegan's moves when she uses her Atomic abilities.

  The Cause is satisfied with her attempts to beautify and cleanse this parallel plane of Sector Three, though she practices cohabitation with the undead. Perhaps that cannot be helped, Jeb muses, as Deegan Hart possesses the ability to reanimate.

  For the moment, she has a stay of execution.

  And they are able to follow her brother's jumping tailwind to this parallel earth of Sector Three, where Deegan Hart hides in plain sight from those who would kill her for her power or use her for their own devices.

  It might ease the Hartsʼ minds to know there was nothing left of Brad Thompson once the undead were through with him.

  His skull was broken open, and the undead feasted on what remained.

  As all undead are apt to do.

  The horde had looked to the Reflective pair then shuffled away uneasily. All beings, even zombies, instinctively understand what the Reflective means to them.

  And besides, he and Reflective Jasper police the thirteen primary sectors. Not the worlds in between.

  Merrick is reminded of the Twelfth directive of The Cause: Disturb not the continuum.

  Observing the first of the Threes jump into this parallel world from Sector Three is enough to watch, but not interfere. Though Merrick can admit a certain dark satisfaction came with bearing witness to the loathsome Thompson dispatched so thoroughly.

  A Reflectivesʼ lifespan is very long.

  The Harts will always be watched until their lives end—by Reflective hand or time, one can never be certain.

  *

  Deegan

  “So excited!” I squeal, smoothing down my shirt and picking at my careful hairstyle for the millionth time.

  “Relax,” Mitchell says, squeezing the back of my neck.

  Tabby coos in his arms, getting baby drool all over his bicep. She's got his deep, midnight-blue eyes, but with tiny feminine features.

  Perfect.

  I turn back around to the picnic table.

  It's big. Longer than Grampsʼs, but in this time, I was actually able to get a red-and-white-checkered tablecloth just like his.

  Nostalgia squared.

  The barbecue (another super old-fashioned feature of this time) stands at the ready, slow-cooking thick steaks. Mitchell is from this time and didn't have a learning curve.

  Last time she visited, Mom promised she and Tara would bring sides—and baby Jake.

  And Sophie and Jonesy’s fraternal triplets (one successfully hiding behind the pair). The doctor of our time said that there must have been some biological overdrive that caused Sophie to release a bunch of eggs in bot world.

  I smirk. Now that's Karma.

  Everyone is secretly pleased that Jonesy has a couple of years of diaper duty.

  And since disposable products are disallowed in 2049—it's the cloth diapering poop highway.

  Tabby's diapers are on the clothesline, letting a rare, bright sunny day in June bleach them as they crack and snap in the light breeze.

  Something in the distance catches my eyes. Raising my palm to shield the glare, I inspect that elusive spot where I saw a flash of something. For a moment, I wish fiercely for nighttime, when I could blink and see for a mile.

  But that small sparkle could be anything.

  Hmm. I open my mouth to ask Mitch if he saw anything, and a big air bubble of pressure grows around us.

  “Pax is coming.”

  “Yes!” I hop, and Tabby gives a squeak,
as though sensing her uncle's presence.

  The group appears, and the silence is deep—cloying like cobwebs—then in an instant, noise fills the ten acres we call home, the trees and moutainscape absorbing the sound of so many squealing infants and people.

  Mom comes running over, holding my little sister in her arms. For reasons no one can figure out, Arminia (Armi for short) has bright-red hair.

  Uncle Clyde says she shares that exact shade with Maggie, my long-lost great-great-grandmother.

  Of course Tabby wants Uncle Clyde right away.

  She is part undead, though I can't tell, except for the odd pull I feel that is similar to what I share with Mitchell.

  Uncle Clyde asks, “Where's my Tabby cat?”

  “Don't call her that!” I scold him. “There is no such thing.”

  Clyde lifts her high in the air, inspecting her. “Nope, I suppose she does not have any stripes. We will have to accept her as-is.”

  I roll my eyes, used to his eccentric behavior.

  My nephew escapes Tara and comes toddling over. “He's walking,” I lament. “I missed it.” I look at Pax.

  He's grinning from ear to ear. “Yup, first one in the group!”

  Jake doesn't look anything like Pax—he's a carbon copy of Tara. Toe-headed with dark blue eyes.

  He's going to be tall, though.

  “Hey!” Tara calls out, chasing after Jake.

  “Hi!” I hug her hard.

  We only get to see each other about every four months. I'm sad about it, but I constantly remind myself that the infrequency is what keeps us safe.

  All of us.

  Our kids too.

  “Baby, I told ya—I brought every clean diaper in the house. And if you did more pumpinʼ of your ta-tas, I would do more feedings.” Jonesy lifts his shoulders to his ears, like everyone should see his logic. “Even if the Jonester doesn't have the fine equipment.” He waggles his brows.

  “Can it, Jones,” Tiff says, hauling a baby half her size on one hip. His bright-carrot hair stands out on all sides of his head like an out-of-control flame cyclone. Hazel eyes peek out from behind chubby hands as he inspects his environment.

  Jonesy's eyebrows hike as he looks at Tiff pile-driving food into her mouth as if she's starving. “You don't know nothing about what the Jonester must do to keep the tribe fed and diapered, Tiff Terran.”

  Tiff smirks.

  I think she knows plenty.

  Sophie plops down on the picnic bench, a hungry baby, apparently unconcerned about being blinked two seconds ago, nursing away at her breast.

  “I think I'm shrinking,” Sophie says, her hair in a messy updo. With only a lick of mascara for makeup, she looks beautiful.

  “They're sucking the life outta me!” she cries, looking down at the one-year-old blithely feeding away.

  “Feed ʼem hotdogs, I say.” Tiff leans over the picnic table, popping a fat cotton-candy-flavored grape in her mouth and scooping a handful of chips. “That's all me an’ my brothers got.” She appears to think that over. “Oh yeah, and mac and cheese. Look at how we turned out.”

  Silence.

  “Piss off, all of ya,” Tiff says off-handedly. “Love these chips! Full of MSG and tons of outlawed red and orange dye number five. Awesome! And the lack of care for GMO! I am stuffing. My. Face!”

  “Agreed,” Jonesy says, fighting Tiff for the Doritos.

  Uncle John strolls up, hands in pockets, a vague smile of contentment lingering on his face. He looks younger. Maybe because Tiff isn't drinking and a baby has filled their house with laughter instead of tears. “Hey, Deegan, how's life?”

  Like his wife, he grabs a handful of grapes just as Mitchell puts Tabby in my arms and goes to the barbecue.

  Gramps beats him to it. Good luck with that.

  I laugh. “Good,” I say, without taking my eyes off my husband. I scoot Tabby a bit closer to my chest and bounce her on my knee, perched on the edge of the picnic table Mitchell made for me.

  “Like to hear that,” Uncle John says, his small smile growing a touch as he watches Tiff and Jonesy argue.

  “How's yours?” I ask in a low voice.

  His pale blue eyes meet mine. “Like it was meant to be.”

  We have a moment of perfect understanding before he wanders off to stand next to the barbecue, a place where all males congregate.

  My mom sits beside me, smoothing Armi's bright-red hair back.

  “How's momhood?” I ask.

  “I love it, but it's an entirely different set of chores when you're my age.” She chuckles.

  Like Tiff and Sophie, I still think there's a glow to being a mother. We're all just grateful because we faced a lifetime of childlessness.

  Maybe happiness makes people look better because they feel better inside.

  Mitchell has started up a small woodworking company. Though we concentrate his field of work in a direction other than Kent. It's too painful to think of running into his parents, who believe all three of their children are dead.

  Mitchell badly wants to tell them the truth, but Drextel says that'd hurt more than help.

  And point a finger at us that says, “Come and get us.”

  So we're quiet, even though it hurts, ensuring our survival.

  I am a stay-at-home mom, which is what they call it in this time. In my time, I would receive a government paycheck for being a mother.

  People know me as a homemaker, but every night, I have a task—except on my days off and paid holidays—negotiated through RfH.

  I move stuff.

  Drextel Tate knows what will make this earth worse because of Pax. Because Pax does “fixed” explorations.

  Environmental impact is huge. It's one of the primary reasons the cyborgs were created. Because human beings were polluting the earth faster than it could heal the damage.

  The Cyborgs were invented by the Zondorae brothers of this earth as a means to help cleanse this earth, but they grew beyond their sentient restraints.

  Maybe, just maybe, if I can do my part to reverse damage by getting rid of the mess, they won't be created or their invention will be delayed.

  Drextel asked Pax and me to undergo regeneration therapy.

  It was an easy decision for me. Mitchell will live as long as I do.

  Pax is still deciding. He's got Tara to think about. She might not take to it. Most don't.

  I suddenly think of Gramps and look at him.

  He looks as if he’s in his late forties now and has slowed the regeneration process by not using the therapy on the regular schedule. Gramps is bucking protocol.

  His arm's around Kim.

  I might know why. Second chances are awesome things.

  Uncle Clyde and Bobbi have the boys here; they’re close to ten and eleven years old now.

  Jonesy kisses Sophie when baby number three burps on her once-clean shirt. “It's all right, baby, it's not all about the smell.”

  We've come a long way, me and my family.

  Dad and Mom hug, and he takes her empty plate to fill it with charbroiled hot dogs and hamburgers.

  Mom and I watch Dad.

  “It turned out okay,” Mom whispers, almost as if she's afraid to notice the new normal. Like talking about it might make it vanish.

  I bounce Tabby a little, working the motion into a gliding sway as her eyes droop a little. “Yeah. I miss my time.”

  Mom looks at me, surprised. She reaches for me, hesitating, but I nod.

  Her hand moves to my arm.

  She reads me then lifts her hand.

  “Our time isn't where you were meant to be. You're safe here, Deegan.”

  “I miss—”

  “I know what you miss, baby.”

  We hold hands, and Dad brings Mom's plate to the table and sets it down in front of us.

  She and I look at the green rolling hills of the property and the many variety of conifer trees that sway in the late-summer breeze, sprinkled at the feet of a jewel-like mountain range of emera
ld with just a touch of snow still lingering at the peaks. Mitchell planted flowers around the perimeter to complement the cheerful colors of the house. My house stands like a star captured on the knoll.

  “Your family is right here,” Mom says, squeezing my fingers as Tabby's head rests against my breast and her long breaths tell me she's fallen asleep.

  “Yes,” I say, but I'm homesick anyway. Not bad, like I was at first, but enough for it to consume my thoughts some days.

  Mom shifts her gaze to Mitchell then Tabby. “They're your family now.”

  She’s right. My heart swells, and I nod, thinking about all that we've been through. The gift that I have now.

  “You know what?” I ask.

  Mom releases my hand and feeds a mashed-up piece of hot dog to Armi.

  “What?” she asks, having a bite herself.

  “I guess normal life is calm enough for me to find time to miss you guys.”

  Mom does a belly laugh, nearly losing her mouthful, and covers her lips with a swift hand.

  Tabby sighs in her sleep and turns her head against my chest.

  “You can't say you miss how crazy your life was in our time?” Her eyes are a little shocked—and curious.

  “No, not that. It feels so good not to have to worry, but I kinda feel like it won't last.”

  “Oh, honey,” Mom gives me a one-armed hug. “There's plenty of worry for today without borrowing tomorrow's.”

  I grin. That quote's straight from Gram, making me think to ask, “Is Gram okay?”

  Mom's smile widens. “She says she feels fifty and is giving Gramps a ration of shit.”

  My mouth pops open at the curse word, but I laugh. That's so true of those two. “Fifty is still kinda old.” I wrinkle my nose.

  “Watch it,” Mom says, winking.

  Ah-huh.

  Mitchell walks up, muscles rippling, looking very un-zombie like. My heart flutters a little at the sight of him.

  His eyes read my face. “You okay?” he asks, kissing my cheek in his lingering way.

  I nod, grabbing his hand.

  His eyes roam my face then look at his sleeping daughter.

  “More than okay.” And I mean it.

  THE END

  This novelette is also placed in the Death world, try it for free today!

  Vampire Alpha Claim 1