Only The Dead Don't Die (Book 3): Last State

by Popovich, A. D.

  Shari scrambled to the lodge as fast as her old aching joints allowed. The herbal formula had come to her while lost in delirium when she had been taken down by the Super Summer flu. When she had awakened, she had found a series of automatic writings scribbled on a notebook on her bed. She had only gone into that channeled state a few times in her life. And only as a child, for she had learned to block any forces attempting to take over her body, never sure if it was for her highest good.

  The formula had been named New Hu. Was synchronicity slapping her in the face again? Why else had she recently bottled the formula she had written down three summers ago? Based on the herbs, it could only be used to prevent miscarriages. The odds of stumbling onto False Unicorn in her neck of the woods had made it all the more inexplicable. I’m beginning to suspect Spirit is up to something miraculous!

  Chapter 13

  Justin Chen exited the Zhetto Tours bus packed with wannabe slumming-it-in-the-Zhetto tourists. The passengers, mostly men, wore fancy suits and hats along with expensive-looking coats. They weren’t the Elites. The Elites took limos or plain-white helicopters. From all the chatter on the bus, last month’s deadly horde attack had only made the market more popular. Hundreds of Zhetts and Zoners had died. Were citizens really that bored, or did they just want a chance to mingle with the Elites? It made him realize how jaded and demented society had become.

  Justin glanced around. The market teamed with Enforcers. He hung back from his group. Dressed in his grungiest pair of Levi’s, rugged hiking boots, and his favorite hoodie, he blended in with a group of Zhetts walking by. He tried to stop fiddling with his hoodie. Just don’t think about it, he scolded himself. He had liberated several dozen CitChips from the Think Tank last month and had handsewn them into the hood. They were worth a lot on the black market. Would it be enough?

  It was almost noon. His group stopped at the food vendors. He walked past the roach coaches pimping tasty corn dogs, deep-fried okra, jalapenos, and pickles, onion rings, and steak on a stick. The funnel cake line tempted him. Instead, he made a beeline for the vendor’s parking lot at the market’s opposite end.

  Justin had lost access to the Think Tank’s database while on bereavement leave. So, he had cashed in a favor with Joe DiNozzo, the guy who had organized the sick-out. The weird thing was, the digital plates on the truck Ella had escaped in turned out to be a dead end; the truck’s registered address didn’t exist.

  More bad luck, the electronic inquiry he had sent requesting contact with Scarlett Lewis had come back to bite him on the ass. A pair of Black Suits had knocked on his apartment door yesterday, scaring the crap out of him. Nobody wanted a visit from the Black Suits. Last State’s super-secret security agency was so covert it didn’t have an official name since theoretically, it didn’t exist.

  Apparently, Scarlett had gone MIA, just like he was about to do. The brief but intense interrogation with the expressionless Black Suits had made him wonder if they were even human. The way they had stared at him, never blinking. It still gave him the willies. Justin had basically told them the truth. Ella had wanted a friend and hadn’t been able to track down Scarlett on CitChat. Justin had told them his inquiry was no longer valid since Ella had died.

  The Black Suits had pressed on, wanting to know how he and Ella knew Scarlett. He had explained that they first met Scarlett in Vacaville, California several months after the onset of the Super Summer flu. They had gone their separate ways three winters ago until running into each other in Boom Town last summer. The weird thing was, the Black Suits had been more interested in the child Scarlett had adopted, Twila. He didn’t know much about the young girl other than she was super smart. And peculiar.

  The entire time the Black Suits had been questioning him, a hinky feeling warned they could read his mind. So, he had gone with it, faking total devastation over Ella’s sudden death. Sometimes he let his imagination go too far. But it had seemed so real at the time. Freaky real.

  Justin reached the vendor parking lot. He strolled around in search of the faded-blue truck with the camper shell, its image permanently downloaded to the hard drive of his mind, license plate number and all. According to Joe, the log report showed the truck visited the market regularly.

  He decided to scope out the market for Ella and Scarlett before hiring a smuggler to help him defect. It had taken three weeks of badgering his grievance counselor to obtain a visa for today’s Zhetto Market. It had been approved on the basis it would bring closure to Ella’s death. Justin had sworn it was all he needed to move forward with his life as a dedicated Last State cit. Ye-ah, right. But his counselor had bought it.

  The Zhetto Market was turning into a getaway for bored cits, provided their social credit score was high enough. The interesting news he had found out in his dark web searches: Last State had huge plans to turn the Zhetto Market into a seven-day-a-week tourist attraction.

  The Zhetto Land blueprints planned hotels, brick and mortar shops, and carnival games. It also included a huge pit, complete with covered bleachers for zombie fights and betting. How weird was that? They were considering relocating several of the rides from Six Flags. Heck, they should reopen Six Flags. But he knew the answer. Last State didn’t have enough qualified technicians to operate it.

  Based on the ever-growing silos of big data from CitChat and Intranet keyword searches, their A.I. had concluded citizens needed an enticing reward system. Zhetto Land would serve multiple purposes: a place for bored cits to let off steam, something for cits to look forward to, and it also served as a tool to control citizens. Cits with the top one percent social credit score would be rewarded with an all-inclusive deluxe vacation, which included staying in the same luxury hotel as the Elites. The rest of the cits would have to pay big bucks in a ploy to encourage cits to work harder and make more CitChat posts. Cray-cray!

  Justin strode down the row of parked vehicles—not too many. Most cits weren’t allowed vehicles unless they lived in the ABC Zones. But legal Zhetto cits with confirmed LSC employment received monthly gas rations since the trams didn’t run in the Texan panhandle.

  After checking the lot twice, an Enforcer approached him. “Citizen, are you lost?”

  Justin quickly answered, “No, are you?”

  “Scan.” The Enforcer held the scanner.

  Justin automatically offered his palm. He knew better than to mouth-off to an Enforcer, especially with contraband in his hoodie. His nerves were edgy.

  The Enforcer scanned him. “Why’s a K-zoner bumming around the vendor’s lot?”

  Justin wanted to spout, I’m looking for a car to hotwire. He quickly stifled it. “Dude, I just miss cars and trucks.”

  The Enforcer nodded. “The parking lot’s off limits. Act like you’re at the mall and go get a Cinnabon before I have to waste my lunch break filling out a report, dumbass. There was an outbreak here last month. You need to hang with your assigned guards.”

  Justin offered a fake smile and a terse thank you and walked toward the outer aisle of pop-up tents. He would just have to start his search at one end and look at every single person in every single tent, pretending to shop. If he didn’t find Ella or Scarlett, then he’d go to the Lost and Found Stuff merchant.

  A thought pinged his head. What if Ella’s waiting in the deep-fried jalapeno line? It sounded like something she might crave. He headed for the roach coaches.

  After waiting in the funnel cake line, he sat in the back of the food court. He had a clear shot of all the tables and citizens waiting in line. With his sunglasses on, he scrutinized every face. Before Justin knew it, he had scarfed the whipped-cream-topped cake without tasting it. Bummer.

  He strolled down the aisle, stopping at each tent. He came to a stand selling homemade root beer stored in wooden barrels and served in frosty mugs stamped with Zhetto. Great marketing gimmick. He waited in line; it gave him an excuse to people watch. Everyone seemed to want a souvenir. The T-shirt booth had a long line. Shirts said things like: “I SURVIV
ED ZHETTO and WHAT HAPPENS IN ZHETTO STAYS IN ZHETTO.

  This had to be the biggest tourist attraction since the pandemic. Cits lugged stuffed shopping bags. Some pulled little red wagons or pushed Walmart shopping carts. They had so much more than MeBuy, which was a sucky version of eBay. It would have been super cool if this wasn’t his only chance to find Ella.

  He walked into a three-tent booth of books and scanned the aisles. She wasn’t there. His subconscious nagged that Ella had already made it to Boom Town with Scarlett. After all, he had told her to go there. He imagined Dean and Luther’s surprise when Ella and Scarlett showed up at the bakery. Stop stressing. She’s probably waiting for you.

  Citizens were forbidden from contacting anyone outside of Last State. He wasn’t even allowed to send a letter to Luther and Dean’s bakery. It was considered treasonous to associate with anyone outside the border. What were they so uptight about? An uprising from the citizens, not the hordes, was the feeling he was getting.

  Justin reached the last aisle of pop-up tents. He stopped in front of a closed booth covered in deep-purple draperies to search the tents on the opposite side for the Lost and Found Stuff merchant. Wait, did someone call my name? He searched the shoppers walking by. There it is again. Something grabbed his arm and yanked him inside the curtained-covered booth.

  “What the heck?” he spluttered, staring straight into the green eyes of a witchy woman wearing a purple turban with a purple crystal dangling over her forehead.

  “Dey calls me Mama LaVie,” the dark-skinned woman rasped with a thick accent. African or Haitian. He couldn’t tell which.

  “Ye-ah. Cool,” Justin said, not wanting to be rude. But the woman creeped him out.

  Yikes! The shelves of crystal skulls, Voodoo dolls, and other weird stuff wasn’t helping. He wanted to get out of there. The sign said FORTUNES 100 LS CREDITS. I get it. The scary stuff is for ambiance. Be cool.

  “Spirit says you be lookin’ for someone.” Her eyes refused to let go of his. “Says, you need to talk to Mama LaVie.”

  “Not for one hundred LSCs.” What a rip off.

  “Sit,” she ordered while gracefully lighting the candles on the table. “What you want, throwing da bones or tarot?” She took a seat across from him, dead-eyed serious as if penetrating his mind for his answer.

  “Uh, definitely no bones.” His mom used to read the tarot deck for him after a bad day. The deck on the table looked freaky with dancing skeletons and laughing skulls. Nothing like his mom’s Rider deck. “I should catch up with my tour group.”

  Her leathery wrinkled fingers unexpectedly latched onto his hands. “Spirit has message,” she hissed. “Be still. Hush your mind. And you listen to me, boy.”

  Justin’s fingers quivered under her power. He closed his eyes and drifted across a waterless ocean. Lost. Alone. Scared. A trickle of water splashed the center of his forehead. His prior life fast-forwarded through his mind. The ups and downs of life. The love of his parents. An evil darkness blinded him. And then Ella appeared, glowing like an angel, bringing him love, filling his wounds with divine light.

  “I see, boy. Dat one be an angel. True heart.”

  Justin’s eyes flung open. Is she reading my mind?

  “Hush!” Mama LaVie demanded in a harsh whispering yell. “She be waiting. But, not where you think, boy. You find her ’fore—dey do? Everyone wants the new seed. Dey already be celebrating the birth of the new child!”

  Her words sent a rash of prickling goosebumps down his arms. The Voodoo fortune teller squeezed his hands and chanted muffled words.

  “Where is she?” Justin pleaded, almost believing her, wanting to believe her. Needing to believe her.

  “Hush, you. Banish her image from your mind. Dey can see through your eyes. You must protect her!”

  The witchy woman’s head lolled back. She seemed to be having an animated conversation with another person. More like an intense argument. Without warning, the Voodoo priestess lurched to her feet, knocking over the small round table. She bustled about stomping out the candles and picking up the tarot cards.

  “Someting be a-comin' . . . Oh, it be darkness . . . You, stay invisible. And watch out for the one with dem Caribbean-blues.” She cried out as if in agony. “Out! Get out!” the crazy Voodoo lady spat. “Boy, doncha be a bringin’ dem deadbloods here,” she screeched as if he had scared the crap out of her.

  “Holy shit!” His eyes were stuck shut. A swarm of zany black birds divebombed him, pecking at his mind, prying into his brain. It reminded him of that psychopath, Paxton, only a thousand of him. He stumbled around, trying to force open his eyelids and groped his way out of the tent.

  Justin stood outside her purple-cloaked tent, speechless. He didn’t even go back inside for his uber-cool root beer mug. That was insane. All her theatrics were a ploy to take money from desperate and superstitious citizens.

  But—she didn’t charge me. And that’s when it dawned on him that the crazy Voodoo lady might be legit. Not that he believed in that stuff. His mom had been a devout New Ager, believing in beings like fairies, devas, angels, goddesses, and light beings. She had refused to accept anything negative. After the reanimated state of dead people, he knew dark beings beyond his comprehension—existed.

  After he finished walking down the last row of tents, desperation settled in. The Lost and Found Stuff merchant wasn’t there. It was time for Plan B: The Disappearing Act. He had daydreamed over the scenarios the last four weeks, trying to come up with every possible angle. He darted inside the Outfitters three-tent store. Time to change his appearance. After rummaging through the tables of clothing, he took a handful of wintery items to the curtained-off dressing room.

  “Dude, how do I look?” Justin asked as he pulled back the curtain. He was dressed in a heavy military waterproofed coat, khakis, and a hat.

  The clerk, an older man in camouflage attire said, “It’s definitely you. I’ll give you twenty percent off if you buy the whole set.”

  “Awesome. I think I’ll wear it now.” He grabbed his pile of clothes. “Ring me up.” Justin pulled the black hunter hat’s flap over his ears. Besides disguising his appearance, it was warm. Winter in the Zhetto could get brutal.

  Justin had completed the first step. Next was Camping Corner, and he was running out of time. Would anyone notice when he didn’t board the Zhetto Tours bus? He strode through the crowd, buying all the camping crap he could carry. Before he realized it, he had bought too much. He stopped between two booths and reorganized everything into his over-stocked pack. He finally got everything to fit except his tent.

  He needed a bigger pack. He was on his way to upgrade his pack when he saw the answer. Awesomeness! Bicycles. His eyes locked onto a doggy trailer connected to the back of a mountain bike. It could haul everything. He entered the merchant’s tent. “How much for that one?” Justin pointed to the Diamondback bike. It was a super-durable brand.

  The store owner came up to him and whispered, “Gold?”

  It confirmed Justin looked like a Zhett and not a Zoner. “LSCs,” Justin said.

  The man frowned. “Two thousand LS Credits. I won’t take any less,” the owner chided as he headed to the next customer entering his tent. Most Zhetts couldn’t afford two thousand LSCs.

  Justin straddled the lightweight, carbon frame. He hopped on the seat, balancing with his feet. “Nice . . .” He stuffed his tent in the doggy trailer.

  “Get out before I call security,” the merchant snapped, scaring away the other customer.

  “I’m testing it out for size. What about the blue bike?”

  “It’s good for paved roads, and there aren’t too many of those in the Zhetto. Now get out of here and stop wasting my time.”

  “Dude, I’ll take it.” Justin handed over his hand. “How much weight can I haul in the doggy trailer?”

  “Not more than fifty pounds.” The store owner scanned his hand. “What’dya know. Funds Verified. I thought you were just messin’ with me.
Enjoy.”

  Justin walked the bike and trailer between the row of tents. A group of well-dressed cits rushed past him. They were on his bus. He was running out of time. He resisted the urge to rush around. It might cause the agents manning the monitors to zoom in on him.

  After he had loaded his backpack and doggy trailer with supplies, he had everything but a weapon. All in good time. He still had the RFID chips he could trade with once he disappeared. He walked by a peanut butter stand. He had a sudden urge for a PB&J sandwich.

  He gobbled down a sample of peanut butter on a plain white cracker. “I’ll take two jars.”

  “Hand first,” the grumpy merchant ordered.

  Justin rolled his eyes. In the Zhetto he was rich. His homeless ensemble thing he had going on was working.

  The scanner flashed red and beeped. “Denied.”

  Justin winced. “Sorry.” He walked off with the bike. So embarrassing. But far worse, he had been cut off. The bank must have red-flagged his account due to the high amount of purchases. They probably thought his CitChip had been hacked. Which meant, they would be contacting him soon. He had reached the point of no return.

  Justin walked his bike to the closest blind spot. He had studied them during his Zhetto Market monitoring gig. All he had to do was watch for drones circling the market. Once he made it to the back of the portable potty stands, he cut out his CitChip. He smashed it with a rock and then buried the remains.

  Would his sucky plan work? He was so ready to ditch Last State’s oppressive government and venture into the Forbidden Zone like that guy with all the teeth in the original Planet of the Apes. He was soon to be an official defector. How long would it take them to figure out he had gone MIA? When he didn’t board the tour bus? Or when he didn’t show up for work?