Death Series 08 - Death Blinks

by Tamara Rose Blodgett

  My eyes move behind Thompson. A hundred zombies perch like vultures before carrion.

  He hikes a weapon I don't recognize. Looks like a gun, but not. It has a big ass hole at the end, though. “I'm king of the heap here, Hart.”

  This guy tortured my sister. Not this Thompson, but a version of him from this world. Hate is not a strong enough word for what I'm feeling right now.

  Mitch and I exchange a look.

  Funny how all our rivalry and dickness is shelved when Dee hangs in the balance.

  “Got a nice little ring of AftDs taking care of business here. I get all the flesh I want.” Thompson swings his hips in a parody of a hump grind, and I close my eyes to block out the visual.

  Even though my telepathy doesn't extend past my sister, I know what he wants to do to Dee, the sick fuck.

  “Sorry about your penis, Thompson,” Jonesy says in a bland voice.

  Dee makes a distressed sound behind me.

  I take her hand, the one Mitch isn't holding.

  Brad tilts his head, staring at Jonesy like a bird before a worm. “Ah—Mark Jones. The stupid one of the group.”

  “Smart enough to know when a dude's compensating for lack of equipment.” Jonesy smirks.

  The back of my eyelids burn. Jonesy's not dumb.

  He's brave.

  “I'll make you hump half-rotten girls, Jones.” Brad Thompson smiles cruelly.

  Jonesy grabs his package. “That all you got, pencil prick?”

  As it turns out, he's got so much more.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Gramps

  I swipe my tongue over my shredded bottom lip.

  I could use a bit of what Pax has. That Organic mumbo-jumbo would be handier than hell about now.

  I lift a cuffed wrist and flex my fingers. Well, the four that aren't broken.

  Seems like the old bod has just about had it.

  Felt good to beat anything that got near the family, though. And there are cigarettes here.

  Fabulous.

  I lift the lit cig to my lips, wince at the murderous agony of my wounded mouth, and suck a drag. I tilt my head, tense at the permanent kink in my neck, and shoo the smoke out in a steady stream.

  “Thought you guys were advanced in 2049?” Mitch asks absently, studying my nasty little habit.

  He looks about how I feel. But zombies can't feel pain. I snort. Liked Mitch's work on Thompson's horde.

  That was a class-A beatdown. Yesiree.

  But half his head is missing, and Mitch reeks. Bad. He's an aggressive sucker. They came for Deedie, and without a sound, Mitch dropped that little girl's hand and charged into the horde.

  Brad Thompson watched with a vague smile on his miserable face.

  Then Caleb set him on fire. That was choice.

  I take another drag, letting my fractured wrist dangle on my bent knee, where it throbs in time with my heartbeat. My old ass joins in with the all-over hurt against the cement cell floor, where we all sit in a row, each separated by bars.

  Then Thompson's Null showed up, and while the zombies restrained my grandson (with his absolute lack of AftD on bot world), they took Jade, Tiff, Sophie, and Deedie.

  We tried to reason with Thompson.

  I chuckle. Not really, we just tried to kill his ass. The Nulls all seem to be the same on every world, stealing everyone's paranormal juice. And with his fleet of powerful Nulls—and Caleb's lack of the death juice—we weren't worth squat.

  Mitch raises an eyebrow. I study him for a moment; he looks like a former military man. I think I caught sight of some dog tags flying around in the fracus.

  I answer his earlier question. “Advanced? Yeah. I like my smokes. It's about options, Mitch.”

  Caleb rolls his head where he lies on the floor, one eyeball finding me. “Thompson likes you smoking.”

  “He's a sissy-sucking titty baby,” I comment in a bald voice.

  Caleb chokes a laugh, but blood comes out instead of sound. They worked my grandson over pretty good. He's got one good eye; the other is swollen shut. Probably internal injuries.

  Definitely.

  We could all use a dose of Organic right now. I frown. The Jezebel of this world became a zombie that Caleb had to burn to death later. Damn unfortunate.

  I sigh. Guess she's off the list. “But,” I say, flicking a long ash to the left of where we all sit in rows, “this jagup holds the reins on our freedom.”

  Mitch hisses, and Clyde nods in succinct agreement. Zombie unity. It's a beautiful thing.

  I crush out the cig and shake my hands. The pain flares. I breathe through it. Miserable.

  Jonesy is unconscious. Don't know how much hope we have of him ever waking up.

  When Brad grabbed Sophie's breast, Jones went berserk. Well, more berserk than usual.

  He got a couple of nice licks in before four of the horde took him down.

  “Gramps,” Caleb calls quietly.

  Full of shit I can't address—or fix.

  “Master,” Clyde says, half in mourning, half in comfort.

  Caleb's one good eye shuts at the tone in his voice.

  They've got our ladies. And there's nothing that feels good about that.

  Especially Dee. Thompson's got a Null stationed on her so she can't call anything to help her and the other girls.

  Speaking of Nulls. I glance at Terran, who’s out cold too. He and Jones took exception to them hauling Tiff and Sophie off.

  Great exception. Imagine that?

  We have our very own Null, as well.

  He sits on a stool, perched in the corner of our partially submerged subterranean prison.

  His cowboy hat is slung low, covering most of his eyes. The little that I can see stares at us with complete disinterest.

  I take mental stock of who we have. All the guys are in various states of compromise. None of us escaped beatings.

  Seems like tradition for the Harts, as well as the guys who hang out with a Hart.

  Pax is doing the best as he healed the majority of his damage with his three-point Organic ability.

  Good thing. He just about died. Body or no Body, he sustained a lot of damage. Too many damn zombies.

  Determined fuckers.

  And did I mention Brad Thompson's a three-point AftD here? The hits just keep on coming.

  This nutjob is related to that chump who assaulted Tiff back in the day. What was his name? Ah, Carson Hamilton.

  There we were, assuming that Thompson's little vendetta was because of Deedie's rejection (like that would be enough to allow his cheese to slide of his cracker). After all, everyone in her age bracket was scarce. Males still want females. And if there aren't many to be had?

  Well some putzes just don't understand no.

  Thompson's dad had been a cousin to Hamilton's father. Ain't it just all cozy?

  For an almost nineteen-year-old kid, he's as sideways as they come. A real loon. Entitled punk gets a little power, and suddenly, he stumbles across a girl that said no, and gets the idea of holding the entire family hostage.

  There's no recourse in bot world. At least young Brad had to pretend to mind himself on our earth.

  The Hart family here are zombies, already killed by the Thompsons of this world.

  Seems like the parallel dimensions repeat the same scenes in different ways.

  I wonder absently what the other Macs are like, and the thought makes me an internal shudder. One of me is plenty.

  Then this hot little number walks in, and I enjoy the view, since I can't save the girls.

  Yet.

  I'm actually nearing eight-five years old in real age. But because of the regeneration that seemed to take hold so strongly, I look mid-fifties. Doesn't work with all folks. Kinda like transplants that don't take when the body rejects them. My body likes transplants (already had two lung replacements), and the bod definitely took like a duck to water with the regeneration.

  So I don't feel too bad distracting myself from our miserable cir
cumstances when a late-forties hottie walks into our cell group.

  Mitch and Clyde give her a passing glance. Pax snorts, looking down at his sneakers.

  Kid's as pissed as a monkey that can't throw shit.

  I check her out as she moves past the cells. Got weight in all the right places. Good thing, too, because I've never been on board with that rail-thin look. I like a woman with curves. “Tits and ass,” we used to say in the day and would get flogged for admitting now. Same holds true, I imagine, even in our “enlightened” times.

  I chuckle, and the woman glances my way with a tentative smile.

  She's got the chow, so she's not unpopular.

  The Null sits up straighter. “Put the food here, Kim. Don't need you getting next to these criminals.”

  I grunt. That's rich. Yeah—we're the criminals. I glare at his lying ass, and he tips his cowboy hat at me. I’d love to heal up and give him a go.

  Cowboy Null sees something on my face that causes him to frown.

  Yeah, think on that, numb nuts.

  My gaze moves back to Kim of the sweet hourglass figure, and she kicks up her chin. “They need you upstairs, Ron.”

  Oooh—dismissal, chump.

  He shakes his head. “Nah, Brad won't like me straying too far.”

  She puts a hand on her hip, and I take note of how well her jeans fit. Really well.

  “Not Null enough?” she asks in a coy voice.

  He jerks to a stand, and every man who's conscious tenses. We know potential for male violence—second nature to those men who are tapped into their primal potential.

  “Shut up, Kim.” He glares, looming over her shorter frame.

  She stands her ground.

  Damn, I like ʼem feisty.

  I'm as tense as a cat in a room full of rockers, waiting to see if this simp will hurt a woman. Seems like anything's possible on this rock.

  “I'm here to deliver food. Word from above is they need two Nulls to subdue the teenage girl.”

  I perk up at that. Deedie. They're talking about our Deedie.

  I'm not the only one that notices. Mitch's eyes are lead weights on Null boy. Quick as a snake, Cowboy Null grabs her wrist.

  “Hey!” I croak from my parched throat.

  The Null looks at me. I feel the weight of his power, but I'm a mundane, so his stuff is wasted on me.

  “Mind your own business.”

  “Make me,” I say like a juvenile. Feels right as rain.

  His eyes slim down on me, and he makes to move around Kim as she tries to yank her hand away. “Stop throwing your weight around, Ron. I'm the messenger.”

  He ignores me and focuses on Kim again. Damn. “Yeah, I got that. If you weren't a relative, I'd teach you a lesson about respect.”

  She jerks her wrist in a circle, and Ron drops it. “But I am. And for the record, respect is earned.”

  He chuckles. “Or forced.”

  “Just go,” Kim says in a low voice.

  Ron stares at her a moment longer, then with a scathing glance at the males who are awake, he saunters out.

  “Clown,” Pax mutters as the door clanks behind him.

  Good food smells waft through the cell, and my mouth waters. Funny how a man's appetite waits for no one. I find the consistency humorous.

  Kim meets my eyes. And she's a plain woman, one of those gals who are all ripe and lush body—except for her eyes. The lack of interesting features of her face melt away around her eyes.

  They're not a special color. Just brown.

  But they’re beautiful, soulful. I can see how she feels down to her toenails and that kind of vulnerability is bad. Bad for her.

  Maybe good for us.

  Her interaction with Ron the Null has shown there's dissent in the ranks, and that's a wedge I hope to widen.

  She blows out a harsh breath, and the movement lifts her chestnut hair, which has a few strands of tinsel in the ranks.

  I wonder at her exact age. For the first time in years, I wonder how a woman would feel underneath me again.

  Boners are part of the regeneration process.

  Happy day.

  Of course, hard-ons aren't really the priority at the moment. But I’ve never met a dick that cooperates. Never have, never will. Pricks get hard at the most inopportune times imaginable.

  Like now.

  I use my left hand to apply pressure to the busted finger on my right. The pain chases away the untimely and uninvited lust.

  What the hell is wrong with me? Oh yeah, last year, I had all the impulses of an old guy. Now the Viagra of back in the day isn't necessary.

  I smile. Feels good to be back. Even in the middle of this colossal clusterfuck.

  A ghost of a smile crosses my lips. Nothing makes a gent feel more alive than food on a plate and an upright Johnson in the trousers.

  Now, to get out of this current disaster and get to rescuing the girls.

  Those brown eyes survey the less-than-friendly crowd. “I guess you know by now, I'm Kim.”

  We just look at her. Ball's in her court.

  She doesn't wring her hands, but her eyes are the tell to how nervous she is.

  “I'm-I'm Brad's first cousin once removed, and in charge of food delivery to the…” She stumbles a little on this because the young prince has been pretty transparent. He’s a puppet of his old man, a genuine criminal—world notwithstanding. “Inmates,” she finishes, her large brown eyes wide in her face.

  Seeing me, she comes to my cell first. I must look to be the most harmless of the group.

  Wrong.

  Kim hunches over with the tray. I get a load of her great cleavage from the tight T-shirt with a row of little buttons on the top that bisect a well-developed rack.

  I beat down my wood again with a mental thought of the women who need saving, and I go to neutral again. Figures this bullshit has to happen right now.

  “I'll push the food through, and you take it.”

  Seems simple.

  Except that I've worked the cuff of my right hand loose. Broken fingers aid that whole escape angle.

  The zombies know.

  Not sure how. But they do. Clyde’s and Mitch's bright eyes never leave me.

  Brains in sight. I bite back my chuckle.

  Kim slides the food tray through a slot positioned just above the cement floor, and I shoot forward. My reflexes were always cat-like when I was a young man. In the corp, my nickname was Tom. For Tomcat.

  That speed has come back, along with the waning vestiges of my youth.

  I latch on to the wrist that Ron the Null just had, and Kim yelps. Fear lurches into those lovely velvety-chocolate eyes, and guilt sweeps me.

  I do not want to hurt a woman to save ours. Had that protective instinct since I was born. Can't shake it. But I might be able to fake it.

  Then a wondrous thing happens. My wounds melt, my heartbeats stutter over one another, and my broken finger straightens around her dainty wrist.

  Our eyes meet. “Well, well—what do we have here?”

  Big alligator tears crawl down her face. “Don't tell him,” she whispers.

  My forehead screws into a frown, but my grip remains tight. “Tell who?”

  “Brad,” she whispers.

  I lean forward to catch her words and notice amber flecks within the deep-brown sea of her irises. “That I'm a Healer.”

  I ask an instinctive question, “Did you want to heal me?”

  The corners of her lips turn up. “Why do you think I sent that smug asshole Ron packing?”

  We grin at each other, and her tears dry.

  I don't mean to stroke the skin of her wrist when I release it, but sometimes, a man's just not in charge of his actions.

  Like when a beautiful woman brings food and heals him in one fell swoop.

  Kim heals us.

  She feeds us.

  And I fall a little in love that day.

  Didn't know it then. But when it came time to save the girls, it was never
a question that Kim would be one of them.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Deegan

  Brad tosses the menstrual cleansers inside our cells. “Have at it, ladies.”

  I glare.

  I'll just sit here and bleed. I'm not taking off my denims to apply the cleanser in front of this loser.

  His lips twist. “Get hot.” Brad Thompson's large eyes move across me, Mom, Sophie, and Tiff. He's so handsome, it's painful. Someone that beautiful should be that way on the inside.

  But he's not. He oozes narcissism. The only world Brad lives in is the world of him.

  “Go fuck yourself, delinquent.”

  Guess who says that? I look at Aunt Tiff, and Brad's doe eyes, so feminine in an utterly masculine face, narrow on her. “I don't give a shit that you're a chick, just so ya know. I'll treat you just like the dudes.”

  “And I don't give any fucks that you can't find your pathetic pecker.” Tiff flutters her eyelashes.

  Brad jerks his chin back. Smiles. “Looked into you, Tiffany Weller.”

  I'm concerned about how quickly Brad switches gears. I make a studious effort not to look at Mom.

  Tiff's sullen silence reigns. She's not going to give him a centimeter.

  Brad steps closer to the bars. “Heard my cousin got a slice of the Tiff pie before your mess of a husband got him. Illegally.”

  Tiff pales. “There's nothing messy about John,” she says in a low voice.

  Brad lifts a muscular shoulder, dismissing her. “Don't know; he's not conscious right now.”

  If his words bother Aunt Tiff, I can't tell. She's gotta be the hardest woman I've ever met.

  Brad's long fingers wrap the metal bars that separate us from him. “I know you can't have kids.” He snorts. “What are you? Forty-one? Forty-two? Kind of long in the tooth to still want what only youth can provide. But now you've got a chance.” Brad places his fingers close together, a millimeter apart.

  He whirls suddenly and walks toward the opposite wall, where deeply inset, narrow windows ride close to the low ceiling.

  Legs pound by outside the windows as unknowing and continuous foot traffic flows. Mostly bot, some human.

  Tears burn my eyeballs. A lump forms in my throat.

  I want to call the dead to me so bad, I taste their rot on my tongue.