Passing Strange

by Daniel Waters

  Tak shook his head but was disturbed by the soft cracklings he heard as he moved. The water clinging to him had begun to ice up the moment he emerged from the lake. Frost could be seeping into his skin, sending white roots deep within him, into his unworking organs. His long hair was all icicles that clattered like wind chimes when he moved.

  He planted his boots on either side of the hole and reached down, grabbing Popeye’s arms. He leaned back and pulled, yanking Popeye out of the hole like a carrot. He let him go, to keep his own balance, and Popeye splayed and went spinning across the ice, sliding a decent distance away.

  Freezer burned he might be, but Tak felt strangely powerful, as though their time under the ice had let them store up energy.

  Popeye, perhaps surprised by the release of that energy, stared up at him with his forever unblinking eyes. Then he leaned over and emptied the sludge from the bottom of his lungs as best as he could, the stream of water being followed by a stream of curses when he was done.

  “It…must . .. be…February,” he said. “I died…in…February.”

  “Dude…put…on…your…glasses,” Tayshawn said. He was not a fan of the self-proclaimed “bodifications”—skin art more extreme than tattooing or simple piercings—that Popeye had made to himself and some of the other zombies, the more impressionable kids who were always seeking their approval.

  Tak started walking across the ice, clenching and unclenching his hands into fists with each step. They’d left nineteen zombies below.

  “What’s…the…matter, Shawnie?” Popeye said, thin canals appearing in the clear ice coating his face. He sat up and sheets of ice fell away from his chest, bare beneath his leather jacket. “Hating…me…cause…I’m…beautiful?”

  “That’s…it…exactly,” Tayshawn said. He scrutinized Popeye a moment longer. “Aw…no.”

  “What?” Popeye said as he sat up, withdrawing his sunglasses from the inner pocket of his leather jacket.

  “Dude,” Tayshawn said, “what did…you do…to your…neck?”

  Popeye lifted his left hand, the webbed one, to his throat in an oddly subconscious, human gesture. His fingertips probed a rent in his skin just below and back of his lower jawbone.

  “Gills,” he said, managing a smile. “I figured with…us…being underwater…and all. You…like it?”

  “No. And what is…up…with your…hand?”

  Popeye held his hand up. The webbing between his index and middle finger had started to tear loose, and he picked at the threads with his normal hand.

  Tayshawn shook his head. “How did you…do that?”

  “With…fishing line…and a scuba…flipper. You can…find…anything…down there,” he said, indicating the lake with a nod of his bald head. There was a sharp crack, and the patch of ice Popeye was sitting on gave way.

  Tayshawn looked at Tak, rolling his eyes skyward. His right eye stayed in that position until he rubbed at the frosted orb with his fingertips.

  “What?” Popeye said, more to Tak than to Tayshawn, as he scrabbled toward the shore. “You don’t…like…it?” He flexed the webbed hand, and the unstitched corner of black rubber poked up over his knuckles. Tak knew that his was the only opinion he cared about, the only person who could dampen Popeye’s enthusiasm for his “art,” and so he reserved his true judgment.

  “Be yourself…Popeye,” Tak said, looking at the array of fishhooks Popeye had put through his left ear—the lowest, one of those four-pronged jobs Tak’s father liked to call a gut-ripper.

  He looked away. He hadn’t thought of his father in months, since long before they fled the beating hearts by disappearing into Lake Oxoboxo.

  “Be…yourself,” he repeated. “That’s all that…matters.”

  Popeye chose to take the remark as a high compliment, and his thin lips twisted into a bloodless, smug grin at Tayshawn, who was too busy coaxing his eye back in place to notice.

  “Ever read…H…P…Lovecraft?” he asked Tayshawn, smug. “At the…Mountains of…Madness? The Dunwich Horror? I’m a…Deep…One.”

  “Yeah, you’re…a…deep…one, all right,” Tayshawn said, helping Popeye to his feet.

  Tak scanned the tree line across the frozen surface of the lake, trying to ignore their chatter. The thing he’d miss most about being underwater wouldn’t be the relative safety, but the silence.

  “Tayshawn,” Popeye said, adopting a pedantic tone, “bodifications will…become…a primary…art…form of post…living…society.”

  “You’re one weird kid, Bug-Eyes,” Tayshawn said. “I…don’t even…know…what you are…talking about.”

  “That’s…why I’m trying…to educate…you. You…”

  “Oh, so…you’re educating…me? I…”

  “You…”

  “Will you…be quiet, please?” Tak said.

  It was an odd request for people that had been under the ice for nearly two months, but his companions complied. For a moment, anyway.

  “So…Tak,” Popeye said, eventually. “What…are we…doing…outside?”

  Popeye could be clingy and irritating, but he was loyal. All Tak had need to do was beckon him, and he followed. Tayshawn, too.

  “Recon,” he said, his voice alien. He was aware of moving much more slowly than usual, and without the languid grace that he and his people had when under the water. He wondered if it was the cold or simple disuse that was causing his limbs to seize up. The bullet he’d taken above his knee wasn’t helping, either.

  They’d left eighteen of the nineteen zombies that had followed him into the water at the submerged cabin, a two-room, post-and-beam structure that had settled at the deepest part of the lake. The cabin was found by the only zombie still underwater that was not inhabiting it—Mal. Mal seemed to climb into a shell after Tommy left, which was a niggling irritation to Tak, who thought a friendship existed between him and the large zombie.

  Mal had listened to Tak’s plan to go into the lake, without comment, and when he finally moved off of his rock in the forest he did so without any acknowledgment. Tak wasn’t even sure that Mal had gone into the water until he swam over to the rest of the zombies who were scouting along the lake bed. He managed, with just a few gestures and hand signals, to convince them to follow him, whereupon he led them all to the cabin, which had some benches, a table and chairs, the remains of some fishing gear nailed onto the walls, and a plethora of fish.

  Oddly, Mal left soon after, apparently not needing the psychic comfort the building provided, or the psychic comfort the zombies provided each other. Tak found him one day when he was exploring. Mal had been sitting on the bow of a sunken Chris-Craft, staring up at the ice ceiling the way he used to stare at the stars from the backyard of the Haunted House. He didn’t move when Tak approached, and Tak left him undisturbed.

  “Uh, Tak?” Popeye said. Tak realized that his companions were staring at him, waiting for him to give instructions of some sort. “Are we…going…to find…George?”

  “George is…dead, man,” Tayshawn said. “I mean…really…dead. He wasn’t…moving…after they…Tased…him.”

  “We’ve…got…to find…out.”

  Tak rose to his feet. He couldn’t feel the temperature, but he found himself imagining how cold he should feel.

  “George is…gone,” he said. “But Karen has a…job…for us.” He turned back toward the forest. “Karen needs us.”

  “Karen, huh?” Tayshawn said.

  “To do what?” Popeye said.

  “Bodyguarding,” Tak replied. “The Kendall girl.”

  “Whaaaaat?” Popeye said, freezing in his tracks.

  “Phoebe?” Tayshawn said, catching up to Tak. Tak had forgotten that he’d been in class with both of the girls. “Why? What’s going on?”

  “Pete Martinsburg,” Tak replied. “He framed us. He…is responsible…for George. He…wants…to kill…the girl. And frame…Layman…for the deed.”

  “What the…hell. Are we…ever going…to be rid…of t
hat guy?”

  “Why don’t we just…kill him?” Popeye said, serious.

  “We don’t…kill,” Tak said.

  “Oh, sure,” Popeye said. “But we can risk…our necks…for a…beating heart. Our necks and…everyone’s…under the…lake. Does that…seem right…to you?”

  “We don’t…kill, Popeye,” Tak said.

  “Yeah. That’ll make me feel…just great…when I’m getting…reterminated. When our friends…in the lake get…”

  Tak turned. “If you don’t want to…help…then go.”

  “I’m staying,” Tayshawn said. “Phoebe’s a little…weird, but…she’s a good…kid. We need more…beating hearts…like her, not…less.”

  Popeye lifted his webbed hand skyward, popping one of the stitches that secured the rubber to his thumb. “Fine. I’m just…saying. We have other…responsibilities, is all.”

  “Yes,” Tak said. “We…do.”

  They made it to the edge of the woods by Adam’s house, just before the sun began to rise.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  SOME PLACE IN UPSTATE Maine.” That’s all I had to go on. That, and if I could get it, a latex mask that looked like Tak. Would that be enough to prove that my friends were framed for a murder that hadn’t actually happened?

  It was a starting point. It was also, unless I could somehow charm Pete into confessing the whole thing to someone other than myself, all that I had.

  My first attempt to steal the mask was a dismal failure. I had it all planned out; I was going to break through one of the basement windows that led to Pete’s bedroom, make a beeline for the dresser I’d seen him take it from, grab it, and maybe take his iPod and whatever small items I could grab, just to make it look like I was there to steal stuff and not to look for evidence. The first part—the window breaking—went reasonably well, but that was about the only thing that did. How was I to know that the house was alarmed?

  So there I was, standing in Pete’s room, rooting through his dresser. I found socks, underwear, a large unopened box of condoms, a gold chain, a bundle of letters and cards in an elastic band, a knife, shirts, jeans, a deck of playing cards with some sports-team logo on the back, an empty vodka nip bottle, and a pair of panties I assumed was a souvenir and not Pete’s typical undergarment. No mask, though. Not in the drawer where it had been, not in any of the drawers.

  I looked under his bed and found an old pair of cleats. I looked in the closet. There was a red milk crate that held football pads, helmet, and a hockey stick. A couple of porno magazines were wedged behind two stacked shoeboxes, one filled with baseball cards and the other with a pair of shiny leather dress shoes. No mask.

  I looked through jacket pockets, under pillows, and behind the headboard. I looked in every drawer in the TV stand and found only video game cartridges and a set of drink coasters made out of cork. He had his own refrigerator and I even looked in there, but there was just a six-pack of Sprite Zero and three cans of beer.

  I walked up the stairs, not expecting better luck but not wanting to give up, either. Pete’s house was laid out in a very similar fashion to mine—I think most of the residential homes in Oakvale were built by the same developer, because there are only three or four different kinds of houses in Oakvale.

  I bypassed the kitchen to look in the family room, which seemed unused. I thought I’d check out the bookshelves, anyway, when I saw a police car pull into the driveway outside.

  Good thing I’m a fast little zombie. I didn’t even hesitate, I just turned around and ran back through the kitchen and into the dining room, which had a big sliding glass door that led to a large deck. I had a little trouble with the lock, but then I had the door open and was running across the deck. Pete had a large backyard, but luckily it was unfenced and bordered in the back by the Oxoboxo woods.

  The yard was slippery with the light crust of snow that had been shined to a gloss by the sun, which sat in a blue, clear sky. My shoes crunched through the crust with each step, giving the police a clear path to follow if they wanted, but it couldn’t be helped. I half expected the impact of a bullet to fling me down on my face again, but no bullets came my way.

  Maybe the cop went to the front door first and knocked, or maybe he sat in his cruiser while waiting for backup to arrive. Maybe he was too late to see me streaking into the woods, or maybe he thought his first duty was to search the house. I don’t know, because I didn’t wait to find out. I didn’t even look back.

  I ran for a while, going on and off the path so that my footprints would be impossible to follow. I hadn’t bothered to take anything when I left the Martinsburg home, which was not a good thing. Although I’d given him no impression that I was a thief, or anything other than a fairly blank but interested girl, I thought that maybe the lack of destruction and theft after the break-in would give Pete the idea that it was me snooping around. I was still thinking this hours later when I was at work.

  I was in the back room opening the freight when my cell phone rang. It was Pete.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey yourself,” I said, trying to activate the telepathetic powers that are by no means reliable. I set my box cutter down gently on the table. I haven’t had an “accident” in a few weeks.

  “What are you up to?”

  “Oh, you know,” I said, “the usual.”

  “You’ll never guess what happened.”

  “I’ve never been good at guessing.”

  He chuckled. “Zombies tried to break into my house,” he told me. “I’ll tell you all about it. Can you be ready in fifteen minutes?”

  “Um,” I said. This is the way things went with Pete. Half the time I thought I had him completely fooled, buffaloed into thinking that I was a real girl who was crazy about him, and the other half of the time I thought he was playing me. “Can you make it a couple hours? I’m off at eight.”

  “Sure. See you then.”

  Maybe tonight, I thought. I’d gotten through the rest of the Christmas season at the mall without being shot at or overwhelmed by the fog, which are accomplishments in themselves, I guess. I’d worked a metric ton of hours at the store, and at no time was my secret identity compromised. Maybe I was getting overconfident.

  Tommy’s mother, Faith, came in the store, just in time to overhear Craig yelling at me to go take a break, something he did often (Tamara, on the other hand, got yelled at because the many breaks she took were too long). He said I was trying to get the labor board on him, or something equally goofy, and told me to go get something to eat.

  “Hi, Karen!” Mrs. Williams called, and if it was still able to, my stomach would have flipped.

  “Oh hi, Mrs. Williams!” I said, taking her arm and leading her toward the door. The last thing I needed was for Tommy’s mom to out me as a zombie. “I was just about to take a break! Bye, Craig!”

  He gave a half-hearted return to my wave, a confused look on his pierced face. Craig often looked at me as if he knew something wasn’t quite right. Then again, Craig looked at almost everyone that way.

  “Was he trying to be funny about the food comment?” Faith said before we made it outside, and as we got to the threshold of the store and into the brighter light of the mall, she really got a good look at me—the hair, the clothes, the skin. “Karen! Your eyes are blue!”

  I rushed her out of there lickety-split, hoping that Craig hadn’t heard her. “Let’s go to the food court, okay, Mrs. Williams?”

  “Oh my,” she said, lowering her voice, even though we were now out of earshot. “You’re pretending, aren’t you?”

  Supersweet, and supersharp, too. I could tell she thought the idea was pretty funny.

  I winked at her. I’d gotten pretty good at it so that my lids didn’t fuse together before separating. “Shhhhhh.”

  “How are you getting away with it? Your eyes…” she said, lifting her hand to her mouth to keep her mirth inside.

  “Magic,” I told her. “I keep telling everyone that we’re magic, but no one
wants to listen.”

  “They’re contacts, aren’t they? You have blue contacts.”

  I shook my head. “Magic.”

  Giggling, she told me how wonderful I looked and how funny her son would think it was. My passing, I mean. But then she got really serious for a minute and held my hand.

  “What you’re doing is dangerous,” she said.

  “I’m in danger?” I said, trying to laugh it off. We took seats at one of the wobbly round tables in the food court. Two tables away, a young woman was trying to simultaneously feed two children in a doublewide stroller, and a third small child on the seat beside her. “Isn’t Tommy in Washington fighting for zombie rights? Who’s in danger?”

  “I didn’t say you were the only one,” she said, lightly.

  I was going to explain, make assurances, etc.—but I realized I didn’t have to. She wasn’t going to try and talk me out of what I was doing any more than she tried to talk her son out of doing what he’s doing. She was making a statement of fact, that’s all, so I agreed with her.

  “I worry about Tommy all the time,” she said. “But he’s on a mission, an important one, and I have to swallow my worry and replace it with hope. He really believes that he has a calling to make the world a better place for the differently biotic. He always had such a strong sense of duty and responsibility.”

  She was talking about him, but she was also trying to tell me something.

  “When I think of the danger he’s putting himself into by going on this trip, I just start shaking. He’s already so far away, and he’s so sad about Phoebe and Adam.”

  She smiled, and I saw that the tears I’d been fearing were not going to come. Faith was sad, confused, and maybe a little hurt, but these feelings were tempered by the fierce pride she had for her son.

  “He’s not like you, Karen. He would never be stealthy about things, like you are, or bluff his way through.”

  “I know,” I told her. “That’s why we all love him. Because if he were me he wouldn’t be tricking people into hiring him. He’d be demanding a job not necessarily because he wanted one, but because one of us might want one.”