The Dead (a Lot) Trilogy (Book 1): Wicked Dead

by Odentz, Howard

  “I didn’t know if you were coming back,” he muttered. “I never know if you’re coming back.”

  He pushed really hard on the mop handle one last time, and it shot out of his hands and skidded across the deck. He almost toppled over, so I grabbed him, which I guess was a bad move.

  Bullseye punched me. It wasn’t hard. It was just a kid’s punch—but just the same, he hauled off and punched me. Then he did it again and again and again, until I realized that I just had to stand there and take it because this is what he had to do.

  Tears streamed down his face. “Everyone leaves,” he cried. “Mommy left and Daddy left and my sisters left,” punch, punch, punch, “then Mr. Choy left and you guys left in that ugly yellow jeep,” punch, punch, punch, “then you left me at the farm and you left me again last night.” The punching slowed down. He was exhausted and his eyes were puffy and red. “And . . . and . . . and . . . I don’t have anyone,” he sobbed. “I . . . don’t . . . have . . . anyone.”

  I grabbed his raised fists and held them tight. “That’s not true,” I said. “You know that’s not true.”

  “It is true,” he sobbed. “Jimmy has Trina and Prianka has Sanjay. And you—you have your entire family. I don’t have anyone.”

  I didn’t care what major life crisis he was going through. At that moment I wanted to hit him. My mother was dying just twenty feet away. Hell, she might even already by dead—but I couldn’t do it. This wasn’t about me at all. This was about a little boy—a little boy who was scared and alone, and I had to fix this before he spiraled out of control.

  “You’re my family,” I said. “We’re all a family.”

  “We’re not a family,” he wailed, the tears streaming down his face. “We’re not anything. I’m just some stupid kid who everyone thinks is a murderer.”

  “What?” Blind-sided twice. “Who ever said that?”

  “No one has to say it,” he screamed. “I know what everyone thinks of me. I’m the kid with the gun. I’m the kid who doesn’t have a problem pulling the trigger.”

  “And that’s why you’re so important,” I said, still holding on to his clenched fists. “Without you, we’re nothing. We’re all nothing.”

  “Shut up, liar,” he screamed and yanked his fists away. “I showed you how to shoot a gun. Now you know. You don’t need me. None of you need me.” He kicked the bucket of water over and the soapy, gray liquid splashed across the deck and dripped though the crevices.

  I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what to say. Thankfully, Prianka came up to stand beside me.

  “Pick it up,” she said to him with a mouthful of icicles.

  “Go to hell.”

  “Pick it up now, Ryan.”

  “Make me.”

  She did. She cracked him across the face with her open palm so hard that his cheek immediately began to turn red. I was stunned. I kept looking from Prianka to Bullseye to Prianka again. I half expected him to pull a little gun out of the back of his jeans and drop her on the spot.

  He didn’t.

  Instead, he started to cry in a way that was terrible to hear—terrible because I actually felt each gasp, each pained sob. I felt it deep down inside because his tears summed up all of the past week. Every poxer we torched, every person we loved that was now gone—his family, my uncle, the entire world, everything.

  Then Prianka opened her arms. Bullseye, with tears streaming down his face, rushed into them. She held him close as though she could make everything safe and whole and right again.

  As for me, I shoved my hands down deep in my pockets and stood there for a moment before I realized that I didn’t feel comfortable standing there at all. His meltdown was over, at least for the moment. Like I said, we all had the right to cave at least once. Maybe this was his time. Who knows?

  There’s one thing I did know. It wasn’t my place to be there anymore, on that deck, in that moment. This wasn’t about me. This was about Bullseye.

  So I did exactly what the twelve-year-old who was key in helping us get this far accused me of doing.

  I left.

  31

  NO ONE KNEW Krystal and Sanjay were there until it was too late—well, except for Andrew, which made the whole mess that much creepier.

  I walked in on the two of them as they were crouched over Trudy Aiken, her enormous stomach practically hiding Krystal behind a mountain of blubber.

  “Her chakras are blocked,” said Sanjay as he held the stuffed dog up to his ear. “Poopy Puppy says so.”

  Sanjay had untied Trudy’s hands. The knotted t-shirts were balled up next to her on the floor.

  “The kundalini energy that’s lying at the base of her spine needs to be aroused so it can rise back up through the more subtle chakras until her union with the energetic forces of nature is achieved in her crown chakra.”

  The who of the what?

  Krystal nodded her curls like she completely understood everything Sanjay was saying. As for me, my stomach cramped. Trudy’s chubby ham-hock arms were moving a little.

  Andrew bobbed his head up and down and said, “Chakra.”

  What the hell is a chakra?

  At first, my throat got so dry that I couldn’t get the words out. Finally, I whispered, “Hey guys, why don’t you come over here?” I was afraid to move. They were sitting in the middle of a poxer powder keg and any second it could explode. Calling them to me was like asking them to navigate a mine field.

  Trudy Aiken gurgled and saliva spilled from her mouth.

  “That is her releasing her prana,” said Sanjay.

  “Ew,” said Krystal. Then she giggled.

  I stared hard at my feet and made a wish. It was the only thing I could think of doing. Please let this be a dream. Please let me be back on the other side of the store with my head in Prianka’s lap. I won’t even wish to wake up in Littleham. Just please let this not be happening.

  I must have used up my three wishes.

  I looked up and Krystal and Sanjay were still there, but now everything was even worse because Trudy’s eyes were open.

  My mind raced. What do I do? Trudy has her hands free. Sanjay can get away from her if he has to—at least I think he can. Krystal can’t. No way. She’s right on top of her.

  Trudy’s fat fingers twitched open and closed, and her eyeballs rolled in their dingy, gray sockets.

  She’s a poxer. Trudy Aiken had become a poxer, and that meant my mother was going to be a poxer, too. Everything that Dorcas and I did last night was for nothing. The covered bridge and the ambulance, Witch Hazel and her poxette, the pharmacy and Roger Ludlow, and the helicopter people—they were all for nothing. Everyone who was sick was going to turn into monsters and we were going to have to torch them. The worst part was that we, meaning us kids, were going to have to do it, because Aunt Ella and Dorcas and my dad weren’t capable.

  My stomach roiled and I felt like I was going to puke.

  “Morning,” chirped Trina cheerfully as she leisurely walked through the t-shirt racks, stretching her arms over her head like everything was just peachy-keen in life and she had no worries in the world.

  She might as well have used a bull horn and a gong. Trudy’s fat hand shot out and grabbed the first thing it could find.

  Krystal.

  The four-year-old screamed, and that’s all it took for all hell to break loose.

  “What the . . .” Trina said as she finished her stretch.

  “Get the kids away from Trudy,” screamed Aunt Ella. She had been sleeping on the floor next to Dorcas, who was still snoring away. “Tripp, get them away.”

  Trina and I moved at the same time, from opposite ends of the room. The other sick peoples’ eyes fluttered open and they started spitting and snarling and straining against their bonds. My dad shot ou
t of his chair, but he was still half asleep and his legs got tangled somehow. Both he and the chair went toppling over, dangerously close to my mom’s gnashing teeth.

  Andrew flapped into the air in no particular direction, but because we were all moving at once, I think we spooked him. He had no place to go but around in circles like a demented bat in a haunted house, threatening to get tangled in our hair at any moment.

  Trina grabbed Sanjay by the shirt and pulled him away from the chaos. I hopped over Nedra Stein and Randy Stephens, took a giant step, and planted one foot right in the middle of Trudy’s stomach. My intention was to go up and over her like she was a jelly-filled pillow in an obstacle course of the dead. But my foot sunk just a little and threw me off balance. I fell hard, my butt landing on the floor at Trudy’s feet. If your ass-end can see stars, mine was seeing the entire galaxy. It felt like I broke my tail bone, but I didn’t care about that. I cared about getting Krystal.

  This time I was just too late.

  Trudy, unable to get her girth up into a sitting position, managed to roll over on her side and pull the little girl to her mouth. I saw it all. I heard it all. The screaming, and Andrew flying in circles unable to find a place to land, and the other sick people, who were also probably poxers by now, popping and hissing.

  Krystal, her tiny face filled with the worst kind horror—the kind reserved for much older people who know they have no hope—wailed in terror. That’s when Trudy bit down on her arm. Blood spilled out of her fat mouth as Krystal shrieked in pain.

  “NO!” I screamed. How could we lose Krystal? How could everything be so unfair? Aunt Ella said Krystal’s whole family had been taken out by poxers. Now her? This wasn’t happening. It just wasn’t happening!

  I was right.

  Nothing happened. Trudy bit her, that’s for sure, and the bite was ugly, but it wasn’t—horrible. Her piggy, gray eyes looked at me as she lay sprawled out on the floor of Swifty’s. She wiped the blood from her mouth and belched loudly, like football loud—the kind of belch guys make when they’re watching the game and there aren’t any girls around to get grossed out.

  “That’s not pizza,” rasped Trudy, her foul mouth covered in gore.

  At first, it didn’t even register she was talking. Trudy let go of Krystal and fell backwards with a thud and lay motionless again. Frankly, I didn’t care about her. I cared about the four-year-old poxer who was going to go on a rampage at any moment, her baby teeth tearing at my dad or my aunt or anyone else she could find.

  Krystal just wailed, gripping her arm as blood poured through her fingers.

  What was happening? She’s not immune, unless by some bizarre miracle her family had been like mine. No—that wasn’t it. There was something else. Trudy had talked. She had said something about pizza. Poxers don’t talk—at least I don’t think they do.

  What in the hell was going on?

  “Boo-boo,” Krystal wailed hysterically, staring at us with wide, wet eyes. “Boo-boo, boo-boo.” We all wanted to run to her and scoop her up, but we didn’t dare. My aunt watched her warily—so did my dad. Trina and Sanjay were by the cash register, her fingers still gripping his shirt collar tightly.

  Tense seconds passed as we waited for those awful parasites to go right to her brain and totally consume her, leaving behind a poxer-tot where there was once a little girl—but nothing happened.

  Finally, Sanjay said, “Not sick.” Andrew, who had landed on top of one of the candy hoppers, zeroed in on his voice and immediately flapped over to him and landed on his head.

  “Yeah,” said Jimmy, who finally decided to join the party. “What gives?” He wheeled over to Trina. I guess I hadn’t noticed, but he had seen the whole thing.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t get it.”

  Eddie with the fake hair, who was lying on the floor next to Trudy Aiken, whispered, “Water,” in a hoarse voice. He was echoed by a couple of the others in gravel-filled monotones.

  “Water, please. Yes, water.”

  All the while Krystal wailed. “Boo-boo,” she cried, her arms dripping with blood. “Boo-boo. Boo-boo.”

  32

  OKAY, SO THEIR skin was gray, their eyes were gray, and if Eddie with the fake hair was a little bit shorter and his eyes were a little bit bigger, he would actually look like one of those creepy little gray aliens that are supposed to abduct people and do rectal examinations.

  One thing was certain. Not one of them had Necropoxy.

  Everyone who had been sick was now awake—weak, but awake. You could see by looking at them they were still fighting off something, but it was clear they were winning the battle. As a matter of fact, it looked like the disease was reversing itself.

  Everything was happening so fast. My dad even remarked that parasitic infections usually don’t clobber you over the head so quickly then go running for the hills in the space of a day. Apparently, Necropoxy was the exception.

  All I knew was I still had my mom. That’s what I really cared about. Everything had been so tense and weird that it was nice to breathe a sigh of relief for a change. I had almost forgotten what that felt like.

  Trudy Aiken lay on her side, unwilling to look at any of us. She was so ashamed of what she had done she just couldn’t shake the feeling. When she finally realized that the red, salty stuff that lingered on her tongue wasn’t the kind of sauce that comes with mozzarella and anchovies, she cried black tears. That was bizarre all by itself, but probably part of the whole poxer thing. Thankfully, the special of the day wasn’t little girl with pineapple and pepperoni, after all.

  As for everyone else—Nedra, Randy, Eddie, Freaky Big Bird, and my mom—they just wanted water. Dad said that was a good thing. Water would help flush the necro-buggers out of their systems—and make them pee a lot.

  While Aunt Ella and Dorcas tended to everyone, Dad worked on Krystal’s arm. He had to stitch her wound in a couple of spots because Trudy’s bite broke the skin. Krystal sobbed and cried, so my dad gave her one of those giant lollypops that Aunt Ella had been sucking on last night. Krystal concentrated on the rainbow swirls instead of her arm, and in a few minutes the job was done. She was a tough little girl. I liked that about her. What’s more, she had Trina and Prianka as role models. A little time spent with the two of them and she would be icy and tough—a winning combination in a world filled with poxers.

  Sanjay watched my dad, fascinated by everything he was doing.

  “Human bites are bad,” said my dad as he finished sewing the last stich on Krystal’s tiny arm.

  Sanjay nodded. “Poopy Puppy says human bite wounds are notoriously deceptive and are often underestimated and undertreated.” Andrew chirped when Sanjay spoke, so he added, “Andrew says so, too.”

  “That’s true,” said my dad with a little bit of a smile on his face. I think he found Sanjay’s particular form of autism fascinating.

  Sanjay continued. “There are controversies regarding best care practices, but meticulous wound care is paramount.”

  My dad’s grin grew a little bigger. He wrapped a clean bandage around Krystal’s arm and pulled the lollypop out of her mouth. “Not too much of that, young lady. Okay?”

  “Okay,” she said, obviously with no intention of listening to him. He might as well have said oogity-boogity-boogity—Krystal could have cared less. She was too focused on coating her molars with sugar.

  “It is important to minimize the soft tissue deformity,” added Sanjay. “That’s why early, aggressive treatment is mandatory to prevent infection and associated complications.”

  My dad snorted. Sanjay fixed him in the eye, which was really uncommon for him. He usually didn’t like to look at anyone directly in the eye. “Are you being early and aggressive in your mandatory treatment to prevent infection and associated complications?” he asked. It would have almost been fun
ny if Sanjay wasn’t so dead serious.

  “You tell me,” said my dad.

  Andrew preened his feathers while Sanjay pulled Poopy Puppy to his ear. He nodded his head a few times while my dad watched with interest.

  “There’s another way,” Sanjay finally said.

  “And what would that be?” asked my dad.

  Sanjay stood up and raised his arms over Krystal. She didn’t notice because she was still focused on the lollypop and how many licks it was going to take to wear away the whole thing. He cleared his throat and chanted:

  “Urinate upon the wound.

  Nary tally, do it soon.

  Fill with maggots for a while.

  Let them eat the pus and bile.

  When the blood runs clean and bright

  Take the bugs from off the site.

  Do this thrice upon the week

  You will find the health you seek.”

  I gulped. “Whatever he just said, I think that’s messed up.”

  “He’s not wrong,” Dad laughed. “Urine has been thought to be a sterilizer and maggot therapy is sometimes used in big-city hospitals to clear away dead tissue.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “That’s gross. Cool, but gross.”

  Aunt Ella was holding Freaky Big Bird’s head in her hand, helping her to sip a glass of water. “It’s my books,” she said. “Sanjay must have picked that spell out of one of my books.” She smiled. “He’s our little witch doctor.”

  Sanjay stroked Andrew’s feathers. “A witch doctor is a type of healer who treats ailments with sorcery,” he said. “It’s also used to refer to those who practice alternative medicine.” He looked straight at my dad again. “Or quacks,” he added.

  “Quacks,” said Andrew.

  “Quacks,” repeated Sanjay.

  My dad was no quack. Whatever he did last night seemed to work. Maybe getting fluids into them is what did it, or maybe the disease just worked its way out of their systems by itself because of something that Diana and the eggheads at Site 37 had done to them. Maybe Dorcas blew smoke on them and that’s why they healed.