A sense of dread washed over me. “Guys, I think we better go.”
“He needs help.” Brendan pointed at Blake’s shaking body.
“Yeah, and someone else can get it for him,” Reagan chimed in.
I nodded in agreement. “I think we’d better head back to Props, make sure Taylor’s okay, wait for help to arrive, and head home.”
I needed to call my mom and ask her to come pick me up. I pulled out my phone, turned it on ready to dial when Reagan interrupted me.
“I need to check on BB. I need to see if she’s all right,” her voice wavered as she started off to find her sister.
“Reagan! Wait!” I called after her. She didn’t stop. I turned to Brendan. “I’m gonna go with her.” I slipped my phone back in my bag.
“I’m gonna go check on the others and see if help has arrived. Maybe they can help him too.” He pointed down at Blake who’d stopped shaking. “Do you think I should try to bring him inside?”
“No. When help comes, just show them where he is.”
My gut told me it would probably be best to leave him there for now.
Brendan nodded and I hurried to catch up with Reagan.
I knew I wasn’t her first choice for company but it seemed like she went out of her way to prove her point. I practically had to run to keep up with her as she led the way to the office building. It stood at the center of the studio, a few stories taller than the other buildings. Its facade was made of reflective glass windows instead of bland beige siding like the rest. I followed her up the pathway leading to the building and through the doors. She breezed right past the receptionist in the lobby and unlike everyone else that entered, she didn’t have to sign in or have an appointment. I sped up and followed her to the elevator. She pressed a button and suddenly we were heading to the building’s top floor.
We stepped out of the elevator at the end of a long hallway I’d never been in before.
“Hurry up,” Reagan called. She was already out of the elevator. “BB should be in there.” She pointed at one of the three doors on the hall.
I hurried to join her.
“BB, where are you, bitch?” Reagan called as she opened the door and stepped inside the darkened room.
No bitches made their whereabouts known.
I hesitated at the entrance, a little afraid to follow Reagan inside. Not only was the room dark, it was quiet. Too quiet. Reagan had disappeared farther into room. Other than the little light that filtered into the room from the hallway, I could barely see past my nose.
“Reagan?” I took another step inside.
She didn’t answer.
I took a few steps back toward the safety of the light.
“Come on, Dia. I know this place is giving you the creeps but you can do this,” I whispered, trying to psych myself up to step into the room again.
“Maybe this will help.” I flipped the switch on the wall, expecting a light to turn on. Nothing happened. I tried again. Still no light.
“Reagan!” I called louder. She still didn’t answer.
Something isn’t right.
I stepped further inside.
A light flickered on in another room spilling into the room I was in. It definitely had BB Bixby flair—tons of purple and white one-of-a-kind furniture and decor plus lots with shiny, sparkly things. Heavy purple drapes covered the windows, blocking sunlight. Looking up, I saw why the light didn’t work. Wires snaked out of a hole in the ceiling and the chandelier they were once connected to was in pieces on the white carpet. Joining the broken light was a knocked over table, a broken vase, and a dozen trampled lilies.
Reagan had to be in the other room. There was nowhere else she could’ve gone. My stomach clenched as I slowly approached the doorway, stopping just outside.
A thud from the other room made me jump.
I took a step and hesitated.
“Come on, you’re Dia Muerto. You can do this,” I muttered.
Fearless Dia Muerto would’ve headed into the next room without a second thought. She lacked the ability to think things through—you know, being a zombie and all. Dia Summers, on the other hand, was well aware of the creepiness in the air, and I wasn’t one for barging into unknown territory without at least some of the facts. I held my breath as I walked toward the doorway and peeked my head inside. Reagan rushed past me, her hand cupped over her mouth, a terrified look in her eyes. She nearly knocked me down as she ran out into the hall.
A low ominous moan came from the room Reagan fled. My stomach dropped to my feet.
I turned on heel and ran from the room as quickly as Reagan did. I didn’t want to know what was responsible for the sound, and I wasn’t going to stick around to find out. Reagan frantically beat on the door at the end of the hall, crying for her dad to open up.
Dread crept over me as I watched Reagan jiggle the doorknob with one hand and pound the door with the other as she screamed for Mr. Bixby. The door didn’t open. Something was wrong. Whatever was in the other room had frightened her to tears. I turned around, ready to run back to the elevator when I saw what had caused Reagan to run.
Her sister, BB Bixby, stood between the elevator and me in a shimmery silver mini dress. She limped toward us, covered in splatters of red, one foot in a strappy silver sandal and the other foot bare. Her hands were tipped in red liquid, one clutching a lock of hair. Red rimmed her mouth like a gruesome lipstick. It streaked across her cheek toward her hairline where a chunk of pink matter settled on a wisp of dark hair while the rest was a wild tangle. Her skin had gone gray and she had the same blue rash as Amber. She cocked her head to the side, setting black eyes on me. She bared black-stained teeth and let out a low growl.
BB didn’t look like any heiress I knew. She didn’t look like an actress either. She looked like a monster. Like something fromDia of the Dead but way more terrifying. I gasped, covering my mouth and took a step back. I knew what I was looking at. The realization made my blood run cold. I’d watched dozens of movies about them as research for my role. It didn’t dawn on me earlier but now, looking at BB, it clicked. The walk. The moans. The stench. The appetite for flesh. Barbara Bush Bixby was a zombie with blood stained hands and a walk that put Dia Muerto’s to shame.
I couldn’t take my eyes off of BB as I joined Reagan in calling for help.
BB moaned as she slugged toward us. Though she lacked the speed Amber had, I didn’t want her long arms to catch me if I tried to run past her to the elevator. She wasn’t moving fast but from my experience with Amber, I knew she was strong.
I quickly turned around and joined Reagan in pummeling at the door for it to open.
“Stop! Stop! Stop!” Reagan barked taking a step back.
I paused.
“Step back.” Her words were measured and surprisingly calm given our current predicament.
I looked at her like she was crazy then back at BB who was closer but still slow in her approach. I stepped closer to the door just in case.
“Step. Back!” Reagan barked again.
I took another glance at BB and against my better judgment, took a step back.
Reagan stepped back then threw herself at the door. It creaked under her weight. She took another step back and slammed her body—shoulder first—into the door again. It creaked once more but didn’t give way. She did it again and again, the door creaking and groaning but staying put. BB was too close for comfort. If she wanted too, she could’ve reached out to grab us.
Reagan’s effort alone was not going to get the door open. I hurled myself against the door in time with her next attempt. The frame splintered and the door flew open. We both toppled over inside the room. I scrambled to my feet, hopping over Reagan and ran to the door. I closed the door the moment before BB’s bare foot crossed the threshold. I heard a muffled crack.
There goes her new nose.
BB didn’t let the door stop her from trying to get to us. She scratched at it, trying to make her way inside. I threw my weight aga
inst the door, using every ounce of my hundred and seven pounds to keep it shut but the soles of my shoes slid on the beige carpeting. I was losing my footing, making it difficult to keep BB out. She bumped against the door, groaning and clawing.
“Reagan, I need help,” I grunted. “I don’t think I can keep her out of here much longer.”
I did a quick turn—my hands never leaving the door—and pressed my backside against it. The sets of squats mom and I did every morning came in handy but I wouldn’t be able to do keep it up for long.
“Reagan, help.” My voice lilted as I called for her again.
Reagan sat on the floor, hugging her knees close to her chest, her face buried, crying softly. I’d do the same if I found my only sister in the state BB was in. While Reagan’s assistance would’ve been awesome, not to mention extremely helpful, she wasn’t up for it.
I scanned the room, looking for something to block the door. Mr. Bixby’s large oak desk loomed in the distance with chrome knick-knacks and a half-empty glass of water resting on top of it. Potted plants, healthy and green, were scattered throughout, giving it the feel of a posh jungle. Several abstract sculptures were on display in a glass case built into one of the walls. Paintings and family portraits decorated the others that weren’t made of windows. There was a television mounted on the wall above the bookshelf a few feet away from the door.
“The bookshelf!” I shouted. “I need to get the bookshelf over here.”
I twisted my body, keeping my weight on the door, and pressed my ear against it, listening for the moment when BB’s scratching stopped. Picking up on her pattern, I knew it would come soon. Like clockwork, it did. I pushed the door with all my strength and locked it. I dashed over to the bookshelf and threw the books onto the floor. I struggled but I managed to push the shelf in front of the door. Though it was wider than the doorframe and heavy, I was still afraid it wouldn’t be enough to keep BB out.
I judged the door. It didn’t seem like the bookshelf was budging. I quickly dashed over to the book pile, filling my arms with all the books I could carry and brought them over. I threw them on the shelf and went back for the rest until the bookshelf was stacked with the heaviest books.
Mr. Bixby had a sitting area to the right of the door with two overstuffed burgundy chairs resting on a beautiful rug, facing a cabinet of sculptures. The chairs were probably the heaviest things in the room that didn’t require a team of movers. I ran over and dragged one to the door, pushing it against the bookshelf. I went back for the other and added it to our impromptu barricade.
“That should hold for now.” I dusted my hands together. “But how’re we going to get back to the others?” I looked around the room for another way out. There were only two options—the door that had a hungry zombie waiting on the other side or the windows. I went over to them and peered out at the lot. Besides there being no way to open them, it was a long way down.
“Reagan, is there another way out?”
She didn’t answer. I was going to ask again when something on the TV caught my attention. The local news had paused coverage of Missy’s death to show live footage of St. Damian Hospital where she’d been taken. The station’s helicopter cam showed a line of police cars parked in front of the hospital’s entrance with policemen in riot gear gathered in huddles near vans on the other side of the street. Roadblocks were up.
St. Damian’s wasn’t too far from the studio. The television’s volume was too low to hear. I had to resort to reading the text at the bottom of the screen. It scrolled by quickly, almost too fast to read but from the words I caught, the hospital was under lockdown. No one was allowed to enter or exit due to some kind of major emergency.
This is bad.
I looked at Reagan who was still on the floor, hugging her legs and rocking back and forth. If I told her that I believed BB was a zombie, she’d unravel. We would never make it out of the building and back to the others in one piece. I had to keep my mouth shut until I thought of a way out on my own.
I paced in front of the TV, waiting for my brain to come up with a plan. It wasn’t easy since everything I came up with was ridiculous, impossible, or way too dangerous. Minutes passed and I still hadn’t come up with something we could actually use. Reagan had stopped rocking and crying. Her dark eyes were unfocused and fixed on a blank spot on the wall. She had retreated into herself.
I approached her carefully, taking a seat next to her on the floor. She didn’t say anything, just kept staring at the wall. If this were a scene onDia of the Dead, Dia Muerto would mumble a bit of dialogue with a clever zombie pun and everything would be better. All problems solved before the end credits rolled. At the very least,that Dia would have the perfect line to say to Reagan that would make her snap back to the present and help me think of a way out of this room.
But this was real life, not some cheesy kids’ show. I had to come up with words of comfort on my own and once again, I had nothing. I sat next to her, my hand hovering over her back, debating whether to give her a few comforting pats or leave her alone. Reagan and I didn’t have the best relationship for reasons I didn’t understand. From the moment we met I was pretty sure she hated me.
A few days after I received the call from The Bixby Network saying I’d won the role of Ann Dead, Dia Muerto’s original name, Mr. Bixby held an ice cream social in the studio’s cafeteria for all employees where he introduced the network’s new hires. Mr. Bixby gave a short welcoming speech then turned things over to the sundae bar. Mom was there in momager mode and ditched me as soon as we hit the door to do some networking. I was left to roam the room on my own. Not knowing what else to do, I fixed myself a cup of vanilla froyo (with sprinkles) and went about trying to make friends.
The walk through the cafeteria was as nerve-racking as the walk through the cafeteria on my first day of high school. The cup of froyo trembled in my hands as I looked for a friendly face in the crowd. Though everyone was smiling, I didn’t get a welcoming vibe from anyone I passed along the way. Coming up short on somewhere to sit, I decided to find a place at the next table I came across. Big mistake. I took the empty seat at the table with Reagan, BB, and their friends. They looked me over, giving A+ bitch faces, and giggled as I stuttered to introduce myself. Reagan sneered and dismissed me with a comment about being Bixby’s latest 2-for-1 diversity hire. Her remark made the other girls laugh louder. I got up from the table with tears stinging my eyes and a cup of melting yogurt in my hands. I bit my lip, afraid to say anything and went to look for my mother. I was prepared to beg her to take me back to our new home at Helena Gardens when I was intercepted by Kaci Miller, a friendly girl with a welcoming smile who invited me to come sit with her.
Sitting in her father’s office with her dead-undead sister lumbering about the hall just beyond the barricaded door, Reagan seemed fragile. She wasn’t the same girl who’d called Missy names in Mason’s dressing room a short while ago. She needed her space; I decided to leave her be. I got up and started brainstorming. Once again I came up empty handed. I had no choice but to bother Reagan again. I sat down next to her.
“Reagan, is there a way out of here? We need to get back to the others.”
“There is.”
I turned toward her. “Huh?”
“There’s another way out.” Her voice was distant, her eyes still staring at the wall.
“Reagan, how are you doing?” I asked softly.
She slowly rose to her feet and walked over to the sculpture display. She opened the case and lifted a piece that was more or less a white block and sat it beside a sculpture of a human form. Underneath the white block’s resting spot was a box with several buttons. Reagan pushed a couple of them and took a step back. The display shifted, revealing a door. Reagan pushed the door open and waved me forward.
“Phillip likes to duck out of the office early sometimes. He has another exit,” she said, her voice emotionless. “Sometimes BB and I—” She stopped talking, her eyes shiny with tears. She lowered
her head and cleared her throat.
This was truly a side of Reagan Bixby, I’d never seen. I enveloped her in a hug.
“Ugh. What are you doing?” She pushed me away, her eyes narrowing into dark slits as she glared at me.
“I’m crying. Big deal.” She wiped away a tear. “I don’t need you to comfort me. We’re not friends and don’t let this—this…whatever this is fool you into thinking otherwise. In fact, I think may hate you even more now because you tried to hug me.”
I backed away with my hands in the air. “I was just trying to be a nice, Reagan. You’re obviously upset and I just thought—“
“—Whatever you thought, you thought wrong. My sister may be acting weird but nothing has changed between you and me. And it won’t change. Got it?” She paused and looked at me. “Let’s go.” She pushed the door open and disappeared.
“Hurry up,” Reagan called. “We don’t have all day, do we?”
Something slammed against the door causing the bookshelf to quake. I ran to join her.
“Watch your step,” she warned as I entered the passage.
I stepped down carefully. Reagan held a second door open. The display case slid back into place after us, leaving the small room in darkness for a moment. A single bulb flickered on overhead, providing some light.
“Come on,” Reagan huffed and started down the stairs.
We wound our way down what seemed to be a never-ending staircase. I was a bit dizzy from all of the turns by the time we reached the bottom. Reagan opened the door, letting in light from outside. I squinted as I moved past her, my eyes hurt from the abrupt change, and peeked out of the door. We were on the side of the building, facing the backside of building Four. There was no sign of anyone. Not even security. The lot seemed empty. I leaned back inside.
“I don’t know if there’s anyone else that has what BB has but when we get out there, we have to punch it. Run as fast as you can toward Six when I say so. Don’t look back. Just keep running. Don’t stop until you reach the others. Okay?”
Reagan rolled her eyes but eventually nodded.
Dia of the Dead Page 8
