Zombies vs. Unicorns

by Holly Black

  “Our parents, all the grown-ups, they fought the wars and ruined the land and exploited each other.”

  “And what did we do?” Tahmina pressed.

  “We turned them out into the desert to die!”

  “It was them or us,” Tahmina started. “I’m sure they would have wanted us to—”

  Zeke raised his arms heavenward. “It was wrong! When Abraham offered Isaac on the mountain, God spared him. Maybe God was testing us. Parents give us protection, and we owe them our obedience.”

  “Not when they’re trying to eat us. Just sayin’,” Jeff spat back.

  Tahmina shook the gasoline cans. They were mostly empty, but she could smell the gasoline, and even a little gas was dangerous. “Sorry, Zeke. You know you can’t have this. We need it.”

  Zeke stood right in front of Tahmina, his eyes searching hers. “For what? What are we saving it for? There’s no help coming. It’s like the last month of school all the time.”

  Tahmina couldn’t help but laugh. In some ways that was the worst part of the infection—the endless waiting, the absolute crushing boredom of it all.

  “I’ll save you,” Zeke whispered, his eyes huge. “I’ll save you all.”

  In a flash, he had one of the cans. He ran to the edge of the lot, unscrewed the cap, and poured the trickle of gas over his body.

  “Holy shit!” Jeff yelled. He and Tahmina raced for Zeke, and shoved him to the ground. Tahmina secured Zeke’s hands with the cuffs, and they hauled him, screaming, to the cruiser.

  “I will die for you! Let me die for you!” he shouted.

  “Not tonight,” Jeff answered, and locked Zeke in the backseat. He sniffed his wet sleeve, made a face. “Fuck. Now I smell like gas.”

  “Let’s drop him at the station, then check the perimeter,” Tahmina said.

  The last time Tahmina had gone to the Tower of Silence was Monday. She and Jeff had taken the body of an anonymous soldier Tahmina had shot as he’d tried to tunnel under the fence with his clawlike hands. They’d also taken a half-starved uninfected dog they couldn’t afford to feed. Jeff had driven, and through the metal grate over the windshield (it had been fashioned by the automotive kids in the old shop classroom), Tahmina had kept watch, letting the sun-bleached sameness of the desert lull her into reverie. It was Tahmina’s father who had built the tower, who’d taught her to say the prayers, who’d showed her how to keep the fire going for three days. “You must be the law now, Mina,” he’d said, pressing his palms to her cheeks as if he’d wanted to memorize the geography of her face.

  She’d tried to honor the traditions, but it was getting harder. While Tahmina performed the rites, Jeff would stand guard with the rifle and Molotov cocktails in case of ambush. Once, two undead were waiting at the base of the tower when they got there, and Jeff had to slice through their necks with his machete. Tahmina tended the sacred fire in a trash can just inside the fence, feeding it small bits of wood, the clothing of the dead, spent cereal boxes. The week before, when they’d found Leonard Smalls hanging from a rafter in his garage, his car radio still blaring Metallica (if it hadn’t been for the noise, they might not have found him for days), they’d loaded up the house’s furniture and picture frames, and even his suicide note, which read only, I’m so tired of this bullshit. The new kindling would last them a while, so there was that, at least. The smoke and soot was harsh, though, and Tahmina lived with an almost constant irritation in her eyes, nose, and throat, as if her body wanted to expel something but couldn’t.

  Now, as they drove Zeke to the station, they passed neighborhoods of darkened houses. On the left a sign boasted the future site of Bliss Valley, a gated community with a golf course. The half-built houses loomed like skeletons. About a dozen teens walked hand in hand down the side of the road, heading toward the high school stadium, where prom was taking place. Somebody sang a song that had been popular the summer before. In the backseat Zeke began a prayerful monologue.

  Jeff started in again. “I’m just saying, like, this scene here—you, me, Zeke spouting the crazy in the backseat—this would be great fucking TV. I mean, the cruiser’s already outfitted with a camera. We just upload.”

  “Remind me to get right on that,” Tahmina muttered.

  “Hey, don’t be a hater,” Jeff said. “Who’s my partner, huh? Who’s my copilot?”

  “I am,” Tahmina said. “I’m your partner.”

  “I promise, if you turn, I will pop a cap in your head, no questions asked.”

  “Gee, thanks. So sweet.”

  “I would do that for you. Would you do that for me?”

  “You’ll never turn,” Tahmina said.

  “Anybody can be turned,” Jeff said.

  Sometimes Jeff got like this, and Tahmina just had to ride it out. On all the shows and in the movies, partners supported each other, and she and Jeff were partners. In the past six months they’d been through a lot together. Jeff had been there when Tahmina had had to wrap her father’s decapitated body in the tarp and drive him to the Tower of Silence. He’d kept a lookout while she read the prayers from the Avesta and waited for the birds to pick her father’s bones clean and for the hot desert sun to purge those bones of impurity so that his soul could join Zoroaster. Tahmina had sat with Jeff the night he’d had to put a bullet through his mother’s forehead and another two into his brother, who’d lain sick on the couch, insisting he would get better, and please, please, please, for the love of God, would Jeff put the gun away? Afterward, Jeff got so drunk he puked on the carpet twice and it smelled awful. Tahmina cleaned up the mess and burned the traces of his family. The next day she moved him into the old Sheraton, which had a really nice pool. Jeff liked to swim.

  At the intersection the crowd of teens waited. From the backseat Zeke shouted at them to repent of their sins, and they laughed. A tall guy in a ridiculous top hat flipped him the bird. Robin Watson hovered around the edge of the pack, her white dress fluttering in the hot wind. Two fat lines of mascara scarred her cheeks. Some of the other girls hugged her, and one of them held out a flask, refusing to take it back until Robin had drawn hard on the illicit liquid inside. Tahmina waved them on, waiting as they streamed past in streaks of color, tuxes and gowns probably looted from the mall. Prom night. There were no parents to take pictures, to fuss over the placement of a corsage. In fact, there were no corsages at all, since The Little Flower Shoppe was dark, the flowers inside long since dried up in their tall plastic buckets. Tansey Jacobsen bumped into the car as she wobbled across the street in tall heels. She had pinned an orange-red papier-mâché rose to her sparkly silver mini-dress. In the car’s headlights the fake flower lit the night like a flare, before being swallowed by the dark again. Robin trailed after the others, her face eerie in the glare of the headlights.

  The precinct was pretty quiet when they arrived—just a few teens helping out. Jeff took Zeke to a holding cell and went hunting for some Valium to help him sleep. Otherwise he’d spend the night yelling. At the front desk the Goth girl dispatcher looked up from her Sudoku puzzle. “Somebody’s here to see you.” Tahmina immediately thought of her mother, and her heartbeat quickened. But then she saw Steve Konig sitting on the other side of her desk, all taut energy, like a windup toy somebody had turned the screw on and was just waiting to let go.

  “Crap,” Tahmina muttered. “Hey, Steve. What can I help you with?”

  “I want to make a report of suspicious activity, possible infected,” he spat out. He wore his Mustangs varsity baseball shirt. If they’d had a season, he probably would have been named MVP and picked up a nice scholarship, too. He’d put on a little weight around the middle, Tahmina noted.

  She took a seat and opened her notepad. “What’s the complaint?”

  “It’s Javier Ramirez. He lives next door to me.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Tahmina resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “What makes you think he’s infected?” Since they’d turned out the adults, there’d been no new cases of infection am
ong them.

  “He’s been acting kinda funny.”

  She snorted. “That describes Javier on a good day.”

  “I saw him sniffing around the trash cans. He told me he ate an armadillo. Those things could be crazy infected.” He poked a finger at her notepad. “Aren’t you supposed to be writing this down? Isn’t this what you guys are supposed to do?”

  Tahmina raised an eyebrow. “Steve. C’mon. Javier’s just messing with you. That’s what he does. That’s what he’s done since eighth grade. If you ask me, that’s the most normal thing I’ve heard in, like, forever.”

  “Okay. How about this: He’s stockpiling. I don’t know what, but I’ve seen him hauling out boxes. Who knows what it is or what he’s planning on doing with it?”

  Tahmina tapped her pencil against her thigh, thinking. Steve and Javier had had a beef since eighth grade, when Steve had bullied Javier in gym class, and Javier had retaliated by making a fake website nominating Steve for douche of the year. Tahmina searched Steve’s face and tried to determine whether this was payback or something more. Finally she said, “All right. We’ll go talk to him after we check the perimeter.”

  “You should lock him up,” Steve said.

  “We’re all locked up,” she mumbled, and tossed the notepad aside.

  Tahmina and Jeff followed Diné Road to the cutoff at Bald Eagle, a street of pickups and muscle cars and small, worn 1970s ranch-style houses. There used to be block parties here. Javier’s dad played in Los Muchachos, a popular Tejano band, and the street would thrum with the bright, happy sound of horns and guitar. After his mom had died, Javier’s family had tried to outrun the infection. His dad and two sisters had set out for Tucson and the home of some cousins, while Javier had stayed behind to get their call if they made it. The call never came.

  “I’ll poke around in the garage,” Jeff said, and walked around the side of the house.

  The doorbell was broken, so Tahmina knocked. A few minutes later Javier opened the door. His hair was slicked back into a ponytail. He wore cutoffs and had a towel draped across his bare shoulders. “Hey. Sorry. Just got out of the shower. What’s up?”

  “Can I come in?” Tahmina asked, even though they both knew it wasn’t really a request.

  Javier let her pass. He smelled of soap and spicy men’s deodorant. Freshman year Tahmina had had a thing for Javier, but he’d gone out with Marcy Foster instead. Five weeks into the infection, Marcy’s mom started feeling sick. That night she shot all three kids in their beds and then turned the gun on herself.

  “So, what’s up?” Javier asked, crossing his arms. The house glowed with candlelight. A tablecloth barely concealed three cardboard boxes stacked by a stereo cabinet in the corner.

  “What’s in the boxes?” Tahmina asked.

  Javier held his ground. “Just some old shit. Been doing some housecleaning.” He smiled. He’d always had great teeth. For a second Tahmina imagined herself in an ice blue gown, slow-dancing with Javier under the chandeliers of the Sheraton while a DJ spun songs into the early morning hours.

  She cleared her throat, nodded. “Can you open one, please?”

  Javier laughed and stroked her arm. “Come on, Mina. Give me a break.”

  Tahmina’s eyes burned. “Excuse me,” she said, and ripped open the top one. Inside were about two dozen bottle rockets. “What’re you planning to do with these?”

  Javier shoved his hands into his back pockets and rocked back on his heels. “I told you—housecleaning. Those are left over from last Fourth of July. Me and my uncles used to sell ’em by the side of the road out on I-10.”

  “You know you can’t have these, Javier. Too dangerous.”

  “Come on, man. They’re just firecrackers. You remember? Firecrackers? Summer? Good times?”

  “Firecrackers attract attention. We don’t want to attract attention. And if there’s an accidental fire, we’re screwed.”

  Javier’s face fell. “Yeah, I know,” he said softly. “I just … miss that shit. You know?”

  They stood uncomfortably for a minute. Tahmina nodded at the Western suit hanging on the back of the door. “Yours?”

  “It was my dad’s. He used to wear it with his band. Prom’s tonight.”

  “So they tell me.”

  “Not going?” He slipped an arm around her waist and tried to pull her into a twirl. She pushed him away. “I’m on duty.”

  “Any undead tonight?”

  “One. Connor Jakes.”

  He whistled, low. “Sucks.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Anybody tell Robin?”

  “She knows.”

  He winced. “Damn. And on prom, too. Still. That’s the only one in two days. Last week we only had, what, three? Maybe it’s stopping.”

  “Maybe.” Tahmina smoothed the dry-cleaning bag over the suit. “Did you really eat an armadillo?”

  “What? Oh, wait. Now I get it.” The candle flickered with Javier’s laugh. “Should have known douche of the year would call it in.”

  Tahmina was smiling in spite of herself. Steve Konig was, most definitely, a douche. It was a constant, and therefore a comfort. “Whatever. Do me a favor, okay? Try not to aggravate him?”

  Javier spread his arms wide in affronted innocence. “Me?”

  “Yeah. You.”

  He put his hands to his mouth and shouted in the direction of Steve’s house, “Douche! You are the Douche-Man!”

  Tahmina laughed out loud, and Javier joined her.

  “You always did have the best laugh, girl.” Javier slipped an arm around Tahmina’s waist and drew her close, and for a second all she could smell was Javier and not the smoke from the constant fire for the dead. He sang one of his dad’s songs, exaggerating the sexy parts to make her laugh, but then he sang it for real, soft and low in Spanish. He swayed his hips slowly from side to side, pulling her around gently in a slow dance. His mouth was warm and tasted slightly of peppermint.

  “You sure you don’t want to be my date tonight?” he whispered.

  Tahmina thought about her mother’s closet, the beautiful beaded gown hanging there. She wondered if she would ever see her mother again. “Sorry,” she said, breaking away. “I’m on duty.”

  “Officer Hassani, keeping the world safe from the undead.”

  “Something like that. I’ll be taking these.” Tahmina confiscated the boxes of firecrackers.

  “Harsh, Hassani.”

  “Just doing my job, Ramirez,” she said, heading for the door. “Have fun at the prom.”

  Javier laughed bitterly. “Yeah. Fuck you, too.”

  Around midnight they checked the east side of town to make sure the fences hadn’t sustained any damage. Tahmina slipped the night-vision goggles over her eyes, and the desert came into view in black and green.

  “Anything?” Jeff asked after a few minutes.

  “No. It’s pretty quiet tonight.”

  “Nice of them to let us have prom without too much hassle. It’s kind of funny. If they were here, there’d be chaperones checking for booze and breaking up the booty dancing.”

  “Yeah. Silver linings and all that.”

  “See? Now, that was some good cop talk right there. We have to remember that when we get our show, dude.”

  “Noted.”

  Tahmina took one last long look east in the direction of the Tower of Silence, following the trail that had been worn by the Hummer.

  “Everything okay?” Jeff asked.

  She watched the landscape for another minute, debating whether or not to tell him what she knew. He was her partner. Partners were not supposed to keep secrets.

  “Tahmina? What’s up?”

  “Nothing,” she said, tearing off the goggles. She hoped Jeff couldn’t hear the worry in her voice. The breeze brought a fresh whiff of smoke till it was all she could smell. “I need some coffee.”

  The one diner that stayed open this late was the Denny’s over by the high school. Roxie Swann’s parents had
owned it, and she kept it going. At the first sign of infection—a cluster of sores down her neck and a fever accompanied by the shakes—Roxie’s mom had walked into the restaurant’s giant freezer and asked Roxie to lock the door, hoping the cold would either kill or cure her. It did neither. When Roxie opened the door three days later, her mom lunged, and Roxie emptied her gun as she had been told. But Roxie swore that just before her mother attacked, she paused as if she’d recognized her. As if she’d been trying to stop.

  “Crazy night for you guys,” Roxie said with a grin. She poured them weak coffee and cut two slivers of pie. The slices had gotten smaller. They were running out of flour. They were low on everything—medicine, gasoline, food. They still had water, which they boiled first just in case. But there was no telling how long that would last. They hadn’t received a radio signal in ages. No planes flew overhead. There were no traffic noises. That’s why they’d started sending volunteers outside, two a month in the past three months, south toward Tucson, east to New Mexico, west to California, north to Flagstaff. No one had come back until Connor Jakes tonight.

  A group of prom goers sat in the corner booth, sharing some chips and salsa and arguing over which songs they would request once they made it to the Pima Panthers stadium. Somebody started singing “Rehab,” and everybody joined in on the “No, no, no.”

  “Give it a rest,” Tahmina muttered, playing with the pink plastic carnation stuck into a Coke bottle beside the empty napkin dispenser.

  “Okay. Seriously. What’s up with you? You’re in, like, a fun-sucking mood tonight.” Jeff took a bite of her untouched pie. “Did you want to go to prom? Is that it? ’Cause I’ll totally take you, if you want. You can be my hag.”

  Tahmina rubbed at her eyes, but it was no use. They would just keep stinging. “Just thinking about something my mom said once about how she’d never leave me. I don’t know. I was just wondering, what if there’s some part of the human heart that can’t be corrupted? There might be a cure in that.”

  Jeff snorted. “Reality check: I saw parents rip their kids the fuck apart and eat their fucking insides before we pushed them out. Parental love was no match for the power of that infection. Those things roaming the desert only see us as prey.”