A Mad Zombie Party

by Gena Showalter

  We end up at Hash Town, and as I walk through the doors, I suddenly wish I'd argued. Ali, Bronx and Reeve are at a table in back, waiting for us. Reeve and I have never been close; she was Kat's friend, and like Kat, slaying has never been in her wheelhouse. She can't see or hear zombies, but she's watched us fight so many times, she's accepted what other civilians never have: the monsters are real, and they live among us.

  Reeve lost her dad--her only living family and our wealthiest benefactor--the day I lost Kat. For the first time, I'm struck by a sense of kinship with her. Maybe this forced interaction won't be so bad.

  As she smiles at me in welcome, however, I revert to my original unease. She has dark hair and even darker eyes, and for many years she and Kat pretended to be sisters from different misters. Right now it kinda hurts to look at her.

  Who am I kidding? Everything hurts.

  "Is this an intervention?" I take one of two empty seats and signal the waitress for coffee. I'm going to need it.

  "No, but it probably should be," Ali says. "You look like dog crap that's baked in the sun a little too long." Her mouth has always lacked any type of filter, a problem exacerbated by her refusal to lie about anything. Two qualities guaranteed to turn every conversation into a battlefield. But that's okay. Give me blunt truth over charming flattery any day.

  Cole sits next to her and kisses her on the cheek. She leans in to him, the action natural to her, wholly instinctive.

  Kat and I used to do the same.

  A sharp lance of pain rips through my chest, and I have to school my expression to hide my grimace.

  "The good news is my dog crap is another man's best," I say.

  "Oh, my friend," Ali replies with a shake of her head, "you clearly haven't seen yourself in the mirror."

  I shrug. "You look good, at least."

  "Obviously." She buffs her nails.

  It's such a Kat thing to say, to hear. We both freeze.

  This time, I can't school my expression. What's worse, I need a moment to steady my breathing. New conversations eventually kick off, friendly insults bouncing back and forth among the group.

  Ali leans toward me and whispers, "I miss her, too."

  I hike my shoulders in another shrug. It's all I can really manage at the moment.

  In appearance, Ali is Kat's polar opposite. While Ali is tall and slender with a fall of pale hair and eyes of the clearest, purest blue, Kat is--was, damn it--short and curvy with dark hair and mesmerizing hazel eyes that were a perfect blend of green and gold.

  In storybook terms, Ali is the innocent snow princess and Kat is the seductive evil queen.

  There'd been no one prettier than my Kat. Or smarter. Or wittier. Or more adorable. And if I continue along this path, I'm going to tear the building apart brick by brick.

  The waitress finally arrives with the coffeepot and fills my cup. "Your order will be out in a few minutes, hon."

  I get a friendly pat on my shoulder before she ambles away.

  "We took the liberty of ordering for you," Reeve tells me. "Two fried eggs, four pieces of bacon, two sausage patties, a double helping of cheesy hash browns and a stack of pecan pancakes." She nibbles on her bottom lip. "If you'd like something else..."

  "I'm sure I can make do with so little." I'm not hungry, anyway. "How's Z-hunting going?"

  "Better than ever." Ali takes a sip of her orange juice. "Tell him your news," she says to Reeve.

  Reeve blushes. "I used my dad's notes and Ali's blood to create a new serum."

  Ali practically bounces in her seat. "It's awesome because--drumroll please--she was able to extract and use the essence of my fire. We inject zombies with it, and it's as if they've bitten me. In minutes, their darkness is washed away because I am so awesome-- What?" she says when Cole nudges her. "You know it's true. Anyway. When completely cleansed, the Zs become witnesses and float away into the hereafter."

  "It's a miracle to watch," Cole says.

  All slayers produce spiritual fire--inner light--the only weapon truly capable of killing zombies. But after the leader of Anima experimented on Ali, shooting her full of untested drugs, she developed the ability to save Zs, too. An ability she then shared with other slayers by using her fire on them.

  Multiple times she's offered to share it with me, too, but I've always turned her down. I'm not interested in saving my enemy. Zombies bit Kat, which means I would have lost her to toxin even if I hadn't lost her to a bomb and a hail of bullets. But the thing that really kills me? The toxin ensured she suffered a far more agonizing death, no matter the cause, every bit of her pain magnified. Therefore, zombies have to die.

  The downside? I don't just suffer when I'm bitten, I suffer, unbearable agony consuming me, the urge to destroy everything in my path utterly overwhelming me. I also can't be healed without another slayer's fire or an injection of a chemical antidote--and I have to receive either one within a ten-minute window of the bite or I'm toast.

  "Do I sense a but?" I ask.

  Excitement dwindling, Ali traces her finger over the rim of her glass. "Supplies are limited, so we more often than not have to let the creatures bite us. The more bites we receive, the longer we take to recover."

  "Makes sense. The more bites, the more toxin your spirit has to cleanse."

  "More coffee?" the waitress asks.

  Ali and Reeve jolt at the sound of her voice. I just nod. My guard has remained on high since I walked through the diner doors. I've known the waitress's location every second. The girls, both new to this life, are still learning.

  As the coffee is poured, the waitress says, "Your order's up, gang. I'll bring it over." She walks away without giving us a "you are so weird" look. We're kids (technically) and we've discovered everyone assumes we're talking about video games.

  "We need to come up with a new way to help Zs and ourselves," Bronx says. "After a battle, I'm drained for a week."

  "He basically falls into a coma." Reeve rests her cheek on his shoulder, and his hand automatically sinks into her hair. "Not even true love's kiss awakens him," she adds drily.

  Cole cracks a smile. "You must not be doing it right. Stop kissing his lips and start--"

  Ali slaps a hand over his mouth. "Don't you dare."

  He removes her hand and nips at her palm. "Punching them," he says, finishing his sentence.

  Everyone laughs. Everyone but me. I shift uncomfortably and look at the door. Too rude to leave?

  The food arrives a few seconds later, the waitress placing steaming plates in front of each of us. My friends dig in as if they've been starved for months. While I was drinking and cheating on Kat's memory last night, they clearly hunted zombies and did a little bite-fighting. The sleeve of Ali's shirt has risen, revealing a wealth of bruises on her arm, just above a tattoo of a white rabbit.

  There are bruises on Cole and Bronx, too, and the realization hits me hard. They went into battle without me. They could have been hurt, or worse. The Z-saving thing is new, as untested as the drugs Ali was given, and we don't know all the ins and outs. Something could have gone horribly wrong, and I wasn't there to help.

  I swallow a curse. I need to get my act together. Like, yesterday. But just as soon as the burst of protective energy hits me, it leaves. My friends will be fine without me. Probably even better off.

  The handle of my fork bends.

  "So, I have another bit of news," Reeve says, breaking through the sudden silence. "I bought a house."

  Bronx swallows a bite of red velvet pancakes. He's always had a sweet tooth, and it's always amused me. With his wild, spiked green hair and multiple facial piercings, he looks as if he'd prefer rusty nails and shards of glass. "It has everything we need. Big-assed bedrooms, each with its own private bathroom. Enough for everyone on our crew and everyone we're recruiting. There's a gym. A sauna. An indoor pool. Even a basketball court. Plus, when I'm finished, security will be top-of-the-line."

  My first thought: Kat would have loved living with the group. H
ell, she would have loved my small, barely furnished apartment, paid for by the trust Reeve's dad left me. He left one for all of us, actually. We're all richer than we could have ever dreamed, and yet, the money is as much a curse as a blessing to me. What I can't share with Kat, well, it isn't worth having. Including my poor excuse for a life.

  I grind my molars so forcefully I expect to swallow broken bits of enamel. As her image sparks to life in the back of my mind, I close my eyes. A memory begins to play with Technicolor clarity. She's sitting on my lap, and I'm toying with the ends of her silky hair.

  "If I only have ten more days to live," she says, "what would you want to do with me?"

  I guess her intention right away, know she's trying to prepare me. She's suffered from kidney disease her entire life, and she suspects the end will come sooner rather than later. "Hold on and never let go."

  "Boring."

  "Chain you to my bed."

  The corners of her mouth twitch. "A possibility."

  Getting serious, I say, "Die with you." And I mean the words with every fiber of my being.

  She climbs to her knees and cups my face to hold my gaze. As if I would ever look away from her. When she's near, she's all I see. "You're going to live, Frost. You'll go to college and make friends and play sports and yes, date other girls."

  "I don't do any of that shi--stuff now." I don't like to curse in front of her. I want to be a positive influence, never a bad one.

  "You're going to meet someone else, someone special, and she's--"

  "There is no one else." I've been lost for this girl since minute one.

  Her head tilts to the side, strands of her hair lifting with a gentle breeze. "Granted, with her you won't have as much fun and your kids won't be nearly as attractive, but I'm sure she'll make you happy...occasionally."

  Not gonna happen. Ever. "You're it for me, kitten. That will never change."

  In the present, someone taps my shoulder. I meet Cole's violet gaze, the concern radiating from his rugged features almost my undoing. He loves me. I know he loves me, and he only wants the best for me. But I can't have the best, and I'm not going to pretend I have something else to live for. Well, something other than revenge.

  "Come with us to see the house," he says. "Pick a room."

  A room I won't be sharing with Kat. "I already have a place." I breathe in...out...but I don't calm down. I stand, my chair skidding behind me. "I have to go."

  A muscle jumps beneath his eye. "Where?"

  Somewhere else. Anywhere else. "I just... I'll see you guys around." I stride out of the diner without ever looking back.

  I crouch on top of a tombstone gargoyle-style, waiting for the spirits of the recently dead to rise. I don't have to worry they'll be witnesses, the good guys. Witnesses leave the body at the moment of death and ascend. Zombies tend to linger for several hours, or even a day or two, and on rare occasions an entire week. Don't ask me why there's a difference. Zombie physiology isn't my forte. All I know is that the creatures need time to gather enough strength to crawl out.

  They are always starved for what they've lost, for the most precious thing on this earth. Life.

  I've been listening to police scanners, sneaking into hospitals to examine death records and patrolling cemeteries for people who have died of Antiputrefactive Syndrome. The past few days, there have been six, and all six will result in brand-spanking-new zombies.

  AS is what doctors call death by zombie bite. Not that anyone in the medical field actually knows an injection of straight-up evil is the reason portions of a victim's skin turn black and ooze pus as their organs rot...until an excruciating death finally ends the torment. Well, until the real torture begins. Eternity as one of the undead.

  No one would believe me if I explained the truth. Hell, I might even end up in a padded room, medicated to the max. It's happened to a couple of my friends.

  Former friends.

  Anyway.

  Fingers crossed I get to kill all six zombies tonight.

  Killing is my business, and like anyone else, I'm happiest when business is good.

  And I need a little good in life. I'm the most hated slayer in the state. With excellent reason. But even though my friends hate me, I haven't stopped loving them, which is why I'm here. The more Zs I kill, the less they have to fight. I want to make their lives better, easier--to make River's life easier.

  For years, my brother protected me and my--

  Can't go there right now. Depression will set in, and I'll want zombies to feed on me.

  So. Rephrase. For years, my brother protected me from our abusive father, hiding me even though he would be punished for it, forced to take my beating as well as his own. I owe him. More than that, I adore him. There's nothing I won't do for him.

  Steal, kill and destroy? Check, check and mate.

  "Come on, come on, meat bags," I mutter. "Consider this your official invitation to my boot party." For my own entertainment and okay, okay, to let off a little steam, I plan to kick the rot right out of their brains.

  I have everything I need. Earlier I pushed my spirit out of my body, leaving the latter perched at the edge of Shady Elms cemetery, concealed by thick foliage, waning moonlight and eerie shadows. (What the body wears the spirit wears, which means I'm still armed for war.)

  I have to be careful, though; I can't allow even the smallest scratch. Any injury a spirit sustains manifests on the body, the two connected through invisible tethers no matter the distance between them. That's usually not a big deal, but I'm on my own and I'll have to patch myself up. Basically, I'm the world's worst patient.

  Around me, locusts buzz and crickets sing, but the insects aren't my only companions. A few headstones away, a group of underage kids are drinking beer and playing truth or dare. Definitely in the wrong place. Could be the wrong time. Zombies prefer to chow on slayers--we're their catnip, I guess--but any human will do.

  Play with fire, get burned. A truth as old as time.

  The little hairs on the back of my neck stand at full attention, and I go still. Sometimes my spirit senses something that hasn't yet clicked in my mind.

  Zombies on the rise?

  I search, but find no sign there's an undead nearby. Another civilian intruder? Again, there's no sign. Not that it would matter. I can dance, sing and shout, but to civilians, I'm nothing more than a ghost.

  Another slayer, perhaps, come to help me?

  Yeah, in my dreams. As an exile of River's crew, I'm as good as dead to all our kind. And I get it. I do. In my single-minded bid to save my brother, I made terrible life-and-death mistakes.

  Commit the crime, serve your time.

  My nails dig into the headstone beneath me, the entire thing doused with Blood Lines, the chemical needed to make the living world tangible to the spirit world. My brother keeps stashes of Blood Lines all over the state as a just-in-case. Used to be, I would have called him to ask for what I need, and he would have ensured I had more than enough. Now I have to raid his stashes.

  Part of me wants to curl up and sob for all I've lost. Friends, a home. Acceptance, safety and security. A family. The other part of me, the stronger part, tells me to suck it up and deal. What's done is done.

  Besides, I have a purpose, and that's more than most.

  Laughter erupts from the kids. I call them kids and yet they're only a year or two younger than me. While they've probably spent the bulk of their lives having fun, I've spent the bulk of mine fighting to save the world. I'm nineteen, but my experiences have aged me.

  "You gonna back out now?" one of the boys asks the only dark-haired girl. "You chicken?"

  "I know what you're doing, Mr. Manipulator," she says with a smirk. "You can't goad me into doing something I don't want to do."

  "Stop talking and show him your tits." Another boy throws a handful of leaves at her. "A dare is a dare."

  The others chortle.

  "Thankfully, I want to do it." She stands in the middle of the group and, w
hile Chicken Boy uses the flashlight app on his phone to illuminate her, she lifts her top to expose her boobs.

  The other boys high-five and whistle. The other girls catcall and fist-pump the sky.

  I want to shout, Stop living in the dark and open your eyes to the light. A whole other world exists around you.

  A shadow rises from the freshly packed grave site in front of me. I reach over my shoulders to palm the handles of my short swords, the kids forgotten. Metal slides against leather, whistling a beautiful tune, and I start drooling at the thought of a new kill.

  Pavlov nailed it.

  Another finger pokes through the dirt...soon an entire hand. There's a dull gray tint to the skin, and my heart leaps with excitement.

  The creature sits up and shakes her head, clumps of dirt falling from her tangled salt-and-pepper hair. I smile with anticipation, until I note the open wounds on her forehead and cheeks, each revealing the rotted muscle and splintered bone underneath. First-time risers usually appear human, their only visual tells red eyes and graying skin. Why the change?

  She locks on me, her lips curling up, showcasing yellowed teeth and thick black saliva.

  Kill now, ask questions later.

  She swipes a hand at me and snaps her teeth.

  "Sorry, honey, but I'm not on the menu." I leap off the tombstone and end up where I want to be--in the circle of her arms. Mindless with hunger, she latches on to my waist to yank me closer, but I'm already swinging my swords. The blades crisscross at her neck before I'm in any danger, and her head falls backward, black goo spraying from her severed artery.

  The civilians continue playing their silly game.

  Despite the decapitation, both the zombie head and body remain animated, arms clawing at me, teeth snapping at me. Time to finish her off for good. I've been fighting the undead for so long, summoning my fire--my dynamis--is as easy as breathing. By the time I sheath one of my swords and flatten my hand over her chest, flames are crackling all the way to my wrist. One minute passes, two... Dynamis sinks past her skin, into her veins, traveling through her entire body. Then, suddenly, she explodes, dark ash floating through the air.

  I move on to her head, making sure her teeth are firmly planted in the ground before I perform the same "fire up and wait" routine. When a second round of ash floats away on a cool spring breeze, I sheath my other sword and slap my hands together in a job well done.