A Mad Zombie Party

by Gena Showalter

  As I run at a speed no human can ever achieve, pedestrians amble along the sidewalk and unwittingly move into my path. I'm forced to plow through them or spin around them. I spin, otherwise my spirit would pass through their bodies and hit their spirits, and that wouldn't do anyone any good. Dizziness plays chicken with my mind and nausea knocks on the door of my stomach, but I refuse to slow. The row of buildings eventually gives way to a long stretch of road, paved and smooth. I'm on constant alert for the telltale signs of the undead--grunts carried on the wind, the fetid stench of rot and the crimson glow of hunger in eyes that are windows to evil.

  When the edge of the cemetery comes into view, I veer off into a patch of trees. As I pass a towering oak, a chorus of grunts assaults my ears. Then a feminine shout of frustration sounds and I pick up the pace. I leap over tombstones and shoot around a mausoleum...until finally I spot the horde. At least twenty zombies have zeroed in on a single meal while countless others writhe on the ground, cut up like pieces of old lunch meat.

  The mysterious "her" is a slayer. Good. She can help me help her.

  I palm my semiautomatics and push through the masses, putting a bullet in every rotting brain that moves into my way. Not a fix-all, but at least the enemy will be slowed down, impact sending the bodies to the ground.

  As the creatures catch my scent, they face me. I whirl the guns in my hands to grip the barrels. With a press of my thumb against a hidden button, serrated axes pop out at the end of each handle. I start hacking, my arms remaining in a constant sate of motion. Rotting flesh tears and limbs detach.

  Because spirits are not bound to the same physical laws as bodies, I'm able to fight at a speed the hunger-fogged zombies cannot track. By the time a creature reaches for me, I've already removed its hand...followed by its head. As more and more walking corpses are cut into parts, a sea of goo and gore spreads over the ground. But at least a path opens up, granting me a good look at the slayer's backside. She's a blonde.

  She's fluidly graceful, fighting with a ferocity and viciousness I admire, her short swords extensions of her arms as she slices and dices with perfect precision. Her body is lithe, displayed to perfection in pink camo, and I smile despite the situation. Kat might have worn something similar, had she been a slayer.

  For once, I can think about my girl without praying I die, too.

  The blonde takes down three Zs with a single swing but doesn't see the last two getting to their feet...now sneaking up behind her. I whirl my guns and squeeze off two quick shots, the boom of gunfire echoing through the night, the creatures flying backward. I race forward, there when the two hit the ground, slamming my axes into their mouths to separate their jaws. They won't be biting me or anyone else ever again.

  Panting, covered in sweat and goo, I turn toward the girl. Our gazes meet--and suddenly I'm struck dumb. She must be, too. Her mouth drops open.

  A shoulder-length cap of white-blond hair frames a face more delicate than a cameo, despite the silver hoops in her jet-black eyebrows. Her eyes are a dark golden brown, like honey, her bronzed skin tattooed heavily in black and white. She's beautiful in a punk-rock Barbie kind of way. I've always thought so.

  When we lived in the same twenty-thousand-square-foot mansion for several months, we never had a conversation; I never had time for her, never paid her more than a passing, admiring glance, my sights always on Kat or a mission, very little else worthy of my time. But there's no doubt I'm standing before Camilla Marks. Milla to her friends.

  I am not her friend.

  She is River's sister, and she was once second-in-command to a group of slayers who haven't always seen eye-to-eye with Cole and me. She's the one who betrayed her own crew, and mine, destroying an entire security system so that Anima could get to Ali, all in the name of saving her brother-- offering Ali's life in exchange for River's.

  She's the bitch responsible for Kat's death.

  I understand the need to protect your family, but I will never be okay with putting innocents at risk to do it. And okay, yeah, that's a lie. I would have done anything, betrayed anyone, to save Kat. That doesn't mean I'll ever forgive this girl.

  There's no way in hell Kat would have sent me to save Camilla Marks. My kitten must not have known who needed aid. She made a mistake. One I can rectify.

  "Thank you." Camilla wipes at the sweat on her brow, and I notice the word Betrayal scripted in bold black letters across her wrist. "You saved my life."

  "Keep your thanks. I don't want it." My tone is pure grit and menace. I'm close to snapping, and there's no telling what I'll do if that happens. I've never hated anyone more than I hate her--not even myself. "And why are you wearing pink camo? You're not trying to hide in Candy Land."

  She blinks at me, though she doesn't appear surprised by my malevolence. "I guess you remember me."

  "I'm fighting a killing rage right now, so, yeah, I remember." I want to shout, You're a traitor and the scum of the earth, but I know whatever is spoken in this spirit realm comes true in the natural realm, always and forever, as long as it's believed when it's said. I believe she's a traitor and scum, but actually voicing the accusations will give power to them, perhaps making her evil side even stronger.

  Sometimes it's best to keep an opinion to myself.

  She flinches but says, "I'm not taking back my thanks."

  The metallic twang of copper coats my tongue, and I realize I've bitten it. I spit blood at her feet. "Have you spoken to a witness? Kat Parker? You remember Kat, don't you? My Kat." What I really want to know: did Camilla lie to her? Convince my girl to aid the enemy? "The innocent you helped murder in cold blood."

  Another flinch before she lifts her chin. "Of course I remember her, but no, I haven't spoken to her."

  "You're lying," I snarl. She has to be lying.

  A zombie head rolls toward me, teeth snapping, and I punt the thing in the nose, sending it soaring like a soccer ball over a hill littered with tombstones. One point, Frosty.

  "I'm not." Camilla shakes her head for emphasis and rubs at her wrist. The one with the tattoo. "Trust me, I've learned my lesson about betraying other slayers."

  I don't believe her, but I know I'm not doing this. I'm not having a conversation with her. I turn away and stride out of the cemetery, saying to the sky, "I've done my good deed for the day. I let Camilla Marks live. I expect to see you tomorrow, Kat. Or else."

  I'm not a crier. When you've watched multiple friends die in the most horrendous ways, your ability to hurt is often desensitized and your emotions numbed. And when you've had to stitch your own wounds and set your own broken bones, your threshold for pain skyrockets. But tonight, as I go through the sea of zombie parts, using dynamis to ash the evil--light always chases darkness away--a single tear slicks down my cheek.

  That boy... Frosty. I remember every interaction I've ever had with him. How could I not? He's one of the most beautiful males on the planet. He steps into a room and all eyes gravitate to him, mine included. Girls want to bang him, and boys want to be him.

  He's deliciously tall with the muscle mass of a professional football player, and the bad-boy attitude to match--snarky, maddening, yet somehow charming. He's strength personified and as lethal as the guns he carries.

  So many slayers climb into a boxing ring to learn new tricks or even to play with their friends. He climbs in, and it's clear there's only one thing on his mind: delivering pain.

  Why did he walk away from me, when he craves vengeance?

  The way he stood before me, proud and furious, covered in battle grime, his hair pale but several shades darker than mine, the strands plastered to his cheeks, his hands twitching as he considered reaching for his weapons...yeah, he wanted to take me down. His eyes, navy blue, piercing and ice-cold--the kind of eyes you'd see on a serial killer as he explains how he's going to hack up your body and store the parts in his fridge--had stared at my heart, as if willing it to stop beating. And yet, I couldn't help remembering other times, when he looked at his
girlfriend, Kat, the ice melting, his irises burning hotter than flames.

  No one has ever looked at me that way. As if I'm worth something. Worth everything. As if I'm more precious than the sun, moon and stars. As if I'm a prize beyond value. I can't imagine anyone doing so now. Or ever. Not after the things I've done.

  And that's okay. I sowed death, and now I'm reaping a harvest of it.

  I glance at my newest tattoo. Betrayal. A permanent reminder of the worst thing I can do to my loved ones. The price is too high. I sigh and get back to work. By the time I finish ashing Z-parts, the civilians who never realized a war was raging around them are gone and I'm utterly exhausted.

  I trudge to my body and, with a single touch, join my spirit to my body. It's as easy as slipping a hand into a glove. A few scratches are bleeding on my arms and there are bruises on my legs, but other than that I'm injury-free. All thanks to Frosty, who hates me with the passion of a thousand suns. Without him, I probably would have died tonight.

  Probably, ha! There'd been too many zombies to track on my own.

  I trudge forward, but stop just outside the cemetery. There are piles of ash all around me. Wonderful. Dead zombies. Except, I didn't kill any undead in this location. So...someone else did it. Frosty, on his way out? Or maybe someone who'd come with him? I spin, but find no footprints other than my own. Not many slayers think to cover their spiritual tracks. Why bother?

  Whatever. I'm too tired to care. I need a shower and a few thousand hours of sleep.

  I'm staying at a run-down motel a few miles down the road. It's all I can afford. When I was kicked out of the home I shared with River just outside of Birmingham, I had nothing but the clothes on my back, but I'd been socking wads of cash away for years. Just in case. A girl has to be prepared for anything. I have only fourteen hundred and thirty-seven dollars left, and I have to make it last. I can't stay up all night fighting zombies if I'm grinding away at a nine-to-five.

  As I trudge up and down hills, sticking to main roads, the little hairs on the back of my neck rise again. I bend down as if I need to tie my shoe, and push my spirit out of my body to look at what's happening behind me without an onlooker knowing. But there's no sign of a tail. No moving shadows or snapping limbs. No click of a gun being cocked. No grunts or groans.

  Relieved, I return to my body and motor on. Finally I reach the motel. In the parking lot, there's a guy leaning against a beat-up Nova, puffing on the end of a cancer stick. The night is nothing but a sheet of black, and there are no streetlamps nearby, so I can't make out his features, but I can tell he's roughly the same size as my brother.

  My heart skips a beat. "River?"

  "Excuse me?" A voice I don't recognize.

  Disappointment is overwhelming. "Never mind." I reach my door and check to make sure the clear tape I placed along the frame is still intact. A split means someone entered my room while I was gone, despite the Do Not Disturb sign on the knob.

  Years of being chased by Anima have made me paranoid.

  But the tape hasn't been disturbed, and I'm able to enter without fear. After rigging my own special lock on the door, as well as placing bells over the top to wake me if someone manages to bypass my security measures, I shower off the gunk and sweat, clean the scratches on my arms with antiseptic and dress in a white T-shirt and a pair of shorts.

  The place doesn't have a kitchenette or a microwave, so I slap peanut butter on two pieces of bread and call it good. Quick and easy with a decent amount of protein. Welcome to my breakfast, lunch and dinner. I think I'm single-handedly keeping Peter Pan in business.

  I've consumed half the sandwich by the time I make it to the bed and sit. My back and feet ache like freaking crazy.

  "For a villain, your evil lair sure does suck donkey balls."

  The voice startles me. I'm on my feet in a blink, the precious sandwich on the floor and a 9 mm in my hand. I've stashed weapons all over the room to ensure one is near wherever I happen to be.

  A short brunette stands in front of the door. The closed door. Overhead, the bells are silent. I frown. I...know her. She's the girlfriend. Frosty's girlfriend, Kat Parker. But she's...she's dead. I secretly attended her funeral--glimpsed the body in the casket--and cursed myself for a past I will never be able to change.

  I shouldn't be seeing her here and now.

  Is she my tail? The reason the hairs on my neck reacted? No, no, she couldn't be. Otherwise I would've had a similar reaction before she spoke. And what the hell am I doing? I can't afford to be lost in my head right now.

  "How are...what are...?" Wait. Earlier, Frosty mentioned Kat--a witness. I've heard of witnesses appearing to loved ones from both slayers I trust and people working for Anima, so I know spirits of the dead do come back to the land of the living to proclaim good news...or issue warnings.

  "I'm not a zombie, if that's what you're thinking. I'm a witness," she confirms.

  "I know you're not a zombie. If you were, I'd have already removed your head."

  "Well, well. Someone thinks highly of her skill. Too bad for you, I'll never again be an easy target."

  "I never wanted to hurt you." Keeping the gun trained on her, I close the distance. I reach for her with my free hand...and encounter only air. My eyes widen. She is what she says she is. I lower my arm, my heart thudding wildly in my chest. "You weren't supposed to be harmed."

  "And that makes everything you did okay? Intentions mean nothing. Actions are everything."

  She isn't wrong. "Are you here to punish me?"

  As a witness, does she know what happened behind the scenes? Why I did what I did?

  Does she care?

  Anima had captured my brother weeks before. I broke into the facility, desperate to free him, but within minutes agents had me surrounded. Their leader, Rebecca Smith, had kept tabs on me for years. She knew my habits, knew what I'd do if River was threatened.

  And she wasn't wrong.

  We were in different rooms, River and I, and while I could see him, he could not see me, a blindfold over his eyes. Rebecca ordered a gun be placed at his head, and I agreed to do whatever was asked of me, on two conditions. River could never know--he would have rather died than let me aid Anima--and none of our people could be hurt.

  To this day, my brother thinks he escaped that facility on his own.

  And yes, I could have backed out of my promise to Anima. I could have warned Ali instead of targeting her. But Anima wasn't led by an idiot, and I'd already been informed what would happen if I failed my mission. River would be targeted in Ali's place and no expense would be spared in the quest to end his life.

  "I'm supposed to forgive you, and I have," the girl finally says. "And shockingly enough, the worst of my anger has been washed away. When I died, I became part of something greater than myself, and the wrongs done to me no longer seemed--or seem--as significant. But I still don't like you. You rid the world of a national treasure."

  Her overconfidence used to annoy me. Now? I kind of get it. Winning a guy like Frosty is a miracle feat. She's in a class by herself.

  I return the gun to the nightstand and sit on the edge of the bed. "Not to be rude, but why are you here?" If she wants a pound of flesh, I'll give her a pound of flesh. Let's just get it over with.

  "How adorable. You actually think you're in charge of this conversation." She motions to my arms with a tilt of her chin. "Question. Why are all your tattoos black and white?"

  Why not tell her? "River and I learned at a very young age that there's right and there's wrong, and there is nothing in between. The tattoos serve as a reminder."

  "Black and white," she says and taps her chin. "No fifty shades of gray."

  I shake my head and realize I've just admitted there is no reason good enough to do what I did to her. Right: protecting the innocent. Wrong: putting them at risk. End of story. Shame floods me, sharpening already razorlike claws inside my chest.

  "I want you to keep that lesson in mind as I get down to the nitty-gr
itty." She prances throughout the room, looking over my meager belongings with an air of distaste. "I know you fought alongside Frosty tonight."

  "Yes."

  "And he saved your life."

  I sigh. "Yes."

  "So in a way, you owe him yours. Right?"

  I don't like where this is headed. "What is it you want from me? Spit it out."

  The very picture of determination, she crosses her arms over her chest. "All right. You asked for it. My friend Ali--you know her, right? The girl you betrayed. Well, she had a vision, and her visions are never wrong." Kat looks away for a moment, her shoulders hunching in. A telltale sign of guilt. I know it well.

  She has no reason to feel that way, but me? Yeah. Every reason. My shoulders sink in, too. "I've heard about the visions." Anima also tasked me with finding out more about them, but in that regard, I'd had no luck. "Go on."

  Kat runs her tongue over her teeth. "In this one, you stop a woman from shooting Frosty. You save his life." Again, she looks away for several beats of silence, and I have to wonder why.

  She wouldn't lie about something like this--would she?

  "For that reason and that reason alone," she continues, "I'm here to ensure you never stray far from Frosty's side."

  I...don't understand. "You, as in me?" I hike my thumbs at my chest for emphasis. "Guard Frosty?"

  Her lip curls with a return of her distaste, but she nods. "Trust me. I'm as surprised as you are."

  Well, her weird behavior finally makes sense. She's annoyed. "He can take care of himself." He's more than proved it. "Besides, he hates me. He'll never allow me to get close to him."

  "We'll just have to make him. I can ensure he tolerates your presence, but I don't think I can stop him from killing you. That's your part."

  Great. Wonderful. "Why don't I lasso the moon while I'm at it?"

  Kat's eyes narrow on me, her hazel irises focusing with laser sharpness. "When did you become such a baby?"

  Ouch. "You'll trust me not to betray him?"

  "Yes, but only because of the vision. Meanwhile, I'll be watching you, and if I suspect you're doing anything wrong, my next visit won't be so pleasant."

  I rub at my wrist. I didn't lie to Frosty. I've learned my lesson and won't betray him. More than that, Kat is right. I owe the boy my life. He saved me tonight. I'll gladly stand guard over him.