Kiss of Life

by Daniel Waters

  "Colette," Phoebe said, crawling out of her bag and over to her. "I'm so sorry. That's terrible." She sat next to her and put her arm around her shoulder, and Margi came over and did the same.

  "Not ...fun," Colette said. "But I'm here ...now. With my ...friends."

  "Better late than never," Margi said, yawning.

  Phoebe thought Colette's smile was tinged with sadness, as though she was leaving a part of the story out, but it was hard to tell in the green light.

  They were quiet for a few moments. They were well into the witching hour by now, and Margi had closed her eyes and was snoring softly against her dead friend.

  "Colette," she said, "do you ever think of the blue light?"

  "Every ...day."

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  "Do you think it was heaven?"

  "I don't ...know," she said, "but I know ...my grandmother ...was there."

  After getting Colette her iPod so the music wouldn't disturb their sleeping friend, Phoebe checked her e-mail on Margi's computer.

  "I've got one from Tommy."

  Colette was so intent on working the selector wheel to queue up a new playlist that she didn't hear her. Phoebe turned back to the screen.

  From: WilliamsTommy@mysocalledundeath.com To: KendallPhoebe@mysocalledundeath.com Dear Phoebe--

  I wanted to let you know that I really loved your second "Words from a Beating Heart" column. I've talked to a number of people our age, living and dead, about the site, and everyone was very excited about "Beating Heart." One dead friend I met while I was staying in New Jersey said that your voice has really done a lot to "humanize" the Web site. A funny comment, considering.

  BTW, I sympathize with you about trying to get Karen to contribute a little more with the site. Her "I'm not creative" schtick is really tired. I've sent her some harassing e-mails, but I don't think I'll be any more successful at getting her to do it than you were.

  I'm not so sure about her T-shirt idea, though. Did she

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  talk to you about that? While I think she's right about it helping get the message out, I'm really not sure the db community needs any more Skip Slydells. What do you think?

  Anyhow, the story that follows is about a side trip I took to Scranton, Pennsylvania. It's a little rough. Please don't be worried after you read it, and please tell all "the kids" not to worry. This stuff is still happening in the world and they need to know.

  I miss you.

  Love,

  Tommy

  Phoebe read die attachment, which was a long report from Tommy about a "station" somewhere in Pennsylvania for a sort of underground railroad for the differently biotic. Tommy stayed with a young couple who would pick up zombies that were fleeing Pennsylvania and points south and drive them to undead-friendly locales in New Jersey. They drove some of the zombies straight to Aftermath in New York.

  Phoebe's mouth went dry when Tommy wrote about a side trip the couple took so they could bring him to a fire pit surrounding a row of stakes in a field outside Scranton. Phoebe knew what the purpose of the pit was even before Tommy started to write about finding bone chips among the ashes. When he mentioned finding a melted locket it became too much for her, and she had to put the story aside for a moment.

  I worry about you, Tommy, she thought, picturing him hitchhiking down into Maryland, slowly working his way to

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  the state capital. Reading about the horrors that people could enact on the zombies--their children, for God's sake--it made her worry about all of them. Colette, Karen, Melissa. Adam.

  She read the story, which ended with Tommy talking at length about the kindness of the young couple, a testimonial that not all traditionally biotic people were madmen bent on the destruction of zombiekind. She set it aside and started typing a reply.

  From: KendallPhoebe@mysocalledundeath.com To: Williams Tommy@mysocalledundeath.com

  Dear Tommy,

  Your story is absolutely terrifying and sad. Ill post it immediately; I think anyone who reads it will be sympathetic.

  I'm very worried about you. Please take care of yourself.

  A little news: we brought Alish and Angela and the Undead Studies class over to the Haunted House so they could meet everyone. I'm sorry if Karen already told you all of this. I know earlier you guys wanted to keep the HH a secret, but the secret was pretty much out anyway after Adam was killed. The visit seemed to go really well, even Tak and Popeye were polite. Well, actually, polite may be a stretch, but they weren't as offensive as they usually are, so that's a plus.

  Tak is still bringing the old-schoolers out on little prank missions. TJxey did the recruiting posters that you know about, and they did another one where they took store mannequins and

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  zombified them and left them out in front of the mall entrance in Winford. Pretty funny.

  Not so funny is that someone dug up some graves in one of the cemeteries in Winford. Tak insists "his people," as he likes to call them, had nothing to do with it. Karen believes him, and I sort of do too. It makes me nervous, though, because whoever did it really did a good job of throwing the blame on Tak-- there were photos in the newspaper that looked like him digging. The article made it sound as if zombies were taking "recruiting" to a new level by digging up the graves. It seems like someone is spending a lot of time thinking about how to frame them.

  Which reminds me, Pete Martinsburg is working off his community service at the Hunter Foundation. I think it's the most idiotic thing possible, but Angela thinks the best way to overcome "the enemy " is to include and educate them. Most everyone seems to agree with her, and Karen says you would too. Do me a favor and don't tell me if you do.

  Also, Tommy, I wanted to let you know that Adam and I are dating. I guess you probably figured that we would, but it's official now. We get the same reaction from people that you and I did for the most part, except in school. I guess people are a little more used to seeing Adam and me together. Except for his old girlfriend Holly Pelletier, who I'm told became physically ill when she saw us in the hallway. We're actually going to Aftermath again tomorrow, with Margi and Colette. Karen couldn't make it, she's working (that's another story entirely, but I'll let her tell it). I can't believe Adam is going dancing,

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  but we've seen all the movies in the theater, and it doesn't really make sense to go out to dinner. We tried bowling but that was a total fiasco. Not much else for a girl and a zombie to do on a Saturday night, is there?

  I don't know where it's going--you never really do, do you? But it feels right. I'm happy and Adam seems the happiest he's been since his return. I just thought it was fair to let you know.

  Stay safe, please! We all miss you.

  Love,

  Phoebe

  Phoebe looked at what she'd written for a long time before deciding to delete the two paragraphs about Adam. She told herself that if Tommy was still depressed about their breakup she didn't want to add to his misery. Then she changed the "Love" to "Best," because writing "Love" made her feel unfaithful to Adam. Then she decided that she was being ridiculous and changed it back to "Love."

  She hit "Send," and then went to her sleeping bag praying that she wouldn't dream of fire pits.

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  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  "Yo," DAVIDSON said, his large feet up on the desk, while Pete stared at the monitors, especially the one that showed the Cooper kid in his room. Cooper watched television round the clock, except for the twenty minutes each day when he walked to the fence and back. Just about every time Pete looked at his monitor, Cooper was watching television, usually Cartoon Network. SpongeBob and old Tom and Jerry cartoons.

  "So, what?"

  "So what do you think?"

  Pete looked over at Davidson and felt a flicker of anger spark within him. "Are you a head shrinker now too?"

  "Not me. I'm a mind expander. What do you think about our prank?"

  Pete wasn't sure what he felt. He'd dug the grave a
ll the way down to the casket liner when Duke finally told him to stop.

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  He wasn't sure what he'd have done if Duke hadn't told him to stop.

  "Does it bother you, what you did?"

  "I don't know. I don't think so." The truth was he'd felt sick to his stomach standing there in front of the headstone, but the feeling went away the moment the edge of his shovel bit into the earth, because he pictured it sinking into the Japanese zombie's--Tak's--chest. It was unnatural to be digging up a grave, but each shovel of dirt felt like a blow against Tak and his kind.

  Duke slid his feet off the desk. "Good. It shouldn't. You've got to keep our goal in mind at all times. As long as we're focused on the goal, we'll be all right."

  "The goal," Pete repeated. "The goal of killing all the zombies."

  "Destroying the zombies." Duke's tone was firm, that of a teacher correcting a promising student. "Destroying them. Some of the things we do will seem a little unpleasant."

  "Yeah, unpleasant." Pete smiled.

  "Hey, it isn't like we killed anybody." Pete shot Duke a look and Duke covered his mouth with his hand.

  "Oops," he said. "Look, to me your only crime is bad aim. If you'd shot Williams they'd be giving you medals instead of making you scrub my floors."

  Pete looked back at the monitor. The zombie hadn't moved from his chair. He only had another twenty hours left on his community service, but he spoke anyway.

  "Why are you riding me?"

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  Davidson laughed, drained the last of his coffee. "Don't be so sensitive. If I were 'riding' you, you'd know it."

  Pete didn't reply. He looked away but could feel Duke scrutinizing horn.

  "Are you worried they'll come after you?"

  "Who? The zombies?"

  "Who else? They're going to be pretty upset when they realize they got punked in the graveyard."

  Pete looked away. "No. I'm not worried" "Really? I would be, if I were you."

  Pete shrugged. Part of him wouldn't mind seeing Tak again.

  "In fact, I'm worried it's only a matter of time before they come after me too."

  "Really?" Pete said. "Why would you worry about that, when you work for this wonderful zombie-loving institution?"

  "Things aren't always what they seem," Duke said.

  "I'm kind of tired of this cryptic crap," Pete said. "I've got that blond whore trying to shrink my head, and you keep saying this crazy X-Files stuff. Like you want to tell me something but you never tell me. I dug up somebody's grave last night and I don't even know why, except you think it's some practical joke to play on the zombies. I can't figure it out and I don't want to try anymore."

  Davidson stood up. "You're a smart kid, Martinsburg," he said. "A really smart kid. Let's go."

  "Go?" Pete said. "We're going to fight?"

  Davidson shook his head. "You're a really stupid kid, too. No, we're not going to fight. We're going to discover why

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  things aren't really what they seem. Turn the monitors off." "Turn them off? But ..."

  "Just turn them off. The fifteen minutes they aren't recording is going to be an equipment malfunction. It happens. Now move your ass."

  He followed Davidson to Alish's lab. Davidson checked his watch.

  "We have eleven minutes. Don't dawdle." He waited until Pete caught up before walking to the door in the back of the room.

  "You know what this room is?" "I thought it was Alish's office." "You ever see Alish go in there?" No.

  "You ever wonder why Alish's office is the only place on the entire grounds that doesn't have a camera on it?"

  "Yeah," he said. The thought had occurred to him.

  "Well," Davidson said, smirking, "here's why."

  He keycarded the door, which made a sound reminiscent of the vacuum tubes they use at the bank drive-through. The lights in the room triggered automatically and revealed a small, dingy-looking lab.

  There was a girl, part of a girl, strapped to a vertical table that faced the door. Another part was attached to a machine on a counter by the sink on the wall, a few feet away.

  "Meet Sylvia," Davidson said.

  Pete didn't scream until she opened her eyes.

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  Pete's hand shook as he lifted Duke's coffee cup to his lips. Duke hadn't bothered to wash it and Pete was too numb to care.

  "Fourteen minutes, thirty-seven seconds," Duke said, turning the monitors back on. "Equipment back online."

  Pete, shivering in Duke's chair, watched him as he took his seat on the edge of the desk. The smirk was gone.

  "Are you okay?" Duke asked. He poured the last of his coffee from the Thermos into the cup Pete held with two hands.

  "She was ...she was trying to talk," Pete said. He didn't even remember his flight back to the monitor room. He'd dug up a grave the other night, and he'd been ready to open the casket if that was what Duke had wanted, but all he'd felt was numb. But seeing the girl ... he thought it was far worse than desecrating a grave. It was like desecrating a grave where the person inside knew you were doing it. Knew it, and couldn't do anything about it.

  "She does," Duke said. "You could hear her before Alish went to work on her lungs. She used to say, 'Help me.' You ever see the movie The Fly? The original one?"

  Pete couldn't focus fully on what Duke was talking about; the image of the girl in pieces filled his brain.

  "What," he said, "what is he trying to do with her?"

  Duke laughed. "He's trying to cure death."

  "Cure death?" He thought of Julie, somewhere deep in the California soil.

  "Sure. Why not? The dead are up and walking around, aren't they? Maybe, just maybe, we can cure them."

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  "Cure death." Pete said.

  Davidson grunted. "Don't hold your breath. Alish is crazy."

  Pete leaned back in his chair. He drained the last of the coffee, hoping the dark liquid would untangle the images of Julie and Sylvia from his mind.

  "He is?"

  "Of course he is. You saw that mess down there. He thinks he's going to put her back together again and everything will be all peachy keen. But he needs to get some results pretty soon or he's going to have the plug pulled on his funding. And then things would get really messy."

  Pete didn't know what he was talking about. The girl had brown eyes. She had looked right at him and moved her lips.

  "Alish thinks he's being clever," Duke went on. "He thinks we don't know what he's trying to do. He's a scared old man who wants to stay alive, and he thinks he's going to find the answer in the dry veins of one of the worm burgers. But the cure he's looking for is not the one that we are looking for."

  "It isn't?"

  "No," Duke said. "He's trying to treat a symptom. We're looking to cure the disease."

  Duke must have seen the confusion on Pete's face. "He wants to cure death," he said. "We just want to cure the dead. Like polio and smallpox. That's what Alish is supposed to be looking for."

  "We," Pete said.

  "We," Duke repeated, nodding. "You and me." Duke clapped his shoulder with a firm hand. "There are some people

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  who want to meet you, Pete. And you will want to meet them. You have a lot in common."

  Pete didn't say anything. Duke's hand was on his shoulder, and Duke's pale eyes stared at him with almost fatherly affection. The girl in the laboratory was like a squirrel that Pete had backed over a few weeks after Darren had bought him the car. Clipped by a tire, it's back half was crushed and it flopped around in the pine needles and dirt of one of the make-out spots around Lake Oxoboxo, not aware that it was already dead. Although Pete's date begged him not to, Pete got out of his car and put the little rodent out of its misery with the heel of his high-top sneaker. It took a while, but it was his responsibility to make sure the job was done right.

  He'd been to the spot many times since, although never again with that girl. Looking up at Davidson, he realized that his
hands had stopped shaking.

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  CHAPTER FORTY

  "ARE YOU ...SURE ...this ...is a ...good ...idea?" Sitting in the bleachers above the field. Phoebe said it's cold outside can't tell too cold for Frisbee another bright idea. Phoebe wears heavy coat with the fake fur lining on hood and cuffs, black mittens hard-to-play-catch-with mittens. Hood up, black fur framing white face. Like snow. Her eyes. Her pretty green eyes. "What do you mean? Our big date?"

  Hard coming to the field. Don't need to close eyes to imagine the snap of the ball and the crack of hitting shoulder pads. Can hear the crowd, smell the turf and sweat. Shake head, shake.

  "You ...and ...me."

  Phoebe takes hand. Strokes cheek with other mitten. "Adam, you aren't going to break up with me, are you?" "No," too quickly. "Don't...want...to."

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  "Then what is it? Are you afraid of what people would think?"

  Hardly. "Afraid ... of what...people ...will do."

  Phoebe turns thinking. Looks at field into the past sees Adam running blocking winning. Looks at field sees into the future sees what?

  "Adam," holding arm, huddling against as though for warmth no warmth to give. "Are you happy?"

  "Happy as ... a dead ...guy ...can be."

  "Being with me, I mean?"

  "Being ...with ...you." Only with you. Feels more than happy. Feels like life.

  "I'm happy too. Happier than I've ever been, I think." Crow flies across field. Ungraceful but swift. "It won't be easy, Adam. It never is." "Scared."

  "You're scared? Of what? Me getting hurt?" "Yes."

  Had to say it. Didn't want to say it admit it but Phoebe needs to know. Phoebe thinks fearless but not true. Terrified.

  "I'm scared for you too, Adam. The way the world is now there is a much better chance of something happening to you than to me."