“When the power cut out,” Dane explains, “everybody scrammed.”
I gently guide him away from the bathroom toward the dance floor and ask, “What now?”
Just then the back doors of the gym open and three figures plow through; two willingly, one being dragged along reluctantly like a man doomed to the gallows.
“Now,” says Dane, turning to meet them with clenched fists, “we find out how this story ends.”
31
A Pimp Called Death
BONES HAS TURNED his track suit into a tuxedo. How, I have no idea, but there it is just the same: shiny and white, with a crisp white fedora on top of his skeletal head instead of his trademark skullcap. The topper? A cheesy red carnation sticking out of his shiny white lapel.
He looks like a pimp called Death, and if things weren’t currently going to hell in a handbasket, I would laugh out loud in his face. Preferably while shoving said face into a big, fat mirror so he could see how ridiculous he looks. (Not that he would. I mean, you leave the house in a track suit tuxedo thinking it’s stylish and you’ve obviously got a fashion blind spot; am I right?)
In contrast, Ms. Haskins is wearing a sleek black number, not so shiny, much more sophisticated, stunningly at odds with her pale white skin, harsh red lipstick, and cold, dead eyes. Beneath her black fishnet stockings, her legs are marble white and it makes me wonder how long it took her from being confused in Home Ec to warming up to the idea of spending the Afterlife hot for teacher.
Between them, Stamp trembles in a simple black tux, cheap and ill-fitting, like maybe they grabbed the last one in the store and shoved him, kicking and screaming, inside of it. His lips are pressed tightly together, silent and grim, but the look in his eyes squeals, Help me!
He doesn’t look too bad, for now, but the Zerkers’ unspoken message is clear: try anything, and Stamp gets it.
Dane steps in front of me, protectively, but I shove him aside until we stand shoulder-to-shoulder. (Hey, I’ve earned it!)
Bones is smiling, so happy and self-satisfied is he with his well-orchestrated plan. He looks over our heads to the darkened bathroom door. “Am I to understand Chloe and Dahlia won’t be joining us this evening?”
Ms. Haskins follows his glance and, with a sultry pout, asks, “And what about Hazel, Maddy?”
I shake my head. “What do you care, Ms. Haskins?”
“I don’t, actually.” She sighs, checking her nails as she raises her hand in front of her face. “This may come as a surprise to you, Maddy, but I never liked Hazel all that much. I know it sounds horrible for a teacher to confess something like that, but, well, the cat’s out of the bag.”
“I don’t think they’ll fire you for it. I mean, becoming a Zerker, dating one of your students, crashing the Fall Formal with your new boy toy here, any of those might be a firing offense, but when we get through with you, losing your job will be the least of your worries.”
She stares daggers. “Such big talk from such a little girl. And I’d always had such high hopes for you, Maddy. Oh well.”
Bones laughs. “You’ve got it all wrong anyway, Maddy. We don’t want to kill you; we just want to …turn …you. Now that Dahlia and Hazel are gone, well, we’ve got a few openings on Team Zerker.”
“Never gonna happen,” Dane says decisively.
“Don’t be so sure, hero,” Bones says. “After tonight, you won’t be around to protect your little girlfriend here anymore.”
I go to defend myself, but Dane beats me to it, saying, “Who says she needs protection? From the looks of it, she’s racking up a higher body count than you are.”
“For now.” He looks bored. “Now, onto business. The way I see it, you have two choices: join us right now …or die where you’re standing.”
“Before you decide,” Ms. Haskins says, “just think about the future. You stick with us and, by the end of the night, we’ll own this school. A teacher and a couple of her former students? This place will be crawling with Zerkers by morning. No more passing among the Normals, no more playing with your little Goth makeup. With a school full of Zerkers, there will be no Normals; we’ll all look alike.”
Dane whistles. “That’s some plan. I can’t wait to hear what the Elders have to say about it.”
“You act like you’re already an Elder, Dane.” Bones scoffs. “The Afterlife is for the Afterliving, my friend. If you can’t enjoy it now, quit taking up space and getting in the way so the rest of us can have our fun.”
“That’s just it, Bones,” I say, walking slowly forward. Dane matches me, step for step. “Even the Afterlife is about more than just having fun. Otherwise, it’s just …anarchy.”
Bones leers at Ms. Haskins. “Who says there’s anything wrong with that?”
“What are you going to do a week from now, Bones,” I say, “when the whole school is full of Zerkers—every jock, every skank, every brain, every nerd—and they’re all as strong as you, all as smart as you? You’ve been top dog for some time now, Bones. You really want to fight to stay on top of the hill every week, every day, every minute?”
Bones doesn’t like that. He inches forward and snarls. “I think you overestimate the qualities of the student body here at Barracuda Bay High, Maddy.”
“Let’s just do this, all right?” Dane says between clenched teeth. “Enough of the playful banter; enough of the one-upmanship. Let’s end this thing.”
“Oh, we’ll end it all right.” Bones laughs before turning to Ms. Haskins. “Dear, why don’t you invite our friends in to join the …party?”
“Gladly.” She eyes me wickedly, destroying whatever image I’ve ever had of her as a teacher, as a mentor, as an adult, as a …friend. She opens the double doors they’ve just walked through, moonlight flooding in on a wave of pitch darkness. The motion is so dramatic, the setting so serene, the actress playing her part with such flair, I half expect a waft of B-movie fog to roll in across the floor and tickle our feet while she’s waiting.
Then she whistles with two fingers between her lips (sex-ay) and, beyond the doors, the singularly recognizable noise of mass …shuffling …begins. It’s a most unsettling sound—it’s not only shoes against the parking lot gravel or clothes against dead skin, but the growling, the mewling, and shouting of Zerkers gone wild. I have no idea what to expect and, unlike zombies or the older Zerkers, these new ones are frickin’ slow.
Step by step, they begin inching into view, but the emergency lights and Bones’ white fedora and the crisp moonlight and the late-night dark all camouflage most of what I’m seeing until it’s far, far too late.
Dane looks at me with the closest I’ve ever seen to fear in his eyes and says, “Whatever happens, Maddy, just …stay close.”
As the shuffling continues, I steal a glance at Stamp. He must know what’s coming through those doors because he’s violently yanking his arm away from Bones, trying to get free at any cost. Bones yanks him back, roughly, whispers something in his ear, and Stamp gently calms down.
While I’m wondering what Bones just said, both boys look at me: Stamp with an apologetic smile, Bones with menacing glee.
I close my eyes for a second and try to swallow. When I open them again, the doorway is filled with …teachers. Our teachers. (Or, what’s left of them anyway.) Seven or eight of them, pale as the moonlight above, dead as the fall leaves under their feet, slow as molasses but strong as oxen.
Their eyes are wide and vacant, their mouths moving, some making sounds, some merely clattering jaws, shadowy eyes buried in dark circles hidden in doughy white faces, licking their lips. Our teachers are Zerkers. So Bones and Ms. Haskins were right about one thing: after tonight, there really is no going back.
“Say hello to the new and improved staff of Barracuda Bay High School,” Ms. Haskins says grandly, as one by one the Gym teacher, the high school counselor, the assistant principal, and finally even Mrs. Witherspoon herself shuffle in, Zerker style.
God, will this ever end?
&
nbsp; I think of Scurvy’s head at my feet, of Hazel’s jolting body at the end of my stake, and now of all these teachers and what will become of them. How is one supposed to dezombiefy her Gym teacher?
Her assistant principal?
Her favorite Art teacher?
“And thanks to Stamp here,” says Bones, finally shoving the poor kid forward and onto the ground, Stamp’s bare hands making awkward squeaking sounds on the harsh gym floor as he slides forward on all fours, “we were able to invite the football team as well.”
From behind the teachers a swarm of thick-necked, muscle-bound Zerker jocks stumble in. Even as they shuffle toward us in their huge, shiny dress shoes and size XXXL tuxedoes, I ignore them.
“Stamp,” I shout, and he wastes no time scrambling toward me, looking puny and helpless as he crawls on all fours.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
Dane shoves him behind us protectively, making the motion look easy as we inch closer together to form a kind of zombie seal in front of what might be the last human in the room.
Stamp looks remorseful. “They made me do it, Maddy. I had no choice.”
“Did he bite you?” Dane asks impatiently as the crowd around the gym doors swells to one or two dozen angry, hungry, thick-necked Zerkers. He checks under Stamps’ collar, turning his face toward him roughly to inspect for teeth marks on his ruddy neck. “Did any of them bite you?”
Stamp shakes his head, looking at me innocently. With all that’s gone on, after Scurvy and Hazel and now Ms. Haskins turning, I don’t trust him. God forgive me, but I don’t trust anybody.
Anybody, that is, but Dane.
“Did Hazel bite you, Stamp?” I ask bluntly, pushing up his sleeves, yanking up his pants cuffs, inspecting every inch of his body (okay, not every inch) for any signs of Zerker bite marks. My hands are rough, and his skin is soft. It doesn’t seem like he’s turning, but what the hell do I know? It didn’t seem like Scurvy was turning either, at least not until his teeth were two inches from my skull.
“Honest, Maddy,” he says, his voice pleading and frantic, “she didn’t bite me, I swear. They said they were just using me—as bait. Hazel tricked me into coming with her on a double date with Bones and Dahlia. I was mad at you for dissing me at the party. I was …confused. I figured, ‘What the hell? I’ll make her jealous.’ The minute they picked me up, they had me call all the football players and made them meet me in the locker room. They told me if I didn’t, they’d …hurt …you.”
I take his hand, and it’s trembling. I touch his cheek, and it’s wet with tears. I tell him, “It’s not your fault, Stamp.”
“Maybe not,” Dane says, turning his attention to the grumbling linebackers, the eager running backs, the brain-hungry wide receivers, “but thanks to your boyfriend here we’re knee-deep in 300-pound jocks. As if Bones and Ms. Haskins and 10 of her favorite teachers weren’t enough.”
“Didn’t you hear?” Stamp snaps back. “We’re not an item anymore.”
“Seriously, you two,” I say. “We’ve got bigger fish to fry right now than my dating status.”
They both give me, then each other, dirty looks; then back to me again for another trip to the dirty looks buffet. Meanwhile the horde is approaching across the gym floor, the space between us and certain death (again) dwindling.
Spotting the threat, preparing for it, Dane hands Stamp a Taser. “Listen, let’s split up. Stamp, you take the jocks. Jab them in the neck with that, and they should go down hard and stay down. Maddy, you take the teachers. Use my copper stake.” He hands it to me. “They’re still so new they shouldn’t put up much of a fight. Me, I’ll grab Bones—”
Before he can finish with his best laid plans, Bones barks some kind of a command and the Zerkers begin to advance in earnest. I inch to the left, toward the buffet table and the long line of slender, high tables that I imagine might be some good obstacles against the approaching teacher onslaught.
Ms. Haskins follows, leading the teachers after me, her skirt slit high and her blouse buttoned low; Lolita of the Living Dead.
“Nice look,” I say, jabbing Dane’s copper stake in her direction.
“Nice try,” she says, avoiding it as the copper tip plunges into Coach Potter’s stomach. He sizzles, jolts, and goes down for the count. His body lies in a heap. She uses the opportunity to slap me across the face. “I never did like teacher’s pets.”
I slap her back, hard, with every word: “Yes”—slap—”you”—slap—”did!”—slap!
She is older, but I have been dead longer. She is bigger, but I am stronger, my muscles and bones stiffer, harder, more marblelike and, thus, heavier. It’s like my hand is no longer my hand, more like it’s some rubber glove filled with fast-drying cement. With every slap, I hear a little bone break, a chunk of cheek, an ear bone, maybe her jaw crumble beneath her smooth alabaster skin.
She falls to the floor with a frustrated yelp, and I reach again with the copper stake but, out of nowhere, Mrs. Witherspoon knocks it away, taking off her big red glasses and holding them in her hands like a weapon. She jabs at me with the eye frames, her hands still plump and fleshy.
I avoid them easily and roll away on the floor, grabbing the stake just in time as my zombie teachers gather around my flailing body like Boy Scouts at a campfire. I kick at each of their shins, and they’re still new enough to react to the pain.
They grab at their legs, mouths forming black, round Os of discomfort. They howl as they tumble to the ground and, one by one, I short-circuit the Afterlife out of them with the copper tip of my handheld stake. It’s like Whac-A-Mole, only with human beings. (Whac-A-Teacher? Whac-A-Zerker?) One by one by one they fall, overlapping each other on the floor in their writhing, foaming electric agony.
They pile up like lumber and as their life forces drain away, I have to keep reminding myself they’re only Zerkers now and that the teachers I knew, and loved, and sometimes hated, and occasionally even feared, were dead and gone the minute Ms. Haskins bit the Afterlife right into them—and the Normal life right out.
Finally only Ms. Haskins remains, but while her comrades have fallen, she hasn’t rushed to their aid. Instead she’s inched away from me, far away, until she has her back to Bones and he has his back to her while he faces off with Dane.
It wasn’t going well when it was one on one; it’s definitely not going well now that it’s two on one. Dane looks battered, scared, and I rush to help.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees me coming and shouts, “Stamp, Maddy! Go help Stamp!”
I stop, torn between the two. Though battered, Dane is a zombie, has been a zombie, and can hold his own—even against an angry monster like Bones. But poor Stamp is a Normal—flesh and bones and blood and soft tissue—and currently surrounded by the entire Barracuda Bay defensive line and dying the death of a thousand hard jabs from his former teammates.
A few of the big, bulky players are down on the ground, limp and lifeless, but the rest—about a dozen of them left now—are slowly picking Stamp apart. His tuxedo is in tatters, one shoulder ripped through to the stiff white, bloodstained shirt beneath it.
I shiver, flinch. I keep forgetting he’s not a zombie, not immune to pain. That his heart still pumps blood, that his body can be hurt, torn, can spill blood; that he can …die. I leap on the two nearest linemen, stabbing them each in the back of the neck with the copper tip of my stake. One goes down right away, and I think this is going to be as easy as silencing the teachers was, but the other goes down with a fight, tossing my stake across the gym even as he falls, sizzling and dead, to the ground.
Great, no spike, and my Taser is lying, useless and wet, back in the ladies’ room. While a few of the linemen pummel Stamp, I struggle to my feet, dazed but not hurt from the fall to the floor with the 300-pound lineman on top of me. Meanwhile, two more gigantic Zerker jocks corner me against one of the tall Fall Formal tables.
One is thin and I snap his arm with a swift roundhouse kick to the shoulder
. He flinches but keeps coming, so I repeat the process and break his other arm. Now he’s like a cat with no claws, a marionette with no puppet master. While I push the thin one over easily, the other jock moves in behind me, and before I can lash out, he scoops me up in his arms for the mother of all bear hugs.
I squirm and stretch my arms out, his muscles tightly coiled. He is strong, physically stronger than me, but still he’s only flesh and blood, while I am now granite and wiry muscle and dead, solid bone. I bite at his flesh, spit it out, kick at his knees, all while his grip grows stronger. I struggle in vain, until I remember the ruffles full of grave dirt.
I growl, kick, turn, squirm until I’m finally facing the gigantic beast. He looks surprised as I head butt his face, but even his broken nose doesn’t stop him from trying to grind my spine to dust in his huge, python arms. The cemetery dirt does, though. I inch closer, not squirming anymore but embracing him, reaching around his back and clasping my hands together in a kind of finger lock to pull him closer to me, scrambling up his chest to his face until his nose is buried deep in the ruffles, into the dirt-filled ruffles Chloe sewed into my dress and we both laughed about once upon a time.
His scream fills the auditorium; the howling nearly shatters my eardrums. He tries to drop me, but I’m fused to him now, following him like a second skin wherever he turns, wherever he falls, wherever he runs, my granite fingers piercing his thick hide and sticking to him like a rodeo rider to his bucking bronco.
The footballer leaps away, falls to the ground, rolls, and still I cling to him, his nose sizzling, his face seared black and crusty by the effects of grave dirt shoved straight under his broken nose. I stick close until I know he’s gone, and out, and down for the count, his face still smoking, his eyes open and coated with a thin, gray film.
A Living Dead Love Story Series Page 19
