A Living Dead Love Story Series

by Rusty Fischer

  I give Dad a questioning look, and he nods. “Do you know how to drive that thing, dear? I’m afraid, for as long as we’ve lived in Florida, I’ve never taught you how to sail.”

  “Do you know?” I snort.

  He shakes his head. “I was always so busy.” He points a thumb over his shoulder, and even now I can sense he’s eager to get back to the work that makes him so happy.

  I look at the sail, bundled up tight, and frown. Then I see two oars. “I’ll just row around for a little while until I get the hang of it.”

  He looks confused until Vera sneaks up to his side, blue beret popping up out of nowhere. “She’ll be fine, Dr. Swift. We trained her well.”

  He rolls his eyes at me, but there’s a new sense of camaraderie between them that I’ve never seen before. Like something happened when I wasn’t looking.

  “You know where you’re going?” she asks.

  Lucy creeps up to join the group on the dock.

  I smile. “Not a clue.”

  Vera waits a beat. “That’s not such a bad thing, Maddy.”

  I shrug.

  Lucy kneels, untying the bowlines. “You sure you know what you’re doing?” she asks quietly, as if we don’t have an audience.

  “Hell, no.” I snort.

  She chuckles, leaning in for a quick hug. “Take good care of my identity.” She winks, nodding toward the strap of her messenger bag poking out from under the seat cushion. Then she shoves me gently away from the dock.

  As the momentum pulls me out into the canal, I watch Dane walk away from the group to the very edge of the dock.

  He says not a word. He doesn’t even wave. But as I struggle with the oars—they’re longer than I thought and heavy and awkward, getting them in their little metal holders and then sticking them in the water without them sliding all the way through and floating away—he’s still there every time I look up.

  The others drift away one by one. Dad first. A scientist, after all, he has the facts: Maddy is going away for a while; she knows I’m safe, we’ve said good-bye; I have jars full of Zerker thumbs to label.

  Vera next, with Lucy close by her side. They have work to do. The Zerkers won’t all go away just because I’m taking a break from hunting them down.

  Courtney goes, and, though I pretend I’m not watching, I see Stamp look after her, then at me, before offering a quick wave and shuffling off. And that’s okay. That’s good. He’s found a new buddy, someone who will maybe teach him how to shine Sentinel boots and stitch up torn berets when this is all over and done with.

  Good for them both. Good for everybody.

  Finally, when I’ve drifted the wrong way down the canal while I get my sea legs, I row back up the other way. Dane is still there. The pool deck is empty. Maybe Courtney is spoon-feeding cold brains to Stamp inside or something. Or maybe they’ve already got a head start signing up Stamp for Sentinel Support.

  Either way, the busier he is, the happier Stamp will be. And all I’ve ever wanted all along was for Stamp to find happiness in the afterlife. If it takes a ditzy blonde who has the same IQ as he does, well, so be it.

  The water laps gently against the oars as I glide forward, coming close to the dock but not too. Dane looks into the house behind him, as if for permission, then walks toward the water’s edge.

  “Room for one more?” he asks, his sleek shoulder pads glinting in the afternoon sun, looking for all the world like a young Darth Vader, minus the helmet and cape.

  I chuckle. “Not this time, player.”

  He nods, leaning against the last dock piling. “Stamp’s not the only one who’ll miss you, Maddy. You know that, right?”

  I’m tempted to swirl my oars in the water, turn around, or coast or just drift a while, but I know where temptation leads and even dead hearts can be broken more than once. “I guess so.”

  He blinks twice in the afternoon sun. “I screwed up, huh?”

  I can’t tell if his tone is regretful or cavalier, and it’s not just because I’m inching past as he says it. I nod and keep moving, the oars gently lapping as I near the end of the canal.

  As I turn left—sorry, north—out of the canal, heading up the east coast of Florida, I cast one last glance back at the dock. Yes, he’s still there. Yes, he’s still watching, arm casually on the piling, waiting, I suppose, until I’m out of sight so he can wipe his hands and get back to the rest of his afterlife.

  Finally, turning toward the wind, I answer him: “Big time.”

  Author Biography

  Rusty Fischer, a former high school teacher, has worked for the best-selling educational magazines The Mailbox, Learning, and Bookbag. A full-time freelance writer, he is the author of the YA novels Zombies Don’t Cry, Zombies Don't Surrender, and Vamplayers.