Zombies Don't Forgive

by Rusty Fischer

  She is momentarily stumped, but then a sleazy smile crosses her leathery white face. “Oh, well, Stamp here keeps me company most nights, don’t you, lover?” She does that whole oozing amoeba thing again, sliding under his arm.

  But even Stamp looks uncomfortable and shoots me a quick apologetic look past Val’s blonde spikes. “W-w-well, not every night.”

  “Yeah,” Dane adds a little gruffly, shuffling closer. “I mean, Stamp’s home some nights like a good little boy, so you must get pretty scared staying out here alone, huh?”

  Val shrugs and loops her arm almost violently through Stamp’s. “Not really. I’m pretty tough, right, Stamp?” It sounds almost like a warning. She tugs him toward her and nearly folds him in half with the effort.

  He looks a little startled, then embarrassed.

  My throat clenches. Sentinel or not, zombie or not, Val is not someone Stamp should be with. And I’m not saying that as his ex. I’m saying it as his friend.

  Suddenly I can’t help but wonder why sweet Stamp has gone so sour. Has it been just to get away from us, like Dane says? Or did he always have an edge as a Normal that I missed because I was so caught up in being a zombie?

  Or maybe I’m just reacting the way most girls do when they see their ex’s new girlfriend. I honestly can’t fathom how a guy who was ever attracted to me, even in the slightest, could be attracted to a girl like Val.

  “So what is this new job of yours?” Val says, stepping in so that Stamp is pushed to the background.

  Dane and I share a look because, well, it’s the kind of move he taught me in the same scenario: protect your weaker link. So does that mean she has Sentinel training, or is she just an alpha witch? I’m getting alpha-witch vibe, but maybe that’s just me.

  “You guys must be really eager to please if you’re wandering around deserted areas in the middle of the night.”

  “Reader Response Corp,” Dane blurts, reading the name we made up for the top of the form. “They do surveys, customer satisfaction mostly, on all kinds of retail products.”

  “Really?” Val whips the clipboard out of Dane’s hand so fast he barely has time to react.

  I watch Val’s face as she scans the six stapled pages of questions we worked hard to write. (Well, Brittni did, mostly.) Things like this:

  Would you prefer to watch a thriller or chick flick on a first date?

  How often do you go to the movie theater in a month? Please circle the appropriate answer.

  Once.

  Twice.

  Three times.

  What is your favorite movie snack food? Please select one of the following items.

  Val’s face is priceless as she reads them. She goes from triumphant, clearly thinking she’s going to stump us and reveal some blank page BS that we just threw together, to petulant that we’ve stumped her, to finally looking downright impressed.

  “Wow. This is quite an elaborate survey for big-screen TVs. How ever did you know I had one?”

  “We didn’t.” I sigh, trying to out-act her. “But most people do these days. Do you? If you did, it would be great if you’d answer some of these. Maybe we could even go inside and—”

  But Val’s not having any of that. Instead, she has whipped out her cell phone and is reading the number on the survey form, the one right under the completely false Reader Response Corp logo Brittni helped us design.

  “Val?” Stamp looks at us uncomfortably, bordering on shooting us major WTF face. “Honey? Who could you be calling at this hour?” In his voice I hear the gentle, almost timid boy I fell in love with back at Barracuda Bay High. In that second of concern for her, for us, I hear the heartbreak that his existence has become since I saved his life—you know, by killing him. Again.

  He never wanted any of this. He never deserved any of this. And now he’s in danger because he’s running away from this.

  I shoot Dane a look, and he looks at me as if he’s thinking, Calm down. After all, the number goes straight to his cell phone voice mail, where helpful Brittni has recorded a greeting in her best bouffant-hairdo, polyester-skirt, headset, fake-receptionist voice:

  “Welcome to Reader Response Corporation. Your opinions are greatly valued. Our offices are open from 6:00 a.m. to 9:00 p.m. eastern standard time. Please call back during regular business hours to speak to a live operator. Thanks again for your valued contribution to our continued study of customer buying habits in your region …”

  I smile to hear Brittni’s voice now. We really should have tipped her more considering how much she helped us, though she seemed pretty stoked about the $20.

  Val hangs up in not-so-private frustration. “Of course it’s a recording.” She pockets her phone and hurls the clipboard toward Dane.

  Seriously, if he was human he’d be dead already. Witch has some serious arm.

  He catches it on the fly, avoiding certain decapitation, and puts another foot forward. “So I take that to mean you won’t be helping us with our survey tonight, Val.”

  No one, not even Stamp, can ignore the outright menace in his voice. Few people can evoke fear the way Dane can with that growl.

  But this Val chick? She’s hardly fazed.

  I’m inching away from him, and I know the dude.

  Val steps up. “No, Dane, we won’t. It’s late, and to be quite honest, I think you’re full of it. You and your little friend here and your clipboards and your clip-on ties—all of it.”

  “Really?” he barks.

  “Honey,” Stamp says, wedging between them. “Come on now. Why would they lie? And look at their outfits. No self-respecting”—Stamp looks at us, and I know from his saucer eyes that he was about to say zombie—”kid would wear those getups.”

  “They’re spying on us.” Val turns on her heel. “They’re just jealous. Jealous of us! Now let’s go.”

  “Wait, what?” Stamp stands his ground. Well, sort of. “Aren’t we, I mean, can’t we even invite them in?”

  “No, we can’t. Now are you coming or not?”

  And that’s that. Val is gone.

  Stamp lingers, face all crumpled, looking back and forth between us like he’s at some tennis match.

  “Stamp,” I say, edging a little bit closer to help him make the right decision. “Dude, come on. This is all … I mean, does this feel right to you?”

  “Really,” Dane adds, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Come home with us, okay?”

  Stamp chews his bottom lip like he used to as a Normal when he wasn’t sure what to do. But that was over little things, like whether to choose A or B on a multiple-choice test or what flavor of milk to get in the lunch line. This is life-or-death stuff here.

  “Stamp, it’s not just about us snooping around. You know that, right?”

  He nods at me, looking over his shoulder as Val rattles open the warehouse door in a big, look-at-me kind of way. He winces a little.

  “I don’t,” Dane says, looking at me. “I mean we don’t think it’s safe here.”

  And that’s when we lose him. Stamp’s face changes as he scoffs openly. We had him, and then we lost him. Because we forgot what Stamp hates about being a zombie the most: being protected. He wants to be his own zombie, in his own way, and now it’s changed from us being concerned about him to us wanting to protect him, and he can’t have that.

  Won’t have that.

  He turns and walks away. “I’m a big boy, Dane,” he says, but I know he wants to add my name. “I can take care of myself.”

  As we drive away, I hope he’s right.

  But I doubt he is.

  10

  Do Those Brains Come with Sprinkles?

  “Why do I always have to do it?” I say, slurping on a candy red hot in my mouth.

  “He’s your friend.”

  “Friend? That’s pushing things, don’t you think?”

  Dane grunts, sinking deeper into the passenger seat. Yeah, like anyone’s going to notice him at the busiest ice cream parlor on the planet.


  Literally. It’s in the Guinness World Records or something. Look it up. Frozen Planet. Never heard of it? Me neither. At least, that is, until I moved to Orlando, otherwise known as the Neverland of Chain Restaurants.

  Frozen Planet is about as big as your average restaurant, only it serves nothing but ice cream 24/7/365. The building itself is painted brown with little black lines crisscrossing it to make it look like a waffle cone. All the windows have sprinkles painted over them: red, green, white, pink, and orange. On top is the world’s largest scoop of ice cream. They say you can see it from the top of the Epcot geosphere, though I don’t know who would know that except maybe the unluckiest maintenance worker in the world. This ice cream cone is huge, I’ll give it that, and it’s ringed by neon lights so you can see it at night too, which is helpful if NASA runs out of power and the shuttle needs a little help landing.

  We’re parked in front with about a dozen other cars, despite it being late as hell. This town never sleeps. I see all kinds of kids in there too. Eating ice cream in the middle of the night? Yeah, that’s good parenting. Real good.

  My phone is on my lap. I texted Iceman about 10 minutes ago that we were on our way for our weekly pickup. He said he’d text me with the phrase chocolate chip when he was ready.

  “God, he takes this stuff so seriously,” I say to Dane, window down, the evening warm and muggy and soft on my arm. In my mouth, the red hot heats things up by about two degrees a minute. By the time I’m inside, I should be hot enough to pass as human. Kind of. Maybe.

  “Probably watches a bunch of spy movies or stuff.”

  “Or zombie movies.” I grunt.

  Dane grunts back.

  That’s how we met, actually. In an online chat room for zombie fans. It was a week or two after we’d moved to Orlando and we weren’t having any luck finding a friendly local grocer, coroner, or funeral director to help us out in the brains department. We were getting desperate but feared that if we tried breaking in someplace, the Sentinels might have it under surveillance.

  Dane and I hopped online and found this site called Zombies R Us and set up my profile. (My screen name is LvingDedGurl, by the way.) We found Iceman in a late-night chat for humans interested in the taste of brains. Yes, such people exist. In this world. In Orlando.

  Dane and I perked up, and I asked Iceman what that was all about. He said he’d love to tell me in person, so we set up a date at his second job. At Frozen Planet.

  His first job? The local coroner’s office.

  Trust me, we checked first. Dude was legit.

  Dane showed up early for that first meeting, got a seat, ordered a sundae, didn’t eat it but tipped well, so the waitress let him stay. I got there an hour later, took the corner booth as directed, and boom, five seconds later this giant of a kid shuffles over in one of those paper hats, peppermint ice cream stains all over his XXL shirt, and introduces himself.

  “Living Dead Girl?”

  “Iceman?”

  He sat; we talked. His breath smelled; I pretended not to notice.

  Eventually I showed him a wad of cash and said that if he could get me three human brains a week, I’d make sure he’d never need to work overtime again.

  So here we are, nearly five months later, and I have to go do the trade-off.

  The text comes in: Iceman.

  I shiver and take the envelope full of cash out of the glove box. Every week Dane, Stamp, and I put $60 from our paychecks toward our brain fund. Every week, I hand it over to Iceman. Brains, meet mouth.

  A cowbell over the door rings, and the smells of ice and cream and sugar and peppermint and chocolate nearly knock me over. My zombie senses are on high alert, and this place is like a tidal wave of gross!

  I take the last booth on the left corner, as always, and in minutes I see Iceman shuffling over. His real name is Robin Rice. He’s 22, lives at home—of course—and he’d be an okay-looking guy if he wasn’t so smarmy.

  “Hi, sweetheart,” he says right off, sliding uncomfortably into the booth so that his massive stomach won’t spill over the top. (See what I mean? Sweetheart? Really?)

  I hold back a retch. “Hi, Iceman. How’s work?”

  “Which job?” He sighs.

  Seriously, he says the same thing every week. I’m in no mood. “Pick one.”

  He notices. “My, aren’t we short tonight?” He pulls the Frozen Planet bag, presumably containing three to-go containers of brains, toward his side of the table.

  I smirk and play nice. “Sorry. Just … long day.”

  “What’s with the getup?”

  I look down, realizing I’m still in my fake survey taker’s uniform. “Like I said, long day.”

  Iceman shrugs. Then he gets down to business. “So how were last week’s brains?”

  “Scrumptious,” I say, like they were his or something. “The best yet.” This is the worst part, feeding Iceman’s ghoulish ego.

  “I guess I should try them myself someday.”

  “You really should,” I say, eyeing the bag still clutched in his grubby fingers.

  “Maybe you can cook them for me one day?”

  I take great glee in crushing the hopeful look in his sweaty face. “Cook them? Real brain fanatics eat them raw. I thought you knew that.”

  He frowns. “I guess I’m not a real fanatic, then.”

  No, I think just a freakish ghoul who sells human brains for cash.

  I slide the envelope over, eager to end our transaction, get home, and start the feast. He takes it eagerly, shoving it in his Frozen Planet apron.

  Finally, the bag comes my way. I have to force myself to wait and be pleasant, though what I really want is to grab it and run. But where would that leave me next week?

  “Thanks, Iceman,” I say, inching out of the booth.

  “You’re welcome, Living Dead Girl.”

  Then he does this thing, this thing he does every week, where he sits there, a king on his throne, and juts out his right cheek. I lean down, red hot nearly gone by now, and kiss it. His skin tastes like sugar and sweat. If I don’t get away soon, he’s going to get an earful of red hot upchuck, that’s for sure.

  “Until next week,” he says dreamily.

  I can barely hear it with the cowbell ringing overhead on my way out the door.

  11

  Where the Cemeteries Have No Name

  “Soy sauce or no?” Dane says from the kitchen a little while later as he splits up the fresh brain.

  I’m in my room, taking off my makeup and slipping out of my phony survey taker’s uniform. I find Dane’s keys in my pocket and walk to his room to set them on his desk.

  A piece of red string is sticking out of his top drawer. What? Is he knitting now? Making me one of those old-school Raggedy Ann dolls for Christmas? Or a scarf, maybe? Some mittens for my always cold hands?

  Hearing the water still running in the kitchen, I slide the drawer open just a smidge. There’s no doll, no mittens. But there is a map: a local map, with red string tying several black dots together.

  The dots are plastic circles with sticky backing so they stay glued in place, and I recognize the map as the one that came with our welcome packet when we paid our initial deposit and moved into The Socialite.

  “The hell?” I murmur as I sink into the desk chair.

  I lay the map out flat, trying to get my geography straight. It never was my favorite subject. I notice our street highlighted with a red dot. X marks the spot.

  The red strings all tie around the red dot and make an almost perfect circle as they pull out to all the black dots. It’s like a giant wheel, stretching out from our street, each red string like a spoke in the wheel.

  Next to each black dot, Dane has written in his blocky handwriting a name, then a date.

  Wait, that last one. That name sounds familiar.

  I look in the drawer and see why. It’s come from our local paper, the one I showed him the other day, about the kid who went out for bananas and milk and never ca
me back.

  The sneak! He must have taken it off my stationary bike when I wasn’t looking. But what for? I dig a little deeper and find several more clippings beneath it, each with the name on the map highlighted.

  I look at Rudy Ortega’s picture in the paper. It’s from his school yearbook. Turns out he was a junior at the local high school, Cedar Point. He’s got a big, round face and weepy eyes but a wide smile. His hair is short, with a little ducktail at the front. I grin, then stop myself.

  The clipping beneath Rudy’s is for a big-boned redhead. Her name, Wendy Schmaltz, is highlighted. She was a nursing student at some local tech college after dropping out of high school during her senior year. She has laughing eyes, buckteeth, and a spray of freckles across her nose that stand out even in black-and-white.

  Every clipping, tied to every string, is about a local kid who’s gone missing. One a month, apparently, since we moved to The Socialite. I count the strings, touching them gently. None of them go too far from where Dane and I live. A few miles at the most.

  I don’t know how freaked out I should be, but I’m pretty. Freaked out, that is.

  Yeah, I know every neighborhood has its strange goings-on, its disappearances and violence, but five in five months? It’s not like we’re in a war zone or something. Sure, we’re not living on Rodeo Drive, but we’re still in the United States.

  I could understand one or two, but even that would be pushing it. Five?

  “So now you know,” Dane says from the doorway, drying his hands with a dish towel. “Why we went through the whole survey-taker charade. Why we had to start tailing Stamp. Why I pressed Val so hard tonight.”

  I let the newspaper clippings slide off the map I’m clutching and back into the drawer, where they settle with a rustle, a straggle of red string hanging over the open drawer.

  “You think she knows about this?”

  He shrugs. “Not knows, exactly, but I think she’s involved, yes.”