Death 07 - For the Love of Death

by Tamara Rose Blodgett

  I can feel him stewing in his own shit.

  Loving it. It’s the little things.

  “No,” he admits.

  “Just go. I will pulse-communicate when he awakens.”

  The silence builds.

  “Fine.” A pause. “But you understand the error rate on an ALB scans—”

  “Is nearly zero,” Jezebel interrupts. “Yes, I'm aware.”

  “Pulse me,” Dale the Douche barks.

  “I said I would.”

  The door slams shut and she throws what sounds like a bolt.

  They couldn't have missed the headless bot out there?

  George is there, hands underneath my armpits.

  Jezebel turns to me. “Now tell me I didn’t just invite incarceration for no good reason.”

  “No.”

  Jezebel looks to George again. “And what’s with him?”

  “Can you?” I point to my mending arm.

  She nods, holding out her palm.

  I slip my right hand into hers.

  Our power bursts over us, flowing from our connected hands to the palm she holds over my arm.

  Blissful relief flows over me as the pain moves to aching.

  After five minutes, it's gone.

  We let go and I lay back and begin to speak.

  She doesn't interrupt once.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Deegan

  The low keen of a sirens wail in the distance as I hold on for dear life.

  More dear now that I’m lost in a world where an enemy has already killed me and heals as I escape.

  We stop, and my zombie’s arms loosen as I slide down.

  Did I mention I suck at control? I long for Pax. He’d have such a handle on this.

  The zombie turns and I gasp.

  He’s beautiful and alive.

  His eyes, so deep a midnight blue they’re black velvet kissed by the ocean. His olive skin is rich and dusky, not a hint of ruddiness, cafe au lait. Truly black hair, like mine, is a tight cap just shy of curly that covers his head.

  He grins and his mouth is pink, every tooth straight and whole.

  This is where my control really is bad. I raise him by accident then do a mediocre job. Like a rotting cherry on top, my death energy leaks all over him, and now he looks all lovely and alive. Somehow.

  Wow.

  The worst part is he's a killer.

  And he's all mine.

  “Mistress?”

  I clear my throat, smoothing my riot of hair out of the way. I grab the hair band off my wrist and tie the mess in a huge knot at the base of my neck.

  “It’s Deegan,” I say quietly.

  His pupils contract as a slice of sunlight spears the forest, turning his dark eyes to cerulean blue. All colors. One.

  I swallow, slopping through some manners finally.

  “What's—what's your name?”

  “Mitchell,” he says.

  Then there is nothing.

  The question hangs between us. He's just waiting for me to ask.

  “Who did you kill?” I ask in a soft voice. I don't have to be afraid. There's never been a documented case of a zombie killing an AFTD. It's as though there's a fail safe. We control the dead.

  I am still afraid. His physical presence is intimidating.

  He cocks his head. “How do you know I've killed anyone?”

  His face tells me nothing. Cheekbones like forward slashes sculpt a young, hard face.

  I look down at my hands. “I can’t raise… anyone who is not a murderer.”

  Shame makes my face hot.

  Then he laughs.

  I snap my head up. Hands to hips, lips thinning. “What is so funny?”

  Because it’s not.

  He's not chuckling, but laughing deeply, from his belly. “First, I don't know how you can know that. Second, I don't know what I am, why you matter, what in the hell is going on, and third—I don't want to go back.”

  I retreat a step. Out of all the zombies I have to raise, it’s one of the really bad ones. Of course, when all I can raise as a four-point are murderers, the choices become limited.

  I don’t want to go back, he said.

  I do. I very much want to go back.

  So what does an almost seventeen-year-old girl do? She bursts into tears.

  Arms envelop me.

  The smell of rot is gone because my emotions are all over the place, and I can’t control the leakage.

  I smell many things. The main thing is death.

  For an AFTD, death is home. I take a shuddering inhale and grip Mitchell the Zombie’s shirt.

  The flannel is soft beneath my fingertips.

  The heart I made beat strokes my face with its rhythm, and I cry harder.

  His hand comes to the back of my head. “I am here, Mistress.”

  “I know,” I sniffle, supremely pissed at myself for losing it.

  I pull away, and he thumbs my tears away.

  “Deegan.”

  Mitchell smiles. “Deegan. And what a funny name that is.”

  I nod. The parents weren’t great on picking our names. I love them anyway.

  I give him a watery smile.

  “I murdered the men responsible for killing my family.”

  I look into his face. The unforgiving and matter of fact way he says it brooks no argument. Uncompromising.

  “Oh,” I answer in lame reply.

  His expression tightens, his eyes glazing to a faraway look, his hands unconsciously clenching into loose fists.

  “I was in college, close to home, living with my folks, and I was in charge. They were out of town, see.”

  I did see.

  Anguish.

  Guilt.

  Responsibility.

  I see it all.

  He stares at the ground, exhaling in a rush, and gives a harsh scrub of his head. “Some chumps thought they had easy pickings. Scoping out the neighborhood, I’m sure their plan was to be in an out.”

  I shook my head, denying the story to come, and he laughs.

  It sounds like choking despair to me, not a bit of humor.

  One breath, two… on the third he says it. “They did my sister first.”

  His gaze moves to mine. He doesn’t explain.

  I close my eyes to the grief. His.

  “She was only fifteen.” He pauses. “Then they did my brother. Of course—he was trying to protect her. At twelve.” He shakes his head slowly. “Not a chance in hell. Two guys, twenties.”

  I have many questions. But I let him finish.

  He raises his eyes, locking with mine. Full of malice. They glitter as I stand beneath the weight of remembered violence.

  “They didn’t know anyone was home. Thought the entire family was MIA.”

  I have to ask, “What were you doing?”

  His eyes never leave mine. “Getting pizza.”

  It's funny really. Your siblings killed because of a pizza run. His face isn't funny. It's etched with sadness.

  “Cory was still alive when I came in.”

  “Your brother?”

  He nods.

  “What did you do to the men?”

  Mitchell puts his hands on his hips. “I beat one of them until his brains came out.”

  I grasp my hands. I know how hard the human skull is.

  “Weaponless?” I clarify because I have to.

  He raises his hands, waving them side to side.

  I gulp.

  “Then I cut the guy's dick off that raped my sister.”

  I gasp and retreat a step.

  Mitchell stares at me.

  “He took a while to bleed out. I took my time with him.”

  I raise a palm. I can't. I just can't hear anymore.

  “I know you’re young. But you asked… Deegan.”

  I nod. I did.

  “How old were you?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “How old were you when…” I don’t finish my question.

  “Twenty.�
��

  I think. “How come they, how come—ugh.”

  A sad smile tweaks the corners of his mouth. “I didn't get in trouble for the murders.”

  My eyebrows hike.

  “They threw me in a nuthouse.”

  I laugh. It's such an inappropriate term for people with mental illness. Gram would have a turtle over it.

  I'm instantly sad at the reminder and feel my smile slide off my face like melting candle wax. I remind myself Mitchell is from another era. He died almost forty years ago.

  Pre-paranormals.

  “There was a big ass public outcry: Save the orphan. Of course, the doctors thought I acted vengefully.”

  “Did you?”

  His answer is instantaneous: “Yes.”

  I can’t blame him. But a human being has to have a certain disposition to… retaliate in the way Mitchell did.

  “How can you make me alive?” he asks, deftly changing the subject.

  He doesn’t tell me how he dies. Okay.

  “After you—ya know, died.” I flick my eyes to him. He returns my stare. “My grandpa is a scientist, and he found anomalous markers on the human genome.”

  His eyebrow pops.

  “Atypical,” I explain.

  He nods, a smile ghosting his lips.

  “Then a pharmaceutical mogul gets involved, makes a chemical cocktail that can make these… powers, manifest.”

  Mitchell palms his strong jaw.

  It occurs to me right then he’s kinda hot, which introduces a mondo-awkward moment.

  He’s dead, Deegan.

  Thankfully, he’s not paying attention to my discomfort.

  “So Grandpa found what kind of genes?”

  I swallow, scrambling. “Paranormal.”

  He laughs.

  I frown.

  “What?” he asks. “I know what you are.” He taps his temple. “It’s in my brain. Necromancer, Mistress. I know you rule”—he puts a thumb to his chest—“us.”

  I shake my head.

  “Not all. I can only raise murderers.”

  Now he really laughs again.

  I don't.

  “You're shitting me?”

  I smile despite the circumstance. “I shit you not.”

  “Can I say that's not the best ability, or whatever it is you have.”

  “Yeah,” I agree, my self-pity begging for a party. I refrain, in the face of his tragedy, I don't think I have the luxury.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Caleb

  The Skopamish move in on the suits, and I let them. Feels like old times.

  I turn to Gramps, and he’s struggling to get up. I pop my hand out; he grabs on, and

  I jerk him to his feet. He only sways a little. Tough old bird.

  We survey the murderous Native Americans.

  “Good thing Jade stayed home,” Gramps comments conversationally.

  “Yeah, she was really jonesing to come.”

  Gramps gives me a sidelong glance. “Would’ve been bad.”

  Yeah.

  The AFTD in the middle of the road throws a wallop of death energy at the Skopamish.

  Tomahawks fall, and their mouths open in silent screams.

  Gramps makes a low grunt. “What’s this?”

  “Another five-point.”

  Arrogant walks over the tops of my zombies, and I charge. I let every bit of what I have go.

  It bottoms out, leaving me in a mudslide of death.

  Arrogant’s in his early twenties. All five-points are documented. It’s so rare there’s a half dozen of us.

  Paxton is one. Dee doesn’t count; she’s only four. Of course, the government doesn’t look into her, because four-points can’t raise dick.

  Right.

  A flock of starlings rains from the sky like a cloud of black death. They’re an annoying bird while alive. In death, their focus is so much more intense.

  “You got this?” Gramps asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay, just askin’.”

  I flick an annoyed glance his way.

  The birds dive-bomb Arrogant, and he does what I expect. He flings his hands up in front of his face.

  I command the birds to peck.

  They do.

  Arrogant screeches, jerking around like an electrocution victim.

  I turn my attention to the Skopamish.

  They’re already standing at attention, a few have their headdresses askew.

  As I think it, hands rise, adjusting them to rightness.

  I grin, my death muscle flexes, and I meet the eyes of the dead that have come.

  They fill what used to be a highway between Lake Tapps and Kent.

  The smell chokes Gramps.

  I feel an abiding comfort.

  The dead.

  Mine, I think, mine.

  They close in around the suit, avoiding the birds that contain Arrogant.

  The Null closes his fist.

  A ripple washes through the subjects of my summons. A backlash like a numbing whip strikes me.

  My scope narrows to whoever is closest. The rest of the dead stop, my bond weakening before the Null’s force.

  I throw my surviving strength to the birds. They peck Arrogant, avoiding the face.

  Don’t want murder charges.

  “Caleb.”

  “I got this, Gramps,” I say through gritted teeth. Sweat runs, burning into my eyes.

  A zombie who was a settler in the late 1800s clotheslines the Null.

  He stumbles, his concentration stolen.

  The death surge covers him like a blanket of arms and legs.

  “Caleb!”

  “Huh?” I’m swimming. The horde is—good. I float in the throng of dead, a river of rightness and serenity.

  “Get your shit together.”

  My head rocks back from the slap.

  My death radar automatically narrows in on the one who's hit me.

  Grampsʼ angry face fills my pinhole of sight.

  Dead hands tear at his clothing.

  Stop.

  The fist of my power closes.

  The hands stop.

  “Waking your shit up, pal.”

  “Gramps,” I say through the fog.

  “Hello—snap out of it. We've got a group here, and the birds have made Swiss cheese out of numb nuts over there and we don't have answer one.”

  The kids.

  I step back into myself. It'd been dangerous for me to use my power to that degree.

  Hell, I'd scooped myself out like a jack-o-lantern on Halloween.

  Hardy-har-har.

  I call off the troops.

  One of the Skopamish has taken off a bit of flesh from one of the suit’s scalp.

  Whoops.

  They always go for the head. The Indians have a thing for the head. Banging it, scalping it. Hmm.

  “Rest,” I say aloud.

  In my mind, I call out three Skopamish. They move to me like liquid as the rest slide back into the ground.

  I walk over to Arrogant, having a grand time with the starlings.

  Chunks of flesh decorate the old asphalt. Cars whiz by over our heads, oblivious to the undead carnage below.

  Stop.

  The birds’ black eyes are marbles of indifference in their collective faces. Blood covers beaks.

  One slurps in a stringy bit of Arrogant into its mouth.

  “Now that's a sound,” Gramps comments dryly.

  Yeah.

  Arrogant rolls around, groaning.

  “Here's the thing,” I say, “you're gonna answer some stuff.”

  “And things,” Gramps adds and I nod, feeling that old teamwork resurrect itself neatly.

  “I know who you are, Mr. Hart,” he says, groaning.

  I smile. Training forces you to reply neutrally, even when a bunch of you is spread all over the road.

  Arrogant looks like he has a case of measles he’s scratched so badly they scab and bleed again.

  “Good. So
now that introductions are unnecessary, where the fuck are my kids?”

  He swings his head. “I don’t know. We’ve been reaching out to your son, Paxton…”

  “Oh, that’s rich,” Gramps says.

  I hold up a palm, and he harrumphs in the background.

  “In any event”—he coughs, and blood sails out to join the chunks of flesh left behind from the starlings.

  “He ignored us.”

  Sounds like Pax. He’s great at that. Join the ignored club.

  “So we thought we’d force him to listen.”

  Ha!

  “Hart family’s really resistant to that,” Gramps supplies.

  Arrogant sends him a withering look from the ground.

  “You can thank me,” Gramps says, shooting me a look.

  I sigh. “Thanks, Gramps.”

  Arrogant scans the environment.

  His shoulders slump when he sees the Skopamish guarding the other three operatives.

  “Something went wrong with their vehicle. We had a… government ride in the way and somehow, the safety avoidance kicked offline.”

  “Horse shit.”

  I look at my filterless grandpa. “Gramps.”

  Gramps shrugs. “Calling it what it is.” He pulls out a cigarette, and Arrogant’s eyes widen.

  “Not a word or I put it out on the one spot the birdies didn’t dig out.”

  Gramps raises his eyebrows, and Arrogant clams up.

  “Not helpful.” I turn my attention back to Arrogant. “So you wrecked my kid’s car. It still doesn’t explain where they’ve gone.”

  I feel terrific now. The kids aren’t dead. Too bad there’s no Amplifier around. I’d latch on to one of them, and Jade would instantly know they were okay. Just… lost.

  “They were here. The boy fell out of the car, and the sister came after.” He tries to sit up, falls back again. “We move in, trying to talk him down, but he’s a wild kid.” He gives me accusing eyes.

  Like I have control over my kid.

  Paxton’s always been willful. And my upbringing extols that. Hard to break tradition.

  Kinda biting me square in the ass now.

  “They disappeared. Vanished.” He gives me a true glare now. Bleeding and bested by another Affinity for the Dead, he still has enough sack to say, “He must be an undocumented Dimensional. Slips through the cracks. These Randoms…”

  “You're Random,” I point out.

  We stare at each other.

  “We're not what you presume us to be. We're recruiting.”

  Yeah, the Graysheets thought they were too.