Undead Much

by Stacey Jay

  If an­yo­ne el­se di­ed in my town, I was go­ing to fe­el res­pon­sib­le. Heck, I al­re­ady felt res­pon­sib­le, so I co­uldn’t even sum­mon up any righ­te­o­us in­dig­na­ti­on when Kitty star­ted gril­ling me be­fo­re we’d even re­ac­hed a sec­lu­ded cor­ner of the par­king lot.

  “Whe­re we­re you this af­ter­no­on, bet­we­en the ho­urs of three thirty and fi­ve o’clock?”

  “I was at pom squ­ad prac­ti­ce,” I sa­id. “Ethan pic­ked me up at fo­ur thirty and we ran by my ho­use so I co­uld chan­ge clot­hes and then I ca­me stra­ight he­re.”

  Her eyes nar­ro­wed and her thin lips pres­sed to­get­her. She wasn’t ple­ased to he­ar that Et­han had ig­no­red her ad­vi­ce to le­ave me alo­ne. “And whe­re is Et­han now?”

  “He’s on his way,” I sa­id, tho­ugh I co­uldn’t ac­tu­al­ly be su­re that was true. I’d tri­ed to call him, but had be­en sent stra­ight to vo­ice ma­il. It wo­uldn’t be any big surp­ri­se if he was un­derg­ro­und sco­ping out anot­her mor­gue and wasn’t get­ting any sig­nal.

  Kitty nod­ded, and I co­uld al­most see her ma­king a men­tal no­te to warn Et­han aga­in of the risks of con­sor­ting with a sus­pec­ted fe­lon. “Did you no­ti­ce anyt­hing out of the or­di­nary when you first ar­ri­ved at the res­ta­urant to­night?”

  “No.”

  “Not­hing at all? You don’t want to think abo­ut it?”

  “I don’t know,” I sa­id, shoc­ked by the harsh­ness of her to­ne. “Not­hing that I re­mem­ber.”

  “Well, may­be you sho­uld try a lit­tle har­der,” she snap­ped. “A girl is de­ad, Me­gan, and-”

  “I know a girl is de­ad,” I yel­led, be­fo­re lo­we­ring my vo­ice. The­re we­re still nor­mal pe­op­le he­re, not to men­ti­on nor­mal cops, and I co­uldn’t af­ford to at­tract at­ten­ti­on. “But I swe­ar to you, I ha­ve not­hing to do with this.”

  “I’d lo­ve to be­li­eve you.” She sho­ok her he­ad we­arily, and for a se­cond I co­uld see how sca­red she was. “I re­al­ly wo­uld, but-”

  “Then be­li­eve me! Ple­ase, Kitty. Who­ever ra­ised tho­se corp­ses is still out the­re, and it do­esn’t lo­ok li­ke they’re go­ing to stop any ti­me so­on. Whi­le you’re busy in­ves­ti­ga­ting an in­no­cent sus­pect, mo­re pe­op­le co­uld die. We ha­ve to-”

  “We don’t ha­ve to do anyt­hing. This is an En­for­ce­ment mat­ter,” Kitty sa­id, all vul­ne­ra­bi­lity va­nis­hing from her fa­ce. When she spo­ke aga­in, it was with the calm, ef­fi­ci­ent vo­ice of an En­for­cer who sus­pec­ted me of evil. “All I ne­ed from you is a blo­od samp­le.”

  “What? I tho­ught they had my blo­od on fi­le down at-”

  “They do. I’m just ho­ping a fresh samp­le might show so­met­hing dif­fe­rent from what the fo­ren­sic ex­perts ha­ve fo­und so far. It might be yo­ur last chan­ce to hang on to yo­ur fre­edom, at le­ast for a few mo­re days.”

  “Okay, fi­ne. Samp­le away,” I sa­id, glad we we­re out of Mom’s sight. I had a fe­eling she wo­uldn’t ap­pro­ve. “But I’m in­no­cent, I swe­ar I am. I ha­ve not be­en ra­ising bi­zar­ro RCs. I’ve be­en ac­ti­vely fig­h­ting them, in ca­se no one has no­ti­ced.” I held my torn and ble­eding knuck­les up bet­we­en us as I tri­ed to pull myself to­get­her. “I did everyt­hing I co­uld to stop tho­se things. I was only trying to do my job.”

  And to sa­ve yo­ur own ass. You sho­uld tell her that, tell her how wa­iting un­til the last mi­nu­te to cast pro­bably got Bob­bie Jane kil­led.

  I suc­ked in a de­ep bre­ath, for­cing myself not to cry. I wasn’t go­ing to lo­se it. Not he­re, not now. I co­uld go ho­me and crawl in­to bed and bla­me myself la­ter.

  Kitty didn’t res­pond, just re­ac­hed in­to her co­at poc­ket and pul­led out a syrin­ge and a few in­di­vi­du­al­ly wrap­ped pac­kets of ste­ri­li­zing swabs. “Can you push up the sle­eve of yo­ur co­at?”

  “Su­re.” Te­ars fell si­lently down my fa­ce as Kitty cle­aned an area ne­ar the cro­ok of my arm, but I wasn’t crying be­ca­use of the ne­ed­le sli­ding be­ne­ath the skin. I co­uld hardly fe­el that pa­in, and what I did fe­el I knew I de­ser­ved. At le­ast I co­uld still fe­el so­met­hing, not li­ke Bob­bie Jane, who wo­uld ne­ver fe­el anyt­hing aga­in.

  “You can go ho­me,” Kitty sa­id as she cap­ped the ne­ed­le and tuc­ked it back in her co­at. “We can’t le­gal­ly ta­ke you in­to cus­tody yet, but I’d get my bag pac­ked if I we­re you. It pro­bably won’t ta­ke mo­re than twenty-fo­ur ho­urs to get the last of the pro­of SA ne­eds to-”

  “Thanks, I’ll ke­ep that in mind.” I didn’t bot­her to ask what “pro­of” she was tal­king abo­ut be­fo­re I tur­ned and wal­ked away. I knew she wo­uldn’t tell me. Even if she still had do­ubts abo­ut my gu­ilt, she wor­ked for Set­tlers’ Af­fa­irs, and they wo­uldn’t mind if I en­ded up zom­bie chow. I bet they tho­ught it wo­uld spa­re them a lot of tro­ub­le.

  Of co­ur­se, they’d le­arn bet­ter when the zom­bi­es didn’t stop on­ce I was de­ad. When who­ever was ra­ising them kept…

  “But what if they didn’t?” I whis­pe­red, a hor­rib­le idea for­ming in my mind.

  I ha­ted to be pa­ra­no­id, but both sets of zom­bi­es had se­emed to be af­ter yo­urs truly. The first ti­me I co­uldn’t be su­re, but now it had hap­pe­ned twi­ce. I’d be­en tar­ge­ted by black ma­gic. Who­ever was ra­ising the­se RCs wan­ted me de­ad.

  Or may­be just out of the way. It ma­de sen­se to bring so­me su­per zom­bi­es to fight the su­per Set­tler. And if so­me­one wan­ted me out of the way so they co­uld wre­ak ca­taclys­mic ha­voc with a bunch of SRUs, then they wo­uldn’t ca­re whet­her I was de­ad or rot­ting in a Set­tler pri­son-the­ir go­al wo­uld be ac­comp­lis­hed. I’d be out of com­mis­si­on and they’d be ab­le to…

  Do so­met­hing re­al­ly, re­al­ly bad. Li­ke wi­pe out a town, or a sta­te. Or may­be even the co­untry, but I didn’t want to think abo­ut that.

  God, that had to be it, it was just li­ke the night of ho­me­co­ming when Jess had be­en trying to ke­ep me and Mo­ni­ca from the dan­ce. This wasn’t just abo­ut me. So­me black ma­gi­ci­an must be plan­ning so­met­hing very bad and wan­ted to be su­re no one co­uld stop them. I had to tell Et­han as so­on as he got he­re, and Mo­ni­ca too if she was still de­ter­mi­ned to help me.

  I tur­ned in the di­rec­ti­on I’d last se­en her, but co­uldn’t find her anyw­he­re. I lo­oked for a few mo­re mi­nu­tes be­fo­re de­ci­ding I wo­uld just ha­ve to get in to­uch with her la­ter. Now that the ad­re­na­li­ne rush was we­aring off, I co­uldn’t be­li­eve how ti­red I was. I felt li­ke I co­uld sle­ep for abo­ut a tho­usand ye­ars.

  “Are you free to go?” Dad as­ked when I got to the car. Mom was sit­ting in­si­de, gla­ring at Kitty and El­der Tho­mas (who’d just shown up a few mi­nu­tes ago) thro­ugh the win­dow.

  “Ye­ah, I want to go ho­me.” I’d call Et­han on the way and let him know I’d left Piz­za Pie.

  Dad nod­ded and pat­ted me on the back be­fo­re ope­ning up the back do­or, but he didn’t say anyt­hing. He’d be­en in the mi­li­tary and dep­lo­yed to lots of pla­ces whe­re vi­olen­ce and de­ath we­re dis­tur­bingly com­mon. So I gu­ess he knew bet­ter than an­yo­ne that when li­ves ha­ve be­en lost, the­re just isn’t anyt­hing you can say to ma­ke it bet­ter.

  We’d be­en ho­me for over three ho­urs and Et­han still hadn’t cal­led, so I went ahe­ad and swap­ped the je­ans I’d put on for so­me pa­j­amas. I’d al­re­ady ta­ken my sho­wer and for­ced myself to eat so­me of the ched­dar-che­ese-and-po­ta­to so­up my mom had whip­ped up. The last thing I wan­ted to do was eat, but Mo­ni­ca was right. I co­uldn’t af­ford to let myself get run-down, es­pe­ci­al­ly not with wh
o­ever was ra­ising zom­bi­es still on the lo­ose.

  Still, my sto­mach didn’t fe­el right af­ter din­ner. Des­pi­te the ex­ha­us­ti­on le­vel, the­re was no way I was get­ting to sle­ep right away, so I fi­gu­red I might as well do a qu­ick e-ma­il check. I hadn’t be­en on ten se­conds when Et­han pop­ped up on IM.

  Ethan­zID: Me­gan! I’ve be­en wa­iting for half an ho­ur. I was af­ra­id to call. Can you chat? Is the­re an­yo­ne el­se in the ro­om with you?

  Meg­sa­lot: Hey, no, the­re’s no one el­se he­re. I can talk, but why we­re you af­ra­id to call?

  Ethan­zID: My cell pho­ne was tap­ped. I re­mo­ved the bug, but I co­uldn’t be su­re yo­ur cell or ho­me pho­nes we­ren’t tap­ped too.

  Meg­sa­lot: What?!! Isn’t that il­le­gal? Even for En­for­ce­ment?

  Ethan­zID: As far as I know, but I’m be­gin­ning to think our En­for­cers aren’t pla­ying by the ru­les. Smythe was at the Presby­te­ri­an hos­pi­tal to­night.

  Meg­sa­lot: Oh no, did he see you?!

  Ethan­zID: No, but I saw him. By the ti­me he was fi­nis­hed, the nur­se he was tal­king to was un­cons­ci­o­us.

  Meg­sa­lot: OMG! Did he… Is she go­ing to be okay?

  Ethan­zID: She’ll be fi­ne, but he had so­me sort of cat­tle prod thing and shoc­ked her with it.

  Meg­sa­lot: To cle­ar her me­mory?

  Ethan­zID: Exactly. I got yo­ur mes­sa­ge and was on the way out of the hos­pi­tal mor­gue when a bunch of po­li­ce cars pul­led up. I fol­lo­wed them to the in­ten­si­ve ca­re unit, but they we­ren’t let­ting an­yo­ne on the flo­or, so I tri­ed to find anot­her way in. I ran in­to Smythe and the nur­se in the sta­ir­well. Gu­ess he’d had the sa­me idea.

  Meg­sa­lot: Do you think Smythe has so­met­hing to do with the we­ird zom­bi­es? Do you think he co­uld be the one-

  Ethan­zID: I don’t know, but I don’t think so. He cal­led Kitty right af­ter he fi­nis­hed with the nur­se and sa­id so­met­hing abo­ut ha­ving a si­tu­ati­on con­ta­ined. So if he’s the one res­pon­sib­le, then all the En­for­cers are in on it.

  Hmm… co­uld the En­for­cers be up to so­met­hing shady? I co­uldn’t deny I’d had my do­ubts abo­ut them in the past. No mat­ter how ni­ce they we­re, the­re was still so­met­hing a lit­tle scary abo­ut En­for­ce­ment. On the sur­fa­ce they se­emed to be un­der or­ders from our lo­cal SA co­un­cil, but in re­ality I had a fe­eling they we­re pur­su­ing the­ir own agen­da and our lo­cal El­ders had a lot less po­wer than they tho­ught they did.

  Meg­sa­lot: You know, I ha­te to think they’re shady, but I didn’t want to be­li­eve the truth abo­ut Jess at first eit­her. So­me­ti­mes it’s hard to know who yo­ur fri­ends are.

  Ethan­zID: Ye­ah… I he­ard Jess was back at the SA cli­nic to­night. Mo­re se­izu­res…

  Meg­sa­lot: Can we not talk abo­ut Jess? I know I bro­ught her up, but…

  Ethan­zID: No, that’s fi­ne. But as far as the En­for­cers are con­cer­ned, I don’t know what they’d ha­ve to ga­in from get­ting rid of you.

  Meg­sa­lot: Which re­minds me-I think that who­ever is ra­ising the­se zom­bi­es wants me out of the way.

  Ethan­zID: I fi­gu­red as much. Why do you think I’ve be­en so wor­ri­ed? I me­an, I don’t want an­yo­ne el­se to get hurt, but I re­al­ly don’t want this fre­ak to get to you.

  Okay, now I felt dumb. I gu­ess Et­han tho­ught the fact that I was the tar­get was so cle­ar it didn’t even ne­ed to be dis­cus­sed. We we­re go­ing to ha­ve to ha­ve a talk abo­ut sta­ting the ob­vi­o­us. For a smart girl with a 3.8 ave­ra­ge, so­me­ti­mes I can be pretty den­se.

  Or may­be I was just too ti­red to think stra­ight. It se­emed li­ke this we­ek had be­en go­ing on fo­re­ver.

  Ethan­zID: You still the­re?

  Meg­sa­lot: Ye­ah, I’m he­re. Just thin­king…

  Ethan­zID: I he­ard abo­ut Bob­bie Jane. I’m so sorry. I wish I co­uld ha­ve be­en the­re.

  Meg­sa­lot: I wish you co­uld ha­ve be­en the­re too. I re­al­ly mes­sed things up, Et­han. I can’t be­li­eve I let her die.

  Ethan­zID: You can’t bla­me yo­ur­self. You’re an ama­zing Set­tler, but you can only do so much. The­se zom­bi­es are un­li­ke anyt­hing an­yo­ne in the U.S. has ever fa­ced be­fo­re. I can’t find anyt­hing in my bo­oks tal­king abo­ut SRUs af­ter the eigh­te­enth cen­tury.

  Meg­sa­lot: Mo­ni­ca is lo­oking for ans­wers too. May­be she’ll find so­met­hing.

  Ethan­zID: And I’m go­ing to he­ad back to the hos­pi­tal to­mor­row mor­ning and see if I can get on the ICU flo­or. The­re’s so­met­hing go­ing on the­re, I’m su­re of it, and I’m bet­ting it’s con­nec­ted to the at­tack to­night. The ti­ming and Smythe be­ing the­re are too much of a co­in­ci­den­ce.

  Meg­sa­lot: I’m su­re they’d think it was a we­ird co­in­ci­den­ce that YOU just hap­pe­ned to be at the hos­pi­tal too. If so­met­hing fishy is go­ing on, you ha­ve to ma­ke su­re no one finds out you we­re the­re.

  Ethan­zID: You’re right. De­le­te this chat as so­on as we sign off.

  Meg­sa­lot: Spe­aking of de­le­ting mes­sa­ges, did you find out anyt­hing abo­ut why the En­for­cers we­re chec­king in­to my mom?

  Ethan­zID: No, not­hing conc­re­te yet. I’ll let you know as so­on as I know so­met­hing for cer­ta­in.

  So­met­hing abo­ut Et­han’s text ma­de the sus­pi­ci­o­us-of-ever­yo­ne alarm go off in my he­ad, but I ig­no­red it. If he’d fo­und so­met­hing, he’d tell me. I was just be­ing pa­ra­no­id. Tho­ugh who co­uld re­al­ly bla­me me, what with the pho­ne tap­ping and be­ing fol­lo­wed by SA of­fi­cers and the li­ke? I re­al­ly had to find so­me way to cle­ar my na­me be­fo­re I be­ca­me one of tho­se we­ird twitchy pe­op­le who li­ve in a van and re­fu­se to drink tap wa­ter be­ca­use they’re con­vin­ced the go­vern­ment is put­ting tran­qu­ili­zers in it to ke­ep the po­pu­la­ti­on calm whi­le they imp­lant trac­king chips be­hind our ears.

  Or so­met­hing li­ke that…

  Meg­sa­lot: Okay. So­unds go­od. I miss you.

  Ethan­zID: I miss you too. I wish I was the­re… I’m wor­ri­ed abo­ut you.

  Meg­sa­lot: I’m wor­ri­ed abo­ut you too. Ple­ase be ca­re­ful.

  Ethan pro­mi­sed to send me an e-ma­il the next day gi­ving me a new pho­ne num­ber whe­re I co­uld re­ach him. Then we both sig­ned off. I de­le­ted our chat and craw­led in­to bed.

  I wo­uld ha­ve sworn I’d ne­ver be ab­le to get to sle­ep, but I ob­vi­o­usly drif­ted pretty darn clo­se. By the ti­me I he­ard the tap­ping at the win­dow, I had to fight to cast off the cob­webs stic­king to my bra­in. Go­od thing re­al­ly, or I de­fi­ni­tely wo­uld ha­ve scre­amed and bro­ught Mom and Dad run­ning. Even fa­mi­li­ar de­ad fa­ces are ter­rif­ying when they’re flo­ating in the dark­ness out­si­de yo­ur win­dow.

  CHAPTER 11

  “A girl di­ed.” Cliff lo­oked as tra­uma­ti­zed as I felt, but still sho­wed no signs of go­ing Ro­gue. Wha­te­ver bre­ed of Un­de­ad he was, he didn’t se­em li­ke he’d be tur­ning all red and glowy-eyed on me any­ti­me so­on. He was an ano­maly, much li­ke ot­her pe­op­le I knew…

  “I can’t be­li­eve she’s re­al­ly de­ad. I me­an… this wasn’t sup­po­sed to hap­pen,” he con­ti­nu­ed. I didn’t even qu­es­ti­on how he knew. He’d ob­vi­o­usly be­en lur­king aga­in. I knew I sho­uld tell him to cut it out, but I didn’t ha­ve the he­art to yell at him.

  “I know,” I whis­pe­red thro­ugh the crack in the win­dow. “I’m sorry, I-”

  “It wasn’t yo­ur fa­ult,” he sa­id with such con­vic­ti­on I al­most be­li­eved him. “It was them, the ot­hers.”

  The ot­hers. That was li­ke the thi
rd ti­me Cliff had men­ti­oned the we­ird zom­bi­es. “What do you know abo­ut the ot­hers, Cliff? Who’s ra­ising them?”

  “Ra­ising them? Don’t they just get up?”

  “No, they’re not li­ke you,” I sa­id, bri­efly out­li­ning the dif­fe­ren­ce bet­we­en nor­mal Un­set­tled and ones ra­ised with black ma­gic. “Re­ani­ma­ted Corp­ses aren’t them­sel­ves any­mo­re, not the way you are. That usu­al­ly ma­kes them easi­er to cont­rol, but that’s not the ca­se with the­se guys. Do you ha­ve any idea why? Why they’re so re­sis­tant to Set­tler ma­gic?”

  He shrug­ged. “I don’t even know why I’m re­sis­tant to Set­tler ma­gic.”

  Hmm… I hadn’t re­al­ly tho­ught abo­ut that, but I sho­uld ha­ve. Cliff wasn’t one of the bad guys, but his ti­ming was pretty sus­pi­ci­o­us. The chan­ces he and the ot­her zom­bi­es-not-be­ha­ving-nor­mal­ly we­re con­nec­ted was bet­ter than go­od. But how? I co­uldn’t help but fe­el that Cliff knew mo­re than he was let­ting on.

  “If you don’t know anyt­hing, then why do you ke­ep men­ti­oning the ot­hers? How did you even know they exist?” I as­ked. “I me­an, you men­ti­oned them the first ti­me we met, be­fo­re the­re was even an at­tack, which ma­kes me-”

  “Now hold on,” Cliff sa­id, ra­ising his hands as if to pro­ve he had not­hing to hi­de. “I told you I had vi­si­ons when I was ali­ve. I still ha­ve them-they just don’t work as well. But I re­mem­be­red the ot­hers. They we­re one of the first things I saw when I wo­ke up.”

  “You saw them?”

  He nod­ded. “Them, and you… and… the ot­her dark-ha­ired girl and… I just knew I had to find you and try to help. No mat­ter how strong you are, you’re not go­ing to be ab­le to hand­le them or the ot­her ones that are co­ming on yo­ur own.”