Undead Much

by Stacey Jay

  “The ot­her ones,” I re­pe­ated, pin­ning him with my most pi­er­cing sta­re. “The­re are mo­re? Mo­re of the­se uns­top­pab­le fre­aks?”

  “Don’t ask, I can’t re­mem­ber. I just know the­re are go­ing to be mo­re zom­bi­es, a lot mo­re. And not fri­endly, fa­bu­lo­us guys li­ke me.”

  I sig­hed. Gre­at news-Cliff was just full of it. “And I gu­ess you don’t know why you hap­pen to be aro­und every ti­me I’m at­tac­ked, eit­her.”

  “No, that I know.” His ga­ze grew sort of un­fo­cu­sed. “I… fe­el them… when they wa­ke up, but I’m al­ways too la­te. To­night I ran as fast as I co­uld, but they we­re al­re­ady pul­ling the se­cond girl from the wo­ods by the ti­me I got the­re.”

  Cliff’s vo­ice ec­ho­ed the fa­ilu­re I felt so comp­le­tely that I co­uldn’t bring myself to ask him any mo­re qu­es­ti­ons. Be­si­des, his vi­si­ons didn’t se­em to be much mo­re use­ful than a te­le­vi­si­on re­port de­ta­iling a cri­me that had al­re­ady hap­pe­ned.

  “So, can I co­me in?” he as­ked. “Bet­ter yet, can you co­me out? Pe­eking thro­ugh this crack in yo­ur win­dow is co­ol and all but-”

  “No, I can’t. It’s al­most mid­night.” A burst of cold air rus­hed in. I shi­ve­red and cros­sed my arms, glad I was we­aring my fle­ece pa­j­amas. It had got­ten col­der sin­ce we’d left Piz­za Pie, and the smoky scent of im­pen­ding snow hung in the air. It was a sad smell, and it ma­de me re­ali­ze how very lit­tle I wan­ted to so­ci­ali­ze. “Lis­ten, it’s be­en a long night and-”

  “I know, I’m sorry. But I had to see you,” he sa­id, pop­ping the scre­en out of my win­dow with an ex­per­ti­se that spo­ke of many nights sne­aking out. “I’ve got so­met­hing to show you and I ne­ed so­me mo­re Set­tling.”

  “Cliff, ple­ase, you can’t ke­ep co­ming he­re. I’m not sup­po­sed to ke­ep Set­tling the sa­me per­son over and over. It’s aga­inst the ru­les.”

  “Oh God no. We wo­uldn’t want to bre­ak the ru­les,” he gas­ped, then grin­ned his in­fec­ti­o­us grin. It was a lit­tle mo­re stra­ined than usu­al, but I co­uld tell he was trying to che­er us both up. “Co­me on, get yo­ur co­at and sho­es. If we hurry, we can catch the last bus in­to Lit­tle Rock.”

  “I’m not go­ing to Lit­tle Rock. I’ve got a ten o’clock cur­few on we­ek­nights,” I sa­id, de­ci­ding ple­ading pa­ren­tal in­ter­fe­ren­ce was the best way to hand­le Cliff.

  He cer­ta­inly didn’t se­em to ca­re for the “but you’re sup­po­sed to stay de­ad” ar­gu­ment. Co­uldn’t say I bla­med him, but it was comp­li­ca­ting my li­fe. With everyt­hing go­ing on right now, the last thing I ne­eded was a new zom­bie BFF.

  “Yo­ur pa­rents don’t ha­ve to know. Co­me on, don’t tell me you’ve ne­ver snuck out be­fo­re. This win­dow is per­fect.”

  “Oh, I’ve snuck, but every ti­me I ha­ve I’ve al­most di­ed. It’s ta­ught me res­pect for aut­ho­rity.”

  “Right.” He la­ug­hed li­ke I’d ma­de so­me gre­at joke.

  “I’m not kid­ding. The first ti­me I snuck out I was ten and en­ded up with this scar.” I tug­ged at the neck of my black fle­ece top, re­ve­aling the sil­very whi­te zom­bie bi­te mark scar on my sho­ul­der bla­de. “And am­ne­sia and Set­tler po­wer fa­ilu­re that las­ted for ye­ars. Then, the se­cond ti­me, I-”

  “Fas­ci­na­ting stuff, but let’s talk whi­le we walk.” Cliff re­ac­hed thro­ugh the win­dow and grab­bed my hand. I didn’t pull away. It was we­ird, but Cliff’s to­uch was very com­for­ting. It ma­de me fe­el… sa­fe. “I didn’t re­ali­ze how la­te it was get­ting. We only ha­ve abo­ut ten mi­nu­tes to get to the bus stop.”

  “I’m in my pa­j­amas!”

  “Yo­ur pa­j­amas lo­ok li­ke clot­hes! Co­me on, let’s hit the Rock.”

  “Why do you ne­ed to go to Lit­tle Rock, any­way?” I’d ne­ver had an Un­set­tled re­qu­est tra­vel pri­vi­le­ges, but then, I’d ne­ver had an Un­set­tled who re­fu­sed to stay in his gra­ve, eit­her.

  “No, the qu­es­ti­on is, why do we ne­ed to go in­to Lit­tle Rock, and I’ll tell you on the way. Just put on so­me sho­es and let’s go. Ple­ase, Me­gan. It’s im­por­tant, or I swe­ar I wo­uld le­ave you alo­ne.”

  I sig­hed, fe­eling my re­sis­tan­ce be­gin to fa­de. “How am I go­ing to get back? If the last bus to Lit­tle Rock le­aves in ten min-”

  “The bu­ses back to Ca­rol run un­til two. I’m su­re we’ll be do­ne by then. I know exactly whe­re we’re go­ing.”

  “And whe­re is-”

  “I’ll tell you-”

  “When we get the­re, ye­ah, ye­ah, ye­ah.” Ge­ez, I was so go­ing to reg­ret this, I co­uld fe­el it al­re­ady. But that didn’t stop me from drop­ping to my kne­es and dig­ging un­der my bed for my Uggs. “Okay, let’s hit it.” I tug­ged on my sho­es and grab­bed the Wil­li­ams swe­ats­hirt I’d sto­len from Et­han from the mostly cle­an pi­le on the flo­or. No ti­me to was­te sne­aking down the hall to grab my co­at.

  Cliff hel­ped me le­ap the few fe­et from the led­ge down to the fro­zen grass be­low. He drop­ped my hands to clo­se the win­dow and sco­op a lar­ge ca­mo­uf­la­ge back­pack from the gro­und, but then thre­aded his cold fin­gers thro­ugh mi­ne be­fo­re tur­ning to cut thro­ugh the back­yard, avo­iding de­tec­ti­on by the SA spi­es still par­ked in front of my ho­use.

  For a se­cond I felt gu­ilty. He­re I was, in my boyf­ri­end’s swe­ats­hirt, hol­ding hands with anot­her man-or boy, or zom­bie, or wha­te­ver. But then I de­ci­ded to ig­no­re the lit­tle vo­ice sa­ying I sho­uld pull away from Cliff. Hol­ding his hand still ma­de me fe­el sa­fe and we­irdly ener­gi­zed des­pi­te that hint of diz­zi­ness that al­ways se­emed to ac­com­pany his to­uch, and I ne­eded that com­fort right now. So­mew­he­re out the­re in the dark­ness was a per­son ra­ising ne­arly uns­top­pab­le kil­ling mac­hi­nes with my na­me on them.

  Cliff might be stal­king me, but at le­ast he was a fri­end, and that was all the per­su­asi­on I ne­eded to ke­ep my hand right whe­re it was.

  An ho­ur la­ter, I sto­od at the top of a long, rol­ling hill in a posh Lit­tle Rock ne­igh­bor­ho­od, cer­ta­in, for the se­cond ti­me that night, that I was go­ing to die.

  “I can’t do this! It’s too dark. What if the­re are ho­les in the pa­ve­ment that I can’t see and my ska­te gets stuck?” I as­ked, my palms swe­ating in­si­de the hand gu­ards Cliff had bro­ught for me to we­ar-along with knee gu­ards and a pa­ir of Rol­lerb­la­des in pre­ci­sely my si­ze.

  He sa­id he was go­od at gu­es­sing things li­ke that, which wo­uld ma­ke him a gre­at fri­end to ha­ve when it ca­me ti­me for birth­days, but I co­uldn’t let myself think abo­ut him that way. He wo­uldn’t be aro­und for my birth­day next Oc­to­ber. He was de­ad, and he had to go back to his gra­ve and stay the­re.

  Unfor­tu­na­tely, that was get­ting har­der to ima­gi­ne the mo­re ti­me I spent with him. Cliff was fun, swe­et, and way mo­re per­cep­ti­ve than yo­ur ave­ra­ge boy. In fact, he wo­uld ha­ve be­en well on his way to be­ing my new part­ner in cri­me if he we­ren’t a zom­bie.

  And if it we­ren’t for that we­ird spark that fla­red bet­we­en us every on­ce in a whi­le, that dizzy, giddy, al­most high fe­eling-not that I’d ever smo­ked up, but I co­uld ima­gi­ne this was how be­ing high felt-that re­sul­ted from be­ing in his pre­sen­ce. Ni­nety per­cent of the ti­me I felt only chummy vi­bes co­ming from Cliff, but the ot­her 10 per­cent…

  “Me­gan, you’re go­ing to be fi­ne.” He smi­led and squ­e­ezed his fin­gers aro­und mi­ne, sen­ding a lit­tle shi­ver ac­ross my skin that I tri­ed to ig­no­re. “You know how to ska­te and you’re we­aring sa­fety equ­ip­ment. Be­si­des, this hill isn’t ne­arly
as in­ten­se as it lo­oks.”

  “I tho­ught you sa­id you’d ne­ver ska­ted it be­fo­re?”

  “I ha­ven’t, but lo­ok at it. It’s not that bad.”

  “Cliff, I’ve al­re­ady got a black eye. I re­al­ly don’t want-”

  “Ye­ah,” he sa­id, his exp­res­si­on angry even tho­ugh his fin­gers we­re gent­le as he smo­ot­hed down the si­de of my fa­ce. “I don’t li­ke se­e­ing you hurt.”

  “It’s my job.” I shrug­ged, trying to ig­no­re how bre­ath­less he was ma­king me fe­el.

  Now his to­uch wasn’t sa­fe at all-it was temp­ting in a way it sho­uldn’t be to a girl to­tal­ly in lo­ve with so­me­one el­se. I sho­uld ha­ve pul­led away that very se­cond, but I didn’t. I just sto­od the­re and watc­hed Cliff’s mo­uth get clo­ser to mi­ne whi­le I slowly for­got how to bre­at­he.

  “I don’t ca­re. I’m not go­ing to let you get hurt aga­in. I pro­mi­se.” His lips brus­hed softly aga­inst my che­ek­bo­ne, right un­der whe­re my skin was swol­len and bru­ised.

  My eyes slid clo­sed, the world spun, and for a se­cond the temp­ta­ti­on to turn my he­ad and find Cliff’s lips with mi­ne was so strong I wasn’t su­re I’d be ab­le to re­sist. We­aring Et­han’s swe­ats­hirt, lo­ving Et­han li­ke I did, it didn’t mat­ter. I wan­ted to kiss Cliff, wan­ted that con­nec­ti­on with him so badly so­met­hing in my chest ac­hed when I for­ced myself to roll away.

  God, this was crazy! And aga­inst Set­tler ru­les, and boy/girl ru­les, and just abo­ut all the ot­her ru­les I co­uld think of. I had to put a stop to this be­fo­re it was too la­te.

  When I spo­ke aga­in, my vo­ice so­un­ded ang­ri­er than I in­ten­ded, but bet­ter angry than any of tho­se ot­her fe­elings. “Cliff, why are we he­re? You sa­id you had so­met­hing to show me, so­met­hing that co­uldn’t wa­it.”

  “I do.”

  “Then why are we was­ting ti­me Rol­lerb­la­ding?”

  “This isn’t a was­te of ti­me,” he sa­id, so­un­ding ir­ri­ta­ted him­self. “Li­fe is short, Me­gan, shor­ter than I ever re­ali­zed. You ha­ve to ma­ke ti­me to play.”

  “The­re are zom­bi­es kil­ling pe­op­le. A girl is de­ad! I don’t ha­ve ti­me to-”

  “Yes, you do. You de­ser­ve to ha­ve a lit­tle fun, even when things are bad. Heck, es­pe­ci­al­ly when things are bad.” He rol­led clo­ser, pin­ning me with tho­se so­ul­ful eyes that ma­de me cer­ta­in he knew all of my sec­rets. “Pro­mi­se me you’ll ma­ke ti­me to enj­oy yo­ur li­fe, no mat­ter what hap­pens. I don’t want you to wa­ke up in a crypt so­me­day wis­hing you’d spent less ti­me smo­king up and mo­re ti­me li­ving.”

  “But I don’t smo­ke pot.”

  He grin­ned. “You know what I me­an.”

  “Ye­ah.” I re­tur­ned his smi­le, but it wasn’t my happy grin. I was go­ing to miss Cliff. He was the first new fri­end I’d ma­de sin­ce Jes­si­ca tri­ed to kill me. Well, and the Mo­nics­ter, if you co­uld call her a fri­end.

  For the first ti­me in my li­fe I ac­tu­al­ly un­ders­to­od the lu­re of black ma­gic. I’d ne­ver lost an­yo­ne I ca­red abo­ut so much be­fo­re. It didn’t mat­ter that Cliff had al­re­ady be­en “lost” be­fo­re I’d even met him, I still didn’t want him to go. If I’d known a spell to ke­ep him from ha­ving to crawl back in that crypt, I wo­uld ha­ve be­en so­rely temp­ted to cast it. Even kno­wing what I did abo­ut the con­se­qu­en­ces to my own so­ul and that a spell li­ke that might chan­ge Cliff in so­me frigh­te­ning way. Even kno­wing that Jess still wasn’t out of the wo­ods for all the dark po­wer she’d chan­ne­led last fall, I was still… temp­ted.

  I shi­ve­red at the darkly se­duc­ti­ve warmth cur­ling thro­ugh my ve­ins.

  I was a go­od per­son, I’d be­en ra­ised to fe­ar black ma­gic, and I per­so­nal­ly knew a girl who was ha­ving se­izu­res and he­art at­tacks as a di­rect re­sult of sum­mo­ning the wrong kind of mo­jo, but still, it cal­led to me. I gu­es­sed may­be that was why Kitty and El­der Tho­mas ne­eded pro­of I was in­no­cent. No one was im­mu­ne.

  “Okay, eno­ugh he­avy stuff,” Cliff sa­id. “Let’s ta­ke this hill.”

  “Agre­ed, but then we ha­ve to get down to bu­si­ness. I’m not trying to be a fun-kil­ler, but we’ve only got forty-fi­ve mi­nu­tes to get back to the bus stop be­fo­re the last bus le­aves.”

  “We’ll be the­re in plenty of ti­me.”

  “I’m se­ri­o­us, Cliff, I can’t miss that bus or-”

  “Megs, ha­ve a lit­tle fa­ith.” He sho­ok his he­ad in mock di­sap­po­int­ment. “I didn’t cho­ose this spot simply for its be­a­uty or as­to­un­dingly long, rol­ling slo­pe alo­ne.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “Our true des­ti­na­ti­on al­so hap­pens to a me­re half-mi­le away, right at the bot­tom of this hill, and a block from a bus stop.”

  I ra­ised my eyeb­rows. “Wow, I’m imp­res­sed.”

  “Go­od plan­ning for a zom­bie, eh?”

  “Go­od plan­ning for a boy.” Even Et­han, the smar­test guy I knew, se­emed to ha­ve tro­ub­le do­ing mo­re than one thing at a ti­me.

  “I’ve al­ways be­en a go­od plan­ner.”

  “May­be you’re just in to­uch with yo­ur girly si­de.”

  “Or may­be you’ve just be­en han­ging out with the wrong guys.” He was half­way down the hill be­fo­re I co­uld think of how to res­pond, which was pro­bably just as well. Flir­ta­ti­on must be avo­ided at all costs. Still, Cliff was right-a lit­tle fun wo­uld pro­bably be okay.

  The tho­ught ma­de me smi­le as I pus­hed off, my pul­se ra­cing as I pic­ked up spe­ed and the cold air whip­ped thro­ugh my ha­ir. By the ti­me I’d go­ne fifty fe­et, my no­se was fro­zen and my te­eth chat­te­ring, but I didn’t reg­ret be­ing he­re for a mo­ment. The­re was just so­met­hing ma­gi­cal abo­ut zo­oming down a de­ser­ted stre­et in the dark, fe­eling the night co­me to li­fe aro­und you, kno­wing that-at le­ast for a few mi­nu­tes-all you had to think abo­ut was wind and spe­ed and let­ting gra­vity ta­ke char­ge.

  I wasn’t usu­al­ly the sort to enj­oy gi­ving up cont­rol, but for the mo­ment it was per­fect. So per­fect, I was sad to see the hill co­me to an end so fast.

  CHAPTER 12

  “You want us to bre­ak in­to my doc­tor’s of­fi­ce? Are you crazy?” I as­ked, lo­oking ner­vo­usly aro­und as we wal­ked. The par­king lot was de­ser­ted, but just thin­king abo­ut bre­aking and en­te­ring was eno­ugh to gi­ve me hi­ves. I might push the li­mits when it ca­me to Set­tler law, but when it ca­me to the hu­man va­ri­ety I was a mo­del ci­ti­zen.

  “We’re not go­ing to ste­al anyt­hing.” Cliff pa­used ne­ar a dar­ke­ned win­dow and pres­sed his fa­ce to the glass. “Well, not anyt­hing that do­esn’t be­long to you any­way. I say yo­ur pa­rents’ me­di­cal re­cords are yo­ur bu­si­ness. Af­ter all, they ha­ve ac­cess to yo­ur re­cords.”

  “They’re my pa­rents!”

  Cliff tur­ned to me, blin­king in con­fu­si­on. “So?” He pus­hed at the bot­tom of the pa­ne, ne­arly gi­ving me a he­art at­tack. It was all I co­uld do to not whip my cell out and call the po­li­ce myself.

  Mo­ni­ca was right-I was a ho­pe­less go­ody two-sho­es.

  “Don’t to­uch that! The­re might be an alarm.” I grab­bed the sle­eve of Cliff’s swe­ats­hirt and tug­ged him back in­to the sha­dows.

  “If the­re’s an alarm, you can run and I’ll go in and get the re­cords.”

  “But what if the­re’s a se­cu­rity ca­me­ra? The po­li­ce co­uld see. You co­uld be-”

  “I’m de­ad. What are the po­li­ce go­ing to do?” he as­ked. “Me­gan, this is no big de­al. This bu­il­ding is old, and I do­ubt the prac­ti­ce is ma­king eno­ugh mo­ney to go su­per h
igh-tech with the se­cu­rity.”

  “I don’t ca­re.” I cros­sed my arms and gla­red. “I don’t bre­ak or en­ter, es­pe­ci­al­ly not to ste­al my pa­rents’ me­di­cal re­cords. It’s il­le­gal and po­int­less. My pa­rents are both per­fectly he­althy.”

  Cliff coc­ked his he­ad. “I ne­ver sa­id yo­ur pa­rents we­re sick.”

  “Then why are we-”

  “Lis­ten, Megs, you lo­ve yo­ur mom and dad and they lo­ve you, but that do­esn’t me­an you can trust them. Pa­rents lie too.”

  My lips par­ted in si­lent shock. I wasn’t su­re whet­her to be angry or hurt by what he was impl­ying. I me­an, my mom had be­en ac­ting stran­ge la­tely, and I sus­pec­ted she wasn’t tel­ling me so­met­hing. But that was wit­h­hol­ding, not lying. The­re was a big dif­fe­ren­ce. “My pa­rents wo­uldn’t lie to me. We’re li­ke… fri­ends. They don’t tre­at me li­ke a kid.”

  His eyeb­rows lif­ted. “And the ten o’clock cur­few is be­ca­use… ”

  “That’s dif­fe­rent. Su­re I ha­ve a cur­few and stuff li­ke that. But in ot­her ways they tre­at me li­ke an adult, li­ke I’m smart eno­ugh to un­ders­tand things and be part of the de­ci­si­ons that are ma­de for our fa­mily.”

  Cliff’s fa­ce was a study in pity as he brus­hed a strand of ha­ir away from my fa­ce. “Me­gan, tho­se zom­bi­es you’ve be­en figh­ting la­tely aren’t the only things that are dif­fe­rent. You’re dif­fe­rent.”

  “I know that.”

  “Well, ha­ven’t you ever won­de­red why?”

  I step­ped away, ha­ting the way my skin lit up when his fin­gers lin­ge­red just be­hind my ear. What was wrong with me? Why did Cliff ma­ke me fe­el this way? I had a per­fectly won­der­ful boyf­ri­end, one who was ali­ve and didn’t ac­cu­se my pa­rents of be­ing li­ars. I sho­uld turn aro­und, march ac­ross the par­king lot to the bus stop, and ne­ver lo­ok back.

  But I didn’t.

  Hadn’t a part of me be­en sus­pi­ci­o­us of Mom and Dad for days now? It wasn’t just Et­han’s an­no­un­ce­ment that the En­for­cers had be­en lo­oking in­to Mom’s fi­le. Mom and Dad just hadn’t be­en ac­ting li­ke Mom and Dad. The­re was a go­od chan­ce that only stress was to bla­me, but what if it wasn’t? What if Cliff was right and they we­ren’t just ke­eping pri­va­te grown-up stuff pri­va­te? What if they’d be­en lying to me?