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Undead Much

Page 14

by Stacey Jay


  “It’s just the way I am,” I sa­id, but my we­ake­ning re­sol­ve was cle­ar in my vo­ice. I hud­dled de­eper in­to Et­han’s swe­ats­hirt, sud­denly fe­eling the cold.

  “Are you su­re?” Cliff as­ked. “Are you su­re the­re’s not an exp­la­na­ti­on, one yo­ur pa­rents ha­ve kept from you? May­be be­ca­use they tho­ught it wo­uld be best for you?”

  Well… when he put it that way… no, I wasn’t su­re. But ne­it­her was I su­re I trus­ted Cliff, at le­ast not mo­re than my own mom and dad. “If you know so­met­hing, why don’t you just tell me? Why drag me down he­re to ste­al things?”

  “You won’t be­li­eve me wit­ho­ut pro­of,” he sa­id. “Be­si­des, I’m not exactly su­re what we’re go­ing to find. I just know we ne­ed to get our hands on tho­se re­cords. Spe­ci­fi­cal­ly yo­ur dad’s… I think.”

  “You think?”

  Cliff sig­hed and le­aned aga­inst the si­de of the bu­il­ding. “I told you, my vi­si­ons don’t work as well as they used to. Even when I was ali­ve, they didn’t tell me everyt­hing. They just sent me in the right di­rec­ti­on. Now, it’s even mo­re va­gue, li­ke a dre­am I can’t qu­ite re­mem­ber.”

  “A dre­am you can’t qu­ite re­mem­ber.” The eye-roll I sent his way was well de­ser­ved. “Then why sho­uld I-”

  “We’re run­ning out of ti­me.” He cast a frust­ra­ted glan­ce at his watch and then tur­ned ple­ading eyes back to mi­ne. “Ple­ase, Me­gan, let’s just get the re­cords. If the­re’s not­hing the­re, then I’ll ad­mit I was wrong. I’m fi­ne with be­ing wrong. I just… I don’t want…”

  “You don’t want what?”

  “I don’t want you to die.” The des­pe­ra­ti­on in his to­ne told me Cliff hadn’t be­en to­tal­ly stra­ight with me. Not abo­ut why he kept se­eking me out, and not abo­ut his vi­si­ons.

  “You’ve se­en it, ha­ven’t you? You’ve se­en me die.” My vo­ice wasn’t much mo­re than a whis­per, li­ke I co­uld ke­ep the words from be­ing true if I didn’t say them too lo­udly. “Tho­se we­ird RCs kill me, don’t they?”

  “No, I didn’t see that,” he hur­ri­ed to as­su­re me. “But I’ve se­en things that ma­ke me worry. A lot. The­re’s a fi­re, girls scre­aming. I see you run­ning and then… and then the­re are the­se hands… on yo­ur thro­at…” He didn’t fi­nish his sen­ten­ce. He didn’t ne­ed to. “It ma­kes me worry cons­tantly. Abo­ut you and abo­ut the pe­op­le who will get hurt if you’re not aro­und any­mo­re.”

  Our eyes held as we ca­me to a si­lent un­ders­tan­ding. We both knew I co­uldn’t af­ford to ig­no­re his war­ning.

  “So how do we do this?” I cros­sed my arms aga­in, ma­king it cle­ar I still wasn’t thril­led with this plan. “I’m as­su­ming you ha­ve ex­pe­ri­en­ce with bre­aking and en­te­ring?”

  Cliff smi­led. “Co­me on, I think I saw so­met­hing on the ot­her si­de of the bu­il­ding.” He grab­bed my hand and pul­led me aro­und to the front, pa­using un­der a row of nar­row win­dows abo­ut six fe­et off the gro­und. “I’m bet­ting tho­se are in a bath­ro­om. What do you think?”

  “No…” I clo­sed my eyes, strug­gling to re­mem­ber the la­yo­ut of the Ple­asant Mo­un­ta­in Fa­mily Cli­nic. “The­re aren’t any win­dows in the bath­ro­oms. It’s be­en a whi­le sin­ce I’ve be­en he­re, but I think the­se are in one of the doc­tors’ pri­va­te of­fi­ces.”

  “Even bet­ter. They might ha­ve the fi­les in the­re. He­re, let me lift you up.”

  “Wa­it a se­cond, I-”

  “Just push on the bot­tom of the win­dow and see if it opens. Tho­se lo­ok re­al­ly old, and I’m bet­ting they don’t lock from the in­si­de.”

  I sig­hed, but didn’t bot­her put­ting up a fight. I’d al­re­ady ag­re­ed to do this-might as well get it over with. I step­ped in­to the bas­ket Cliff ma­de with his hands, and for the se­cond ti­me that night let so­me­one el­se bo­ost me up in­to the air. The bot­tom of the win­dow bud­ged al­most im­me­di­ately.

  “It’s lo­ose. I think I can get in,” I sa­id, not kno­wing whet­her to be ex­ci­ted or ter­ri­fi­ed. The­re was no way I’d be ab­le to lift Cliff up high eno­ugh for him to sli­de in thro­ugh the win­dow. I was go­ing to ha­ve to do it myself.

  The know­led­ge ma­de my he­art be­at fas­ter, ma­de my blo­od pump so lo­udly in my ears that I didn’t he­ard the fo­ots­teps un­til it was too la­te.

  “Fre­eze! Lit­tle Rock Po­li­ce,” a de­ep ma­le vo­ice or­de­red. Se­conds la­ter, the hands hol­ding me di­sap­pe­ared. I was left dang­ling in mi­da­ir, clin­ging to the win­dow led­ge as Cliff ran li­ke a bat out of heck in­to the sha­dows sur­ro­un­ding the par­king lot. He was go­ne be­fo­re the men be­hind me co­uld fi­nish yel­ling for him to stop.

  Gre­at. My first act of juve­ni­le de­lin­qu­ency and I’d not only be­en ca­ught, I’d al­so be­en aban­do­ned by my ac­comp­li­ce. Now I was go­ing to get a tic­ket or thrown in the ho­ose­gow or so­met­hing even wor­se.

  I drop­ped to the gro­und and tur­ned aro­und, hands in the air.

  “We’re go­ing to ne­ed yo­ur ho­me pho­ne num­ber,” the se­cond po­li­ce­man sa­id as he tuc­ked his gun away in its hols­ter. “We’re cal­ling yo­ur pa­rents.”

  Yep, this was de­fi­ni­tely so­met­hing wor­se.

  Too bad I hadn’t ret­ri­eved my pa­rents’ fi­les. It wo­uld ha­ve be­en go­od to ha­ve so­me dirt on them be­fo­re they got the call from the po­li­ce. Then may­be I wo­uld ha­ve had so­met­hing to bar­ga­in with to ke­ep from be­ing gro­un­ded for the rest of my na­tu­ral li­fe.

  “What the hell we­re you do­ing?” Mom as­ked thro­ugh grit­ted te­eth, the re­al in­ter­ro­ga­ti­on star­ting be­fo­re we’d even pul­led out of the po­li­ce sta­ti­on par­king lot. Sin­ce I had a cle­an re­cord, the cops had gi­ven me a stern war­ning not to tres­pass and sent me on my way. It had just be­en bad luck they’d spot­ted me and Cliff whi­le they we­re out pat­rol­ling, and, stran­gely eno­ugh, I think they felt a lit­tle sorry for me for get­ting ca­ught. I had ne­arly bro­ken down three ti­mes whi­le exp­la­ining that I’d ne­ver do­ne so­met­hing li­ke this be­fo­re and wo­uld ne­ver do so­met­hing li­ke this aga­in.

  In the end, I’d got­ten mercy from the law, but I knew bet­ter than to ex­pect the sa­me from my mot­her.

  “I had an Un­set­tled?” I win­ced when it ca­me out as a qu­es­ti­on. I so­un­ded li­ke I was lying even when I wasn’t. This wasn’t go­ing to go well, not well at all.

  “So you de­ci­ded to sne­ak out of the ho­use in the mid­dle of the night?”

  “I didn’t think you’d let me go.”

  “Damn stra­ight we wo­uldn’t ha­ve. At le­ast not alo­ne. You co­uld ha­ve be­en se­ri­o­usly hurt. What if the­re’d be­en anot­her at­tack? What if you we­re-”

  “I know. It was stu­pid. I’m sorry,” I sa­id, sin­king lo­wer in the pas­sen­ger’s se­at. It was past two in the mor­ning, but I wasn’t ti­red. Be­ing in po­li­ce cus­tody had ba­nis­hed any shred of sle­epi­ness. At this po­int, I was fa­irly su­re I’d ne­ver clo­se my eyes aga­in. “He wan­ted to go in­to Lit­tle Rock to Rol­lerb­la­de down this hill, and-”

  “Don’t try it, Me­gan,” Mom snap­ped. “I want the truth, not so­me story abo­ut this boy fal­ling and cut­ting him­self and you ne­eding sup­pli­es from the doc­tor’s of­fi­ce.” She jer­ked the car on­to the high­way with a squ­e­al of the ti­res. Mom isn’t the best dri­ver un­der nor­mal cir­cums­tan­ces, but when she’s angry… Well, we’d be lucky if we didn’t wind up in a ditch. “The po­li­ce we­ren’t bu­ying it and ne­it­her am I. Es­pe­ci­al­ly sin­ce I know it didn’t mat­ter if that boy lost a leg on that hill as long as you got it back in his gra­ve along with him.�


  “Wo­uld you be­li­eve I had to use the bath­ro­om?” I as­ked, stal­ling for ti­me.

  How co­uld I tell Mom I was sne­aking in to ste­al her and Dad’s me­di­cal re­cords? Not only wo­uld the lack of trust fre­ak her out, but I’d ha­ve to exp­la­in how I’d got­ten the idea in the first pla­ce, and I re­al­ly wasn’t up to tel­ling an­yo­ne abo­ut Cliff.

  “You’re lying.” Mom’s vo­ice was chilly eno­ugh to ma­ke me shi­ver, even with the he­at blas­ting in the car. “I’m not as stu­pid as you se­em to think I am, and I don’t-”

  “I don’t think you’re stu­pid. It’s just that… the­re are… things…” Crap, I suc­ked at this. I sho­uld just tell her the truth. May­be she’d let me know what was in tho­se re­cords and it wo­uldn’t be any big de­al.

  “Me­gan, you know you can tell me anyt­hing, right?” she as­ked, her vo­ice sof­ter than it had be­en be­fo­re. “If you’re in so­me kind of tro­ub­le, if you’ve… do­ne so­met­hing… even if it’s so­met­hing aw­ful. I will al­ways lo­ve you. And I’ll-”

  “God, Mom,” I sa­id, that mix of an­ger and hurt re­aring its ugly he­ad on­ce mo­re. “You so­und li­ke Kitty. Do you think I’m gu­ilty too?”

  “No, of co­ur­se I don’t… I just…” She tra­iled off and I did my best to stop snif­fling. I re­al­ly didn’t want to cry aga­in to­night. “I just don’t want you to hi­de anyt­hing from me.”

  I co­uldn’t ha­ve as­ked for a bet­ter ope­ning. If I chic­ke­ned out now, I’d ne­ver get a bet­ter chan­ce. “And I don’t want you to hi­de anyt­hing from me. Even if you think it’s for my own go­od.”

  Mom spun to fa­ce me. The car swer­ved off the ro­ad on­to the rumb­le strip, ma­king the en­ti­re ve­hic­le sha­ke un­til she re­ga­ined cont­rol. It wasn’t the re­ac­ti­on of an in­no­cent wo­man, and I felt the first re­al crack sna­ke its way thro­ugh the bed­rock of my fa­ith. I’d al­ways ta­ken my mom’s ho­nesty for gran­ted, but now I wasn’t so su­re.

  Ne­it­her of us sa­id a word as the exit for Ca­rol ca­me up and Mom tur­ned left on­to Ma­in Stre­et. Fi­nal­ly she bro­ke the si­len­ce. “Ha­ve you be­en go­ing thro­ugh my things?”

  Oh God, Cliff was right. She did ha­ve so­met­hing to hi­de. “No, but I gu­ess I sho­uld ha­ve be­en.”

  “Don’t smart-ass me. The­re are things you don’t un­ders­tand.”

  “Duh! And who­se fa­ult is that?”

  “You’re still a kid, for God’s sa­ke. You’re too yo­ung to know so­me truths.”

  “I’m not too yo­ung to go to Set­tler pri­son for the rest of my li­fe,” I yel­led, no lon­ger trying to ke­ep a lid on my fre­ak-out. Screw my with­hol­ding exp­la­na­ti­on-she’d be­en flat-out lying to me. The wo­man who had dril­led the im­por­tan­ce of ho­nesty in­to my skull sin­ce I was prac­ti­cal­ly a fe­tus had li­ed. And she was still lying. “I know En­for­ce­ment has be­en lo­oking in­to yo­ur past.”

  “So what? I’m yo­ur mot­her, I-”

  “And I’m not de­af, eit­her. I he­ard you and El­der Tho­mas tal­king. What the heck was all that abo­ut? What mis­ta­ke was she tal­king abo­ut?”

  “That’s no­ne of yo­ur-”

  “Tell me, Mom. Tell me what you’re hi­ding.”

  “So­me mis­ta­kes are bet­ter left in the past, Me­gan. Le­ave it alo­ne.”

  “If you don’t tell me, I’ll find out on my own, and when I do, I’m not go­ing to-”

  “Don’t you da­re thre­aten me,” Mom snap­ped, tur­ning to gla­re at me whi­le the car ve­ered to­ward the me­di­an. “I am still yo­ur mot­her and I ha­ve ne­ver-” We hit a pot­ho­le on the si­de of the ro­ad with a lo­ud thunk that ma­de the car rat­tle.

  “Shit, watch the fre­aking ro­ad!”

  “Don’t cur­se!”

  “We’re go­ing to ha­ve a wreck!”

  “I’ve be­en dri­ving for de­ca­des, Me­gan, I don’t ne­ed-”

  “Ye­ah, dri­ving li­ke crap. You’re an aw­ful dri­ver, just ask Dad.” I didn’t know why I was ta­king the ar­gu­ment in that di­rec­ti­on. I gu­ess a part of me didn’t want to stay on to­pic, didn’t want to know the ob­vi­o­usly aw­ful sec­ret she was ke­eping.

  Still, my lips kept flap­ping, al­most aga­inst my will. “Do­es Dad know? Do­es he know you li­ed to-”

  “Le­ave Dad out of this,” Mom sa­id, tho­ugh she did turn her eyes back to the ro­ad and di­rec­ted the car bet­we­en the li­nes. “Yo­ur Dad and I ag­re­ed I sho­uld hand­le it. He’s not a Set­tler, and he do­esn’t un­ders­tand how sen­si­ti­ve this si­tu­ati­on is.”

  “Ne­it­her do I, and I am a Set­tler. Thanks to you I al­ways will be, whet­her I li­ke it or not.”

  “God, Me­gan, don’t start that aga­in. I am so sick of he­aring you whi­ne abo­ut not be­ing nor­mal. What the hell is ‘nor­mal’ any­way, and who wants to be-”

  “I do!”

  “Obvi­o­usly. And you know what, I wish you we­re nor­mal,” she sa­id, her vo­lu­me ri­sing to match my own. “Then all you’d ha­ve to think abo­ut is clot­hes and ma­ke­up and boys and that fuc­king pom squ­ad you’re so ob­ses­sed with, and you co­uld be even mo­re shal­low and sel­fish than you al­re­ady are.”

  My mom had sa­id “fuck.” To me. It was shoc­king eno­ugh to bring fresh te­ars to my eyes, even wit­ho­ut the “shal­low” and “sel­fish” com­ments.

  “I am not shal­low or sel­fish,” I whis­pe­red, figh­ting to swal­low the can­ta­lo­upe-si­ze lump in my thro­at. “I work hard, har­der than you ever did when you we­re my age!”

  “Re­al­ly? And how do you-”

  “I hardly ever get to see my boyf­ri­end, I ha­ve no fri­ends sin­ce my best fri­end tri­ed to kill me over Set­tler crap, and I’ve ris­ked my li­fe at le­ast fo­ur ti­mes in the past ye­ar to-”

  “And how many of tho­se si­tu­ati­ons we­re yo­ur own fa­ult?” she as­ked, stop­ping at the red light two stre­ets be­fo­re our own.

  “It’s my fa­ult we­ird zom­bi­es ke­ep at­tac­king me?”

  “I don’t know. Is it? You tell me, Me­gan.” I co­uld tell she reg­ret­ted the words as so­on as she’d sa­id them, but it didn’t mat­ter.

  “I’m wal­king ho­me.”

  “No, you’re not.” Mom grab­bed my arm hard eno­ugh to ma­ke me win­ce.

  “Wha­te­ver hap­pe­ned to ‘You’re such a gre­at girl, I’m so pro­ud of you’? Was that all bul­lshit?”

  “I’m sorry, I sho­uldn’t ha­ve… I didn’t me­an… I’ve ne­ver do­ub­ted-”

  “Yes, you ha­ve. You just did, and so do Kitty and Bar­ker and El­der Tho­mas. You all do­ubt me, even tho­ugh I’ve do­ne not­hing wrong.” I was sob­bing now, big, he­aving, don­key sobs. Ne­ver had I dre­amed my li­fe wo­uld be­co­me this un­fa­ir.

  I me­an, I still felt gu­ilty over he­si­ta­ting a few se­conds too long be­fo­re in­vo­king the re­ver­to com­mand to­night, but I had do­ne my best. I wasn’t per­fect, but I’d do­ne everyt­hing I co­uld to get rid of tho­se RCs and every ot­her OOGP that had ever stuck its de­com­po­sing no­se in­to my li­fe. That my mom co­uld do­ubt that, even for a se­cond, ma­de me fe­el li­ke my en­ti­re world was fal­ling apart.

  “Me­gan-”

  “So don’t ask me what I was do­ing to­night,” I sa­id, “or what I’m do­ing any night un­til I pro­ve I’m in­no­cent. If you think I’m such a bad per­son and re­fu­se to be ho­nest with me, then you don’t de­ser­ve to know.”

  I wrenc­hed my arm away, flip­ped the auto­ma­tic un­lock but­ton, and threw myself out of the car. I was sprin­ting ac­ross the newly bul­ldo­zed lot next to the So­nic be­fo­re Mom co­uld roll down her win­dow.

  “Me­gan Aman­da Berry, get back in the car!”

  But I didn’t s
low down for a se­cond. All I wan­ted to do was run. Run and run and run un­til I was far away from my mom, her do­ubt, and all our dirty fa­mily sec­rets.

  Wha­te­ver tho­se we­re.

  I was still in the dark, but I wo­uldn’t be for long. I’d find a way to get tho­se me­di­cal re­cords and dig up every lit­tle last thing my mom and ever­yo­ne el­se didn’t want me to know. And then I’d pro­ve them wrong. All of them.

  I’d ma­ke them sorry they’d ever do­ub­ted me, that they’d ever tho­ught I was a mur­de­rer or a witch. I’d use all that stu­pid po­wer I’d ne­ver even wan­ted and I’d show them what I co­uld re­al­ly do, how I co­uld ma­ke them hurt, suf­fer, wish they’d ne­ver be­en-

  “No.” I fro­ze at the ed­ge of the lot, whe­re the ro­ad tur­ned re­si­den­ti­al and tidy stre­ets spun off to­ward or­ga­ni­zed lit­tle sub­di­vi­si­ons, fe­eling li­ke a dark, wretc­hed thing int­ru­ding in­to the in­no­cent land of su­bur­bia.

  The lon­ging for re­ven­ge was un­ders­tan­dab­le, but I’d ne­ver use my po­wer to hurt pe­op­le, not even pe­op­le who had hurt me. I co­uldn’t be­li­eve the tho­ught had en­te­red my mind, no mat­ter how up­set I was. It ma­de me af­ra­id in a way I hadn’t be­en sin­ce all the we­ird zom­bie stuff star­ted.

  What if the­re was re­al­ly so­met­hing dif­fe­rent abo­ut me? So­met­hing mo­re than just be­ing ext­ra­or­di­na­rily strong? What if, de­ep down, I wasn’t one of the go­od guys li­ke the rest of the Set­tlers?

  “Me­gan, ple­ase. I’m sorry. Get back in the car.” My mom pul­led up be­si­de me, but I didn’t turn to lo­ok. I co­uldn’t. Not right now, not when I sus­pec­ted she might see a sha­dow of that bad per­son she fe­ared I was still lur­king in my eyes.

 

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