Undead Much

by Stacey Jay

  “I’m go­ing to Mo­ni­ca’s,” I sa­id, surp­ri­sing even myself. I’d cle­arly hit rock bot­tom if the Mo­nics­ter’s was the sa­fest pla­ce I co­uld think of.

  For a few mi­nu­tes, the only so­und was the pur­ring of the en­gi­ne and the scratch of so­met­hing rust­ling aro­und in the in­dust­ri­al Dumps­ter a few fe­et away. Nor­mal­ly that wo­uld ha­ve sent me ra­cing back to the car, but even the thre­at of co­ming fa­ce-to-fa­ce with a bunch of swamp rats co­uldn’t per­su­ade me to go a step clo­ser to my mom. I didn’t know who she was any­mo­re. With the rats, at le­ast I’d know what to ex­pect.

  Fi­nal­ly, Mom sig­hed, a we­ary so­und that let me know I’d won be­fo­re she even spo­ke. “Won’t you ne­ed clot­hes, yo­ur ma­ke­up, ot­her stuff for scho­ol?”

  “I’ll just bor­row so­me of hers and run in and grab my back­pack on the way,” I sa­id, my jaw tigh­te­ning. She was gi­ving up. That easily. My old mom wo­uld ne­ver ha­ve let me get away with tel­ling her to butt out of my li­fe or go­ing over to a fri­end’s ho­use unan­no­un­ced in the mid­dle of the night.

  Des­pi­te the fact that I re­al­ly didn’t want to go ho­me, I sud­denly wis­hed she’d jump out of the car and tell me she wasn’t ta­king no for an ans­wer. But she didn’t, which I sup­po­sed me­ant I’d won.

  So why did I fe­el li­ke I’d lost everyt­hing that mat­te­red?

  “All right.” Mom pa­used, and for a se­cond I tho­ught she was go­ing to chan­ge her mind. But when I lo­oked over at her, all I saw was a sca­red wo­man with the be­gin­nings of a worry li­ne bet­we­en her eyeb­rows who didn’t know what to do. With me, or with her­self. “Can I at le­ast gi­ve you a ri­de?”

  I swal­lo­wed, hard. “It’s only fi­ve blocks.”

  “Me­gan, I-”

  “See you la­ter, Mom.” I ran aga­in, as fast as I co­uld, tel­ling myself the cold wind was the re­ason for the wet­ness on my che­eks.

  CHAPTER 13

  “Get up, Berry.” A bony fin­ger jab­bed me bet­we­en the ribs hard eno­ugh to ma­ke me twitch and se­ek shel­ter be­ne­ath the co­vers. “If I ha­ve to lis­ten to you sno­re for anot­her mi­nu­te I’m go­ing to lo­se it.”

  With no small deg­ree of ef­fort I crac­ked open my eyes. Ac­cor­ding to the clock by Mo­ni­ca’s bed it was six o’clock. I’d only be­en as­le­ep for abo­ut three ho­urs. “Wa­ke me in an ho­ur.”

  “No, you’re get­ting up now. Get. Up.” The last two words we­re ac­cen­ted by mo­re fin­ger jabs. Cle­arly, the swe­et, vul­ne­rab­le Mo­ni­ca from the night be­fo­re had va­nis­hed and the re­al Mo­nics­ter had re­tur­ned to con­ti­nue her re­ign of ter­ror. Still, she had let me in­to her ro­om and of­fe­red me clot­hes to sle­ep in at ne­arly three in the mor­ning. I co­uldn’t af­ford to be too cri­ti­cal. “Now, fre­ak, or I’m go­ing to cut you with so­met­hing sharp.”

  “Why not so­met­hing dull? It wo­uld hurt mo­re,” I mut­te­red as I for­ced myself in­to a se­ated po­si­ti­on. The ro­om spun diz­zily for a mo­ment, eit­her a si­de ef­fect of too much stress and not eno­ugh sle­ep, or of the shoc­king oran­ge and pink pa­is­ley wal­lpa­per.

  No mat­ter how ti­red I was, I was bet­ting on the wal­lpa­per.

  “He­re, get dres­sed.” Clot­hing smac­ked me in the fa­ce. “Tho­se je­ans sho­uld fit. They’re too big on me.”

  Ah, an in­sult first thing in the mor­ning. “I tho­ught you sa­id I was too skinny?”

  “You are, for yo­ur body type. Not ever­yo­ne can ha­ve de­li­ca­te bo­ne struc­tu­re,” she sa­id, then tur­ned to­ward the so­ur­ce of the lo­vely smell fil­ling the ro­om. “You drink cof­fee, right?”

  “You ha­ve a cof­fe­ema­ker in yo­ur ro­om?” I as­ked, my envy cle­ar tho­ugh my vo­ice was muf­fled by the black swe­ater I was pul­ling over my he­ad.

  “Cof­fe­ema­ker and esp­res­so mac­hi­ne.” She po­ured a lar­ge cup from the pot sit­ting on top of the lit­tle ref­ri­ge­ra­tor/mic­ro­wa­ve com­bo in the cor­ner. The­re was al­so a sink, a few fe­et of co­un­ter spa­ce, and two ca­bi­nets abo­ve the mi­ni kitc­hen. The Mo­nics­ter’s ro­om was even mo­re tric­ked out than Et­han’s dorm. “But the­re’s no way I’m ma­king you a lat­te, so don’t get any ide­as. Cre­am or su­gar?”

  “Both.” I le­aped from the bed and strug­gled in­to Mo­ni­ca’s je­ans-which we­re still a lit­tle too tight, so the­re was ho­pe my butt hadn’t fal­len off comp­le­tely.

  “He­re, drink. I ne­ed yo­ur bra­in func­ti­oning in the next ten mi­nu­tes,” she sa­id, han­ding me the cof­fee and tap­ping her bo­oted fo­ot.

  For the first ti­me, I no­ti­ced she was al­re­ady dres­sed, comp­le­te with ma­ke­up and fla­ti­ro­ned ha­ir. What ti­me had she got­ten up? And why did the fact that Mo­ni­ca was a mor­ning per­son ma­ke me sus­pect her of gre­ater evil than ever be­fo­re?

  “What’s hap­pe­ning in ten mi­nu­tes?” I gul­ped cof­fee, not ca­ring that it bur­ned the back of my thro­at. What was a lit­tle pa­in when the­re was such swe­et, cof­fee-y go­od­ness to be had?

  “Ethan’s co­ming to get you to ta­ke you to scho­ol. He cal­led last night lo­oking for you. Go­od work for­get­ting yo­ur cell.”

  “I didn’t for­get it-I had re­ason to be­li­eve it was tap­ped.”

  “What?” Mo­ni­ca’s brow wrink­led.

  “The En­for­cers are get­ting sketchy with the­ir met­hods. Et­han’s pho­ne was tap­ped too.”

  “Wow. He was cal­ling from a new num­ber,” she sa­id, then shrug­ged as if pho­ne tap­ping we­re an every­day af­fa­ir. “Still, it’s pro­bably a go­od idea to bring yo­ur pho­ne with you next ti­me you sne­ak out of the ho­use in the mid­dle of the night. Bet­ter over­he­ard than de­ad. And it will ke­ep yo­ur pa­rents from cal­ling yo­ur boyf­ri­end on the Set­tler dorm pho­ne at one in the mor­ning when they can’t re­ach you on yo­ur cell.”

  Oh, crap. Why hadn’t Mom sa­id she’d tri­ed to call Et­han? Now I had to fi­gu­re out what I was go­ing to tell him, and qu­ick. I to­ok anot­her de­ep pull on my cof­fee, pra­ying the caf­fe­ine wo­uld dash stra­ight to my we­ary synap­ses.

  “He ma­de me pro­mi­se to call if I he­ard anyt­hing.” Mo­ni­ca stra­igh­te­ned the oran­ge bedsp­re­ad with qu­ick, ef­fi­ci­ent mo­ti­ons. Who wo­uld ha­ve tho­ught Mo­nics­ter had such a tas­te for pink and oran­ge? I wo­uld ha­ve peg­ged her as a black-li­ke-her-so­ul kind of de­co­ra­tor. “I wa­ited to call him back un­til this mor­ning sin­ce I tho­ught you ne­eded sle­ep. Ot­her­wi­se, I’m su­re Prin­ce Char­ming wo­uld ha­ve be­en over he­re in the mid­dle of the night, and my dad wo­uld ha­ve lost his shit if he’d se­en anot­her guy in he­re.”

  “Anot­her guy?” My eyeb­rows lif­ted abo­ve the rim of my cup.

  “And I re­al­ly didn’t want to de­al with that fal­lo­ut.” Mo­ni­ca ig­no­red my qu­es­ti­on, and I re­sis­ted the ur­ge to ma­ke a joke abo­ut the string of men she in­vi­ted back to her la­ir, fi­gu­ring I co­uldn’t af­ford to ali­ena­te one of the few pe­op­le on my si­de. Be­si­des, my cu­ri­osity abo­ut what she was pul­ling from un­der her bed was suf­fi­ci­ently int­ri­gu­ing to ba­nish all tho­ughts of boy-the­med in­ter­ro­ga­ti­on.

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s a dry-era­se bo­ard.” Her po­in­ted “duh” lo­ok ins­pi­red anot­her big gulp of cof­fee. Ob­vi­o­usly she was se­ri­o­us abo­ut the who­le bra­in-func­ti­oning thing. “I tho­ught a vi­su­al aid wo­uld help or­ga­ni­ze the in­for­ma­ti­on.”

  “Okay.” I perc­hed on the ed­ge of the bed, squ­in­ting at the chart Mo­ni­ca had drawn. “What exactly is this?”

  “It’s everyt­hing I co­uld find on Set­tler-spe­ci­fic fo­ren­sic evi­den­ce down in t
he arc­hi­ves at the SA lib­rary in Lit­tle Rock. I was the­re un­til al­most mid­night last night, and be­li­eve me, my pa­rents we­ren’t too happy,” she sa­id, circ­ling va­ri­o­us sets of let­ters on the bo­ard. “If they hadn’t be­en so tras­hed on che­ap wi­ne from that fund-ra­iser thing, I ne­ver wo­uld ha­ve got­ten out of the ho­use. You so owe me one.”

  “Or two or three,” I ag­re­ed, tho­ugh I still had no idea what I was lo­oking at.

  “Ye­ah, well, if you’re gra­te­ful now, you’re to­tal­ly go­ing to of­fer me yo­ur first­born in a few mi­nu­tes.” She tur­ned back to me with a sa­tis­fi­ed smi­le.

  “I didn’t think you li­ked kids.”

  “I don’t, but you do,” she sa­id, her pity for me and my bre­eder’s he­art ap­pa­rent. “I bet you and Et­han al­re­ady talk abo­ut how many pup­pi­es you’re go­ing to squ­e­eze out by the ti­me you’re thirty.”

  “Ew. That’s a re­al­ly gross way to put it.”

  “Not as gross as re­se­arc­hing the dif­fe­ren­ces bet­we­en Set­tler sperm and nor­mal guy sperm. Do you know that Set­tler men ha­ve lit­tle ho­oks on the end of the­ir sperms’ ta­ils?” she as­ked, her lip cur­led in dis­gust, even tho­ugh I co­uld tell she was to­tal­ly int­ri­gu­ed by we­ird Set­tler spo­oge. “It lo­oks the sa­me as sperm mu­ta­ted by a fun­gus, so hu­man doc­tors ha­ve ne­ver got­ten sus­pi­ci­o­us but-”

  “And the re­ason we’re tal­king abo­ut this is?” I as­ked, ear­ning myself anot­her “duh” lo­ok from Mo­ni­ca and an eye roll for go­od me­asu­re.

  “Fo­ren­sic evi­den­ce. You know, ha­ir, DNA, spit, sperm, blo­od… ”

  “Blo­od.” Even if she hadn’t emp­ha­si­zed the word, it ma­de sen­se.

  Blo­od was the only one of tho­se things used to ra­ise zom­bi­es. “You fo­und out so­met­hing abo­ut our blo­od?”

  “Yo­ur blo­od in par­ti­cu­lar. I did a lit­tle re­ading abo­ut the ot­her stuff, but I fi­gu­red the fo­ren­sic evi­den­ce the En­for­cers had on you had to be blo­od.”

  “Blo­od they fo­und on the gra­ves of the we­ird zom­bi­es or at the mor­gue or whe­re­ver.”

  “Right. So I did a lit­tle dig­ging, trying to find out how Set­tler blo­od is dif­fe­rent from nor­mal blo­od, and how su­per-Set­tler blo­od might be dif­fe­rent from eit­her.”

  “Ma­kes sen­se,” I sa­id, star­ting to get ex­ci­ted. Mo­ni­ca was de­fi­ni­tely on to so­met­hing. The­re had to be a dif­fe­ren­ce bet­we­en my blo­od and nor­mal Set­tler blo­od, and that was why SA was so po­si­ti­ve I was the per­son ra­ising the­se we­ird zom­bi­es. “So what did you find?”

  “Not­hing.” She smi­led, and for a se­cond I won­de­red if the evil Mo­ni­ca had ma­de a re­ap­pe­aran­ce. “The­re isn’t anyt­hing we­ird abo­ut Set­tler blo­od. Not­hing you co­uld see un­der a mic­ros­co­pe or le­arn from a lab test, any­way. Wha­te­ver ma­kes our blo­od spe­ci­al se­ems to be mo­re ma­gi­cal than sci­en­ti­fic.”

  “But then why did Kitty want a blo­od samp­le last night?”

  “What? You didn’t tell me that.” Mo­ni­ca gla­red down at me from whe­re she sto­od at the end of the bed. “How am I sup­po­sed to help you if-”

  “I co­uldn’t find you. I was go­ing to tell you to­day. She sa­id she wan­ted a fresh samp­le and that it might ke­ep me out of ja­il for anot­her twenty-fo­ur ho­urs.”

  “Hmm.” She nar­ro­wed her eyes. “And it might. Or lon­ger.”

  “How?”

  “See all the­se let­ters?” Mo­ni­ca po­in­ted to her chart. “They stand for dif­fe­rent blo­od types fo­und in pe­op­le with pa­ra­nor­mal po­wers. Pe­op­le who can mo­ve things with the­ir mind, psychics, witc­hes, fi­re star­ters, things li­ke that.”

  Psychics?

  Cliff was psychic. I won­de­red if that me­ant he had we­ird blo­od, and if that might so­me­how be res­pon­sib­le for ke­eping him out of the gro­und for so long? It was al­most eno­ugh to ma­ke me spill the be­ans to Mo­ni­ca, but I held my ton­gue. I didn’t know why, but I wasn’t re­ady to tell an­yo­ne abo­ut Cliff, at le­ast not un­til I fi­gu­red out whet­her it was so­me­how my fa­ult that he co­uldn’t rest.

  “Anyway, no­ne of the­se blo­od types are fo­und in nor­mal pe­op­le or Set­tlers, and they can’t be de­tec­ted with hu­man me­di­ci­ne, only with spe­ci­al tests, and only on fresh blo­od. And are you re­ady for the re­al kic­ker? Bad lit­tle Set­tlers and witc­hes and pe­op­le li­ke that ha­ve a ma­j­or jones for this stuff. Su­per­na­tu­ral blo­od types me­an big ma­gi­cal bang for yo­ur buck. So who­ever is ra­ising the­se su­per zom­bi­es has to be using so­me of it, whet­her they got it from you or so­me­one el­se.”

  So­me­one el­se. So­me­one li­ke… Cliff? Oh God, I didn’t even want to think abo­ut that. Cliff wo­uld ne­ver bet­ray me, I was su­re of it. As su­re as I co­uld be of an­y­t­hing the­se days. Be­si­des, I wasn’t psychic, so why wo­uld Cliff’s blo­od and my blo­od be at all si­mi­lar? In fact, if my blo­od matc­hed wha­te­ver the En­for­cers had fo­und, I didn’t see how any of this in­for­ma­ti­on was go­ing to help. “I’m sorry, Mo­ni­ca. I re­al­ly ap­pre­ci­ate all yo­ur work, but I don’t see how any of this ma­kes a dif­fe­ren­ce.”

  “Don’t you see? You must ha­ve one of the­se blo­od types.”

  “But my mom’s just a Set­tler, she’s not-”

  Mo­ni­ca sig­hed and let her chart drop to the bed. “So may­be yo­ur dad or so­me­body has one of the­se types of pe­op­le in his fa­mily and you’re get­ting mo­jo from both si­des. May­be that’s why you’re so much mo­re po­wer­ful than the rest of us.”

  My dad was the le­ast mo­jo-y per­son I knew, but I was wil­ling to en­ter­ta­in the pos­si­bi­lity, not that it re­al­ly mat­te­red. “Let’s say you’re right. But even if Kitty do­es her test and it shows so­met­hing the first test didn’t-li­ke that I’m part fi­re star­ter or wha­te­ver-how will that pro­ve it isn’t my blo­od that was used to ra­ise the we­ird zom­bi­es?”

  “It wo­uld pro­ve that it’s dif­fe­rent!”

  “Not re­al­ly. If the test can only be per­for­med on a fresh samp­le, then the stuff used to ra­ise the zom­bi­es wo­uldn’t show the hid­den blo­od type even if it was the­re. It won’t do any go­od.”

  “But… I…” Mo­ni­ca sat down he­avily in the oran­ge com­pu­ter cha­ir be­hind her. “You’re right. I ha­te to say it, but you’re right.”

  “I’m sorry,” I sa­id, kno­wing how much tho­se words had cost the Mo­nics­ter. “I wish I wasn’t.”

  “Ye­ah, me too.” She sig­hed and ran a hand thro­ugh her per­fectly fla­ti­ro­ned ha­ir. “Bet you wish you hadn’t gi­ven Kitty that samp­le last night now, huh?”

  “What do you me­an?” I as­ked, ear­ning my third “duh” lo­ok of the mor­ning.

  “If the test co­mes back po­si­ti­ve for one of the­se su­per­na­tu­ral blo­od types, you just han­ded her all the evi­den­ce she ne­eds to pro­ve you had the po­wer to ra­ise the­se fre­aks of zom­bie na­tu­re. And con­si­de­ring tho­se blo­od types are only fo­und in, li­ke, po­int-two per­cent of the po­pu­la­ti­on…”

  “She tric­ked me.” God! “Crap.”

  “Now who fe­els stu­pid?”

  I sig­hed. “I’ve felt plenty stu­pid sin­ce all this star­ted,” I sa­id, figh­ting the des­pa­ir that thre­ate­ned to shut off the tiny light­bulb our con­ver­sa­ti­on had lit up in my mind. “But I think I might be ral­lying.”

  “Oh ye­ah?”

  “Ye­ah. If the­se blo­od types are only de­tec­ted in fresh blo­od, then that me­ans they did so­me ot­her kind of test to see if my blo­od matc­hed the blo­od used to ra­ise the zom­bi­es. Pro­bably a nor­mal, hu­man test.”

>   “Pro­bably.”

  “They co­uldn’t ha­ve do­ne a DNA test in such a short amo­unt of ti­me, so-”

  “How do you know?”

  “Ha­ven’t you ever watc­hed tho­se ‘who’s my baby’s daddy’ Sprin­ger epi­so­des?”

  “Um, no. So­me­how I ma­na­ged to miss tho­se.”

  “Well, DNA tests ta­ke we­eks, even when they put a rush on them,” I sa­id, re­fu­sing to ha­ve my ent­hu­si­asm dam­pe­ned by Mo­ni­ca’s sne­er of Sprin­ger di­sap­pro­val. “So that me­ans they must ha­ve used a hu­man blo­od type to de­ci­de I was the­ir girl. I’m AB ne­ga­ti­ve, which is su­per ra­re, and-” I smac­ked myself on the fo­re­he­ad with my palm, ne­arly ca­using cof­fee to splash out of my cup. “I’m so stu­pid. I can’t be­li­eve I didn’t think of that be­fo­re! When I was ten and l lost all that blo­od in the at­tack, my mom was the only Set­tler who co­uld do­na­te for my trans­fu­si­on. They didn’t ha­ve any of my blo­od type in the bank in Lit­tle Rock.”

  “That’s why the En­for­cers we­re chec­king out yo­ur mom. She’s the only ot­her Set­tler aro­und he­re with yo­ur blo­od type.”

  “Right. This al­so me­ans we’re both go­ing to be cle­ared. All we ha­ve to do is in­sist on a DNA test,” I sa­id, torn bet­we­en gi­ving in to re­li­ef and the an­xi­ety pres­sing in just as he­avily from the ot­her si­de of my bra­in.

  What if that DNA test didn’t cle­ar us for so­me re­ason? What if the­re was so­met­hing I was over­lo­oking?

  “And in the me­an­ti­me, we’ll try to find out if the­re are any ot­her su­per Set­tlers aro­und with AB ne­ga­ti­ve blo­od and get re­ady to kick the­ir ass. I knew SA was over­lo­oking so­met­hing blin­dingly ob­vi­o­us, as usu­al.” Mo­ni­ca clap­ped her hands to­get­her as if that we­re the end of the mat­ter. “Now, you sho­uld brush yo­ur ha­ir. Et­han will be he­re any se­cond. Ma­ke­up wo­uld be a go­od idea too. I nor­mal­ly wo­uldn’t let you in­fect my brus­hes with yo­ur fa­ci­al bac­te­ria, but you ne­ed so­me cos­me­tic help. You he­al fast, but the­re’s still a lit­tle black-eye ac­ti­on go­ing on.”