Undead Much

by Stacey Jay

  “What abo­ut the nur­ses? Co­uld any of them tell you what hap­pe­ned?”

  “No one co­uld re­mem­ber anyt­hing. Smythe did a tho­ro­ugh job.” His scowl ma­de it cle­ar what he tho­ught of ste­aling pe­op­le’s me­mo­ri­es. The­re was a ti­me I wo­uld ha­ve ag­re­ed with him, but if what the El­ders had sa­id was true and we ris­ked a zom­bie apo­calyp­se if an­yo­ne fo­und out abo­ut our world…

  Let’s just say it put my usu­al­ly fi­er­ce be­li­ef in hu­man rights in a slightly dif­fe­rent pers­pec­ti­ve. I me­an, what go­od we­re rights if we we­re all af­ra­id to go out of our ho­mes lest we be at­tac­ked by the Un­de­ad?

  But then, wasn’t that sa­ying it was okay for Set­tlers’ Af­fa­irs or the go­vern­ment or who­ever to do wha­te­ver they wan­ted to the pe­op­le un­der the­ir cont­rol in the na­me of “pro­tec­ting” them? The­re we­re al­ways things to be af­ra­id of-that didn’t me­an I wan­ted Smythe or an­yo­ne el­se to ha­ve the po­wer to ste­al my past, to cor­rupt my me­mo­ri­es, to ma­ke me think…

  Oh no… they wo­uldn’t. Wo­uld they?

  “Ethan.” I tur­ned to fa­ce him, a hor­rib­le sus­pi­ci­on gro­wing in my mind. “What if the En­for­cers did so­met­hing to me? What if they ma­de me for­get so­met­hing I did? So now I can’t re­mem­ber it, but I’m re­al­ly gu­ilty and that’s why they all-”

  “That’s ri­di­cu­lo­us. You wo­uld ne­ver do so­met­hing li­ke this,” Et­han sa­id, his fa­ith in me as strong as ever. “Why wo­uld you? You don’t want to hurt an­yo­ne, es­pe­ci­al­ly yo­ur­self. What pos­sib­le mo­ti­ve co­uld you ha­ve?”

  “I know, but then why is ever­yo­ne so su­re I sum­mo­ned the­se pe­op­le from the­ir hos­pi­tal beds? And why is my own mot­her ke­eping the truth from me?” I fil­led him in on the we­ird­ness bet­we­en Mom and me the night be­fo­re and the blo­od-type stuff Mo­ni­ca and I had fi­gu­red out this mor­ning. “My blo­od and the blo­od they fo­und on the co­ma vic­tims must match and-”

  “You’ve got yo­ur ans­wer right the­re. They only think you did it be­ca­use the blo­od matc­hes and you’ve got a su­per-ra­re blo­od type. That me­ans the­re has to be so­me­body el­se out the­re with the sa­me we­ird blo­od you’ve got. And be­li­eve me, I’m go­ing to do everyt­hing pos­sib­le to find out who it is. I’ve al­re­ady put a few things in mo­ti­on so… don’t worry.”

  “A few things?” He was de­fi­ni­tely hi­ding so­met­hing. “What kind of things?”

  “I don’t want to worry you if it’s not­hing. Be­si­des, if you don’t know what I’m up to, you can’t be held res­pon­sib­le,” he sa­id, a hard lo­ok in his eyes I’d ne­ver se­en be­fo­re.

  “Ethan, I don’t want you do­ing anyt­hing il­le­gal to-”

  “I’m go­ing to do what I think is right, whet­her that’s kos­her with SA or not.”

  “Now you so­und li­ke a cri­mi­nal. You’re sup­po­sed to be with Pro­to­col,” I sa­id, sca­red by the chan­ge in my ru­le-lo­ving boyf­ri­end.

  “I’m not a cri­mi­nal, I just-” He bro­ke off, cho­osing his words ca­re­ful­ly. “Everyt­hing that’s hap­pe­ned la­tely… It’s ma­de me think mo­re Set­tlers sho­uld start con­si­de­ring what’s best for the pe­op­le we’re trying to help ins­te­ad of just trus­ting that SA has everyt­hing un­der cont­rol.”

  “Be­ca­use I’m a fre­ak of na­tu­re?” I tur­ned to lo­ok at the si­lent fi­eld with its bar­ren rows of unp­lan­ted earth. God, I wis­hed it wasn’t win­ter and everyt­hing didn’t fe­el so… de­ad.

  “It’s not just you, and it’s not just Ca­rol.” His fin­gers brus­hed my chin, ur­ging my eyes back to his. “The­re’s be­en an inc­re­ase in Ro­gue and Re­ani­ma­ted Corp­se ac­ti­vity ac­ross the en­ti­re co­untry. The world is chan­ging and we’ve got to chan­ge with it. The pe­op­le wor­king black ma­gic cer­ta­inly are.”

  “What do­es that me­an?”

  “I’ve just no­ti­ced so­me things, that’s all. Things that don’t ma­ke sen­se.”

  “What sort of-”

  “I pro­mi­se, on­ce I ha­ve so­met­hing conc­re­te, you’ll be the first to know.” He put his arm aro­und me and pul­led me clo­ser to his si­de of the car. “But that’s to­tal­ly we­ird abo­ut yo­ur mom. I wo­uldn’t ha­ve tho­ught she’d do so­met­hing li­ke that.”

  “Ye­ah, I know,” I sa­id, al­lo­wing the chan­ge of su­bj­ect. I was sick of pe­op­le hi­ding things from me, but I was al­so sick of figh­ting. Be­si­des, I knew Et­han well eno­ugh by now to know he wasn’t go­ing to bud­ge. If he’d de­ci­ded he wasn’t re­ady to spill wha­te­ver be­ans he was hol­ding, no amo­unt of ple­ading, whi­ning, or thre­at of vi­olen­ce on my part was go­ing to ma­ke a dif­fe­ren­ce.

  “I me­an, she’s al­ways se­emed so co­ol.”

  “I gu­ess.” I wrap­ped my arms aro­und Et­han and bu­ri­ed my fa­ce in his chest. I didn’t want to think abo­ut Mom or her we­ird­ness right now. I didn’t want to think abo­ut anyt­hing ex­cept Et­han and how go­od it felt to be clo­se to him.

  I gu­ess he was fe­eling the sa­me way, be­ca­use when I lif­ted my fa­ce his lips we­re wa­iting right the­re in the per­fect po­si­ti­on. Just li­ke it had that day in the hos­pi­tal par­king lot, our kiss went from swe­et to ste­amy in un­der six se­conds. My skin was im­me­di­ately ali­ve with the ama­zing­ness of his lips, his to­uch, his smell-everyt­hing that me­ant Et­han when he was this clo­se. Per­fectly clo­se.

  We ang­led our he­ads, our kiss gro­wing even hot­ter. Be­fo­re I re­al­ly tho­ught abo­ut what was hap­pe­ning, he was pus­hing my co­at off my sho­ul­ders and I was do­ing the sa­me. Then we we­re back to­get­her, smus­hed as clo­se as two pe­op­le co­uld get.

  Or may­be not qu­ite as clo­se as two pe­op­le co­uld get-the­re we­re ways to get clo­ser.

  Ethan’s fin­gers we­re a lit­tle cold as they slid be­ne­ath my swe­ater, but that wasn’t what pul­led me out of the happy kiss ha­ze. For so­me re­ason, the fe­el of his ba­re hands on my ba­re skin ma­de me think of Aaron, of how aw­ful it had felt to ha­ve him to­uch me. Then I star­ted thin­king abo­ut how an­no­yed Et­han had be­en when I’d pul­led away that day at the hos­pi­tal and how I co­uldn’t pull away now or he’d get an­no­yed aga­in.

  He was my boyf­ri­end, for God’s sa­ke, and we’d be­en go­ing out for prac­ti­cal­ly fo­re­ver in ni­ne­te­en-ye­ar-old-boy ti­me. How much lon­ger wo­uld he wa­it for me if I kept fre­aking out every ti­me he tri­ed to ta­ke the na­tu­ral next step in our re­la­ti­ons­hip?

  But then, sho­uld I re­al­ly do so­met­hing just be­ca­use I didn’t want Et­han to fre­ak? Sho­uldn’t he be pa­ti­ent and un­ders­tan­ding abo­ut ha­ving a yo­un­ger girlf­ri­end? Even if she was tech­ni­cal­ly not that yo­ung and mo­re than old eno­ugh to be ro­un­ding the ba­ses?

  I me­an, how many girls my age did I know who we­re al­re­ady on the Pill? A lot. And I didn’t jud­ge them. I wasn’t su­per con­ser­va­ti­ve, and I didn’t ha­ve any mo­ral­ly com­pel­ling re­ason not to po­un­ce Et­han. I didn’t plan on wa­iting un­til mar­ri­age. I lo­ved Et­han, and I knew he lo­ved and res­pec­ted me too. So what the heck was my prob­lem?

  “You fe­el so go­od,” he mumb­led aga­inst my lips.

  “You too.” It wasn’t qu­ite a lie, but it wasn’t qu­ite the truth eit­her. He did fe­el go­od, but I didn’t. I was ap­pro­ac­hing se­ri­o­usly crazy he­ad spa­ce at a ra­te not he­althy for a te­ena­ge girl. But what co­uld I do? How co­uld I gra­ce­ful­ly put an end to so­met­hing that was qu­ickly gro­wing way mo­re in­ten­se than any ma­ke-out ses­si­on we’d ever had?

  As I in­wardly stres­sed, we con­ti­nu­ed to kiss li­ke the world was co­ming to an end
and Et­han’s hand inc­hed hig­her. And hig­her. And then even hig­her, un­til, for the first ti­me in my en­ti­re li­fe, a boy was to­uc­hing me the­re. The old pink tra­ining bra I’d bor­ro­wed from Mo­ni­ca this mor­ning be­ca­use her re­al bras we­re too big for my wee chest was still on and all that, but still! To­uc­hing. The­re. Sort of cup­ping and brus­hing and ob­vi­o­usly thin­king abo­ut sli­ding un­der the lightly pad­ded la­ce and ta­king this to a who­le ot­her le­vel.

  It was sup­po­sed to be gre­at, if my mom’s ro­man­ce no­vels we­re to be­li­eved, so I tri­ed to let the gre­at­ness hap­pen. But af­ter a se­cond or two I co­uldn’t deny that I just wasn’t fe­eling the mind-num­bing pas­si­on, or wha­te­ver it was, I was sup­po­sed to be fe­eling. It was de­fi­ni­tely in­te­res­ting, tingly, won­der­ful in its way, but the­re was so­met­hing wrong. I was too dist­rac­ted, too knot­ted up in my he­ad to re­lax in­to what was go­ing on with my body.

  And may­be I wo­uld al­ways be that way. May­be I wo­uld al­ways be the we­ird girl who fre­aked out when her boyf­ri­ends tri­ed to get to se­cond ba­se, and I wo­uld die alo­ne and child­less-be­ca­use it’s a known fact that baby ma­king in­vol­ves much to­uc­hing and run­ning of ba­ses-but I co­uldn’t worry abo­ut that right now. Just li­ke I co­uldn’t ma­ke myself go so­mew­he­re I wasn’t re­ady to go just be­ca­use I tho­ught I sho­uld.

  “Stop,” I sa­id, gently pus­hing at Et­han’s arm.

  “Me­gan, I-”

  “Ple­ase, stop.” I pus­hed a lit­tle har­der, but he still didn’t mo­ve his hand, which ma­de my he­art be­at even fas­ter and a so­ur tas­te ri­se in my mo­uth. He wasn’t Aaron. I sho­uldn’t be fe­eling so an­xi­o­us, but I co­uldn’t help it. I wan­ted my spa­ce, and I wan­ted it now.

  “I ha­ve stop­ped,” he sa­id, hand still firmly in pla­ce. “I just want-”

  “Get yo­ur hands off of me!” I yel­led, lo­sing my co­ol. I sho­ved Et­han’s now-eagerly de­par­ting hand away and bac­ked aga­inst the car do­or-my he­art ra­cing, fe­eling angry with Et­han and myself and Aaron for get­ting me star­ted down this spaz-attack path.

  “Fi­ne,” he sa­id, his exp­res­si­on a crus­hing mix of shock and hurt and ir­ri­ta­ti­on. “Just say so­met­hing next ti­me, will you?”

  “I did say so­met­hing.”

  Ethan sig­hed. “Ye­ah, you did, but not un­til-”

  “Not un­til what?”

  “Ne­ver mind.” He star­ted the car with sharp, ab­rupt mo­ve­ments that left no do­ubt he was angry. “Whe­re am I ta­king you? Back to scho­ol?”

  “Ho­me. I ne­ed to find the pa­per­work my mom is hi­ding, and she sho­uld be le­aving for work right abo­ut now.”

  “Ho­me it is,” he sa­id, pul­ling back on­to the ro­ad and tur­ning the car to­ward my ho­use. “Tho­ugh you know yo­ur pa­rents are go­ing to get a call from the of­fi­ce if you skip this much scho­ol.”

  You didn’t se­em too wor­ri­ed abo­ut that a se­cond ago, I tho­ught. Alo­ud I sa­id, “Ho­pe­ful­ly it won’t ta­ke me too long and I can be back to scho­ol by lunch ho­ur. But now that we’re pretty su­re who­ever is sic­king the­se zom­bi­es on me is using the li­ving, I can’t was­te any­mo­re ti­me. I don’t want to risk hur­ting in­no­cent pe­op­le whi­le I’m trying to ke­ep them from hur­ting in­no­cent pe­op­le.”

  “You’re right. I’ll fol­low up on a few ot­her things whi­le you’re busy at yo­ur ho­use,” he sa­id, his words per­fectly ni­ce but his to­ne tel­ling me the­re had be­en se­ri­o­us da­ma­ge do­ne.

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  “No prob­lem. Anyt­hing to help.” We both spent the rest of the ri­de in si­len­ce. I was trying not to cry, and I gu­ess Et­han was just mad. He kind of lo­oked mad. Or may­be he was trying not to cry too. I sho­uldn’t be se­xist and as­su­me he was too to­ugh to cry just be­ca­use he was a boy.

  After all, if a wretc­hed girlf­ri­end li­ke me co­uldn’t bring a guy to te­ars, what co­uld?

  CHAPTER 17

  The go­od thing abo­ut le­ading a do­ub­le li­fe is that the­re are ti­mes when you’re just too busy to stress out.

  By the ti­me I ran­sac­ked our ho­use thank­ful­ly fin­ding the fi­le wit­ho­ut too much tro­ub­le, ra­ced back to scho­ol just in ti­me to jo­in the se­ni­ors re­tur­ning from lunch, fi­nis­hed class, chan­ged in­to my dan­ce clot­hes and prac­ti­ced for an ho­ur and a half, and sho­we­red and chan­ged in­to the ice-ska­ting clot­hes I’d snag­ged from the ho­use du­ring my ran­sac­king ear­li­er, I had ma­na­ged to not think abo­ut my di­re si­tu­ati­on for six who­le ho­urs.

  Or at le­ast not think abo­ut it that much. The co­ma zom­bi­es, my we­ird blo­od, the psycho who was trying to kill or fra­me me, and the chan­ce I co­uld go to ja­il fo­re­ver for a cri­me I didn’t com­mit we­re ne­ver too far from my mind.

  The un­re­ad pa­per­work from my ho­use was li­ke a le­ad we­ight in my pur­se drag­ging me down to the bot­tom of an oce­an of psycho­sis. I was jit­tery and pa­ra­no­id all day long, torn bet­we­en the ur­ge to wa­it for a se­mi-pri­va­te mo­ment to re­ad the fi­le and just rip­ping the darn thing open in the girls’ bath­ro­om in bet­we­en clas­ses and put­ting an end to the hor­rib­le sus­pen­se.

  In the end, I de­ci­ded I wo­uld ha­ve to bre­ak down and re­ad the thing in pub­lic as so­on as I got the chan­ce. I didn’t ha­ve any mo­re ti­me to was­te. On my way out of prac­ti­ce, I no­ti­ced that my nor­mal be­ige SA ta­il had be­en rep­la­ced by a sle­ek black SUV with tin­ted win­dows exactly li­ke the one Kitty dro­ve. It fol­lo­wed me at a disc­re­et dis­tan­ce as I jog­ged the fi­ve blocks over to whe­re we we­re hol­ding the swe­et­he­art ska­te. The SUV tur­ned off a few stre­ets be­fo­re the gra­vel ro­ad le­ading to the pond, but I wasn’t fo­oled.

  I ex­pec­ted to be snatc­hed off the stre­et and ta­ken in­to SA cus­tody any se­cond. In fact, when that skin-prick­ling “watc­hed” fe­eling star­ted up aga­in se­conds af­ter I’d grab­bed a spot on the ble­ac­hers and be­gun to tug on my ska­tes, my first tho­ught was that it was Kitty and that I sho­uld get re­ady to run if I wasn’t pre­pa­red to rot in a ja­il cell.

  I pe­eked thro­ugh the ha­ir fal­ling aro­und my fa­ce, scan­ning the ed­ge of the pond, but the­re wasn’t a sign of Kitty or an­yo­ne from Set­tlers’ Af­fa­irs. Fi­nal­ly, I spot­ted the so­ur­ce of the prick­les-a zom­bie lur­king in the wo­ods on the ot­her si­de.

  It was Cliff. Even con­ce­aled by the win­ter won­der­land of twink­ling lights strung in the tre­es, I co­uld tell it was him, but I didn’t ma­ke any mo­ve to ack­now­led­ge his pre­sen­ce, no mat­ter how thril­led I was to see him. I co­uldn’t risk him be­ing spot­ted by my Set­tler ta­il. Just the fact that he was he­re, still lur­king, watc­hing out for me, was a gre­at sign.

  Be­si­des, I had a fe­eling he wo­uld be lo­sing it big-ti­me if he we­re for­ced to sit next to me whi­le I la­ced my ska­tes and Aaron tri­ed his best to lo­ok up my skirt.

  “Tho­se are re­al­ly co­ol ska­tes,” Aaron sa­id, eyes still glu­ed to my hem­li­ne. The boy had de­li­be­ra­tely cho­sen the se­at two be­low mi­ne and wasn’t overly subt­le in his at­tempts to get a pe­ek un­der my red and whi­te kilt.

  “Thanks. They’re vin­ta­ge from the eigh­ti­es.” I co­uldn’t fre­ak on him. I still ne­eded my back­pack with my pa­rents’ me­di­cal re­cords in­si­de and sho­uld ha­ve known bet­ter than to we­ar a skirt to ice-ska­te in any­way.

  But I’d be­en trying to fol­low Mo­ni­ca’s ad­vi­ce and at le­ast pre­tend I still ca­red abo­ut nor­mal things. And in my nor­mal li­fe I wo­uldn’t ha­ve be­en ab­le to re­sist the lu­re of my kilt with the matc­hing red swe­ater. With a whi­te turt­le­neck and he­
avy knee-high socks, the out­fit was warm eno­ugh to we­ar wit­ho­ut a co­at and lo­oked gre­at with my mom’s red ice ska­tes. I lo­oked fa­irly cu­te for a girl on the ver­ge of a bre­ak­down, and I was cer­ta­in I’d snag a few co­up­les’ ska­tes be­fo­re the night was thro­ugh.

  Heck, I al­re­ady had one bu­yer, whet­her I li­ked it or not.

  “You’re go­ing to sa­ve me at le­ast one song, right?” Aaron fi­nal­ly lif­ted his eyes as I fi­nis­hed with my la­ces and pres­sed my kne­es tightly to­get­her.

  “Won’t Da­na kill you?” I smi­led, do­ing my best to be fri­endly, tho­ugh I re­al­ly wan­ted to tell him to gi­ve me my back­pack and scram. “I me­an, you’re the only boy for sa­le. I’m su­re you’ll be in de­mand.”

  And I was su­re he wo­uld be. Girls we­re al­re­ady ro­aming aro­und, sho­oting Aaron “yummy, I want” lo­oks even tho­ugh it wo­uld be at le­ast thirty mi­nu­tes un­til the DJ ar­ri­ved to start spin­ning the tracks for our lit­tle so­iree. Ho­pe­ful­ly Aaron wo­uld find one or two who enj­oyed his inap­prop­ri­ate to­uchy-fe­ely­ness and they wo­uld all li­ve hap­pily ever af­ter, ma­king cer­ta­in he ne­ver to­uc­hed me aga­in.

  But for now, I grit­ted my te­eth and tri­ed to smi­le when his hand lan­ded on my knee. “I don’t ca­re what she says. It’s just one ska­te.”

  “Okay, su­re. So­unds go­od.” I va­ul­ted to a stan­ding po­si­ti­on be­fo­re his fin­gers co­uld cre­ep any clo­ser to the hem of my skirt. “But un­til then I’d lo­ve to lo­ok at tho­se re­cords. You sa­id you bro­ught my bag?”

  “Ye­ah, I lo­oked all over scho­ol for you this af­ter­no­on but co­uldn’t find you anyw­he­re. Gu­ess you we­re hi­ding from me, huh?” he as­ked, with a we­ird gig­gle.

  “No­pe, just busy.” I smi­led, de­ter­mi­ned not to gi­ve Aaron the “you are a cre­epy stal­ker le­ave me alo­ne” talk un­til af­ter I ret­ri­eved my back­pack. “But you ha­ve it now?”