Undead Much

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Undead Much Page 22

by Stacey Jay


  “Ethan, I-”

  “Don’t. Just don’t,” he sa­id, swal­lo­wing so hard I co­uld see his Adam’s ap­ple bob up and down.

  “Ple­ase, don’t go,” I cal­led af­ter him. “I’m sorry, I ne­ver me­ant-”

  “I don’t ca­re what you me­ant.” He stop­ped and spun aro­und, gla­ring at me with what lo­oked li­ke te­ars in his eyes. “This isn’t go­ing to work. I won’t let you tre­at me li­ke so­me sort of ra­pist whi­le you mess aro­und with anot­her guy be­hind my back.”

  “I wasn’t mes­sing aro­und, I swe­ar,” I hic­cup­ped, te­ars stre­aming down my fa­ce. This co­uldn’t be hap­pe­ning! I co­uldn’t ha­ve ru­ined everyt­hing with the boy I lo­ved with one stu­pid kiss. What had I do­ne? “It was just one ti­me.”

  “One ti­me is eno­ugh,” he whis­pe­red. “I’m do­ne.”

  “Ethan, I-”

  “I don’t want to see you any­mo­re.”

  “Ethan!” I tri­ed to fol­low him as he stor­med away, but I was so dizzy that I wo­uld ha­ve trip­ped over my ska­tes and fal­len if Cliff hadn’t ca­ught me a se­cond ti­me.

  This ti­me, ho­we­ver, his to­uch didn’t ma­ke me fe­el bet­ter. It just re­min­ded me what a hor­rib­le per­son I was. It sud­denly hit me that I was just li­ke my mom-a che­ater. A lying, filthy che­ater too stu­pid to think abo­ut how many li­ves I co­uld screw up with just one kiss.

  “I’m sorry, I just…” I pul­led away and bu­ri­ed my fa­ce in my hands. I co­uldn’t stand to lo­ok at him right now. It wasn’t his fa­ult, but that didn’t ma­ke it any easi­er. “I’m aw­ful. I can’t be­li­eve I-”

  “You just got so­me hor­rib­le news. You we­ren’t yo­ur­self,” he sa­id. “Once you talk to Et­han and let him know abo­ut yo­ur dad, he’ll un­ders­tand this was an ac­ci­dent. A re­ac­ti­on to stress or a mo­ment of in­sa­nity or-”

  “But it wasn’t,” I whis­pe­red, using my sle­eve to cle­an up my fa­ce. Gross, but bet­ter messy sle­eve than messy no­se. “I wan­ted to kiss you.”

  Cliff was si­lent for a se­cond. “No, you didn’t. Not re­al­ly.”

  “No… I think I-”

  “No. You didn’t.” Cliff’s vo­ice was way fir­mer than anyt­hing I’d ever he­ard from him be­fo­re. “This is my fa­ult. I sho­uld ha­ve told you.”

  “Sho­uld ha­ve told me what?”

  He sig­hed and sho­ved his glas­ses back up his no­se. “I ha­ven’t be­en co­ming to see you be­ca­use I ne­ed Set­tling or even be­ca­use I want to help. I me­an, I do want to help, but that’s not… It’s just… Man, this is har­der than I tho­ught.”

  “What’s har­der than you tho­ught?” I as­ked, kno­wing I wasn’t go­ing to li­ke what Cliff had to say. God, I was sick of ever­yo­ne hi­ding things from me! “Tell me!”

  “I-I’ve be­en fe­eding on you. I ha­ve to fe­ed on you or I’ll-”

  “Fe­eding on me?”

  “On yo­ur energy. Sort of li­ke a bat­tery?” He blus­hed bright red, cle­arly as em­bar­ras­sed as I was ske­eved. “Yo­ur po­wer is what’s ke­eping me out of my gra­ve, what’s ma­king me strong so I can help you. It’s con­nec­ting us, which might ma­ke you fe­el… I me­an, it’s cer­ta­inly ma­de me fe­el… Tho­ugh I think I wo­uld ha­ve felt that any­way be­ca­use I just think you’re-”

  “You’ve be­en lying to me.” I felt so­met­hing de­ep in­si­de me fre­eze over. “This who­le ti­me.”

  “No! Not at first. I didn’t know at first, but then I had that vi­si­on last night. Mo­re li­ke a vi­si­ta­ti­on re­al­ly. It was li­ke not­hing I’ve ever-”

  “Gre­at. Cong­ra­tu­la­ti­ons.” I spun on my ska­te and he­aded back to­ward the ice, ne­eding to be far away from Cliff and the diz­zi­ness and gu­ilt and an­ger he ins­pi­red.

  “Me­gan, co­me back. We ha­ve to get down to the ri­ver. In my vi­si­on, I saw-”

  “I don’t ca­re,” I tos­sed over my sho­ul­der. “You’re a li­ar!”

  Le­aves crunc­hed un­der Cliff’s fe­et as he ran af­ter me. “Not abo­ut this. I swe­ar! And I swe­ar I’ll tell you everyt­hing, I just-” I he­ard Cliff cry out and tur­ned in ti­me to see his eye­lids flut­te­ring and his eyes roll back in his he­ad.

  “Cliff?” He gro­aned as he fell to his kne­es, clutc­hing at his he­ad. “Are you okay?”

  “Run, Me­gan. Get to the ri­ver. You ha­ve to get to the ri­ver. They’re co­ming. To­night. They’re-”

  “Who’s co­ming?”

  “They’re not li­ke the ot­hers. But if they ri­se… You ha­ve to go. Don’t let them stop you, don’t-” He cri­ed out and fell the rest of the way to the gro­und, top­pling in­to the fresh snow.

  “Cliff?” I squ­at­ted down and pres­sed a hand to his che­ek. He was bur­ning up, and when I to­uc­hed him flinc­hed li­ke he was in pa­in.

  “Ha­beo are tran­sit.”

  “What?”

  “Ha­beo are tran­sit. It’s a spell you ha­ve to re­mem­ber. Ho­pe­ful­ly we won’t ne­ed it but-”

  “What the heck? Now you’re so­me sort of ma­gi­cal ex­pert?”

  “No, but I’ve be­en he­aring tho­se words in my he­ad sin­ce that day we went for a walk out­si­de yo­ur ho­use, and now I know what they me­an,” he sa­id, the in­ten­sity in his eyes sca­ring me a lit­tle. “It’s a spell, and it’s the way you’ll be ab­le to get the one he­art you ne­ed if-”

  “One he­art?” The words ma­de me shi­ver.

  “If the­se zom­bi­es ri­se to­night, you’re go­ing to ne­ed a he­art to put them back in the gro­und. I’m not su­re how you’re go­ing to-”

  “A he­art? Gre­at.” I rol­led my eyes and bac­ked away. “God, Cliff, that’s ba­si­cal­ly black ma­gic. Mes­sing aro­und with blo­od and in­ter­nal or­gans and stuff? You’ve got to get a spe­ci­al per­mit to get anyt­hing li­ke that and then dri­ve up to this SA-appro­ved sla­ugh­ter­ho­use in Mis­so­uri to-”

  “Not an ani­mal he­art, a hu­man he­art.”

  “Shit.” I sho­ok my he­ad, fe­eling sick just thin­king abo­ut what he was sa­ying. Hu­man sac­ri­fi­ce. That was black ma­gic-mid­night black-even if you got the he­art from so­me­one who was al­re­ady de­ad. “No fre­aking way.”

  “I’m sorry. I sho­uld ha­ve told you so­oner and let you get used to the idea,” he sa­id.

  “I’m ne­ver go­ing to get used to the idea be­ca­use-” I bro­ke off, so­met­hing on the wind de­man­ding my at­ten­ti­on.

  “You’ve got to-”

  “Wa­it a se­cond.” I tur­ned, al­re­ady pra­ying I wasn’t smel­ling what I tho­ught I was smel­ling. But it was the­re, the scent of gra­ve dirt and rot­ted corp­se, ming­ling with the smell of fun­nel ca­kes frying in the fo­od tents.

  Zom­bi­es. Re­al zom­bi­es-not the co­ma kind this ti­me-and they we­re hel­la clo­se, if the fa­int gro­ans we­re any in­di­ca­ti­on.

  “I ha­ve to go.”

  “No! You can’t fight them!”

  “Well, I’m not go­ing to fe­ed them a hu­man he­art.”

  “They’re not the zom­bi­es you ha­ve to worry abo­ut!” Cliff yel­led af­ter me, but I ig­no­red him, hur­rying to­ward the ice as fast as my clumsy fe­et wo­uld carry me. “You ha­ve to get down to the ri­ver, by the brid­ge! The­re’s no ti­me to was­te.”

  I stumb­led over a fal­len tree and hit the gro­und, but was up aga­in a se­cond la­ter. Cliff was right, the­re was no ti­me to was­te. Scre­ams sud­denly so­un­ded from the ice-raw, ter­ri­fi­ed scre­ams.

  “No, Me­gan. Don’t fight them,” Cliff cal­led af­ter me.

  Sorry, Cliff, but I co­uldn’t le­ave over a do­zen pe­op­le vul­ne­rab­le to zom­bie at­tack.

  I burst on­to the ice so fast I ne­arly fell down aga­in, but ma­na­ged to re­ga­
in my ba­lan­ce in ti­me to gli­de to the left, get­ting out of the path of a co­up­le of CHS kids who we­re run­ning scre­aming from the ice. Be­hind them, I ca­ught a glimp­se of the un­holy heck that had bro­ken lo­ose in the past few mi­nu­tes.

  The ice that was on­ce cle­an and un­mar­ked ex­cept for the tracks ma­de by a few eager ska­ters was al­re­ady spat­te­red with blo­od. Two patc­hes of crim­son sta­ined the pond, hor­ri­fic ro­ses blo­oming lar­ger and lar­ger as the zom­bi­es rip­ped in­to the­ir vic­tims. They we­re re­al zom­bi­es this ti­me, do­zens of them. The­ir eyes glo­wed red, pus drip­ped from the ed­ges of the­ir mo­uths, and the stench of rot­ted flesh fil­led the air, ming­ling with the scent of hot dogs, ma­king gor­ge ri­se in my thro­at.

  But the­re was no ti­me for yac­king or pe­op­le we­re go­ing to die. Aga­in.

  Thank­ful­ly, my Set­tlers’ Af­fa­irs ta­il was al­re­ady out of her car and on the job, pax fra­ter cor­pus-ing one of the two zom­bi­es who had ma­na­ged to get its mo­uth in­to li­ving flesh. Kitty’s tiny hands flas­hed as she struck the fe­ral corp­se with her sil­ver kni­fe and chan­ted the words that wo­uld put it down and ke­ep it down un­til a Pro­to­col te­am co­uld co­me re­mo­ve the body.

  “Me­gan! Get the ot­her one, whi­le I call for bac­kup!” she scre­amed as she pul­led her cell from her back poc­ket. I nod­ded and tur­ned to­ward the ot­her RC, a part of me ela­ted to see that Kitty still had so­me fa­ith in me.

  Re­fu­sing to think abo­ut the uni­que chal­len­ges of ta­king down the Un­de­ad on ice, or my epic klut­zi­ness, I ra­ced to­ward the ot­her RC. It was a she, jud­ging by the rem­nants of her dress, but she’d long ago lost most of her flesh. The fa­ce that snap­ped up to growl at me as I in­ter­rup­ted her fe­ast was ske­le­tal, with only a few le­at­hery flaps of skin clin­ging to che­ek and jaw bo­nes.

  “Help me! Help!” The man be­ne­ath her scre­amed and clutc­hed at his right thigh, which al­re­ady spor­ted a hu­ge ho­le.

  “Pax fra­ter cor­pus, po­tes­ta­tum spi­ri­tu­um!” The mo­men­tum from my punch car­ri­ed me over the RC I’d just whac­ked in the fa­ce and sent me spin­ning out of cont­rol a few fe­et away-Kris­ti Ya­ma­guc­hi I ob­vi­o­usly was not, but it got the job do­ne.

  By the ti­me I ste­adi­ed myself, the zom­bie was sac­ked out, lo­oking as de­ad as she truly was. Ac­ross the ice, Kitty was off the pho­ne and he­aded to­ward anot­her patch of zom­bi­es. Ho­pe­ful­ly that me­ant bac­kup wasn’t too far away, and Pro­to­col of­fi­cers wo­uld be he­re so­on to snatch both the corp­ses we’d put down and ta­ke them away. I co­uldn’t ta­ke the ti­me to dis­po­se of the bo­di­es myself. The­re wasn’t even ti­me to help the man my RC had ne­arly ma­de a snack of, ot­her than to ur­ge him to apply di­rect pres­su­re to his wo­und whi­le he wa­ited for the pa­ra­me­dics be­fo­re ra­cing away.

  The­re we­re too many of the Un­de­ad for Kitty to hand­le alo­ne. Do­zens al­re­ady co­ve­red the ice, and do­zens mo­re po­ured from the wo­ods, shuf­fling re­lent­les­sly to­ward the few comp­le­tely fre­aked-out li­ving still trying to flee to­ward the par­king lot. The only bright spot was that most of the ska­ters had es­ca­ped, and the che­er­le­aders and pom squ­ad had al­so va­ca­ted the pre­mi­ses, so the­re we­re very few hu­man eyes to ob­ser­ve as I com­men­ced kic­king zom­bie ta­il.

  “Inmun­do­rum ut eice­rent eos et cu­ra­rent,” I chan­ted, con­ti­nu­ing the pax fra­ter spell as I cut a qu­ick di­ago­nal ac­ross the pond, whac­king a zom­bie on my left and a co­up­le on my right as I went.

  No mat­ter how dis­tur­bing its ori­gins, at the mo­ment I was thank­ful for my su­per-Set­tling po­wer. Any ot­her Set­tler wo­uld ha­ve had to spe­ak the en­ti­re spell to di­sab­le one zom­bie and pi­er­ce the Un­de­ad’s flesh with so­met­hing me­tal­lic whi­le they we­re at it, ma­king the pro­cess both te­di­o­us and dan­ge­ro­us. But all I ne­eded was a snip­pet of the spell, tightly fo­cu­sed energy, and a mo­ment of for­ce­ful physi­cal con­nec­ti­on-aka a me­an right ho­ok or a well-pla­ced kick-to ta­ke out my tar­get.

  “Omnem lan­gu­orem et om­nem in­fir­mi­ta­tem!” I was fi­nis­hing with a co­up­le of ma­le zom­bi­es when I ca­ught a glimp­se of Et­han and Mo­ni­ca.

  Ethan! He was still he­re, and in dan­ger. I had to get over and help him, to ma­ke su­re we had the chan­ce to ma­ke up be­fo­re eit­her one of us di­ed. Not so­met­hing nor­mal co­up­les had to worry abo­ut, but we we­re far from nor­mal-the past few days had pro­ved that to me in a way even the mess in Sep­tem­ber hadn’t.

  He and Mo­ni­ca we­re stan­ding back-to-back pax fra­ter-ing a crowd of Un­de­ad who had cor­ne­red them on the far end of the ice. The­re we­re two or three zom­bie as­ses to kick on the way over to the­ir si­de of the pond, but the lar­gest con­cent­ra­ti­on of RCs se­emed to be co­ming from the wo­ods be­hind them. Rol­ling Me­adows Ce­me­tery was less than a half a mi­le on the ot­her si­de. That had to be whe­re our black ar­tist had ra­ised the­se corp­ses.

  “Me­gan! The ska­te ren­tal! The­re we­re kids in the­re.” Mo­ni­ca ca­ught my eye as I mo­ved to­ward them. She po­in­ted fran­ti­cal­ly to­ward the ska­te-ren­tal tent be­fo­re tur­ning back to the zom­bi­es.

  Exe­cu­ting a one-eighty that wo­uld ha­ve ma­de the Ice Ca­pa­des pro­ud, I ska­ted back in the di­rec­ti­on I’d co­me. I ha­ted to le­ave Et­han and Mo­ni­ca, but Kitty was he­aded the­ir way and the­re we­re mo­re SA of­fi­ci­als run­ning in from the par­king area. They co­uld de­fi­ni­tely hold the­ir own, and my uni­que ta­lents we­re pro­bably bet­ter for figh­ting in clo­se qu­ar­ters. I might ha­ve the best chan­ce of get­ting the kids out un­har­med.

  Just ima­gi­ning zom­bi­es fe­as­ting on pe­op­le too lit­tle to even think of de­fen­ding them­sel­ves had my he­art ra­cing trip­le-ti­me as I ran off the ice and awk­wardly trot­ted the few fe­et to the ent­ran­ce of the tent.

  “Oh shit.” The cuss word es­ca­ped be­fo­re I re­ali­zed I was in the pre­sen­ce of child­ren and sho­uld pro­bably watch my lan­gu­age. But then aga­in, the­se boys and girls we­re be­ing ex­po­sed to so­met­hing a who­le lot wor­se than my potty mo­uth.

  Three zom­bi­es had com­man­ded cont­rol of the tent, cor­ne­ring fi­ve kids and Pen­ny-who had vo­lun­te­ered for ska­te-ren­tal duty to avo­id the ner­ve-rac­king ex­pe­ri­en­ce of sel­ling co­up­les’ ska­te tic­kets. Penny was fen­ding them off with a pa­ir of ska­tes tur­ned aro­und bla­de-first, but she was well on her way to be­ing overw­hel­med. The two ol­der boys we­re trying to jo­in the fight, but they co­uldn’t ha­ve be­en mo­re than ten or ele­ven and we­re no match for the su­per­na­tu­ral strength of fully grown zom­bi­es.

  The only thing that had sa­ved them-or the three lit­tle kids co­we­ring be­ne­ath the benc­hes whe­re they had be­en trying on ska­tes be­fo­re the Un­de­ad des­cen­ded-was that Penny was the one ble­eding. RCs we­re usu­al­ly ra­ised with a spe­ci­fic tar­get in mind but we­re easily dist­rac­ted by the energy emit­ted by blo­od, and Penny was pro­vi­ding plenty of that. Crim­son stre­amed down her pa­le, freck­led fa­ce from a go­uge in her scalp. It didn’t lo­ok li­ke a zom­bie bi­te, so she must ha­ve be­en inj­ured so­me ot­her way.

  Not that it mat­te­red-the zom­bi­es wo­uld still fi­nish her off if I co­uldn’t get them away from her. Fast.

  “Penny, this way! Run to me!” We ne­eded to get the zom­bi­es away from the kids, and I ne­eded the zom­bi­es out of that crow­ded cor­ner if I was go­ing to ma­ke su­re I to­ok ca­re of all three of them be­fo­re they to­ok ca­re of me.

  “Me­gan!” Penny’s wi­de, fran­tic eyes dar­ted to mi­ne, re­li­ef and ter­ror ming­ling on her fa­ce. “Oh God,
ple­ase, go get help!”

  “Help us,” the boy next to her yel­led, his words tur­ning in­to a hor­ri­fi­ed scre­am as he ba­rely def­lec­ted a lun­ging zom­bie with the ska­te in his hand.

  “Ma­ma! Ma­ma!” The lit­tle girl un­der the bench wasn’t the only one wa­iling for her mot­her, but she was de­fi­ni­tely the lo­udest. She was ma­king so much no­ise I had to scre­am to be he­ard.

  “Co­me on, Penny, run to me!”

  “I can’t,” she mo­aned, scre­aming aga­in as the zom­bie di­rectly in front of her got one hand aro­und her arm and le­aned to­ward her fa­ce.

  She whac­ked him with the ska­te in her ot­her hand, slam­ming it in­to his fa­ce aga­in and aga­in with a strength I hadn’t known she pos­ses­sed, but it wasn’t go­ing to be eno­ugh. The ot­hers we­re clo­sing in, and run­ning was no lon­ger an op­ti­on.

  I ran to­ward them, scrol­ling thro­ugh my op­ti­ons as I went. I co­uldn’t work the exu­ro spell and risk bur­ning ever­yo­ne ali­ve. I wasn’t even su­re it was sa­fe to in­vo­ke the re­ver­to com­mand-assu­ming it might work with so many zom­bi­es ra­ised at on­ce-in such clo­se qu­ar­ters. Penny or one of the kids wo­uld de­fi­ni­tely get in the path of the spell, and I didn’t know what that wo­uld do to hu­man flesh.

  Alle­gedly, Set­tler ma­gic do­esn’t ha­ve much ef­fect upon hu­mans asi­de from a slight stin­ging sen­sa­ti­on, but my po­wers we­ren’t of the ave­ra­ge Set­tler va­ri­ety. I had a fre­aky vi­rus and had to be ca­re­ful. I co­uldn’t risk elect­ro­cu­ting the pe­op­le I was trying to sa­ve. The pax fra­ter re­qu­ired di­rect con­tact with the RC, so I sup­po­sed it was my best cho­ice. I’d just ha­ve to be su­re not to to­uch anyt­hing but the zom­bi­es.

  Unfor­tu­na­tely, I co­uldn’t re­al­ly cont­rol who to­uc­hed me.

  I hadn’t ma­de it clo­se eno­ugh for the punch I was thro­wing to con­nect with the ne­arest zom­bie when the lit­tle girl wa­iling for her mot­her dar­ted from be­ne­ath the bench, la­unc­hing her­self at my legs.

 

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