Undead Much

by Stacey Jay

  “Pax fra­ter cor-” I swal­lo­wed the spell as fast as I co­uld, suc­king my po­wer back in­si­de myself, but it was too la­te.

  One se­cond, pudgy lit­tle three- or fo­ur-ye­ar-old hands we­re latc­hed on­to my thigh; the next, the lit­tle girl was scre­aming. I saw smo­ke ri­sing from her tiny red palms and re­ac­hed for her, so­me part of me ins­tinc­ti­vely wan­ting to of­fer com­fort. But she skit­te­red away, craw­ling ac­ross the flo­or, the lo­ok in her wi­de brown eyes ma­king it cle­ar I was as much a mons­ter as the slob­bery rot­ten things be­hind me.

  The lo­ok wo­uld ha­ve be­en suf­fi­ci­ently crus­hing on its own, but a se­cond la­ter it got a who­le lot of help from the SA of­fi­cer at the ent­ran­ce to the tent.

  “You’re co­ming with me, Berry,” Smythe sa­id, the an­ger twis­ting his fe­atu­res ma­king it cle­ar he tho­ught I’d hurt the lit­tle girl on pur­po­se. “I’ll be back for you in two mi­nu­tes.”

  “Just get the kids out,” I yel­led, kic­king a zom­bie away from Penny as Smythe gat­he­red the lit­tlest kids from be­ne­ath the bench and hust­led them out the way he’d co­me.

  “I’ll be back,” he sa­id, chan­ne­ling the Ter­mi­na­tor in true Smythe fas­hi­on.

  I tur­ned back to the Un­de­ad, de­ter­mi­ned not to think abo­ut this la­test inj­us­ti­ce, and slam­med my fist in­to the clo­sest zom­bie. “Pax fra­ter crrpp-” This ti­me my words we­re cut off by a thick hand over my mo­uth.

  If I co­uldn’t spe­ak, I co­uldn’t cast, which me­ant I was just abo­ut as help­less aga­inst the fre­akishly strong Un­de­ad as any six­te­en-ye­ar-old girl. Whet­her the zom­bie be­hind me so­me­how knew that-do­ubt­ful, sin­ce it was yo­ur ave­ra­ge dro­oly flesh-eater-or it was just dumb luck that its hand had con­nec­ted with my mo­uth, I co­uldn’t say.

  All I co­uld do was scre­am and strug­gle as te­eth to­re in­to my sho­ul­der. It was the sa­me sho­ul­der whe­re I al­re­ady spor­ted a zom­bie bi­te scar from when I was ten. Now it just re­ma­ined to be se­en whet­her I’d li­ve to add anot­her scar to my col­lec­ti­on or ble­ed out right he­re in the ska­te tent, ta­ken out by three me­asly RCs. I’d kic­ked the ta­il of at le­ast fo­ur ti­mes this many at on­ce in the past, but I gu­ess that old sa­ying is true-it only ta­kes one.

  Whi­te-hot pa­in, sharp and fi­er­ce, cut thro­ugh my body, sho­oting thro­ugh my ner­ve en­dings un­til I was on agony over­lo­ad. Te­ars le­aked from my eyes and my kne­es buck­led as I fell to the gro­und, my strug­gles gro­wing we­aker as the zom­bie’s te­eth to­re de­eper in­to my skin, get­ting clo­ser to the bo­ne.

  Crap, it hurt so bad. Whe­re was Smythe? Hadn’t he got­ten the three lit­tle ones so­mew­he­re sa­fe by now? Wasn’t he co­ming back for me? Or was he just go­ing to let me and Penny and the two ol­der boys die, the­re­fo­re avo­iding re­lo­ca­ti­on and ta­king ca­re of the “Wic­ked Me­gan” prob­lem in one fell swo­op?

  I scre­amed aro­und the hand over my mo­uth as the zom­bie sho­ok its he­ad back and forth li­ke a dog with a hunk of ste­ak. Sud­denly I co­uldn’t think, I co­uldn’t plan-all I co­uld do was fe­el and pray word­les­sly not to fe­el any­mo­re. The pa­in had to stop-it just had to. I wo­uld do anyt­hing to ma­ke it stop, anyt­hing to-

  “Me­gan, lie down!” It was a ma­le vo­ice. It must ha­ve be­en Smythe, even tho­ugh it didn’t so­und li­ke him. “Lie down now or you’re go­ing to die! Do it! Lie down!”

  I did as I was told, fal­ling flat, brin­ging the zom­bie on my sho­ul­der along for the ri­de. Se­conds la­ter the air fil­led with a whir­ring so­und and bits of flying flesh and bo­ne. I squ­e­ezed my eyes clo­sed and held as still as I co­uld, re­ali­zing my li­fe was in Smythe’s hands. If he didn’t pull away in ti­me, wha­te­ver they we­re using to chop the zom­bie off my sho­ul­der wo­uld chop my he­ad off as well.

  CHAPTER 19

  Strong hands ap­pe­ared. The zom­bie on top of me was go­ne. The whir­ring so­und gro­und to a halt and so­me sort of san­ding mac­hi­ne fell to the gro­und be­si­de me.

  “Ska­te shar­pe­ner,” I gro­aned, as­ses­sing the da­ma­ge to my sho­ul­der and de­ci­ding I wo­uld li­ve. “Go­od call.”

  “God, Me­gan, are you okay?” Penny drop­ped to her kne­es and clutc­hed at my hand. Te­ars still sta­ined her fa­ce, but the only snif­fling was co­ming from be­hind me. One of the two boys still in the tent was crying a lit­tle, but no one was scre­aming any­mo­re. Smythe must ha­ve ta­ken ca­re of the ot­her two zom­bi­es as well.

  “Co­me on, get up, we ha­ve to get out of he­re,” the ma­le vo­ice sa­id, but it wasn’t Smythe who­se fa­ce ap­pe­ared or Smythe’s hands that slid un­der my arm­pits, ha­uling me to my fe­et. It was Aaron, his fa­ce splat­te­red with red from whe­re he’d used the ska­te shar­pe­ner to ta­ke out the three zom­bi­es.

  I cri­ed out as pa­in shot thro­ugh my sho­ul­der aga­in, but did my best to help him. He was right-we had to get out of he­re. Or at le­ast they had to get out of he­re. I had to stay and ma­ke su­re the rest of the RCs we­re con­ta­ined.

  “You okay? Can you walk?” Aaron as­ked.

  “Ye­ah, I ha­ve to go. I ha­ve to find Mo­ni­ca and-”

  “No, you ha­ve to co­me with me. The par­king lot is full of all the­se ran­dom pe­op­le and I he­ard two big guys sa­ying they we­re co­ming for you.”

  Crap. The rest of Set­tlers’ Af­fa­irs must ha­ve ar­ri­ved and Smythe must ha­ve al­re­ady told them I was a tod­dler bur­ner! Now they’d ar­rest me and I’d ne­ver ma­ke it down to the ri­ver to check out the Su­per Very Bad Thing Cliff had war­ned me abo­ut.

  I pe­eked out of the ent­ran­ce to the tent to see Smythe and se­ve­ral Pro­to­col of­fi­cers bat­tling a clutch of RCs, but it wasn’t go­ing well. They se­emed… we­aker than I’d ever se­en them be­fo­re. The­ir spells we­ren’t pac­king the sa­me punch and ne­it­her we­re the­ir at­tacks. Be­ing ob­ser­ved by even the few do­zen pe­op­le who had se­en Set­tlers in ac­ti­on to­night must ha­ve ta­ken its toll. It was a chil­ling tho­ught that bro­ught ho­me just how much the­re was to lo­se if I didn’t fi­gu­re out who was re­al­ly res­pon­sib­le for all the­se at­tacks.

  “Aaron, we ne­ed to get to yo­ur car,” I sa­id, not re­lis­hing the idea of en­lis­ting Aaron’s help, but at the mo­ment he was my only ava­ilab­le ally. At le­ast, the only one with trans­por­ta­ti­on. “Unob­ser­ved by all tho­se pe­op­le out the­re if we can ma­ke it hap­pen.”

  “I’ve got so­met­hing even bet­ter. The che­er van is par­ked in a cle­aring on the ot­her si­de of the pond, and I’ve got the keys.” He grab­bed my hand and tur­ned back to Penny. “He­re Pen, ta­ke the keys to my car. You and the kids get in­si­de and lock the do­ors.”

  “But I don’t ha­ve a li­cen­se. I don’t even ha­ve a le­ar­ner’s per­mit,” she sa­id, her pa­le fa­ce gro­wing even pa­ler.

  “You don’t ha­ve to dri­ve-just get the kids in the car and lock the do­ors.”

  “But I-”

  “Don’t worry. The po­li­ce sho­uld be he­re so­on,” Aaron sa­id, be­fo­re she co­uld stress any furt­her. “I he­ard si­rens just a few se­conds be­fo­re I ca­me in he­re. Go ahe­ad, go.” He pus­hed the keys in­to her hand and her­ded her and the kids to the ent­ran­ce to the tent, whe­re he pe­eked out to ma­ke su­re the co­ast was cle­ar. “Okay, go, run!”

  “But what abo­ut you guys?”

  “Go, Penny, we’ll be fi­ne,” I sa­id, ma­king sho­o­ing mo­ti­ons with my hands.

  “Just be ca­re­ful, Me­gan. You too, Aaron,” she sa­id, then tur­ned and ran for it, the two kids tra­iling af­ter her as she ma­de a be­eli­ne for the par­king lot. Thank­ful­ly, the­re we­re plenty of Set­tlers cont­rol­ling the Un�
�de­ad in the di­rec­ti­on they we­re he­aded.

  The en­ti­re par­king lot was swar­ming with SA and Pro­to­col of­fi­cers, and I was bet­ting the si­ren Aaron had he­ard was our SA plant on the Ca­rol po­li­ce for­ce. With so­met­hing this big, every Set­tler in Ca­rol wo­uld be do­ing the­ir dam­ne­dest not to let re­al cops on the sce­ne un­til they had the si­tu­ati­on un­der cont­rol. The sa­fety of the world de­pen­ded on it, and too many pe­op­le had al­re­ady se­en the­se OOGPs. We ne­eded to con­ta­in the si­tu­ati­on and get su­per busy with a de­cent co­ver-up stra­tegy.

  Ho­pe­ful­ly the El­ders wo­uld be up to the chal­len­ge, tho­ugh the­ir be­ha­vi­or la­tely cer­ta­inly hadn’t en­co­ura­ged a lot of con­fi­den­ce on my part. That was why I had to ma­ke su­re I got down to the ri­ver to hand­le wha­te­ver it was Cliff had se­en. I no lon­ger trus­ted SA as far as I co­uld throw El­der Tho­mas with a bum sho­ul­der.

  “Co­me on, let’s go.” I he­aded out and aro­und the tent be­fo­re Aaron co­uld reply, ma­king it cle­ar he was along for the ri­de not the ot­her way aro­und. I wasn’t abo­ut to tell him abo­ut my zom­bie-sla­ying qu­ali­fi­ca­ti­ons, but it wo­uld be best if he got the mes­sa­ge I was in char­ge.

  I tod­dled to­ward the ice, my ska­tes ma­king land wal­king far less spe­edy than I wo­uld ha­ve li­ked. Kitty, Mo­ni­ca, and Et­han we­re still half­way ac­ross the pond in the he­at of bat­tle, but I co­uldn’t stop to help them. I had to get out of he­re be­fo­re Smythe or an­yo­ne el­se co­uld ta­ke me in­to cus­tody.

  “God, tho­se fre­aks are scary,” Aaron sa­id as we hur­ri­ed to­ward the cle­aring whe­re he’d sa­id the van was par­ked. For so­me re­ason, tho­ugh, he didn’t so­und that sca­red. May­be he was just too pig­he­aded to un­ders­tand the re­al thre­at. He was pro­bably still bu­ying the “cult mem­bers on drugs” story the Set­tler on the po­li­ce for­ce had spre­ad the pre­vi­o­us night. I me­an, if he we­ren’t den­ser than so­lid rock, he su­rely wo­uld ha­ve got­ten the hint that I wasn’t in­to him by now, but no such luck. He still in­sis­ted on clin­ging to my hand as we ran.

  I fol­lo­wed him down a nar­row path and out in­to the cle­aring whe­re the big gold and black che­er van was sit­ting a few fe­et away from the ge­ne­ra­tors. The thing was enor­mo­us and cer­ta­inly ca­pab­le of fit­ting the do­zen mem­bers of the che­er­le­ading squ­ad plus one dan­ce te­am gu­est. So it ma­de me won­der… why we­ren’t any of the che­er­le­aders in the van?

  “God, Aaron, whe­re we­re you?” Da­na fis­ted her hands on her hips.

  “Ye­ah, we’ve be­en wa­iting for li­ke, fo­re­ver,” Ka­te sa­id.

  “I got a lit­tle ti­ed up in the ska­te tent, but we’re co­ol. Let’s get in­si­de,” Aaron sa­id, as si­rens so­un­ded in the dis­tan­ce.

  “Aaron’s right, I think we sho­uld get out of he­re,” I sa­id, trying to think of a go­od ex­cu­se to con­vin­ce the che­er­le­aders to dri­ve me in­to Lit­tle Rock. “Pro­bably so­mew­he­re far away, ac­ross the ri­ver. Just in ca­se tho­se… um… cult mem­bers co­me back.”

  “You me­an the zom­bi­es?” Lee Chin rol­led her eyes be­fo­re hur­rying to­ward the dri­ver’s-si­de do­or of the van.

  Oh. Crap. They knew the RCs we­re zom­bi­es?

  “Stu­pid zom­bi­es,” a girl who­se na­me I didn’t re­mem­ber pi­ped up. She was co­ve­red in bi­te marks and spor­ting a very un-perky exp­res­si­on. “This was a la­me idea.”

  “This is go­ing to ma­ke su­re we ha­ve the ti­me we ne­ed.” Aaron’s hand tigh­te­ned aro­und my wrist. “Be­si­des, I told you we might get bit­ten if we wor­ked that one spell. No one sa­id this wo­uld be easy.”

  “No one sa­id you had to ra­ise so many, eit­her, Aaron. You so over­did it.”

  “You did this? You-Ah!” My qu­es­ti­on tur­ned in­to a scre­am as Aaron spun me in­to him and loc­ked his arms aro­und my tor­so. An exp­lo­si­on of agony rip­ped thro­ugh my wo­un­ded sho­ul­der as he lif­ted me and clim­bed in­to the back of the van.

  “I didn’t over­do it,” he sa­id. “The­re are just eno­ugh to ca­use the dist­rac­ti­on we ne­ed.”

  “This isn’t a dist­rac­ti­on,” Kim­berly whi­ned. “This is a-”

  “Just get in the van,” Da­na sa­id.

  Aaron plop­ped on­to one of the pad­ded benc­hes on the right si­de, for­cing me to sit on his lap, whi­le the rest of the squ­ad cla­imed se­ats on the bench fa­cing us or in the two rows of front-fa­cing se­ats at the he­ad of the van. The do­ors slam­med shut and Lee Chin gun­ned the ve­hic­le to li­fe.

  I was abo­ut ten se­conds away from be­ing kid­nap­ped by a bunch of zom­bie-ra­ising che­er­le­aders. God! And to think Et­han and I had la­ug­hed at the very pos­si­bi­lity a few days ago. Even sta­ring them in the­ir perky yet evil fa­ces, it was still hard to swal­low.

  It was so sur­re­al, in fact, that we we­re pul­ling out of the cle­aring and on­to the ro­ad be­fo­re my lips re­mem­be­red how to form words.

  “You’ve got to let me out,” I sa­id, fe­ar set­tling in as the re­ality of what was hap­pe­ning struck full for­ce. “I work with tho­se pe­op­le figh­ting the zom­bi­es. They’re go­ing to co­me lo­oking for me, and you’re not go­ing to li­ke what hap­pens to you when they le­arn what you’ve do­ne.”

  Kim­berly and Ka­te, se­ated di­rectly ac­ross from us, snic­ke­red.

  “I’m se­ri­o­us. You ha­ve no idea what you’re-”

  “We’re not sca­red of Set­tlers’ Af­fa­irs. We’ve got mo­re po­wer­ful pe­op­le on our si­de,” Da­na sa­id in this calm, easy vo­ice that ma­de it cle­ar she be­li­eved what she was sa­ying. I, for one, was too shoc­ked to form a qu­ick re­but­tal.

  How did she know abo­ut Set­tlers’ Af­fa­irs? We we­re a top-sec­ret or­ga­ni­za­ti­on, for God’s sa­ke! We’d ope­ra­ted un­der the ra­dar for hund­reds of ye­ars, sin­ce the be­gin­ning of hu­man ci­vi­li­za­ti­on. World le­aders we­re still clu­eless as to our exis­ten­ce, so how in the heck had a bunch of ble­ac­hed-blond Step­ford wan­na­bes got­ten the me­mo? This so pro­ved that SA was to­tal­ly suc­king at the­ir job. If they we­re half as with-it as they tho­ught they we­re, this ne­ver wo­uld ha­ve hap­pe­ned.

  “Lis­ten,” I sa­id in my most re­aso­nab­le to­ne as Lee Chin pul­led down the ramp le­ading to the high­way he­ading to­ward Lit­tle Rock. A se­cond ago her cho­ice of di­rec­ti­on wo­uld ha­ve thril­led me, but that was be­fo­re get­ting away from the evil che­er­le­aders be­ca­me my new first pri­ority. “I don’t know who you’ve got on yo­ur si­de, but I-”

  “Ye­ah, you do, Me­gan.” Aaron ga­ve me a lit­tle squ­e­eze that might ha­ve be­en cal­led af­fec­ti­ona­te if I we­ren’t his cap­ti­ve and it hadn’t dis­tur­bed the ra­va­ged skin ne­ar my sho­ul­der. “You and Jess used to be BFFs. Or ha­ve you for­got­ten?”

  “She cer­ta­inly hasn’t for­got­ten you,” Da­na ad­ded with a smug grin.

  “Jess?” I as­ked, unab­le to be­li­eve what I was he­aring. This co­uldn’t be hap­pe­ning. The Jess night­ma­re was over, had be­en for months. “But she’s in pri­son.”

  “Not for long.” I he­ard the smi­le in Aaron’s vo­ice and was temp­ted to slam my he­ad back in­to his no­se, but for­ced myself to hold still. I was only go­ing to ha­ve one chan­ce to put up a fight. I had to ma­ke su­re my ti­ming was right. “We’re get­ting her out to­night.”

  “If Aaron hasn’t scre­wed everyt­hing up,” the girl with all the bi­te marks sa­id.

  “Shut up, Fe­li­city.” Aaron’s arms tigh­te­ned aro­und me, ma­king me win­ce. “This was a te­am ef­fort last ti­me I chec­ked.”

  “You shut up.” Fe­li­city’s eyes nar­ro­wed in A
aron’s di­rec­ti­on. “You’re the only one who co­uld ra­ise the li­ving ones, and you scre­wed it up. Twi­ce. Then you had all day to kid­nap her, but co­uldn’t get it do­ne, even tho­ugh you had her in yo­ur fre­aking car this mor­ning.”

  “We we­re be­ing fol­lo­wed. I co­uldn’t just-”

  “So if we fa­il, it’s go­ing to be all yo­ur fa­ult.”

  “We won’t fa­il,” Aaron whis­pe­red, his to­ne cold eno­ugh to ma­ke me shi­ver. “We’ve got Me­gan and everyt­hing is go­ing to be fi­ne.”

  “But one of the li­ving ones was sup­po­sed to bi­te her, not one of the de­ad ones. And no one sa­id anyt­hing abo­ut kid­nap­ping,” Fe­li­city ar­gu­ed, whi­le I for­ced myself to stay qu­i­et and ab­sorb as much of the in­sa­nity as I co­uld.

  “It’s co­ol,” Kim­berly sa­id. “She’s not go­ing to be aro­und to tell an­yo­ne abo­ut it.”

  Well, the­re went any do­ubt abo­ut whet­her or not they plan­ned to kill me. This just kept get­ting bet­ter and bet­ter.

  “But we we­ren’t sup­po­sed to ha­ve to do this. One of the zom­bi­es was sup­po­sed to-”

  “It’s not too la­te,” Aaron sa­id. “Everyt­hing will be fi­ne.”

  “Oh ye­ah? We’re sup­po­sed to ra­ise the army at ten and it’s al­re­ady eight. How are-”

  “I’ll ta­ke ca­re of it,” Aaron snap­ped. “I’ve ma­de plans.”

  “How? You’re not go­ing to be ab­le to ma­ke it to a hos­pi­tal and-”

  “Shut up!” Aaron scre­amed so lo­ud half the girls in the car jum­ped. “I told you. I’ve. Ma­de. Plans.”

  “Aaron will ta­ke ca­re of it, Fe­li­city,” Da­na sa­id, her words se­eming to calm the en­ti­re van. She was a na­tu­ral le­ader, that one. Too bad she had to use her ta­lent for evil.

  I still wasn’t su­re what the­se fre­aks we­re up to, but the­re was no do­ubt it was bad news. That part abo­ut the “army” ri­sing at ten o’clock so­un­ded es­pe­ci­al­ly nasty. Jess had a his­tory of big, vi­olent ges­tu­res when it ca­me to wi­el­ding her black ma­gic, and it so­un­ded li­ke her ti­me in pri­son hadn’t mel­lo­wed her out a bit.