Undead Much

by Stacey Jay

  “Ha­beo are tran­sit,” I re­pe­ated, re­cog­ni­zing the spell he’d war­ned me we might ne­ed. I had no idea what spe­aking the words wo­uld do, but af­ter all the ti­mes he’d tri­ed to gu­ide me to the right path and I’d stub­bornly in­sis­ted on do­ing what I dam­ned well ple­ased, I owed him a lit­tle bit of fa­ith.

  Heck, I owed him a lot of fa­ith.

  So I re­pe­ated it aga­in, and aga­in, chan­ting with him even tho­ugh Aaron/Jess in­ten­si­fi­ed her ef­forts at my thro­at and I co­uld ba­rely for­ce the words out. I chan­ted un­til the zom­bi­es fal­ling to the­ir kne­es be­si­de me fa­ded from my awa­re­ness, un­til I co­uldn’t fe­el the cold of the hard, snowy gro­und or the he­at from the ne­arby fi­re or the pa­in from be­ing strang­led or my do­zen ot­her wo­unds, un­til I was so at pe­ace I co­uldn’t fe­el my body at all.

  In fact, I felt li­ke I was out­si­de myself lo­oking in, li­ke I was watc­hing the zom­bi­es be­gin to pi­le on top of me and Aaron/Jess from a few fe­et away, watc­hing from in­si­de… Cliff.

  Hurry, Me­gan! Now we can put them back.

  “Cliff?” I as­ked, but the words ca­me out all gurgly so­un­ding, be­ca­use I was ac­tu­al­ly using Cliff’s lips to talk ins­te­ad of my own.

  I wasn’t lo­sing it-I re­al­ly was in­si­de Cliff’s body, he­aring Cliff’s vo­ice in the he­ad we now sha­red. I co­uld fe­el Cliff ’s… Clif­fness, for lack of a bet­ter word, snug­gled clo­se be­si­de my me-ness, and it felt right. It felt li­ke I’d known his so­ul for ages, lon­ger than I’d be­en ali­ve, li­ke he was a part of me I’d misp­la­ced and fi­nal­ly got­ten back.

  If the­re had be­en ti­me, I’m su­re I wo­uld ha­ve spent a go­od ho­ur or two fre­aking out abo­ut how un­be­li­evably we­ird all of that was, but un­less I wan­ted to watch myself be eaten ali­ve, I had to do so­met­hing. Fast.

  Put them un­der!

  I can’t! I rep­li­ed, fin­ding it easi­er to com­mu­ni­ca­te with my tho­ughts than thro­ugh Cliff’s po­or ra­va­ged thro­at. They’ll just co­me right back up aga­in. The fre­ezing com­mand won’t do much eit­her. And I can’t work the re­ver­to spell be­ca­use my blo­od ra­ised them and my body re­al­ly do­esn’t ne­ed a few hund­red mo­re bi­te marks.

  Oh. God. A few hund­red. The­re re­al­ly we­re a few hun­d­red zom­bi­es burb­ling from the gro­und, cla­wing the­ir way free from the cold earth in­si­de the circ­le. Tho­se who didn’t lin­ger for a tas­te of Me­gan we­re spil­ling out on­to the snow-co­ve­red grass li­ke ants on a Hos­tess snow­ball snack ca­ke, in­tent on re­ac­hing down­town and the warm, be­ating he­arts of a tho­usand or mo­re Lit­tle Rock ci­ti­zens.

  Warm, be­ating he­arts. The­re are so many… but they only ne­ed one. Cliff ec­ho­ed my tho­ught in that fa­ra­way vo­ice he got when he was get­ting all “se­er” on me. One he­art. One hu­man he­art co­uld stop all this, and now I knew exactly whe­re we we­re go­ing to get it.

  We had sho­ved our­sel­ves to our fe­et and star­ted to­ward the pi­le of zom­bi­es swar­ming aro­und Aaron/Jess and my spi­rit­less body be­fo­re I co­uld cons­ci­o­usly ag­ree to the plan I saw for­ming in his mind, but that was okay.

  The­re was a re­ason Cliff didn’t go back to his gra­ve, and it wasn’t just to gu­ide me to whe­re I ne­eded to be to­night, or to fa­ce wha­te­ver Very Bad Thing was co­ming next. If I hadn’t re­ali­zed it be­fo­re, I cer­ta­inly did now. Cliff ga­ve me strength in the sa­me way that I ga­ve him the vi­tal energy he ne­eded to stay out of his gra­ve. I cer­ta­inly ne­ver wo­uld ha­ve be­en ab­le to sho­ve my hand in­to so­me­one’s chest and pull out the­ir still-be­ating he­art on my own. Even to sa­ve the world, let alo­ne Ar­kan­sas.

  You ha­ve no idea what you’re ca­pab­le of. I didn’t know if it was my tho­ught or Cliff’s, a con­dem­na­ti­on or a comp­li­ment, and pretty so­on I didn’t ca­re.

  “No!” Aaron/Jess scre­amed as Cliff’s/my hand di­sap­pe­ared in­to Aaron’s body, par­ting thro­ugh flesh and bo­ne li­ke a kni­fe thro­ugh but­ter, our fin­gers clo­sing aro­und the surp­ri­singly hard musc­le at the cen­ter of his chest. We didn’t pa­use for dra­ma­tic ef­fect, we didn’t me­et Aaron/Jess’s eyes for one last mo­ment of grim re­cog­ni­ti­on, we just pul­led the sticky or­gan free and hur­led it ac­ross the grass.

  Even tho­ugh the­re was hardly any blo­od left in the he­art af­ter the spell I’d cast ear­li­er, the zom­bi­es still swar­med, aban­do­ning my body, re­tur­ning from whe­re they had prow­led out­si­de the ma­gic circ­le to po­un­ce on the he­art of the one who’d ra­ised them, the one who had put this en­ti­re night­ma­rish se­qu­en­ce of events in mo­ti­on. Any he­art wo­uld ha­ve ser­ved the sa­me pur­po­se, but Cliff and I fo­und it rat­her fit­ting that it was Jess/Aaron’s.

  You’ve got to go, Me­gan, Cliff ur­ged as mo­re and mo­re Re­ani­ma­ted Corp­ses sur­ged in­to the circ­le to fe­ed on the vi­tal energy of the he­art and re­turn to the­ir gra­ves. Go back to yo­ur body.

  But I don’t know how. And what abo­ut you?

  I’m not su­re I’m go­ing to ma­ke it, and you don’t want to be trap­ped he­re.

  No! What do you ne­ed? What can I-

  Go­od­b­ye, Me­gan. I’ll miss you. The next thing I knew, Cliff had so­me­how drop-kic­ked me out of his body. At le­ast that’s what it felt li­ke.

  One se­cond I was in­si­de him not fe­eling much of anyt­hing, the next I was lan­ding in my body with a gro­an, ba­rely ope­ning my eyes in ti­me to see Et­han ben­ding down over me.

  “Me­gan? Are you okay?” he as­ked. His fe­elings we­re cle­ar in his eyes.

  Ethan still lo­ved me, even af­ter everyt­hing he’d se­en to­night-corp­se-kis­sing, hand-hol­ding, he­art-rip­ping, and all. For so­me re­ason, that was the straw that bro­ke the ca­mel’s hump. Or back. Or wha­te­ver.

  I re­ac­hed for him and he hug­ged me and I cri­ed. And cri­ed. And cri­ed.

  CHAPTER 24

  “You want so­me mo­re pop­corn? Or may­be an ext­re­mely lar­ge box of Swe­dish fish?” Dad as­ked from his se­at be­si­de me. “I know the lady wor­king the re­gis­ter-bet I can get us a de­al.”

  I fol­lo­wed his ga­ze ac­ross the bas­ket­ball co­urt to the bo­os­ter club snack tab­le, whe­re Mom was wor­king the first shift at the cash box. As if sen­sing she was be­ing ob­ser­ved, she lo­oked up and smi­led. I tri­ed to smi­le back, but it wasn’t easy. So I wa­ved ins­te­ad, mostly to ma­ke Dad happy.

  We’d had a long fa­mily talk over Sa­tur­day mor­ning pan­ca­kes, but it was go­ing to ta­ke ti­me for my and Mom’s re­la­ti­ons­hip to re­co­ver. Tho­ugh af­ter he­aring her si­de of the story, I co­uld sort of un­ders­tand why she hadn’t told me the truth, at le­ast at first.

  My bio dad was a cre­ep who had wo­o­ed Mom whi­le Dad was dep­lo­yed to Ko­rea for a ye­ar. He’d known she was a Set­tler and had tho­ught she co­uld help him le­arn mo­re black ma­gic if he se­du­ced it out of her. When he’d fi­gu­red out she didn’t know the kind of spells he was lo­oking for, he’d dra­ined her blo­od and left her to die alo­ne in our ho­use. If Dad hadn’t co­me ho­me a day la­ter, she ne­ver wo­uld ha­ve ma­de it.

  After that, she’d con­fes­sed everyt­hing to SA and that was why she and Dad had be­en re­lo­ca­ted-not the “dis­co­ve­red Set­tling a corp­se” story she’d al­ways told me. She’d fo­und out she was preg­nant a few we­eks af­ter the mo­ve. Dad had al­re­ady for­gi­ven her for che­ating-he felt he hadn’t be­en a very go­od dep­lo­yed hus­band and had pro­bably cont­ri­bu­ted to the who­le temp­ted-by-a-hot-but-evil-witch thing-but they de­ci­ded to go in for tests to see if the baby was his any­way.

  Turns out “it”-me-wasn’t his child, and an am­nio re­ve­ale
d “it” had the WB vi­rus, just li­ke “its” dad.

  Mom, who had wan­ted me even tho­ugh I had an evil daddy, had be­en sca­red to de­ath that SA wo­uld ma­ke her ha­ve an abor­ti­on sin­ce the WB vi­rus had be­en pro­ven to ca­use psycho­tic evil­ness in Set­tlers be­fo­re. But El­der Tho­mas had ag­re­ed to ke­ep the re­sults of the test sec­ret. She’d bu­ri­ed the re­port and pro­mi­sed she wo­uldn’t say anyt­hing to an­yo­ne as long as the baby se­emed okay.

  So I gu­es­sed I owed Tho­mas big-ti­me. Owed her my li­fe, re­al­ly, but that didn’t ma­ke me li­ke her any mo­re than I did be­fo­re. And I didn’t fe­el the sligh­test smid­gen of gu­ilt that she and the en­ti­re Ca­rol and Lit­tle Rock SA co­un­cils we­re un­der in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on by the Na­ti­onal High Co­un­cil, es­pe­ci­al­ly sin­ce I hadn’t be­en the one to blow the whist­le, af­ter all.

  Kitty was res­pon­sib­le for that. Ap­pa­rently, she’d be­en in­ves­ti­ga­ting the Ca­rol Set­tlers’ Af­fa­irs of­fi­ce sin­ce all the crap went down last Sep­tem­ber, and had be­co­me con­vin­ced the­re was a mo­le so­mew­he­re in the Ar­kan­sas or­ga­ni­za­ti­on. A very high-ran­king mo­le who was be­hind the en­ti­re “Arkan­sas ta­ken over by zom­bi­es” plot!

  Crazy to be­li­eve, but Kitty had all the evi­den­ce to pro­ve that Jess’s ef­forts had be­en fa­ci­li­ta­ted by so­me­one in­si­de SA and that Aaron hadn’t even be­en the first ter­mi­nal pa­ti­ent she’d ho­oked up with. Se­ve­ral ot­hers had di­ed whi­le Jess was fi­gu­ring out how to work the chan­ne­ling spell wit­ho­ut kil­ling the body she was in­ha­bi­ting.

  Of co­ur­se, why so­me­one in SA wo­uld want Ar­kan­sas zom­bi­e­apo­calyp­sed and, mo­re im­por­tant, who was gu­ilty we­re things Kitty hadn’t be­en ab­le to fi­gu­re out. Who­ever it was had co­ve­red the­ir tracks and had eno­ugh po­wer to wi­pe the me­mo­ri­es of the few pe­op­le who might ha­ve wit­nes­sed so­met­hing sketchy.

  So we we­re all in wa­it-and-be-highly-sus­pi­ci­o­us-of-each-other-whi­le-we-see-what-the-High-Co­un­cil-inves­ti­ga­ti­on-co­mes-up-with mo­de. Which was fi­ne with me. I li­ked wa­it-and-see mo­de. It was highly pre­fe­rab­le to ever­yo­ne-trying-to-put-Me­gan-in-ja­il mo­de, and the High Co­un­cil pe­op­le se­emed to re­al­ly know what they we­re do­ing. They ma­de Kitty lo­ok li­ke a di­sor­ga­ni­zed spaz in com­pa­ri­son, and she was cle­arly my he­ro at the mo­ment.

  She’d used the fresh blo­od samp­le she to­ok from me to pro­ve that the vi­rus in my blo­od was ac­ti­ve, but not mu­ta­ting the way it wo­uld be if I we­re ma­ni­fes­ting lar­ge amo­unts of black ma­gic, con­fir­ming I was as in­no­cent as she’d tho­ught. She hadn’t be­en ab­le to tell me or an­yo­ne el­se she’d be­en wor­king with to cle­ar my na­me be­ca­use of the high-ran­king mo­le, but I still to­tal­ly wan­ted to be li­ke her when I grew up.

  Ethan was al­so my he­ro, of co­ur­se. He’d fi­gu­red out the Jess/ Aaron con­nec­ti­on, which had stum­ped even Kitty. She’d known she was lo­oking for a ter­mi­nal pa­ti­ent, but hadn’t sus­pec­ted Aaron was her guy thanks to his studly che­er­le­ader front. Ne­ed­less to say, she was imp­res­sed with Et­han, and word was that he was go­ing to be of­fe­red an En­for­ce­ment job in the next few months.

  I was su­re he was thril­led. Not that we’d tal­ked…

  “So what do you say? Nasty gummy fish or mo­re pop­corn?” Dad as­ked.

  “I’m al­re­ady stuf­fed.” I tur­ned back to him with a smi­le, trying not to think abo­ut Et­han or the fact that he hadn’t cal­led to see how I was fe­eling to­day.

  Using my la­tent po­wer had inc­re­ased my abi­lity to he­al, but Et­han wo­uldn’t know that. All the spe­ci­fics of what I was we­re be­ing kept tightly un­der wraps. Set­tlers’ Af­fa­irs didn’t want it to get out that they had a Set­tler with WB vi­rus on ac­ti­ve duty. They we­re af­ra­id it wo­uld at­tract the wrong kind of at­ten­ti­on from pe­op­le li­ke Jess and Aaron, and who­ever this mystery mo­le was, who wo­uld want to use my po­wer and blo­od for the­ir own evil pur­po­ses.

  They we­re so af­ra­id that, even tho­ugh the En­for­cers had mind-wi­ped ever­yo­ne who’d se­en the pond zom­bi­es, ins­til­ling the inj­ured with me­mo­ri­es of ra­bid dogs lo­ose on the ice and era­sing the me­mo­ri­es of the­ir co­ven days from the che­er­le­ading squ­ads’ ble­ac­hed-blond he­ads, I’d be­en wor­ri­ed they we­re go­ing to lock me up just to ke­ep an­yo­ne el­se from get­ting the­ir hands on me.

  But they hadn’t. Yet. The SA co­un­cil and the En­for­cers we­re ac­tu­al­ly be­ing very co­ol. They’d even apo­lo­gi­zed for jud­ging me un­fa­irly af­ter El­der Tho­mas spil­led the be­ans abo­ut the WB vi­rus thing a few days ago.

  So mostly, it was go­od news all aro­und. Or as go­od as co­uld be ex­pec­ted.

  The not-so-go­od news, ho­we­ver, was that no one co­uld find Aaron. Or Jess. Or who­ever he/she was at that mo­ment when I re­ac­hed in­to Aaron’s body and pul­led out that he­art. By the ti­me our re­in­for­ce­ments ar­ri­ved, Aaron had va­nis­hed and no­ne of us co­uld re­mem­ber se­e­ing him mo­ve. In all the cra­zi­ness of the zom­bi­es swar­ming back un­der the gro­und, he’d di­sap­pe­ared.

  And so had anot­her corp­se, one I was con­si­de­rably mo­re at­tac­hed to.

  Cliff was al­so mis­sing by the ti­me the big be­ige SA cars and am­bu­lan­ces ar­ri­ved, and I hadn’t felt the sligh­test tug on my energy sin­ce. It ma­de me worry, tho­ugh I was cer­ta­in, de­ep down, that I’d know if he’d go­ne back to his gra­ve.

  I me­an, we had sha­red a body and re­ac­hed in­to a per­son and pul­led out a he­art to­get­her. We we­re un­de­ni­ably con­nec­ted, a fact Kitty had con­fir­med with so­me much-ne­eded sha­ring abo­ut for­mer prop­hets who had co­me to the aid of po­wer­ful Set­tlers in ti­mes of earthly cri­sis. She sa­id it was a sign that I was wor­king for the right si­de that so­me­one li­ke Cliff had fo­und me, and that our ins­tinct abo­ut ta­king Aaron’s he­art had be­en de­ad-on. The ha­beo are tran­sit spell might ha­ve so­me con­se­qu­en­ces down the li­ne as far as mu­ta­ting our po­wer was con­cer­ned, but the­re had be­en no ot­her way to stop the zom­bi­es Aaron/Jess had sum­mo­ned.

  Kitty had re­com­men­ded we just chill and wa­it and see what hap­pe­ned with my mo­jo be­fo­re fre­aking out, ho­we­ver. Ha­ving had mo­re than eno­ugh fre­aking, I ag­re­ed, es­pe­ci­al­ly when a se­cond test of my blo­od re­ve­aled all was still qu­i­et on the get­ting-mes­sed-up-by-black-ma­gic front.

  Which ma­de me fe­el bet­ter… but not that much bet­ter.

  I’d lost mo­re than two pints of blo­od and a few chunks of skin last night-I’d lost a pi­ece of myself I co­uld ne­ver get back. I was a dar­ker per­son and the world a dar­ker pla­ce, and I knew I wo­uld ne­ver see eit­her the sa­me way aga­in.

  “It’s pro­bably go­od you’re not dan­cing to­night. Our who­le fa­mily co­uld use a lit­tle R and R,” Dad sa­id, snap­ping me back to the pre­sent just as the buz­zer so­un­ded, sig­na­ling the be­gin­ning of half­ti­me.

  “Ye­ah, I’m not too bro­ken up abo­ut it.” The che­er­le­aders we­re cla­iming the first half­ti­me of the bas­ket­ball se­ason and par­ti­ci­pa­ti­on in wha­te­ver “su­per-spe­ci­al” ope­ning ga­me event the bo­os­ters had plan­ned.

  The fund-ra­iser had en­ded up a draw, so we wo­uld now be sha­ring half­ti­me with our che­er­le­ader ene­mi­es, al­ter­na­ting every ot­her ga­me. Of co­ur­se, only Mo­ni­ca and I knew just how vi­le the che­er­le­aders re­al­ly we­re, but that didn’t stop Ala­na and a few ot­her pom squ­ad­ders from bo­o­ing as Da­na stro­de to mid-co­urt with a mic­rop­ho­ne in her hand.

  I, ho­we­ver, didn’t ut­ter a
so­und. Mo­ni­ca and I had be­en war­ned not to at­tract che­er­le­ader at­ten­ti­on for the next few days. Era­sing me­mo­ri­es as tra­uma­tic as what En­for­ce­ment had re­mo­ved from the che­er­le­ader’s bra­ins was tricky bu­si­ness. Se­e­ing too much of the pe­op­le in­vol­ved in tho­se me­mo­ri­es too so­on af­ter the pro­ce­du­re co­uld ca­use Da­na and Lee and the ot­hers to start re­mem­be­ring things no Set­tler wan­ted them to re­mem­ber. We’d co­me scary clo­se to ha­ving our world ex­po­sed and our po­wer dest­ro­yed, and no one wan­ted to risk anot­her Class Three con­ta­in­ment cri­sis.

  Mo­ni­ca and I wo­uldn’t ha­ve be­en al­lo­wed to go to the ga­me at all, in fact, if Kitty hadn’t ar­gu­ed that our ab­sen­ce was as li­kely to in­ci­te cu­ri­osity as our at­ten­dan­ce. So we we­re he­re, but lur­king in the up­per ble­ac­hers, both of us sac­ked out next to our pa­rents. Mo­ni­ca still wasn’t tal­king to me af­ter last night, but I co­uld tell she wasn’t go­ing to hold a grud­ge for too long. She had at le­ast tex­ted to ma­ke su­re I was re­co­ve­ring… un­li­ke Et­han.

  God, Et­han. Whe­re was he? I had be­en su­re he wo­uld be he­re to­night, but so far the­re had be­en no sign of him.

  Da­na cle­ared her thro­at as the last of the bo­os fa­ded. “I’d li­ke to de­di­ca­te this spe­ci­al per­for­man­ce to Aaron Pe­ter­son, who’s be­en mis­sing sin­ce the ra­bid-dog at­tack last night. Aaron, we miss you and ho­pe to see you so­on.”

  Um, no they didn’t, not lo­oking the way he did when I last saw him, but at le­ast it se­emed that the En­for­cer mind wi­pe was hol­ding strong. Da­na even had a lit­tle tremb­le in her vo­ice as she int­ro­du­ced the he­ad of the bo­os­ter club and then ran to jo­in the rest of the squ­ad be­hind a gi­ant bre­akth­ro­ugh pos­ter on the ot­her si­de of the co­urt.

  “Thank you, Da­na,” Mr. Cot­ter sa­id. “The Ca­rol High bo­os­ters are so glad to see all of you he­re to ce­leb­ra­te our new gym. It was my ple­asu­re to cut the ope­ning-ga­me rib­bon ear­li­er to­night, and now it is my pri­vi­le­ge to ma­ke the fol­lo­wing spe­ci­al an­no­un­ce­ment. In ho­nor of our new gym, and a new era of CHS ath­le­tics, we’d li­ke to int­ro­du­ce the new Ca­rol High mas­cot-the Ca­rol Ca­ve­men!”