by Elisa Hansen
But that would also mean she’d have to go back into the stable. And things were already coming back into focus. She was fine. She dropped her hands and bonked her head back against the wall, looked out at the clear sky. She was fine.
So different from only a moment ago in the close air of the shed. What the hell? Don’t think about it. Where was Death?
He won’t know anything.
But somehow just imagining him made her head feel clearer. She pushed away from the shed. And as she staggered around the next corner, she almost walked right into him.
He caught her by the shoulders, but she jerked back, steadying herself against the wall.
“You’re still here,” she whispered without meaning to. She shivered a little. His grip hadn’t been hard, but she could still feel distinctly where each of his bone fingertips pressed her scapulae.
His head tilted as he gazed down at her. “Where would you have me go?”
She shook her head and tucked a loose piece of hair behind her ear. “Where were you?” Should she tell him about the smell? The weird…thirstiness?
He swept a hand in the direction of the decaying bodies in the yard. “I’ve been here before.”
“Yeah, I noticed.”
If she told him about it, she wouldn’t like his reaction. She was sure of it. If she kept it quiet, then she could forget it happened at all. Besides, she felt a hundred percent better now. Completely fine.
He put one of his long fingers in front of his mouth as if to shush her. The gesture didn’t really work without lips. “Come this way.”
“What?”
With a curl of his finger, he beckoned her across the yellow-brown yard toward the long, low house. The wind swirled cute little tornadoes in the dust of the expansive corral off to their right. What happened to all the horses? The chunks of dead things in the stable had been too small to be equine. Did they all escape? It was a nice thought.
She assumed Death would lead her inside the house, but he went around it. She could tell the back yard used to have a lawn and a garden border, but now it was all the same cracked dead straw color as the rest of the land. No trees, but a tire swing hung from a pine frame. Kids used to play on that swing. A cloud of tiny insects filled the tire’s center, lording over fetid water caught between its drooping edges. The last rain couldn’t have been that long ago.
“Here.” Death held open the door to a tool shed in the corner of the yard.
Two five-gallon canisters sat side by side within.
“You found fuel!”
Why didn’t he bring them out to the trucks? Why show it to her like this?
“You found fuel,” he said before drifting away again.
And that was just what Emily told Scott five minutes later. If Death didn’t show them to her, she would have found them on her own eventually, right? And Scott was so excited, he forgot all the weirdness from before. Or maybe it hadn’t been so weird, after all? The memory of their conversation fuzzed in Emily’s brain, and she let it fade.
Even Carol begrudgingly thanked her when the truck she’d repaired guzzled both jugs.
“You ride in the back,” Scott told Emily once they were ready to go.
“Right.” This drive was going to suck, wasn’t it?
“And you ride over there.” Carol pointed Scott to the passenger seat. “You need to sleep.”
Emily climbed into the truck’s big bed and squinted over its roof into the sunny yard to search for Death among the buildings. Should she call for him? Surely he heard the engine starting. Yelling out his name would be awkward. She couldn’t bring herself to do it.
“We’re leaving now!” she yelled instead.
“I’m aware.”
Holy hell, he was right behind her again.
She turned and glared at him. He sat in the opposite corner of the wide flatbed by the tailgate. The truck lurched, and Emily almost fell over the side. She dropped to her butt, bracing against the cab. Death stared at her.
“You don’t have to look so amused,” she muttered.
He tilted his head as if considering that possibility.
With a sigh, Emily twisted her fingers around the strap running the length of the truck’s side. At least two of its six tires must be flat. Yup, this ride was going to suck.
“If she stays on this road,” said Death a few minutes later, “we’ll come across a structure with electricity before nightfall. A factory.”
“How do you know?”
“I was there not long ago.”
“How not long ago?” Just because the place had electricity once didn’t mean anything now.
“It was deserted by the time I left it.” He drew his device thing from the depths of his robe and swiped the screen a few times. “It is deserted now.”
Emily leaned up to tap on the cab’s rear window. Through the grimy glass, she saw Scott twist around. He slid the pane open a crack. She realized she was bracing herself. For what? The smell?
But nothing emerged.
She put her face to the hole. “He says there’s a factory on this road up ahead.”
“He? Oh.”
“It has working power and everything.”
Scott smiled and yawned. “Okay, cool.”
Emily gave him a thumb’s up. “A few hours. Keep going straight.”
“That far? Well. Sound good, Carol?” She didn’t reply, and Scott nodded to Emily then slid the window shut. “Night.”
Yeah, things were definitely fine. All she could smell was truck exhaust. It must have been the stuffy heat in the tiny shed room that made her head go all wobbly before. She was so totally fine. And Scott was fine being around her, and the robot wasn’t trying to kill her, and Death was being useful, and everything was just downright spiffy.
Scott had the right idea. It was time for a long overdue nap.
Sleep refused to come for Emily. No way she folded herself into the truck’s corner lent itself to relaxation. The gun in her waistband dug into her back, but removing it didn’t make her any more comfortable. More than forty-eight hours since she woke from her last sleep shift, she should have been exhausted. She wanted to blame it on the truck’s uneven bouncing, but that wasn’t the truth. The LPI trained her to sleep in the roughest of conditions.
No, she knew the truth, she just didn’t like it—Emily could no more sleep now than she could die.
She glanced to Death in his corner. His legs were folded under the black tent he wore, his fingers steepled in his lap, and his gaze fixed on the road they left behind. At least she assumed so. She couldn’t see beyond his hood, but without eyelids, she didn’t think he had much of a choice.
Turning her G18 over, she ran a finger along the distorted polymer. It would not be firing again. She might as well be carrying around a rock. She sighed and threw it against the opposite side of the truck by the three empty gas jugs. It clanged a lot louder than she anticipated. Flinching, she glanced to Death again, but he didn’t move.
The dry wind scratched and scored at her eyes. It should have made her want to sneeze, but sneezy sensations seemed as distant as sleep. She drew her legs to her chest and pressed her face against her knees.
Zombies don’t sleep.
“He’s finally fallen to sleep,” Death murmured into the wind.
Emily lifted her head. “What?”
“The human.”
Lucky bitch. Through the dirt-streaked window, sunshine glinted off the robot’s metal scalp, but Scott slouched too low for Emily to see.
“How do you know?” she asked.
Death’s face remained hidden by his hood.
Nothing.
Emily wrapped her arms around her shins. After a minute, she offered a suggestion. “Is it a knowing-everything-of-death thing?”
“Hardly.”
Fine. She didn’t need to conversate. She could sit back and enjoy the scenery. The gritty, brown, seriously boring scenery. Disheveled civilization couldn’t be far off, but for the
time being, nature’s own wasteland stretched far and wide. Brown, brown, brown. Everything they passed looked the same.
“Everything looks the same,” said Death.
Emily stiffened. Had he just…? “What did you say?”
His head rotated, and he met her eyes. The sight of his face took her by surprise. He looked different somehow. Was it the direct sunlight making the bones appear flaky and gray? More like old newsprint papier-mâché than the bleached white they gleamed in the moonlight. The light reflected off whatever invisible marbles filled his black sockets, and she couldn’t see the little green flames deep in his eyes at all. As if his off button had been pushed.
But it didn’t affect his ability to stare at her. After a long moment, he finally replied. “Were you thinking the same thing?”
A dry laugh escaped her.
Death’s hand flicked at the road. “I am not used to this.”
“What? Driving?”
He turned away. Emily stared at the back of his hood, waited, then bit her lip and burrowed into her knees. Although the sun throbbed at her hair and simmered the tips of her ears, she did not mind it the way she would have a couple days ago. Long past when she should have broken a sweat, she still felt even and dry. The rhythm of the truck’s flat tires reminded her of a racing heart. She counted the beats.
“You are bored.”
Emily jerked and turned to Death. “How do you—”
“So am I.” He withdrew a pack of cards from his cloak. “Here.” He tossed it to the center of the space between them.
Emily stretched to retrieve it. No box, but a black elastic bound the cards. Their frayed edges and soft surfaces caressed her gnarled fingers more like fabric than paper or plastic. Vintagey. She tugged off the band and let it slide around her wrist as she fanned through the deck. Vibrantly painted skeletons in big hats and flouncy clothes decorated the backs, danced across the face cards. Emily smirked.
“La Calavera Catrina,” Death said.
“Cute.” They reminded her of a long-ago trip to Mexico. “Where’d you get them?”
“I won them.”
“Who from?”
“He’s dead now.”
“Oh.” Emily smoothed the edges and shuffled with care.
“He lost the game, after all.”
“Right.” She cleared her throat but paused mid-shuffle. “So, that’s a thing? If I challenged you to a game when you came for me, would I have had a chance?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
Excuse me.
He spoke again before she could say anything. “Why would a suicide challenge me?”
“A…” Emily frowned, her gaze falling to the happy little skeletons. She tried to recall her frame of mind at the moment she tried to squeeze the trigger. She’d invited him. What she wanted— She pushed the thoughts away and shuffled. “So, do you want to play something?” She could remember the rules to about three games, but he probably knew them all.
Death sighed and presented the back of his hood to her again. “What would be the point?”
Emily blinked, then rolled her eyes. So he only liked playing with lives on the line? She restrained a patronizing reply about alleviating boredom and dealt herself a game of good old-fashioned Klondike. A few minutes later, it occurred to her she should thank him for the cards, but she let him rest in silence.
A groan escaped her when she lost the game. The creaking undead sound oozed past her lips before she registered it. Oh gross! Emily cleared her throat violently.
Death twisted toward her, his hands clattering against the floor. The intensity of his stare made Emily flinch, and the cards kerfluffled out of her hands. One of them caught the wind and took off into the air. Before it could get far, Death’s hand shot up to catch it. He did it without even looking. Slowly, he twirled the card between his fingers. “You’ve lost your game.”
She’d lost her—no! Shoving the rest of the deck off her lap, she rubbed at her eyes.
Death leaned over to scoop up the cards. He lingered for a moment, hovering like a black umbrella as his gaze raked her over, then he settled back into his corner.
“You just…” Emily dropped her hands, huffed out a breath, and scooted to his end of the truck bed. “Please. Do not look at me like that.”
He shook his head and shuffled, the cards buzzing flawlessly under his long fingers. “How do you feel?”
Not this again.
“Frustrated. What do you think?”
“Tired?”
“No.”
“Hungry?”
“No!”
“Hm.”
Calm. Control. Goddammit. She hated the way he stared at her. Like she was some kind of specimen. Or a boil ready to pop. She dug her fingers into the black canvas over her thighs. “Why? What is it?”
Death shrugged and turned his attention to the cards, fanning out the entire deck between his hands.
Oh no you don’t.
Leaning in, she put a hand over his spread, pressing the cards down. “You keep asking me these same questions. You’re waiting for me to start craving human flesh and stuff, aren’t you?”
“It’s only rational.” The way he looked at her then was a little less awful. She couldn’t say how, but something sympathetic filled it.
“Well, we’ve already gone over this. I’m not.” Her hand slid off the cards, and she slumped against the side of the truck, facing him. She had her weird moments, but never once had I vant to bite your flesh entered her brain. That much was for sure.
“Hm.”
“What?”
“It’s unprecedented.”
“Yeah. We’ve established that.”
Death took a quiet moment to sort through the cards, then shuffled again. “Your behavior is less like that of the undead, and more akin to that of a specter.”
What? “What? Like a ghost?”
“If you like.”
“Oh, so now ghosts are real.” Death was real. Flying horsepeople of the zombie/vampire apocalypse were real. Father Time was real, and apparently an asshole. But something about ghosts sent Emily up to eleven in uncomfortable. Ghosts implied an afterlife. Implied a lot of seriously Big Questions even Death didn’t have answers to.
“Not in the sense that you consider them.” He cut the deck and set one half aside.
“How do you know how I consider them?” She folded her arms across her chest and ground her shoulder blades into the truck’s metal.
Death shook his head and laid out a row of cards face down in the space between his knees and her boots.
“Okay.” Except, not really. “Then is that what I am? A specter?”
“No. You are undead.”
“Uh huh, okay. So then why don’t I want to bash through that window and devour Scott’s brains?”
“Are you sure you don’t?”
“Yes!”
He shrugged. “Your lack of appetite is rather specter-like.”
“And what does that mean?”
Instead of answering her, he flipped one of the cards and held it close to his face to study it.
“Come on, I’m tired of this! You have to tell me.”
Death lowered the card enough for his eyes to meet hers. “I do not know.”
“But—”
“Listen to me, Emily. I know everything of death.”
Calm. She forced a slow breath. “But you don’t know about me.”
He nodded.
“Because I am undeath.”
“You are…unprecedented.” His gaze fell to the cards, and he flipped two more.
It seemed impossible. “There are millions of zombies.”
“Not like you. Not created like you.”
“This can’t be the first—”
“It can. It is.” His fingers hesitated before he flipped the last three cards. “Undeath is… She and I have never…” He sighed.
“Am I seriously the only person in the world like this right now?”
/> “More than that. You’re unlike anything I have ever known.”
A good thing. If she kept repeating it, she’d accept it. It beat the alternatives. And it kept him interested in her.
So why did she feel so shitty?
Specter. She’d been thinking of herself as part human, part zombie, but that would make her half life and half undeath. And that wasn’t right. More like half undead and half just plain dead.
What if…?
God.
Stop thinking about yourself.
She had a new mission. An important mission.
Death sat as still as a tombstone, staring at his cards. Abruptly, he swept them up and laid out another row.
Emily shivered in the warmth of the sun as she watched his hands. They definitely seemed dustier than before. Thicker somehow, as if he dipped them in wet clay and let it dry and crack.
“What are you doing?” she asked. It looked like tarot. She’d never believed in tarot.
Death shook his head again. His voice sounded muffled within him. “I don’t know what to make of it.”
Emily closed her eyes and leaned her head against the edge of the truck. Bounce, bounce, bounce. “An unknown future. How exciting.”
She should just try to relax, starting with putting her head elsewhere, and strategize how she would approach her LPI superiors when she got to Manhattan.
Death’s response floated to her, almost inaudible. “Not really.”
She had a good idea what she would to say about her team and the vampires, but how would she explain Death? Would he even stick with her until then? What exactly did he have to do in order to catch up with Time? The more she thought about it, the less she understood his vague-ass plan. Did he even understand it? Was he so desperate he was flailing at the unknown? What did he see in his tarot?
“Are you afraid?” she asked.
“I’m…hungry.”
Her eyes blinked open. He bent over the cards, his hood obscuring his face, his hands pressed against the floor.
“Like—”
“Yes.”
Did he know she almost asked like a zombie? She felt no hunger, but what must it feel like for him? Did reaping serve the same purpose as eating? Sustenance? It made up what he was. He existed for it. The same as the energy his brethren drew from their conditions.
