“Sure they did! Why do you think they did it? I mean, who wouldn’t want a fraternity brother of the living dead?”
He says that last part there in one of those creepy movie announcer voices, but I can tell there’s still a little bitterness left behind it as well; his eyes are darker now, too.
“The funny thing, it wasn’t the lightning that got us, it was what the lightning got that got us.”
“You mean…”
“Yeah; lightning struck this iron grave marker. It was some kind of angel, I think. Anyway, we were all breathing a sigh of relief, you know? Near miss and all that. Anyway, five minutes later this hand reaches up through the ground and… bam, instant zombie!”
“But I don’t see any bite marks on you,” I point out, his hairless torso just shy of perfection, his long legs scar-free.
He smirks and gently slides up the left side of his pristine white baggies; there, just about mid-thigh, is a huge bite mark, long since healed over and now merely a distant, rubbery, reddish gray.
“Ouch,” I say, desperate to reach out and touch it.
He shrugs and says, “Seems like ages ago.”
Then he waits a beat, extends a hand and says, “I’m Flynn, by the way.”
I blush, look away, bite my lip and say, “I’m Vivian, but… everyone calls me Viv.”
“Yeah,” he says, taking my hand gently and then quickly releasing it, like he doesn’t want me to get freezer burn. “I heard your friend say it a few dozen times earlier.”
We talk for awhile, then awhile longer, until at last the shadows start to spill across the sky, and then we talk even longer.
His voice is soothing; quiet and deep.
His stories are sad and funny and quail on mine.
I’m telling one, badly, when suddenly the fence door swings open and Lavinia stands there, regal and alluring in a crinkly skirt and pink top; the kind she wears when she plans on swimming later and is merely wearing actual clothes to hide her skin tight bikini.
“The hell, Viv?” she says, and she’s not alone.
Stumbling up beside her, beer in hand and hot pink baggies snug against his lean, swimmer’s body, Scott echoes her sentiment: “The hell, Viv?”
Flynn rockets from the water and grabs his Past Lives Pool Cleaning shirt; the one with the headstone for a logo.
He slips it on in record time, then some matching white deck shoes and says, to me, “Sorry, Viv; I mean, Vivian. Tell your Dad I’ll be back to finish up tomorrow, okay? I’m sorry, the time… just… got away from me.”
“My Dad’s out of town,” I say quietly, so only he can hear. “It’s just a little party for friends, nothing major. Please… stay?”
He flickers me the kindest smile, so quickly, like he’s actually, maybe, almost considering it.
Then Lavinia and Scott trundle through the gate dragging a beer keg and he frowns.
“I really can’t,” he says. “It wouldn’t be… professional.”
“Damn straight it wouldn’t,” says Scott, trundling past with the keg and trailing a giant sleeve of red plastic cups in his free hand. “Don’t you dead heads have some kind of curfew or something?”
“Scott!” I snap, but Lavinia is right there with him.
“No, Viv, Scott’s right. One call to the Council of Elders and your undead pool boy here is—”
“Bye Viv,” Flynn says, face stern, all trace of light gone from his eyes.
“Yeah, you better bolt,” Scott huffs, whipping out his phone, you know, as if he has the Council of Elders on speed dial or something.
At last Flynn smirks and sys, “Actually, the curfew isn’t for two hours, but thanks for reminding me.”
On his way past, Flynn leans in with just the slightest mischievous intent and, with barely a tap, sends Scott flying over the keg.
Lavinia rushes to help him while I stifle a snort.
“Sorry about that, friend,” says Flynn over his shoulder as he creaks through the side gate. “Those kegs can be tricky.”
I rush to follow him, to explain, but he’s already climbing into his service van.
He rolls down the window as I lean up and say, “Flynn, they’re just buzzed, or drunk, or…”
“Stupid?” he adds, firing up the van with a rumbling snort.
“All of the above?” I offer weakly. “But, you know, they’re still my friends.”
“I’d watch out for that Scott guy, Viv.”
“What? Why? He’s harmless. I mean, how bad can a guy who wears pink baggies be?”
I’m shooting for a joke; he’s scowling back.
“We’re not just dead, you know. We can… sense… things. One thing is aggression, greed… lust. Your boyfriend—”
“Ex-boyfriend,” I lie unconvincingly.
“Whatever, Viv; either way, I can tell, he’s up to no good tonight. Just… be careful, all right?”
His eyes are dark and gentle again; my reaction is anything but.
“You don’t even know him, Flynn,” I shoot back, inching out of the driver’s side window. “I mean, for all you know, he could be… could be… trying to protect me.”
But even as I say them, the words ring hollow.
“Me too,” he says, waiting until my foot is out of range before peeling down from the hill atop which our house sits.
* * * * *
Zombies Don’t Read: 25 YA Short Stories Page 7
