A Living Dead Love Story Series (23 page)

“But aren't they stakes?” I say, kind of enjoying the whooshing of current still flooding through my body.

“Well, technically I guess you could consider them stakes, only …in reverse. The wooden part is the handle,” says Chloe, a slightly bemused expression on her face. “You hold it like this.” The wooden part's in her hand and the flat, circular, copper end—kind of like a notary stamp—faces out.

“Well, that's not very dangerous-looking.”

She smirks. “Maybe it doesn't
look
dangerous, but it knocked you out cold for 20 or 30 seconds. That's enough time to do some serious damage if you get the chance. And if you can get it past the skin and shove it in far enough, for long enough, well—it
will
kill them.”

I look confused, reaching for the stake and—as they gasp and reach to stop me—picking it up by the wooden end at the last minute.

Dane explains, “Copper conducts electricity. To Normals, it's no big deal. But to Zerkers, it creates havoc on the system. You stick them with one of these and,
boom
, out go the lights.”

“Or, at least, in theory anyway.”

I'm twirling the stake like a baton, careful to avoid the copper end, when I say, “Wait. Hold up. ‘In theory'? What does
that
mean?” When they don't answer me right away, looking at each other sheepishly, I shout, “Don't you guys
know
already?”

They stand awkwardly, side by side, looking down at their feet. “I mean, you
have
done this before, right? Right?”

“Well, technically.” Chloe hems. “I mean, we've already taken Zerker Slaughter 101—”

“And we've read the chapter on Zerker massacres in
The Guide.”
Dane haws. “But—”

“But
what
, you guys? You come off like you're some big, famous, lethal Zerker hunters. Now I find out you've never actually
killed
any before?”

Nothing. More floor staring and feet shuffling.

“Chloe?” I ask, taking the direct approach. “How many Zerkers have you killed before?”

“None, okay?”

“Dane?”

“Well, I buried one once.”

“Hmmm.” I sigh. “Would that have been …yesterday?”

He nods, still avoiding my eyes.

“So, basically, I've been a zombie for, what, less than two weeks and I've already killed more Zerkers than you two? Unbelievable, just …unbelievable.”

R
UFFLES?”
I
ASK
skeptically as Chloe picks at my hemline and slowly sews it into place a few hours later. “Really? Ruffles? I'm not trying to sound indelicate here, Chloe, but you
were
a pubescent zombie way back in the ‘80s. You
do
know fashion has moved on since then, right? That ‘Like a Virgin' is no longer at the top of the charts?”

Dane smiles from the living room doorway, handsome and sleek—if a little stiff—in his powder blue tux. Rather than highlighting his pale skin and dark eyes, the tux complements them; he looks kind of like a zombie 007, and I smile shyly.

Chloe notices and yanks on my ruffles to get my attention.

“The ruffles contain the dirt from the graveyard,” Dane says, patting his shoulders. “That's why they feel a little …heavy.”

“Yeah, well
you
don't have to wear ruffles.” I pout as Chloe ties a knot on the underside of my hem and bites the thread off. “Where are you hiding your graveyard dirt, huh, Mr. Aloof and Mysterious?”

He smiles and flips up the collar of his tux. Underneath are hastily sewn blue pouches bulging with grave dirt. “Right here,” he says. “Neat, huh?”

Actually, it is; even from five paces, you can't really see the bulges when he puts the collar back in place. “And look here,” he adds, digging into his hip pockets and pulling out handfuls of more grave dirt. “In a pinch, I can even blind them with this.”

“And Chloe?” I ask. “She's got no ruffles.”

“No,” says Chloe, standing from the floor and pointing to her hips, “but I've got these.” She points to the frills at her narrow waist, graveyard soil buried in a round, tubelike belt hidden beneath a row of white roses in the pattern winding around her like a garden vine.

“Still, you guys look downright fashionable compared to me.”

“Maddy,” Chloe says, handing me a copper-tipped stake for my purse. “Get your head in the game, will you? We're not actually going to the dance to see and be seen, remember? We're going to kill us some Zerkers, right?”

I make a “ghee whiz” face, and Dane laughs.

“Look,” Chloe says, beckoning Dane to the full-length mirror she's hauled into the living room to help with the alterations. She pulls me close so that the three of us are standing in front of it together.

Dane looks dashing and robust in his tux. Even Chloe looks (almost) ladylike and demure in her slimming, satiny gown. And my emerald ruffle nightmare doesn't look
that
bad when combined with the pancake makeup, thick plum lipstick, deep dark eye shadow, and frills of rich, black hair cascading from the do Chloe gave me right before I slipped into my dress.

The trailer is quiet as we grab our mini stakes and slide them into our formalwear. Chloe and I weave them into the folds at the front of our dresses, making sure to keep the deadly copper from touching our skin, while Dane slides his into his tux pocket. These are easy to hide, but the bulky Tasers provide more of a challenge. They're shaped like cell phones but twice as big—and solid, fatter, and heavy; really heavy.

Dane can fit one in his pocket without looking too ridiculous, but he wants us each to have one in case we get separated in the gym. Mine fits in my purse without looking too obvious, but Chloe's clutch purse is smaller and clam-shaped.

“Chloe,” Dane snaps, “that purse won't work; get another one.”

She looks at me conspiratorially and I frown; that purse really
does
match her dress (something a clod like Dane would never understand). Still, a massacre is a massacre, so she dutifully replaces the purse with something big enough to fit a Taser in. (Unfortunately, it's a rather clunky black affair with a rhinestone skull for a clasp.)

By now, the crisp fall afternoon has turned to dusk, the dusk to twilight. Orange shadows bathe us on the way back to school. As we slowly inch forward in the growing line of traffic waiting to park, I have to admit that, despite the circumstances, I get caught up in all the high school excitement that is the Fall Formal. Most of the cars in line are limousines, where alternating douche bags in white tuxes stick heads through the sun roof and hoot at the girls in convertibles in front or behind.

Chloe and Dane look disgusted, but whether it's because I haven't been a zombie as long or because I'm just a romantic at (nonbeating) heart, part of me wishes I could turn back time and say “yes” when Stamp asked me to the dance.

Yes, it would've been breaking all kinds of zombie laws and, no, it wouldn't have stopped Bones and Dahlia from turning Scurvy and Ms. Haskins …and Hazel …into zombies, but at least I would've been able to go to the Fall Formal without grave dirt in my ruffles, a stake hiding just below my cleavage, and a Taser in my purse.

As we finally pull into the jam-packed school parking lot, I notice the assistant principal and the dean dressed in three-piece suits (no tuxes for them) checking girls' bags on the way in.

“Uh, guys,” I say, pointing to the unanticipated checkpoint.

In the rearview mirror, Dane flashes me a yellowing smile. “Don't worry, Diva; I've got it covered.”

As Dane fiddles with something in his lap, Chloe nudges me in the arm and mouths, “Diva?”

I shrug and muscle my way into one of the last remaining spots in the lot. As I park, I have to wonder,
Has Dane Fields just used a term of endearment?

As we walk toward the school, Chloe and I adjust our purses full of Tasers and sulfur-spewing cherry bombs. Our heels are low (all the better to fight Zerkers with, my dear), but after a week of clomping around in polished black army boots, the sound of them scraping on the asphalt sounds funny.

A line has formed at the purse-frisking station, and I shift nervously from one foot to the other, craning my neck for any wandering hordes of Zerkers in sparkly black dresses and shiny white track suit tuxes. Instead, all I hear is Dane chattering with the two thugs behind us, identically decked out in satiny tan retro tuxes and matching gobs of spiky hair goo.

“You two guys together?” Dane asks when we're only a few couples away from the check-in point.

“Dane,” I whisper, elbowing him as the two thugs bow up. “We don't have time for this now.”

“Let him be,” Chloe whispers as she jabs an elbow in my ribs. “He knows what he's doing.”

“No,” one of the thugs says.

“Why?” asks the other, preening. “You interested, pretty boy?”

Clearly these two hunks of meat aren't smart enough to be offended.

“No,” Dane says sarcastically. “But your boyfriend sure is. He's been checking me out all—”

Finally, I hear one of the thug's fists break on Dane's forehead as he hurls the first punch, followed by what I think is girls screaming but what is, in fact, the thug squealing in pain.

“Inside, ladies,” the assistant principal shouts to us poor, defenseless girls, instantly abandoning the checkpoint to rush to the thug's aid.

While the dean and assistant VP are trying to get the story out of the bumbling boobs in tan, Chloe grabs one of Dane's arms and I grab another as we hustle him inside before the rest can be sorted out.

We keep going, plunging deep past the punch bowl and frosted grapes at the snack table and right onto the dance floor. If you ever get the chance to see a zombie dance, avoid it. We are pretty bad, but fortunately it's a medium-tempo song and nothing that will twist our subtly moving hips out of joint. When the song is done we figure the coast is finally clear, so we amble off the dance floor and find solace at a blue, curtain-draped high-top table toward the back of the room.

“That was close,” I say because, hey, I've always wanted to.

Chloe and Dane are scanning the crowd, looking for the Zerkers. It isn't easy, even with zombie vision. The dance floor and its periphery are dotted with swirling teenagers, all in some form of evening wear.

The lights are rotating, swirling, first thousands of white pinpoints cascading across the floor, then flashing strobe lights, then multicolor spotlights randomly roaming the dance floor until they fix on some random couple who's then expected to show off, at least until the spotlights move on to humiliate someone else.

Thinking I see a flash of ugly yellow Zerker eye on the perimeter, I step away from the table only to be promptly yanked back by Chloe. “Stay together,” she whispers. “That's what they want: to pull us apart, get us alone. If we're going to survive, if we're going to win, we
have
to stick together.”

“Okay, okay, sorry,” I say, wrenching my arm away from her cold, titanium grip. “But I thought I saw—”

“Dahlia!” Dane points with a half-empty plastic punch glass to the dead, yellow eyes and zombie stiffness I saw moments ago. I make a face at Chloe as we slowly stalk the Zerker through the crowd.

She's standing alone at a tall table, like the one we just vacated. We stop a few tables short, elbow our way to an empty table, and watch carefully. She seems to be alone; no glass in front of her, only a clutch purse like mine, and her expression is serene.

After five minutes, no one has come to join her. Not Bones, not Ms. Haskins, not Hazel—not anyone else they may have infected since they dropped those shiny gray invitations in our lockers earlier this morning.

“How are we supposed to do this?” I say over the thumping bass of another fast song. “There are so many people.”

Chloe nods. “We've got to wait until the crowd thins; get each one alone.” She pulls her cell from her clutch purse and says to Dane, “Text me when she goes to use the bathroom.” To me she adds, “You follow her in; we'll try to ambush her.”

Dane shakes his head. “I don't like it.” He cranes his neck to look for a sign—any sign—of Bones or Hazel. “It just feels too …easy.”

“It is what it is,” Chloe says before departing. Even though she passes within inches of Dahlia, the Zerker never even looks her way.

“Hey,” Dane calls after her. “You forgot your purse!” To me he says, “She always does that.”

“Where do you think they are?” I ask Dane, inching closer to him so I won't have to shout over the spastic DJ (or so I tell myself).

He shrugs, his shoulders big and broad in his flattering tuxedo. “Maybe they're waiting till the crowd thins, too.”

I'm looking at him under the twinkling stars, the strobe lights, the alternating spots. In school, he never changes his ever present hoodie, never wears anything but jeans and scuffed shoes. I've always pictured him as slight and frail, at least skinny and tall, but all the while he's been hiding a fairly hot zombie bod under all those protective layers.

He catches me looking, waves a large, pale, dismissive hand, and says, as if zombies are mind readers, too, “Relax. It's just the muscles; they harden over time, the fat melts away, the muscle takes its place, they get bigger is all. It has nothing to do with me. I mean, it's not like I work out or anything.”

I smile. “Will that happen to me?”

He looks into my eyes and says, “You don't need any help to look beautiful.”

Then he abruptly looks away, as if something has caught his eye.

It has. Dahlia is gone.

We leave the table as a pair, him grabbing my hand to tug me through the still healthy crowd. Finally, we get within eight paces of Dahlia and see her heading straight for the ladies' room.