A Living Dead Love Story Series (60 page)

But Stamp appears to like it, probably because it's big and shiny and pretty and shiny. “What . . . What do I do with it?”

Lately with him, everything is a question. Don't get me wrong; it's a lot better than when we first got here six months ago, when it was all grunts and groans and later half words and almost words and just plain wrong words. But after months of working with Dad one-on-one—speech and cognition therapy and relearning—he's got to be about as good as he'll ever be.

“Put it on your head. Like this.” I demonstrate with an invisible hat. He watches carefully, as if it's the most important thing in the world. It kind of breaks my heart how important things are for him now, daily little chores and habits I take for granted.

“Okay.” He puts it over his bristly black hair. It complements his pale face, gaunt cheeks, and half-yellow, half-black eyes.

He's still good-looking. I mean, would he scare a room full of Normals if he walked in right now? Sure, no doubt. But if you sit with it awhile, if you let his features marinate, he's still handsome in a kind of gothic way. What's more, he's here, still kicking, after getting the worst of it from day one.

Why is he still here? The Sentinels don't trust Stamp—that's for sure—but they need him. He's one of the few zombies ever to survive a Zerker bite. Part of the reason they keep Dad around, I suspect, is the work he's done getting Stamp back on his feet, figuratively and literally.

Still, I knew the boy Stamp, and he was funny and bright, his alabaster skin flawless, his lips plump, his hair thick and shiny with a Superman curl dangling in front of his unlined forehead. Now he looks rough and weathered, as if he's aged a decade in the last year.

He will never be a pretty boy again, but there is something ghastly cool about him, particularly in his innocent eyes and gentle gestures. I know the Zerker blood lurks inside him, dormant and unkind. Dad's warned me a hundred times about how strong Stamp is now, how quick he is to anger, how violent he is when upset, but I haven't seen it. Not yet. And though Dad is the only Normal I still trust, part of me just doesn't believe it.

Not Stamp. Not
my
Stamp.

“How's it feel?” I ask, chuckling.

He keeps moving the birthday hat around to center it, even though there's a little elastic string he could fix under his chin to keep it in place. But I know it would take an atlas, three laptops, a topographical map, and a compass to explain it to him, and I don't have that kind of patience tonight.

“It feels shiny,” he says without a trace of a smile.

I want to laugh, but I don't because his feelings get hurt easily now that he's more aware he's not like all the other zombies in Sentinel City.

“It
is
shiny.”

Well, it
is
.

He smiles. He sits on a bench between his cage and Val's, his long legs splayed out in front of him like a kid's.

“How do you feel tonight?”

“Better.” He looks toward the back of the lab at the closed door: beyond the big glass window, Dad's shining a light in Val's eyes; the muzzle's still wrapped around her jaw. “Better now,” he says.

I nod, knowing what's next.

“When are you taking me out of here?” He sounds almost but not quite whiny, like a kid the first time he asks if he can open his new toy on the way home from the store, knowing his parents will say no a dozen more times before they finally pull up in the driveway and give in.

“Soon, Stamp. Soon.” My face is stony, as always. I avoid his yellowish eyes, as always. I kind of regret coming here. Then I look at the hat drooping off his head and smile.

“You said that yesterday.”

I shake my head. “I didn't see you yesterday.”

“You said that two yesterdays ago.”

Another head shake. Here we go. “Okay, but I'm not in charge. Remember? Maddy doesn't run Sentinel City. Other people do, and I guess they kind of like it with you in here for now.”

Is that insulting?

It's kind of insulting, I know, but Stamp is weird. Things that would insult pretty much anyone else on the planet—you know, like “They want to keep you locked up because you're crazy strong and can't really control yourself anymore”—don't even faze him. But then things you don't think will insult him do. Like when I said, “You look better,” and he growled, “Better than
what
?”

This time Stamp just grins. “But you're nice. You could help me if you wanted to.” He waits a beat before twisting the knife of guilt just a little more. “If you
really
wanted to.”

“I do want to, Stamp. But it's not up to me.”

He sighs, looking around the room. I know he'd cry right now if he could. His chin even starts to quiver a little and suddenly I feel like a mom dropping her kid off on the first day of kindergarten. “When will you come again?”

I smile. That's so like him, to ruin a good moment by asking when there will be another good moment. “But . . . I'm still here, right?”

His chuckle is like a dry cough. “I know, but it makes me happy to think of when you'll be here again.”

Actually, that's kind of logical. Maybe Stamp's not slow—just very, very philosophical.

“I'll be back soon, Stamp.” Before he can ask again, I quickly add, “Tomorrow. Or the next day. But let's enjoy now.”

He nods. “Good idea. Let's enjoy now.” He looks around again, as if I'm hiding a pony or maybe a Christmas tree. “How do you want to enjoy it?”

I snort. “Just sit here. Talk to me. We have a lot to catch up on.”

“Here we go.” He sighs.

“How much do you remember?”

“Not much.”

“
How
much?”

“I remember you and me. That's how much.”

“Where?”

He scratches his head, feeling the hat. He takes it off, smiling at it in his lap. He doesn't try to put it back on, and I wonder if it's because he's forgotten how or because he's punishing me for spoiling his fun. “Away from here.”

I nod eagerly. “That's right. Before we came here.”

He smirks. “You were fun then. Not like now.”

I can't argue with him there. “
Why
was I fun then?”

Stamp looks down, rolling the hat over and over in his bony fingers. “Because I wasn't like this then.”

Ouch. “Were
you
fun then?”

“Funner than I am now.”

I notice that my voice has become low, probably because it's at its most nonthreatening then. “How come?”

He looks toward the back of the long, sterile room, and I turn, following his gaze.

Val is looking at us through the lab door window, eyes big and yellow over her leather muzzle. One sleeve is rolled up, and Dad's taking a sample of her Zerker blood.

I look away and find Stamp staring back at me.

“Her,” he says softly, as if she might hear. “
She
took my fun away.”

I grit my teeth, knowing I shouldn't but saying it anyway: “Yes, Stamp. Yes, she did.” I meet her stare. “She took
all
our fun away.”

The birthday hat is crushed between Stamp's hands. I know from the look in his eyes, he doesn't remember doing it. I stand.

He shakes his head. “A little longer, please?”

I sit back down and open my mouth to say
all right
.

He shakes a finger at me. “No more questions, 'kay?”

I nod. “No more questions. Not tonight.”

“'Kay,” he says, smiling. “Let's just enjoy No More Questions Night.”

I smirk.

We look at each other, knees almost touching, his expression soft and scared. I lean forward and touch his hand. He lets me; he doesn't always.

Maybe he knows tonight is special, after all.

S
unlight spills through
the high windows and across the gym floor. Vera says Sentinel City (not that
she
calls it that) used to be a community college. Though the walls are painted a generic light blue now, I can look at the sun dappling the crevices and easily picture taped-up signs saying things like Go, Team, Go! and a big American flag hanging from under the clock.

Basketball hoops are at either end, but they're in the raised position now. I've never seen them down, which is kind of weird. You'd think the Sentinels would have a team, maybe even a league. The Sentinels versus the Keepers, and the winners could get a bronze skull trophy. I'd pay to see that happen.

I turn the Eliminator over in my hand, making myself smile at fake team names, like the Sentinel Sizzlers, the Gore Globetrotters, the Crypt Keepers, the Undead . . . Undead . . . shoot. I got nothing basketball related that starts with
U
. Wait: Undead Underhanded? No, they'd never go for that. I don't even know if
underhanded
is a basketball term. Isn't that softball?

See, this is what happens when Vera's not around to stand there in her powder-blue beret, leaning against the gym wall, glaring me into decapitating a bunch of dummies against my will: I spend five minutes naming living dead basketball teams that don't even exist with words that may not even be basketball related.

I stretch in my gray sweatpants and matching top. Even when not wearing the actual Trainee uniform, I still have to wear Trainee colors. The Sentinels are big on uniforms. It's like a prep school where every class wears a different pattern of plaid skirt and matching tie clip or something. It doesn't get confusing so much as just so routine and blah.

I mean, just once I'd like to roam the halls and see some zombie shuffling around in skinny jeans and a faded Iron Maiden concert T-shirt under a flannel shirt, you know? Isn't that what zombies are
supposed
to wear? Sometimes I think Sentinels take being civilized a tad too far.

It was better when we first got here and I could roam in civilian clothes, but then Vera talked me into training to be a Keeper, and Dane went all Sentinel brainwash, and now . . .

It's just hard to believe how much has happened in one short year; that's all.

At first I thought Dad's rebirthday party was pretty lame, but now, a few days later, it's sinking in that I've been undead 365-plus days. Which, if you think about it, since we zombies never sleep, is more like 730 days. My days are twice as long as they ever were when I was Normal and I can do twice as much, although there's not a crap ton to do around Sentinel City besides try to avoid Dane and his Support Sleaze.

In other ways, though, it feels like a
lot
less time than that. I remember every moment of my last few days alive in vivid detail. What the cafeteria served for lunch the day I got struck by lightning (vegetarian chili and Mexican cornbread), where I bought the bra I wore to Stamp's party (at that little Flirt store in the mall, but only because Hazel gave me a gift certificate for my birthday), what the first drops of rain smelled like as they started falling on my way out that last night of my life (rain).

I've replayed that moment so many times in my head. It's like a movie that gets worn down from constant rewinding, but it all feels so real. I can practically reach out and touch it. It's like if I could just go back to Barracuda Bay and buy another bra from Flirt, I could get some great, cosmic do over and try again.

Weirdly, I remember those last few moments of being alive much more than the actual exciting stuff I've done since being undead. Like, you know, saving Barracuda Bay from a Zerker Armageddon. And rescuing Stamp from Val, the witch. And generally trying to keep Normals safe from the brain eaters and cerebellum slurpers, who are
way
more common than I ever thought possible.

And I remember the food! How much I loved food. Real food, junk food, fast food, hot food, Normal food. Dad being the typical workaholic single parent that he was, I did a lot of the cooking, which meant a lot of ordering in or picking up or driving through, and I got to know the value menus of most places in town on a first-name basis.

Sure, okay, I
tried
to eat as healthy as possible, but being lazy and rushed for time and always, always hungry, I pretty much ate whatever was fast and hot or greasy or iced or just plain
sounded
good. Still, there were some major standouts over the years.

What I wouldn't give to have a ginger and pine nut smoothie at the Shake Shack or a batch of sweet potato curly fries at the Burger Barn or even a basket of fried mushrooms at Dad's favorite rib shack,
Sloppy
Sam's. Now all I get is preshaped brain bars and chunky brain smoothies and seared brain nuggets.

I sigh and tighten my grip on the Eliminator. It looks so dull in my hand, just a black tube about the size of a kid's bike handle and, like a bike handle, with grips for my fingers on one side.

I look at the dummies scattershot throughout the gym. They're affixed to metal stands, their heads about the same height as my own. But they seem funny, these mostly realistic fleshy, rubber dummies on top of these stands that look like bar stools or something.

They're tougher than they look. You hear
rubber
and you think rubber ball or rubber raft, but these are more like rubber cement. I asked Vera once why we trained on such tough mannequins when Zerkers are, after all, human flesh.

“You've battled them before,” Vera said, condescendingly. “You know better. The older the Zerker, the tougher the hide.”

“But why?” I pressed, just looking for a little rest and knowing the only way to get it was to lure her into a diatribe. For once, it worked.