A Living Dead Love Story Series (75 page)

Again.

The house grows claustrophobic as I hear footsteps upstairs. I just . . . I want out. Now. I want to be doing something, not just waiting and waiting, as Dane wants us to do.

“Can we go?” Before she can answer, I shuttle her back outside. “Do you mind?”

She shrugs. “I know Dad wanted me home now, but it's so early and I didn't come bribe you just to sit on the sidelines and watch Seagull Shores get infested, you know?”

That's a pretty good answer, as answers go. She starts for her car, and I gently guide her past her driveway, down the street.

“That won't help you if trouble comes,” I say.

She looks back at her car wistfully, as if she may never see it again, but nods and follows me down the street just the same.

“Trust me.” I chuckle. “You're tooling along, thinking you're immune, and then you come to a road all blocked by burning cars and overturned ambulances, and there's nowhere for you to go, and suddenly you're stuck, a sitting duck. Better to be on your feet.”

“Really?” she asks, catching up to me.

“Really.”

I stand at the intersection of Lumpfish Lane and Snapper Street, looking left, then right. I chew on my lip and turn to Lucy. “Is there someplace we can sit and not be bothered but not look weird doing it?”

She squints, thoughtfully looking over my shoulder. “There's the playground in Center Square. It's not far from here but close to downtown. It's supposed to be closed after dark, but as long as you're not acting the fool, nobody will bother us.”

We walk slowly toward downtown Seagull Shores. It's dark but still early—9:00 or 10:00 probably. I mean, early by zombie standards.

Lucy doesn't seem tired. Just the opposite, in fact. As we get closer to downtown, she ducks into a Stop N Go and buys two bottles of cheap grape soda. I don't know if it's a coincidence and she likes that junk too or if she's seen the empty bottles around the kitchen at the house on Lumpfish Lane.

It feels good, sipping and walking with someone other than Stamp for a change. It's something you would do with a friend, which reminds me: in all this time, I haven't seen or heard her say one thing to another human soul. Haven't met her parents, haven't even seen her swap high fives with another kid at school.

The walk is slow and casual, the night air cool but not brisk. Here and there, orange or purple or green Halloween lights blink in a storefront window or a jack-o'-lantern flickers on a front stoop.

I sip the cold, sugary soda, feeling it in my cells.

The silence between us is comfortable.

I put the cap back on my soda and clear my throat. When she looks at me, I ask, “So I'm not sure how to say this without sounding insensitive, but how are your friends doing with all these other kids going missing?”

She smirks and sips some soda, her upper lip tinted purple until she licks it. “Is that your majorly awkward way of asking why I don't have any friends?”

I snort.

The park comes into view, still a ways away: a vast opening just off Main Street, clean white sidewalks and a manicured lawn and benches and swings and monkey bars.

“I guess so, yeah.”

She shrugs.

Our shoes pad on the sidewalk. From an open window somewhere, maybe even an early
Halloween
party, the strains of “Monster Mash” twinkle in the air.

“You could say I'm not very good at being popular.” She tosses me a vaguely embarrassed look. Then she juts out her chin. “Plus, we just moved here not too long ago.”

I nod. That would explain her loner status in the halls, the lack of friends knocking down her door, and the quiet cell phone.

Then again, I get the feeling that even if Lucy had lived here since birth, she still wouldn't be getting texts at all hours, sharing BFF stuff like which boy is cute and who dumped who and, OMG, did you see who they just voted off
American Idols Who Think They Can Dance
last night?

Which is cool and actually quite familiar. If it hadn't been for my own BFF, Hazel, back in Barracuda Bay, I probably would have been a lot like Lucy. Probably a lot less annoying and anal but most likely just as unpopular and vaguely restless and all kinds of lonely. I mean, when you're actively seeking out the living dead as your friends of choice, you know you're not quite socially adjusted.

The park is quiet, dark, and big. We stand at the mouth of it, looking at the empty benches and the tall and not-so-tall palms dotting the nice green lawn. There is a gurgling fountain in the middle, a walking path of rust-colored pavers, and a swing set—all sterile, like something off a brochure cover.

We sit at opposite ends of a bench by the fountain, leaning the plastic bottles of soda against the slats between us, kind of like cup holders. The air is cool and quiet, perfect for listening for Zerker noises. From here in the middle of the park, we have a view of most of Main Street and a few other streets.

It feels good to be doing something. Frankly, I don't know what else to do. At least this way if people come running out of a random building screaming, I'll be close enough to do something about it.

And this time, I
will
do something. You can bet on that.

We sit quietly for a few moments, just listening. For Zerker noises. I'm not quite sure what that might be. Drool hitting the ground? Stupid shuffling? But I'm listening for anything nonhuman at this point.

Then out of nowhere, Lucy says, “So . . . you and Dane? What's the deal?”

I chuckle, crossing my legs, and realize I'm still in my school uniform. Man, I really did want to get out of that house tonight. “We were kind of a thing for a while.”

Her eyes get a little bigger. “Yeah? How a while?”

I look to see if she's poking fun or actually interested, but her face is a mask. We've got nothing better to do, so I answer. “Long enough to matter.”

She nods. “Okay, I mean, but how does that work?”

“It doesn't, apparently.”

“I meant how does that
physically
work?”

I roll my eyes. Stupid Normals and their morbid curiosity. “I know what you
meant
, Lucy. It's complicated, okay?”

She puts her hands up, girl talk for
Okay, okay, I wasn't all that interested anyway
.

“What? It doesn't talk about zombie anatomy in your little book there?” I tousle the strap of her messenger bag on the bench between us.

She shakes her head. “If it does, I haven't gotten to that chapter yet. Maybe I should read faster.”

I snort. “I suggest skipping it altogether.”

A surprisingly not-that-awkward silence follows.

Then she smirks and says, “Was it serious?”

“Yes,” I moan instantly, as if it's been bottled up for weeks and just waiting to come out. Who
else
is there to talk to about it? Stamp? “It was hella serious, and I thought it would last forever, which really means something when you're undead and, ugh, now he's here with that zombie tramp, and it hurts major. I just can't believe what a monumental tool he became.”

She snickers a little. “That must have felt good, huh? Getting that off your chest.”

“I'm sorry.” I almost gasp. “I just, you know, being a zombie is kind of lonely and isolated.”

“I bet . . . So, probably, you tend to get a little clingy so you don't feel as isolated.”

I see where she's going. “Heh. No, not clingy exactly, but I see what you mean. If anything, maybe I wasn't clingy enough.”

She arches an eyebrow.

I think of Dane's Sentinel training, his missions, my Keeper training, and Vera's constant demands. Of my body, my mind, my allegiance, and my time. And then there was Dad, who I tried to see every night before he went to sleep. And poor Stamp, who I felt like I should pop in on every now and then. “What I mean is,” I say out loud, “if I had been a little more clingy, we might not have drifted apart.”

She's nodding encouragingly, so it just kind of spills out: “Whatever. I know how it sounds, but he was so nice, to me anyway. I know he looks thuggish, and I never thought I'd be one of those girls who dug that, but that wasn't what did it for me. He was a very different person around me, with me. A calm and happy and safe person, you know?”

Her gaze goes a little far away, like maybe she does know, all too well. Then she quietly nods.

I sigh and look at my hands resting on my green-and-blue plaid skirt. “I thought he was the one, you know?”

She nods. “Maybe he just got scared.”

My lips go thin because what the hell does
she
know about it? Then again, what do I know? She could be the resident relationship expert in Seagull Shores, for all I know. “Go on.”

She shrugs. “You guys are supposed to live a long, long time, right? So maybe he didn't want it to be literally till death do you part, you know?”

I scoff. Loudly. “It wasn't like we were married or anything.”

She takes a sip of her soda and puts it back down. “Maybe not, but maybe it felt like that to him. Was he dating anyone when you met?”

I think of Chloe and snort. “Not hardly.”

Lucy nods.

“What? What does that nod mean?”

She smiles, probably surprised by my desperate tone.

Even I'm surprised by it.

“He strikes me as a lone wolf, is all. Brooding . . .”

“Go on.” She's 110 percent dead-on so far.

“Well, so, sometimes guys like Dane will pull a dick move just to end it fast rather than actually, you know, tell you about it.”

“But why?”

She shrugs. “Why do guys pull dick moves ever? So they're done, over and out, free to walk away. He probably doesn't even like this Courtney chick, but it's better than dragging it out another few decades with—”

I put a finger up. To her mouth.

She winces because I'm sure it's cold and she's probably going to have to gargle with cherry-scented hand sanitizer now. But to her credit, she doesn't move and even shuts up.

I remove it and turn around, pointing to the cluster of palm trees ringing the park. “Did you hear that?” I whisper so low she has to lean in. I repeat. “Did you hear that?”

“No, 'cause I was giving you all that good love advice just now.”

“I thought I heard a twig snap.”

“Shit.” She looks around, panic clearly gripping her. “So this was a pretty stupid idea, huh? I mean, look at us here: we're like fish in a barrel!”

I shush her, but if someone is back there watching us, she's right: our goose is cooked anyway.

I slide the Eliminator from my front pocket, popping both ends.

She looks down at the two kinds of metal hissing out. Her eyes get even bigger. “What's that?”

“That's not in your book either?”

She shakes her head.

I shrug, feeling pretty smug about that. I hold up the weapon, just high enough so she can see but whoever's snapping twigs behind us can't. “It's called an Eliminator. Well, I mean, I call it that, anyway.”

She rolls her eyes, as if I don't know it's cheesy. I know it, but when you haven't slept for over a year, yeah, you find cheesy things to name cheesy things so you don't go stark, raving mind. That, and I never in a million years pictured myself sitting on a park bench in another beach town showing off a weapon to some Normal chick with a backpack full of zombie books.

She nods toward it, eyes wide. “How's it work?”

“Well, the ice pick goes in the ear, killing the brain instantly. The scalpel cuts off the head, just to make sure.”

She's so still I feel the need to say something more, if only to convince myself. “In theory, anyway.”

Her frown tells me that was probably the wrong ad to lib.

“What? You haven't killed a live Zerker yet?”

I'm about to correct her when she says, “You know what I mean—a moving Zerker?”

“Well, I was still in training when they Vanished me, so—”

“You mean banished.”

“No, I mean Vanished. But it's kind of the same thing.”

She looks at me expectantly.

I sigh and look toward the palm trees, squinting into the yellow darkness but see nothing, hear nothing.

I look back at her. “Basically, I got kicked out of Sentinel City.”

I kind of worry I've said too much already, but she's still listening and, besides, who is she going to tell . . . that would believe her, anyway?

“It's, well, it doesn't matter. When they kick you out, they call it being Vanished. So I never finished my training or got to actually, you know, ice pick and decapitate a real Zerker.”

“So, like, you're not even an official zombie?”

I shake my head. “It's a long story—”

There. Right there. I heard another one. I stand, senses on high alert, Eliminator at my side, forget whether or not they can see it. In fact, screw that. I
want
them to see it. Stupid Zerkers.

Lucy moves too, her velour jumpsuit swishing, but I still her with a wave.

She sits, and I turn. The palm trees sway against the yellowish sky. Shadows and shapes form just beyond the line of trees behind us.

Shit, this
was
a stupid move.

Really stupid. And now I've got a Normal along for the ride.

Another twig snaps, and a leg appears, a running shoe attached, lemon-yellow jogging shorts, white hoodie, all blood splattered.

Lucy has turned around. “It's . . . It's him.
Armand
Suit. The exchange student.” The fear rolls off her in waves.

It's one thing to buy a bunch of zombie books and slap some edgy skull stickers on your messenger bag, but to stand there staring one in the face, well, that's a whole other story.