Dearly, Beloved (39 page)

We passed the time chatting. He had a lot of questions. “Why do you call that kid ‘Dog’?”

“Well, he can’t talk, can’t write, can’t read. Can’t tell us his name. He took to following me around, so everyone started calling him my dog. It stuck.”

“Okay. Where’d you guys get your gang name?” Coalhouse asked. “Grave House, was it?”

“They said the gang that held the house before we did buried the bodies of their enemies under the floorboards. I don’t think it’s true, though.” He didn’t respond. “How long have you been dead?” The usual zombie
how-do-you-do
.

Coalhouse rested his elbow on the window ledge, driving with one hand on the wheel. “More than a year.”

Nodding, I waited for him to go on. He didn’t. Trying again, I asked, “Where are you from?”

“Little Punk town. Only child. My parents own a dry goods store.”

“You must miss them.”

“All the time.”

Something in his tone told me that he wanted to ask questions, not answer them. Turning to the window, I lowered the shoulders of my gown, careful to maintain my modesty even as I offered my plants some light.

“You’re literally pushing up daisies,” he said. I’d never thought
of that, and I giggled. It was the first time I’d laughed in days, and I instantly felt guilty for it. Coalhouse smiled a little, too, before looking at my face—then he sobered and turned his eyes to the road. “Can you feel them inside of you?”

“No. I wish I could. It’d probably tickle. I think maybe the roots are messing with my legs, though. I’m not sure how to fix that. I started the whole thing on a whim.”

“Huh.”

“I’ve always had a green thumb, just no land. I used to grow flowers in pots in the den, but whenever Claudia found them …” I studied the dirt under my fingernails. “She’d destroy them. But I like giving life to things. Like I did to Mártira.”

“What do you mean?”

For whatever reason, I decided to share. “Claudia and I were bitten, but Mártira never was. It wasn’t until later that she got the idea to drink my blood, get the Laz that way. Took it into herself one night, so she could stay with us. So we’d go together.”

“She drank your blood?” Coalhouse boggled. “Willingly?”

“Yes.” I looked at him. “It was the most beautiful thing she ever did. Like something out of an old book. Like a magic spell.”

“Come now, child,” Abuelo said, groggily speaking up. “Mártira opted t’become one of us ’cause she didn’t want t’be chased out of her own gang by the dead. You know she meant t’make us a mob of monsters, at first. Living woman couldn’t lead that.”

My voice faltered, and I wrenched myself around to look at him. “That’s not true,” I said, willing myself to believe it. She was gone, and I would not have anything about her altered. “She did it for me!”

Suddenly, Coalhouse slammed on the brakes. Facing backward, I was unprepared for the abrupt stop. My canteen tumbled from my lap and I wrapped my fingers around my seat belt to keep my balance. Abuelo swore. “What’s goin’ on?”

I looked outside. At least a score of dark, armored, official-looking
carriages were outpacing us, flanking us on either side. A few of them were equipped with flashing lights and sirens, and it put me in mind of the times police raids had been conducted on the den. My chest tightened, but not with fear.

This was it. It was going to end.

“I
told
her,” Coalhouse grunted, putting the carriage in park.

“Are they going to arrest Hagens?” I asked, a shrill note entering my voice.

“I don’t know.” He stared at the vehicles, then swore viciously. “Those aren’t cops. That’s the army!”

“What?” I turned back around. “So you didn’t tell them?”

Coalhouse gave me a frightened look. “What are you talking about?”

“What’s all this talk, then?” Abuelo echoed, confused.

All at once my hopes died. What was Coalhouse
doing
?

Dog awoke, fitful. I retrieved the canteen and poured out a lidful of water for the boy, my hands shaking. As I leaned into the back half of the carriage to give it to him, Abuelo met my eyes and mouthed,
S’all right, child
.

I wanted to say,
No, it’s not
. But I only nodded.

We were in the carriage for three hours altogether. I couldn’t see what was happening up ahead, but I did see army men outside, patrolling the convoy—making sure nobody ran away, I assumed. After a while Coalhouse began to talk again, his voice newly nervous. He told us how he’d been hunted and killed by the bald monster known as Tom, and how he’d gone on to distinguish himself in Company Z. “Hagens would tell you. She was in the army with us.”

I didn’t want to talk about her, and tried to change the subject. “How’d you get the name ‘Coalhouse’?”

On that point, he paused. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “My mom just always called me that. I think he may have been an old singer.” He looked at me almost shyly. “Laura’s a pretty name.”

Frustrated, scared, this simple compliment almost caused me to burst into angry sobs. Before I could say anything, though, someone rapped on my window. Twisting around, I saw it was a soldier.

“Let me talk,” Coalhouse said as he lowered the window.

“Names?” the soldier barked. At Coalhouse’s direction, we gave them.

“Laura Cicatriz?” the soldier verified, squinting at me. “Step out of the carriage, please.”

“No!” Coalhouse leaned across me, and I felt my skin crawling, trying to flush. “I mean, she can’t speak to a man alone.”

The soldier outside put his hand to his holstered gun. “Back away, sir. And leave your window open.”

“I’m ex-army, man. I can give you my ID number.”

“I don’t care if you’re the great-great-great-great-great-grandson of Houdini. You’re a bloody zombie,” the soldier replied, unbuckling the holster of his gun. Coalhouse’s eye widened. “Miss, exit the vehicle.”

Coalhouse flashed me a worried look but did as he was ordered. I tumbled out of the broken-down carriage and took a few steps away from it, holding up my gown.

“Hands where I can see them, miss?” the soldier said. He was young and dark-haired. “No offense.”

I slid my fists to the front of my stomach. “What do you want from me?”

“Just to verify some details.” He held up a hand and leaned to the side, listening to a buzzing comm unit in his ear. “Sorry. Can you describe the nature of this group?”

Oh, God
. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know which lies I was supposed to parrot. What had Hagens told him? What was I supposed to say?

And why was I thinking of toeing the line instead of telling
him the truth? This was my chance. I should already have been screaming it at the top of my lungs, terrifying and unstoppable.

“Miss?”

I snuck a look back at the carriage. Dog was leaning out of the window, his eyes like saucers. Abuelo had him around the waist. What would happen to them if I told, now, with no plan in place? What if a fight broke out, what if the living got hurt or zombies were shot? This world was all I’d ever known. Right now it was a horrible place, but it was still all I’d ever known.

Uncertainty and fear tore like buckshot through what little courage I’d ever had.

“We’re a group of peaceful zombies,” I heard myself say. “We hold protests to raise awareness and gatherings to raise money.”

The soldier nodded. “Why are you on the move? Where are you going?”

“North. To find a safe place to stay.”

“Do you know if any among you has committed a crime?” I actually laughed—I couldn’t help myself. “Miss?”

Despair robbed me of my ability to be vague. Looking at the soldier I said, “Where do you want me to start? There are whores and cons and peddlers of all sorts of things here. But …” It almost pained me to say. “It’s not illegal to protest, it’s not illegal to beg. It’s not illegal to be dead. The only thing I can imagine you’d want to know about is the death of my sister, Mártira. She was shot in the head. And because we’re criminals, we didn’t report it. I’m sure you know me because someone mentioned it.” I wasn’t, but I played my card anyway.

The soldier eyed me, but then secured his weapon once more. “I’m sorry for your loss.” And thus began the real round of questioning. Had I seen Mártira’s body, seen anything suspicious—I had. And I lied. I lied about it all, and hated myself for it.

At the end, the soldier dipped his head at the carriage and said,
“You can go back in.” I ran to it. The moment I was safely inside, everyone started questioning me. I gave them no answers. I was too heartsick to try. That’d been my opportunity. I knew I wouldn’t get another.

It was Coalhouse now, or nothing.

After another hour, the soldiers left. Coalhouse and I climbed out of the carriage. Zombies started unloading from the other vehicles, stretching their legs, trading stories and angry theories, complaining about how the army had rifled through their belongings. I heard Hagens shouting my name, far off, and knew at least they hadn’t taken her. No one else had betrayed her either.

When she got so close she could no longer be ignored, Coalhouse spoke up. “She’s over here!” He glanced at me apologetically, and leaned against the front of his carriage.

Hagens came rushing over and took me by the arms. She got right to the point. “Did you tell them anything?”

“No, she didn’t,” Coalhouse said. I was starting to grow truly confused. He gave me up one moment, then defended me the next. “And I told you people would come.”

Hagens pushed me roughly away. “Keep it that way.” She nodded at Coalhouse. “I know. We might be able to work together after all.”

“Good. Army going to do anything?”

“Oh, they already have. Arrested a couple of people to question about the attempt to fetch Smoke. Which means we now have less time than I thought. We’ll talk later.”

Coalhouse moved closer to me as Hagens stalked away. Before he could say anything, I hobbled off as fast as my legs would let me, climbing into his carriage again and slamming the door. I wrapped my arms around my head to shut everyone out and leaned against the closed window, the glass warm from the sun.

It was only then that I noticed my shoulders were finally sprouting.

Two days after receiving Lopez’s background info, I decided that I had to speak to my father. He said he’d be back from his latest sojourn to the police station around eleven, and so I left Nora in her room with our textbooks and went to greet him, Isambard joining me. The folded-up pages were in my pocket, and I’d finally worked up the courage to hand them over, to talk to him about the idea of going.

I didn’t get the opportunity, though. When Dad arrived, he barely responded to our presence. When I showed him the papers, he smiled, but his smile was all wrong. He waved us off, telling us to go rest, and climbed the stairs to Aunt Gene’s room to find my mother.

Instinctively, Issy and I followed. When he shut the door in our faces we remained standing in front of it, alone in the portrait-lined hallway.

Behind the door, our parents started to talk. Then they fought. As we listened, long minutes dragging by, I wrapped my arms around an increasingly miserable Isambard. When Mom started crying and I heard my father shout, “I will not let a strange man swoop in and play white knight for
my
family! I don’t want any
man’s charity!” I found the strength to take my brother by the shoulders and move him in the direction of Nora’s room. Upon entering, I found her donning her light spring coat and hat.

I shut the door. She turned to look, at once guilty. “Pamma …”

“Whatever we’ve caught you doing, listen to us first,” I said.

She paused, troubled for a new reason. “Are you all right?”

“No.” It amazed me how much disgust and anger and pain could be channeled into one almost emotionless word. Everything currently in my heart and my head and my life could be easily summed up with “no.”

“What’s going on?” In the silence that followed her question, I helped Isambard sit on the floor. Nora didn’t quiz us further, moving to join my brother on the pink rug.

Isambard was all eyes. “Mr. Delgado is still missing. He went on a job and didn’t come home. And the police aren’t
doing
anything, just like they’re not doing anything for us—is it because we’re not rich, do you think? Because the Delgados are poor? Is that it?”

“Not doing anything?” Nora asked.

“Dad said the police don’t know anything more. They said with all the stuff going on in the city, they’re swamped. That everything’s going slowly.”

Nora sighed. “Great.”

“That’s not all of it.” It almost hurt to speak, but I knew it was up to me to do so. Issy shouldn’t have to repeat what we’d just heard. Before I could begin my dark recitation, however, Issy opened his mouth again, looking at the floor all the while.

“Mom decided to call our aunt and uncle and ask if we could come and stay with them out in the country, while Dad waits for the insurance stuff to go through,” he began. His left eye was starting to blacken, and I wondered what was going on inside him. “They said no.”

“Why?” Nora asked.

I took over, my voice hoarse. “Because they have a baby, and they told Mom that they didn’t want Issy to
eat
him.” Isambard shut his eyes. “And they said they’re good Christian people, so they couldn’t possibly allow a demon-possessed walking corpse anywhere near their house. They said that the scientists have it wrong, and that Isambard is actually a demon, and that we’re all going to Hell for harboring the devil’s child. Oh, and they’ll pray for us. I find that enormously comforting, don’t you? That completely makes up for the fact that they think my brother is a sign of the End Times.”