Kiss of Life (22 page)

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Margi had seen him too. "You going to go practice your ninja skills with Adam now?" she said.

Phoebe started, but it was just a question. Sometimes she forgot that she hadn't told Margi what had happened. She got out of the car and watched her frosted breath curl in the air before her. Adam was just a vague shadow in the darkness, a flickering ghost half seen through the ambient glow of Margi's headlights.

"No," she said after a time. "I think he's probably pretty deep into it by now. You know how intense he gets."

Margi rolled down her window as Phoebe slammed the door.

"You guys are okay, right?"

Please, Phoebe thought, let's not spoil the evening. "We're fine."

Margi looked at her a long moment. "Thanks for coming today," she said, finally.

Phoebe leaned down and gave her an awkward half-hug through the open window, reaching over to grip Colette's shoulder as well.

"Thanks for having me after all," she said. "You guys are really good friends."

Margi waited until she was on her steps before backing out. Phoebe waved to them from the steps, and then she waved to Adam, but she couldn't tell if he waved back through the darkness.

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CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

"TOME OF THE
Undead Studies students said that they've seen you working here at the foundation." Angela had this trick she did when they were in session, where she sort of cocked her head while brushing her long hair behind her ear with her fingers. Pete thought it was supposed to signify how interested she was in what he was saying. "Am I supposed to start talking about that?" She smiled at him.

"I don't know what to say. Am I supposed to hide or something when they come?"

She shifted in her seat. "I don't know. Do you think you should?"

He sighed. "No."

"Don't you think your presence might be ...upsetting to some of them?"

"Maybe. So you think I should hide."

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"I don't think we're talking about hiding. I think we're talking about not making yourself so ...conspicuous."

He hated the pauses in her speech. It made her sound like a worm burger. "Conspicuous."

"You were staring at them when they arrived at the foundation the other day, Pete. I would call that ...making yourself conspicuous."

"Fine. I'll make myself scarce when they're here."

She held his gaze. "Why were you staring at them, Pete?"

He shrugged.

"Is it because you want to say something to someone?"

"Like who?"

"Adam? Or Phoebe?"

"What would I say to either of them?"

"I don't know. What would you?"

He shifted in his seat. "What, you think I should apologize or something?"

She didn't answer, her smile and gaze remained steady.

"If you are asking me if I feel bad about what happened to Adam, if I'm, like,
remorseful,
the answer is yes. Yes, I'm sorry he died."

She nodded.

"I wasn't trying to hurt him. Her, either. They were just in the way."

"In the way?"

"Yes, in the way." He looked right at her. "In front of the corpsicle.

"Tommy.

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He shrugged.

"Why do you think you're so angry with Tommy, Pete?"

"We've already been through all this."

"Please sit down. Let's go through it again, okay?"

"Okay." He sat down. He hadn't really been aware of standing in the first place. "Okay, fine. I don't like zombies. I hate zombies. We talked about a girl I used to know, Julie, and how she died and she didn't come back and that probably fuels my anger. We talked about how my parents are separated and my father doesn't have any time for me and how I don't approve of my mother's choices or her second husband. These facts, or so you seem to think, contribute to what you consider to be my irrational hatred of zombies."

She nodded, her smile widening, as though they were getting somewhere. Pete couldn't wait until his six months were up.

He sighed. "So now we know ... we sort of know ...why I hate zombies. But I don't know what to do about it. I see them and I start getting angry all over again. I know it isn't rational. I know that they--the zombies, I mean--aren't really responsible for what happened to Julie. But I don't know what to do about it."

He looked back at her, afraid he'd laid it on too thick. He knew it was important for Angela to think her ridiculous "therapy" was rehabilitating him. Duke had been right, it was stupid for him to try and intimidate the necrophiliacs like he had been; Angela must have seen him on one of the security tapes. Stupid.

He looked at her, affecting a hangdog, contrite expression while trying not to overdo it.

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"Pete," she said, "I think it's time we start discussing some coping strategies for you to deal with your feelings about zombies."

He made as if the tension was slowly going out of his shoulders.

"I'd like that. I really would."

He hoped that she didn't notice him gritting his teeth the moment the words were out.

Pete cursed under his breath as some of the bleach slopped over the sides of the mop basin. The wringer didn't want to slide onto its mounting. He kicked it and it clattered to the ground. "Tough session?"

Pete started. Duke stood behind him, his large frame leaning against the wall. Normally the echo of Duke's heels filled the corridors he patrolled, but when he wanted to, the big man could move in total silence.

"Oh, it was great."

Duke laughed. He reached for the mop wringer and planted it effortlessly in place on the side of the rolling bucket. "I can tell. Isn't head-shrinking fun?"

"I'll be done with it in a few weeks."

"Sure." Duke pushed the bucket to him with the toe of his boot. Bleach water sloshed over the sides and onto Pete's shoes. "Oops, better mop that up. So you think you'll be all done hating zombies when it's over?"

Pete dunked his mop, then wrung it out. "I love zombies."

"I can tell."

Pete let the mop fall against the cement wall. "Look, is there

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a point to all your insinuations? Every time I come out of my sessions, I try to get to work right away and not bother anybody. And every day, you have something to say to me. Except I never know what you're saying."

There was a flicker of amusement on the pale man's face. "No?"

"No, I don't. Except you seem to be interested in what goes on in there." He ducked his head in the direction of Angela's office down the hall.

"True, very true."

"Well, why the hell should you care? Don't you have anything better to do than mess with me?" "Sure I do," Duke said. "Like hunting." "Hunting? What do you mean, hunting? Like, animals?" "Domestic animals, mostly."

"Domestic ...?" Pete stopped. He'd heard about the recent pet disappearances around town. The papers had been quick to blame the zombies.

Duke's smile had grown wider. "A whole bunch of them have died in town recently."

"What are you saying? That you ...that you killed them?"

Duke shrugged.

"You
killed those dogs? Not the zombies?"

"Dog. One dog. A couple cats. Mostly it was just creative use of roadkill."

"You're serious? You killed them?" Pete laughed. "Why?"

Duke shrugged, a gesture of false modesty. "Doesn't matter who kills them. It matters who gets blamed."

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Pete couldn't believe what he was hearing. He knew Duke was sick, he just didn't know how sick.

"The zombies. The zombies get blamed."

Duke clapped his hand on Pete's shoulder and squeezed. "Of course the zombies get blamed. They're already out there causing trouble, acting clever with these little pranks they're pulling, the graffiti and the stupid posters. They think they're being cute, 'raising consciousness' or whatever, but that kind of activity just scares decent living folk. It isn't that much of a stretch to picture them killing the family pet, is it?"

"I don't even believe it. I don't even believe you're the one."

"Believe it." Duke let go of his shoulder. "Even better, it's your good buddy that's going to be left holding the bag on the crimes."

"My good buddy?"

Duke brought his hand up to his cheek, a gesture Pete instinctively copied, and he felt the rough threads of his stitches beneath his fingers.

"Yeah, your buddy. He's the main prankster."

"Good," Pete said, lowering his hand, "I'd love to see that scary dead bastard get his."

Duke raised an eyebrow so high it was almost comical.

"You would?" He leaned in close enough for Pete to smell the spearmint on his breath. "How badly?"

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CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

From: [email protected] To: [email protected] Hey Phoebe--

Here's my latest "adventure." I'd really appreciate it if you could check it over for mistakes before posting it.

How is everybody? Still dead?

Love,

Tommy

DEATH ON TWO LEGS: Aftermath

I stopped at Aftermath during my stay in New York City, which I'm told has more zombies per capita than any other place in the country. If that rather unscientific statement is true, they must all stay in the club itself, because I didn't see any zombies on the streets of New York. Either that or the zombies I did see were indistinguishable from the traditionally biotic people.

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Readers of this blog know that at times I have been critical of Skip Slydell and his company, Slydellco, who I have seen as profiteering off the undead without regard for the repercussions of that profiteering. I've been concerned that his cosmetics and clothing trivialize our cause rather than advance it, but after meeting Skip in his club I'm convinced that that isn't his intention. I won't go as far as to say that I am a supporter, but he isn't the greedy robber baron I originally pegged him for. His methods may be suspect, but I do think he has undead interests at heart.

Aftermath is in an unassuming three-story building off the Bowery. In much of his media material, Skip calls the club evidence of a "cultural revolution." Typical Skip, he goes too far with his own hyperbole--but it's hard to deny that some form of cultural change is taking place there.

The club departs from the typical cavelike, warehouse decor of most clubs, favoring instead bright primary colors that cover every visible surface (with the exception of the corridor to the bathrooms, but I'II get to that later).

"You have to go with what's stimulating to people," Skip told me as we sat on leather chairs in a small office he keeps above the DJ booth. "Dead kids like light, they like color, they like three hundred beats per minute. We've done theme parties, ones where we keep the houselights on for the whole dance. Living kids, they dance in the dark. Why? The dark is exciting to them. It's thrilling. Dead kids, some of them spent too much time in the dark, alone. They don't want to be back there. I went to a rave in an old brick warehouse a few weeks ago

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looking for ideas. I looked around and said: I'm in a crypt. Some of these kids have actually been in crypts; who wants to dance in one?

"Take our furniture. All overstuffed, comfortable. Velour. Fake fur on a lot of the pillows with nice bright colors. Soft things, comforting things."

I ask him how the club makes any money when it runs twenty four hours. Earlier in the day I talked to Simon from White Plains, a zombie who told me he'd been at the club for "at least six days."

"Yeah, we have about twenty-five people living here," Skip said, and for a moment I think he's going to dodge the question. "I have outside funding," Skip tells me. "You'd be surprised how many people, people with means, are sympathetic to the plight of the undead. I get money from Hollywood, I get money from Washington. I kick money from my product line into the kitty; we're set up as a not-for-profit. The labor is all volunteer; the expenses are low. Electricity and rent are our biggest headaches."

"What do you do if a dead kid can't pay the cover?" I asked.

"We let him in," Skip said, smiling. "Living or dead. Well take a partial donation if they can't pay up in full. The living kids always, always have the money, though. And they all buy T-shirts and snacks while they're here. It works."

We watched a band called Skeleton Crew performing from the window of his office. The members all hail

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from New Jersey, and, their lead singer, DeCayce, is dead.

"I don't pay the bands either," Skip said, as we watched Skeleton Crew launch into the first of a set of eight songs, which were an interesting mix of the band's competent speed punk with DeCayce's slow, dirgelike vocals that hover like the wings of bats. "They play for exposure."

I ask Skip if there's really that much exposure to be found within the walls of Aftermath, which some people may never leave.

He thought the question was funny.

"It's an investment," he said, "I think it's a good one. Cultural credit is different from financial credit; you build cultural credit by trading credit with other brands and products in the hopes that they add to your own."

I'm told I have a good poker face, but Skip could see my confusion.

"Look," he said, "did Michael Jordan make Nike, or did Nike make Michael Jordan? And does it matter?"

Skip has a real Michael Jordan fixation, I've noticed, even though the man has been retired for years. He pointed out a few kids in the audience who were wearing shirts that had the Skeleton Crew symbol, a yellow smiling skull emoticon.

"It's like when certain designer clothes started appearing in retail stores, the stuff was getting shoplifted by the closet load. The designers thought they had a real problem, but then they