A Living Dead Love Story Series (11 page)

“Take you, for example,” Dane says. “You wake up yesterday morning, all was right with the world. You go to school, eat your lunch, gossip with Hazel; you're the All-American Girl. But for whatever reason you
stupidly
decide to go jogging in a thunderstorm and, zap, you're struck by lightning. That's Reanimation in the First Degree. You, personally, received a pure dose of millions of volts of electricity and went from being alive to being undead. However it happened to us—to you, to me, to Chloe—we were all three Reanimated in the First Degree.”

“Zerkers,” says Chloe, “aren't born; they're made. In other words, some zombie who was Reanimated in the First Degree turned them. So they're not born of pure energy; they're Reanimated in the
Second
Degree.”

“Sort of like when a vampire turns one of us, and we're never as strong as he is, or powerful, or—?”

“Not quite,” Dane says with a sour expression. “For one, there are no vampires. What are you, crazy? That's pure fiction. Second, Zerkers are usually more powerful than we are because rather than ordering animal brains from Harvey at the all-night deli, they get them straight from the source.”

“What, like, the cattle processing plant?”

“More like some poor soul's skull,” Chloe says. “Zerkers rob fresh graves; they dig up the dead; and, when they're feeling
really
destructive, they feed on the living, too.”

“You mean, Zerkers kill …people? Like, real, live …human people?”

“Not just human people, Maddy.” Chloe rubs the spot between her eyes right above her nose. “Zerkers like to stalk people; they actually
enjoy
killing people. They pick somebody close to them, say, a neighbor, or a cashier at their favorite grocery store—”

“Or someone in their Home Ec class,” Dane says pointedly, but I'm too overwhelmed, too shocked, to process that particular scenario.

“Or someone in Home Ec class,” Chloe continues. “And they'll toy with them for awhile, you know, like a cat with a mouse. Stalk them for a few days, bump into them in class, pop in on them in the graveyard—any of this sounding familiar yet? Anyway, they basically try to scare the pants off of them, and then when this person—or student—can't take it anymore, when their brain is literally frazzled, the Zerker strikes, chomp, and …good-bye, brain.”

Dane takes over. “They say the hunt, the chase—all that fear—makes the brain more electrified so that when they finally crack open their victim's skull and scoop it out, the brain is twice as powerful as if they'd snuck up on somebody and conked them over the head.”

Suddenly I'm thinking of Hazel, of all those empty seats in Home Ec, of the Curse—and who might
really
be behind it. “Who would
do
such a thing?” I ask, not really expecting an answer.

Dane slams on the brakes and the truck fishtails, the end swinging around to the left as we dig into a slide in the middle of the road. I look to see what made Dane brake, only to see Bones and Dahlia standing in the middle of the road.

“Who would
do
such a thing?” Chloe says, flinging open her passenger side door and leaping into the road before the truck has even stopped moving. “You're looking at ‘em.”

“Fancy meeting you three here.” Bones cackles, rubbing his large, pale hands together like he's getting ready to dig into an all-you-can-eat brains buffet.

Beside him, Dahlia looks petite but powerful in her all-black outfit and higher-than-normal heels. Under the waning moonlight, their skin is almost porcelain white, the hollows under their eyes deep pools of sadness, fear, and death.

“What do you want, Bones?” Dane says, rising from the truck almost casually and standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Chloe. There's a relaxed but practiced manner to their movements, like maybe they've done this before. I join them on the road, hanging slightly back, just in case.

Bones takes a step toward me. “Why, what we've wanted all along, Dane. Her, of course.”

Chloe steps in front of me while Dane moves to my side. “Nice try,” Chloe says. “She's already been assimilated, Bones. You're too late, as usual.”

“Assimilated,” Dahlia says, as if she's uttering a curse word. “Like
that
matters.”

“Maybe it doesn't matter to you Zerkers,” Dane shouts, “but it matters to us zombies.”

“Please.” Bones stands his ground, his white track suit shiny and his eyes grim under his soft white ski cap. “Let the Elders make their rules and we'll make ours. You're in Barracuda Bay now, Dane. The Elders can't help you here.”

“Maybe the Elders can't, Bones, but the Sentinels sure can.”

Bones and Dahlia laugh.

“The Sentinels.” Bones mocks. “The Keystone Cops is more like it; they couldn't catch a Zerker with two hands tied behind his back.”

“Or
her
back,” Dahlia says indignantly.

“Too right,” says Bones distractedly. “Too right. Besides, we're through playing nice. Give us the girl, or the Truce is off.”

“What Truce?” Dane says, spittle flying from his mouth as he steps forward threateningly. “You think we're blind, Bones? You think we don't know what's been going on around here?”

Bones opens his mouth, and a scary smile spreads across his stiff, white face. “Why, whatever do you mean?”

“The
students
, Bones,” Chloe says. Then she starts ticking them off one by one, as if she's crawled inside my head and onto my bedroom wall and is reading them off my very own grave rubbings. “Amy Jaspers. Sally Kellogg. And now Missy Cunningham. Are you guys
that
stupid? It's not bad enough you go cracking skulls in Barracuda Bay High School, but you have to pick them all from the same class? You didn't think anybody would notice?”

Dahlia smiles, giving nothing—and everything—away. “So what if we did crack a few skulls, Chloe? Like we told your little friend there, they were girls nobody would miss. I mean, it's not like they were popular or anything. And even if they were, what are
you
going to do about it?”

Chloe takes a step toward Bones. “Maybe we can't do anything about it on our own, but the Elders sure can—”

Bones shouts, “Enough with the Elders. So what if we broke the Truce? So what if a few local girls have a few …accidents? Nobody's putting two and two together; nobody's come asking questions, and the Elders couldn't care less. We want the girl, Dane, and we want her now. If you don't hand her over right now, there
will
be consequences.”

“Not happening, Bones,” Chloe shouts just as loudly. “And if you break the Truce again, know this: there
will
be consequences.”

Bones and Dahlia look at each other and shrug.

“Don't say we didn't warn you, zombies,” Bones says as he retreats back into the woods near the side of the road.

“Just remember, Maddy,” Dahlia whispers forcefully before following Bones. “They can't protect you all the time. Sooner or later, you're going to have to face us alone. And
then
whose empty stool will Hazel be staring at in Home Ec?”

W
E'RE ALL STILL
silent when Dane pulls the truck onto Pompano Lane. A few houses before ours, I say, “Here's fine,” and he stops; no arguing, no fussing, just applies the brakes.

I move to my left to get out of the passenger side, but Chloe is showing no signs of moving anytime soon. Although I have all of eternity stretching out in front of me, I'm still pretty impatient to get out of this truck once and for all tonight.

Dane sighs and slides out of the driver's seat. He extends a hand to help me out, and I take it, feeling once again how cold it is.

“Is mine that cold, too?” I ask self-consciously.

He nods slowly, almost like he's embarrassed to admit it. “Here's the thing I've found, though,” he whispers. “If I'm going to meet someone new, and I know it ahead of time, I rub my hands together for a few minutes first or, if that's going to be too obvious, I'll sit on them; that way at least they warm up enough not to raise suspicions.”

“Thanks for the tip,” I say sincerely.

Then there's this awkward little moment when we're both still standing there, with no reason to be and nothing to say. The sky is turning a kind of amber as the veil of darkness lifts and the blue of morning takes its place.

It's quite beautiful, actually, and the stark light causes dramatic shadows to form under Dane's prominent cheekbones. They're so beautiful I want to touch them, and I almost reach out a hand to, but then …I don't.

And just like that, the moment is over. He climbs into the truck and slides away without a sound.

I watch them drive off and then hear a quick blurt of brakes followed by a low whirr of reverse as the truck swings back into view. Dane backs up, slows to a stop, and holds out the little cooler through the window.

“Don't forget your brains.” He smiles before driving off again.

As I round the corner, I'm crossing my fingers that Dad will have been called out on an early run and his car won't be there and, and …there it is, snug and sound. At least when I get in he's in the shower, singing some old ‘80s pop song at the top of his lungs, which gives me time to unload the brains, empty the cooler, hide it in the garage, and prepare to be totally, thoroughly disgusted.

The brains are cold (thanks for all that ice, Dane) and big, much bigger than I'd imagined them to be. Harvey has sliced them up nice and thick. I cut off what looks like a pound of brains onto a paper plate. Then I look at it and think,
Okay, no
.

I mean, not that I won't eat the brains—because I have to, right? But …brain accessories, please? I know I'm not supposed to cook them; I get that part, but
The Guide
doesn't say anything about
not
using spices or herbs.

So naturally I dash on a little light soy sauce for good measure, throw on some things I find in the spice cabinet over the stove: oregano, thyme, salt, pepper from a grinder—you know, all the Food Channel basics. There's some crushed garlic in the fridge, a little relish to go on top of that, some olives, and a tube of sesame seeds, until, finally, it looks like the poor little pound of brains is wearing a spice helmet.

So I stop and even scrape off a few of the dozen or so garlic mounds, swirl the seasonings around, and …
chomp
. Now, here's the thing about brains: they're chewy. And not like fun, sweet, enjoyably chipper bubble gum chewy, either.

Like, gristle chewy; plastic-straw chewy; piece-of-shell-in-your-crab-salad chewy; shoelace-tip chewy (not that I would know, but still, you catch my drift).

And as for the taste? Kind of earthy; you know, like liver pâté or dark meat when you're having seconds of Thanksgiving turkey and it's all that's left because your stupid uncle Harvey is a pig and the hostess, your aunt Harriet, is too cheap to buy a bird big enough for eight people.

Now, the brain's an organ, right? So why
shouldn't
it be chewy? Still, chewy or not, once I start chewing, I can't stop; I mean, suddenly I realize I haven't eaten any human food since my grilled cheese sandwich the night before and I. Am. Famished.

Chewy as they are, I know my suspicions about becoming a zombie are correct when I gobble them up, whole, without retching even once. (This from a girl who gags when she even
drives by
a raw bar.)

If zombies need brains to keep going, then it's official: I. Am. A. Zombie.

Heartbeat or no, I've never felt so …
alive
…before. The brains, they are …intoxicating, electrifying, rejuvenating. I feel like I've inhaled 15 Red Bulls at one shot—without the after-crash. Or like the runner's high I get sometimes—without the running.

It goes down a lot—a
lot
—faster than I thought it would. Believe it or not, I'm so ravenous for the gray matter, I grab the first bag of brains, lop off a second pound, and eat it straight up. No chaser—not a single spice. No garlic cloves, no salt, not even a little pepper or soy sauce to cut the chewy, musky, organ-y taste. No fork or knife, either; just standing right there over the sink, gnawing on these little gray brains, chomping away caveman style like those guys who enter the all-you-can-eat buffalo wing contests on TV.

Halfway through my over-the-sink cerebrum pig-out, I hear some kind of animal sounds, like a distant groaning. No, not quite groaning—more like growling. That's it! Like a German shepherd when you get between him and his bowl.

Then I realize it's no animal. It's
me
doing all that growling.

I try to picture myself there at the sink, 17-year-old girl in her flip-flops and yoga pants, a high ponytail to cover the half-dollar-sized black mole in the middle of her head, brain juice oozing down her forearms toward her rolled-up hoodie sleeves as she chomps, chews, gnashes, gnaws on a pound of brains straight from the butcher bag, growling like some dog with a bone.

Sexy, huh?

I swallow, quickly, and wash my hands all the way up to and past the elbows,
Grey's Anatomy
style. I dry them off with a dishrag and am tossing out my second paper plate of the morning when I realize, well …that won't do.

What if Dad comes out of his shower and sees the full trash and wants to recycle, and as he's sorting the trash finds brains all over the paper plate?

So I groan and empty the trash, lugging it out to the curb while looking around to see if maybe the neighbors can somehow see through the can and spot the brain crumbs drying as we speak. Nope. So far, so good.

I go back inside and hear Dad whistling in his room. Okay, coast's clear, for now. I risk a quick shower, skipping washing my hair, and then grab my usual school uniform: khaki slacks, white blouse, high collar, black flats, a pomegranate scarf around the waist for color.