A Living Dead Love Story Series (21 page)

She looks …bad. My stomach drops. Even from across the room, I can see the fresh bite marks on her shoulder where her rapid pace makes her roomy peasant blouse bunch and gather, then unbunch and ungather.

Oh God; oh God, no. Not Hazel; not
my
Hazel.

“Get away from him, Maddy,” she shouts, spittle flying, eyes wide, cold and—yellow. Flashlight-in-the-dark yellow. Black-cat's-eye yellow. Zerker yellow.

Oh God, not her, too.

In a flash, everything is gone. All of it. Everything we've built together—wasted, utterly and truly abandoned. I picture Hazel as I first met her: pigtails then, pigtails now; a little frilly pink dress as we drew on the sidewalk with pink and blue chalk. (Guess which color she chose?)

I think of all the firsts we've shared since then: first day of junior high, first locker combinations, first periods (and not the kind you go to when the bell rings, either), first kisses, first crushes, first sips of beer at Rob Blonsky's pool party, first driver's license exams, first—everything.

I can't imagine a time when Hazel and I
weren't
sharing firsts together; I've known her for most of the years I've been alive—and now neither of us is alive. And even now, suddenly, I can't stand the sight of her.

Knowing what she is, knowing what Bones and Dahlia have done to her, what they've made her, how—ugly—they've made her, the sight of her clenching white jaws and glowing yellow eyes makes me want to look away, to deny her, to deny all those firsts.

But I can't. Even now, she's still my best friend.

Stamp stands up, his chair flying back into the table behind us with a clattering explosion of plastic and metal. As Mrs. Witherspoon and the Art Chicks watch on in amazement, Hazel launches herself across the table at me. (I mean, this is some serious soap opera shit right here.)

Stamp is fast but not fast enough. I am, though. With my new strength, I grab her wrists with one hand and the back of her neck with the other, slamming her—hard—into the table. With her face hanging down off the table, I lean in and whisper into her ear, “I know what you've done; I know what they did to you. Back off, Hazel; you're not up to this.”

She hisses, spits, and I stand up, inch away so she's out of range before releasing her. Then I shove Stamp out of the way as she bolts upright and wheels around. It feels wrong, unnatural, taking sides with Stamp against my best friend, but I've already seen what the Zerker strain did to Scurvy. If it's going to do that to Hazel, she's already gone. But then a strange thing happens. Suddenly a little of the old Hazel is back—the popular one, the one who takes extracurricular activities to round out her college applications, the people pleaser, the teacher pleaser.

With Stamp safe behind me and the Art Chicks clustered in the other corner of the room protected by a quivering Mrs. Witherspoon, Hazel stands up, straightens her frilly dress, tucks a strand of red hair behind her pink ear, and says, “I'm sorry about that little …display …Mrs. Witherspoon. I don't know what got into me. Stamp, if you'll be so kind, the Decorating Committee needs your …help.”

Without asking for permission, Hazel yanks Stamp from the class. He goes willingly, not looking back. In their wake, I'm left to clean up the pieces, and now I'm no longer the Maddy Mrs. Witherspoon, or even the Art Chicks, knew. Busted, I slip from class, ignoring Mrs. Witherspoon's protests and waving Ms. Haskins' pad full of free hall passes in her face on my way out the door.

I chase after Hazel, catching her as she rounds the C-wing corner headed for the commons. “Hazel!”

She turns, whispers something to Stamp, and shoves him in the general direction of the student parking lot.

“Stamp?” I whimper, but he only pauses, giving me those “it's not my fault” eyes before turning and scampering away.

Hazel turns and takes a battle stance, as if I might follow him and she has the right to stop me. I stop, take one step back. “Whoa,” I say soothingly, still a few yards from her. “Hazel, I just …I want to talk to you. This is …this is crazy.”

She stands her ground, doesn't move a muscle, and already I can see the gray pallor has her, the dark shadows seeming to deepen under her eyes even as she speaks. “What's so crazy, Maddy?”

But even as she waits for the answer, I know nothing I say is going to change what she's become, what we've become.

“This, Hazel. Can't you see?
This
is crazy. You storming in here, dragging Stamp away like some cavewoman. This isn't like you.”

“That's because I'm the new me, Maddy, and there's nothing you can do about it.”

Even as I'm mourning the death of our friendship, she seems almost …happy …about it. She's smiling, and I know it's not to look brave; her smile goes deep down to the heart of her, as if she's glad we don't have to be friends anymore.

“Sure there is, Hazel. I'm still me, dead or alive. I'm still me. I
can
help you; Dane and Chloe can help you, the Elders, the Sentinels …somebody …can help you. You have to fight it, Hazel; fight it for a little while longer so we can get you some help.”

“Fight what, Maddy? Why would I fight feeling this …good? For once in my life, I can be exactly who I want to be and nobody can stop me. Not even you.”

At this, of all things, I laugh. Out loud. “When in the
hell
have you ever not done exactly what you wanted to, Hazel? I mean, you didn't have to become a Zerker to get your own damn way. You've been getting your way since we met.”

Now she takes a step forward, but not to fight; at least, not with her fists anyway. But then again, Hazel was always a warrior with words. “That's what you think I've been doing all this time, Maddy? Getting
my
way? You think I've been doing this all for me? You think being friends with
you
has helped
me?
Bitch, please. You've been holding me back since day one. Why couldn't we have moved onto a street with popular bitches? With cool chicks? You think I enjoy movie night with you every Saturday? You think I enjoy passing up invitations from prettier, more popular girls—and guys—to babysit your sorry ass every weekend? I've been doing
you
a favor, Maddy; but no more. Now it's my time.”

My lips quiver but, of course, no tears come. I take a step forward and she flinches, but I keep coming until we're face-to-face, and I slap her with the open part of my hand. Hard; hard enough to where, if she were still alive, her jaw might crack. Instead, she flinches, and it's my marble hand against her marble skin.

“You take that
back
, Hazel. You take it
all
back, right now. I know you didn't mean it; I know you've been a true friend. You couldn't have been faking it all these years. Know how I know? ‘Cause you're not that good an actress. This is just, just …some …disease making you say all this.”

She doesn't fight back, doesn't rush me and tear my blouse or yank my hair or try to shove me in a freshman locker. She just rubs the place where I slapped her and says, “Bones was right; I really can't feel anything.”

It's like her eyes are empty; like she's already gone. Like nothing we've ever done together, talked about, laughed or cried about is still up there behind those empty yellow eyes. Like it's all been erased for good. “I don't understand how you can be this …brutal.” I whimper, hating myself for saying it, powerless to
not
say it.

Hazel actually laughs; the sound is cruel to start with, but even crueler as it bounces off the floor and wall tiles until I'm in a pure vortex of hateful Hazel laughter. “Bones was right about you, too, Maddy. He said you were weak, and I thought he was wrong. But he was right; you
are
weak. And you had your shot at being a zombie first; now let me show you how it's really done.”

“That's what you think this is, Hazel? A big competition? This is life and death, Hazel; this is forever. You don't go through a Zerker phase and tap out when you're done; you're in it for life. And if you think I'm happy about being the first to die, Jesus, kid, you've got a
lot
to learn.”

“Me?” she says, inching forward before backing away. “We'll see who's teaching who when it's all said and done, Maddy.”

And with that, she's off, turning on her heels and scrambling away in jerky movements. Though I know she can no longer hear me, I shout, “Whom! It's ‘We'll see who's teaching whom.' You never were good in English. I've been carrying
you
for years.”

In her wake, the halls—and my life—are empty.

It's like my own personal Armageddon or something.

I head straight for my locker on hollow legs, planning on grabbing a few books for the weekend and …heading home, hiding out, and trying to forget the last two weeks ever happened. (Damn, has it only been two frickin' weeks?)

I key in my combination, open my locker, and out falls a shiny silver envelope. On the front is my name, my full name:
Madison Emily Swift
. It's written in loopy, feminine script.

For one split second my dead, nonbeating heart thrums to life. I think it's from Hazel—a sorry note or some other heartfelt missive—but then I reason,
How could she apologize in advance for something she just did?

I open it and find these words:

A boot squeak on the hall floor startles me, and when I turn from my open locker, I see Dane and Chloe waiting for me, shiny invitations in their hands, already open and read.

“I guess the Truce is over,” I say.

Dane looks like he just ate a pound of bad brains, then another, just to make sure. “You have no idea.”

D
O
I
REALLY
have to
do
this?” I ask half an hour later, pulling up in front of the Barracuda Bay Sheriff's Office.

“It's the only way, Maddy,” says Dane, who's riding shotgun in my tiny green Honda Civic.

“But it's my dad. What if somebody finds out they're missing? He could lose his job.”

“No one's going to find out, Maddy,” Chloe says from the backseat. “They're just Tasers; three stupid Tasers. It's not like you're breaking into the Pentagon and stealing government secrets or anything.”

“I just don't want my dad to get hurt. I'm done for. That's fine; I get that. But he's still alive. He still needs to eat and make a living and have a roof over his head.”

“For now,” Chloe says.

I whip around. “What does
that
mean?”

Dane touches my shoulder and waits until I turn to face him. “Maddy, if we don't do this, your dad's going to get hurt in a way that can't be reversed. Like Ms. Haskins; like …Hazel. If we don't stop the Zerkers tonight, and stop them dead, this whole town could be infested by morning.”

“Fine,” I say, getting out of the car and slamming the door for good measure.

Inside the sheriff's office, I smile demurely at a few of the folks I know from backyard barbecues or softball games or the annual Cobia County Employee Christmas Party, which Dad drags me to every year.

I get a few odd looks before I remember none of these people have seen Goth Maddy yet. (Oh, the grief Dad will be getting in the break room after this little visit.) My backpack is snug on my arm, emptied of books and papers and folders to make room for the three police-issue Tasers Dane and Chloe want me to steal from the ammunition room.

Dad's office is across from it, but then again Dad's office is also across from just about
everything
in the tiny building: the coffeemaker, the vending machine, the ladies' room, the broom closet—you get the picture.

Dad is surprised to see me but not too surprised. It's a small town, and the police station isn't too far away from school. I've been known to drop by once or twice a week with a to-go dinner when I know he's working late or a box of donuts and thermos of coffee if he's working early.

“Maddy!” His eyes light up as he stands up from his desk chair. “What a nice surprise.”

“Hey, Dad.” I try to keep the sad sound of betrayal out of my voice. “What's up?”

“What's up with
me?”
he says, sliding his bifocals down to the tip of his nose so he can see me better. “What's up with you? Isn't tonight the night of that big dance you've been looking forward to?”

I slump down in a squeaky gray chair across from his desk and make a big show of being all tired-like. “Yup,” I say, between fake yawns. “That's why I came to see you. I knew you wouldn't have time to come home and snap pictures of me and my …date …so I thought I'd give you a sneak preview.”

Dad looks toward the doorway. “You brought your date?” he asks hopefully.

“No,” I say, looking pointedly at the display skeleton hanging in one corner of the room. “You think I want my date to think of corpses all night?”

He laughs and then looks at me more closely. “Well, you're not wearing
that
, are you?”

I snort, looking down at the full-on Goth gear I chose for school this morning. So far, Dad's been pretty understanding of the whole Goth phase. Not overly enthusiastic, mind you, but more understanding than, say, Hazel. (Of course, now I know why.) I fiddle with the short hem of my black pleather skirt and say, “Naw, I've still got to go home and change. That's why I wanted to swing by here first; in case I missed you.” More fake yawns.