A Living Dead Love Story Series (67 page)

Stamp nudges my shoulder not so gently. “I don't want to get caught. We should wait a little while, see what it feels like.”

Almost on cue, headlights flash in the distance followed by the sound of an engine.

We dip, low and fast, among the palm trees by the welcome sign and watch as a police cruiser
passes
slowly. Not slowly enough to make me think he saw us, but the lights on top of the cruiser remind me of where I stand: barely hidden, wearing grungy, bloody hospital scrubs, no ID, no purse, no good reason for being here.

Suddenly I realize why Vera gave me her pen. We're alone, stranded, abandoned, betrayed, and cursed, and if we don't get off the street, lie low, and figure out a game plan fast, there's no telling what the Normals will do with us.

We would not be the first zombies discovered by Normals. Barracuda Bay was never the first or the last outbreak on the planet. I know that now that I've been in Sentinel City long enough to watch them go out on patrol, sometimes every single week and at least every month. They're not heading out into the world, suited up and clutching Tasers, for their health. They're out there putting down a little infestation here, checking out a zombie sighting there. I know that now. I know how it works.

But without the Sentinels' protection, without the Keepers' cooperation with local authorities, without that little cushion between us and the real world, the Normals will do what they want with us and make no apologies later. Lock us away, tear us apart, ship us off to Washington to be studied or out into the sea to be lost and forgotten.

Vera was right when she said I was no better than a Zerker now. This is how they live, I figure: crouched and gory and avoiding human contact unless they get hungry enough to seek and snuff it out.

Long after the cruiser is gone, I stay crouched behind the skinny trees, shaking my head at the insanity of what we're doing and how and even where we're doing it. The weight of our reality shoves me to the ground, where I sit, no idea what to do or where to find ZED, let alone how to get Dad back.

Stamp slides down next to me, sitting cross-legged like a kindergartener by my side. “What are we thinking?” he asks, leaning in and whispering as loud as he normally talks, but he's so serious about it all I can't even shush him.

I reach for his hand and he lets me hold it. “I'm thinking we're scared.”

“Me too.” Then a few seconds later: “What are
you
scared about?”

“I'm scared of getting caught. What are
you
scared about?”

He nods. “Me too.”

We sit quietly like that, hidden by the welcome sign's shadow. There again is the sound of ocean in the distance and the salt air for the first time in months. Scratch that, nearly a year.

I never thought what life would be like outside of Sentinel City. Between Dane joining the Sentinels and Vera's training, I was content to live out the rest of my days fighting Zerkers, keeping Normals safe, and laughing with Dane over brain bars in the canteen, visiting Stamp in his cage on the down low, and watching the Sentinels fill Dad's dorm room with souvenir crap every time he handed them another shopping list.

And now, here I am in the wild again. What am I going to do? What are
we
going to do?

“We should get walking,” Stamp answers, pulling me up as he stands.

“Wait. Was I talking out loud? Just now?”

“Sure. Why?” He drags me into the shrubs, and we find a scruffy path into town, parallel to the road but not on it. Close enough to see the asphalt with our zombie vision but not close enough to be seen by mere mortals.

“I'm losing it, Stamp.”

He chuckles softly, and I realize we're still holding hands. “Welcome to the club.”

N
ow I know
what it feels like to be a Zerker. To hide in the shadows, to live in the dark, to not come out in the light. Every snap of every twig, every tree rustle, every moaning branch I stop, crouching and dragging Stamp down with me. We follow the tree line all night long, down one residential street after another, looking closely at the For Sale signs; there are a lot of them.

The streets are all the same: suburban and long and neat and clean. Pumpkins flicker on the front stoops, reminding me that fall is here once again and that means I'm an undead year older.

The houses are mostly new or refurbished or just really, really clean. Most streets have about eight or nine houses on one side, eight or nine on the other, with a cul de sac featuring three or more at the far end. Each driveway has one or two cars, nice ones, a fine layer of dew already misting the windshields, though we're still a few hours from dawn.

Every fifth or sixth house seems to be for sale, but I don't find what I'm looking for until we're halfway down our seventh street of the night: a postcard Florida street called, naturally, Lumpfish Lane.

“Here,” I hiss, pulling Stamp behind the plastic trash cans and recycling bins lined up in front of the garage. “This one.”

“Why?” he asks, not whispering at all.

I point to the For Sale sign. “That's why.”

He looks up and down the street, pointing at three identical signs. “Why not those houses?” His face crumples as he tries to figure it out, but I don't have time.

“Because they don't have that . . .” I point to the magnetic yellow Foreclosure banner slapped kitty-corner across the realtor's sign.

He wrinkles his nose. “What's that mean?”

I forget about his scrambled brain and curse the Zerker that Dad couldn't bleed out of him. “It means no one lives here,” I say, dragging him up. We walk along the side of the house toward the backyard. “It means we can stay here and nobody will bother us if we don't do anything stupid.”

He stops me halfway down the side of the house to turn back and look at the sign, squinting so he can really check it out. “It says all that? But it's so small.”

I chuckle and jerk him forward again. “Kind of,” I mutter. “I might be paraphrasing a little.”

There is a wooden fence, leaning a bit but in pretty good shape otherwise, with a door where the wood meets the back wall of the house. I unlatch it pretty easily, popping my scalpel out of the Eliminator and sliding it through the crack until the latch pops and the door creaks open.

I lug Stamp inside and shut the door quietly. There is a lap pool featuring some questionable water, leaves floating on the calm, black surface.

The house is on a canal, and there is a dock and, lapping quietly next to it in the water, a small sailboat. Every so often there is the soft clink-clink of metal on metal, rigging against mast. Next to the pool is a screened porch with no furniture and beyond that a sliding glass door to an empty living room.

I stand there, finger on my chin. “Now to get into the—”

Stamp wrenches the screen door open, and I figure it was probably locked and he just broke it, but you know what? I'll replace it once we're able to pass better and I can walk into the nearest hardware store in something other than draggled scrubs.

The big patio is tiled, and I think how nice it would look with wicker furniture and cute red throw pillows. Not too red, maybe even maroon with oversized black buttons down the middle. And a little table for two where you could sit on cool nights and eat chips and salsa and listen to the river lap against the dock pilings or maybe even some steel drum music oozing from your iPod.

Crunch goes the sliding glass door lock as Stamp forces it open as well. I sigh and look at the Eliminator I was going to use, retracting the blades and sliding it back into my waistband.

The house smells musty, as if no one has been here for months.

Just to get rid of him for a few minutes so I can clear my head, I tell Stamp, “Go check upstairs. Make sure no one else is squatting here.”

He nods eagerly, as if I've sent him on some spy mission full of danger and intrigue and martinis. I hear him clomping heavily up the stairs, the very opposite of secret. I rush through the rooms downstairs: kitchen, dining room, living room, guest bath, two-car garage, laundry room, and guest room in the back.

Not a stick of furniture was left behind, not a leftover fork or sponge or battery or refrigerator magnet or bottle of bleach. I check the locks on the front door and lower all the blinds.

I clomp up the stairs to find Stamp looking out a guest bedroom window, peering at the street below. He looks so peaceful I hate to bug him.

“What's up?” I ask, touching his shoulder gently.

He doesn't even flinch. “I thought I saw someone under that street light.”

I scoot him out of the way and look through the blinds. A street lamp sends down a cone of orange light in the predawn darkness, but I don't see anyone now. Still, we both know that doesn't mean anything.

“Did it look like one of us?”

He studies me and thinks for a second. “No, not really.”

We watch for a little while more, but nothing happens. “It could have been someone out walking their dog,” I suggest, backing away from the window. The space is small, like a child's room, and I think it's a good fit for Stamp.

He furrows his leathery brow. “Without a dog?”

I shrug and drift away to see the rest of the upstairs: another small bedroom right next to Stamp's, a guest bathroom, a small loft overlooking the downstairs, and then the master suite, twice as big as Stamp's room with its own little balcony and master bath.

It has hardwood floors and lots of room, and the balcony overlooks the pool and river. Again, I find myself decorating in my mind, wondering if I'll ever be able to walk into a Pottery Barn and buy a throw pillow and bring it to a home I live in and put it on a chair I own.

Stamp trudges in and taps my shoulder, a mischievous smile on his face. “How do you like my room?”

I look around at all the space and frown. “
Your
room?”

“Yeah, I called it.” He sounds indignant, like how dare I even ask.

“When?”

He avoids my gaze. “When you were downstairs. Didn't you hear me?”

I shake my head and shrug. It's the perfect end to one of the worst days of my afterlife.

I
keep track
of everything in a little notebook I found by the cash register. Yes, I feel bad for breaking and entering. Yes, I feel terrible for stealing. But if we don't get regular street clothes, we may never be able to pass among the Normals, and this thrift shop was the only place within walking distance of the house on Lumpfish Lane that looked like it didn't feature sixteen surveillance cameras and a silent alarm and booby traps on the fire
escape
out back.

Stamp is at home, sitting in his room, waiting for me. At least, I hope he is. God, please let him be. I made him promise not to go anywhere, but he's so unpredictable now.

We've been sitting in that silent house on Lumpfish Lane for almost two full days. I couldn't take it anymore. After talking Stamp out of coming with me, which took half an hour, here I am, a felon, skulking around in the dark.

I hurry through the thrift shop, grabbing a backpack and a duffel bag, stuffing them both to the gills with anything that looks like it might fit, writing it down in the little notebook, tallying the little cardboard price tags dangling off each sleeve or cuff or shoelace or belt loop.

As I work, I picture Stamp getting restless cooped up in the house, ignoring my instructions and walking outside, knocking on the neighbors' front doors, asking everyone on the street where I might be and could he come in and wait a while and, oh, by the way, do they have any brains, and if not, that's okay; the ones in their skull cages will do just fine, thank you very much.

I bring some clothes into a dressing room and slip them on. Yes, I know I could stand naked in the middle of the store and no one would see me at this time of night, but old habits die hard.

It's nothing fancy, just some fresh underwear, an olive tank top, maroon track pants, and a gray-and-black-striped hoodie. I slip on some of those footie socks and a pair of off-brand walking shoes, a little snug but they'll do. I'll wear them in while walking around Seagull Shores in the dark for the next few nights, I'm sure.

Outside of the dressing room, I spot a rack and grab a few hats, remembering my burr head and what it might look like to the Normals. There's a ball cap for some local team, the Seahorses or whatnot, and I slip it on and shove the rest in my pack.

There are sunglasses by the cash register, and I grab some of those as well, just in case. By the time I tally everything up, and I keep rounding up because I'm sure I missed a few things along the way, it all comes to $126. Yikes.

It's gonna take a lot of picking pennies up off the street and checking soda machines for spare change to pay that back. Or who knows? Maybe I can pawn the sailboat behind the house on Lumpfish Lane or something. I'll figure it out one way or another before we leave town.

I slip the backpack and duffel bag over my shoulders, climb on top of a shelf in the middle of the store, and slip through the ceiling tile opening I entered through forty minutes ago.

I replace it, hoping no one will notice the stuff I took. Okay, maybe they'll catch the three twenties I took out of the deposit bag from the manager's office, but maybe the bank will blame the manager and the manager will blame the bank and it will all end in a draw: he said; she said. No harm, no foul.

I just don't want anyone mad at me is all. I may be Vanished, one level of zombie above a Zerker, but that doesn't mean I have to turn into some lawless punk taking good money away from innocent Normals just trying to run a business.