Eat, Brains, Love (8 page)

“You're not making me feel better.”

“Jake, if you want to pull over and go turn yourself in, that's cool, I get it. I'm sad that some dude with a shotgun will probably blow your head off, but that's your call. Me? I want to find out what the fuck happened to us and why.”

The highway stretched out before us, all semis and station wagons. I kept an eye in my rearview for any ominous black cars. Was I going to have to do that for the rest of my life?

I felt bad about the people we ate, their families, our families—everyone, pretty much. It was just, like, sadness and guilt galore. But Amanda was right. I didn't want to turn myself in.

“You really think your brother can help?”

 

On the radio, a trio of gelled-hair pretty boys made heavy use of Auto-Tune, whining about some girl that'd blown off their advances at a nightclub. My sister, Kelly, had a crush on the redheaded one with the eyeliner. I remembered the poster on her wall that I'd mercilessly mocked. They used to have a show on the Disney Channel before they turned eighteen, sexed up their image, and learned some aggressive pelvic dance moves.

I changed the station, flipping until I reached one spinning a scratchy B-side from The Clash.

“What?” asked Amanda. “You don't like C'mere Eyes?”

“What are those?”

“The band I was listening to before you put on this junk.”

“First, this is not junk and I should revoke your listening pass for saying that.”

“Listening pass?”

“Second, I have a little sister. I'm more than familiar with the songs of C'mere Eyes. More like Khmer Rouge.”

“Funny.”

“Because their music is like genocide.”

“I got it, thanks.”

“My question was literally, What are c'mere eyes?”

“Like this,” said Amanda.

I looked over at her. She was staring at me with half-lidded eyes, like a kitten stuck in a really smoky room, her lips in a come-hither sort of pout. It was a look that probably would've melted me yesterday afternoon, you know, before I saw Amanda with one of her eyeballs hanging halfway down her face. Actually, it was still pretty good.

“So, sex eyes,” I said, turning back to the road in time to stop tailgating the truck she'd distracted me from.

“Those are
not
my sex eyes,” she replied, acting offended.

“If you say so.”

The Clash cut ended and I would've changed the station again if Amanda hadn't shoved my hand away from the dial. The mellow-sounding DJ was going to commercial—but first, an update from the newsroom.

“More strange and dark details emerging from eastern New Jersey today,” intoned a stoic anchor lady, “as four bodies were recovered from a house just miles from the scene of yesterday's horrific massacre at Ronald Reagan High School. Authorities have identified the bodies as the parents and grandparents of RRHS senior Chazz Slade. Slade, eighteen, a survivor of yesterday's shooting, is now in custody while authorities investigate potential links to shooters Amanda Lynne Blake and Jacob Albert Stephens.

“Stay tuned for more of rock's classics on The Nerve 96.5,” concluded the anchor.

I didn't want to stay tuned. I turned the volume all the way down, wanting to process this latest bit of information in silence. First, the news was using our full names now, like they always do with serial killers, which meant my great shame—well, my great shame until yesterday—
Albert
was going to be out there. Second, the same guy who'd almost beaten me up yesterday was accused of snuffing out his whole family.

I looked over at Amanda. She was sitting stiffly, a look I'd describe as confused disgust scrunching up her features.

“So, uh, you were going out with a serial killer,” I said.

She blinked. “We were breaking up. I mean, we
were
broken up.”

“Okay,” I said, nodding slowly, not wanting to pry but also, like, really wanting to pry. “Did you know anything about—?”

“Did I know Chazz was going to kill his parents?” she asked sharply, shooting me an annoyed look. “Yeah, Jake, I just decided to keep that one to myself.”

“Do you think it has anything to do with us, you know, eating people?”

“Could you just be quiet for, like, two minutes, please?” she snapped. “I need to think.”

It took more like twenty minutes for Amanda to collect her thoughts. I tried to drive as quietly as possible, even though awkward silences made me nervous. No tapping on the steering wheel, no searching for something decent on the radio. I was still getting used to having Amanda around, and still a little concerned that she might toss herself out of the speeding car if I annoyed her too much. With our newfound healing abilities, that was a total possibility.

Finally, Amanda turned to me.

“Okay,” she said, sort of hesitant. “I'm going to ask you a question that's gonna seem really weird, but you need to answer honestly.”

I shrugged, just happy we were talking again. And anyway, that's what road trips are all about, right? Getting-to-know-you questions and profound spiritual experiences. I remember Adam DeCarlo—RIP—had loaned me a copy of this Jack Kerouac book when he was trying to convince me to take a road trip to some music festival with him. We'd even started planning everything, but then ended up just getting stoned in my basement instead.

“Is Sasha Tremens a zombie?” Amanda asked.

“Huh?”

Amanda was right; that was a weird question. Why would she ask about Sasha? My ex-girlfriend. We started going out junior year, but after the summer she decided to get a fresh start as a senior. We hardly talked anymore, but we'd always have that awkwardly fumbling first time on her stuffed animal–covered bed while her parents were away for the weekend.

“You hooked up with her, right?”

“How'd you know that?”

“It's high school, dude. Everyone knows about everyone.”

I didn't think that was true, but then maybe part of maintaining popular status was keeping tabs on the relationships of other kids.

“But why would you ask if she was a zombie?”

“Yeah, you're right,” said Amanda, toying with her seat belt thoughtfully. “That was forever ago anyway, right? It couldn't be Sasha.”

“What couldn't be Sasha? You're not making any sense.”

Amanda sighed. “Okay, so listen. Chazz and I were broken up. We broke up like a month ago.”

“I didn't know,” I replied. It was kind of weird that I didn't know. Unlike
my
dating status, a newly single Amanda Blake would've been front-page news in the school paper.

“Yeah,” continued Amanda, “it was sort of unofficial. Chazz didn't really accept the breakup.”

“Wait, so you dumped him?”

“Yeah. Well, I tried to. Cindy said she saw him hooking up with some college skank at a party and I believed her, but Chazz denied it and, like, basically said he'd beat up anyone else I tried to date. You know, that possessive thing guys do.”

“Uh, no, I don't know that move.”

Amanda ignored me. “Anyway, then Chazz stopped coming to school and I figured, whatever, good riddance. He called me a bunch and left these weird rambling voice mails, but I never really listened to them. I was just waiting for him to lose interest.”

“Your romantic life is seriously fascinating to me,” I said.

“Shut up,” she countered, not missing a beat. “He finally showed up at school yesterday—remember, when you interrupted us with all your lame jokes?”

“That's not
exactly
how I remember it.”

“So, at the time, I figured it was just, like, desperate guy-talk because he didn't want to break up. All this bullshit about being soul mates and blah blah blah. But he said one thing that seriously grossed me out at the time and now has, like, some heavy context to it.”

“Please tell me he quoted you poetry.”

“No,” she answered. “He told me I was the only girl in school he didn't want to eat.”

I laughed. “Is that a pickup line?”

“It is if you're a zombie.”

I blinked.

“Wait. What?”

“The reason for that huge relationship over-share is that I have a theory,” Amanda continued patiently, “but it relies on you having gotten some action since Sasha. So, spill it, Jacob Albert.”

“Uh, hypothetically,” I stammered, feeling my face start to flush like it always did when the sex talk started up, smooth operator that I am, “let's say I have. What does that prove?”

“Well, yesterday you pointed out that when we bite people, they don't turn into other zombies like in the movies. Which makes sense because nobody bit me either. But I've done, um,
other stuff
. With my sort-of ex-boyfriend who probably ate his parents. So, Jake . . . how do you think we caught zombie?”

“Oh,” I said, Amanda's theory finally clicking. “Oh gross.”

“Yeah. Way worse than anything they told us about in health class.”

“So you've got like herpes of the undead?”

“You do too, buddy. Which is why I asked about Sasha. Because I know
we
didn't hook up, and I seriously doubt you hooked up with Chazz.”

“It wasn't Sasha.”

“Oh. Who was it then?”

Janine. That night in Princeton, which at the time had seemed like my rite of passage into the world of getting down with hot bohemian college chicks. Now it turns out that was, like, the biggest mistake of my life.

“You wouldn't know her,” I said. “She's from out of town.”

Amanda laughed. “First time I've ever believed that line.”

 

We eventually dropped the whole undead sex topic and fell into a mellow silence, just listening to the radio. Still, all those revelations about Chazz and Amanda, their relationship . . . Not to mention, her being single totally changed the dynamic of this road trip. I just had to ask.

“What did you see in Chazz Slade anyway?” I blurted.

Amanda tilted her head at me, half smiling. I could tell she was trying to figure out how honestly to answer me.

“Well,” she said, “have you seen his abs?”

Oh yeah, I'd seen them. Chazz made sure
everyone
saw them. He'd strut around in the locker room after gym class daring people to break their hands on his six-pack. I shook my head.

“That's it? Seriously?”

I sounded more disappointed than I'd meant to. Amanda sighed and shook her head.

“No, Jake, that's not it.” She paused, thinking. “I don't know. You won't get this, but it's like it was
expected
. He was good-looking, and cool, and could buy beer—I sort of
had
to date him, you know?”

“You're right,” I said. “I don't get it. You really wanted to lock up prom queen, huh?”

Amanda shrugged. “I'm not saying it didn't get old sometimes, but high school doesn't last forever. Might as well make the most of it.”

“Yeah, getting cheated on and catching a top-secret zombie plague is really living life to its fullest.”

Amanda crossed her arms and leaned back, the better to study me. I glanced over at her—she was smiling coolly, pulling a version of those c'mere eyes she'd shown me before.

“Why, Jake, are you sniffing around because I'm stuck in a car with you and you just realized I'm on the rebound? Free advice—talking shit about a girl's ex is not a good way to woo her.”

“I'm not, uh, wooing . . .” I stammered, then reached forward and turned up the radio. “Oh man, love this song.”

I'd never even heard it before.

 

The sun was setting when my stomach started to quake. We hadn't even crossed all the way through Pennsylvania. Amanda looked over at me, concerned.

“That can't be good.”

A few miles later, I lay down in the backseat, and Amanda took over driving. It was a matter of necessity; the people in the other cars had started to look seriously appetizing and unbidden thoughts of ramming those other cars, breaking them open, and sucking out their delicious human filling flooded my mind.

“I'm going to need to eat,” I told her, covering my eyes with my forearm.

“We need to figure that out,” she said. “I mean, we can't just go around killing people. Right?”

“Right,” I agreed, and my stomach did a loop as if to tell me that I didn't have much choice in the matter. “I don't know if I can help it.”

“Maybe—I don't know—take some deep breaths. Fight it off.”

That sounded stupid but I tried it anyway. While the car sped along, I focused on breathing slow. In, then out. In, then out. I focused on my heartbeat. It was chugging along way too slow, just like yesterday at the mortician's, right before I lost control.

Keep beating, you bloody little thing, keep beating.

“Aw shit,” I mumbled, because it was suddenly really hard to talk.

Amanda looked into the backseat, her eyes widening. Her face was starting to get a little pale too, her own hunger not far off.

“Oh gross,” she said.

“Shut up,” I groaned, looking at my hands. They'd turned gray, the veins beneath my suddenly paper-thin skin sludgy and thick. I shook my hands, trying to work feeling back into them, to get the circulation flowing. The fingernail on my index finger came loose and flew right off my hand midshake and into Amanda's hair. She made a disgusted face and gingerly flicked it out.

Amanda pulled off into the nearest exit. It was dark, hardly any streetlights. We were in some rural part of western Pennsylvania.

“Talk to me, Jake,” said Amanda.

“This sucks,” I replied, my words slurring.

Amanda pulled into a gas station, the only lit building in sight. There weren't any other cars there. She turned around and gave me a stern look, like she was explaining something to a bad dog.