Passing Strange (24 page)

P
ETE SAT IN HIS IDLING
car for a moment, giving the defroster the chance to work on the windows. The road beyond his driveway looked slick; the sun had shone for a few hours the day before, melting just enough of the snow at the curb to make ice when the temperature dropped again at night. Pete left the heater on and the radio off as he pulled out of the driveway.

He had in his pocket a brand new digital camera, which he was supposed to use to take pictures of a bunch of beating hearts: families and friends of known Oakvale undead. Pete wondered why the Reverend seemed to be so pleased about what Williams was doing in the nation’s capital; he’d assumed that any political progress the zombies made was a step backward for the aims of One Life, but the way the Reverend sounded, you’d think it was the best thing that could happen.

He drove to Layman’s and Scarypants’s houses. When he approached their homes he slowed to a crawl and snapped a few pictures in quick succession. There was an old muscle car warming up in Layman’s driveway, and one of Layman’s stepbrothers, Jimmy or Johnny—Pete never figured out who was who—was kicking at a blackened chunk of ice beneath a rear wheel well. He looked up as Pete’s car cruised by, squinting at Pete, or more likely, his car. The camera fit in the palm of Pete’s hand, and he didn’t think that Jimmy or Johnny or whoever could spot it.

He didn’t see any sign of Scarypants or her dead buddy, but figured they weren’t home from school yet. Assuming they went to school; if they’d heard about Karen’s second death they may have stayed home to grieve. An image of Phoebe, crying her eyes out, came to him. He pictured them sitting on the sofa in her parents’ living room, her hand in Adam’s dead gray mitts. She would cry and cry, and all Adam could offer her was a cold embrace.

I could still kill her, he thought.

Pete looked in his rearview and saw that the stepbrother had walked to the edge of the driveway and was peering down the road at him. Pete didn’t even bother to accelerate.

He drove over to Christie’s house—her real house; the DeSonnes’ address was in the yellow pages—and was somewhat surprised to find another vehicle already there, a news van. There was a reporter, an attractive young woman shivering in a purple suit, standing in front of Christie’s lawn. She was arguing with the cameraman, who was wearing about eight layers of clothing and a goofy ski cap.

Karen. Not Christie. Her name was Karen.

He couldn’t get her face out of his head, her blue eyes full of sparkle and life. When he’d hit her the blue disappeared and her eye was like cut glass.

A sudden anger pulsed within him, and he could see himself getting out of his car, stomping across the street, decking the cameraman, and pushing over the pretty reporter.

He went back to the time he’d stalked her in Oxoboxo woods, when he’d been about to impale her on a jagged branch. Had he really not known she was the same girl? Had he really been fooled by a change of clothes, contact lenses, hair color, and makeup? It didn’t seem possible.

Or worse—had he known all along? Had something in his subconscious mind told him who she was, what she was, and still allowed him to respond to her? Because whatever he’d tried to tell Duke, he hadn’t been faking. He’d liked her from the moment he saw her folding clothes in that stupid store she’d worked in. And when he was with her, he’d felt things he hadn’t felt for years, and despite whatever he’d learned over the past two months at the One Life ministry, these were feelings that he had no desire to suppress.

But she was a zombie. The whole time, she was a zombie.

And he’d kissed her. He’d
liked
kissing her.

He swore loudly enough to rattle the windows, and he was fortunate that the camera in his hand didn’t break when he punched the dashboard. He rested his head a moment on the steering wheel.

She’d been dead the whole time, and he’d known. Deep down, somewhere in his mind, he had to have known.

His train of thought was broken when a man came out of Karen’s house. He was carrying a little girl. The reporter tried to call him over, but the man pretended not to hear as he rushed to his car.

They can’t even grieve, Pete thought. There won’t be a funeral. The meat wagon would be taking her right to the foundation as soon as all the paperwork was clear.

He remembered that he was supposed to be taking pictures.

T
AK WATCHED THROUGH
a crack in the boards of an upstairs window as the car made slow progress up the packed driveway of the Haunted House. He watched a teenaged girl get out of the battered brown compact car, drawing her leather jacket tighter around her shoulders. She looked up at the house and huffed thick clouds of steam into the chill morning air, as though she were trying to stoke a furnace of courage within her. She held a small flashlight in her hand.

“Who the…hell…is that?” Popeye said, drawing close to his shoulder.

“Don’t…know,” Tak said. “Get…Tayshawn…and hide.”

“She has a pierced…nose,” Popeye said, a trifle contemptuous.

“Go.”

Popeye went. A moment later Tak could hear the weakened planking on the front porch creak as the girl went to the front door and opened it. Her voice filled the empty rooms as she called out a tentative hello.

Tak waited. He could hear her moving in the rooms downstairs. Tak could tell that the police had been here, but they’d left the generator, the lights, and the music equipment. Popeye, rarely the voice of reason, had suggested they spend the night in the woods and not the house, because he figured the police would troll by on occasion to see if they could pick up any stray undead.

But something told Tak that they needed to stay and wait. For what, he couldn’t say, but the voice inside his head had told him to go there and to stay there. And the voice in his head sounded a lot like Karen.

He hid inside the doorway in the Wall of the Dead room, watching through the crack between the frame and the door as a pale disk of light from her flashlight tracked along the wall. Some of the papers on the Wall fluttered, and the girl shone her light into the room.

She walked in and stood in front of the wall, letting her light and her gaze linger over the faded photos. Her clothing reminded him of Phoebe’s friend, the short one, except she was taller and thinner, and her hair had purple streaks instead of pink. The collar of her jacket had a fringe of fake fur.

Tak stepped toward her, dragging his injured leg as best he could.

Seeing him, she screamed and dropped her flashlight. Gray light from outside filtered into the room enough for her to see that he was still approaching her, and she fell back. Her screams became more shrill as they rose in volume.

She’s loud, Tak thought as he crouched to retrieve her light. Loud enough to wake the dead.

Still in a squat, he turned on her light, pointing it up at his face. He knew the effect wasn’t as great as it would have been if it had been really dark in the room. Even so, when she saw his face the girl shrieked even louder. But not for the reason Tak thought.

“Ohmigod,” she yelled.

“Not…quite,” he said, making sure she got a good look.

“You’re him!” she cried.

She was carrying a backpack, and Tak recognized it immediately. It was the one Karen had been carrying the day she’d entered the lake to find him.

He watched the girl fumbling around in Karen’s bag, and wondered if she was silly enough to be going for a weapon. She withdrew a plastic bag and tossed it at his feet. Strands of black hair spilled out.

“Look at it!” she said, still loud but no longer yelling. He dumped the bag out and smoothed the hair away from the rubbery mass it was attached to, and then he saw himself. Crude, maybe, and even worse than he really looked, but it was him.

“You have…got…to be…kidding me.”

He heard Popeye and Tayshawn come into the room behind him, and he worried that she’d start screaming again as she crab-walked to the wall behind her, but she remained silent.

“Where did you…get…this?” he said.

“From…from Karen,” she answered.

Popeye bent down to look at the mask, and breathed a curse.

“Looks just like…you,” he said, rubbing the edge of the mask between his fingers. “Except…prettier.”

Tak ignored him, focusing on the girl. He held out his hand, and she handed him the backpack without speaking. Inside it was a pack of gum, a hairbrush and some twisties, a cell phone, and what looked to be a journal—a small book with a pale blue cover.

“When did you…see…her?” he asked, thumbing the pages of the journal, half of which were filled with Karen’s neat, loopy script.

“Just before the cops took her away,” she said, speaking rapidly. “I’m going to be late for school.”

Tak and Popeye exchanged a look, and then Tak, his body creaking, focused on the girl as he rose to his full height.

“Yes,” he said, “you…are.”

A
FTER WATCHING THE
watchers outside of Karen’s house, Pete went home for a while and watched some television, hoping for news about her apparent suicide, but what he saw instead were stories about the Zombie Walk in D.C. An odd sort of sea change had happened to the local coverage; the media seemed very eager to lay claim to Tommy Williams as a favorite native son, and equally eager to forget that zombies were supposedly responsible for the disappearance and possible murder of a lawyer and his entire family. Were Americans really so fickle?

On the national news the pro-zombie fawning was even more apparent. There were interviews every hour with people, living and dead, who made the trek to D.C. to participate in the march. A pair of aging hippies were asked if their ancient and holey Grateful Dead T-shirts were some sort of an ironic commentary. A young zombie from Texas told a halting tale of her harrowing escape from a bioist mob, ending on a heartwarming note when she discussed the kindly trucker who veered off his route to deliver her safely to “DBHQ.”

There was a noticeable lack of differing opinion, Pete noticed, whereas just a few short months ago the media was recognizably anti-zombie. The Reverend was a frequent talk show guest, one whose authority regarding the true nature of zombies was rarely, if ever, questioned.

Americans
were
fickle, Pete thought.

Photographs, photographs. He was supposed to be doing his job, getting more photographs. Of Layman and all his friends. Of the principal at Oakvale High. Of the priest that ran the zombie mission at St. Jude’s. Pete assumed that he was helping the Reverend put together some sort of enemies list.

Then again, the Reverend might just be keeping him busy, trying to keep his mind off what had happened.

Pete thought about driving to the high school. He could get a few pictures for the file: Principal Kim, Phoebe’s friend with the hair. Maybe snap one of his old math teacher Ms. Rodriguez for laughs; she was a zombie sympathizer, too. He could pretend to be waiting around for TC, and take care of some business.

Or he could just go kill Phoebe.

T
AK COULD SEE THAT THE
girl’s teeth were chattering as she huddled under the green blanket. She looked from Tayshawn to him, trying to ignore Popeye, who was staring at her from a few inches away.

“Your name…is…Tamara?” Tak asked. “You say…you worked…with Karen?”

The girl nodded. “We’ve gone over this already.”

“Let’s go…over…it again,” Tak said. Popeye extended a bony finger toward the center of her face. “Can I help you?” she asked him. Popeye grinned with filed teeth.

“Why did…you come…here?”

“I…ow! Do you have to touch it?” The girl said, slapping Popeye’s hand away from her nose, which he’d just probed to get a better look at the stud over her left nostril.

“Yes. I…do. Do you have…other…art?”

Tak looked to Tayshawn, who shook his head. He’d told Tak that they should have just stayed hidden until the girl got bored and left.

“My navel is pierced and I have two tattoos,” she said. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

“Show…me.”

“Why?” she said, but she was already shucking her shirt from her pants.

“I want…to see. Please? Pretty…please?” He straightened his dark glasses. He’d told Tak that he’d planned on removing his nose, but Tak talked him out of it, because it would make it hard to keep his sunglasses on.

Tamara exposed her stomach, where a star on a short thin chain hung from her belly button.

“Nice,” Popeye said, cupping the tiny star on the fingertip of his webbed hand. Tak hadn’t seen him so enthused since they’d emerged from the ice. His gills seemed to flare as he crouched near the girl. “What about…the tattoos?”

She shrugged out of her jacket and hiked up a sleeve, baring the Celtic ring around her upper arm.

“Ohh, pretty,” Popeye said. Tamara didn’t shudder or recoil when he grazed the line work with his fingers, Tak noticed.

“What about…the other one?” Popeye said.

“You can’t see that one,” she said, defiant. She tucked in her shirt.

He grinned with filed teeth. “Why…not? Tramp stamp?”

“No. You just can’t.”

“I’ll show you mine,” he said. He wasn’t wearing a shirt beneath his leather jacket, and he opened it fully so she could see the patch on his abdomen where he’d pared the skin away.

“Yuck,” she said, peering close.

“Check this out,” he said, showing her a latticework of stitches he’d put through the skin of his upper arm. She ran her fingertips down the black threading.

“But…wait, there’s…more,” Popeye said. He started unbuttoning his jeans.

“That’s enough,” Tak said.

“But…”

“Enough,” he said, thinking they had no reason to torture the girl, although she looked more curious than terrified at the moment. “You were…telling us…why you came.”

“Karen asked me to bring the mask here.”

“Here? She told you to bring it to this house?”

“She said to bring it to the Haunted House. I’d read about it when that boy was shot.”

“What were you supposed to do with it once you brought it here?”

“Just leave it, I guess. She said that I should leave it upstairs, by the Wall of the Dead. That’s all she had time to say.”

“Did she tell you we would be here?” Tak asked.

“No,” she said. “No offense, but I would have appreciated the warning. I thought you guys were all in hiding.”

Tayshawn, without saying anything, managed to convey to Tak that enough was enough and that they should let her go. There was something else here, though, Tak thought, some piece of the puzzle that was eluding him, and he didn’t want the girl to leave until he figured out what it was.

“Tak,” Tayshawn said, impatient. It was only a matter of time before the authorities came to the house; the fresh tire tracks in the snow would make them curious.

“And you say she’s…in prison…now?”

“I assume so. The cops took her.”

She doesn’t know, he thought.

The problem as he saw it was that the mask alone proved nothing. Maybe Karen had other evidence that she could divulge, but for him, the mask was only a reminder of how he’d been set up. If she did have information, it was unlikely that she’d have found a sympathetic ear to share it with.

Tak was regretting stabbing Adam. He regretted his loss of control for a variety of reasons, but chief among them was that Adam and Phoebe might have been able to help him sort this out. Tayshawn just wanted to get back to the lake, and all Popeye wanted to do was…well, it was better not to think about what Popeye wanted to do.

“Tayshawn,” he said. “Come…with me. Popeye…stay here. Give me her keys.”

“Aye, aye…Cap’n,” Popeye said, leaning down so the girl could get a good look at all of the fishhooks in his ear. “But be…quick. We should hurry…back…to the lake.”

“The lake?” she said, repeating after him.

Tak stared back at Popeye, and he heard Tayshawn curse softly. The girl turned away from Popeye’s leer, pretending she hadn’t said anything, but Tak could see in her eyes that she knew what Popeye’s statement meant, and what it meant for her.

“Oooops,” Popeye said, covering his smiling mouth with the flat of his hand as he looked back at his dead companions.

Tayshawn gripped Tak’s arm as he started heading down the stairs.

“Tak, we should…let her…go,” Tayshawn said, whispering so the girl couldn’t hear him. “We…”

“Popeye just…decided…for us, didn’t…he?”

“Screw the…freak, Tak. We can’t…”

“We’ll…have to. They are…counting…on us.”

“Tak, she won’t…say anything. She was…Karen’s…friend. She…”

Tak could actually feel the muscles in his face contort with rage, and Tayshawn stepped back. “The…beating hearts…tried to…reterminate her.”

Tayshawn was frightened of him, but he didn’t retreat any further.

“Tak…” he said. “I’m not…going to let…you kill her. I…won’t. Not even…to protect…our friends.”

Tak shook his head. “Later. We’ll discuss this…after.”

“After what?”

“After we get…Karen’s…body.”

Tayshawn stared at him. “You aren’t…serious.”

“Deadly. And the girl upstairs…is going…to drive.”

Tayshawn kept whatever it was he wanted to say to himself.

He clearly thought the plan to retrieve Karen was idiotic, but realized that it would also keep the girl alive—for a little while.

Tak unlocked the trunk of the girl’s car. More junk. Papers, one sandal, a jacket, some books. Tak leaned over and rooted around in the mess, throwing the detritus over his shoulder.

“Tak,” a voice said from behind him. Tayshawn.

“What?” Tak flung a plastic bag of recyclables, cans and bottles, over his shoulder and onto the driveway. “I’m sorry, Tak. I’m…with you. If you think…Karen…can still be…saved, I’m with you.”

“Good.”

“But…killing…the girl…is wrong.”

“Objection noted.” Tak knew it was wrong, too. But what could he do? He never really expected to become the leader of the Oakvale undead, despite all his attempts to woo them away from Williams and his philosophy of civil disobedience. Tak wanted to be uncivil. He had no illusions about which mindset was more suited for actual leadership.

But Williams wasn’t here, and Karen never made it to the lake. That left him with the responsibility of his people, the nineteen—dare he even think it—“souls” under the ice.

“What are you…looking for?” Tayshawn asked, his words shaking Tak out of his reverie. He realized that he’d been staring into the messy trunk, no longer seeing anything at all.

“I was…hoping…for flares,” he said, withdrawing a short length of metal, curved and knobby at one end.

Tayshawn looked at the truncated tire iron with disdain.

“We’re going to…bust…her body out…of prison…with that?” he said. Trying to lighten the mood.

Tak looked back at him. Tayshawn was a good friend, he realized. Would he remain so if tough decisions had to be made?

“So…negative. Help me get this…junk…back in…the car,” Tak said. “Then go…get the…girl.”

“What am…I…your…porter?”

“I prefer…henchman.”

Fast stomping on the stairs from within the house, and a muffled cry from Tayshawn, who’d just gone in to get the girl a moment ago. Tak pulled himself out of the car and was heading toward the porch just as the girl yanked open the front door. She walked out on the landing, her eyes locking on Tak’s.

“You can’t catch me,” she said, her eyes defiant as she tried without success not to sound scared. “I’ve seen you limping.”

He nodded, slowly. The girl was debating whether or not to hurdle the railing or try and dash past him.

“Who says…I have to…catch…you?” he said, showing her his teeth.

She decided not to run after all. She leaned against the rail, her breath visible in the crisp air of morning.

A minute later Tayshawn and Popeye struggled through the door, their movements Stooge-esque.

“Nice…job,” Tak said to them.

“Wouldn’t have…happened…if I had stayed…up there,” Tayshawn said.

“Oh, yeah. You’re such a…great…guardian.”

“Let me…guess. You had to…show her…your back…tattoo.”

“Hey, I designed it…”

“And she…just…took off.”

“Dude, she defeated…you…with a blanket,” Popeye said, and then he mimed Tayshawn’s defeat, stumbling around blindly in a traditional Zombie Walk. “Help, help! She used…a…blanket!”

“Don’t,” Tak said, after a pause. Tayshawn wouldn’t look at him. Had he encouraged the girl to run?

Popeye ceased badgering Tayshawn and drew Tak aside.

“Tak, we should…term her. She’s a…flight…risk.”

“Popeye…”

“We need to…kill…her, Tak. If she…got…away…”

“Karen sent her,” he replied.

Popeye shook his head from side to side, the gills on one side of his neck opening with each twist. “Yeah, that’s…rough. But if she leads…the blood bags…to the lake, what…then?”

Tak looked at him for a moment—at how eager he was—without comment. Popeye wanted to kill for killing’s sake. Tak wanted to kill, too, but for what they allowed to happen to Karen. For what they
caused
to happen to Karen.

If she was really dead, he thought, they’ll all pay. All of them.

“Think about this, Tak. We should…kill her and…take her into…the lake…in case…she comes back. That way…”

“Popeye,” Tak said, poking a stiff finger into Popeye’s sternum. “Shut…up.” His gills flared, but Popeye didn’t say another word.

Tak reached into his pocket, withdrawing the girl’s keys. There was a heavy silvered cat on the ring and a skull in the shape of a teardrop.

“You’re…driving,” he called to her, tossing her the jangling bundle.

“Where…where are we going?” she asked.

“Shotgun!” Popeye called.

“No,” Tak said. “And put this on.”

He handed Popeye a star-spangled bandana he’d found under the passenger seat.

“Cool,” Popeye said, putting it over his bald head. “Disguises.” He had to have the girl help him tie it. Tak put on a John Deere mesh hat he’d found in the trunk, sweeping his long hair back behind his ears. Popeye laughed and pointed.

“What are you…laughing…for?” Tayshawn said. “You look like…a gay…pirate.”

“Half right,” Popeye cackled, clambering into the back seat.

“I don’t get…a disguise?” Tayshawn asked.

“You’re…almost human,” Tak responded. “Get…in.”

“Where to?” she asked. Her car coughed repeatedly before the engine turned over. Tak tried the radio, but she told him it was broken.

“Don’t…talk,” he said. He didn’t have a plan; nothing beyond finding Karen’s body and taking it from them. “Just…drive.”