Zombified Read online

  “Want to invite Warren along?” Phil asked.

  Cody groaned. He rubbed the spot behind his ear where the doctors had just removed his stitches.

  “We need to give him another chance,” Phil said.

  “Do we?” Cody asked. “Do we really?”

  “I think so,” I said. More groans from Cody. “Listen, if he takes a swing at you with his sword again, I’ll help you kick his ass, okay?”

  “Now I sort of hope it happens again,” he said.

  “Okay,” Phil said. “You want to invite him along?” he asked me.

  “Uh, sure,” I said. I wasn’t sure why I’d been designated the official contactor of Warren, but there it was. I dug out my phone and wrote him a quick text. I got back a reply almost instantly: YES.

  “He’s in,” I said.

  We dropped off Cody, then Phil took me home. He idled out front for a second.

  “Want me to come over after I’m done at the cinema?” he asked.

  “That’s okay,” I said. “I think I’ll just eat some dinner and go to bed. I’m still feeling pretty wrung out.”

  “Okay,” Phil said. “Let me know if you change your mind.”

  “I will,” I said, “but I’ll be fine.”

  I climbed out. Before I shut the door, I leaned into the car and kissed Phil’s startled face. It felt just as good as the first one.

  “Have a good night,” I said.

  “I think that pretty much guaranteed it’ll be good,” he said. He wore an honest-to-God smile as he put the car in gear and drove away.

  I know I’d told Phil I’d be okay, but I spent the whole night feeling like someone was watching me. I know we’ve all had that feeling before, but this time it was so strong I kept getting up to open the front door and look out at the street, half-expecting someone to be standing out there watching the house. Even after I closed every drape and curtain in the house, I still felt it. I started to become certain that I’d turn a corner, or open a door inside, and find someone waiting for me there. It was freaky, and I almost called Phil several times. But I told myself he’d laugh at me. I think I knew, deep down, that this was untrue, but it kept me from calling him.

  That night, I slept with my pistol right on my bedside table.

  I woke up in the middle of the night because I heard furniture dragging out in the kitchen. Like, a chair scraping across linoleum. Were floors still made of linoleum? I shook my head to try to clear it. I grabbed my pistol and slowly opened the door to the hall. My vision dimmed until I was nearly blind, but the kitchen light was on. I distinctly remembered turning it off when I went to bed.

  As silently as I was able, I crept down the hall, the pistol in two hands. I imagined I looked like the heroine in a TV cop show. A show I’m sure would have been canceled before the first season was done.

  I got to the corner of the hall that opened up into the kitchen and paused. I quickly put my head around the corner, but didn’t see anything. Whoever was in there must have been behind the opened fridge door. I pulled my head back and took several deep breaths—preparing myself.

  Before I decided just to head back to the room to call the cops, I jumped into the kitchen and raised the pistol. I aimed it right at the fridge door.

  “Come out of there, asshole!” I screamed.

  Sherri screamed in return and popped up from behind the door. In one hand she held a jar of pickles. With her free hand, she covered her heart like she was the world’s youngest heart attack victim.

  “Jesus, Courtney!” she yelled at me. “I’m just here getting a snack. Put the gun away, Hopalong.”

  “Hey, Sherri,” I said, like it was the most natural thing in the world for her to be there in the middle of the night. Considering she was dead and all. I flopped into one of the kitchen chairs and set the gun on the table in front of me. My heart still raced, but it was starting to settle down.

  “You scared the crap out of me,” I said. “I thought you were a burglar.”

  “Sorry,” she said around a mouthful of something. “I’ve just been starving.”

  “Not feeding you where you are?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “You know,” she said, “the diet of worms and all.”

  And there it was again, that feeling of being watched. I looked across the living room at the front door. I knew—knew!—that if I got up and opened it, I’d find someone or something there waiting for me.

  “Goddammit, Sherri,” I said.

  “Yeah,” she said, “I brought a friend. But you invited him along.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked. I couldn’t see too well again. I knew the lights were still up, but I had a hard time keeping my eyes open, and I wasn’t really able to maneuver my head to look at Sherri when she spoke.

  “Did you know,” Sherri said somewhere near the fridge, “that the definition of nemesis is, ‘the inescapable agent of one’s own downfall’?” Her eating sounds were really getting to me. They seemed too loud, too close. I couldn’t see her no matter how I tried.

  “What is this, Sherri?” I asked. “You usually try to give me advice. What’s going on this time?” My eyes wouldn’t open properly, and I couldn’t move my head. I felt like I was a quadriplegic because of how little control I had over my body.

  “In tragedies, the hero almost always creates the circumstances of their own downfall,” Sherri went on lecturing.

  “Is this about Brandon?” I asked.

  At the mention of his name, the scene changed. I no longer sat in the kitchen chair; now I sat under a fat, full moon on a huge throne of some sort. Or a stump or tree root that was shaped like a throne. I was tied to it somehow. A stiff breeze threw my hair into my face, and leaves fell through the air in a complicated dance.

  Sherri stood in front of me, looking like the last time I’d seen her—freshly zombified, minus the gaping head wound.

  “Let me go, Sherri,” I said. “You delivered your message. I’ve been properly Scrooged. Now, let me go!”

  No matter how I fought, I wasn’t able to break whatever bonds held me. The rough seat beneath me dug into my skin every time I shifted. I imagined all of these tiny abrasions all over my backside. The smell of blood traveled far on the night air.

  And then everything stopped. The leaves froze in midair, the swaying branches stopped, and the world was filled with a huge silence.

  “He’s here,” Sherri said in her graveyard voice. “I know he’s been waiting a long time for this. He won’t be disappointed.”

  A hand snaked around my body from behind. A withered, desiccated hand. It settled on my breast and gave it a cruel squeeze.

  “I mean,” Sherri said, “you make such a delicious bride.”

  Thin light crept in around the edges of my blinds when my eyes fluttered open. I brought my hand up to wipe my eyes and hit myself in the nose with my pistol. Great, I’d been gripping a deadly weapon in my sleep; no way that might have gone badly.

  I sat up and put the gun back in its holster, then put it in the drawer of my bedside table. When it was safely away where I couldn’t hurt myself with it, I lay back in bed.

  Those freaking dreams. If there was an afterlife, I’d have to find Sherri and apologize for giving her the starring role in them. She deserved better.

  The clock said it wasn’t even seven in the morning yet. I checked my internal freak-out-o-meter, and it told me there was no chance I was going back to sleep anytime soon. Great.

  Well, that was what crappy basic cable was made for, right?

  A full day of sleep-deprived awful TV left me in the mood to really kill something.

  I’d been dozing on the couch when my cell phone started to buzz on my chest. I opened one eye and looked at the screen.

  “Phil,” I said after I hit the accept button. “Please tell me you’re here.”

  “We are here,” he said. “Are you ready to go?”

  “I have been dressed and ready for hours,” I said.

&nbs
p; I killed the call and went outside. Warren’s ninja-mobile waited on the corner. Seldom have I been so relieved to see a carload of teenage boys.

  We spent a couple of hours driving around looking for any signs of zombies and came up empty. We even went back to a couple of spots where we’d seen some Zs in the past, but none had returned.

  “If we don’t find any walkers soon, let’s call it a night,” Warren said. “Walkers” was apparently what they called shufflers where he’d come from. It was definitely not catching on with us, but he kept using it. I felt like Regina in Mean Girls. “Gretchen, stop trying to make ‘fetch’ happen!”

  “My folks had a Christmas party this weekend,” he went on.

  “And you didn’t invite us?” Cody asked. He did a good job of pretending to be hurt.

  “And I swiped some beer from there,” Warren continued as if no one had spoken. “Let’s go somewhere and chill out.”

  This plan had a lot of appeal for me, personally. It had been a long time since I’d done anything like that—just sitting around with friends, talking smack, and drinking. It used to be how I spent every weekend. You know, back when my friends were still alive.

  “Let’s do it,” I said.

  “Yeah, maybe,” Cody said.

  Phil didn’t say anything. That surprised me because even though he misses some social cues, he usually isn’t rude.

  “Hey, Rain Man,” I said and nudged him.

  “What’s that?” he said and sort of pointed with his chin out into the darkness.

  Warren slowed the car to a crawl, and we all stared out the window. We were on a residential street. We’d been driving around so long, I honestly had no idea where we were. This part of town was a lot more run down than we were used to. A lot of yards didn’t even have fences, just makeshift barriers around the front doors.

  Huddled underneath the shadow of a tree, we saw two or three figures. As the car went past, the figures stepped farther into the darkness.

  “Suspicious,” said Warren.

  “Definitely,” said Phil.

  “Are we thinking zombies?” Cody asked.

  “I hope to God you aren’t serious,” I said.

  “What?” Cody asked. “What did I say?”

  Warren turned the corner, then the next, and parked the car.

  “Let’s grab our gear out of the trunk and investigate,” Warren said.

  Investigate, like we were some sort of league of junior detectives. Like we were the Scooby gang. I claimed dibs on Velma. But we did like he said.

  When we all had our weapons in hand, Phil asked Warren, “What are you thinking?”

  “We head up this street, ’cause it’s farther away from the walkers,” Warren said. “Less chance of being seen. Then we just try to sneak up on them. Which means we need to be quiet.”

  “Why are you looking at me when you say that?” Cody asked.

  “No reason.”

  In just the couple of minutes it had taken us to hear the plan, I’d already started going numb from the cold. I didn’t know how ninja-like I could be with arms and legs that were numb. The zombies would probably see our breath as we approached. I didn’t mention any of this out loud because I was trying to be positive.

  Warren took point and we headed off up the street. As we got to the intersection, he had us stop for him to check where we’d seen the zombies. They were still there. Warren waved us on, and as fast and quiet as possible, we ran across the street and grabbed a dark shadow of our own to squat in.

  We regrouped behind an SUV parked in a driveway. Phil poked his head up and checked out the situation.

  “I don’t think they heard us,” he said. “I think they’re still there.”

  So we made our slow way from driveway to driveway, hiding behind cars and old washing machines and whatever other junk we found in the yards. Finally we were in front of the same house as them. I really just wanted a chance to kill something because the exercise might warm me up.

  “On three,” Warren said. He held up three fingers. When he hit “one,” we all jumped out from behind the old pickup where we’d been hiding and rushed the zombies under the tree. I gave my war whoop as I ran, and raised my wrecking tool.

  “What the hell is that?” yelled a very human voice. The one who hadn’t spoken started backpedaling away from us and then tripped and fell on his ass.

  We pulled up short, and the four of us stood face-to-face with two dudes who were definitely not zombies. I didn’t think so, anyway. Both of them looked like they were well on their way to being undead even if they still had pulses. Sunken eyes; broken-out skin; dirty, stringy hair; clothes that hadn’t seen soap in a while? Check, check, check, and check. It was like looking at Brandon in the last days when he was alive. So, yeah, they were junkies.

  “What are you guys doing?” asked the one on the ground. He was scratching his cheek. Like, really digging at it. I thought he was going to draw blood any second.

  “Sorry, guys,” I said. “We thought you were someone else.” Phil and Cody shot me a look and I shrugged. Sorry that I wasn’t the master of improvisation.

  “Courtney?” The guy who was still standing squinted at me. “Courtney, right?”

  “Yes . . .” I said, dubious. How’d this guy know my name?

  “You’re that chick that Brandon Ikaros was doing last year, aren’t you?” he asked. Like that was a completely reasonable and not-at-all rude thing to say to someone.

  Also, it garnered more looks from the boys. Even Phil looked to see how I’d react.

  The dude who’d fallen down, call him Scratchy, pushed himself up and dusted off his butt. Then he went right back to scratching at his cheek.

  “She knows Brandon?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” the first one said. “Remember her from the party at the cabin?”

  Scratchy stared at me hard.

  I tried desperately to make this make sense. These guys had been jocks. They’d been friends of Brandon’s. He’d gone and got them hooked on Vitamin Z, and now that they were jonesing, he wasn’t around to sell to them anymore.

  “I don’t remember you,” I said.

  “Gary,” the first guy said. “Gary Howard.” He pointed to Scratchy. “Bryce McNair.”

  “And you guys are looking for Brandon,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Gary said. “He’s been crashing here, but he’s not around now. We were trying to think of where to look for him next. You don’t know where he is, do you?” He started to sort of hop from foot to foot, like he had to pee.

  “I don’t think Brandon’s coming back here,” I said.

  Gary’s face sort of collapsed, like I’d just told him his puppy had died. I noticed that Scratchy—Bryce—was staring at me.

  “Brandon told me you used to, uh, sell Vitamin Z,” he said.

  Oh, brother.

  “I don’t do that anymore. Sorry.”

  I started to back away. “I think we should be going,” I said to the boys. They joined me in my strategic withdrawal.

  “Sorry to bother you two,” I said. “Uh, good luck in your . . . Yeah.”

  “Why don’t you think Brandon will be back here?” Bryce asked. His face scratching had become even more furious. I really needed not to see that anymore.

  They both continued to yell after us once we’d turned and walked away. I felt sick to my stomach. It turned out Carol and Brandi had been right about the Case of the Missing Seniors. Fantastic. I wondered how long it’d be before Buddha found a new dealer for the Salem area. How long before those two and all the people like them took a little too much Z and joined the population of the differently-living.

  We got back in the car, which Warren started so he could crank the heat, and we just sat in silence for a while. We let the events of the last few minutes sink in.

  “So,” Warren said, “beer?”

  “Oh, God, yes,” I said.

  “Not for me,” Phil said.

  Cody shot Phil a look and then
said, “Yeah, not for me, either.”

  “You can drink beer if you want to, Cody,” Phil said. “You don’t have to hold back just because of me.”

  “Such ego,” Cody said. “No, it’s just that I have to be up early to help my dad tomorrow. If he figures out I have a hangover, he’ll never let me live it down.”

  “Why don’t you guys still come hang out with us,” I said.

  Cody shook his head. “Like I said, Cody get up early. Him go to sleep now.”

  I looked at Phil. I was willing him to say he’d come over.

  “I need to get to bed, too,” he said.

  “So it’s just you and me,” Warren said.

  I stared out the window for a second. Anger flared to life inside my chest. Why the hell couldn’t Phil just come hang out with us? I know from personal experience that I was highly entertaining when I’d been drinking. That finding was based on a survey of other people who’d also been drinking, but still . . .

  “Yeah,” I said to Warren, “I guess it’s just us.”

  Cody shot Phil a look from the front seat, but Phil seemed not to see it, seemed not even to hear my answer.

  “I guess you’d better take me and Cody home,” he said finally.

  And all of a sudden I wanted to cry again. I couldn’t believe that Phil cared so little about me that he wasn’t going to come with us, or, at the very least, ask me not to do this. I understood trying not to feel jealous, but dammit, why wasn’t he at least a little jealous! I was about to go off drinking with a really gorgeous boy, and Phil should be mad and want to stop it.

  Fine. Screw it, I thought. If he doesn’t care, then I don’t care. We’ll just go and have fun, and he’ll regret not coming with us.

  All of these thoughts sloshed around in my mind like a tidal wave of toxic sludge as we drove first Cody, then Phil home. When we got to Phil’s house, I climbed out of the car at the same time he did.

  “What are you doing?” he asked. There was something in his eyes, and in his voice, when he asked that, like maybe he hoped I was going to come in with him instead of run off with Warren. But I was still feeling angry. And petty.