Zombified Page 8

  Too late for that, I thought.

  “I’ll try not to,” I said.

  “Anything you want to talk about?” Dad asked. We reached the car and he unlocked the passenger door for me.

  “No,” I said, “but I reserve the right to talk about it later.”

  “That works,” Dad said as he reversed out onto the street.

  As he put the car in drive and headed toward home, I glanced in the side mirror. I noticed that Brandon stood on the sidewalk and watched us drive away.

  Not too serial killer . . .

  I refrained from texting Phil with the news about my little run-in with Brandon. I wanted to have it in my hip pocket as a conversation starter when I saw him and the boys the next night. I occupied my time with homework. Homework that I did in my room. With my curtains drawn in case Brandon was being creepy and following me. I told myself I was being paranoid, but I just didn’t like the coincidence of him showing up at the coffee shop the day after I’d called him. I figured there was no reason to take chances, you know?

  I was buried in research about royal cousins when my e-mail chimed that I had a new message. Since I was ready to put aside the various causes of the First World War, I checked to see who it was, even though no one I wanted to communicate with ever actually e-mailed me.

  The subject line read “New Mutants?” and all I thought was that someone had sent me a message about a second-tier X-Men comic book. There was no way I’d be able to tell you who wrote or drew the book anymore, which mutants were on the team, or if the book was even being published anymore.

  Then my eyes skipped over to the sender’s name and I almost threw up in my mouth because it was so unexpected. “Rjkeller@ucdavis.edu.” Rjkeller was Richard Keller. Richard Keller was a professor at UC Davis I saw on TV last year. He had a theory about communicating with zombies and was doing research to see if it was possible. He was attacked not too long after I saw him on a talk show and was left in a coma. I e-mailed him and kind of poured my heart out one night about my “fast zombie” theory. I seriously never expected him to come out of his coma, let alone contact me.

  My hand shook as I moved the mouse over the line and clicked it.

  To: AwesomeSauce29@gmail.com [Give me a break, I thought up my addy handle when I was twelve.]

  Subject: RE: New mutants?

  Dear Miss Hart,

  Thank you so much for writing me, and for your concern about my health. I was only in a coma for a short time. I then spent a longer stretch of time in physical therapy. It is indeed disheartening that individuals feel the need to attack—in this case, literally—those with whom they disagree. But it has always been this way, I’m afraid.

  Regardless, now that I am once again well enough to return to work, I have been catching up on my backlog of unanswered e-mail. Yours struck me as particularly interesting and I hope you have not experienced any further attacks.

  The tl;dr version of the e-mail was that he was interested in the attacks I’d mentioned—he wanted me to describe them in detail—but he really wanted to know about Vitamin Z and my theory that there might be a connection between it and the new, faster zombies. He wondered how he might be able to get a sample. Then he mentioned that he’d be visiting OHSU, Oregon Health & Science University, after the New Year and asked if I might be able to come up and visit him on the campus. The university sat on a huge, heavily-fortified hill on the west side of the river up in Portland. Since they were doing a bunch of research into the zombie virus, it was the one place on that side of the city that the government decided to keep open after the zombies claimed everything else.

  I just about messed my pants. I certainly squealed because my dad walked down the hall and came into my room without knocking first to see what was the matter.

  He caught me doing an impromptu dance in front of my laptop.

  “Is this about a boy?” Dad asked. I knew he was struggling with not being upset at running in here expecting to see me being accosted by an army of the undead only to find me doing a terrible bit of twerking. God, he probably thought I was dancing for someone since I was in front of the computer.

  I almost blurted out what had made me so excited, then I remembered his reaction the last time I displayed the slightest bit of joy over New York being reopened.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I just found the piece of research I needed for my AP History paper. I guess I got a little excited.”

  “I guess you did,” he said. “I’m trying to do some paperwork. Mind keeping it down to a dull roar?”

  “I’ll keep it below riot levels, yes, sir,” I said. A queasy feeling settled into my stomach just like always when I wasn’t entirely truthful with my dad. You might say it was a feeling I was used to.

  “I’m glad you found what you needed.” He leaned in and kissed my forehead. I let him. It seemed like the least I could do. After that, he left my room and closed the door behind him. Guilty stomach be damned, I turned and starting working on a response to the doctor’s e-mail. I told him I might know how to get ahold of a sample for him—I was vague on details—and that I’d love to come up and visit him at the OHSU campus. If he wasn’t visiting until after the New Year, I knew that gave me plenty of time to figure out a way to convince my dad to let me go up.

  For my to-do list: figuring out how to actually get my hands on a sample of Vitamin Z. I’d be able to call up Buddha and ask him for some—I’d even offer to pay—but that seemed fraught with danger. Maybe I could ask around and figure out who was selling it in town since I knew Buddha must have gotten a new mule.

  But first, I needed to get ready for my excursion that night. I dug through my drawers and pulled out what I thought of as my “ninja” gear: black jeans, black T-shirt, black hoodie, and black socks. I took a while deciding between my Dr. Martens and my black-on-black Chuck Taylors. I finally chose the Chucks because it was so warm out. I liked the Docs, but after I wear them for a while, it feels like I have bricks tied to my feet. The last item was the new pistol Dad bought me after I finally ’fessed up to losing the old one at the lookout. We’d gone to the gun shop together and made a day of picking out something. It was really sweet when you forgot that I was buying a firearm to fight off undead monsters. The shop owner, a beefy guy with a tattoo of a zombie in the crosshairs of a rifle scope, sold us a .38 Special Smith & Wesson Model 438 Bodyguard. The .38-caliber slug will stop most shufflers in one shot and it’s small enough that I can actually wrap my hand around the grip. We got it in matte black. Also, thinking back on the number of times I needed to dig my pistol out of my bag, I asked about a holster. Bubba (as I came to think of him) sold us on a thing he called a

  “cross draw pancake holster.” It slid on to my belt and rested on my left hip. I had to cross my body with my right hand to draw it. Cross draw, get it? It was a little awkward at first, but I finally got used to it. I certainly liked knowing that it was always handy rather than hiding underneath my organic chemistry textbook or something. With all of those things ready, I went out to spend some time with my dad. I started to formulate ways to gently badger him into going to bed early.

  I didn’t need to worry about it. I found him sitting in front of the TV, his chin resting on his chest. Little snorts escaped him as I shook his shoulder.

  “You’re alseep, Dad,” I said. “Let’s go to bed.”

  “I’m not asleep,” he said, as a line of drool plopped onto his baby blue polo shirt. Real attractive.

  “Sure,” I said. “You always watch TV with your eyes closed.”

  He stood and stretched, and his back sounded like small arms fire, which, given my experience with guns and zombies, I knew all too well.

  “Think you’re so smart,” he said and grinned. “Maybe I will get some shut-eye.”

  He wrapped his arm around my shoulders as we walked down the hall. Well, I walked; he sort of shuffled and lurched. His movements were very zombie-like, but I didn’t bring that up. Because I was raised properly.

>   “’Night, pumpkin,” he said.

  “Good night, Dad.” He closed the door to his room and I went into mine. The moment I flopped onto my bed, I had my phone out and was texting Phil. I told him the Dad-creature was slumbering and that he should come get me. My phone pinged just a few minutes later.

  Nearly done here. Give me an hour. We’ll come get you.

  I got dressed, then killed the hour with the research I’d lied to my dad about. Just as I thought about texting Phil again, Warren’s ninja-mobile pulled up outside. I climbed out of my window and jogged across the yard toward the car. The gate into our yard squealed as I opened it and I winced. I looked toward the house, but I doubted Dad had heard it.

  As I approached the car, I saw Cody in the backseat sitting next to Phil.

  “Ride shotgun,” I said and rapped on the glass. He looked to Phil like he was asking permission.

  I wasn’t able to hear him, but I saw Phil say, “Why are you looking at me?”

  Reluctantly, Cody climbed out and got in front next to Warren. I plopped my butt in the seat next to Phil and closed the door. Warren sped away as soon as it was shut.

  “Two things,” I said to Phil. “What do you want to hear first, the good item or the bad?”

  “Hello to you, too, Courtney,” Warren said from the front seat. “I’m doing well, thanks for asking.”

  “Do you need me to come hold your hand up there, Warren?” I asked. “Are you feeling a little less than special?”

  Cody laughed. Probably louder than my little joke deserved, but Warren still bugged him and he liked to see the guy taken down a peg or two every once in a while. Not that Cody would do it himself, because he was also more than a little afraid of Warren.

  “Charming as ever,” Warren said.

  “Well?” I asked Phil.

  “The bad, I guess. Get it out of the way.”

  “I like your style,” I said. “I think Brandon has been stalking me.”

  “Your ex?” Cody asked. “The jock?”

  “Bingo,” I said.

  All Phil was able to muster was, “Huh.”

  “ ‘Huh’?” I asked. “That’s it?”

  “Why do you think he’s following you?”

  “Not following,” I said. “Stalking. There’s a difference.” I ran through the recent events. The texts, the call (though I left out the fact that it had been me dialing Brandon), the surprise appearance at the Gov Cup. It seemed like a rock-solid chain of evidence.

  “I’ve heard he’s pretty isolated,” Phil said. “He dropped out of school—”

  “He dropped out?” I asked. This was news to me and it seemed like it shouldn’t be.

  “Yeah,” he said. “At least, he never actually showed up at the start of the year.”

  “I thought he just gave up football.”

  “Nope. What else? His friends don’t really hang out with him. Or they don’t want to be seen in public with him anyway.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Phil looked at me like he couldn’t believe what I was saying. Cody turned in his seat to check me out, and even Warren shot me a glance in the rearview.

  “What?” I demanded. “What’s the big secret?”

  “No one wants to be seen with him because he’s selling Vitamin Z,” Phil said.

  Cody chimed in, “But they all buy from him on the sly.”

  “When the hell did he start selling Vitamin Z?” I screeched. My life was suddenly spiraling out of control and I had no way of getting a handle on it.

  “He started selling after you stopped,” Phil said.

  Warren nearly lost control of the car. “You used to sell Vitamin Z?”

  “This isn’t the time, Warren,” I said. “How long have you known about this, Phil?”

  “I don’t know. Couple of months.”

  “And you didn’t tell me about it?” I knew I was wearing my harpy face, but I didn’t care. Phil had been withholding vital information from me and I was pissed. If I didn’t get answers soon, it wasn’t zombies I was going to be hunting that night.

  “I don’t pass every single fact I learn on to you,” Phil said. He turned and gave me one of those slow blinks. I hadn’t seen one in a while; they were usually an indication that he was retreating emotionally even more than usual. I started to argue back, but he cut me off. “It’s not like you share everything all the time, is it? When did I finally learn about you selling Z?”

  He had a point and it made me furious, but I refused to keep arguing like that because it might just turn into screaming and name calling, and even as mad as I was, I knew that wouldn’t be good for our relationship. Whatever sort of relationship it was. Instead I just sat back and faced forward.

  We drove on for a while in silence.

  “Are you going to tell us the good news?” Phil asked.

  “Go to hell,” I spat at him.

  “I’ll take that as a no.”

  “This is fun,” Cody said up in the front seat without turning around. “We are having fun.”

  I ignored him.

  As we drove, Warren kept glancing back at me in the mirror. Great, was he having second thoughts about going hunting with me because of my past occupation? Every time he looked at me, I got more and more mad. I was just about to yell at him to keep his eyes on the damn road when Cody chimed in.

  “Why don’t you use this quiet time to fill us in on tonight’s hunt?”

  “What?” Warren asked. He’d been looking at me and was caught off guard by Cody’s question. He recovered. “Sure,” he said. “There was a Z attack out this way a couple of days ago. Cops got a couple of them and called it good. But I thought there might be more.”

  “Sure,” Phil said. “The police hardly ever look thoroughly enough.”

  I wanted to ask since when had he become such an expert on police tactics, but I bit my tongue. I felt an electric pang in my chest. My heart was sending signals that I needed to cool my jets.

  The guys talked, but I tuned them out. I didn’t need the details. Just point me at the shufflers and I’d do my thing. Easy-peasy, black-brain-squeezy.

  Warren drove around the outskirts of town. Of course. All of the hot zombie action these days took place where the fields and woods bumped up against the houses of poorer neighborhoods. Neighborhoods like the ones me and Phil and Cody lived in. Nicer ’hoods, like the ones Warren and Brandon lived in, were safe, and not just because of the gates and fences and walls that contained them.

  Shit, did Brandon still live in his old place? Did his dad put up with his new shenanigans? I never met Mr. Ikaros, but from what I saw of Brandon’s life, I don’t think he was the best parental unit. Of course, folks probably thought that about my dad, too, based on some of my choices. Maybe parents can only carry so much blame; kids have to accept a big portion of the responsibility for their messed-up decisions, right? God, the way I sounded, I could run for a spot on the Salem city council on a “get tough on teens” platform. I’d be elected in a heartbeat.

  “You still with us, Courtney?”

  “What?”

  Warren turned in his seat and grinned at me. “We’re here. We’ve been here for a while now, but you didn’t seem to notice.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “I tuned out your delightful banter. I hope I didn’t miss anything.”

  He just laughed and climbed out of the car. The rest of us did the same.

  “There’s the house,” Warren said. He’d parked in front of a little shotgun shack, the front of which was decorated with yellow police tape, like the world’s saddest birthday party banners. The chain-link fence in front had been trampled down, the front door busted in. I’d seen fences like that before, but the door was a new one on me. Usually zombies couldn’t figure out porch steps, let alone a locked door.

  The wind picked up and it cut right through my hoodie. Worse, it felt like rain. I wished I’d brought something heavier. It was just that a down jacket didn’t have the ninja effect I had
been aiming for.

  “The cops zapped the zombies in the field across the road,” Warren continued, “but I don’t think they went in far enough.”

  The field was about forty or fifty yards of overgrown grass before a wall of trees sprang up. Big old trees. Maybe oaks. Before people showed up in this part of the world, even before the Indians, this area used to be what they called an “oak savannah”—oaks as far as the eye could see. In the light of a half moon, the old trees looked malicious, like they were just waiting for us to get close.

  I shivered and pretended it was because of the wind.

  “Saddle up,” Warren said. He pressed a button on his key fob and the car’s trunk opened slowly. “Choose your weapons.”

  Cody giggled and rubbed his hands. “Time to stomp some Zs!”

  Something felt off. Why were the boys so cheerful? Maybe it was me; maybe I was off-kilter. I drifted to the back of the car and took out my old standby. The wrecking bar glowed dully in the moonlight. I hadn’t done a very good job of cleaning it after the last hunt, and black gore caked into the crevices on the nail-ripper head. Seeing it then made me queasy. It just added to the sense that things were off about this.

  “Are you okay?” I started. I hadn’t realized anyone was standing next to me.

  Phil stared at me, concern—or as close to concern as Phil got—evident on his face. Annoyance crept in around the edges of my fear. Good. I’d rather be angry than afraid.

  “You don’t have to babysit me,” I said.

  “That’s not what this is.”

  “Then what?” I asked.

  “If you’re not into it, then you might get yourself hurt,” he said. “Or one of us.”

  He had a good point. I knew he had a good point and that his logic was sound, but I didn’t want to hear anything logical just then.

  “Why don’t you keep it to yourself?” I asked. “Since you seem to be so good at that.”