Page 16 of Undead Much


  “Ethan’s se­en me wit­ho­ut ma­ke­up be­fo­re and he do­esn’t ca­re.” The tho­ught ma­de me fe­el mushy and sad all at the sa­me ti­me.

  My boyf­ri­end tho­ught I was be­a­uti­ful even when I was pa­le and bag-rid­den, and I hadn’t even tho­ught to call him last night. Not to men­ti­on the who­le Cliff thing. In the cold light of day, I co­uldn’t be­li­eve I’d had a sing­le mo­re-than-fri­ends tho­ught abo­ut a de­ad guy, but I had. Which pro­bably me­ant I was the lo­usi­est girlf­ri­end in the en­ti­re world. Et­han de­ser­ved so much bet­ter.

  “I’ll just grab so­me lips­tick and mas­ca­ra from my back­pack on the way to-”

  “Um, no. You ne­ed mo­re help than that. Go. Apply.” Mo­ni­ca snatc­hed my cof­fee from my hands and ste­ered me to­ward the bath­ro­om. “I re­com­mend ba­se and ext­ra bag and black-eye con­ce­aler.”

  “Re­al­ly, it’s no big de­al, I-”

  “Ha­ve you for­got­ten what to­day is?” My blank lo­ok must ha­ve as­su­red her I had. “The swe­et­he­art ska­te is to­night and you, my fri­end, ha­ve not sold a sing­le tic­ket. That me­ans you’ve got to hust­le to­day, and no boy is go­ing to buy a co­up­les ska­te with a girl who lo­oks li­ke she dug her way out of a gra­ve.”

  “But… af­ter all that’s hap­pe­ned, are we still-”

  “The com­pe­ti­ti­on is still on. Da­na cal­led me last night to as­su­re me the che­er­le­aders we­re still ‘in it to win it.’ She sa­id Ta­bit­ha was go­ing to be fi­ne, and that they we­re go­ing to de­di­ca­te the­ir first half­ti­me per­for­man­ce to her re­co­very or so­met­hing li­ke that. So go, hurry, or you won’t ha­ve ti­me to-”

  “Okay, okay.” I hur­ri­ed in­to the bath­ro­om and set to fi­xing my fa­ce, even tho­ugh the last thing I ca­red abo­ut right now was be­ating the che­er­le­aders at fund-ra­ising. A girl was de­ad, I was in the midst of World War III with my mom, and so­me­one was trying to kill me. Even if our DNA bre­akth­ro­ugh was go­ing to cle­ar my na­me, the­re was still a lot of bad crap go­ing down. The fact that Mo­ni­ca was still in­te­res­ted in pom squ­ad stuff was just… we­ird.

  But then aga­in, that was pro­bably why she’d li­ve a long and well-ba­lan­ced li­fe, easily jug­gling her pa­ra­nor­mal and every­day ac­ti­vi­ti­es and I’d be a comp­le­te bas­ket ca­se by the ti­me I was twenty. Af­ter all, wasn’t that why I tri­ed so hard to be nor­mal? Be­ca­use I co­uld fe­el the Set­tler stuff slowly ta­king over, con­su­ming me un­til the­re was not­hing left of the girl I’d wan­ted to be be­fo­re my po­wer ca­me back last fall?

  I shi­ve­red and did my best to apply a thin li­ne of eye­li­ner wit­ho­ut lo­oking myself in the eye. My fa­ce was fre­aking me out as much as my tho­ughts. I just lo­oked so… hol­low-empty in a way I’d ne­ver se­en be­fo­re.

  The pho­ne rang out­si­de and I he­ard Mo­ni­ca tal­king softly. She stuck her he­ad in the bath­ro­om a se­cond la­ter. “Co­me on, ti­me’s up. Et­han’s out­si­de.”

  “Just one se­cond, I’m al­most-”

  “No­pe, we’ve got to go. Both of us, and we’re not go­ing stra­ight to scho­ol.” Her grim to­ne in­di­ca­ted this si­de trip wasn’t go­ing to be to the do­nut shop or So­nic for a sun­ri­se smo­ot­hie. “The El­ders ha­ve cal­led an emer­gency me­eting and our at­ten­dan­ce is man­da­tory.”

  “But Kitty and Bar­ker to­ok our sta­te­ments last night.”

  “Appa­rently the­re was a lo­ose end or three we for­got to men­ti­on,” she sa­id, the dre­ad cle­ar on her fa­ce as she grab­bed her back­pack from the flo­or. “And one of tho­se lo­ose ends told her mom qu­ite a story last night.”

  “Oh God, the kids.” Set­tlers we­re ne­ver sup­po­sed to let them­sel­ves or the OOGPs they de­alt with be ob­ser­ved. It was the num­ber one ru­le, the one we all le­ar­ned from the first se­cond we star­ted dra­wing zom­bi­es when we we­re kids. Heck, it was why a lot of lit­tle Set­tlers we­re ho­mesc­ho­oled. If you co­uldn’t get yo­ur po­wer to sum­mon Un­set­tled un­der cont­rol, you didn’t le­ave the ho­use. SA was that se­ri­o­us abo­ut ma­king su­re our world and our job re­ma­ined top sec­ret.

  “Elder Tho­mas’s nep­hew is in the sa­me prac­ti­ce with Dr. Samp­son and got an ear­ful over the pho­ne this mor­ning. Ap­pa­rently the doc­tor is thin­king abo­ut ta­king her da­ugh­ter to a psychi­at­rist and was lo­oking for so­me go­od na­mes.”

  “Crap.” I fol­lo­wed Mo­ni­ca out the do­or and down the steps, shi­ve­ring as the cold air cut thro­ugh my bor­ro­wed swe­ater. It was fre­ezing. Of co­ur­se it wo­uld be fre­ezing on the one day I for­got my co­at. That was just my luck la­tely. “I didn’t even think. But su­rely they didn’t see much-we wo­uld ha­ve no­ti­ced if they’d be­en the­re the who­le ti­me. Wo­uldn’t we?”

  “I don’t know. Gu­ess we’re abo­ut to find out.” Mo­ni­ca ga­ve Et­han a limp wa­ve as he emer­ged from the dri­ver’s si­de of his Mi­ni Co­oper, then she clim­bed in­to the back­se­at.

  I, ho­we­ver, didn’t play it ne­arly as co­ol. Be­fo­re I knew what I was do­ing, I’d hur­led myself at him. I bu­ri­ed my fa­ce in his chest and suc­ked his fa­mi­li­ar smell de­ep in­to my lungs, wis­hing I ne­ver had to mo­ve. As so­on as I to­uc­hed Et­han, any do­ubt that this was the only boy for me va­nis­hed. He was ho­me in a way even Mom and Dad we­ren’t, es­pe­ci­al­ly right now, and I co­uldn’t be­li­eve I’d let myself even think abo­ut an­yo­ne el­se.

  “Hey, it’s go­ing to be okay,” he whis­pe­red, his bre­ath war­ming my ha­ir. “You and Mo­ni­ca aren’t in tro­ub­le. I think they just want to talk to you, let you know what they’re do­ing abo­ut the kids.”

  “It’s not that, it’s just… everyt­hing.” I squ­e­ezed him tigh­ter. “But I think Mo­ni­ca and I fi­gu­red out so­met­hing im­por­tant.” I bri­efly fil­led him in on my and Mo­ni­ca’s pow­wow, but wasn’t surp­ri­sed to see he didn’t lo­ok to­tal­ly re­li­eved.

  “That’s gre­at, but the­re’s still so­me­body out the­re-”

  “Ra­ising crazy zom­bi­es and trying to kill me. Ye­ah.”

  “Hey, don’t worry. We’re go­ing to fi­gu­re this out.”

  “Right. And on­ce the DNA test co­mes back, and SA re­ali­zes they’ve be­en af­ter the wrong per­son, it’s bo­und to get easi­er.”

  “Exactly. Po­si­ti­ve thin­king.” He kis­sed the top of my he­ad, and my he­art did a tra­gic mo­dern bal­let in my chest. Why did it fe­el li­ke this was the last ti­me I’d ever be with Et­han li­ke this? That af­ter to­day, everyt­hing was go­ing to chan­ge? “Lis­ten, I was go­ing to he­ad to the hos­pi­tal to check out the ICU, but I can-”

  “No, you sho­uld go.” I re­luc­tantly pul­led my che­ek from Et­han’s swe­ater. “The less ti­me the En­for­cers ha­ve to co­ver up wha­te­ver hap­pe­ned, the bet­ter. Un­til I’m cle­ared for su­re, we can’t stop trying to fi­gu­re out what’s go­ing on.”

  “That’s what I tho­ught.” He coc­ked his he­ad to the si­de, con­temp­la­ting me with that sa­me lo­oking-thro­ugh-you kind of lo­ok Cliff had gi­ven me last night. “Is the­re so­met­hing el­se?”

  “Um… no,” I sa­id, squ­as­hing the ur­ge to con­fess whe­re I’d be­en last night, even tho­ugh he hadn’t as­ked.

  He wo­uld even­tu­al­ly, ho­we­ver, and I’d ha­ve to be re­ady with a fe­asib­le lie, or the truth, or so­me sort of hybrid that wo­uld ke­ep my cons­ci­en­ce qu­i­et whi­le con­ce­aling the fact that I kept sum­mo­ning the sa­me Un­set­tled du­de over and over aga­in. If I hadn’t had the sne­aking sus­pi­ci­on my gro­wing fe­elings for Cliff we­re in so­me way res­pon­sib­le for ke­eping him from his eter­nal rest, I wo­uld ha­ve just told Et­han the truth. Af­ter all, Cl
iff’s ap­pe­aran­ce might still ha­ve so­met­hing to do with the we­ird RCs, and Et­han, as one of the only pe­op­le trying to help me, sho­uld know that.

  Then why didn’t I spill my guts? It wasn’t li­ke I owed Cliff anyt­hing, and not­hing had re­al­ly hap­pe­ned. Not­hing that I felt for­ced to tell Et­han in or­der to cle­an­se my sin­ful so­ul or anyt­hing li­ke that. And wo­uldn’t it fe­el go­od to tell so­me­one?

  “Abo­ut last night, I-”

  “Tell me in the car. We’ve got to run. I stop­ped by yo­ur ho­use and grab­bed yo­ur back­pack and co­at so that will sa­ve a lit­tle ti­me. I al­so stuck a new pay-as-you-go cell in the poc­ket of yo­ur co­at. That way I can call you on a se­cu­re li­ne.” God, he re­al­ly was the best boyf­ri­end ever. “But we ha­ve to hust­le to ma­ke it to he­ad­qu­ar­ters by six thirty.”

  “Okay, we’ll just talk la­ter then,” I sa­id, sec­retly re­li­eved. My in­ten­ti­ons we­re go­od, but my re­sol­ve was we­ak. “I don’t want to sha­re everyt­hing with the Mo­nics­ter.”

  “Tho­ugh she’s be­en pretty help­ful so far, hasn’t she?” he as­ked, lo­oking very sa­tis­fi­ed with him­self.

  I smi­led and fo­ught the ur­ge to squ­e­eze him aga­in. He’s un­be­arably cu­te, es­pe­ci­al­ly when he gets that cocky lit­tle smirk on his fa­ce. It ma­kes him lo­ok yo­un­ger for so­me re­ason, li­ke the boy I’d first met when I was fi­ve and he was eight. Truth be told, I think I’d star­ted crus­hing on him right then, in a kin­der­gar­ten, “I want to sha­re my co­oki­es with you” sort of way.

  “I’d still sha­re my co­oki­es with you.” On im­pul­se I sto­od on tip­toe, cap­tu­ring his lips for a re­al kiss, not so­me early-mor­ning peck. Im­me­di­ately, my body felt shot thro­ugh with elect­ri­city and my we­ary synap­ses fi­red to li­fe. Kis­ses. So much bet­ter than cof­fee.

  By the ti­me we pul­led apart we we­re both bre­at­hing fas­ter. “We­ren’t they ani­mal crac­kers? That you’d al­re­ady eaten the he­ads off of?”

  “I think they we­re.”

  He smi­led, a mushy smi­le that to­ok what was left of my bre­ath away. “I’d still eat them, even all wet and spitty at the ends. I lo­ve yo­ur co­oki­es and I-”

  “God, get a ro­om or gi­ve me a barf bag,” Mo­ni­ca sho­uted from in­si­de.

  Ethan and I smi­led, but ne­it­her of us was em­bar­ras­sed. The­re we­re just so­me things pe­op­le li­ke Mo­ni­ca wo­uld ne­ver un­ders­tand, and mushy, co­okie-sha­ring lo­ve li­ke ours was one of them. I’d be­en an idi­ot to stress out abo­ut me and Et­han. Not­hing-not my se­cond-ba­se an­xi­ety and cer­ta­inly not so­me de­ad guy-was go­ing to get bet­we­en us.

  Ye­ah, but be­ing de­ad or in pri­son for the rest of yo­ur li­fe wo­uld pro­bably-

  “Let’s go.” I re­fu­sed to ack­now­led­ge the in­ner vo­ice of do­om. Things we­re lo­oking up. Mo­ni­ca and I had pretty much loc­ked down a way to pro­ve my in­no­cen­ce, Et­han had a le­ad, and by this af­ter­no­on we’d be that much clo­ser to shut­ting the re­al zom­bie-ra­iser down and cle­aring my na­me. I was go­ing to stay po­si­ti­ve, no mat­ter what.

  CHAPTER 14

  Be­ige was the co­lor of des­pa­ir. Af­ter twenty mi­nu­tes sit­ting in a be­ige cha­ir, sta­ring at a be­ige tab­le full of Set­tler El­ders-most of them al­so dres­sed in be­ige-I was cer­ta­in the aw­ful co­lor even had a smell. It was a sad, musty smell, li­ke that of the an­ci­ent swim­ming po­ol loc­ker ro­om down at the Y, shot thro­ugh with the shar­per, me­tal­lic scent of fe­ar.

  Or may­be it was the El­ders’ fe­ar I co­uld smell, and it had not­hing to do with be­ige. Be­ca­use they we­re all af­ra­id. I co­uld see it in the tight set of the­ir jaws, in the hands that twis­ted in­to fists on top of the tab­le. Just lo­oking at them was eno­ugh to ter­rify me, even if they hadn’t just fi­nis­hed tel­ling me and Mo­ni­ca the sca­ri­est story I’d ever he­ard.

  “I as­su­me you un­ders­tand the se­ri­o­us­ness of this mat­ter?” El­der Cra­ne as­ked, his na­sal to­ne gra­ting on my al­re­ady raw ner­ves. But then, it was easy to get twitchy when you had just le­ar­ned one or two scre­wups on yo­ur part co­uld le­ad to the end of li­fe on earth as we knew it.

  Yep. The. End. Li­ke, the BIG end. We’d just be­en in­for­med that if the Set­tler world be­ca­me com­mon know­led­ge among the hu­man po­pu­la­ti­on, Ro­gue zom­bi­es co­uld even­tu­al­ly ta­ke over the world. That was what had ca­used the Set­tler-Re­sis­tant Un­de­ad in Euro­pe all tho­se hund­reds of ye­ars ago and why Set­tlers had stop­ped wor­king with hu­man go­vern­ments and go­ne un­derg­ro­und. Whe­ne­ver too many hu­mans fo­und out abo­ut zom­bi­es and the pe­op­le who at­ten­ded to them, Set­tlers star­ted to lo­se the­ir po­wer over the de­ad. Be­fo­re the de­ve­lop­ment of hypno­tism and, la­ter, mind-wi­ping spells fu­eled by mo­dern tech­no­logy, the­re was no way to cont­rol the spre­ad of in­for­ma­ti­on. Which me­ant the­re was no way to stop a zom­bie pla­gue from dest­ro­ying a vil­la­ge or, at ti­mes, who­le ci­ti­es.

  In to­day’s in­for­ma­ti­on age, if a Yo­uTu­be vi­deo got in­to the wrong hands, we co­uld ha­ve a glo­bal epi­de­mic on our hands in no ti­me. It wo­uldn’t mat­ter if not ever­yo­ne who saw the thing be­li­eved in zom­bi­es or Set­tlers. Even a few hund­red be­li­evers wo­uld be eno­ugh to put a se­ri­o­us dent in our ma­gic.

  We we­re li­ke the op­po­si­te of Tin­ker­bell. We ne­eded pe­op­le not to be­li­eve in or­der to ma­in­ta­in our po­wer and ke­ep Ro­gue zom­bi­es from in­fes­ting the world li­ke packs of ra­bid, rot­ting dogs.

  Yet Mo­ni­ca and I had al­lo­wed at le­ast three pe­op­le to see us in ac­ti­on, lit­tle pe­op­le with big mo­uths who had told the ta­le of what they’d se­en to every grown-up who wo­uld lis­ten be­fo­re SA had fi­nal­ly got­ten wind of what had hap­pe­ned and sent out En­for­cers to con­ta­in the si­tu­ati­on. Now they we­re just pra­ying they’d got­ten to ever­yo­ne and cle­ared the me­mory of last night from the­ir minds be­fo­re the Set­tlers of the gre­ater Lit­tle Rock area be­gan to lo­se the­ir po­wer and Ar­kan­sas was suc­ked in­to the grips of a zom­bie pla­gue.

  And it was all our fa­ult.

  So much for sta­ying po­si­ti­ve.

  “Yes, I un­ders­tand,” Mo­ni­ca sa­id. “And I swe­ar I’ll do my best to ma­ke su­re this ne­ver hap­pens aga­in.”

  “Abso­lu­tely. I me­an, I’ve al­ways ta­ken the ru­le se­ri­o­usly, but now… ye­ah,” I ad­ded, win­cing at my stun­ning lack of co­he­rency. Not that it mat­te­red. No­ne of the ten El­ders sit­ting aro­und the me­eting tab­le spa­red me a glan­ce.

  They’d ste­ered cle­ar of any dis­cus­si­on abo­ut my pos­sib­le in­vol­ve­ment in the zom­bie ra­isings, but the­ir uns­po­ken be­li­ef in my gu­ilt hung in the air. It ma­de me won­der why they’d even bot­he­red tel­ling me what they’d told Mo­ni­ca. I gu­ess they tho­ught the news wo­uld con­vin­ce me to chan­ge my evil ways and qu­it ra­ising su­per zom­bi­es with black ma­gic and ris­king the ex­po­su­re of the Set­tler world. Af­ter all, not even su­per-big bad guys want to li­ve in a world po­pu­la­ted by vi­olent Ro­gu­es.

  Ro­gu­es we­ren’t the sa­me as black-ma­gi­cal­ly ra­ised corp­ses, but they we­re still very bad news. Any Un­set­tled who was out of the­ir gra­ve long eno­ugh co­uld go Ro­gue. Af­ter an ho­ur or two, if they didn’t ma­ke con­tact with a Set­tler, the typi­cal Un­set­tled lost the­ir po­wer of spe­ech and re­ason and be­gan ven­ting the­ir frust­ra­ti­on with wha­te­ver was still bot­he­ring them from the­ir hu­man li­ves by wrec­king everyt­hing in the­ir path.

  Ro­gu­es co­uld kill pe­op­le, dest­roy the pe­ace, and ba­si­cal­ly ma­ke the world a te
r­rif­ying, un­li­vab­le pla­ce if the­re we­re no Set­tlers aro­und to ta­ke ca­re of them. Con­si­de­ring not­hing co­uld kill RCs, the only way to get rid of them wo­uld be so­me sort of exp­lo­si­ve, and as so­on as the po­li­ce or army or who­ever to­ok ca­re of one batch, the­re wo­uld be anot­her to ta­ke its pla­ce. Af­ter all, pe­op­le wo­uld ke­ep dying, and tho­se de­ad pe­op­le wo­uld ke­ep ha­ving is­su­es and ri­sing from the­ir gra­ves. Wit­ho­ut Set­tlers, Ro­gue num­bers wo­uld get out of cont­rol and the world wo­uld be plun­ged in­to the midst of a zom­bie epi­de­mic.

  I, for one, tho­ught this wo­uld be so­met­hing go­od for Set­tlers to know from the get-go. With so much at risk, why did SA fe­el the con­se­qu­en­ces of ex­po­su­re we­re so­met­hing to be con­ce­aled un­til the­re was no cho­ice but to drag pe­op­le li­ke Mo­ni­ca and me in­to the­ir sec­ret be­ige me­eting ro­om and sca­re us half to de­ath af­ter we’d scre­wed up? It ma­de abo­ut as much sen­se as ext­re­mely con­ser­va­ti­ve pa­rents not tel­ling the­ir da­ugh­ters abo­ut the con­se­qu­en­ces of sex un­til af­ter they we­re al­re­ady preg­nant. Shut­ting the barn do­or af­ter the hor­se was lo­ose, much?

  But then, I was be­gin­ning to think SA wasn’t ne­arly as smart as they be­li­eved them­sel­ves to be. Our re­ma­ining un­dis­co­ve­red for so long se­emed due mo­re to hu­ma­nity’s ten­dency not to see things they didn’t want to see, rat­her than cle­ver­ness on the part of Set­tlers’ Af­fa­irs.

  “I want to be cer­ta­in you both un­ders­tand the facts as they ha­ve be­en pre­sen­ted.” El­der Cra­ne sta­red at us, his wa­tery blue eyes dril­ling a ho­le in the air abo­ve our he­ads. He didn’t do eye con­tact, but El­der Tho­mas did.

  Her eyes met mi­ne and I wis­hed I co­uld sink thro­ugh the flo­or. If I ne­ver saw anot­her ac­cu­sing gla­re in my li­fe, I wo­uld die a happy girl. I co­uldn’t wa­it for the chan­ce to talk to Kitty abo­ut the DNA test and be on my way to be­ing Miss Go­ody Two-Sho­es aga­in. “If our world and our work we­re to be­co­me mat­ters of com­mon know­led­ge, our po­wer to Set­tle the de­ad wo­uld fa­de and even­tu­al­ly di­sap­pe­ar comp­le­tely.”