The zombie lay facedown. Runnels of filth caved through its rotting skin. The smell was unbelievable. It wore Dad’s jacket and Dad’s jeans. Once you’ve taken the heart out, a zombie rots real quick. Even the skeleton decomposes into dust.
I started to cry.
The babbling turned into one word, over and over again.
“Daddy? Daddy? Daddy?”
He just lay there.
The zombie just lay there.
CHAPTER 6
The mall was open because the snowplows had come out. The main drags were clean and clear. They took winter seriously around here and had everything salted, sanded, scraped, and plowed to within an inch of its life. The buses were still running, too.
Life doesn’t stop out on the prairies for a little snow. Canned Muzak still has to play, after all, and if they closed the malls, who would play it?
I stared at the small McDonald’s cup. It was full of coffee that had been steaming hot and now just kind of sat there. My eyes burned, full of sand. I’d scrubbed the zombie rot off my skin and thrown some clothes on, shoved all the cash I could find—Dad’s billfold was gone, probably tucked into the truck somewhere or, more likely, taken—into my messenger bag and hightailed it out of the house, stopping only to turn the heat off, for some weird reason. The back door was shattered and the smell was incredible, thick as Crisco in the nose.
Did anyone hear the shots? I didn’t think so—there had been no sirens, and our house was a pariah, set apart like it had a disease. We heard nothing from our neighbors, and that was the way Dad liked it. The snow would muffle everything, too.
If it had killed me, nobody would even know I was dead. I’d be lying there, and . . .
My brain stopped working, stalled like a choked engine. I shuddered, the plastic chair squeaking. The mall was as brightly lit as Heaven and people were wandering around, shopping like there wasn’t a decomposing zombie in my living room. Down on the lower level of the food court a fountain splashed, water rilling musically down squares of Art Deco concrete and sculpted, welded steel.
The Styrofoam cup was a white circle with a brown ellipse inside it, a conical, textured shape. I could draw it. My pad was in my bag, shoved in there with hysterical haste like everything else.
Drawing sounded good, except I couldn’t do it with my hands shaking so bad. I shivered again. I couldn’t have told you what I was wearing, only that I’d changed clothes after scrubbing the zombie goo off me.
I shot him. I shot Daddy.
I kept bumping up against the memory—Dad’s blue eyes with their rotting whites fixed on me, a crimson spark dancing in the depths of the clouded pupil, no longer perfectly circular but fringing at the edges as the tissue died. The gun jolting against my hands. The smell.
I realized I was making the sound again, a low whining at the back of my throat under the fountain’s wet splishing, and killed it. I couldn’t afford to have someone look too closely at me.
I’d just killed my dad.
Hello, Officer? Can you help me? My dad got turned into a zombie. You know, we’ve been traveling around getting rid of things that aren’t real, and this time they hit back. I really need someplace to stay—but can you make sure I have some holy water or something wherever it is? And some silver-jacketed bullets? That’d be sweet. Yeah, that’d be totally cool. Thanks. And while you’re at it, can you tell the guys with the straitjackets that I’m really sane? That would help.
The coffee trembled inside the cup as I touched its rim with two fingers. Soon the mall would start closing down. It was a weeknight. Where would I go? I couldn’t get a hotel room with the ID I had on me, unless I tried the bad part of town, and that would cost more cash than I wanted to spend right at the moment. Speaking of cash, I needed to find a way to get more if I ran out, and—
I couldn’t even think about planning that far ahead.
I shot my daddy. Jesus Christ, I shot my dad. Tears rose hot and thick in my throat. The awful scratching sound at the back window turned into someone pulling the cheap plastic chair opposite me away from the table and dropping down into it, grinning at me through a mop of curly dark hair.
“There you are. Skipping two days in a row. Someone call the cops.” Graves set an Orange Julius cup on the table—I’d chosen a place with my back to a wall, jumping nervously anytime someone walked behind me on their way to the restrooms. It was the spot with the best sight lines, and someone had put a fake potted plant behind my chair. Awful kind of them.
I stared at Goth Boy instead of the coffee cup now. The silver earring in his left ear was a dangling skull and crossbones. The faint satisfaction I felt at finally getting a clear look at it was drowned in the panic rising in my throat, thumping behind my heart.
He shook dyed, dead-black hair out of his eyes. They were more green than hazel now, cradled in the slightest of epicanthic folds, and the even caramel of his skin was something to hate him for. “Hey.” The grin faded, spilled out of his face. Today he wore a Kiss T-shirt and the usual black coat, and when he put his long hands on the table I saw he was wearing fingerless black gloves. The inverted crucifix winked at me from its silver chain, and my gorge rose again, pointlessly. “Are you okay?”
I almost laughed. I was not okay. I was not anywhere near okay. I was about as far away from okay as it was possible to get. My eyes swiveled back down to the coffee cup.
“Jesus. What happened?” He leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table. I almost flinched.
Don’t get too close to me. I just shot my dad.
“Hey. Dru. Hey.” He snapped his long brown fingers. “Hello. Sitting right here. What happened?”
Oh Christ. The lump in my throat went down, after a short wrestling match. I swallowed convulsively twice and found my voice, weak and watery but still mine. “Fuck off.”
His eyebrows shot up. He had actually scraped his hair back behind his ears with both hands, and now he looked very young as he stared back at me. His mouth thinned out, and I thought he was actually going to get up and walk away.
Then he settled back in his chair, arranging his long, gawky limbs as best he could, and picked up his cup. He took a long slurp of whatever was in it, and his eyes turned even more greeny-gold. They caught the fluorescent light and glowed at me.
Graves just sat there like he had all the time in the world.
I finally picked up my coffee cup. It seemed like the thing to do. The crap inside it was ice-cold, but it tasted better than the remainder of the zombie’s smell in my mouth. I took a gulp, set the cup down, and grimaced. My face wrinkled up, and I almost spewed cold ash-tasting coffee sludge across the table.
He didn’t move.
I listened to the soft strains of canned Muzak, trying to place the song. It was hopeless. Some pop anthem strangled by the gods of commerce. The words curdled in my chest. I couldn’t tell anyone what had happened.
Who would believe me? That’s why it’s the Real World, the night world, and not the normal world. People don’t want to know—and the things that eat people or grow fur or tell the future don’t want people to know. It’s a perfect marriage, complete with lies.
Pressure mounted in my throat. I had to say something. I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the table too. “I can’t go home tonight.” The hitch in my voice almost turned into a sob.
His eyebrows drew together. He was perilously close to unibrow; I guess nobody had held him down and administered a good plucking to the caterpillar climbing across his forehead. His earring winked at me.
Graves took another slurp. The unibrow wriggled. Then he pushed the cup away. His knuckles were chapped, I saw. I guess chicks didn’t dig hand lotion either, in his book.
“Okay,” he said quietly. “Do you have a place to stay?”
I blinked at him. Oh, no. Christ. Don’t try to solve my problems, kid. You have no idea. “I’ll find somewhere.” It was the truth. Even if I had to go back to the house. The thought sent a cold chill up my back.
Could someone have called the cops? No, they would have caught me in the bathroom—but it was snowing. Maybe the cops couldn’t get out to our house in all the snow. But the snow did funny things with sound, and our house was so far away from everyone else’s.
The hamster wheel inside my head started up, trying to figure things out from this new angle—and running smack into a wall again.
You’re taking this really well, Dru. You just shot your dad. How are you going to explain this to the cops?
Well, technically, with as fast as zombies rotted, there wouldn’t be anything other than a broken door and a bullet hole to explain. I could say it was there when we moved in, that my dad worked nights, and that’s why he couldn’t come to the door—
A dry sob caught me unawares. I folded my arms across my stomach and hunched over. I rested my forehead on the cool, slick material of the table, and it felt good. Almost as good as the cold porcelain of a toilet when you’re really, really sick.
My stomach roiled again.
Don’t throw up, Dru. Don’t you dare throw up on that floor.
Dad’s voice echoed in my skull now, the usual mantra while I worked the heavy bag. Work through it, sweetheart. Come on. One more for Daddy. Do it. Come on, girl, that’s not going to cut it! One more for me! Come on!
“Jesus,” Graves whispered. He sounded a lot older than a sophomore now. “How bad is it?”
My teeth chattered. I almost choked on a laugh. How bad is it? It’s so bad you have no idea. That’s how bad. “Just go away,” I said to my knees. How had I managed to tie my boots? I didn’t even remember getting dressed. I was out in public here at the mall. What was I wearing?
Jeans. I could feel socks. I had my boots on. I plucked at the edge of my T-shirt and saw it was red. I was wearing Dad’s spare Army jacket, and there was a heavy weight in the right pocket that had to be something deadly.
Jesus Christ, I’m armed in public. Dad would kill me.
“Dru?” His voice had gotten deeper. “How bad is it? You really can’t go home?”
I blinked. I had my gloves on, and someone was talking to me. I uncurled, sitting up. The world fell into place, colors and sounds not running like tinted water over glass. The Orange Julius was across the food court, and its sign suddenly seemed like the most wonderful, brightest beacon of hope in the world.
I smelled french fries, hot grease. I wanted to eat. My stomach growled so loudly I hunched my shoulders, hoping he couldn’t hear it.
Graves shifted in his chair again. Then he pushed his paper cup across the table. “Take a drink. Your coffee’s cold.” Still in that quiet, oddly adult voice. No teenage bluster at all in the words.
I grabbed it, sucked at the straw. The taste of strawberries and fake ice cream exploded against my tongue, cutting through and erasing the stink of reanimated death.
He hauled himself up to his full gawky height, scraping the chair back unmusically against the flooring. “Stay here, okay? Just for a second.”
I nodded and took another long swallow. He strode off, using those long grasshopper legs to his advantage. By the time I finished the smoothie he was back, sliding a tray across the table. It was a bacon cheeseburger and fries, with a vanilla milkshake I grabbed at. I wolfed the burger in what seemed like two bites while Graves settled back in his chair, tapping his fingers at the edge of the table. He didn’t shuck his coat, but he did take a few fries. He’d even brought packets of ketchup, and the only reason I didn’t tear into one was because the thought of the thick red inside made the food back up in my throat.
I slurped the last of the vanilla shake and thought of throwing up. Graves hummed along with the Muzak, tapping at the table’s edge. He was offbeat, but it didn’t seem to bother him much.
“Thanks,” I said finally, shoving my hair back behind my ears. The curls had turned to frizz again.
“No problem.” He shrugged, bony shoulders moving. “First one’s free. Look, you really can’t go home? What happened?”
I shot my dad. But it’s okay, he was one of the walking reanimated. The bacon cheeseburger fought for freedom. I put down the revolt with a slight burp that tasted like fake dairy product and slightly-less-fake beef. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Try me.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. His mouth had pulled in on itself, compressed into a thin line, and his gaze was dead level.
I stared at his right hand, the way the fingers lay against the slickness of the tabletop, the nails bitten down to the quick. His knuckles were still red and chapped, like he’d been outside a lot in the cold. He still had really good skin. A little bit of lotion would probably fix him right up.
I could draw his hand. I bet I could. I’d have to shade it more than I normally do to get all the textures down. “I just can’t go home,” I heard myself whisper. “Not until tomorrow.” Maybe not even then, either. I don’t know.
Graves was silent for a few moments. His hand was tense against the tabletop, all relaxation spilling out of his fingers. Muzak swelled through horns and synthesizers, echoing through the food court like the noise inside my head. I finally placed the song.
It was, of all things, an inoffensive rendition of AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell.” Dad liked that sort of music. Every new town we landed in, it was my job to find the oldies station and the classic rock station. I didn’t know what Dad would think about one of his favorites having its nuts cut off and played over a mall speaker system.
He’s not going to be thinking about anything ever again, Dru. The tears rose again. I snuffled, swallowed hard, and glared at Graves, daring him to say something about me blubbering like a kid.
Finally, he sat back, taking his hand off the table. “Do you have a place to sleep?”
I wish I did. “I’ll find somewhere.” A flophouse hotel, or I’ll ride the buses all night. Or something.
More silence between us. I heard a high, cawing laugh, and glanced over at the Orange Julius to see two blonde girls giggling behind their hands. They had a pair of jocks with them, one strapping dark-haired guy I’d seen at school and another who looked like his cousin or brother.
I felt a million miles away from them. Normal goddamn teenagers, acting like idiots in front of a fast-food place. The dark jock put his arms around one of the girls and picked her up. She shrieked with laughter, the sound as bright as new spilled pennies. Her shirt rode up, showing the supple curve of her back. It was snowing outside and there was a zombie dead in my living room, and here this girl was, dressed like a hooker and laughing.
My hand curled into a fist. I took a deep breath.
“I know a place.” Graves said it quietly, leaning forward across the table. He braced his thin elbows and rested his chin on his fist. “If you want, you know.”
Oh, Jesus. Not now. “Why is it there’s always a guy who thinks he can get something out of the new girl?” My fingernails dug into my palm. “Every goddamn town, it’s the same thing. Some guy thinks he’s God’s gift to the displaced.”
“I just asked if you wanted a place to sleep.” Graves hunched his shoulders defensively. “Jesus.”
Then I felt bad. It wasn’t his fault I had a dead zombie in my house. The back door was open; the place would be freezing in the morning. I couldn’t think about going back until daylight.
Then what will you do, Dru? Dad’s voice in my head, as if he was giving me a test. What’s going to happen then? You need a plan. Right now you’re running on rabbit.
Graves was still peering at me, his eyes darker greenish under his curly mass of hair. His earring winked again, a hard clear dart of light.
“Sorry.” My throat ached. How loudly had I screamed? Had anyone heard the gunshots? I couldn’t stop wondering about it. “It’s been a bad day.” You have no idea how bad it’s been.
“No problem.” He spread his hands, brushing away the apology. His coat whispered as he shifted in the creaking plastic seat. “So, I’ll take you someplace you can s
leep tonight. Someplace safe. Okay?”
“How much?” I had some money—usually there was no shortage of cash where Dad was concerned; liquid resources were critical to our type of lifestyle. But if Dad was really, truly gone, I had to take careful stock of what I had and make sure I could get more before I started spending like a maniac.
And his billfold was gone. He might’ve tucked it in the car. But . . .
“I keep telling you, first one’s free.” He glanced around the food court. “You want to play some air hockey? Good way to get your mind off stuff.”
I don’t know how I’m going to get my mind off zombies, kid. But it was something to do. I couldn’t just sit here until the mall closed. I’d explode. Or start crying. Or something else guaranteed to draw attention to myself.
“Sure,” I heard myself say.
His face lit up. “Cool. You finished?”
I pushed back my chair and felt my back spasm as I hauled myself upright, wincing and sucking in a sharp breath. I’d probably pulled something, trying to get away from the zombie. “Yeah, I guess. Graves?”
“Huh?” He shook his hair down over his face, but the grin still remained. It made him look a little bit older, cutting lines into his baby face.
“Thanks.” The word wasn’t adequate, and I searched for something else to say. “Nice gloves.”
“Hey, you know.” He scooped up the tray and my still-full cup of ice-cold coffee. The unibrow waggled at me, and then he actually, of all things, winked. “Chicks dig guys in gloves.”
I actually laughed. Call it a miracle.
CHAPTER 7
“You’re kidding,” I said for the fifth time. “In the mall?”
“It’swarm and it’s safe. It opens up in plenty of time to get to school in the morning.” Graves ran his hand back through his hair and checked the hallway. “Come on.”
I’d never been behind the scenes in a mall before. They’re huge places, and the stores are only half of it. Behind each store and threading through the entire complex were maintenance hallways and office space, just a thin doorway away. Graves loitered in the hall leading to the restrooms until it was clear, produced a thin rectangle of plastic—it looked like a credit card—to slip the lock on one of the doors with the ease of long practice, and motioned me through. He looked over my shoulder when he did, and his face was a lot older than usual, but it smoothed out by the time he pulled the door closed and made sure it was locked.