I threw my hands up in exasperation. “Actually, I can make you. I’m stronger than you, remember?”
“But you ain’t more stubborn!” he declared with a satisfied smirk. “And you’re out of your damn mind if you think I’m leaving when you might need help.”
I saw it then—the flash of bone-deep fear and worry. My annoyance vanished. Only a few weeks ago, he thought he’d lost me forever. How could I expect him to go off on a frickin’ vacation?
“You’re right,” I said. “I’m sorry. I was out of my damn mind.” I seized him in a hug. He returned it with just as much gusto.
“Glad you understand,” he said gruffly.
“I do.” I pulled back and gave him a serious look. “But can we compromise? Can you stay at the Tribe’s lab?”
He made a face. “That place ain’t the most welcoming. And it ain’t exactly a hotel.”
“It’s not a fleabag dive, either! You’d have a room to yourself. Meals. Security out the ass.”
He eyed me. “Same as jail. I ain’t goin’, and that’s final.”
I sighed. There was no convincing him when he was like this. “Okay, fine. Stay here, but don’t go out! I mean it. And you need to wear mosquito repellent anyway, and lock the doors and windows, just in case.”
My dad grumbled under his breath but nodded. “I’ll get the shotgun out, for even more just in case.”
“Since when do we have a shotgun?”
“We don’t have a shotgun. I have a shotgun. Twelve gauge. Did a favor for a buddy of mine, and he gave me it.”
“Huh.” I flopped onto the sofa. “Okay then. Do you have shells for it?”
“A box of number six.”
Nowhere near the stopping power of double-aught buckshot, but enough to do damage. I was all for saving the shamblers, but not if my dad was in danger.
“That’ll do.” I glared at him. “Just make sure you’re shooting a shambler. When Mr. Cleg down the road gets drunk, he looks like one. Go for the legs. It’s pretty tough to actually kill them.” Not to mention I still clung to the hope they could be cured. “And if it gets really bad out there, I will drag your butt to the lab.”
He smiled and settled beside me. “Kinda nice you worryin’ about me.”
“You’re my dad, dummy.” I let my gaze linger on his face. Though he’d only recently turned fifty, he looked at least a decade older. His thin hair was streaked with grey, and lines crowded around his eyes and mouth, helped along by decades of smoking, drinking, and stress, as well as an old back injury and a lack of anything resembling exercise. “I worry about you,” I added quietly. “Not sure I could handle losing you.” I grabbed his hand. “Dad. I . . . I might live a really long time. That is, I’m not going to die of old age.” I took an unsteady breath. “Dad, you could become . . . like me. I could—”
“Angelkins.” His voice was soft and calm. “No.”
My chest tightened. “What do you mean, No? Dad, you wouldn’t have to ever worry about cancer or heart disease or arthritis or even a cold!”
A gentle smile curved his mouth. “Baby, I don’t want to be immortal. Don’t need to be. I already done my best thing ever: I made you.”
My lower lip quivered. “B-but I don’t want to lose you.”
“It’s gotta happen eventually, either way, Angelkins. A man ain’t s’posed to outlive his kids.”
“If we’re both zombies you wouldn’t,” I shot back.
“Don’t you sass me, girl,” he said. “I’m trying to be all dramatic and shit, and you’re spoiling it.” He tsked under his breath, lifted a thumb to wipe away the tears that spilled down my cheeks. “I can’t explain it, baby. I just know it ain’t right for me. Look, knowing that I’m gonna die is what lets me appreciate bein’ alive. But what happened to you, gettin’ turned into what you are . . . well, it was a real gift, because god knows you deserved it. You didn’t get to live during your first twenty years. But I know you better’n anyone else out there. And now that you got the chance to really live, you’re gonna squeeze everything you can outta the rest of your life, whether it’s ten years or ten thousand.”
Sniffling, I swiped at my eyes. “Fine,” I said. “But you have to promise me that you’re going to take really good care of yourself from now on. Just because you’re mortal doesn’t mean you have to take a running start at death.”
“Sure thing, baby.” He patted my arm indulgently.
“I mean it.” I gave him a fierce look. “I want you to get regular checkups with the doctor, and quit smoking—for real—and eat better, and hell, I want you to start exercising. More than walking to the mailbox and back.”
His eyes glistened. “I’ll do it. For both of us.” He paused. “And mostly ’cause I’m pretty sure that if I don’t, you’ll turn me zombie out of spite.”
I managed a wobbly grin. “You’re goddamn right I will. And you’ll never hear the end of it. Forever.”
He wrapped his arms around me and heaved a sigh. “I guess I better get my ass into a gym.”
“They won’t know what hit them.” I gave him a long squeeze, memorizing everything about him for the millionth time, then released him. “Is it okay if I play the game for a while?” I was pretty sure Andrew expected me to play it.
“Hell, it’s yours, ain’t it? Just watch out for the weirdos.” He snorted. “There’s one feller who kept following me around. Asked me to join him for a drink in the tavern. But he slunk away when I told him to fuck the hell off.” He let out a snicker. “Guess he thought I was a lady.”
“Can’t hardly blame him. Look at that fur bikini—” My eyes snapped to the headset, and I gave myself a mental forehead smack. Of course! Weirdo guy had to be Andrew! People talked to each other in games all the time. I had no idea if people could eavesdrop on those conversations, but even if it was possible, there was no way anyone would think Andrew and I would communicate this way. “I’ll be careful,” I solemnly promised.
“Alrighty, then I’m going to head over to the Y and see if they can work with what I got.” He struck a muscle pose and made a show of kissing his puny bicep.
“Better take care of those guns,” I said, laughing.
He dropped a kiss onto my forehead then snatched up his keys. “Got .22s now, but I’ll have .50 calibers before you know it!” He strode out, singing Bat out of Hell at the top of his lungs.
Good thing Mrs. Grady across the street was going deaf.
Chapter 20
I waited for Dad’s truck to pull out of the driveway then made a pass with the bug scanner through the living room, kitchen, and hallway. It would be kind of awful to finally—hopefully—talk to Andrew in a—hopefully—secure setting, only to have the bad guys listen in.
Once I finished the house, I scanned the game console itself. Twice. Nothing. Excellent. I grabbed the headset and controller and plopped onto the floor.
Then got right back up again to find the directions on how to use the friggin’ controller. I soon located them between the sofa cushions, along with a crumpled dollar bill and an empty cigarette packet. Nothing toxic. If not for my dad’s housecleaning girlfriend, there could have been anything from petrified corn chips to dirty boxers down there. Go, Gina!
After a few minutes of reading instructions and fiddling with the controller, I unpaused the game and got the hang of walking Momzombique around.
A couple of beetle things scuttled past, but I ignored them and turned a slow circle, taking stock. “Crap,” I muttered. “I should’ve asked Dad what the weirdo looked like.”
People wandered about hawking various goods. Beggars begged, and shady figures skulked. I got the feeling they were part of the game and not other players. My hunch was confirmed after I deliberately walked into a man dressed like a baker, and his reaction was to give me a hearty greeting and say, “Baguette for you today, Swordbearer?”
r /> A red-haired man with bulging muscles lounged near the door of the Wayside Tavern. He wore shiny silver armor and flowing purple cloak, and didn’t look at all like the other “townspeople.” He was also facing in my direction.
A quick check of the instructions revealed how to talk to other players. I cleared my throat, adjusted the mic, then toggled the button. “So, uh, come here often?”
“About time you got here,” a voice that was definitely Andrew’s grumbled. The muscled fighter turned and strode down the street. “Follow me.”
I did so—after a couple of false starts and one instance of getting stuck in a corner and yet another peek at the instructions for how to climb steps. Eventually he led me into a ruined stone building and down into a cellar so convincingly squatty I ducked my head where I sat in my living room. A single guttering torch lit the room. On the wall opposite the stairs, a dark passageway loomed beyond the rusty bars of a gate. Distant screeches echoed in stereo.
“Are bugs going to come out of that?” I asked. I tried to point toward the barred gate but only succeeded in drawing my sword.
“I killed them already. I didn’t want to be disturbed once you finally showed up. I assume that was your father, earlier?”
“Yeah. Sorry about that. This game is pretty cool. Did Saberton make it?”
“No,” he said, the withering look clear in his voice if not on his character’s face. “We don’t make video games. And even if we did, it would be too obvious for me to use it for this.”
“Right. Gotcha.” I did a slow turn to take in the basement. “So, no one can listen in on us here?”
“On the street, other characters might be able to hear us. Not that any of them would have context or care about our conversation, but there’s no point in taking chances. It’s safer down here. And we need to talk.” He made an unintelligible noise. “Would you please stand still? It’s distracting.”
“Seriously? It’s not like I have to look at you.” But I went ahead and faced him. “And yes, we really need to talk. You know what’s going on here, right? The shambling zombies?”
“I’ve seen the news coverage, but I’m sure there’s plenty I don’t know.”
I gave him the rundown—including Kristi’s offer to help—all the while wishing Andrew’s muscled dude had facial expressions so I could judge how the info was being received. “What is Saberton saying about all this?” I asked once I finished.
“Not a word. And before I address the Charish issue, are you certain those men in the swamp were Saberton?”
“Positive. Rosario identified one of them as a Saberton security dude. Harlon Murtaugh. He didn’t recognize the other one, though, and didn’t get a good look at the divers.”
“Any distinguishing features on the second one? If I have ID on both I can see what project they’re assigned to.”
“Oh man. I’ll try. Redhead, skinny but with muscles. Um. Nowhere near as tall as Murtaugh.”
“You suck as an eyewitness, but I’ll see what I can do. Now, about Kristi Charish.”
“She’s completely vicious, evil, and without morals?” I supplied helpfully.
“Yes, that’s a given. But she’s also a solid forward thinker and not to be underestimated. She’s had spies and informants throughout Saberton for at least the past couple of years. Did you know she’s on the Saberton Board of directors now?”
“Are you shitting me? How the hell did that happen?”
“Part of the deal my mother made with Charish to get her back with the corporation.” He snorted. “Stupid move on her part because Charish all but controls that boardroom now. She has extortion down to an art. And her gift for analyzing situations and exploiting them to her advantage is unparalleled.”
“You mean she knows the best ways to screw everyone over.”
“Well, Charish is a sociopath through and through, so for the most part she doesn’t care if people get screwed over in the process.”
“Sure. For the most part. Except for people she hates. Like me.”
He chuckled. “True. She really does despise you.”
A dark spot on the wall behind Andrew shifted. Or had it? Maybe it was just an effect of the flickering torch.
“You wrecked her plans more than once, Angel. She doesn’t forgive or forget.”
“But do you think she would—” The dark shape moved, leaped. “Shit. Watch out!”
My warning came an instant too late. The camouflaged spider-demon thing pounced on Andrew and chomped its fangs into his head. Blood spurted, then Andrew flickered and vanished, leaving an impressive stain of blood on the floor.
“Dammmmn. The graphics in this game kick ass!” I crossed fingers Andrew would respawn soon so we could continue our chat.
Unfortunately, the spider-demon wasn’t satisfied with killing Andrew and sprang toward me. By some miracle, I remembered which button to push to swing my sword and managed to slice two legs off with one swipe. Plus-six Sword of Deadly Hacking for the win!
Another swing cut a huge gash in its side, but the spider-demon scored a hit to my leg with a venom-dripping fang. My heart indicator went from green to yellow.
“Ha! Can’t kill me that easily, sucker!” I jumped and avoided another fang slash. The spider came back around, and I did a power swing-jump and slash combo by pressing both the A button and right trigger.
It was Andrew’s shitty luck that he chose that moment to respawn—right in the path of my power swing.
“Well, that was a pain in the—” was all he managed to get out before my sword sliced through him. Once again his health indicator went from green to black, and he vanished.
“Hope he has another life,” I muttered and repeated my power swing on the spider—far more effective now that Andrew wasn’t in the way—and the spider screeched and blew apart in a cloud of angry red sparks.
Stupidly pleased, I stalked the perimeter of the cellar to make sure there were no more nasties.
Andrew shimmered back to life. “Could you perhaps not kill me this time?”
“Maybe you should play the game a bit and level up so you don’t get slaughtered when somebody steps on your toe.”
He drew his gleaming sword and brandished it. “Try that move now, hon.”
“I’ll kick your ass another day.” I snickered and sheathed my sword. “Do you honestly think Kristi could set her hatred of me aside in order to help us with this cure? And, if she’s a sociopath, why would she want to help us?”
“Oh, that’s easy. Because she can cover herself in glory. If she does indeed succeed in finding a cure, all sorts of doors will open for her, even bigger and better than Saberton. In other words, yes, she would gladly tolerate you lot for an opportunity of this magnitude.”
“Ugh. Okay.”
“I know. She’s a horrible excuse for a human being, but she’s a brilliant scientist.”
“Ugh. And she works for your mother. Double ugh.”
“I’m trying to change that. The board can vote a CEO out. I have a few members who would gladly cut the legs out from under my mother.” He blew out a frustrated breath. “Unfortunately, Charish currently holds sway, and it’s to her benefit to keep my mother as CEO. They have very similar visions for the future of the company.”
“Triple ugh!”
“I know. I’m working matters as carefully as I can.”
“Is everything going all right for you? Are you safe?”
“So far so good,” he said. His tone was light, but he couldn’t hide the ever-present stress that colored it.
“Your sister has been really worried about you.”
He was silent for several seconds. “I know. Thea has been giving me reports on her. And you. It’s how I knew you were coming back home.”
Huh. Interesting. And impressively sneaky if Naomi was unaware. “But it would be
too dangerous for you to try and make contact with her, since your mother would be expecting it.”
“Precisely. A bit less of a risk contacting you since I hate you and everyone knows it.”
I laughed. “Fair enough. Now then, how do I get in touch with you if I need to tell you something?”
“Hang something blue in your bathroom window. When you get a call from a telemarketer saying you’ve won a cruise to Argentina, that’s the signal I’m here and can talk.”
“A cruise to Argentina sounds awesome.”
“Then you should start saving your pennies, because telemarketer cruise wins are fiction.”
His character vanished, effectively ending the conversation. Though I was tempted to stick around and kill more beetle-dog-spider-things, I needed to get to bed.
There were real monsters to deal with tomorrow.
Chapter 21
In my previous life, I’d have taken a Xanax to help me sleep, but that option wasn’t available to me as a zombie. Instead, I was forced to do stuff like count my breaths and consciously relax. But relaxing was pretty tough to do with the world on fire, especially when I was the one who dropped the match.
Finally, sometime after 2 a.m., I managed to doze off.
Only to snap awake at six. Morning light glowed around the edges of the blackout curtains. In the distance, a rooster crowed. Miss Paisley’s, most likely. She lived near the end of the road and always gave away tons of eggs to family, friends, and neighbors. Except for us. We’d been a part of the egg krewe until three years ago when my dad—drunk—nearly ran her over while she was out walking her dog. That was bad enough, but when he got out of the truck and called her a dried-up stick, and her dog a mangy flea magnet, we were officially crossed off the free-eggs list for good. Which sucked, because yard eggs were a billion times better than store bought.
A text buzz from my phone cut my egg-musings short, and I snagged it from the nightstand. The number seemed vaguely familiar, but my frontal lobe wasn’t awake enough to release the info.