A Living Dead Love Story Series (27 page)

I drop the Taser into the water; let it go completely. It fries, sizzles, and sends out one last blunt wave of flickering blue electricity before shorting out altogether.

Dane rolls off of Bones roughly, splashing to his feet awkwardly and racing across the room as puddles turn into steam around his ankles with every stiff, jerky step. He tries to stop in time but can't, the untested bottoms of his slick new tuxedo shoes sliding even when his legs stop moving as he topples into the table, into me, and spills both of us on the floor.

“Maddy! You're all right. Maddy!” I've never in my life seen anyone so happy just to see me; to see me alive. To touch me, to hold me in his arms as if the future really
does
depend on it. His eyes, usually so dark and brooding, are now electric and full of life. His smile lights up his pale white face, his mouth wide and inviting.

And I'm so safe in his arms, so far and removed from the teachers and the footballers and Bones, and when he kisses me, gently, so gently, I laugh and smile and cry without tears and kiss him back (not quite so gently), and he's laughing and saying, “I guess this makes you Zombie Number 1 from now on, huh?”

And still I'm kissing him and laughing and crying without tears. He helps me up from the cold, wet, dead floor, holds my hand as we walk toward Ms. Haskins' once sexy, now lifeless body. Her eyes are open and, instead of closing them, I tear a cloth off of the nearest table like the world's worst magician and, as punch glasses and paper plates and centerpieces topple to the floor, I toss it gracelessly on top of her.

I know it wasn't really
her
doing all that evil stuff moments ago, but sometimes evil is enough to wipe away our fondest memories. Gone are the warm, fuzzy images of her in Home Ec, offering to write me a letter of recommendation and nurturing me toward the art world. Now all I see is a dead Zerker, her mouth drenched in Stamp's blood, her cold white feet sticking out from the other end of the blanket; one shoe on, the other off.

Gone now, lost forever. Like the rest of them, like
all
of them. Everyone in this room, all the bodies scattered on the floor, teachers I loved, feared, laughed with, laughed at, respected, ignored—all gone, all dead, silenced forever.

The athletes, so promising, so young—all gone, all quiet, all corpses destined to join Scurvy in the graveyard—may they all rest in peace. And Dad, my dad: he will touch every one of them in the morgue, with care and tenderness, weeping, probably, to see life snuffed out so young, so violently, so unnecessarily.

If only he knew it was his own daughter who had snuffed most of them out for good.

Next to Ms. Haskins, Stamp lies dead and cold, his eyes closed, his expression peaceful, his poor battered face (that face!) a picture of pain and grief. He is like a giant rag doll, arms and legs akimbo, face slack and empty, a lifeless bag of bones and guts. Already his skin is pale and waxy, the gash in his throat where Ms. Haskins bit him bright red and garish in contrast.

My poor Stamp, gone and cold.

I kneel next to him, crying dryly, throat raw from too many sobs and no tears.

Dane's hand is on my shoulder, his breath cold in my ear as he says, “You have to bite him, Maddy. You have to …
turn
…him. Before it's too late.”

“W-w-why?” I stammer. “He's gone; let him be. Why can't we just leave him in peace?”

“He's
not
in peace, Maddy,” Dane says. “Not really. Think about it: Ms. Haskins bit him right before you electrocuted her. Before you fried them all. He hadn't
technically
turned yet. Right now, electricity or not, he's theoretically in the Awakening stage. It's like, how do I explain it? It's like he's in death's cocoon, wrapped up deep and tight, where nothing—and no one—can reach him. Not even 10,000 volts; not even a million volts. You know how you get a surge protector to keep your computer from frying when the power goes out? The computer doesn't take the jolt; the surge protector does. Right now Stamp's body is like a giant surge protector.”

“What's it protecting?” I choke out the words.

“His brain. I could tase him for 10 minutes straight and nothing would happen; nothing would change. He'll still wake up a Zerker, Maddy. That's his fate. Unless …”

“Unless”—I finish for him—”unless I …
bite
…him.”

Dane's face is cautious and kind. He is leaning against me, his tuxedo still wet, his skin so dreadfully cold, his face so pale, his eyes so dark and …kind? He is definitely not who I thought he was. Then again, I'm not who he thought I was.

Together …what could we be?

If we were to leave here, to turn right now, to ignore the bodies, the corpses, the friends, and the BFFs we left behind? At the moment, it's so tempting to just hold him, to close my eyes, to hide from it all, to bury my head against his cold, lifeless chest and let him whisk me away to where there is no warmth, no family, no familiar faces or places—only a blank slate and our eternal future.

A future together.

On the floor, Stamp lies lifeless because of me. Bones turned Hazel because of me; Hazel seduced Stamp because of me. Because Bones wanted to use them both, because he knew if he did I would weaken, crumble, falter, and fail. He didn't care about the threads that wound out from his plot, touching our lives and ruining them completely.

Dane clears his throat. I look from Stamp to Dane, and he blinks, his lashes long and tender—I never noticed before. Then he explains, almost reverently, “One way or another, Maddy, he's being reanimated as we speak. Deep inside, the Zerker rage is coiling through his body, rewiring his circuits, frying the guy you knew. The guy you …loved. Still love, might love, whatever.”

He stops, touches my chin, drops his hand, continues, “You can either turn him to our side and make sure he's safe or let him wake up a Zerker in his grave, angry and mean and hungry—and alone. Do you want Stamp to wake up alone? With no memory of you or Hazel or me or Bones or any of …
this?
Someday, we might even have to do to Stamp what you did to Bones and Ms. Haskins.”

I think of Dane's kiss, so gentle yet hard; his hands, cold like mine. I think of eternity with him, his deep black eyes, his dark ways, his strong presence. I look at him, now, and can see he's thinking of it, too.

And yet, he's making it so Stamp and I can be together at last.

Together forever. Why?

He could have let me leave Stamp lying here. Knowing he'd wake up a Zerker, knowing he wouldn't be the Stamp I knew or loved or cared about or wanted. And, worst of all, knowing that I wouldn't know any of this. He could have kept his mouth shut, kissed me, whisked me away, and I would have never known. And yet now he's giving me a choice, even if it means bringing my first crush back to life.

I tremble. “Dane …”

He picks up my copper stake and hands it to me. “Of course, there's another option.”

I take the stake. “What?”

“If you stake him now, while he's out, if you plunge this into his body and leave it there, stuck inside, when he finally reanimates, it
will
kill him.”

“But I thought you said …”

“You can't
shock
him to death, Maddy; not with a Taser or a dozen Tasers or a thousand Tasers, but according to
The Guide
, the copper will scramble his system, rewire his life force. It'll be like a circuit breaker he won't be able to turn on, won't even be able to reach. He'll just …never wake up.”

“Wow, Dane,” I say, oozing sarcasm in place of tears, “that is just great! Oh, joy. What fun. Why didn't you tell me earlier? So, I can either turn Stamp into a zombie and watch him rot for the next thousand years or kill him now. Is
that
what you're saying?”

“I didn't say it would be an
easy
choice, Maddy.” His voice is quiet, eyes deep and dark and sad and tender. “I just said you
had
a choice.”

He gives me a long look and says, “I'm going to check on Bones, Maddy. We've all seen those movies where you turn your back on the dead guy and then turn around and he's not there anymore. I don't want him coming back in the sequel, you know what I mean? I just want to make sure he's out for good; that's all. Whatever decision you make with Stamp, just know that …know that I care for you. That I'll always care for you, whether
we're
a couple …or you and Stamp are.”

He turns without saying another word. I go to speak his name, but that's not enough. I stand and follow and grab him, turn him around and kiss his cheek, his eyes, his nose, finally his lips. It's like I'm starving and can't get enough Dane, like I'll never kiss again. He accepts it passively, neither giving nor receiving, and when I've had my fill, I hold his face in my hands, look into his deep, dead eyes, and whisper, “Thank you.”

Then I watch him go, his shoes squeaky on the damp gym floor, his legs stiff from the effort, from the cruelty, from the exhaustion. His shoulders are broad but slumped; it's like he's aged a century overnight. I watch him until he kneels gingerly next to Bones, until I hear something breaking and then tearing and see parts of Bones—pieces, really—start to pile up next to what's left of the Zerker's bent, broken body. I shudder, tired of the violence and the fear, of hearing it and seeing it up front and center, and turn to Stamp.

He looks pale already, long and lean as he lies stretched out on the floor, deadweight from head to toe. I try to picture him as one of …us. He has the hair for it; I'll give him that much. Dark and thick and strong at the roots and, hell, I sure wouldn't mind staring at that Superman curl for the rest of eternity.

But is that what I
really
want for him?

Is that what I really want …for
me?

I listen to the breaking, to the tearing, as Dane turns Bones into, well …bones, once and for all. And I look at Stamp, and think of his family, and how they'll miss him, how they'll miss him either way. And how, selfishly,
I'll
miss him.

With the stake in my hand, Stamp's hand in the other, I choke back the last of the night's tearless tears and kneel to finish what I started.

D
ANE IS WAITING
in the truck after Stamp and I finish our zombie picnic. As we stumble out of the cemetery together, Stamp kind of leans in and asks, like maybe he knows he should know but still doesn't know, “Who
is
that?”

And I want to tell him, “That's the guy I thought I'd be with forever,” but I don't (for obvious reasons). Instead I kind of whisper, because we're getting close to the truck now and Dane's feelings are going to be hurt enough, “That's Dane, Stamp; he saved our Afterlives.”

And he nods, like a little kid who doesn't want to admit he had to ask. “Oh yeah, I knew that.”

And the smile on my lips fades. I thought I would be so happy reuniting with Stamp; and I am, sure. Of course. He's alive, he's still sweet, he's here and safe, and, yes, dammit, I know I made the right choice. But seeing Dane there in the driver's seat, his pale fingers tight on the wheel, after waiting patiently for me to go dig up my boyfriend and drag him away with us, makes me feel guilty for all kinds of things.

“Hi, Dane,” Stamp says, winking in my direction as I slide in next to Dane and then gently haul Stamp up next to me. (Can you say,
awkward sandwich?)

Dane smiles sadly and says, “Hey, buddy,” gently, like you would if you were picking up someone from the hospital or the nursing home. And his voice is so bleak.

I mean, I know he's trying to be brave, but it's like every word hurts, and I can see in his eyes that all he wants to do is dump us both out, hit the gas, and speed away. And I wouldn't blame him one bit. I'd chase his ass down wherever he went, sure enough, but I wouldn't blame him one bit for trying to ditch me and Stamp.

As I slide over, Dane leans in and whispers to me, “I wonder how long it will be before he remembers he hates my guts.”

I want to say, “He doesn't hate your guts yet, Dane. But he would if he knew we kissed.”

Instead, I snort and grab the morning paper from the dashboard, trying to act all casual-like as I read the banner headline to myself:
Tragic Accident at Fall Formal Claims 31 Lives: Students and faculty mourn their own as Barracuda Bay High School struggles to pick up the pieces …

Up the hill past the cemetery, Dane drives slowly by Hazel's house. Inside, every light is burning and a somber black wreath marks her parents' door. There are windows in nearly every room facing the street, but her parents aren't in any of them. I imagine them in their bed, still dressed up, sobbing quietly into each other's arms. Or maybe just their pillows.

And I imagine they'll be the kind of parents who will keep Hazel's all-pink room as an all-pink shrine, until one day they're forced to sell the house and leave her memories far, far behind, and even then they'll cart her stuff away and put it up in her next house, exactly as it was in this house: Hazel the Museum Exhibit. (Just the way she would have wanted it.)

Gradually I tense, knowing my house is only a few numbers away. Dane seems to sense it, too, and rests his shoulder on mine. For once, the ice cube cold of his skin is exactly what I need. I lean in with all I'm worth, silently, making sure Stamp can't see, letting Dane know I'm here and I'm his …sort of.

When we get to my house, to Dad's house now, Dane slows to a crawl.

There's no wreath on our door, but on the other side of the bay window Dad's sitting alone at the breakfast nook staring at the empty chair across from him, a coffee cup on the table. His eyes are dry but vacant; suddenly the man who works with death for a living knows what it's like to feel it for himself.