A Living Dead Love Story Series (31 page)

C
an we please
change the music this hour?” I say to Dane while I row my machine in the middle of our large, crowded living room. Hey, some renters have furniture. Zombie renters have a home gym. Deal.

The apartment isn't fancy, but it's big and cheap, and that's just what three relocated zombies need to avoid dismembering each other in our nonsleep.

“What?” He looks genuinely surprised as he pedals his state-of-the art stationary bike. “I thought you liked the smooth jazz station?”

“No,” I remind him for the five gazillionth time. “My dad likes smooth jazz. As do, you know, most senior citizens or other folks who've lost their hearing.”

“Oh.” Dane brushes a large hand over his close-cropped hair. He does that when he's trying to
figure out a way to get his way without actually looking like he's trying to get his way. “Well,” he finally whines, an un-Dane-like sound, “it's all the way across the room. Can we change it next hour?”

“No, Dane, we can't.” I grunt, limping to the iPod dock on the flimsy bookshelf. “Because if I hear another tortured sax solo of ‘Careless Whisper,' so help me I'm going to pick up my rowing machine and toss it through the sliding glass doors.”

He chuckles halfheartedly as the classic rock station breaks through. It's a smidge more conducive to our nightly workout, although it would be really nice if someone started a station for zombie listeners, you know? I mean, really, all they'd have to do is change the name of their Halloween station. How hard is that?

“Yeah.” He smirks as a blistering guitar solo heats up to blast for, oh, I dunno, the next 12 minutes or so.

“Much better.”

God, I hate it when he's right.

I drop into the rowing machine bucket seat, grab the oars, and get back into it. We've been at it for two hours now, doing our best to fill the middle of the night with something other than reality TV and deepening our butt impressions on the sagging couch.

I'm nearly four months into reanimation, and according to Dane if I don't start good limbering habits now, I'll wind up like all those rheumatic shuffling TV
zombies there seem to be so many of these days.

“So,” he says, inevitably, his bony knees pumping in his cutoff sweatpants, “where do you think he is tonight?”

I row harder, and it's not to rid my joints of the stiffness that's been building all day. “What do I care?”

“Well, we should both care,” he says reasonably, which is totally annoying. “Because every time he stays out this late, meets someone new, or does something stupid, we all get exposed.”

And that's it, really. Our entire life, all of it, every day, has come down to this one stupid thing: exposure. Or, more specifically, how to avoid it. From our theme park job playing monsters to working out in our living room instead of a gym, we're all about the down low. Way down low.

I row harder. I guess a lot harder because the next time he speaks, Dane has to shout over the furious clacking.

“You're not jealous, are you?”

I sigh, taking it down a notch. “No. We've talked about this, right?”

“Yeah.” He huffs. “A lot.”

“Hey, he broke up with me, remember?”

He shakes his head, slowing his legs a bit. “Face it, Maddy. You and Stamp were over long before he brought that skank home for Valentine's Day.”

“Okay, well, there are easier ways to break up with
someone, you know. And, technically, he brought her home after Valentine's Day.”

“What did you expect him to do? He knows about us.”

“Us?” I snort.

“I just—it wouldn't be right to start officially dating so soon after you two broke up.”

I bite my lip, trying not to say something I'll regret. “How can Stamp know about us if I don't even know about us?”

He gives me a look that makes me feel stupid, sad, and hopeful all in the same breath. Or nonbreath. Whatever.

“Trust me. He knows.”

“So you're saying he's staying out every night because he doesn't want to be around us anymore? Because we're an us?” It's not the first time the thought has crossed my mind. “But Stamp and I made a clean break. He said he was fine with it.”

“Maddy, saying it and feeling it are two different—”

A key fumbles at a lock in the front door. I steal a cold glance, and we continue exercising as if it's not Stamp unlocking the three locks, as if it's not 4:00 a.m., as if this isn't about to get really ugly really fast.

“You guys are still up?” Stamp says from the foyer.

“Just like last night.” Dane grunts, pedaling harder.

“And the night before,” I add, perhaps unnecessarily.

Stamp walks into the living room in his baggy gray cords and striped black-and-white hoodie that hugs his
6'2” frame like a second skin. His hair is spiky tonight, which makes him look even taller and stretches out the hollows of his shadowy cheekbones and dark gray eyes. He smiles softly, thin lips parting to reveal freshly whitened teeth.

Dane and I spend our theme park earnings on exercise equipment; Stamp unloads his on the local cosmetic dentist. What can I say? It works for him.

And whatever nightly activities he's engaging in lately are keeping him plenty limber. It's unfair. I still have to stretch for at least an hour a day just to look like I don't have metal poles in my arms and legs.

“What are you guys doing?” he says, eyes half-lidded and smile fixed on.

“Just keeping it loose,” Dane says. “How about you?”

“Me?” He leans against the wall. Ugh. Last time he did that, his greasy blue hair gel seeped into the white gloss paint, and it took me forever to get it out. “Nothing much.” He sounds sleepy, which as we all know by now is patently impossible for a zombie.

Dane and I wind down our nightly routine and wait. And wait.

Ninety seconds or so later, Stamp comes out with it. “Hanging with some new friends.”

Dane doesn't touch that one.

But I do. “Anyone in particular?”

Stamp focuses on me. “Not really. Why do you ask?”

“Kinda late, don't you think?”

“Not for a zombie.”

“Well, I doubt you were hanging with zombies. Right?” Dane sounds like an Elder.

Not that I can blame him. All it's gonna take is Stamp slipping a little of his dead, cold tongue to the wrong semisober Normal, and boom, instant zombie alert.

“Make that hanging with zombie.” Stamp looks at me. “Singular.”

I roll my eyes and look away, ignoring both of them as the boxy living room suddenly seems claustrophobic, especially with the bluesy, smooth jazz riff currently oozing out of the stereo. (Hey, wait! When did Dane change the station back?) We might as well be the three newest residents of the Orange County Geriatric and Rehabilitative Center for Zombies Who Can't Get Along.

“What is this anyway?” Stamp slouches toward the kitchen in his shiny black high-tops. “The Spanish Imposition?”

Dane shrugs.

Stamp never fesses up when he feels cornered like this. And forget about correcting him. That would really shut him down. Not that I'm not tempted, of course. (Former Normal honor student and all.)

I get back to rowing.

Dane halfheartedly pushes his long, pale legs in slow circles.

Stamp roots around in the fridge for something to drink.

Like any self-respecting zombies, we have no food
in there. Only sugary sweet, colorful drinks lined in row after row on shelf after shelf after shelf. Soda—the real stuff, never diet. Fruit drinks (not juice). Sports drinks. Anything loaded with sugar, electrolytes, and artificial crap that can boost our energy between bites of fresh brain (currently stored in the freezer, FYI).

Dane and I pretend to ignore Stamp while he rearranges soda bottles on the top shelf. He slams the fridge door, then slumps into a chair at our little table for three. He chugs the blue liquid Sports Slurp (his favorite) from the plastic bottle, doing his familiar little silent treatment.

The good news is he usually comes off with some pretty good info once he's done sulking. The trick is waiting him out long enough.

He sits there about five minutes before speaking. “What do you guys care anyway?” After another minute, he says, “You're not the boss of me.”

Seriously? Did he just say that? Out loud? What is he, six? Scratch that. Four?

“No,” Dane says, “but, like it or not, we are in this together, so what you do affects us all.”

Stamp huffs. “You don't know my friends well, then. They're about as dangerous as a—”

“Are they human?” Dane barks, sliding off his bike and turning off the music to help make his point that
this is a serious discussion.
“Because if they are, then they can't be trusted. Any of them. Ever.”

“Yes, they're human. You think I've stumbled onto
some huge, secret zombie coven? In downtown Orlando, of all places?”

“Is it called a coven?” I ask seriously, if only to diffuse the tension while Dane paces between the exercise equipment. “I mean, I thought that was for vampires. A vampire's coven. But wait, that doesn't sound right either. Maybe it's witches. Yeah, actually, I think it's witches who—”

“Who was it, Stamp?” Dane walks dangerously close to the table now. His shoulder muscles are flexed, which is never a good sign. “Who was it this time? Angela? Tracy? Lacy? Spacey? Racy? You need to be more discreet. Seriously.”

“Val,” Stamp says quietly, avoiding our gazes. “Her name is Val.”

Dane snorts. “Whatever. The thing is—”

“Not whatever.” There is true ugliness in Stamp's voice, in his face, in his deep-set eyes. “Her name is Val. Remember it, Dane.”

“Why should I? Is she gonna be around a week from now? Two weeks? Why waste brain cells I don't have on people who don't matter?”

“Because she does matter.” Stamp looks from one of us to the other like some teenager trying not to get grounded. “Because she's different.”

My heart hurts a little, dead and useless as it is. Because what if she is? What if this Val girl is different? For a while it's been Stamp watching Dane share
glances and inside jokes with me. Would I be strong enough, mature enough, zombie enough to trade places and stand by if Stamp was strutting around with someone … serious?

“Yeah, right.” Dane sneers.

I guess it's one too many disses for Stamp tonight, because suddenly he's out of his chair, towering over Dane.

“She is.”

Neither boy moves an inch.

“Okay, Stamp,” I say softly, easing out of the rowing machine and wedging into the four inches of breathing space they've left between their puffed out chests and bad attitudes. “I believe that … Val … is different. So why not bring her around for dinner some night?”

Dane frowns.

Stamp smiles cagily. “Maybe I will.”

Doesn't he know he's sassing the wrong zombie?

“No maybe,” Dane presses. “Definitely. You bring her for dinner if she's so special.”

God, now we really do sound like parents. What's next? A curfew? Docking his allowance? Taking away his cell phone privileges?

“I will.”

“Sunday.” I pin down an actual date for once. “You bring Mel over for a nice—”

“Val.” He shakes his head at me as if I should know better.

And, of course, I do. “Fine. You bring Val over for
a nice Sunday dinner and show us how special she is.”

“Deal,” he says, reaching into a pocket to grab his shiny new cell phone. His long thumbs fly across the surface. “Letting her know about it right now.” He storms off, texting all the way into his room, where he promptly slams the door and turns on his metal music, just like the surly teenager that he is—that I suppose he always will be.

“You think that's such a good idea?” Dane sits across from me at the table and turns Stamp's Sports Slurp cap over and over in his pale fingers. “I mean, look at this place. You think this looks like a Normal's home?”

I stare at the portable gym on our living room carpet: weight bench, treadmill, rowing machine, exercise bike, medicine ball, jump ropes hanging from the key rack by the door.

“So we'll move the gym into the back bedrooms for one night. Big deal. Besides, you know Stamp. No way will this Val chick still be around by Sunday.”

G
od, it's been
so long since I've cooked human food I've almost forgotten!”

“Really?” Dane waves a hand in front of his nose as I set the foggy lid on the pot of simmering spaghetti sauce. “I just thought you were a really, really bad cook!”

He zips out of range just as I'm trying to snap him with the damp dish towel that's been draped over my shoulder for the last two hours.

Yes, two hours. For spaghetti. And a salad. And garlic bread. (Good thing I'm a zombie and not a vampire. Hehehe.)

“You take that back, Dane Fields.” I put the towel back on my shoulder. “I'll have you know this is my dad's famous recipe for million-dollar spaghetti I'm making here.”

He holds his hands up in mock defeat. “You're making
it from memory, I hope.” Even now—oven on, the smell of fresh garlic in the air, the table set—and there is still a warning tone in his voice.

“Mostly.”

His eyes go big.

“Don't worry. I used a pay phone, way across town, and so did he. It's totally, completely untraceable.”

Dane shakes his head.

I finish draining the pasta.

“I thought I said you could talk to your dad once a month.”

“It was my one call this month. Trust me. I'm not going to jeopardize what we've worked so hard to build here just to impress Stamp's stupid girlfriend.”