A Living Dead Love Story Series (51 page)

The clock on the SUV's dashboard says it's 4:39, and that must be a.m. unless there's a solar eclipse or nuclear winter or something. I'm at some backwoods exit with nothing but gas stations and souvenir stands, both specializing in something known as a pecan log. (Don't. Just don't.)

I was hoping for a used car lot with really bad security or, you know, a running car just sitting there at some fast-food restaurant, but no such luck. At four in the afternoon? Maybe. Four in the morning? Nothing doing.

But I have to get out of this SUV. I don't know if the
Sentinels have tracking beacons or little electronic beeping chips in each tire, but in every movie I've ever seen where someone's on the lam, they ditch the car the first chance they get.

So, car? Prepare to be ditched.

Only one of the gas stations at my exit is still open, and two are service stations where they move the cars they haven't finished yet into the garage and shut the grimy glass doors until the next morning. So that'll work.

I drive the SUV behind one and leave the key in the ignition. I pop the back hatch and scout for anything of value. Nothing. Nothing but tire-changing tools and a roadside emergency kit. I take the kit because if I'm stealing a car that hasn't been fixed yet, it could break down anytime.

But as far as some huge Taser stash or giant Zerker-killing ray gun that might come in handy when I finally catch up with Val? Yeah, no dice.

I stop for a minute to listen for cars speeding along the nearby freeway, the one I just exited, but there's not much traffic this time of night. Or morning. Or whatever.

I creep toward the front of the gas station, keeping an eye out for Sentinels on patrol or locals with banjos or inbred serial killers with hockey masks and machetes, but I don't see any.

Instead I walk to the front of the convenience store part of the gas station and crack the glass with my thumb. A big section falls out and lands with a smash,
but no alarm sounds and nobody comes running out of the bushes sparking Tasers at me either.

So that's good, right?

I dunno. It sucks being on the run without Dane. I'm trying not to be all damsel in distress about this, but he was always so much better at this stuff than I was. Being on my own is harder than I thought, and now that I'm free of the center, I'm feeling major guilt about leaving Dane behind.

What if they take all their Sentinel rage out on him? What if they blame him for my escape? Or even think he helped me? I cringe to think what he might be going through right now, but deep down I know I would have never made it if I tried to break Dane out with me. He was too well guarded, and I wasn't. Those are the facts, and here I am. I got what I wanted.

But at what cost?

I can't.

Really.

I can't go there right now.

Concentrate. Guilt trip later.

I find the dead bolt and click it open and creep inside, locking it back, just in case. Yes, there is glass all over the floor, but my dad always taught me to lock a door, even a screen door. And four months on the run with Dane's many house rules has me even more hypersensitive about door locking than ever.

Come to think of it, with those house rules, Dad
and Dane have a lot more in common than they think. Remind me to tell Dad that, if Val hasn't yanked off my jaw by the time I find him.

I pause inside, wondering if maybe the fat, smelly gas station owner (don't judge: you know it's what you're thinking) may be asleep on a greasy cot in the back, an empty jug of moonshine tipped over on the floor. But nothing stirs. Not even a mouse.

I stand in front of the row of beer and soda coolers, suddenly parched. I reach for a cold soda, something sugary to perk me up, and chug a bottle of Gargantuan Grape in 10 seconds flat before returning it, empty, to the case. I spot myself in the reflection of the glass door and see a galloping blue nightmare. I'm still wearing Vera's castoffs, right down to the baby-blue beret. I can only imagine what I'll look like to the Normals in a few minutes, tearing off in a stolen car.

“No, Officer, nothing wrong here. Just tooling around in my blue beret and pocket pants at 5:00 a.m., grape soda all over my lips. Why? Am I speeding? Tail-light out? What gives?”

I check out the rack of souvenir T-shirts. I brush the dust off the shoulders of one and read the front: My Other Car Is a Double-Wide. Perfect. There are no shorts, but the shirt is pink with blue writing, so presumably (you know, if this was 1987), it would, could, should match my baggy blue pocket pants.

I slip out of Vera's top and into the shirt. It's big, so I tie it around my waist
Baywatch
style. I grab some white sunglasses to accessorize and a pink fanny pack for the electric pen. I look around the aisles to see if I'm missing something. You know, like maybe this is the type of redneck joint that sells hunting knives and crossbows and cold-seeking bazookas next to the suntan lotion and pickled eggs. But, of course, no luck.

Although there
is
a stack of pet food cans, and I squint in the dim emergency exit lighting to read the list of ingredients on a can of Zippy Cat Chow. Sweet! There, just after liver and before tongue, is the ingredient I've been longing to find: brain. I grab the four cans off the shelf and shove them in the fanny pack. They barely fit.

I hate stealing things, especially as I slip behind the sales counter, yank out the cash drawer, and pocket all $84.59 from the till. But then I figure I'm leaving them an SUV worth at least 10 or 15 grand behind the garage. If they're any kind of savvy gas station owners at all, they'll be way ahead of the game by sundown tomorrow.

I slip into the garage through a side door and find a Peg-Board with four sets of keys. There are cars in two of the four service bays. One set of keys opens the giant garage doors, which I do before sliding the third set into a beat-up pickup truck that no self-respecting state trooper, let alone Sentinel, would look at twice.

It fires up on the fourth try and has at least enough gas to get me back into Cobia County, if not quite to Barracuda Bay. I chug outside, knocking leftover tools and crunching over a leftover can of beer on my way.

I take it slow, lights on, until I reach the on-ramp back to the freeway. I take that slow out of necessity, since the truck is a beast and not exactly a sports car. Still, after about 10 minutes I'm back in the left lane doing a steady 74 miles per hour and heading home.

I feel lightheaded and know why: brain hunger. I unzip my fanny pack and grab the cans of cat food, tossing them onto the dashboard one by one like a Las Vegas blackjack dealer. I save the last one and peel off the lid with my free hand, using two fingers to scoop up the brown and gray gloop inside.

Oh, is it nasty. Really, it's just as wretched as you imagine it might be, but immediately I can sense the brain on my tongue as my body digests the pure cranium electricity. It is sinfully good. I switch to driving with my knees so I can gorge, cavewoman style, scraping every last bit of tongue, liver, and brain goodness from the corners of the can.

I slow to a steady 60 mph without a headlight in sight and finish all four cans in less than five minutes, feeling the brain—preserved, dead, and disgusting as it is—bring me back to life.

I'll need the real stuff to take on Val. No doubt
she's been feasting on live humans all the way to Barracuda Bay. For now this will get me home to Dad, who can hopefully score me some of the good stuff from the morgue.

You know, for saving his life and all …

B
arracuda Bay has
changed. All of it. Every last inch. Bathed in the streetlights of what might prove to be the last evening of my Afterlife, I drive by the Barracuda Bay High yard in the broken-down truck I stole back in Bum Suck Somewhereville. It's gasping on its last legs as I cruise by mostly blue and gray portable classrooms. The town's struggling to rebuild the gym and everything else attached. The place looks clean and efficient and logical, but mostly it just looks … sad.

But it's more than just the burned-down gym and the rusty cranes still littering the football field. It's the gloom over the tiny little beach town.

A football team. A cheerleading squad. Half the faculty. Dane. Chloe. Bones. Dahlia. Hazel. Me. Stamp. All gone.

In one fiery night.

At first, the papers called it a tragic accident. But that wasn't sexy enough, I suppose, so it became known as the Barracuda Bay Blaze for the duration. Locals just called it a tragedy. All these months later, that tragic air still hangs, like a haze, everywhere I drive.

It hangs over Stamp's house, where a rusty For Sale sign sits crookedly in the dead lawn, Stamp's parents long since gone. Vegas, I think, Stamp said they moved to, or about as far from Florida as you can get without literally leaving the country.

Our house is empty too, though a tan van full of Sentinels—I can tell from the way the tires look nearly flat—sits in the driveway of the old Meyers' place, the house up the street that's been abandoned ever since it fell into foreclosure years ago.

I cruise by slowly, pink trucker cap low over my white sunglasses and my T-shirt collar tugged nearly up to my chin. The house looks grim and empty inside, with just the oven light on to fight the darkness. It's the one we left on all the time, day or night, just in case.

I can only crane my neck so far and, besides, if I linger too long the Sentinels will get suspicious. I speed up but not too much and only relax my shoulders when the van doesn't follow me up the street.

I avoid cruising by any of my other old haunts—Dane and Chloe's trailer, Barracuda Bay Galleria, Greenbriers Grocers, Hazel's house, or even the Sable
Palms Cemetery where I did most of my best grave rubbings—and park the truck in front of the Better Days Boutique downtown.

My pink and blue nightmare of a disguise might work on the Sentinels, but I'm not here for them, and there's no way to beat a Zerker if you're constantly tucking in your souvenir T-shirt or readjusting your shades.

Classical music plays softly in the background as I enter the vintage thrift store that always smells like licorice and white wine. (Don't ask.)

An old woman behind the counter looks up from some paperwork and eyes my unsightly garb. “We're closing in a few minutes, dear.”

I nod and disappear into the aisles.

The Better Days Boutique was a favorite of Hazel's and mine over the last few weeks of summer every year, when our back-to-school shopping funds were always at their lowest.

I picture my best friend as she was back then, before Bones turned her Zerker: red-haired and adorable—if completely obnoxious—trying on every old-lady hat in the store while I reminded her about a little thing called “head lice.”

She never cared. Making sure everyone in the store knew she was there and full of fun was worth it to her. And, hey, if she had to shave that lovely mane of red hair and get more attention, even better!

The store, my life, my future—I feel lonely without her.

I get busy choosing an outfit. All black. Leggings for kicking range. A hoodie for stealth. A tank top for when it comes time to take off my hoodie. Socks to cover my whitish-gray ankles. Sneakers for running, jumping, and hopefully escaping. And new shades just … because.

The older woman behind the counter rings it all up, her nose slightly upturned at the selections. “You do know this is a vintage store, don't you, dear? Wouldn't you prefer something a little more sophisticated?”

“Hey, don't stock it if you don't want to sell it, lady.” I can't help it. I'm getting bitchier the longer I'm a zombie.

She blinks twice. “That will be $22.75.”

Ouch. I only have $20 left after stopping for gas every few exits on the way down. But I don't want to put anything back, not even the shades.

“Can I get credit for what I'm wearing?” I step away from the sales counter so she can see the glory of my blue and pink nightmare.

She starts to wrinkle her nose.

I point to the pants. “Hey, these are worth $10 on their own. I mean, look at all those pockets.”

When she doesn't bite, I throw a Hail Mary in quiet desperation. “You say this is a vintage store? These pants come straight from the '80s! And check out these boots. That is some
Private Benjamin
action right there! They're worth $10 alone, ‘cause I know you can sell ‘em for $30.”

I get plenty of eye roll but also this: “Leave it all in
the dressing room, dear, and I'll figure something out while you change.”

I grab the new gear and head to the fitting room to change. Nothing really fits right, but the only other black things in the store are frilly flapper gowns and beaded skirts and ruffled blouses, so I just double-lace the shoes and stretch out the leggings and the tank, and it's okay. Kind of. Sorta.

I check my look in the full-length mirror and roll my own damn eyes. How many black hoodies can one chick own, you know? If only I owned stock in Hanes or some such, I'd be one rich zombie right now. Real Housewives of the Living Dead? That's me!

The old woman eyes me on my way to the counter. “Fifteen dollars, dear, and not a penny less.”

Jackpot! I was expecting her not to budge so much. That whole “these pants are so '80s retro” thing was a real stretch.

I smile and give her the $20, anxiously waiting for the $5 in change.

She hands it over reluctantly before turning her back on me and attending to some important BS behind the counter. I shrug and walk out, the pink fanny pack—and the electric pen—snug under my hoodie I got for a steal. (Take that, vintage thrift shop snooty old lady biotch!)

It's getting dark now, the air salty with the nearby sea, smelling as always of home. I'd been hoping to be
in Barracuda Bay while the sun was still shining, but a flat tire just outside of Tallahassee and a dead battery just before Miami took up all of my time—and most of my stash.