A Living Dead Love Story Series (70 page)

She pulls out a few printed pages, and when she holds the first up, the afternoon rays filtering through the blinds spotlight the banner page from the
Barracuda Bay Bugle
.

“. . . tragic news from the horrible fire that claimed the lives of dozens of students when the gym ignited due to faulty wiring during this year's Fall Formal,” Lucy reads in her pleasant, Honors English voice. “The body of Madison Swift, daughter of Cobia County's chief coroner and junior at Barracuda Bay High, was found amid the rubble, along with her date to the dance, Stamp Crosby. Also a junior, Stamp was the kicker for the football team and new to the varsity squad. Details are still coming in from the—”

“What do you want?” I interrupt. “Why are you here?” My voice is lower now.

Even Stamp's eyes grow wide. He clings to the oven, at a loss for words.

My hand is on the Eliminator as I round the counter.

Lucy still looks confident, but she hasn't seen either the blade or the ice pick yet. How she answers will determine if she ever will.

“Believe it or not,” she says, “I want to help you.”

“Why?”

“Because you're not the only zombies in Seagull Shores.”

V
al?” Stamp and
I say it at the same time.

Lucy makes her own crumple face and reaches into her messenger bag once more. I swear to God, if she pulls out another library book about zombies, I'm going to use it to knock her block off. Then Stamp and I can fight over her brain, which, judging from her voluminous knowledge of the undead is probably pretty big.

Instead of a book, she slides out a thin tablet like an iPad but not quite. She taps the screen a couple of times until a slideshow starts. I watch a few grainy shots of a street light shining on a sidewalk. “You know how I've been watching you guys creeping around here for the last few nights? Well, that got a little boring, so in between, I started watching the end of our street. And when I saw this, I started snapping pictures.”

The screen shifts to a second picture of the sidewalk, and in the right corner of the screen is a faint shadow. No, not a shadow at all. A foot. The picture changes, and now the foot is attached to a leg, bare and hairless but definitely masculine. A guy's leg. From the looks of it, a young guy's leg. Sleek but also firm. The picture changes again, and now there's more leg, plus some running shorts and the fingertips of a hand, just out of frame.

I look closer and see blood on the running shorts, on the pale fingers. Another screen, another picture, more of the bloody jogger. A hoodie appears, unzipped to a narrow waist, navy blue over a plain white T-shirt also dotted with blood. A strong chest, broad shoulders, and a shadowy face.

Lean and haunted, almost feral.

“Can you stop it?” I ask, but I'm not really asking. “Freeze it, I mean?”

I've got my zombie voice on, and as tough as she's acting, as if maybe she's holding all the cards, I get the feeling Lucy knows I'm being polite out of curiosity and, if I really wanted to, she'd be joining the anonymous bloody jogger wandering around town at night looking for fresh brains on the quiet streets of Seagull Shores.

Either way, she gets it and taps the tablet twice.

“Can you zoom in on the face?” I say.

Lucy doesn't say anything, doesn't look up or give me attitude; she just does it. A click here, a scroll there, and the legs, bloody running shorts, and half the background disappear. In their place hovers a grainy young face, distinct but imperfect.

I slide the Missing poster across the kitchen counter and compare it to the grainy picture on the iPad that is not an iPad. The bloody jogger in the picture is definitely the missing boy—what's his name?—Armand Suit.

And he's definitely no longer one of the living.

“When did you take this?”

“Two nights ago. Or, if you're keeping track, a few nights after you two showed up in Seagull Shores.”

I'm still staring at the photo. It's a good quality shot, not great, but good enough, and I can see the telltale shadows under his eyes, the yellowy glint in his gaze, the shady teeth, and the thin lips.

“We didn't do this,” I add, almost as an after-thought.

“I know that,” she says, tapping the screen again.

It returns to normal size and progresses a page, still in slide show mode. This time there is someone else entering the frame, just behind Zerker Armand. I see half a hand, half a pink hoodie, half a thigh, all blood-splattered. A girl. Hairless legs, lean and long, thin and soft.

“I know it because I was watching you, sitting right here in this kitchen, when these two went missing.”

Another frame passes, and the girl comes into focus. I don't even need Lucy to blow it up this time to know that it's the girl, Cecile something or other, Armand's girlfriend. I look down at the poster and find her last name: Brigham. Cecile Brigham. Lucy blows the photo up anyway, and it's the same thing all over again: hooded eyes, thin lips, gnarly teeth, blood on her collar, splatters on her chin.

“What are they doing?” I ask out loud. But I'm not really asking Lucy, and I'm certainly not asking Stamp. It's a habit.

She looks at me like I'm crazy. “You're asking me?”

I wave her concern away. “It was rhetorical.”

“My guess is they're feeding.” Her voice is certain and steady, but her eyes seek mine for approval.

I still can't tell if she's being helpful or setting a trap, but either way what she knows or doesn't know, what she is or isn't doing here, doesn't really change the fact that two kids have gone missing in the last 48 hours and, apparently, are now undead.

I harrumph. “But then there would be more people missing. If they're feeding and they're new, they're not going to be subtle about it like whoever turned them apparently was.”

Lucy shakes her head. “Not if their victims don't get reported.”

I shuffle the Missing posters around the kitchen counter for emphasis. “Who wouldn't report someone missing? I mean, look how quickly these kids got reported.”

The slide show over, the tablet slips back in her pack. She shrugs. “Lots of old people in Seagull Shores. It's Florida, you know?”

I nod, biting my lip.

Barracuda Bay was like that too. Lots of quiet houses you thought nobody lived in anymore until one day you caught some blue hair stooping over in the front yard, digging the morning paper out of the bushes, and looking at you like you invented loud music or something.

I slip the Eliminator back in my jeans pocket without her ever knowing it was cocked and ready to slice open her jugular if she kept up with the attitude. Then I lean back against the counter. “You said you wanted to help us. How can
you
help us?”

Lucy considers the question. “You tell me. Then I'll let you know if it falls within my skill set.” She's so funny, this schoolgirl, and she talks so old. If I couldn't see her, right in front of me in her school uniform, I'd swear she was in her midthirties or even older.

I ignore her overconfidence—I'm kind of used to it by now—and answer, flat out, “We need to pass among the Normals.”

She stands there, fiddling with the bottom of her thin, black tie.

“What? That's not in your book?”

She shakes her head.

Finally, it's my turn to smirk. “Normals are you. You're a Normal.”

“So you mean humans? You need to pass among humans? Like, mingle and stuff?”

“Right. We need better clothes, we need IDs, and if someone's making kids in Seagull Shores go missing”—I look at Stamp, who's busy studying his teeth in the microwave's reflection—“one of us needs to go to school and find out who's doing it.”

While he's not looking, I point at myself. “Like, I need to go to school. Not Stamp. Stamp no go to school.”

It's kind of a girl moment. She looks at Stamp and back to me, then nods, all conspiratorial, wink-wink, nudge-nudge. Then . . . nothing. She doesn't say anything for a while.

“So can you help?”

“I can do that.”

“Which part of it?”

She smiles, shoving everything in her bag and slinging it over her shoulder. “All of it.”

L
ucy comes back
later that night, knocking on the fence door.

Stamp and I are sitting, feet in the pool, enjoying the warm water on our cold skin. Well,
enjoying
is probably a pretty strong word, but when you're undead, you take what you can get. Anything to take my mind off what might or might not be happening in Seagull Shores and who might or might not be causing it.

When I don't get up right away, Stamp sighs. “My turn?”

I shrug. “Not really, but I'd appreciate it.”

He frowns, and I think I should have used a simpler word than
appreciate
, but it's too late now. He's already up, tromping to the gate.

“Who is it?” he asks.

Lucy's voice is playful on the other side. “George Romero.”

Stamp looks at me, face crumpling.

I snort. “Let her in. At least she knows the password.”

This chick! Since it's nighttime now, she's changed out of her school uniform and is wearing a lavender track suit with a black T-shirt underneath the tiny jacket. Covering her basically flat chest, the Superman symbol is plastered in glittery purple bling.

I shake my head as she sits, cross-legged, next to the pool.

“Do you live around here?” Stamp asks, putting his feet back into the pool. He's in thrift shop boxer shorts, and his legs are unbelievably long.

I expect Lucy to snort. I would snort, and she's twice the witch I am. But she doesn't. She cocks her head and says slowly, but not too slowly, “Sure, Stamp. I live right next door.” For emphasis, she points above the gate to the second floor of the neighboring house, the window facing us bright behind closed purple drapes.

He smiles, and I can't tell if it's because he's happy she's our neighbor or because she answered him without yelling. Probably a little of both.

Then he gets very serious. “And your name is?”

She cuts me a look, a half smile on her face. “My name is Lucy Toh.” She enunciates her last name very carefully. It sounds like
toe
.

He nods. “I know you! You deliver Chinese food!”

She snorts, and I'm kind of amused. Other than, you know, being mortified.

I open my mouth to correct him.

She waves it off. “Among other things, yes. Today, Stamp, I'm delivering something I think you'll like even more.”

With that, she slides a manila envelope out of her messenger bag. Only, it's not a regular manila envelope with a metal clasp that always digs under your fingernail; this one has two red circles, and she unwinds red thread from them. It's all very James Bond, and that's probably a big part of why she chose it.

During the unwinding, Stamp kind of forgets he's supposed to be interested and goes back to watching his pale legs wriggle under the water's brackish surface. I like watching him this way: quiet and soft and innocent. I wish he had more time to stay happy and clueless. I wish that, wherever we went, trouble wasn't always chasing us. Maybe one day he'll never have anything more to do than wriggle his legs in the deep end of his own pool. And I wonder idly why I don't see myself in that picture with him. Why both our feet aren't dangling in the deep end—

Lucy clears her throat. “Ta-da.”

In her hands are two Florida driver's licenses and two slips of paper.

I take them from her and look at the license with my photo on it. “But how—?”

“Look closely.”

So I do. The picture is from my old license, the one I got back in Barracuda Bay when I could still sweat bullets over parallel parking and four-way intersections. But the name is Madline Swift, not Madeline Swift. And the address is 1465 Lumpfish Lane, Seagull Shores.

“It's amazing what leaving out one letter can do,” she says. “Now if anyone looks close enough to search for Madline Swift, they won't find out you're—you know—dead.”

I ask again, “But how?”

She shrugs. “Mostly it was my brother, his laptop, and a website it's probably illegal for me to even say the name of, plus a laminating machine he uses all the time making his buddies fake IDs. But whatever. It'll be good enough for you to go to school with, even drive with. If nobody looks too closely.”

I look at Stamp's and gasp so loudly even he looks up from the wading pool.

“What is it?” Lucy asks.

“Maddy?” he says, about to get up.

I wave him back down. It's just his picture looks so different from what he's become. It's like
another
whole person. His original photo shows the old Stamp, the real Stamp, the Stamp I fell in love with and snuck out to meet, and I guess died and came back to life for.

Thick, black hair with that little Superman curl dangling over his forehead. Alabaster skin except for the apples in his hollow athlete's cheeks. He's wearing a sweater, something his mom probably picked out for him, black with a kind of high, stiff collar and a zipper down the front and, underneath, an almost blindingly white T-shirt.

His name has been altered too. Stamp Crosbie, it says on his new Florida ID, rather than Stamp Crosby. And we share this address.

“Are they okay?” Lucy asks, the first sign of insecurity I've ever seen rippling across her face.

“They're fine. They're beautiful. I just . . .” I cut a look toward Stamp, who's gone back to watching his wet feet. “I haven't seen him like this in, well, over a year.”