Demonica (18 page)

27

Zombieland

If this was a joke, it was the worst one that had ever come out of Zoey’s mouth. And believe me, Zoey had told some of the worst jokes to ever pretend they had a punch line. I opened my mouth for some sort of response. Anything. Instead, my mouth just kind of gaped open like fish drowning in oxygen.

My mother.

Martha Binsfeld.

A witch?

“I know this sounds crazy—” said Zoey.

“Crazy?” I said. “Zoey, crazy is having your very own high school zombie apocalypse. We just
did
crazy. This? This is fucking apeshit.”

“Well…
I’m
a witch,” she said, as if this suddenly justified the trend. “And I’m your best friend.”

“Yeah, but you’re not my mom! You didn’t, like, push me out of your uterus all slimy and covered in afterbirth snot and give me half of your genetic code. I mean, shit. She alphabetizes our canned food! Who the hell alphabetizes their canned food? Not a witch, that’s for damn sure.”

I was too out of my head to realize that this argument made absolutely no sense.

Zoey sighed and tucked her thump into the right-side waist of her pants. Pulling the waistline down, she revealed a tattoo just above her panty line—a pentagram circled in Latin-esque script. “Does this look familiar?”

The tattoo was smaller and obviously in a different place. But it was identical to my mom’s.

“B-b-b-but...when does she even have
time
to be a witch?”

“Every third Friday of the month? At Principal Marion’s book club?”

My jaw became this disconnected thing hanging from my face.

“Be honest,” said Zoey. “When have you ever actually seen your mom read that steamy romance shit?
Romance is Red, Violence is Blue
? Really?”

My stomach twisted into an even tighter knot. I had completely forgotten about this undeniable tie that my mother and several other women in Villeneuve had with Principal Marion. What better way to gather a bunch of middle-aged women together to do séances and sacrifice goats and commune with fucking Satan and Sauron and shit. Like, the Occult is the new Oprah, bitches.

The more I thought about it, I had no recollection of hanging out with Zoey during my mom’s once-a-month excursions.

“Your mom has been a witch longer than anyone else in Villeneuve,” said Zoey. “Even before Principal Marion came to town and started recruiting witches. She’s a legend, Monica. She’s the only witch who wasn’t given her powers. Your mom hates the way Marion runs things. The only reason your mom meets with Marion’s coven is to keep an eye on her. Honestly, it’s the only reason she still practices the craft. That’s how I know I can trust her.”

I suddenly felt very dizzy.

“Now this is one I figured out on my own,” said Zoey, “but how exactly do you think Casey learned how to make a Deal with a Demon in the first place?”

“What? No. Are you saying my mom…?”

“I don’t think she showed him. But I
do
think Casey probably stumbled across your mom’s Book of Craft and learned how to do it on his own. It does explain how to perform rituals like that after all.”

The way all of these pieces were coming together was mind-numbing. Knowing that Casey made a Deal with a Demon (even if it
was
Dante) was bad enough. But now, the root of the problem went even deeper. My mom had been involved in this book club for as long as I could remember, which meant she had been a witch all these years. I was sure Casey had realized as much. It certainly explained how he could feel justified doing something this grandiosely idiotic.

“So you’ve been communicating with my mom since the quarantine?” I asked.

“She promised to protect my family if I promised to protect you. Not that you
need
protection or anything.”

“Yeah. But I could sure use all the help I can get.”

“Somebody’s gotta look after your soulless ginger ass.”

I laughed. And I
smiled!
God, when was the last time I smiled? “Let’s go see what Levi has for us, shall we?”

Zoey responded with her typical cheeky smile. “You betcha.”

Exiting through the front entrance was only slightly impossible, blockaded by dozens of corpses sprawled on top of each other. Fortunately, one of the glass doors opened just a smidgen enough for us to squeeze through. It was just an unpleasant matter of stepping over and around the bodies, the dried blood, and most of all, the lifeless eyes peering up at us.

We finally emerged through the open door slit, stumbling outside. I cherished my first breath of fresh air in what felt like ages.

And then my victory died. An overcast sky hung over an abandoned landscape. Guns and police equipment were scattered across the schoolyard. There were patches of blood-stained grass. But no bodies.

I had my suspicion why.

“Where do you think all the zombies are?” asked Zoey.

“I don’t know. Let’s hope it stays that way.”

We started across the lawn. Zoey hastily removed a rifle from the ground and a small box of ammunition beside it. With shocking ease, she opened the chamber, only to find that it was loaded. She clicked it shut, flipped the safety off, and cocked it.

“Son of a fuck! When did you learn how to use a gun?”

Zoey was busy emptying the box of bullets into her tight spare pockets. She tossed the cardboard container aside. “I had my Uncle Carl teach me last summer,” she said. “I thought it’d be useful to learn. You know. In case Casey ever asked me to go shooting with him.”

Of course.

“Wouldn’t it be easier just to use your witch power?” I asked. I was slightly uncomfortable at the sight of Zoey with a loaded firearm.

“Come on, Monica,” said Zoey, rolling her eyes. “Haven’t you ever played Resident Evil?”

“Um. Should I have?”

“You can only kill a zombie by shooting it in the brain or severing the head from the body. I figure if worse comes to worst, I can do the brain-shooting and you can do the decapitating.”

“Says a video game. And for the record, I’m not decapitating anything.”

“Well I’m keeping the gun.”

Our walk was a silent one. Zoey led the way down the empty street. There was not a person in sight, living, dead, or undead. No vehicles passed. The empty lifelessness of Villeneuve was more than eerie. It made me feel all the more visible to any eyes that might be watching.

My thoughts drifted to Casey. Did my parents get him safely out of the hospital? Werewolf or not, I was worried senseless about the shithead. I couldn’t wait for life to become normal again. For Zoey to resume her stupid Casey crush. To try and talk to my dad while he yelled at the ref on TV.

Also, I couldn’t wait to kill Principal Marion and have my mom hopefully become a normal mom for the first time in her parenting career.

And then there was Dante. Where did he fit in my plans for a normal life? Was it even possible for me to be normal again?

Speaking of which… Where was Dante?

Sure, that barrier thingy prevented him from entering. But now, after escaping from a five-day quarantine, where was he? Wouldn’t he have found me already? I’d been out for about ten minutes now.

As absurd as it sounded, I kind of expected him to be waiting outside for me the moment I stepped outside.

And that’s when a figure staggered out into the intersecting street up ahead.

Zoey froze alongside me. It was definitely a zombie—a
literally
decaying old man with blood stains on his ugly wool cardigan and high-water trousers. His skin was nearly as gray as his hair, scarred and rotten. Milky bloodshot eyes bulged from his emaciated face. He stared off vacantly as he wandered.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, Zoey raised her rifle. “Let’s get closer.”

“Closer?” I said. I shook my head vigorously. “Nuh-uh. No way we’re getting closer to that thing, just so you can shoot it.”

Zoey nodded to the intersecting street. “That’s Levi’s street up there.”

I glanced from Zoey, past the undead senior citizen, to the green street sign up ahead:
Crestwood Dr.

“Great,” I said. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Once again, Zoey took the lead, steadily approaching the undead old dude. She kept the rifle up, not daring to let him out of her crosshairs. Finally, about thirty feet or so away, we stopped. He still hadn’t noticed us yet. Zoey’s finger was tense on the trigger. I cringed, covering my ears.

Zoey dropped the gun. “I can’t do it.”

“What?” I said. I dropped my hands to my side at this anticlimactic turn of events. “What do you mean you can’t do it?”

“Look at him,” said Zoey. “He doesn’t have a clue what’s going on. And…I mean…he kinda looks like my grandpa.”

“Jesus,” I said. “Well let’s try sneaking past him then.”

This time I took the lead, stalking silently away from Zombie Gramps. I didn’t dare take my eyes off of him, instead creeping sideways to the corner of Crestwood Drive. Zoey followed my awkward motion, glancing rapidly back and forth between our destination and her undead familial resemblance.

The zombie paused his disjointed shuffling. His decaying nostrils flared as he very distinctly sniffed the air. Two pale milky eyes shifted to us.

Zoey screamed.

Two things happened almost simultaneously. The zombie’s lips peeled back, revealing rotten yellow incisors as it snarled. And then Zoey whipped her rifle up, barely giving a second to aim before she fired.

The shot seemed to echo throughout the neighborhood for miles. Blood sprayed as the bullet connected with its forehead. The creature didn’t even let out a croak as it fell to the asphalt, deader than ever.

“Wow,” I said. “Good shot.”

Zoey was speechless. She simply nodding, lowering the gun.

Reality registered with our bodies. Picking up speed, we rounded the corner.

And froze.

For as far as I could see, zombies were scattered throughout the street. Some with dismembered limbs, others limping on ravaged legs. But all of them were splattered in dark, dried blood, contrasting their milky white stares

All heads turned to us.

28

Doppelgänger

The street was crowded but still. Dead. And yet very much alive with rotting parts twitching and shifting. Their cold, gray skin gleamed in the noonday sun, statuesque and grotesque. A sea of empty eyes stared with no pupils to guide them.

“Zoey…what’s the address again?” I asked. I spoke through my teeth like a ventriloquist.

“Uh…” said Zoey. “235… It’s 235.”

I glanced to the house beside us. The number 217 was printed on the mailbox. From there on, I could see that the numbers were moving up.

“Up ahead to the left,” I said. “Are you ready for this?”

Zoey dropped the rifle, and fumbled to remove the lighter from her pocket. This almost made me smile. Almost. At this point, the army of the undead snapped out of their stupor. Grunts and snarls erupted. They lurched forward in a disorderly wave.

Zoey and I broke into a sprint. The Demon Dagger whisked into my grasp, cool and deadly. I swung at the closest creature. Its fierce growl was cut short; its head toppled across asphalt. Zoey’s Resident Evil killing strategy was still engrained in my mind. My forward momentum did not slow as I aimed for my next target.

To my right, I couldn’t help but notice an explosion of fire engulfing nearly a dozen zombies at once. Their screeches rang out in unison. Even if it wasn’t killing them immediately, it sure seemed a hell of a lot more effective than the stupid gun.

I swept forward, lunging and spinning, slicing and hacking. The Demon Dagger was weightless in my grasp. I aimed for their rotten, disjointed necks each time. Heads hit the tarmac like melons. Fucking instinct. I felt like a ballet dancer. But, you know, bloodier and scary as hell. Another burst of flames swallowed the swarming creatures to the left. Their dead moans joined in unison, louder and more frantic.

The fire receded. I took a quick glance at the nearest house to my right: 226. We were halfway there.

In less than a minute, Zoey and I adopted a strategy. I cleared our forward path while Zoey stayed glued to my back, Mongolian-barbecued the undead coming in from the sides. The occasional fire-consumed zombie would wander frantically into my path, flailing and screeching. At which point I was all-too-glad to put the poor undead bastard out of his misery.

Number 235 finally came into view—a simple white one-story with peeling paint and a less-than-maintained lawn. By this point, the zombies were far too preoccupied with the fiery mosh pit that ensued across Crestwood Drive. Zoey and I sprinted to the rickety front porch, scrambling through both the screen and front doors. We slammed the door behind us and fumbled with the lock, deadlock, and a hook lock at the very top.

“Let’s not do that ever again,” said Zoey.

I peeked through the door’s peep hole. The street was in such blazing fiery chaos, our escape had gone unnoticed.

“Yeah, okay,” I said. I blew a wisp of red hair out of my face. Turning back around, I slumped against the door.

It wasn’t until now that I finally gave a hint of attention to the inside of Levi’s house. It had looked slightly neglected on the outside, but shit. That didn’t prepare me for what was on the inside.

There was no furniture. No nothing. The carpet was bare without even the imprints of where furniture
might
have been in the past. I would have said that the place was
completely
empty, but that was hardly true for the walls. Not even close.

Every inch of wall space was covered in tacked-up photographs. At least the front room was. As well as the initial hallway. And pretty much everything I could see of the spacious living room at the far end of the house. The only objects to break up this overwhelming trend were occasional mirrors on the walls. Some hanging crooked. None of them matching. They were like blisters amid a nightmarish montage.

“Oh. My. God,” said Zoey.

I stepped nervously into the front room, observing the closest photos. They were all of individual people. Men. Women. Old people. Young people. Little kids.

I didn’t care if Levi was a photography nut. This was the sort of décor I expected in the home of a homicidal maniac.

As I moved further into the room, I started seeing students at my school. Many I did not know well, but plenty who I did.

Devon.

Kelly.

Eli.

Casey.

Zoey.

“Fucking fuck,” said Zoey when she saw her pictures.

I reached the adjacent wall, and things got much creepier. I spotted a picture of me. And another picture. And another. My gaze scanned seamlessly from one photograph to the next in speechless horror.

The entire wall. It was only photographs of me.

And not just pictures of me at school. They were also of me at the park. At the mall. Swimming.

Asleep in my bedroom.

Fucking fuck!

I took trembling steps back. That’s when I realized these photographs weren’t arranged randomly. From a distance, the blurred conglomeration of the images formed a new image.

The entire wall was a disturbingly lifelike collage of my face.

“Monica, let’s get out of here,” said Zoey. “This is bad.”

“No, Monica,” said a voice behind us, as familiar as it was frightening. “Let’s stay.”

It was my voice.