Dia of the Dead (10 page)

Amber’s body was lying next to me, where her head had been was nothing but a gory mess.
 I scrambled away from her, turning onto my hands and knees to crawl further away. The sight and smell sent the last bits of my breakfast onto the floor. I coughed and gagged until nothing else came up. I rolled over on my backside, my breathing uneven and my heart racing.

“Dia, are you okay?” Brendan stood over Amber’s lifeless body, holding a croquet mallet. Black goo and dark clumps of tissue dripped from it.
 His shirt and jeans were splattered with black, making him look like the twist-ending psycho-killer in a slasher flick.

“I-I-I-I’m fine. I just…”
 I trailed off. My mind tried to make sense of what just happened. I had to have been dreaming. I closed my eyes, gave my face a quick slap, and opened my eyes again. Amber’s body was still there. Not a dream. I gagged but there was nothing left in my stomach.

“Let’s go.”
 Brendan dropped the mallet and helped me up. I had to make sure Amber wouldn’t leap up and begin round two of her bloodthirsty leg-nomming attack. I approached her body carefully and kicked her leg with the toe of my Converse. She didn’t move. We wouldn’t be doing lunch now or ever. I backed out of the room, grabbing Brendan on the way.

We ran down the hall as fast as our legs could carry us and through the door to the stairwell where the rest of the group waited.

“O-M-G!” Kaci gasped when she saw us. “W-w-what happened? Is that…is that blood?” She gasped again, taking a step back and clapping her hand over her mouth.

I looked down at my shirt under the lights of the stairwell. I couldn’t see anything on the black fabric of my tee, but my jeans and the white rubber toe of my shoes had splatters of black.
 I didn’t look half as bad as Brendan.

“Is Amber all right?” Reagan asked in barely a whisper.
 Her face had lost its permanent sneer. She looked as scared and worried as the rest of us.

I cleared my throat, trying to remove the lump of words I couldn’t bear to say.
 

“I-I-“ I squeaked, my voice an octave higher than normal, a tell I was about to lie.
  I cleared my throat again. 

“I—She—“ My eyes fell on Taylor. “We have to get Taylor help.” I pointed to her. Mason cradled her in his arms, struggling to keep her up. I wondered if those abs he proudly displayed all of the time were actually airbrushed on. Taylor was still conscious but fading fast.
 She had trouble keeping her heavily lashed eyes open, and her leg bled badly from the kiwi-sized hole Amber left in her calf.

I pushed past them to the stairs, taking a step up and turned back toward the group.
 

“Come on,” I ordered and walked up the rest of the stairs to the next floor without another word.
 The shuffle of feet echoing in the stairwell told me the group decided to follow.

I held the door to the building’s main floor open for everyone to pass. Mason struggled through, nearly dropping Taylor.
 We hurried down the quiet hallway.

“Where…are…we…going?”
 Mason called from behind me.

I looked back at the group.
 He was trailing behind, still struggling to carry Taylor. 

“Prop
s,
” I said. “Do you need help?”

“No. No. I got it.” He repositioned Taylor in his arms.

“Props? Why are we going to the prop department?” Reagan asked. 

“So we can tend to her wound. They have a first-aid kit in there.
  And better reception.” I quickened my pace, not leaving any time for one of her retorts.

The prop department was a large room next to the set. It housed anything from clown masks to large suits of armor to fake alien bodies and everything in between.

I pushed through the door—startling Joe the Fog Guy who was smoking a cigarette with his feet resting on the top of his workstation. He was watching television on one of the screens mounted to the wall. He choked on the smoke of a long drag when he saw the band of bloodied and battered teenage actors following behind me.

I gave him a moment to collect himself from his coughing fit before I began.
 He pounded himself on the chest with his fist to ease his breathing. 

“Joe,” I said, ignoring the look of alarm on his face as he got up from his seat still wheezing. “Where’s the first-aid kit?”

He looked confused as he cleared his throat then his face lit up with recognition. The prop guys always kept a first-aid kit handy for those times when goofing around with the props went awry.

“What happened to her?” he asked cautiously.

“Long story. May we please have the kit?” I asked.

“What happened to you?”
 He turned his frightened gaze to Brendan.

“Long story. Ki
t,
” Brendan demanded.

Joe looked us over, his thick eyebrows knitting together then relaxing as he surveyed each of our faces.
 His eyes grew wide when they met Reagan’s.

“Just get the damn first-aid kit,”
 she said dryly.

“Yes, Ms. Bixby.”
 Joe the Fog Guy, a man well into his forties with more graying hair on the sides of his head than on top, nodded and scurried off to do Reagan’s bidding. 

While Joe retrieved the kit, I ran over to one of the workstations and cleared away the few items on it to make room for Taylor.

“Put her here,” I said, tapping the table’s metal top. 

Mason nearly dropped her again trying to carry her over to the table.
 

“Dude, lemme help.”
 Brendan intervened, lifting Taylor into his arms. He carried her with ease—no grunts or heavy breathing— to the table. I stepped aside to allow him to set her down gently.  

She groaned as I arranged her leg so that I could get a closer look at the wound.
 Amber’s teeth had cut through the muscle to the bone. Looking at it made me queas
y
.

“Gross,” Mason muttered, voicing my thoughts as he stood behind me, peering over my shoulder at Taylor.

I was glad to be wearing jeans instead of a dress like Taylor or shorts like Kaci and Reagan.

Joe returned with the first-aid kit.
 He sat next to Taylor who continued to moan in pain. He looked at her then to us.

“She needs medical attention.”

“We kno
w,
” I said. “But we have to do something until they get here. Do you think you can help us? You patched me up pretty good last time.” I patted the spot on my shoulder where I’d received a cut while doing a stunt during the first week of filming. “Do you think you could work your magic?”

“Dia, that was a scratch—”

“—a pretty nasty one. And look at me now. Just like new.” I flashed a convincing smile.

Joe’s face remained unchanged. “This looks serious.
  What happened?”

“Like I said before, it’s a long story.”

“I’m going to need some details before I agree to help.”

“Come on ma
n,
” Mason said. “Look at her. Look at her leg. Look at the blood. You said so yourself that this is serious. Right?
 
Righ
t
? So if it looks serious then why won’t you help her without all the stupid questions?” 

Joe looked at us again then at Taylor.
 “I’ll see what I can do,” he sighed.

“Thank you,” I said.

“All this to clean up a little blood. The guy practically bathed in the fake stuff every day at his last job. Just wait until I tell my father,” Reagan said under her breath but it was just loud enough for Joe the Fog Guy to hear. He shot her a silent, pleading look.

“Let’s give Joe some room to work.” I walked away from the table and motioned for the group to join me near the television. They followed.
 

“I’ll call for hel
p,
” Reagan offered. 

“Think you can handle that?” I asked.

“Uh, yea
h,
” she shot back. “It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to dial 911.” 

“Okay.”
 I let out an exasperated sigh.

She made a face then ventured over to a forgotten corner of the room to place the call.

The rest of the group huddled around me underneath the television; their eyes seemed full of questions they had yet to ask.

Kaci was the first to speak.
  She wrung her hands and shifted her stance as she asked, “What happened back there?”

“Amber attacked Dia so I...uh…” Brendan paused and looked down at his shirt. “I did what I had to do. If I didn’t…I don’t even want to think about what could’ve happened.”
 

Everyone weighed Brendan’s words, their meaning registering with everyone at different speeds. It took a while for Mason and Kaci to figure it out but when they did, their feelings were present on their faces.

I looked up at the TV murmuring softly in the background. A photograph of Missy was on the screen with text scrolling on the bottom in the ticker. The media had received news of her passing. The local news ran a montage of photographs and video of her in happier times before they eventually got to the trashier times. Photo after photo of Missy looking blitzed out of her mind appeared on screen. They were the same ones that filled tabloids on a weekly basis.

Suddenly I had a light bulb moment. Missy. Drugs. The ones on the floor last night. The ones she took that may have made her attack Amber.

“Did Amber take any of that new drug floating around? That…that…Z’? I think that’s what it’s called.”

Mason looked away, his dreads did a poor job of hiding his guilty face.
 

“Missy was the partier. Not Ambe
r,
” Brendan said.

“I think the pills—the Z—had something to do with Missy’s death and Amber’s freak out. Missy was acting really weird last nigh
t,
and we all saw what she did to Amber’s arm. I think anyone who has taken them is in some serious danger. Mason, you didn’t take any, did you?”

“Uh…” He looked at his feet. “N
o,
” he finally admitted. “I was going to then I kinda forgot about it.”

“Do you still have them?” I asked.

He pulled a small baggie from the pocket of his jeans and handed it to me.

“Where did you get them?”

“Aroun
d,
” Mason replied.

“Come on, dude. Be honest.” Brendan nudged his arm.

“I got it from Blaze.”

“Who the hell is Blaze?” I asked.

“I know where we can find hi
m,
” Brendan said. “You guys stay here with Taylor.” He pointed to Kaci and Mason. “Dia and I will go—”

“Help is on the wa
y,
” Reagan interrupted, rejoining the group. “And what did I just overhear? You and Dia are going where?”

“To find Blaze.”

Reagan’s frown turned into a calculating grin. “I’ll go with you.”

“Whatever. We need to hurry u
p,
” Brendan said.

I put the baggie Mason gave me in a pocket in my satchel and Brendan, Reaga
n,
and I went to find Blaze—whoever that was—while the others stayed behind to keep an eye on Taylor.

Blaze, the studio’s dealer in residence that everyone knew about except m
e,
turned out to be Blake, the makeup artist. Brendan led the way to his regular hangout. We found him in the alley between buildings Eleven and Twelve taking a drag from a cigarette, his bright blue hair shining in the sunlight. The cigarette dropped from his lip, landing on the ground. He stamped out its glow with the toe of his boot and ran his hands over the thighs of his too tight skinny jeans then through his hair before approaching us.

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

Before anyone could question Blake about Z, Brendan lunged at him, grabbing him by his t-shirt and pushing him against the wall. 

“Tell us about the drugs, punk!” Brendan yelled, lifting him a couple inches off the ground.

“Put me down, bro!” Blake shouted.

Brendan let go, and Blake fell to the ground.

“What the hell, dude?” he asked, regaining his footing. “What was that all about?”

“Sorry, dude. I’m reading for a role as a loose cannon rookie in a cop drama tomorrow so I figured I’d get some practice.”

“Not cool.” Blake adjusted his shirt and frowned. “What do you want?”

“We’re here to see what you know about these.” I pulled Mason’s baggie out of my satchel.

“Did you have a bad experience? I have a no refund policy. Your bad high is your problem, not mine.” Blake folded his arms across his chest.

“Bad experience?” I asked.

“I’ve been…uh…handling these for months and haven’t had any problems until recently. People have been calling and saying their friends have been freaking out on them. I’ve told them that’s it’s probably stress—acting is hard—but they believe it’s a bad batch of Z. I’ve been taking this stuff for a while now and I never had any problems. In fact, I took a couple this morning and I’m fin—“ Blake was interrupted by a pretty nasty coughing fit.