Eat, Brains, Love (10 page)

I probed the cracks in her mental walls, looking for a place to slip in. She really believed that Jake and Amanda had been some devil-sent sign of the apocalypse. To change that in Hardwick would mean altering her most firmly held beliefs. I saw a vision of Earth bathed in white, holy light and a giant, stern-faced bearded man reaching down, collecting her, and pulling her up to heaven where together the two of them shot lightning bolts down at the unlucky scum who remained. These beliefs went deep. If I did manage to get her to believe our story, I'm not sure what would've been left of her personality. Would she be a vegetable? I had no idea.

I didn't think I had the strength to full-on brainwash this old lady. More than that, I'm not sure I
wanted
to. Yeah, she was totally twisted, but I wasn't cool with just wiping away a person's deepest convictions—even if those convictions were about the Rapture and how most teenagers were walking devil enablers.

I felt pressure building in my sinuses and broke off contact. I snuffed my nose clear and tasted blood. It was just a trickle, but it'd happened again. Another bloody nose.

“Save your stories for the man at the pearly gates,” Hardwick was telling Alastaire. “See how far they get you.”

When we left Hardwick's room, another dark-suited NCD agent was waiting outside. This one was a member of Alastaire's personal team.

“Don't let anyone speak with her,” Alastaire ordered as we walked out. He had his hand on my shoulder again but this time I didn't shake it off. It was the only thing keeping me steady.

Alastaire led me to the hospital waiting room and sat me down. He handed me a paper cup full of water and I drank greedily. I'd failed his test, and although I wasn't sure what that meant or why I'd even want to impress this creep and his bow tie, I was still pretty disappointed. I'd always prided myself on this whole telepath thing.

I thought of the story of Fred Hardy, this valedictorian that'd graduated the year before the government pulled me out of high school. Rumor was that he'd turned into a total burnout. My sister said he'd gotten to college and suddenly found that he wasn't the smartest kid in the room anymore, so he'd switched his major from engineering to keg stands, flunked out in his second semester, and now worked at some fast-food restaurant in the mall. I felt like Fred Hardy must have.

“You get people like that from time to time,” Alastaire said, sounding more sympathetic than disappointed that I'd failed. “Sometimes they've got mental walls that you just can't get through. I didn't expect that you'd be able to change her mind, so to speak.”

“So why have me try?”

Alastaire shrugged. “I wanted to see what you could do. You remind me a little bit of myself.”

I could tell he'd meant that as a compliment, but it made me feel worse than when I thought I'd failed some test. So I was just another guinea pig.

“In Harlene's report, she mentioned you'd made telepathic contact with the male zombie fugitive. Is that true?”

I nodded, not sure why he'd suddenly changed the subject to Jake Stephens.

“Can you still feel him out there?”

“A little,” I answered. “I need an object or something that he's touched to really focus in.”

Alastaire waved this off. “The physical connection is just a crutch. Once you've made contact, you should be able to maintain it.”

As soon as he said that, my mind came alive, as if it was suddenly eager to stretch its legs again. I swept across the astral plane, out of New Jersey, across Pennsylvania and—

What the fuck is on me? Is this a net? Did these bitches have a net?

I'm so hungry. They do not want to mess with me right now. Hitting me with their car was bad enough, but a freaking net?

Where's Amanda? Oh shit, are those crazy girls seriously shoving her into their car? I should help. I should do something. But I'm so hungry.

If I could just get this fucking net off me, I could still totally eat that stupid clerk before he calls the cops
and
save Amanda.

I gasped, coming back to myself. I'd just been in Jake Stephens's mind. Or what was left of it—it was a colder, more necrotized version of Jake than I'd peeked in on before, more like the zombies I usually tracked. For a moment, what he'd been feeling lingered: the heavy weight of the net he was covered in, the cold feeling of a wound in his side, an unnatural hunger that I hoped I'd never feel personally. Then it was gone, and Alastaire was looking at me expectantly.

“Well?” he asked.

“Nope,” I replied too quickly. “Nothing.”

I'm not even sure why I lied. Maybe after he'd forced me to play his little game, I wanted to rebel against Alastaire. If it were Harlene or Tom asking, I probably would've told them the truth. I trusted them, but not Alastaire. There was something wrong with him, like maybe he took a little too much pleasure in all this zombie hunting and mind screwing. Also, I really didn't want him to start thinking of me as some kind of protégé. And part of me, well, part of me didn't want to sell out Jake, even a gross version of Jake that was way too focused on stuffing his face. He was still just a kid like me, and if a zombie like Chazz Slade could slip through the cracks . . .

I shouldn't think things like that. Jake would have to be tracked. Killed. I just didn't want Alastaire to be the one to do it. I imagined Jake ending up like Subject Number Eleven, strapped to a treadmill for study. It wasn't right.

Alastaire frowned at me.
Now
he was disappointed. A weird feeling came over me then. It was like a strange hand was slipping underneath my shirt, slippery fingers sliding up my spine. Except, it was happening in my mind. I flinched and pushed that hand off with all the force my mind could muster.

“Unh,” grunted Alastaire. He was watching me, his expression suddenly cold. He wetted his lips in this gross way that took too long and I had to look away. If they made hot telepathic showers, I'd have curled up in one right about then.

Alastaire stood up. I still didn't want to look at him.

“You're tired,” he said. “I hope you'll feel differently tomorrow.”

I said nothing and he walked away without another word. I had to call Tom from a pay phone to get a ride back to the motel.

JAKE

I WOKE UP FLAT ON MY BACK WITH THE REMAINS OF A dead raccoon on my face. The carcass was still warm and from the bristles of raccoon fur stuck between my teeth and the sticky, dried blood on my cheeks and mouth, it seemed like a pretty solid bet that I'd eaten that thing and then dozed off.
So, that's my life now. Eating vermin and napping. Great.

Although part of me was glad that I'd apparently de-zombified this time by eating a friendly woodland critter. It was better than snacking on people. I guess.

My memory was all messed up. I remembered chasing that gas station attendant and getting hit by a car, and then I remembered getting attacked by a couple of teenage girls and winding up under some net. As for how I came to be lying on the concrete floor of a strange basement? That was the big mystery.

I sat up, squinting into the near darkness and spitting fur. Something moved next to me and I flinched.

“Relax,” whispered Amanda, who was kneeling beside me. “It's just me.”

“Shit,” I whispered back, gulping a deep breath. “Where are we?”

“Basement of some house,” she replied, sounding a little uncertain herself. “Weird freaking place.”

“Weirder than the funeral home?”

“You tell me,” said Amanda, helping me to my feet. There was a scratching sound when we started to move, followed by a couple high-pitched keens and snarls.

Something was down here with us, and it wasn't cool with company.

I looked around, my eyes now fully adjusted to the lack of light. The basement was unfinished and pretty much empty; some bricks and plastic tarps collected dust in one corner, a hot-water heater still in the box next to them. The place had an under-construction vibe.

Except I doubt the contractors had lined the far wall with locked pet carriers. A dozen sets of nocturnal green eyes peered out at me—possums, raccoons, a couple mangy stray cats. Some of them scratched at the cage walls, others sat huddled in the backs of their cages, hissing whenever Amanda or I moved. There was one cage just filled up with rats, the dark shapes climbing all over one another, searching for escape.

“Whoa,” I said. “This is some serious serial-killer shit right here.”

Amanda shook her head. “I think they eat them.”

I noticed a possum carcass next to my raccoon leftovers. So, they'd fed us. Part of me was glad I didn't remember Amanda chewing through possum belly.

“Who are they?”

“As far as I can tell? A couple of crazy zombie lesbians.”

“Oh.”

The ceiling creaked above us. I could hear two hushed voices having an argument upstairs.

“What do they want with us?” I asked.

“The mean one seemed disappointed she couldn't eat us,” said Amanda. “The other one insisted they bring us back here.”

The arguing above us stopped, and the basement door was flung open. Someone turned on a light—just a single bulb dangling from the ceiling, which really added to the whole mass-murderer ambience.

I started looking around for something big enough to knock out a lesbian. One of those loose bricks would do nicely.

Sensing me tense for action next to her, Amanda touched my arm.

“Whatever you're thinking about doing, don't.”

“Seriously?” I whispered back. “Isn't this a fight-for-our-lives situation?”

“If they wanted to hurt us, they could've done it already.”

Combat boots clomped heavily down the wooden basement steps. They belonged to a burly girl with spiky black hair. She was maybe nineteen and looked like she belonged to some militant punk rock band's vicious mosher hall of fame. She was dressed in an old army surplus jacket, a nostril piercing connected by a chain to a gauge in her ear. And she was holding a crossbow—seriously. I was definitely reconsidering my whole hit-her-with-a-brick strategy.

“I take it this is the mean one,” I whispered to Amanda.

She nodded, her eyes on the girl who didn't look at all pleased to find us standing upright and communicating.

“No talking,” she snarled, gesturing with the crossbow as she came down the steps. “Stand with your backs against the cages.”

We did as she ordered, most of the animals shrinking away as we came near. A particularly bold raccoon pawed at Amanda's hair, but she gritted her teeth and pretended not to notice, keeping her eyes on the crossbow.

“If either of you fucking newbs tries anything shady, I will not hesitate to put an arrow through your brain. And believe me, you won't get up from that.”

“That's like Zombie 101,” I said, more to Amanda than the girl with the crossbow. I wasn't trying to be sarcastic, it was like a genuine moment of clarity. Like, of course, head-shots! That's how it would work. The girl with the crossbow glared at me, then turned to stare at Amanda.

“Is your boyfriend retarded, cheerleader?”

“We're not dating,” said Amanda.

“You correct her about that, but not the retarded thing?”

“Shut up!” snarled the girl, shaking the crossbow in a way that made me worry a bolt might fly loose. “What are you doing in our territory?”

Neither of us answered. I made a big charades-style gesture with my open hands, hoping to convey confusion. She did tell us to shut up, after all.

“Ugh,” said the girl. “You can talk.”

“There are territories? Like, zombie territories?” asked Amanda.

The girl sighed. “Unofficially. Too many asshole undead in the same place acting stupid like you were in the gas station, and you'd fuck it up for all of us.”

“Oh, well, we didn't know,” I said. “We're new at this.”


“No shit.”

I noticed that one side of the girl's head was shaved. There, stenciled into the buzzed hair with barber precision, was the lightning-bolt logo of the greatest rock band in existence, Severed Lung.

“Cool,” I said, pointing at her head. “I love those guys.”

The girl narrowed her eyes at me. “Don't even try it,” she said.

“Oh, come on, Grace,” chimed an exasperated voice from the top of the stairs. “Would you just bring them up already?”

The girl with the crossbow—Grace—seemed to deflate a little at the sound of the other girl's voice, like all the scary had been sucked out of her. Well, most if it anyway. She lowered the crossbow and waved us toward the stairs.

“For the record,” said Grace, “I probably would've killed you.”

At the top of the stairs, our other captor was waiting.

“I'm Summer,” she said, greeting first Amanda and then me with a warm hug. Summer was willowy, maybe an inch taller than me, and had a crazy mane of auburn hair that hung halfway down her back.

After she'd hugged us, she took Grace by the arms, pulling her close.

“You were
so
scary, baby,” she said quietly, and pressed a little kiss onto her mouth. Grace was still trying to look tough, keeping one eye on me and Amanda, but I could tell Summer's approval had melted her a little.

I glanced over at Amanda. She was watching the couple with that “aww” look girls get when they see something totally adorable. I guess we were just going to move past that whole crossbow death-threat thing.

“Come on,” said Summer. “I'll make you guys some tea and we'll talk.”

 

Grace and Summer were shacked up in an empty, half-built house, part of a planned community that was abandoned when all the shiny suburbanites that wanted fancy, new houses went bankrupt a couple years ago. The water wasn't working, but Summer made tea by heating up a pot of bottled water over an electric grill. It was like a new kind of camping: roughing it in the suburbs.

“They never got around to finishing the roof,” Summer said. “So we stay in the living room.” Their few possessions were spread out around a space heater: sleeping bags, a couple lawn chairs, and a laptop. It looked like they'd been squatting here for a while.

In one corner of the room was a door with a heavy board nailed across it and a padlock bolted over the door handle. What were they keeping locked in there? With the way Grace was still giving me the stink-eye, I decided not to ask.

Summer settled us all around the space heater, Amanda and me on one of the sleeping bags and Summer in a lawn chair while Grace paced around behind her. Summer handed out cups of bitter-tasting tea. It was almost like being huddled around a campfire.

“So,” Summer began, “when did you guys first turn?”

“Yesterday,” Amanda answered.

“I knew it,” said Grace. “They're like babies.”

Summer nodded, giving us an understanding look. “The first days are the hardest. The hunger is bad while your body adjusts to the changes. It'll get easier to manage. Eventually, you won't need to eat as often to avoid going all—” She made a zombie face, mouth hanging open, eyes rolled back in her head. “You know.”

“You're lucky we found you and stopped you from doing anything crazy,” grumbled Grace, a hint of resentment in her voice. “We didn't have anyone to explain the rules to us.”

“Yeah,” I replied, glancing at the crossbow that now leaned against the wall. “Thanks for the hospitality.”

“Hey! We fed you some of our animals,” said Grace, staring me down. “You know how hard those fuckers are to catch?”

“So you can eat animals to control your hunger, as long as they're still alive,” Summer chimed in, obviously trying to keep things mellow. “It's not like eating people, but it will keep you from changing for a while. The more you exert yourself, the sooner you'll need to eat. I find that meditation helps keep the hunger in check.”

Grace snorted, rolling her eyes. Finally, we were in agreement about something. I couldn't picture myself sitting cross-legged, going ohm ohm ohm until the hungries went away.

“What about yoga?” asked Amanda.

“What
about
yoga?” replied Grace.

Summer smiled thoughtfully. “Never tried it. We could give it a shot, I guess. The meditating just helps to keep your mind off the hunger. It's important to keep the mind working, to stay in control, especially when the body starts to die.”

Grace was staring daggers at Amanda, probably imagining exactly what I was—Summer and Amanda in those tight sweatpants doing all kinds of sexy stretches. Of course, my mind working the way it does, these thoughts led me to a natural question.

“So, how did you guys zombify each other?”

Grace's expression darkened even more, which I hadn't thought was possible. “What are you asking?”

“Uh,” I stammered, glancing at Amanda for backup. It was her theory I was trying to verify after all, but she was just staring at me like she couldn't wait to see how I got myself out of this one. “Well, uh, you get it through sex, right? So, um, how did you . . . ?”

“Lesbians have sex too, genius.” Amanda had finally decided to cut in now that it was already way too late. “Don't be such a heterosexist pig.”

I scowled at her and saw her glancing over at Grace for approval, but Grace was just squeezing the bridge of her nose, like all this ignorance was giving her a migraine.

Luckily, Summer seemed ready to hold off on stringing me up by the balls. At least for now. “Yes, it's sexually transmitted,” she explained patiently. “We didn't give it to each other. How we turned . . . Those aren't good stories. Eventually, we found each other.”

“How?” asked Amanda.

“Zombie Facebook?” I added unhelpfully. Amanda shot me a look.

“We met on the Iowa border,” answered Summer.

“What's in Iowa?” asked Amanda.

“A bunch of bullshit,” replied Grace.

“It was six months ago. We'd heard rumors of a place for people like us there,” said Summer. “A safe place. Some people even talked about a cure there. But the rumors were only half-right. There
was
a place for us. It just wasn't safe at all.”

“And the cure . . . ?” asked Amanda, her eyes widening hopefully.

“It's bullshit,” said Grace.

“I'm sorry, but I think I would've heard if there was a zombie city in Iowa,” I said.

“Oh really?” Grace sneered. “Are you like Zombie–Anderson Cooper? Are your fingers on the pulse of the undead in America?”

“Technically, do the undead even have pulses?”

Amanda elbowed me. “Come on, Jake,” she sighed. “We're all on the same side here, right?”

Grace ignored her. “Did you even know zombies existed before yesterday?” she asked me. “Maybe if you had, you wouldn't have eaten all your buddies.”

Amanda and I stared at Grace, both of us dumbfounded.

“You know about that?” Amanda finally murmured.

Summer sighed. “We recognized you from the internet. The ‘school shooting' is big news.”

“It's why I said we should kill you,” Grace went on. “Stupid assholes went and ate a bunch of innocents. You're going to fuck everything up for the rest of us.”

“It wasn't our fault,” said Amanda, her voice shaking. “Like you said, nobody told us the rules.”

“It's okay,” said Summer, reaching out to take Amanda's hand. “It
wasn't
your fault. It's a sickness. Even so, I can't imagine the guilt you're feeling.”

For a second, I felt like I should put my arm around Amanda, but then she slipped her hand out of Summer's and sat up straighter, sticking out her chest a little (or maybe that was just my imagination). It was queen-bee Amanda summoning the powers that made kids like me scurry away from her in the halls.

“You said you hunt around here,” said Amanda. “Just for animals?”

Grace and Summer exchanged a look.

“Well,
sometimes
animals,” Summer said, sounding less than perfectly composed and sure of herself for the first time. “Animals help tide us over but . . .” she trailed off.