Eat, Brains, Love (16 page)

CASS

THAT NIGHT, WE STAYED IN A MOTEL OUTSIDE Cleveland. Nobody talked much on the way. We checked in. We went to bed.

I found myself lying awake, feeling weirdly alone even with Tom sleeping in a bed a few feet away. I reached across the astral plane, searching for Jake's mind. It may have been a strange place to go looking for comfort, but I needed to escape. To be out of my own body for a while.

I jumped into his mind just as he was kissing Amanda Blake in a dingy bathroom.

Something welled up in me. The stress of the last few days, the horrible things I'd seen, and now this admittedly totally inappropriate feeling of jealousy because the zombie I'd been spying on was kissing someone else. It was like an involuntary spasm of the brain. A psychic shock wave of icky feelings rolled through me and into Jake.

I gasped and severed our connection, sitting up straight in bed. Ugh, what was I doing?

More important: Had I just made Jake puke?

“Cass?” whispered Tom from his bed after a few minutes. “Are you okay?” Sometimes I wondered if he was a little psychic too.

I took a few deep breaths, thinking about my answer. A thin trickle of blood wormed its way out of my nose and I wiped it away. Not again. I turned my head, trying to find Tom's eyes in the darkness.

“I want to go home,” I told him.

JAKE

WHAT DO YOU SAY TO A GIRL AFTER YOU THROW UP while kissing her? That's not an easy thing to come back from, even when the site of your make-out is a gas-station bathroom that could double as the winning image in a World's Most Heinous Crime Scene photography contest. I'm pretty sure even a girl as confident as Amanda would interpret the smallest amount of kiss-induced barfing as a damning criticism of her technique.

And the shitty thing was, I'd totally been into that kiss. I didn't know why I'd gotten sick. It was like a sudden surge of gut-bursting panic that was gone as quickly as it came on. Maybe there was some zombie rule that Grace and Summer hadn't filled us in on; like wait thirty minutes after eating before engaging in any kissing.

“So,” I stammered as we drove across the Michigan border. “I'm really sorry about that.”

“It's okay,” said Amanda, obviously not wanting to talk about it.

“That's never happened to me before.”

“You don't say.”

“It wasn't, like, your fault,” I said, sounding unbelievably lame.

“Whew,” replied Amanda. “I was worried.”

“It was weird—”

“Yeah,” she interrupted. “Look, the whole thing was weird. We were just caught up in the moment, okay? Like, a last-two-people-on-Earth scenario. Let's just forget about it.”

Well, that was a bummer of a way to look at our magical moment of ferocious post-cannibalism making out. I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel, mulling over a response.

“So, you wouldn't want to try again? Like after I've digested?”

Amanda looked at me like I had just puked all over again and then, without a word, unbuckled her seat belt and crawled into the backseat to stretch out.

“I don't know,” she said. “I'm tired. Let's just not talk for a while.”

“Because I'd try it again,” I persisted. “It wasn't a last- people-on-Earth thing for me.”

I looked at Amanda in the rearview mirror. She had one arm draped over her eyes and was chewing her lip nervously.

“It's like we're stuck on a zombie blind date,” said Amanda. “I mean, we've been together four days and it's been pretty intense. How do we know it's
real feelings
and not Stockholm syndrome or something?”

“For starters, because I didn't kidnap you.”

“You know what I mean,” she said.

“Yeah,” I muttered. “Real feelings. Okay.”

“Look,” Amanda said. “It's okay that you vommed on me. There's still a lot about this zombie stuff that we don't know. Maybe puking is part of the zombie-mating ritual.”

“Yeah,” I said uncertainly. “Maybe.”

“Jake. I just need some time to process. Okay?”

I nodded.
Process.
That didn't sound so good. I felt like we were suddenly on one of those relationship-counseling shows where the dude is all incapable of understanding his emotions. But . . . I was “processing.” At least I thought I was. My mind was consumed by what it meant to be a zombie, who it was okay to eat, what the hell my life was going to be like now—and really digging Amanda Blake. That last part was the only thing that really made sense to me, the only feeling that seemed normal and good.

Maybe I should've told her all that. Then again, even if I thought Amanda sort of liked me, she'd still once gone for the macho Chazz type.
That
dude definitely wasn't wasting his time being introspective about his emotional voyage. So maybe I shouldn't either.

Ugh . . . feelings. Why couldn't turning into a zombie have cured me of those?

Then again, maybe I didn't want to be cured. Because just as I was swearing off human emotion forever, Amanda turned to me. “Look,” she said. “I like you, okay? Don't make me get all sappy and gross on you. We've had more than enough grossness for today, don't you think?”

 

We got into Ann Arbor late that night. It was definitely a college town, the kind of place where I would've hoped to find myself in the fall if things had gone differently—not just undeath, but, you know, my grades. Even this late, students cluttered the sidewalks, lurching home from bars. We drove past a house where a bunch of bros were playing a game of beer pong right in the front yard.
Now that's freedom,
I thought, then reminded myself that I had nothing in my future but the open road. These suckers with their carefree school-night drinking and lack of parental supervision, they didn't know shit about the real world.

“My brother's house is on the next block,” said Amanda.

“Just one pass,” I said, and Amanda nodded, already peering out her window. We'd agreed it probably wouldn't be smart to just knock on her brother's door—those guys that had chased us back in New Jersey could be watching him. The plan was to swing by, check for his car or see if his light was on—get some sign that he was even still in Michigan—and then skedaddle.

Kyle lived in a house off campus with a bunch of “other nerds,” according to Amanda. I slowed down, cruising my way down the block trying not to look too conspicuous. Ho-hum, just another college kid looking for a parking spot after a tough night in the old lecture hall. Really, I was keeping an eye out for any ominous black SUVs or dudes reading newspapers while talking into spy earpieces. Roof snipers, the whole nine yards.

“He's there,” said Amanda, pointing at a tall guy smoking a cigarette in the darkness of his front porch. “Yuck, smoking again.”

I shoved her hand down.

“No pointing,” I said. “They're here too.”

At least, I assumed it was
them
. A pair of guys parked a few car-lengths down the street in a boring beige sedan, one of them reading a newspaper just like I'd imagined, the other tipping back a huge Styrofoam cup of coffee. Amanda and I both sat rigid until we were down the block. When the beige sedan didn't pull out and start chasing us, we breathed a synchronized sigh of relief.

We drove through Ann Arbor, neither of us sure what the plan should be now. Amanda had gotten really quiet since catching a glimpse of Kyle, and stared out the window, watching the tree-lined Michigan streets glide by.

I cleared my throat. “So, I'm sorry that was a bust.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, looking at me.

“Well, we can't exactly go see your brother now. They're watching him. Those government dudes probably have his phone tapped, his email hacked. There's some total Patriot Act shit going on, I bet.”

Amanda shook her head in denial. “We have to find a way to talk to him. He can help us, I know it.”

“Seriously? We met other
real-life
zombies, Amanda. And what did we learn? To stay calm and eat furry things. Do you really think your brother will know more than Grace and Summer did? Just because he listens to some radio show?”

Maybe all that came out a little harsher than I'd intended; it was late and I was feeling on edge. I steeled myself for a gust of icy boss-lady Amanda, but she just made a little snuffing sound and looked down at her lap.

“You're right,” she said quietly. “The thing is, it's more than me just thinking he can help us. It's . . . If you had a chance to see your family, to set the record straight, wouldn't you want to take it? Seeing him back there . . . I mean, what must he be thinking? I can't stand it.”

I thought about that. Obviously, I missed my parents; I even missed dumb-ass Kelly, and I would've killed to see them . . . which I realize is maybe not a figure of speech I should use casually. It wasn't the family part of what Amanda said that stuck in my head, though. It was the bit about setting the record straight.

Some government goon squad wanted to shoot at us, keep us a secret, and stalk our families, and we're just supposed to take that?

“People should know about us,” I said, thinking out loud. “People should know about zombies. You're right! They shouldn't be allowed to just keep us secret.”

“Exactly.”

“He could get the word out,” I went on. “Tell all his conspiracy buddies to, like, sound the cover-up alarm.”

Amanda nodded. “Yup. It'd be like a dream come true for him. His big moment.
Finally
, I do something nice for my big brother.”

“Okay, so now we just need to get to him. That's not going to be easy.”

Amanda looked over at me. She looked rejuvenated, excited even. We were doing something besides running. We were being proactive! I wished really hard some Rage Against The Machine would come on the radio.

“I have an idea,” she said.

 

Half an hour later we were huddled around a computer at an all-night internet café in downtown Ann Arbor. The bored dude at the counter barely looked up from his textbook as we paid for an hour of internet. Besides us, the only customers were two guys engrossed in a marathon session of
World of Warcraft
, and a college girl typing up a paper while randomly breaking into panicked sobs. Basically, no one in there was paying us any attention.

Amanda logged on to a message board called The Crop Circle. It was a whole online community for people who were into alien shit. There were different sub-forums for different kinds of aliens: Grays; Pod People; Lizard Invaders who were trying to take over the government.

Amanda's username was UFOphelia.

“Uh, why are you a member of this?” I asked as she scanned the screen.

“I made this account to screw with Kyle,” Amanda admitted. “I pretended that I was an open-minded Swedish supermodel that was really into some of the theories he was posting about our extraterrestrial visitors.”

“That's really mean,” I said. “Great joke, but totally mean.”

“Yeah, he wouldn't talk to me for, like, a month,” said Amanda. “Anyway, if those government jerks are checking his phone and email, this is our best way to contact him. It'll look like just a message from one of his weirdo conspiracy friends, but Kyle will know the truth.”

Amanda opened up a direct message to Kyle's username, BelieverNJ. She typed in a one-line message:
LUNCH TOMORROW IN STUDENT UNION? 2 P.M.

“Good?” she asked, mouse hovering over the
SEND
button.

“If by good you mean vague and ominous, then yes. Are we seriously going to the student union, though?”

“We want someplace public, right? I don't think they'll shoot us in public. That'd be bad for their whole secrecy thing.”

I thought about the guy with the shotgun that nearly killed us in New Jersey, even in front of a whole bunch of bystanders. I wasn't so sure.

“Also,” continued Amanda, “we want someplace it's normal for him to go so it doesn't look suspicious. And we can come up with disguises.”

“Disguises,” I repeated. “Cool.”

Of course, the disguises I pictured only would've made us stand out more. Me in a badass trench coat with the collar flipped up, a steaming manhole cover behind me for added coolness, and Amanda dressed in formfitting black leather—because inconspicuous leather is a thing—like a blonde version of the Black Widow.

Amanda was watching my face. “Whatever disguises you're thinking of, I veto.”

She hit
SEND
on the direct message. Part of me—the increasingly paranoid part—expected a helicopter to suddenly appear outside, bathing the street in a spotlight as government spooks surrounded the building. Of course, nothing actually happened. The only sound was the furious typing of the other night-owl net junkies.

Amanda started to stand up. “Ready?”

“Hold on,” I said, sliding over to take control of the mouse. “While we're here, we might as well research.”

“This board is for alien lovers. Zombies aren't aliens.”

I navigated over to the
SEARCH
button and typed in
ZOMBIE
,
CURE
, and
IOWA
.

“Worth a shot anyway,” I said, glancing over at Amanda. She nodded, but stifled a yawn. “Isn't it all basically the same in the end?”

I resisted the urge to say “I told you so” when a post came up. It was dated three weeks ago from a user named Scully88. It read:

 

Keep hearing rumors that Iowa is completely closed down. No way in and no way out. Rumor is it's because of a quarantine. I don't want to throw around the z-word but . . . can you say zombie outbreak? I'm in Denver and am thinking of driving up. Anyone else made the trip? Is it a hoax? Or something boring like small pox?

 

The thread was closed after only one response. It came from a moderator with the user name LordDM00:

 

Rumors are true!

If you're bold of spirit and hungry for a paradigm shift, we've got the cure for what ails you. Take the drive up!

—The Lord of Des Moines

PS: Here's a fascinating message from one of our honored guests! ;-)

 

There was a video embedded at the bottom of the post. I looked over at Amanda. “Should we?”

“It's probably just that Rick Roll guy,” she said skeptically, but gestured that I should play it.

I turned the volume way down on the computer. We both leaned in toward the speakers, our heads close together as I pressed
PLAY
.

The video wasn't much to look at, grainy and shaky even for home-video standards. It took place in a dark room, maybe a basement, an eerie green glow lighting the shot from the edges. I couldn't make out anything else about the room because pretty much the entire frame was filled with the craggy face of a silver-haired old man. He was probably in his late fifties and had that haunted look of a dude that's seen some heavy stuff.

“This is the Grandfather,” the silver-haired oldster introduced himself, his voice hard to hear over the weird hydraulic sounds behind him, “and this may be my last transmission. I remain stranded in Des Moines with no possibility of escape. If this is truly the end, there are two things you must know: First, the undead of Iowa grow bold and restless. It won't be long until they do something . . . unfortunate. Second, and more important, my work is finally completed. I have done what you said was impossible, Alastaire.