Zombie Blondes (11 page)

“Um . . . I was just wondering if you knew what was wrong with Diana?” I ask.

“Who?” she asks, clearly wanting me to leave her alone with the papers she bleeds with red pen to check off correct
answers and marking the wrong ones by crossing them out.

“Diana,” I say louder, making sure I don’t mumble this time. But I say it a little too fast and a little too snobbish gauging by the way Ms. Earle squints at me. “She wasn’t in class today,” I add in a nicer voice because I don’t want her telling me she doesn’t know simply because she doesn’t like my attitude. I even force myself to smile.

Ms. Earle sighs. She opens her attendance book and scrolls through the names with her crowlike finger. Reads through it once and then a second time and I find it strange that she has to do that after the familiar way she yelled at Diana in the hall only yesterday. Then again, teachers do have six or seven classes a day and I’m sure they can’t keep all the names straight.

Her finger finally stops on a name scribbled over with black ink.

“Oh, Diana,” she says with a knowing smile, “she’s not with us anymore.”

“What does that mean?” I ask. Memories of death chants and death threats humming in my ears. Visions of razor-sharp teeth tearing at flesh imprinted on the inside of my eyelids and I start biting my nails out of habit.

Ms. Earle doesn’t relay anything as sinister as my thoughts, though.

“Transferred? Moved? I can’t keep up,” she says with a wave of her hand.

The sound of so many
FOR SALE
signs blowing in the wind echoes through my mind and I begin to understand. Diana’s gone like so many others in so many empty houses that stare out onto the streets of this town where moving is
contagious. Nearly epidemic and I suppose that’s why no one minds. No one gives a second thought to the departed.

“Okay, thanks,” I say and Ms. Earle gives me a dismissive grin before going back to grading tests and takes no notice of me as I leave.

Throughout the rest of my classes, I can’t stop thinking about it, though. Why wouldn’t Diana mention yesterday that she was taking off? I even got up the courage to ask one of the girls I’d seen her talk to, asking if she knew anything about it. The girl just shrugged. And when I tried to find out more by asking her more questions, she ignored me. Gave me a look as if I was asking about secrets I had no business knowing and walked away.

Maybe I should forget about it.

Maybe that’s the way things go here.

Or maybe Diana’s dad is like mine and she came home to find a car packed up and ready to hit the road. I know I’ve left schools without telling anyone before. But somehow, it feels different. Everything in Maplecrest feels different.

The air is cold on my skin as I run into the world after the
last bell rings. There’s ice in my lungs as I breathe and I guess winter comes early in this part of the hills. Earlier than I’m used to. Earlier than my thin coat is prepared for as I follow the cracks in the sidewalk toward nowhere.

Not exactly nowhere. I know where I’m going, just don’t know where it is.

I’ve decided to go by Diana’s house. Pass by and see if I can figure anything out. Too many strange things have been happening for me not to. Too many coincidences that keep coming back to me. I need to see for myself that it’s all in my imagination. Too many zombie stories and too little sleep. If I can just see her, I’ll know I’m being stupid. Even if I can only see a moving truck or her shadow through the window. Anything so that I can quiet the part
of me that wants to listen to Lukas’s theory about brutal massacres and killings and the possibility that I got her in trouble by mentioning her name yesterday. If I don’t, I know exactly what nightmare will be waiting in my room when I get home.

Also, it would be nice to know if she still wants to be my friend even if I’m not who she wants me to be. I’d hate it if she doesn’t. I’d like to have one friend in this town who isn’t completely psycho.

I follow the power lines into the center of town. Shade covers the storefronts as the sun stays hidden behind a gray sky. The lights inside switch on, dancing with one another across Main Street, where the wind blows colder between the buildings built closer together in this one section of town. Closer together but still lonely. Only the sound of my footsteps to break up the tranquility as I walk toward the pharmacy.

The door chimes as I open it. The cold air from outside collides with the heated air forced through the vent above my head and the cashier watches as I walk over to the bulletin board. The phone directory for the town is there on a little table and I pick it up, flip through the white pages, reading the name ranges printed across the top until I get to the right page and find Diana’s.

I tear out a corner from a page in my notebook and copy the address, 16 Timbercrest Drive. It’s two streets over from mine heading toward the highway. I remember passing it when my dad and I were looking for Walnut Cove on our first drive through town. I close the phone book and put it back where I found it under the constant suspicion of the
bug-eyed lady behind the counter. I escape back into the smell of pine trees and burning firewood and try not to look at the cashier’s eyes as they follow me down the street from the store’s window.

The bare trees stick out against the sky like skeletons when I turn onto Timbercrest Drive. Their branches waving like a forest of dead bones and the clouds gather thicker and darker like being caught in a ghost story. It makes me shiver and I pull my arms closer to my body to keep the cold from getting in. I’m not too far now. The house numbers counting up by twos, even numbers on one side and odd numbers on the other.
FOR SALE
signs as frequent as the withered flower gardens, just like the street I live on.

I keep my head down as I walk, afraid to look up. Afraid there’s no moving truck in the driveway of the eighth house on the even side. Watching my feet to keep from stepping on the cracks. Crossing my fingers inside my pockets, too, because I’m hoping for some kind of luck to swoop in like a fog that will erase the eeriness of this town when it lifts.

I pinch my skin through the fabric of my coat.

Pinch it harder when I reach her house but it doesn’t feel like anything because when I finally bring myself to look, there’s nothing there. Only a powder blue house roughly the same size and shape as the brown one I live in.

No cars.

No trucks.

No shadows moving behind closed windows.

The only difference between her house and the other abandoned homes is that her lawn has been kept neat. The leaves have been raked into several little piles waiting to be
scooped up and tossed into the woods. The weeds have been pulled from the cracks in the walkway. The hedges have all been trimmed. Even the gardens have a fresh layer of mulch for the winter and I wonder why they would bother with all that if they were just going to move.

That’s when I notice there’s another difference, too.

No
FOR SALE
sign hammered into the grass.

I try to tell myself as many rational explanations as I can think up. Like maybe they’re on vacation. Maybe a family member died and they had to drive halfway across the country to take care of funeral arrangements. A rich family member, and that would mean they wouldn’t need to come back. Or it could be that Ms. Earle was mistaken. I know I haven’t known her long, but it definitely seems like she could have a wire or two short-circuiting in her brain. Her eyelids are always twitching and everything, and maybe she’s just getting senile.

But, somehow, I know that’s not the case. I can feel it. I just know it’s something else. Not sure how but I know. The same way I can feel when it’s going to snow or when a storm is coming. I have that feeling as I stare at Diana’s house and a nagging ache deep in the bottom of my stomach tells me to take a closer look.

My heart races as I make my way up the driveway. The wind picks up, rustles through the branches like the sound of cars speeding by on the highway, as pine needles rain down like matchsticks. A chill runs through me at the thought of peeking in the window and finding rotting corpses with the flesh chewed down to the bone.

I take a deep breath and count to three.

“Stop scaring yourself, Hannah,” I whisper as I step onto the front porch.

The stale scent of vanilla perfume lingers in the air like the kind Diana and every other girl in our school wears. Cheap pharmacy perfume that sticks around for days and I try not to pay attention to it as I knock on the door and listen to the silence that follows. I knock harder the next time, more determined and deliberate as if I can summon them to appear simply by applying more force when I strike my hand against the door.

Still no answer and I step off the porch and decide to look in the windows.

A patch of shrubs blocks the windows in the front of the house. I walk around to the side and find a bedroom window. The first floor is raised slightly because the basement is the kind that’s only half sunken and I have to stretch to see anything. Standing on my toes, I reach up and grab hold of the ledge. My breath fogs up the glass immediately and I wipe it away. It doesn’t make much of a difference. The window is too high. From my angle the only thing I see is the ceiling, so I let go. Trudge through the yard around to the back of the house where there’s a sliding glass door that leads from the kitchen. I figure from there I’ll be able to see everything.

Even before I get up close to it, I can see the house isn’t empty. I see a kitchen table with chairs arranged around it and place mats set out for a meal. I move closer and can see a glass resting on it, too, half full with water and a crumpled napkin beside it. The counter behind it still littered with
appliances and dishes. And in the shadows I can make out the outline of a sofa in the living room off to the side and I know for certain that if they’re moving, they haven’t moved yet.

I hold my hands up to the side of my face and press my forehead against the door. The glare disappears and the inside of the house comes into focus like a television set. Everything is laid out perfectly. Everything where it’s supposed to be until I look more closely.

A broken glass on the floor by the kitchen sink.

A chair turned over in the living room.

My hands start to tremble as I discover the signs of a struggle. I’ve seen enough crime shows to know that something happened. Something terrible. The nagging feeling inside me turns to panic at the thought of so many horrible possibilities. Maybe it’s just like Lukas said. Maybe no one really moves away. Maybe the Death Squad goes from house to house murdering those who they don’t want around anymore.

I try to take a deep breath but each one comes out quick and frightened. What if they’re still inside? What if someone sees me? I try to run but my legs are shaking and paralyzed.

Something flickers in the reflection off the glass. My eyes follow it like a shooting star and I see a shadow looming behind me. A person. A man. And I try to scream but his arm grabs me from behind. An arm around my waist like a rope tying me to a stake and I try to make a noise but it doesn’t sound like anything. Meek and mild like a mouse’s.

A nauseous sweat breaks out around my mouth as his
other palm holds my jaw tight.

His arms are strong like concrete and I feel lifeless as he drags me away from the door. Spins me around to face him and I find myself staring at a pair of eyes hidden by sunglasses the color of midnight. Eyes like the black holes of skeletons and smiling teeth the color of bleached bones. A badge pinned to his chest in the shape of a star that sparkles like a halo even on a cloudy day.

It’s okay. Calm
down,” the sheriff says over and over as I continue to scream into the palm of his hand. The salty taste of his skin on my tongue fades as I close my mouth. Breathing through my nose in short, fast bursts like a trapped animal, but slowly starting to return to normal as I realize who he is. The badge clipped to his shirt telling me everything I need to know.

Once he’s sure I’m relaxed, he takes his hand away from my face and releases his grip around my waist. I take a step away from him, my hands shaking as my heart pounds inside me, every tiny hair on my body standing on end.

If there’s one thing I don’t trust, it’s cops. Not after what they’ve done to my dad. It wasn’t fair how they shut him out for trying to do the right thing. Turned on him when he turned in some dirty cops he worked with. They’re as bad as the cliquey girls in school. Spreading rumors about him that follow us wherever we go, even into the smallest towns a million miles away from the city we used to live in. They’re always giving us a hard time and preventing my dad from doing the job he likes. Sometimes pestering us so
much that it’s the reason we move. Giving my dad tickets for things he didn’t do. Questioning him about crimes that never happened. Free to harass us because there’s no one to police them and so I never trust them.

Not ever.

I especially distrust one who would sneak up on a girl and scare her half to death like the one standing in front of me with a creepy smile and invisible eyes.

He cocks his head to the side and folds his arms. His legs planted firmly in my path to keep me from running away as he stares at me. I look small and weak in his mirrored sunglasses. And I know that on the other side of those dark lenses I look like a potential criminal. A teenage misfit snooping where she doesn’t belong.

“Now, why don’t you tell me what you’re doing here,” he says. His voice is like a car grinding gears. A deep metallic sound like electronic thunder played through worn-out stereo speakers.

“I . . . I was just . . . ,” stuttering and growing smaller in his eyes as I put my hands up to my mouth to try and keep them from trembling. I swallow my nervousness as best I can and continue. “I was checking up on my friend,” managing to get it out without tripping over the syllables.

The sheriff scratches the stubble on his face, considering my story as his other hand comes to rest on his hip, inches away from his gun. “You knew the girl who lived here?” Questioning me like a suspect.