A Mad Zombie Party

Sometimes it’s best to keep an opinion to myself.
She flinches but says, “I’m not taking back my thanks.”
The metallic twang of copper coats my tongue, and I realize I’ve bitten it. I spit blood at her feet. “Have you spoken to a witness? Kat Parker? You remember Kat, don’t you? My Kat.” What I really want to know: did Camilla lie to her? Convince my girl to aid the enemy? “The innocent you helped murder in cold blood.”
Another flinch before she lifts her chin. “Of course I remember her, but no, I haven’t spoken to her.”
“You’re lying,” I snarl. She has to be lying.
A zombie head rolls toward me, teeth snapping, and I punt the thing in the nose, sending it soaring like a soccer ball over a hill littered with tombstones. One point, Frosty.
“I’m not.” Camilla shakes her head for emphasis and rubs at her wrist. The one with the tattoo. “Trust me, I’ve learned my lesson about betraying other slayers.”
I don’t believe her, but I know I’m not doing this. I’m not having a conversation with her. I turn away and stride out of the cemetery, saying to the sky, “I’ve done my good deed for the day. I let Camilla Marks live. I expect to see you tomorrow, Kat. Or else.”
  
  
I’m not a crier. When you’ve watched multiple friends die in the most horrendous ways, your ability to hurt is often desensitized and your emotions numbed. And when you’ve had to stitch your own wounds and set your own broken bones, your threshold for pain skyrockets. But tonight, as I go through the sea of zombie parts, using dynamis to ash the evil—light always chases darkness away—a single tear slicks down my cheek.
That boy... Frosty. I remember every interaction I’ve ever had with him. How could I not? He’s one of the most beautiful males on the planet. He steps into a room and all eyes gravitate to him, mine included. Girls want to bang him, and boys want to be him.
He’s deliciously tall with the muscle mass of a professional football player, and the bad-boy attitude to match—snarky, maddening, yet somehow charming. He’s strength personified and as lethal as the guns he carries.
So many slayers climb into a boxing ring to learn new tricks or even to play with their friends. He climbs in, and it’s clear there’s only one thing on his mind: delivering pain.
Why did he walk away from me, when he craves vengeance?
The way he stood before me, proud and furious, covered in battle grime, his hair pale but several shades darker than mine, the strands plastered to his cheeks, his hands twitching as he considered reaching for his weapons...yeah, he wanted to take me down. His eyes, navy blue, piercing and ice-cold—the kind of eyes you’d see on a serial killer as he explains how he’s going to hack up your body and store the parts in his fridge—had stared at my heart, as if willing it to stop beating. And yet, I couldn’t help remembering other times, when he looked at his girlfriend, Kat, the ice melting, his irises burning hotter than flames.
No one has ever looked at me that way. As if I’m worth something. Worth everything. As if I’m more precious than the sun, moon and stars. As if I’m a prize beyond value. I can’t imagine anyone doing so now. Or ever. Not after the things I’ve done.
And that’s okay. I sowed death, and now I’m reaping a harvest of it.
I glance at my newest tattoo. Betrayal. A permanent reminder of the worst thing I can do to my loved ones. The price is too high. I sigh and get back to work. By the time I finish ashing Z-parts, the civilians who never realized a war was raging around them are gone and I’m utterly exhausted.
I trudge to my body and, with a single touch, join my spirit to my body. It’s as easy as slipping a hand into a glove. A few scratches are bleeding on my arms and there are bruises on my legs, but other than that I’m injury-free. All thanks to Frosty, who hates me with the passion of a thousand suns. Without him, I probably would have died tonight.
Probably, ha! There’d been too many zombies to track on my own.
I trudge forward, but stop just outside the cemetery. There are piles of ash all around me. Wonderful. Dead zombies. Except, I didn’t kill any undead in this location. So...someone else did it. Frosty, on his way out? Or maybe someone who’d come with him? I spin, but find no footprints other than my own. Not many slayers think to cover their spiritual tracks. Why bother?
Whatever. I’m too tired to care. I need a shower and a few thousand hours of sleep.
I’m staying at a run-down motel a few miles down the road. It’s all I can afford. When I was kicked out of the home I shared with River just outside of Birmingham, I had nothing but the clothes on my back, but I’d been socking wads of cash away for years. Just in case. A girl has to be prepared for anything. I have only fourteen hundred and thirty-seven dollars left, and I have to make it last. I can’t stay up all night fighting zombies if I’m grinding away at a nine-to-five.
As I trudge up and down hills, sticking to main roads, the little hairs on the back of my neck rise again. I bend down as if I need to tie my shoe, and push my spirit out of my body to look at what’s happening behind me without an onlooker knowing. But there’s no sign of a tail. No moving shadows or snapping limbs. No click of a gun being cocked. No grunts or groans.
Relieved, I return to my body and motor on. Finally I reach the motel. In the parking lot, there’s a guy leaning against a beat-up Nova, puffing on the end of a cancer stick. The night is nothing but a sheet of black, and there are no streetlamps nearby, so I can’t make out his features, but I can tell he’s roughly the same size as my brother.
My heart skips a beat. “River?”
“Excuse me?” A voice I don’t recognize.
Disappointment is overwhelming. “Never mind.” I reach my door and check to make sure the clear tape I placed along the frame is still intact. A split means someone entered my room while I was gone, despite the Do Not Disturb sign on the knob.
Years of being chased by Anima have made me paranoid.
But the tape hasn’t been disturbed, and I’m able to enter without fear. After rigging my own special lock on the door, as well as placing bells over the top to wake me if someone manages to bypass my security measures, I shower off the gunk and sweat, clean the scratches on my arms with antiseptic and dress in a white T-shirt and a pair of shorts.
The place doesn’t have a kitchenette or a microwave, so I slap peanut butter on two pieces of bread and call it good. Quick and easy with a decent amount of protein. Welcome to my breakfast, lunch and dinner. I think I’m single-handedly keeping Peter Pan in business.
I’ve consumed half the sandwich by the time I make it to the bed and sit. My back and feet ache like freaking crazy.
“For a villain, your evil lair sure does suck donkey balls.”
The voice startles me. I’m on my feet in a blink, the precious sandwich on the floor and a 9 mm in my hand. I’ve stashed weapons all over the room to ensure one is near wherever I happen to be.
A short brunette stands in front of the door. The closed door. Overhead, the bells are silent. I frown. I...know her. She’s the girlfriend. Frosty’s girlfriend, Kat Parker. But she’s...she’s dead. I secretly attended her funeral—glimpsed the body in the casket—and cursed myself for a past I will never be able to change.
I shouldn’t be seeing her here and now.
Is she my tail? The reason the hairs on my neck reacted? No, no, she couldn’t be. Otherwise I would’ve had a similar reaction before she spoke. And what the hell am I doing? I can’t afford to be lost in my head right now.