A Mad Zombie Party

Ali again: Question. If the zombie apocalypse happens in Vegas, will it stay in Vegas???

Ali yet again: If Chuck Norris gets bitten by a zombie, will he turn in2 a zombie—or will the zombie turns in2 Chuck Norris??

There’s even a text from Derek, who moved to Oklahoma to train and lead another crew.

Consider this an eternal invite 2 come C me. Miss U, man

They want to help me because they love me. When will they accept it’s already too late? I’m far too damaged to be repaired.

I ignore the texts and glance at the time. It’s a few minutes past midnight, and I’ve already had one shot of whiskey too many. If one is the new word for four. Whatever. I don’t want to be here anymore. I want to be in bed, pretending.

Who’s the unlucky girl tonight? I spot a possibility on the dance floor. She’s twentysomething with long dark hair. Are her eyes green? Doesn’t matter, I suppose. When I close my eyes, they’ll be any color I want them to be.

I finish off my newest shot and stand, already drowning in a tidal wave of guilt and shame. I shouldn’t be doing this. I’ll regret it tomorrow. But I’m in desperate need of blackout bliss, and this is the only way to get it.

I move toward the random only to stop halfway, my heart shuddering inside my chest. I think I see... Kat? My Kat? Her gaze meets mine, and she offers me a tremulous smile. I know that smile. I know all her smiles. The good, the bad and the oh, so sad.

I’m paralyzed as I drink in every detail. The sable shine of her hair. The beauty of her hazel eyes. The delicacy of her features. The wonder of her curves. The pale skin I’ve caressed and kissed so many times, the texture and heat are imprinted on my soul.

It’s really her.

I’m drunker than I realized and confusing a memory with reality, or maybe I’m straight-up hallucinating. I don’t care which. I’ll take her however I can get her. I’m across the room in seconds. Just before I reach her, she turns and glides away. I give chase. There’s no way I’ll allow her to escape me, whatever she is. I’ll die first.

She pauses at the back exit and glances my way, even waves me over. I’ll go anywhere she leads, but—she’s gone a second later, vanished in a puff of light.

In a panic, I shoulder my way outside. A cool night breeze greets me, tinged with unsavory odors: old food, urine and vomit. A streetlamp illuminates the alley, revealing a row of Dumpsters and a mouse scurrying between them. Bits of shredded paper float through the air like snow.

Kat died soon after a snowstorm.

Can’t lose her again. “Kat,” I shout, desperate now. A few feet away, a black bird takes flight. “Kat!”

“Dude. I prefer your indoor voice. Let’s tone it down a notch—or twelve.”

Her voice is soft and comes from directly behind me. I swing around, every muscle in my body knotting with anticipation...but there she is. The love of my life.

Suddenly I feel as though an elephant is sitting on top of my chest. I’m struggling to breathe. I’m trembling. I want her to be real. I want her to tell me she faked her death, just to see how many people would show up at her funeral—I put the “fun” in funeral, Frosty. But she remains quiet, and I reach out.

She’s stoic as she awaits contact. Then—

My fingers ghost through the tendrils of her hair, and I unleash a stream of profanity.

“Wow,” she says with a grin. “I’m not sure some of those things are anatomically possible.”

Her burst of humor calms me.

She’s wearing what she died in, a white shirt and a pair of my boxers, looking adorable and beautiful at once. She’s no longer littered with wounds caused by falling debris as the Ankhs’ house crumbled on top of her, or the gunshots she took to the chest; she’s injury-free and radiant with health.

She’s everything my life has been missing.

“You’re here,” I say, awed to the core. “You’re really here.”

“Yep. But you, Frosty, are an idiot.”

I smile. My first since her death. “Even your hallucination is mouthy. I like it.”

“I’m not a hallucination, dummy. I’m a witness, and—get ready to be humbled by my greatness—I’ve come to help you.” She fist-pumps the sky. “Super Kat to the rescue!”

Now I frown. My millionth since her death. I’ve never seen a witness, but Ali and Cole have, so I know it’s possible. But my Kat has been gone for four months, and she never would have stayed away from me so long if she could get to me. Not on purpose, at least. So...maybe she is a witness, but maybe she isn’t. Even my fractured mind would demand a logical explanation for the presence of a hallucination.

I still don’t care. She’s here, she’s with me and that’s all that matters.

“You want to help me,” I say, the words nothing but gravel. “You stay with me. Don’t leave my side.”

“Tsk-tsk. Thinking only about yourself.” She walks around me, just as she used to do, pretending to be a predator who has selected the evening’s prey. An action she learned from me. “I know you’ve had trouble parting with me. Who wouldn’t? I’m amazing! But du-u-ude. I didn’t expect a total meltdown. You used to dine on prime filet and now you’re nomming on old cuts of mystery meat.”

A very Kat way of mentioning my parade of girls. I bow my head, shamed by my behavior. A thousand apologies will not be enough. “I’m sorry, kitten. I’m so sorry. You were gone... I think I tried to punish us both. But I hate what I’ve—”

She holds up her hand to silence me. “Enough. I don’t want to hear your excuses. You’re ruining your life, and that is not acceptable to me.”

“Are you kidding? Ruining my life? Kitten, without you I have no life.” The words explode from me with more force than I intend. “I would rather cut off my left nut than yell at you. I’m sorry,” I repeat. “I shouldn’t have raised my voice.”

“Well, you are not forgiven!” She anchors her hands on her hips. “Since I’ve been living up there—” she hikes her thumb toward the sky “—I’ve had the opportunity to watch you behind the scenes. And guess what? You’ve turned Beefcake TV into Bama’s Crappiest Videos. Starting today, you’re going out there and doing good deeds.”

For her? Anything. “What do you consider a good deed?”

“To begin, you’re going to help your friends by participating in the zombie-human war. And you’re going to do it with a smile!” She stomps her foot. “Do you hear me?”

“Yes. Help friends. Fight. Smile. If I do these things, you’ll stay with me?”

She closes her eyes for a moment, sighs. “And I told the council I had this in the bag. Bad Kat. Bad!”

“Council?” If she’s a figment of my shattered imagination, shouldn’t I have some sort of control over her? Shouldn’t her logic match my own, considering it’s, well, mine? Clearly, I have no control over this girl, and I definitely have no idea what she’s talking about.

It suddenly hits me with the force of a baseball bat. She is a witness, real though not corporeal, and she is here.

Joy floods me. “Never mind.” I stalk forward.

She backs into the brick wall. A wall I help douse in Blood Lines once every week, making it solid to spirits. That way, zombies can’t ghost inside the building.

When she’s almost within reach, I push my spirit out of my body, an action that requires faith—the spiritual power source for all slayers, just like food is a power source for our outer shell—believing I can do it before I actually do it.

Now, without my flesh to act as insulation, the air seems a thousand degrees colder. I endure because spirits can be touched only by other spirits, and I want to touch Kat with every fiber of my being. But the second I stretch out my arm, she jumps to the side to avoid contact.

“Hold on there, grabby.” She gives a shake of her head, dark hair dancing over her shoulders. “I haven’t always followed the rules—or ever followed the rules—but all that’s behind me. You have no idea what I had to do to get here, or what will happen if I mess up, and there’s no time to explain. Not during this visit. Just know that one touch of your spirit to mine will ensure I’m never allowed back.”

My fists clench and unclench as I return to my body. We can’t touch, fine. We won’t touch.

However I can get her, I remind myself.

Her expression gentles. “I’m your past, Frosty, and for now, I’m your present. But you need to come to grips with the fact that I will never be part of your future.”

“You are my past, present and future, kitten.” I’ll never come to grips with anything else.

“Frosty—”

“Kat.” I flatten my hands at her temples. “Why am I just now seeing you? Why did you stay away so long?”

Her gaze remains on me, but for several heartbeats of time, I’m certain she’s no longer seeing me. Her attention is far away, somewhere I’ve never been. Somewhere I can’t go. “Like I said, there’s no time to get into the nuts and bolts during this visit.”

“But you will visit me again?”

She gives a sharp incline of her head. “For the next few months, you’ll be the lucky recipient of one visit a day, every day.”

That’s not good enough. “I won’t be satisfied until you’re surgically attached to my side.”

She rolls her eyes. “This isn’t a negotiation, and you didn’t let me finish. I will visit you once every day...as long as you’ve done something productive for our cause.”

I arch a brow. “You’re bribing me?”

“Oh, good. You understand.” She beams at me, making my chest ache. “And no, tonight wasn’t a bonus. You still have to earn the privilege.”

That’s my Kat, always determined to get her way. It’s one of the thousand things I love about her. She takes what she wants when she wants it, damn the consequences.

I wish I could kiss her, but if touching her means losing her, I’ll keep my hands—and my mouth—to myself. “Get ready to see a whole lot more of me, kitten. I’ll do anything to spend time with you.”

“Duh. I’m so cake I’m the cake.” Her image begins to fade, and I shake my head violently.

“Kat!”

“Listen, Frosty, I’m almost out of time and I haven’t told you what you need to do. It’s imperative—”

“No. You stay with me. Do you hear me? We’re not done.”

Her head whips to the side as if she hears a noise I do not, and her eyes widen. I follow the line of her gaze...and see a ghostly image of Ali’s younger sister, Emma, whose mouth is moving. Still I hear nothing.

“Crappity crap crap. It’s worse than we thought,” Kat says as she faces me again. “She’s alone, and they’re surrounding her. She desperately needs your help, Frosty. You have to go to her.”

“Who? Emma?”

“No, just—”

“Who?” I demand again.

“It shouldn’t matter who she is,” Kat says, and she’s peering up at me with a wealth of concern and dread. “She’s a human being and she needs help, so strap on your big-girl panties, get to Shady Elms and freaking help her! It’s almost too late.” A moment later, Kat is gone.

Cursing, I slam my fist into the wall. My knuckles scream in protest, but okay. All right. My girl is gone, but she won’t stay gone. Not this time. She’ll be back. I just have to help the mysterious “her.”

Shady Elms is roughly ten minutes away. Five if I break speed records. I race to my truck, only to stop once I’m behind the wheel. I’ve been drinking. There’s no way in hell driving will end well. Fine. I arm up with the weapons stored in the vehicle and shed my body, leaving it in the driver’s seat.

As I run at a speed no human can ever achieve, pedestrians amble along the sidewalk and unwittingly move into my path. I’m forced to plow through them or spin around them. I spin, otherwise my spirit would pass through their bodies and hit their spirits, and that wouldn’t do anyone any good. Dizziness plays chicken with my mind and nausea knocks on the door of my stomach, but I refuse to slow. The row of buildings eventually gives way to a long stretch of road, paved and smooth. I’m on constant alert for the telltale signs of the undead—grunts carried on the wind, the fetid stench of rot and the crimson glow of hunger in eyes that are windows to evil.

When the edge of the cemetery comes into view, I veer off into a patch of trees. As I pass a towering oak, a chorus of grunts assaults my ears. Then a feminine shout of frustration sounds and I pick up the pace. I leap over tombstones and shoot around a mausoleum...until finally I spot the horde. At least twenty zombies have zeroed in on a single meal while countless others writhe on the ground, cut up like pieces of old lunch meat.

The mysterious “her” is a slayer. Good. She can help me help her.

I palm my semiautomatics and push through the masses, putting a bullet in every rotting brain that moves into my way. Not a fix-all, but at least the enemy will be slowed down, impact sending the bodies to the ground.

As the creatures catch my scent, they face me. I whirl the guns in my hands to grip the barrels. With a press of my thumb against a hidden button, serrated axes pop out at the end of each handle. I start hacking, my arms remaining in a constant sate of motion. Rotting flesh tears and limbs detach.

Because spirits are not bound to the same physical laws as bodies, I’m able to fight at a speed the hunger-fogged zombies cannot track. By the time a creature reaches for me, I’ve already removed its hand...followed by its head. As more and more walking corpses are cut into parts, a sea of goo and gore spreads over the ground. But at least a path opens up, granting me a good look at the slayer’s backside. She’s a blonde.

She’s fluidly graceful, fighting with a ferocity and viciousness I admire, her short swords extensions of her arms as she slices and dices with perfect precision. Her body is lithe, displayed to perfection in pink camo, and I smile despite the situation. Kat might have worn something similar, had she been a slayer.

For once, I can think about my girl without praying I die, too.

The blonde takes down three Zs with a single swing but doesn’t see the last two getting to their feet...now sneaking up behind her. I whirl my guns and squeeze off two quick shots, the boom of gunfire echoing through the night, the creatures flying backward. I race forward, there when the two hit the ground, slamming my axes into their mouths to separate their jaws. They won’t be biting me or anyone else ever again.

Panting, covered in sweat and goo, I turn toward the girl. Our gazes meet—and suddenly I’m struck dumb. She must be, too. Her mouth drops open.

A shoulder-length cap of white-blond hair frames a face more delicate than a cameo, despite the silver hoops in her jet-black eyebrows. Her eyes are a dark golden brown, like honey, her bronzed skin tattooed heavily in black and white. She’s beautiful in a punk-rock Barbie kind of way. I’ve always thought so.

When we lived in the same twenty-thousand-square-foot mansion for several months, we never had a conversation; I never had time for her, never paid her more than a passing, admiring glance, my sights always on Kat or a mission, very little else worthy of my time. But there’s no doubt I’m standing before Camilla Marks. Milla to her friends.

I am not her friend.

She is River’s sister, and she was once second-in-command to a group of slayers who haven’t always seen eye-to-eye with Cole and me. She’s the one who betrayed her own crew, and mine, destroying an entire security system so that Anima could get to Ali, all in the name of saving her brother— offering Ali’s life in exchange for River’s.

She’s the bitch responsible for Kat’s death.

I understand the need to protect your family, but I will never be okay with putting innocents at risk to do it. And okay, yeah, that’s a lie. I would have done anything, betrayed anyone, to save Kat. That doesn’t mean I’ll ever forgive this girl.

There’s no way in hell Kat would have sent me to save Camilla Marks. My kitten must not have known who needed aid. She made a mistake. One I can rectify.

“Thank you.” Camilla wipes at the sweat on her brow, and I notice the word Betrayal scripted in bold black letters across her wrist. “You saved my life.”

“Keep your thanks. I don’t want it.” My tone is pure grit and menace. I’m close to snapping, and there’s no telling what I’ll do if that happens. I’ve never hated anyone more than I hate her—not even myself. “And why are you wearing pink camo? You’re not trying to hide in Candy Land.”

She blinks at me, though she doesn’t appear surprised by my malevolence. “I guess you remember me.”

“I’m fighting a killing rage right now, so, yeah, I remember.” I want to shout, You’re a traitor and the scum of the earth, but I know whatever is spoken in this spirit realm comes true in the natural realm, always and forever, as long as it’s believed when it’s said. I believe she’s a traitor and scum, but actually voicing the accusations will give power to them, perhaps making her evil side even stronger.

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 dýnamis 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.”