Zombies Don't Cry Read online

  Without asking for permission, Hazel yanks Stamp from the class. He goes willingly, not looking back. In their wake, I’m left to clean up the pieces, and now I’m no longer the Maddy Mrs. Witherspoon, or even the Art Chicks, knew. Busted, I slip from class, ignoring Mrs. Witherspoon’s protests and waving Ms. Haskins’ pad full of free hall passes in her face on my way out the door.

  I chase after Hazel, catching her as she rounds the C-wing corner headed for the commons. “Hazel!”

  She turns, whispers something to Stamp, and shoves him in the general direction of the student parking lot.

  “Stamp?” I whimper, but he only pauses, giving me those “it’s not my fault” eyes before turning and scampering away.

  Hazel turns and takes a battle stance, as if I might follow him and she has the right to stop me. I stop, take one step back. “Whoa,” I say soothingly, still a few yards from her. “Hazel, I just …I want to talk to you. This is …this is crazy.”

  She stands her ground, doesn’t move a muscle, and already I can see the gray pallor has her, the dark shadows seeming to deepen under her eyes even as she speaks. “What’s so crazy, Maddy?”

  But even as she waits for the answer, I know nothing I say is going to change what she’s become, what we’ve become.

  “This, Hazel. Can’t you see? This is crazy. You storming in here, dragging Stamp away like some cavewoman. This isn’t like you.”

  “That’s because I’m the new me, Maddy, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  Even as I’m mourning the death of our friendship, she seems almost …happy …about it. She’s smiling, and I know it’s not to look brave; her smile goes deep down to the heart of her, as if she’s glad we don’t have to be friends anymore.

  “Sure there is, Hazel. I’m still me, dead or alive. I’m still me. I can help you; Dane and Chloe can help you, the Elders, the Sentinels …somebody …can help you. You have to fight it, Hazel; fight it for a little while longer so we can get you some help.”

  “Fight what, Maddy? Why would I fight feeling this …good? For once in my life, I can be exactly who I want to be and nobody can stop me. Not even you.”

  At this, of all things, I laugh. Out loud. “When in the hell have you ever not done exactly what you wanted to, Hazel? I mean, you didn’t have to become a Zerker to get your own damn way. You’ve been getting your way since we met.”

  Now she takes a step forward, but not to fight; at least, not with her fists anyway. But then again, Hazel was always a warrior with words. “That’s what you think I’ve been doing all this time, Maddy? Getting my way? You think I’ve been doing this all for me? You think being friends with you has helped me? Bitch, please. You’ve been holding me back since day one. Why couldn’t we have moved onto a street with popular bitches? With cool chicks? You think I enjoy movie night with you every Saturday? You think I enjoy passing up invitations from prettier, more popular girls—and guys—to babysit your sorry ass every weekend? I’ve been doing you a favor, Maddy; but no more. Now it’s my time.”

  My lips quiver but, of course, no tears come. I take a step forward and she flinches, but I keep coming until we’re face-to-face, and I slap her with the open part of my hand. Hard; hard enough to where, if she were still alive, her jaw might crack. Instead, she flinches, and it’s my marble hand against her marble skin.

  “You take that back, Hazel. You take it all back, right now. I know you didn’t mean it; I know you’ve been a true friend. You couldn’t have been faking it all these years. Know how I know? ‘Cause you’re not that good an actress. This is just, just …some …disease making you say all this.”

  She doesn’t fight back, doesn’t rush me and tear my blouse or yank my hair or try to shove me in a freshman locker. She just rubs the place where I slapped her and says, “Bones was right; I really can’t feel anything.”

  It’s like her eyes are empty; like she’s already gone. Like nothing we’ve ever done together, talked about, laughed or cried about is still up there behind those empty yellow eyes. Like it’s all been erased for good. “I don’t understand how you can be this …brutal.” I whimper, hating myself for saying it, powerless to not say it.

  Hazel actually laughs; the sound is cruel to start with, but even crueler as it bounces off the floor and wall tiles until I’m in a pure vortex of hateful Hazel laughter. “Bones was right about you, too, Maddy. He said you were weak, and I thought he was wrong. But he was right; you are weak. And you had your shot at being a zombie first; now let me show you how it’s really done.”

  “That’s what you think this is, Hazel? A big competition? This is life and death, Hazel; this is forever. You don’t go through a Zerker phase and tap out when you’re done; you’re in it for life. And if you think I’m happy about being the first to die, Jesus, kid, you’ve got a lot to learn.”

  “Me?” she says, inching forward before backing away. “We’ll see who’s teaching who when it’s all said and done, Maddy.”

  And with that, she’s off, turning on her heels and scrambling away in jerky movements. Though I know she can no longer hear me, I shout, “Whom! It’s ‘We’ll see who’s teaching whom.’ You never were good in English. I’ve been carrying you for years.”

  In her wake, the halls—and my life—are empty.

  It’s like my own personal Armageddon or something.

  I head straight for my locker on hollow legs, planning on grabbing a few books for the weekend and …heading home, hiding out, and trying to forget the last two weeks ever happened. (Damn, has it only been two frickin’ weeks?)

  I key in my combination, open my locker, and out falls a shiny silver envelope. On the front is my name, my full name: Madison Emily Swift. It’s written in loopy, feminine script.

  For one split second my dead, nonbeating heart thrums to life. I think it’s from Hazel—a sorry note or some other heartfelt missive—but then I reason, How could she apologize in advance for something she just did?

  I open it and find these words:

  Dear Maddy,

  You are cordially invited to tonight’s Fall Formal. Please bring your two new friends, Dane and Chloe. We promise you won’t be disappointed. In fact, it coud be a night to die for.

  Eternally yours,

  Bones and Dahlia

  A boot squeak on the hall floor startles me, and when I turn from my open locker, I see Dane and Chloe waiting for me, shiny invitations in their hands, already open and read.

  “I guess the Truce is over,” I say.

  Dane looks like he just ate a pound of bad brains, then another, just to make sure. “You have no idea.”

  27

  Breaking & Tasering

  “DO I REALLY have to do this?” I ask half an hour later, pulling up in front of the Barracuda Bay Sheriff’s Office.

  “It’s the only way, Maddy,” says Dane, who’s riding shotgun in my tiny green Honda Civic.

  “But it’s my dad. What if somebody finds out they’re missing? He could lose his job.”

  “No one’s going to find out, Maddy,” Chloe says from the backseat. “They’re just Tasers; three stupid Tasers. It’s not like you’re breaking into the Pentagon and stealing government secrets or anything.”

  “I just don’t want my dad to get hurt. I’m done for. That’s fine; I get that. But he’s still alive. He still needs to eat and make a living and have a roof over his head.”

  “For now,” Chloe says.

  I whip around. “What does that mean?”

  Dane touches my shoulder and waits until I turn to face him. “Maddy, if we don’t do this, your dad’s going to get hurt in a way that can’t be reversed. Like Ms. Haskins; like …Hazel. If we don’t stop the Zerkers tonight, and stop them dead, this whole town could be infested by morning.”

  “Fine,” I say, getting out of the car and slamming the door for good measure.

  Inside the sheriff’s office, I smile demurely at a few of the folks I know from backyard barbecues or softball game
s or the annual Cobia County Employee Christmas Party, which Dad drags me to every year.

  I get a few odd looks before I remember none of these people have seen Goth Maddy yet. (Oh, the grief Dad will be getting in the break room after this little visit.) My backpack is snug on my arm, emptied of books and papers and folders to make room for the three police-issue Tasers Dane and Chloe want me to steal from the ammunition room.

  Dad’s office is across from it, but then again Dad’s office is also across from just about everything in the tiny building: the coffeemaker, the vending machine, the ladies’ room, the broom closet—you get the picture.

  Dad is surprised to see me but not too surprised. It’s a small town, and the police station isn’t too far away from school. I’ve been known to drop by once or twice a week with a to-go dinner when I know he’s working late or a box of donuts and thermos of coffee if he’s working early.

  “Maddy!” His eyes light up as he stands up from his desk chair. “What a nice surprise.”

  “Hey, Dad.” I try to keep the sad sound of betrayal out of my voice. “What’s up?”

  “What’s up with me?” he says, sliding his bifocals down to the tip of his nose so he can see me better. “What’s up with you? Isn’t tonight the night of that big dance you’ve been looking forward to?”

  I slump down in a squeaky gray chair across from his desk and make a big show of being all tired-like. “Yup,” I say, between fake yawns. “That’s why I came to see you. I knew you wouldn’t have time to come home and snap pictures of me and my …date …so I thought I’d give you a sneak preview.”

  Dad looks toward the doorway. “You brought your date?” he asks hopefully.

  “No,” I say, looking pointedly at the display skeleton hanging in one corner of the room. “You think I want my date to think of corpses all night?”

  He laughs and then looks at me more closely. “Well, you’re not wearing that, are you?”

  I snort, looking down at the full-on Goth gear I chose for school this morning. So far, Dad’s been pretty understanding of the whole Goth phase. Not overly enthusiastic, mind you, but more understanding than, say, Hazel. (Of course, now I know why.) I fiddle with the short hem of my black pleather skirt and say, “Naw, I’ve still got to go home and change. That’s why I wanted to swing by here first; in case I missed you.” More fake yawns.

  He looks at me funny. “Well, you need to perk up, Maddy. You’ve got a long night ahead of you, and you want to enjoy it. Hey, can I get you a cup of coffee? I’ve got a few minutes before my next autopsy; you can tell me about your dress.”

  Bingo!

  “I thought you’d never ask,” I say (and at least that’s no lie).

  When he disappears across the hall to get me the coffee I’ve been angling for ever since I walked in, I reach over his desk, open the top drawer, and snag his key ring. Yes, I feel bad doing it; yes, I know I’m a rotten zombie, but I am a zombie and, after all, it’s for his own good.

  It’s like Dane said: steal the keys now and feel like a jerk for a few minutes; don’t steal them, don’t stop the Zerkers, let the town be infested, and feel even worse when your dad becomes one of the Living Dead and tries to eat your brains after work one night.

  The keys are safe in my pocket by the time Dad comes back with two steaming cups of coffee. I look into mine, and he’s put cream in there. I stop myself from making a face and take a sip to make him happy. We make small talk, and he says, “So, is this that new guy you were telling me about? The one who plays football? The one who looks like Superman?”

  I nod, hoping that by not actually saying the word “yes” the lie is only half as bad. (You know, as compared to, say, stealing your dad’s keychain and a couple of Tasers from the ammunition room.)

  “Oh, good,” Dad says. “He sounds like a nice boy.”

  I nod noncommittally, picturing Hazel dragging Stamp from Art class and his helpless look as she ordered him away in the commons. Then I think of Hazel—poor, undead Hazel.

  Dad kind of senses something’s amiss and says, actually says, “And Hazel? Do you approve of her date?”

  I almost spit out the coffee I’m pretending to enjoy. But what might have been a slapstick moment 24 hours ago finds me in a kind of sad, heartbroken limbo.

  When I don’t answer, when I can’t answer (no more lies!), Dad stifles his hopeful grin and says, “Maddy, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. What’s wrong? Goodness, dear; you’ve been waiting for this dance for the last two years. I thought you’d be happier than this.”

  And God, how I want to spill it all. To confess about stealing the Tasers, to explain what for, but most of all to tell him Hazel—his sweet caretaker Hazel—is gone and not coming back. And still I can’t talk, and still his concern grows more apparent by the second, but I can’t help it. I’m powerless to fake it anymore, to pretend my entire world isn’t collapsing around my head, that my best friend isn’t merely dead but worse than dead—a Zerker who in a few hours is going to try to kill me with her bare hands if she gets the chance.

  A buzzer sounds somewhere, and soon enough I see a vibrating beeper shake itself across Dad’s desk like a Mexican jumping bean.

  “Oh booger,” he says absently, pushing his glasses higher on his nose. “I thought we’d have more time. Listen, I’m really happy for you, dear. Maybe tomorrow morning you can tell me all about it?”

  Sure, I think. If any of us are still alive, that is. Out loud I say, “Sure, Dad. I’ll make you breakfast and fill you in on all the gory details.”

  “Splendid.” He hugs me on the way out. We stand in the hallway together, and he says, “Shall I walk you out?”

  I wave the thought away and point to the ladies’ room. “I’m going to powder my nose, and then I’ll see you back home …whenever.”

  “Whenever. Right.” He smiles mischievously. “Do you need a curfew, or can I trust you?”

  I pause and blink twice. Dad? Asking me if I need a curfew? Has he forgotten his own house rules? He seems to read my mind and shrugs. “Hey, I’ve already broken one rule by letting you go to the dance with a guy I’ve never met; I might as well let you choose your own curfew, right?”

  “Seriously? No curfew?” It’s not like I was going to obey it in the first place, not after what Dane and Chloe have planned for the evening, but the fact that he’s offering means a lot.

  He doesn’t answer. His beeper buzzes again, and he presses it to shut off the annoying sound, then ambles away down the hall, turning back to wink at me before entering the autopsy wing.

  I sigh, look around, find the right key, and let myself into the ammunition room. It’s not much bigger than a broom closet, just much better armed. The real guns, of course, are locked up tight. Dozens of rifles line one wall, locked safely behind a mesh wire gate. Ditto for the ammunition clips and pistols.

  But the bulletproof vests are fair game, as are the walkie-talkies and Tasers. The Tasers are in plain view, stacked next to each other in their identical wall chargers. Time is ticking away. I don’t know how long I’ve been inside, but it feels like an eternity and every footstep outside seems to be headed right for the ammunition room door.

  Finally I commit, I dunno, a misdemeanor—or is it a felony?—by yanking three supercharged Tasers from their solid black outlets. I shove them in my backpack, zip it up tight, and listen at the door before I can tell the coast is clear.

  The Tasers are bulkier than I thought, and heavier, too, as I lean over Dad’s desk and return his keys. I stand by his desk for a minute, steadying my nerves for the final phase of Operation Dick Your Dad over to Keep the Whole Town from Being Infested.

  On the way out of the sheriff’s office, I keep waiting for one of Dad’s colleagues to stop me, frisk me, lock me up, and throw away the key, but they just smile at Dad’s leggy 17-year-old Goth daughter, shaking their heads at the idleness of youth and eyeing my short black skirt on the way out the door, ignoring the three clearly Taser-shaped bulges in t
he backpack jostling directly above my dead derriere.

  I stow the backpack with the Tasers in the trunk and barely stop myself from peeling out of the sheriff’s office and making a scene. “Where to next?” I ask cheerfully, almost casually, as if I do this type of stuff every day.

  “You got them?” Chloe asks doubtfully.

  I nod curtly and head downtown, our zombie shopping spree now in full swing.

  First stop, the fireworks store. While Dane pops inside with a twenty dollar bill, I turn to Chloe to ask, “Are we going to scare them with firecrackers or something?”

  She snorts but doesn’t look up from inspecting her chipped black nails. “Cherry bombs, actually. Zerkers hate them. Something about the sulfur reminds them of their graves, I guess; whatever the reason, they really freak out.”

  “Does it kill them?”

  She finally looks up and frowns apologetically. “I wish. No, it only makes them weak and panicked for a few minutes. Kind of like garlic to a vampire. You know, if they actually existed or anything. The goal is, freak them out with cherry bombs and tase them before they know what’s happening.”

  I note her dour expression. “You don’t sound too confident of that working out.”

  She shrugs. “You know why we call them Zerkers, Maddy?” When I shake my head, she explains, “It’s short for ‘Berserkers.’ So, the thing is, you can plan on this and hope for that; you can go by the rules of what’s supposed to happen, but at the end of the day, you have to remember that these are just plain crazy, strong, mad, angry, mean, vicious zombies who occasionally go berserk.”

  I frown, staring over her head and expecting Dane to stride out of the fireworks store any second. When he doesn’t, Chloe explains, “It’s the Fall Formal. Kids like to stock up on fireworks and set them off on the beach afterward. You know, kind of like a tradition. It’s probably a madhouse in there right now.”