Zombies Don't Cry Read online

  I nod grimly. He’s only caught me once, but it was brutal. Not the no-driving part so much, although when he says a week he means a full 7-day, 168-hour week. Not 6 days because I’ve learned my lesson or 167.5 hours because he’s feeling generous, but one entire week. What was worse, believe it or not, was the no-talking-to-Hazel punishment. That was the longest 72 hours of my life.

  I gulp a little, thinking ahead to breaking all three house rules in one single night. “Any particular reason you’re reminding me of these rules tonight, Dad?”

  He chuckles. “No, dear, other than the fact that you haven’t heard a word I’ve said all night.”

  5

  Raindrops Keep Falling

  on My Dead

  DAD’S LAST-MINUTE warning echoes in my mind long after he’s finally fallen asleep and I’m slipping into that snug little skirt that’s been hanging in the back of my closet since, well, forever. Sure, I heard everything he said, and yet I’m still breaking all his rules.

  Well, what would you do? (Yeah, that’s what I thought.)

  Even though I’m practically palpitating at the thought of Stamp at the party, I take it nice and slow, not wanting to get caught and lose my car or contact with Hazel for any extended period of time. I creep downstairs, hovering around Dad’s bedroom door to make sure he’s snoring. I’m so careful about this that even though he is snoring, and loudly, in a way that is almost un-fake-able, I tiptoe away and then sneak right back, just in case he’s faking. He isn’t.

  Back upstairs I fold up a five-dollar bill (you know, in case there’s some kind of cover charge) and slip it into a black cocktail purse I bought for last year’s Fall Formal but never used (for reasons we don’t need to go into here). I add my house keys, a compact, and some lipstick and slip the purse’s long handle over my shoulder, messenger bag style. Then I slide open my well-oiled window (thanks to a can of WD-40 tucked under my bathroom sink behind a bag of cotton balls and a wall of Noxzema jars), and I climb stiffly down the old oak tree.

  It’s not something I do often, thanks to Dad’s Three House Rules, but when your dad works the night shift and you’ve got a popular best friend like Hazel, well, let’s just say I’ve found it’s good to be prepared—just in case. Outside, the street is dark, solemn, and deserted, and the stiff breeze makes me happy I wore my black hair up in a simple ponytail.

  It sucks that I lied to Dad, straight to his face. It sucks even more to be breaking his house rules behind his back, but when life sends you messages in the form of running into a six-foot-tall hunk twice in one day, it’s best to start listening. (And better still to start acting.) Maybe Stamp is playing me, maybe this is all some big prank, but I don’t think so. He seems sincere and friendly, and even if nothing at all happens tonight—not a single kiss or snuggle or peck on the cheek—at least I’ll have something to tell Hazel tomorrow morning for a change.

  I hug the curb, taking a left from Marlin Way onto Palm Street, where in the distance, another six blocks or so away, I can see Aaron’s house high on the hill, overlooking Bluefish Bay and all lit up like a Christmas tree. I use it as a beacon, walking as the crow flies and taking shortcuts through backstreets and the occasional alley to save myself some time, not to mention the wear and tear on my white stockings.

  The first jangling thrum of thunder sounds as I’m creeping through Mullet Manor, but by now I’m so fixated on the twinkling lights of Aaron’s house that I can’t be stopped. The road feels cool and slick beneath my sensible flats (thank God I didn’t grab the heels I bought to go with the skirt). Whenever I feel like I’ve lost my way, I look up and the lights on the hill lead me ever onward.

  The moon is still high, the cloud cover intermittently blocking out the huge silver orb, but by this point I’m too close to Aaron’s house to turn back now. Only a few more blocks and I’ll be at the foot of his hill.

  The rain starts as I’m slinking through the back alley behind the vegetable stand. It starts slowly at first, little pebbles falling on my new white top that I hope will just go away. That happens in Florida: the sky can suddenly open up and dump an inch of rain in five minutes and then, just as rapidly, go back to being beautifully blue and scrumptiously dry.

  It’s clear this isn’t that kind of storm as the rain goes from a sprinkle to a steady, fine drizzle. It’s not splat-in-your-eye or knock-you-down heavy, but the drumming monotony is almost even more annoying. Even with the sensible ponytail, my hair goes from frizzy to split ends to drenched, my flats start picking up and putting down in toe-high puddles that get longer, and deeper, with every step.

  The thunder is heavy and hard now, much too hard to be out in, but the first sign of lightning seems so far away I’m positive I’ll be at the top of Aaron’s hill, safe and dry, before it gets here. Wrong again. Thunderclap by rumble-boom, puddle by pond, the lightning keeps getting closer and closer.

  Still, it’s either keep going or turn back, and I’m much closer to Aaron’s house than my own if I just …keep …going, so that’s what I do. The funny thing is I’m almost there, rounding the thickest part of Crescent Cove and within spitting distance of Aaron’s street when the lights go out. All the way. I hear the thunder, see the lightning, and then—zap—no picture, no sound, no …nothing.

  Now, I’ve lived in Florida all of my life, gone swimming in the rain, watched lightning from the bay window, and never flinched; heard it flash and sizzle close enough to make the hairs on my arms stand up, but I’ve never had it strike so …close …before.

  I wake up a few minutes later, facedown in a puddle (gross), shake the muddy water off my chin, and sit up. The rain is a slight mist now, the Florida air still thick with humidity but barely a cloud in sight. The moon is high, and I look at my hands in the shimmering silver light: muddy. The sleeves of my blouse? Even muddier. I look down at my chest. Not only is it muddy, but it’s completely see-through, straight through to my push-up and vital cushion bra, and I can only imagine myself showing up at Aaron’s party in a wet T-shirt. (Okay, wet peasant blouse, but …still.)

  My heart sinks. I grab the compact out of my little black purse and open it to stare back at my pale, expressionless face, struggling not to cry. I look like death warmed over. I’m not kidding.

  The mud is the least of it. My hair is limp, my makeup is obliterated, my lipstick is completely faded, there are big circles under my eyes, and is that? Is that …really? Why, yes it is—there is the slightest whiff of …smoke …coming from the top of my head. I groan, stand up, and straighten myself out. There’s no way I can go to Aaron’s party looking like the Little, Wet T-shirted Engine That Could.

  I think of the party, the red cups, the beer, the lights, the house music, and that beautiful, glistening bicep attached to that beautiful, glistening Stamp, and I slowly turn for home.

  I mean, what would you do? Run straight up the hill anyway, all wet and muddy, and shout Stamp’s name over and over? Trust me, I’d love nothing better than to do just that, but desperate as I am, even I have (some) standards. By now it’s late, I’m wet, I’m cold, I don’t know how long I’ve been out, and I want to get home and sort things out before lightning strikes and I go down again.

  That’s the thing, though. The dark, brooding sky’s not spewing lightning anymore; it’s not even thundering. What’s more, the moon was overhead when the storm started; now it’s nearly halfway across the horizon. I must be imagining things, or maybe it’s the cloud cover getting in the way.

  Then I look up to Aaron’s house on the hill and it’s completely dark. Not dimly lit, like in a romantic way, but bleak, lights-out, everybody-go-home dark. Great. The party gets canceled, I walk for half an hour in the rain, and nobody bothers to tell me?

  It’s still raining as I head for home, and I’m kind of starting to wonder what that “hissing” sound on the top of my head is. It doesn’t hurt at all, just sounds a little like fresh burger meat sizzling on a hot summertime grill.

  I can tell I’m a little stiff. Ok
ay, but who wouldn’t be after a nighttime jaunt in a tsunami? I mean, lightning strikes nearby, you get knocked on your butt, you’re gonna feel a little bad, right? It isn’t until I get home and check my heart rate that I realize I’m not just stiff; I am a stiff.

  6

  You Might Be a

  Zómbie If …

  THE HOUSE is quiet after my late-night sneak-out. Unfortunately, so is my entire chest cavity. That’s right: no pulse, no heartbeat. By the time I look in my bedroom mirror to make sure I haven’t scratched myself or broken an eye socket bone or something, I suddenly realize the reason rain was sizzling when it fell on my scalp: there’s a huge black hole burned into the top of my head.

  That’s when it hits me: Lightning didn’t strike near me; lightning struck me.

  I bend down in front of my mirror to examine my scalp. The rainwater on my clothes is dripping steadily on my bedroom carpet, but—guess what?—priorities, people! Where the scalp should have been fish-belly white underneath my hair, it is scorched tough black. A smooth, almost perfectly round circle is sitting right there in the middle of the top of my head.

  I reach my pale, pale hand toward it and, after a few false starts, touch it. It feels rough but solid, almost like the top of a quarter. Some hair around the burn hole has gotten singed. In fact, now that I’m inside and my bedroom window’s shut tight, I get that first whiff of just-moved-your-arm-hair-too-close-to-the-Bunsen-burner-in-Science-class smell, but it isn’t too bad. (I mean, not when compared to the pass-out-in-a-mud-puddle-wake-up-with-no-heartbeat thing.)

  Then I look at my face. It’s muddy, but what’s worse than the mud streaking down my cheeks and plugging up my nose (eewwww) are the deep black smudges under my eyes. I mean, I wasn’t down that long, was I? Not enough to look so …bad …all of a sudden.

  I can’t take staring in the mirror anymore, so I look at the digital clock on my nightstand instead. Wow, big mistake. It says 1:48 a.m. But that …that can’t be right, can it? I mean, I only snuck out at 10:30. So let’s do the mental math: 5 minutes up the street, another 15 or 20 minutes or so through back alleys and side roads, 25 minutes or so to make the trip back after the party got canceled, so at the latest it should be 11:30. Maybe midnight. Tops. But nearly 2 a.m.? I lean on the vanity, add everything up, and realize I wasn’t facedown in that mud puddle for a few minutes; I was there for a few hours.

  Suddenly everything changes. Seriously, how does one stay alive with her face down in a puddle for a couple of hours? So that means …I have to be dead, right? But here I am, back home, safe in my room, looking at the clock, the lights on, my feet on the ground …so how can I be dead and still standing? How can a dead girl walk home from a party she never got to, climb up a tree, slide open the window, climb inside, turn on all the lights in her bedroom, and touch the sizzle hole on the top of her head?

  At first I think I must be—don’t laugh—a ghost. I mean, how else do you explain getting up and walking away from a direct lightning strike in the middle of the night? But I can’t pass through walls like a ghost would, and when I look in the mirror there I am, looking straight back. Sure, a little worse for wear but not exactly ghostly, if you know what I mean. So what am I?

  How can I be dead—no heartbeat, no pulse—and not be a ghost?

  What else is there?

  Well, there’s this: I’m not breathing, either.

  Not that I do it all that often, but usually when I climb up the old oak tree outside of my window, leap from the top branch into my room, and slide the window shut, I’m out of breath. Not winded like I’ve just taken the Presidential Fitness Challenge in PE but, you know, definitely exerted. Now?

  Nothing.

  I didn’t exactly realize the no-breathing thing on the way home because, seriously, the no-heartbeat thing had me kind of preoccupied, but now? It’s becoming a pretty big deal. I mean, my lungs work but only when I think about it and actively suck in a breath.

  I try it. Big breath in, big breath out, like the doctor makes you do every year for your end-of-summer physical. Great. Works fine. I even try whispering: “Testing, testing …one, two, three.” Fine, okay; I may sound stupid, standing in my room at nearly two in the morning, every light on, me still dripping wet, counting to three, but at least I know I can still talk.

  Then I do a little experiment: I stand in front of the digital clock, wait until it magically turns over to 1:52 a.m., and hold my breath. That’s right: plug my muddy nose, purse my lips tight, make a puffer fish face, and …just …wait.

  1:53

  Nothing.

  1:54

  Nil.

  1:56

  Nada.

  2:00

  Still nothing. After a solid 8 minutes (I would go all the way to 10 but I’m starting to get a little bored), I finally open my mouth and—nothing. No big exhale, no big inhale; I don’t feel lightheaded, not short of breath, not …anything.

  Maybe I should be calling 911 or something. You think? Because it’s been, what, 15, maybe even 20 minutes since I got home. (Not to mention the two-plus hours I spent in a mud puddle.) What if I’m in shock? Or hallucinating? What if I don’t report what happened and I lie down, go to sleep …and never wake up again?

  But what do you say on a call like that? “Yes, Officer, uhhm, listen, I know you’re going to think this is a prank and it may sound a little crazy, but I’ve been dead for a few hours now and I’d really like to talk to someone about it. Is there, perchance, a grief officer standing nearby? Or maybe a lightning specialist on call? Perhaps a voodoo priestess or witch doctor on retainer? Or maybe even someone familiar with Ouija boards? What’s that? No, actually, I don’t need the number for Psych Services, thanks very much; I need someone to come out and—hello?”

  As I pace my bedroom, shaking my fingers out as if moving my body will somehow kick-start my heart, I feel a shiver pass through me. It isn’t quite a shiver, though; not exactly. It’s more like someone has turned the thermostat down—inside my body; like I’ve gone from 98.6 degrees to 68.9 in zero seconds flat.

  What.

  The.

  Hell?

  Naturally, I go online. I start by Googling the keyword “lightning,” hoping some site, somewhere, will explain, well …something. You know, like maybe there’s a blog out there somewhere called www.youarenotdeadMaddy.com that will list all the symptoms of a lightning strike with the final diagnosis being “Have some warm milk, Maddy, get some sleep, and in the morning your heartbeat and lung capacity will return, and by the time you pick up Hazel for school, you’ll forget this whole thing ever happened.” (Okay, maybe not that personal, but …still.)

  Believe it or not, I do not find such a site.

  I do learn a few nifty things about lightning, though.

  Case in point: Did you know that the typical lightning bolt contains over 1 million volts of electricity? That some can even have up to 30 million volts? Now, on the other end of the spectrum, did you know it only takes about 5,000 volts in those little Vaseline-covered defibrillator paddles for a doctor to bring you back to life in the ER?

  So, if only a few thousand volts can save a life, why wouldn’t one million—let alone 30 million—give you …the afterlife? I mean, could that explain why I’ve got no heartbeat but am still, technically anyway, alive?

  But what creature of the undead has no pulse?

  Can lie facedown in a puddle for two hours? Doesn’t need to breathe?

  I know vampires have to have a pulse because, let’s face it, blood is their god.

  And werewolves, well, you always see them breathing heavily after chasing some mere mortal down and snorting out globs of phlegm and drool when they attack, so they must have some pretty decent undead lung capacity.

  Ghosts? Been there. Not that.

  Mummy? No Egyptian curses or toilet paper wrapped around my legs.

  Frankenstein? No mad doctor anywhere around that I can see.

  There is only one remaining possibility, so with
trembling hands I Google “what are the physical traits of a zombie?” and, once I get past all the Night of the Living Dead links, I discover a helpful little site called www.youmightbeazombieif.blogspot.com.

  Amazingly, there’s a quiz called “You Might Be a Zombie If …” and, unbelievably, I actually take this quiz …with a totally straight face and my tongue out, as if my very life—Afterlife?—depends on it.

  Here’s what I come up with:

  QUESTION:HAVE YOU RECENTLY EXPERIENCED AN ELECTRICAL ANOMALY, SUCH AS SLAMMING INTO A POWER LINE, BEING TASERED BY THE COPS (WHILE STANDING IN A PUDDLE), SPENDING THE NIGHT AT A POWER PLANT, GETTING STRUCK BY LIGHTNING, ETC.?

  ANSWER: YES. And thank you for using “anomoly” in context.

  QUESTION: HAVE YOU RECENTLY LOST CONSCIOUSNESS FOR AN EXTENDED PERIOD OF TIME ONLY TO AWAKE FEELING …STRANGE?

  ANSWER: I know I shouldn’t answer a question with another question, but …does lying facedown in a mud puddle for two straight hours and waking up with no pulse count? YES.

  QUESTION: IS YOUR HEART CURRENTLY BEATING?

  ANSWER: NO. Seriously, not even a little.

  QUESTION: HAVE YOU EXPERIENCED ANY SHORTNESS OF BREATH RECENTLY?

  ANSWER: Does no breath count as shortness of breath? If so … YES. And I’m still experiencing it.

  QUESTION: ARE YOU EXPERIENCING COLD FLASHES?

  ANSWER: YES. And they’re actually getting colder.

  QUESTION: HAVE YOU BEEN ABLE TO SLEEP SINCE THE ELECTRICAL ANOMALY?

  ANSWER: NO. And it’s the middle of the night and I’m not even tired,; not even a little.

  QUESTION: DO YOU HAVE AN INEXPLICABLE, SUDDEN, AND OVERWHELMING DESIRE TO EAT …BRAINS?

  ANSWER: Uhhm, not until this very minute, but … now that you mention it …as a matter of fact … YES. I. DO.