Gena Showalter - A Mad Zombie Party

A room I won’t be sharing with Kat. “I already have a place.” I breathe in...out...but I don’t calm down. I stand, my chair skidding behind me. “I have to go.”

A muscle jumps beneath his eye. “Where?”

Somewhere else. Anywhere else. “I just... I’ll see you guys around.” I stride out of the diner without ever looking back.

I crouch on top of a tombstone gargoyle-style, waiting for the spirits of the recently dead to rise. I don’t have to worry they’ll be witnesses, the good guys. Witnesses leave the body at the moment of death and ascend. Zombies tend to linger for several hours, or even a day or two, and on rare occasions an entire week. Don’t ask me why there’s a difference. Zombie physiology isn’t my forte. All I know is that the creatures need time to gather enough strength to crawl out.

They are always starved for what they’ve lost, for the most precious thing on this earth. Life.

I’ve been listening to police scanners, sneaking into hospitals to examine death records and patrolling cemeteries for people who have died of Antiputrefactive Syndrome. The past few days, there have been six, and all six will result in brand-spanking-new zombies.

AS is what doctors call death by zombie bite. Not that anyone in the medical field actually knows an injection of straight-up evil is the reason portions of a victim’s skin turn black and ooze pus as their organs rot...until an excruciating death finally ends the torment. Well, until the real torture begins. Eternity as one of the undead.

No one would believe me if I explained the truth. Hell, I might even end up in a padded room, medicated to the max. It’s happened to a couple of my friends.

Former friends.

Anyway.

Fingers crossed I get to kill all six zombies tonight.

Killing is my business, and like anyone else, I’m happiest when business is good.

And I need a little good in life. I’m the most hated slayer in the state. With excellent reason. But even though my friends hate me, I haven’t stopped loving them, which is why I’m here. The more Zs I kill, the less they have to fight. I want to make their lives better, easier—to make River’s life easier.

For years, my brother protected me and my—

Can’t go there right now. Depression will set in, and I’ll want zombies to feed on me .

So. Rephrase. For years, my brother protected me from our abusive father, hiding me even though he would be punished for it, forced to take my beating as well as his own. I owe him. More than that, I adore him. There’s nothing I won’t do for him.

Steal, kill and destroy? Check, check and mate.

“Come on, come on, meat bags,” I mutter. “Consider this your official invitation to my boot party.” For my own entertainment and okay, okay, to let off a little steam, I plan to kick the rot right out of their brains.

I have everything I need. Earlier I pushed my spirit out of my body, leaving the latter perched at the edge of Shady Elms cemetery, concealed by thick foliage, waning moonlight and eerie shadows. (What the body wears the spirit wears, which means I’m still armed for war.)

I have to be careful, though; I can’t allow even the smallest scratch. Any injury a spirit sustains manifests on the body, the two connected through invisible tethers no matter the distance between them. That’s usually not a big deal, but I’m on my own and I’ll have to patch myself up. Basically, I’m the world’s worst patient.

Around me, locusts buzz and crickets sing, but the insects aren’t my only companions. A few headstones away, a group of underage kids are drinking beer and playing truth or dare. Definitely in the wrong place. Could be the wrong time. Zombies prefer to chow on slayers—we’re their catnip, I guess—but any human will do.

Play with fire, get burned. A truth as old as time.

The little hairs on the back of my neck stand at full attention, and I go still. Sometimes my spirit senses something that hasn’t yet clicked in my mind.

Zombies on the rise?

I search, but find no sign there’s an undead nearby. Another civilian intruder? Again, there’s no sign. Not that it would matter. I can dance, sing and shout, but to civilians, I’m nothing more than a ghost.

Another slayer, perhaps, come to help me?

Yeah, in my dreams. As an exile of River’s crew, I’m as good as dead to all our kind. And I get it. I do. In my single-minded bid to save my brother, I made terrible life-and-death mistakes.

Commit the crime, serve your time.

My nails dig into the headstone beneath me, the entire thing doused with Blood Lines, the chemical needed to make the living world tangible to the spirit world. My brother keeps stashes of Blood Lines all over the state as a just-in-case. Used to be, I would have called him to ask for what I need, and he would have ensured I had more than enough. Now I have to raid his stashes.

Part of me wants to curl up and sob for all I’ve lost. Friends, a home. Acceptance, safety and security. A family. The other part of me, the stronger part, tells me to suck it up and deal. What’s done is done.

Besides, I have a purpose, and that’s more than most.

Laughter erupts from the kids. I call them kids and yet they’re only a year or two younger than me. While they’ve probably spent the bulk of their lives having fun, I’ve spent the bulk of mine fighting to save the world. I’m nineteen, but my experiences have aged me.

“You gonna back out now?” one of the boys asks the only dark-haired girl. “You chicken?”

“I know what you’re doing, Mr. Manipulator,” she says with a smirk. “You can’t goad me into doing something I don’t want to do.”

“Stop talking and show him your tits.” Another boy throws a handful of leaves at her. “A dare is a dare.”

The others chortle.

“Thankfully, I want to do it.” She stands in the middle of the group and, while Chicken Boy uses the flashlight app on his phone to illuminate her, she lifts her top to expose her boobs.

The other boys high-five and whistle. The other girls catcall and fist-pump the sky.

I want to shout, Stop living in the dark and open your eyes to the light. A whole other world exists around you .

A shadow rises from the freshly packed grave site in front of me. I reach over my shoulders to palm the handles of my short swords, the kids forgotten. Metal slides against leather, whistling a beautiful tune, and I start drooling at the thought of a new kill.

Pavlov nailed it.

Another finger pokes through the dirt...soon an entire hand. There’s a dull gray tint to the skin, and my heart leaps with excitement.

The creature sits up and shakes her head, clumps of dirt falling from her tangled salt-and-pepper hair. I smile with anticipation, until I note the open wounds on her forehead and cheeks, each revealing the rotted muscle and splintered bone underneath. First-time risers usually appear human, their only visual tells red eyes and graying skin. Why the change?

She locks on me, her lips curling up, showcasing yellowed teeth and thick black saliva.

Kill now, ask questions later .

She swipes a hand at me and snaps her teeth.

“Sorry, honey, but I’m not on the menu.” I leap off the tombstone and end up where I want to be—in the circle of her arms. Mindless with hunger, she latches on to my waist to yank me closer, but I’m already swinging my swords. The blades crisscross at her neck before I’m in any danger, and her head falls backward, black goo spraying from her severed artery.

The civilians continue playing their silly game.

Despite the decapitation, both the zombie head and body remain animated, arms clawing at me, teeth snapping at me. Time to finish her off for good. I’ve been fighting the undead for so long, summoning my fire—my dýnamis —is as easy as breathing. By the time I sheath one of my swords and flatten my hand over her chest, flames are crackling all the way to my wrist. One minute passes, two... Dýnamis sinks past her skin, into her veins, traveling through her entire body. Then, suddenly, she explodes, dark ash floating through the air.