Battle of the Network Zombies (4 page)

I studied him a moment, while digging for my lighter and a cigarette for myself. He cocked his head to one side and spread his arms in a curt “what,” thrust his lower jaw and stared me down like a nemesis. Interesting. I wasn’t aware there were thug whores, especially male ones. It’s pretty sad when the opportunities of gang life get so slim, a perfectly good thug ends up skiddin’ all the way down to prostitution. Surely there was a car he could jack or a ten-year-old to sell crack to.

Of course, I’d been running on empty myself, so why should this guy be any different.

I pulled the lighter out and he darted into traffic, slowing to avoid a semi, its air brakes tearing the concrete in stereo. He tossed himself onto the divider like a pommel horse and, glancing briefly, scrambled into the traffic, sidestepping a skidding Honda. The driver laid on the horn and screamed obscenities out the window, but didn’t stop. Then he was in front of me.

He was about twenty and dark, with skin so coarse it could have borne a
Grown in Florida
label if it weren’t for the alternating crop of patchy facial hair and shiny achy pustules in desperate need of a depilatory. He wore a grim pair of Adidas with soles worn thin enough, it was possible his socks were touching sidewalk. The white T-shirt he wore hung nearly to his knees, well past the end of his denim jacket, and his pants were at least three sizes too big, which, while seemingly the uniform of every other gangsta, wanksta and wannabe, probably came in handy for the kind of work that required quick and covert access to the nether regions.

I sparked his smoke.

He nodded, his face glowing red as he took a drag. “I don’t chomp no box.”

Charming. I would have choked had I any sensitivity left in my esophagus (that was one of the first places to go). But my bulging eyes and gaping mouth must have spoken volumes. He grinned and turned his head to chuckle, as though
that
might be more of a crime than his illicit proposition.

Shaking off the mild shock—really saying something there, as I’m rarely in that particular state—I said, “No? You look the kind that might go in for that.”

“I don’t do ladies, not normally.” He shrugged, rubbing his fist across his mouth and tugging at his loose jeans. He clucked his tongue. “What you got in mind?”

I motioned to the side of the now quiet Hooch and Cooch. Gil and Ethel hadn’t left. Gil probably busy heaping unwarranted praises and Mother “debriefing” the girls, or whatever.

The burn barrel let off a soft glow and a flurry of sparks flew like gnats into the still night air and up the side of the building’s clapboard exterior. Probably a fire hazard, but after the night’s spectacle, I’m not sure I’d even alert Gil if the place caught fire.
¹⁶

The kid nodded and shuffled off in the direction I indicated. When not racing like a madman across a moderately busy freeway, he expressed a slight limp, favoring his right leg explicitly. He lugged the left behind him with a spare hop at the end of each step.

I wish I hadn’t seen it.

Those kinds of things make me wish I didn’t have to feed the way I do. The thoughts are always fleeting and always my own fault, a hazard of being too observant. Noticing little details of my victims—and they were definitely that, no matter how hard I rationalized—was not helpful. Not. Helpful.

In those moments, when food becomes human, identifiable, I’m more likely to walk away than any other.

Occasionally.

The boy’s scent trailed in his wake, dense and meaty.
¹⁷
There were sweet hints of maple, smoky bacon. The hustler was a breakfast fan. A lot of street people were, cheap meals done quick and from places that usually kept waitresses long after their expiration date, long after they gave a shit about a kid dining and dashing. Either that or hired them so green they didn’t know what to look for.

A quick refresher—if you’re late getting on and trying to catch up—when a zombie catches the scent of its prey, it’s over. Reason goes out the window, for the most part, and the hunger kicks in like autopilot. When I first turned (after a run-in with a breather and later a misplaced donut box—damn if slick cardboard and concrete don’t equal flat on your back dead in a parking garage, at least for a little bit), I had absolutely no control over the process. I’d catch a scent and the next thing I knew I was spitting out a retainer (not mine and not necessarily a kid’s, either).
¹⁸

Anyway.

He stalled at the far corner of the Hooch and Cooch, settling into a spot on a rickety picnic table, whose purpose seemed to be only to hold up a massive bloom of cigarette butts sticking out of a spent can of Yuban. He jutted his chin forward, again, lips screwed up in a sneer, in that defiant way one does when there’s nothing to lose or live for. He probably figured if he put that tough face on, I’d be attracted—some women apparently go for the thug type.

He was right. I was definitely into him.

After a quick glance behind me, I shoved my arm through the handles of the McQueen and shrugged it over my shoulder like a pack (shielding it from the spatter, if you must know).

“So whaddup? You getting’ on this?” he asked.

I could barely conceal my glee.

Wednesday
10:30–11:00
P.M.
Cleaning House

I slammed the door and settled my purse in the floorboard, turning to Scott for what I hoped would be the first pleasant moment of the evening—God knows I could use one—but finding a face smeared with enough ugly judgment to guarantee him a slot in the local PTA.

“What?” I asked, agog perhaps and definitely in no mood. ’Cause really, could I pile any more bullshit on my plate?

His disapproving eyes dropped to my cheek. “You’ve got a little gore on you.”

I patted for it, the reduced sensitivity in my extremities not helping me any. “Here?”

“No. A little to the left. More.”

We played out the hunt a few moments and then I dropped my hand in my lap and sighed. “You get it. I’m frickin’ exhausted.”

Scott shook his head and reached across to the glove compartment, retrieving a travel pack of tissue. He balanced them on my leg and turned his head. “I’m going to leave that up to you.”

Fucker.

“You know, what you do is worse.” I dabbed the tissue around my face until it came back red and spotted with gristle.

“What? How the hell could a few scratches be worse than eating people?”

“Please.” I rolled my eyes. “Like leaving them maimed, covered in scars and doomed to a life of unmanageable body hair is a prize.” I amped up the mocking. “Do they thank you? I don’t know how I’ve made it this long without juggling dog teeth in my mouth and these extra six nipples. Yeah, you’re a real humanitarian.”

“Fine. Make fun. It just bothers me a bit.”

“Whatever, just drive, I’ve had a really bad night.”

I told him about Birch and his come-ons—he slapped the steering wheel while making threats, which made me smile—the yeti attack and how gross it looked shaved, the weird creatures on the peg boards like junior high biology experiments and the offer to judge on Johnny’s show.

“So who wants to kill the fucker this week?” He grinned, lost in some violent fantasy.

I shrugged as we passed the Center, with its mascot the Space Needle towering above us on legs like a modern TV tray. Scott pointed the car toward the high-rise condo district. Streets lined with crappy domestics gave way to Euro-functional Saabs, Volvos and Volkswagens (mostly Passats, the
nuevo
bugs gone out of favor as quickly as they fluttered back).

“Could be anyone, really,” I said. “I’d only known him a few seconds before wanting him dead. There must be a daily tally running. Birch has got to be at the top of the supernatural dead pool.”

“How’s your mother?” To Scott’s credit, he was just about the only one in my life who saw through Ethel’s bullshit.

“Still a vampire.” I shifted in my seat, drawing one leg up under the other. “You know, she’s really twisted Gil around her finger. He’s blind to her batshit insaneness.”

“Is that a word?” His eyes crinkled at the joke.

“Shut up. You know what I mean.”

“Things change.” Two words, and so much behind them I could barely stop myself from jumping out of the car.

I shut down the chatter with a stare.

It didn’t matter that I’d just had to fend off an attack from the chicken-skinned beast of morbid obesity, or that my car had been repoed, or that I had to put up with my mother’s mind-fucks, or even that I was forced to take a job with the seediest wood nymph in reality TV—Scott was clearly moving into an “us” talk.

“Your timing is for shit.”

He slouched in the seat, dashboard glow bluing his disappointment like an exclamation point.

“I really like you, Scott. What I’m not too fond of is the insecurity and this clinging to some antiquated idea of commitment. You’d think you’d learn that all this…” I waved my hands around (possibly too frantically to appear serious) “…is transient, by now. What are you expecting to do? Settle down? Get me pregnant? Have a couple of kids in the suburbs? A fucking Plymouth Voyager?”

“I
expect
you to warm up a bit. Give a little. Just one tiny thing that shows that you actually care. You spend so much time and effort putting this bitch face forward to everyone you meet, you forget that you don’t have to do it with me.”

He sighed, turned his head to gaze out the window. Leaning forward, I caught the droop of his lids, the corners of his mouth slack with discontent.

God. I’m an asshole.
¹⁹

Of course he doesn’t think we’re going to ever be normal. Scott was no idiot. He may have been a pretty boy—and pretty he was. Even then with his blue eyes sullen and him chewing the inside of his cheek, he was gorgeous.

The problem was…he was just as beautiful inside, like actually nice, a constant reminder of how much I wasn’t.

But was I cold? I supposed, certainly in that dead room temperature way, but was I emotionally flat? Distant? Frigid?

Instead of answering, and fucking the situation up even more, I slipped my hand into his. We drove the rest of the way to my condo in silence. Occasionally, he’d squeeze, to let me know we were okay.

I hoped that’s what it meant.

There was a boy on the couch next to Honey, who was sitting far too properly, with her knees pinioned and hands crossed in her lap, to be after anything other than trouble. Her dead brother, the ghost of my dear Mr. Kim, hovered nearby, awash in a disapproving purple aura, his nearly opaque arms crossed vehemently. I didn’t have to hear a word to know what was going on.

Both Honey and Mr. Kim lived in the condo, though the ghost had begun wandering farther from me in the past few months, spending time haunting bookstores and movie theaters. Ever since I’d turned Honey zombie, the girl focused almost entirely on boys and relationships and not just for food. Occasionally she’d get the idea she’d found “The One” and bring him home for me to set his lungs with virus. I’ve never actually given in to her requests, but that didn’t stop her from trying.

I really was going to have to sit her down and discuss the whole sexual aspect of having a zombie guy around. Unless they could afford penile implants, unsatisfying doesn’t begin to cover that part of a zombie couple’s relationship.

This boy was certainly attractive, though, a little emo-banged skater type, younger than Honey by a year, maybe, with a thin nose and zipper-covered parachute pants. They were a striking pair, especially considering Honey’s Versace slip dress and blond extensions. The whole scene sprang from a tragically ironic high-fashion editorial spread. I wondered if it were intentional, to throw me off. Honey knew how I loved intentionally posed candids.

The boy eyed me and stood up awkwardly, nearly bowing. “Hello, Ms. Feral. I’m Stoney.”

“Stoney?” I glanced at Honey, raising my eyebrow. “Is he a Jonas Brother?”

She smirked, yet held back on her regular witty comeback.

“Honey said you were gorgeous.” His eyes were saucers, as though in shock. “But I guess I didn’t know what that meant until now. You’re amazing.”

If I could have blushed, I wouldn’t have. I looked back at Scott, who sighed heavily and strolled past into the bedroom.

“Listen, kid,” I started.

Honey shot up. “Amanda. Before you say no, listen.”

I groaned. “Honey.”

“No, dude, seriously. He’s totally the guy for me, aren’t you, Stoney?”

He rocked from the balls of his feet to his heels, hands anchored into the back pockets of his jeans. Occasionally, he’d shake the bangs out of his face with a neck roll reminiscent of a facial tic.

“Seriously?” I asked. “Looks like a snack.”

“No way. We have tons in common.”

“Like?”

“Like…” Honey stretched the word out, searching for an answer she’d not given quite enough thought to.

“You’re taking too long. Don’t ask me to do something that’s forever, when you’re not even sure right now. I’m not turning him. I’ve never even heard his name before. You could at least try dating them for awhile.”

Honey slouched back on the couch.

“Now scram. Scott and I have some talking to do.”

“But!”

“No ‘buts’—you’re getting too old for this bullshit anyway. Goodnight, Stoney.”

Mr. Kim started in as I left the room. “What I tell you. I don’t know why you no find nice werewolf boy, like Mr. Scott.”

Scott flopped naked across my 1000-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets from French Quarter in a big X, extremities reaching for the corners, as if I were readying the restraints for a bit of fringe play, which I’m totally not into.
²⁰
He pumped his butt muscles a few times, inched up on his elbows and turned back to see if I was looking.

“Why are we together, Mandy?” He flipped over onto his back, exposing some particularly unmanicured landscaping.

“Ew. Don’t call me that unless you’ve got a sparkly gift. Also, we’re going to have to do something about that.” I waved my hand over the startling hair mound around his dick. “It’s like a forest.”

He propped himself up on his elbows. “I’m entering my
au naturel
phase. I’m being serious, though. Why are we?”

“So am I. I’m going to go get the clippers in a minute.”

He let out a frustrated grumble.

I spun back around. “Okay.” I had to think, usually not a good sign, but I was in no mood for an escalation, so I opted for diplomatic. “Let’s see. You are super-hot and completely obsessed with me in an unhealthy way.”

Scott’s face screwed up quizzically.

“And I really like that sort of thing. Find it completely endearing and adorable. Except for the big 70s bush you’re rockin’.”

“Oh.” He brightened. “I can live with that.”

“Good.”

I turned to get the clippers. Scott was up and pressed against me in a second. I’d never get used to his speed. But the warmth was unmistakably comforting. He nuzzled the back of my neck and inhaled in long deep lungfuls. I didn’t have to imagine the scent, earthy as loam, but could never quite understand the allure. Not that I should question it. Far be it from me to make those kinds of judgments with what I put in my mouth and all. Still, we
right
zombies have a kinship with the shapeshifters in our ability to track by scent, also in our ability to let the power of that scent get away from us and cloud our judgment. Scott’s heavy breathing rattled like a snarl.

“Whoa, mister. Careful with those drags.”

He huffed and circled my chest in his arms, nestling his hips and obvious arousal against the small of my back, the ruined silk.

I pulled away. “Lemme get this off and hit the shower. The floor of the Hooch and Cooch left some pretty nasty memories on these clothes, plus I could use a brushing before we kiss.” I turned to see his eyes flinch, probably recalling of the trickle of prostitute running from the corner of my lip. He let me go, sneering a bit.

“Let it go.”

It wasn’t a full minute before he abandoned the repellant thoughts and slunk into the cloud of steam billowing from the walk-in shower. “You mind?” Scott dipped past me and reached for the body wash, and snagged the cap on the edge of his teeth and flipped it open, in an attempt to do über sexy gone horribly geeky. Still, it was better than…

“I’m gonna slip this all over—”

“Nope.” I pressed a finger to his lips. “Remember?”

He nodded, his lips parting a bit. I slid my finger inside and he sucked on it. Goofy fucker.

“Wash my back, lover.”

Had to give it up for the guy, as goofy as he came off, he was amenable to change. He started out as the filthiest kind of porno-talking bed buddy and, with the odd bit of backsliding, here and there, had turned into a pretty thoughtful lover. Occasionally. It was hard work weaning him of the habit. A pinch would suffice after a slip like “I’m gonna take you like a six-pack.” A hard pinch sure, and it’d leave a bruise, but he healed quick, so…

We still had to work on keeping our paranormal selves in check. After all, sex isn’t my only need and the smell of hot blood flowing through Scott sparked my hunger to feed, just as much as the adrenaline pumping through him triggered his urge to shift into a big hulking canine. No matter how cute Scott was, human or wolf-like, I had no intention of getting locked up with him and having to call in the reapers to separate us.

’Cause…ew. Seriously.

We kept it under control for the most part. It took a lot of focus, but the effort was definitely worth it. Even then, I was reaping the benefits of pushing down my nature.

Scott’s soapy fingers danced up either side of my spine, languorously manipulating the tension from my back, kneading their way up to my shoulders and pressuring my neck to release and give in to their command. Snaking around to meet my gaze, he pressed his lips to mine, his tongue darting in playfully before he pulled away and sank slowly to his knees, trailing kisses down my throat, the soft hollow between my breasts. A rare warmth crept from my core and yet I couldn’t allow my breath to go unmanaged, no more panting uncontrollably with each wave of sensation, lest the tendrils of viral smoke creep out in search of host.

I pushed the thoughts from my head and focused on Scott’s playful nips on my thighs. His hands followed the slim curves of my ass and spread my cheeks playfully, daring, until I tensed and his shoulders shook with a few laughs. He laid a row of kisses down either thigh before narrowing his intent and pressing his tongue against my folds, searching them, lapping at the hot water that streamed there, thumping a gentle rhythm against my engorging clit.

You know that moment when gentleness gives way to animal urges? Where the tide turns from being satisfied with a kiss to needing raw flesh pressed against the whole of your body? It’s my experience—and I’m not going to kid myself, I’ve been around—it’s like a switch in men. They get to a point where it’s too much to hold back and they surge.

Scott surged then.

He stood up bolt straight, planted his mouth against mine and lifted me against the wall, urging my legs around his hips. The marble wall was cool despite the steam and I couldn’t quite balance but figured he had at least a little control. He arched his back a bit and slipped his cock inside, with none of the gentleness he’d expressed just moments before.