Death 07 - For the Love of Death (10 page)

Paxton

“Okay.” I look at the fam. Deegan's ten shades lighter than normal—kinda received a shock today so okay. Dad and Mom look a little worse for wear, Uncle Clyde and Gramps look fine and my zombies look good.

Well, pretty good if you think pulse-boards, like the signage that used to clog the highways of the past. Great from fifty feet away but up close? Not so much.

“I think we should get out of here before someone comes to investigate Dee's little accident.”

Mitch's eyes go hard like flint.
That guy.

“She's in danger. Your mother made sure I'm aware.”

“Jade, Mitch.”

He nods in her direction. “If they find out she can control anything like that, they'll take her.”

I know this. That’s why I want to get the hell out of Dodge. Gramps will stay because he wants to wrestle the clowns. Dad will want to hide Mom and Dee for protection.

I want to see what Dad’s old buddies can do.

I tell him.

He shakes his head. “It’s been a couple of decades of everyone’s lives being back on track.” He swipes a palm in the air. “I don’t want to dredge stuff up.”

I give him a look between disbelief and anger. “Dad, come on. Uncle John and Aunt Tiff will totally want to kick ass on this thing. What about Archer, Jonesy, Sophie… Mia and Bry?”

Mom hangs her head. “They don’t have much talent anymore, Pax. It was a big blow to our friends when they had great paranormal skills for a few years, then after the mass sterilization… nothing. Or not much.” I catch her nervous eye flick at Dad.

Sirens begin to wail in the distance.

Mitch opens his mouth, closes it.

“Spit it out,” Gramps says.

Mitch’s gaze dances on the people in the room. “We don’t have infertility issues in my world.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “What do you mean?”

He holds his hands out. “We eradicated that the year I died. It was groundbreaking science.”

Huh, parallel breakthroughs at the same time.

“Like the cure for cancer?” I ask bitterly, though Mitch can't know the reason.

His brows rise in partial question but he nods.

Something to file away for later.

“If we’re going, let’s go.” I turn to Dad. “They’ll take Clyde.”

None of us says anything about Dee.

Mitch pulls her against him, and I roll my eyes. But we’re on the same side, so I’ll allow it.

For now.

“Okay.” Dad slaps his hands against his thighs as he stands.

“Where to?” I ask.

Gramps shrugs. “How about Jonesy? He’s good with chaos.”

I glance at Dad. He looks resigned to the inevitable.

“Get in the Outback.”

I laugh. It’s gotta be bad if we’re using that. My smile fades as the sirens grow louder.

Dad moves swiftly through the house. With a little clever help from Gramps, he's built a car that's like a tank.

He keeps it below the house in an underground garage. When I was in high school, he could cart the entire basketball team in the thing. It’s not traceable. Gramps’ tech friend jury-rigged that whole program. He has a card, too.

We shoehorn everyone in there and hover out of the basement-style garage. Mom and Dad, Gramps, Dee, five zombies, and a partridge in a pear tree. It’d be funnier if Dee wasn’t on the line.

Dad’s alarm goes off.

They’re in our house.

Gramps turns, his palm presses against the safety glass of the vehicle.

“Bastards,” he breathes out harshly.

We move through the air, top speed and undetectable.

*

“Jonesy!”

“Hey, my man! How's it hanginʼ?”

Dad says, “We need to come over. As a matter of fact, we're on our way.”

“Oh, hey—Caleb, bro, I dig your enthusiasm, but I’ve got myself some lady company.
Not
a good time.”

“Jones, listen, I’m in a bind here. I’m bringing Jade and the kids… and some others.”

A loud, feminine moan emanates from the pulse-speaker, and Mom’s face goes beet red.

So funny.
Jonesy.

“You’re on speaker, Jones.”

Gramps snorts.

A clearer-sounding Jonesy comes back. “Thanks for having my back there, Hart.”

“Anytime,” Dad replies in a dry voice.

“Okay man, you’ve effed my mojo, so what’s doin’?”

“I’ve had a little zombie trouble…”

“Nice. I thought you were out of the racket.”

Dad smiles.

“I am. The kids…”

“Say no more! The kids are working the undead angle. I dig, I dig. Bring everyone here. I’ve got the love shack down below.”

Mitch’s eyebrow shoots up, and I give him the signal with my hand.
I’ll explain it later.

“When you cominʼ?”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“ʼKay, catch ya in ten.”

The line dies with a short beep.

“What does that do?” Deegan asks. “Because Jonesy is weird, Dad.”

“He’s not weird sweetheart, he’s….”

“Free,” I finish.

“That's being generous,” Gramps mutters.

Dad clenches the steering wheel though it’s on autopilot. “He’ll go with whatever crazy thing happens.”

“Sounds like a wild card type of guy,” Mitch says.

Dad turns around briefly. “You have no idea.”

*

We arrive at Jonesy’s. It’s the same house in which he was raised. His mom and dad are gone now, and he’s inherited it.

It’s quite a pad.

Jonesy made an assload of bank with the electric company he took over.

We suspect it might have gotten a little help. It’s a well-traveled rumor that some paranormals retain residual abilities. That the cataclysmic disaster of sterilization and paranormal reversal was not absolute.

Paranormals now considered Randoms don’t want anyone knowing they have anything left if they can hide it.

It can be dangerous.

Dee and I are catalogued and since there are so few, the government doesn’t seem too alarmed. If what I see is true, plenty of Minors are running around.

People who still have minor paranormal talent but don’t ping the radar.

Jonesy walks out the front door barefoot. Low-slung jeans wrap a lean, fit body as he crams his hands in his front pockets.

A giggling chick with creamy skin, long blonde hair, and a body from which I can’t tear my gaze totters out in heels.

Wow, he can get the hottest chicks
. In between wives.

He just divorced his third.

Mom sighs.

We climb out of the Outback, and it lifts without all that body weight. Dead weight.

I guffaw, and Dee gives me a narrow-eye glare.

Jonesy laughs. The girl stops giggling. “What's with them, Mark?”

Jonesy doesn't answer but strides to Dad. “Hart!” he yells. Then he does a little dance step, hip thrust.

Dad laughs.

“Yeeeahhhhh—Hart!”

He shakes Dad’s hand and knuckle taps him.

Dad hugs him.

“Hey, Hart—settle down, don’t switch sides.”

Dad breathes deeply. He lets Jonesy go, and his smile remains.

The humor from Jonesy’s dark face bleeds away. “What is it, my man?”

Dad flicks his gaze to Blondie.

“Hey, Sammi… ya need to go.”

She puts her hands on her hips. It makes me have a physical reaction of hard dick syndrome. Swell. I shift my weight and look at Mitchell, who seems similarly stunned.

Okay. Not just me.

She stomps a high-heeled foot. “It's Skylie.”

Jonesy scrubs his face. “Yeah—it all blends, baby.”

“Gah!” she yells, tossing a bright pink purse over a shoulder.

“I'll take ya home.”

She brightens.

Jonesy's hover car comes around and her lips thin. “Nice, you swine.”

Jonesy puts his arms out. “Don’t have a lot of time for drama. Get in while the gettin’s good.”

She gets in.

I watch, taking notes for later.

“Are you going to be okay, Pax?”

I look at Dee. “I don't know.” I shake my head as the car slides off above our heads.

“Is she a prostitute?” Mitch asks, getting all judgy.

Jonesy gives him a look of insult. “The Jonester doesn’t have to pay, dude. As a matter of fact…”

“Jonesy, quiet,” Mom sounds off.

Dad laughs. “It’s good to see ya, Jones.”

“You too, you sentimental simp.”

Dad’s smile widens.

“Now what the trumped up hell is the deal?” Jonesy checks out the undead gang. “And are they the new rot?”

Dad nods.

Jonesy's hands land on his hips. “I don't want them stinking up my fine hood, you feel me?”

“Jones, get the basement door open so I can shuffle my old ass in there and fix a stiff drink.”

Jonesy's brows pop at Gramps suggestion. “Love the consistency, Mac.”

“I aim to please.”

Caleb

We shuffle into Jonesy's basement, a place where a ton of good times happened. I have a pang of sadness his folks are gone.

Car wreck.

Kinda like his life.

Jonesy just ditched wife number three. We all thought he'd get together with Sophie.

Never happened.

“Okay, dish the bullshit, Hart.”

Jonesy moves gracefully to a fully stocked wet bar. With a blink of his eyes, low lights flicker on.

Jonesy is one of the Randoms that never lost his power. Even better, he can hide it on the mandatory testing required every five years post-sterilization.

Something to do with the way they administer it. Pulse delivery.

Jones commands pulse.

A giant ice cube clinks into a glass. Jonesy pours two fingers of Jack Daniels for Gramps.

He tosses it back, a trail of sure fire camps in his gut, and not a flicker shows on his face.

Jones pours a second in the thick glass tumbler.

Gramps wraps a hand around the glass but doesn’t move to drink.

“Talk, Caleb.”

I do. When I’m done, he whistles low in his throat. “Wow, I can’t make up that shit.”

Gramps cracks a grin, spinning the amber liquid in his drink. The clinking of the ice in the glass is the only noise.

“We haven’t had this kinda stuff since way back.”

I nod.

“Well”—he flicks his gaze to Pax. “You’ve done some crap.”

Has he ever.

“But we contain it and it blows away.” Jonesy's dark eyes roam the zombies. “Y
ʼknow, Hart, that big dude reminds me of Sims.” He chugs half his beer and points the bottle at Mitch. “Seems a little alert, if ya know what I mean.”

I do.

“He—
Mitch
, got Deegan away from the issues they have on his Earth.”

Jonesy barks out a laugh. “Issues? Yeah, effing robots. Nice.”

“Artificial Life Bots,” Pax says.

Jonesy scrubs his short hair. Bending his tall frame over the front of the bar, he jerks open the small fridge behind the counter and grabs another beer. He turns around, using his now-defunct wedding band to spin the cap off.

He takes a long pull.

“Don’t get a drunk on, Jones. We need you to be a meat shield or something of that sort.”

Jonesy laughs. “Nice, Mac. Love that about ya.”

Gramps gives a chin dip.

“Looks like what needs doing is getting the alien rot back to the robot Earth, then we need to find out why these government Random dudes are on Pax like flies on shit.” Jonesy shrugs.

Jones has already solved it. My lips twitch. He’s a great wingman.

Jade says, “Jonesy.”

He tips an imaginary hat. “Yes, ma’am.”

She sighs. “I think we need to call a powwow.”

“Mom!” Deegan says.

Jade blushes. “I can say that, I’m native.”

Jonesy finishes his beer, slapping it down on the surface of his contraband wooden bar. “You look like you could be on the rez, Deedie.”

My daughter looks very Native American, though she’s more or half. Genes. Buggers.

“Who cares?” she asks.

Jonesy grins, loving to stir everyone up. Some things never change. “Let’s get the old gang back for this mess. We’ll need all the help we can get.”

“What about Tiff?” Jade asks with hesitation.

The quiet has weight.

It's sad, heavy. “Let's talk to John. He can figure it out.”

“We'll pick them up, caravan style.”

I shake my head. “No, they'll have to meet us.” I think for a second. “I guess we can snag the Terrans.”

Jade moves to Jonesy. He waggles his brows. “You still have the juice, sweetheart.”

Jade's not an Amplifier, but she can use the little bit of Empath she has left when she's with someone like Jonesy.

Jonesy dips his chin, concentrating. He hacks the pulse system interface and instantly contacts everyone.

They pulse back, undetected and in agreement.

We don't need another Helix Complex threat. From our own kind.

*

John meets us at the door, closing it softly behind him.

“Where is she?” I ask, meeting his eyes.

“Drunk.”

An explosive sigh ushers itself out of me. “What? God—we need her, John.”

He pushes a hand through his shortly cut red hair. “I know that, better than most.”

His pale blue eyes meet mine.

“Can ya do anything?”

John's frustration takes up all the lines of his face and he shakes his head.

“What's the hold up, natives are getting restless,” Gramps says from behind me.

I put my hands on my hips. The damned zombies are degrading. And my kids are in charge. This is getting stupid.

John’s shame is like make up. He wears it on his face.

“Okay.” Gramps claps John on the shoulder. “I know you love her—she’s your wife. But she can’t live in a bottle because of the sterilization.”

John grits his teeth. “She can't get over it.”

“Right, well, this might be bigger than her not being able to have babies.”

John puts his face in his hands. “I love her,” he mumbles from between his fingers. I can hear the sadness through his exhaustion.

Jonesy squeezes his shoulder. “Yeah, I dig it, Terran, but we need her drunk ass on this.”

Terran's hands fall to his side.

He looks like he'll kick Jonesy's ass.

I step between them.

“Let me try, John.”

He stares at me. Rage, anger, and anguish war in that gaze. Finally, he moves aside.

I go into a house darkened by drawn shades.

Ice clinks.

I follow the sound and spot her huddled on the corner of the couch.

“Fuck off, Caleb.”

I hesitate to come nearer.

Tiff has something undocumented. Instead of the reversal happening, like the rest of my friends, she’s now a five-point AFTD.

Tiffany Terran is also a childless drunk.

“Tiff,” I answer neutrally.

“Don't make me insult ya twice, Hart.”

I ignore her warning. “I need you.”

She lifts her glass, a small bit of light illuminating the amber liquid.

“Nobody needs me,” she answers in a low slurred voice.

“John does,” I say immediately.

Her eyes rise to mine in the gloom.

“Not anymore.”

I feel Grampsʼ presence before I see him.

Her hyper-aware gaze drags to his, impaired but not absent. “That goes for you too, old man.”

Gramps moves in, batting the glass she lifted in a mocking salute out of her hand.

It crashes behind us, glass splintering. The powerful smell of whiskey permeates.

Tiff stands quickly, swaying.

“You!” she screams.

Gramps grabs her, jerking her to his chest.

“Let me go, you fucking old coot.”

“No, you selfish little bitch. Listen to me!” Gramps shakes her and I step over.

“Don't,” he growls at me.

I stay where I am, trusting Gramps won't hurt her.

He turns back to Tiff. “I am sorry you're all sorts of sideways over not having kids.”

Shake.

My teeth go on edge.

“I'm sorry you have ten times the AFTD you ever wanted. But we need you for something bigger than the bullshit you don't wanna face.”

A door smacks against a wall. I don't take my eyes off Gramps and Tiff.

“Take your fucking hands off my wife,” John says in a voice low with rage.

Things just got ugly.

“No,” Gramps says quietly. “If you can't handle what needs doing, John Terran, I'll be doing it.”

John launches at Gramps.

I move between them.

John hits me, taking some of the wind from my lungs and I duck for the second swing, grabbing his arms. “No—John, don't do it!”

I hug him.

Not in anger—in love. This intervention has been a long time coming.

“I can't stand it!” Tiff screams, beating on Gramps with her small fists, too drunk to inflict damage. “If I'm numb I don't have to!”

“Drinking isn’t going to bring you babies. Being AFTD isn’t the end of the world, Tiffany.” Gramps grabs her wrists.

She collapses against him. “It’s the end of mine,” she slurs.

Gramps hugs her tighter, speaking against the top of her head. “No, dear girl, it is
not
.”

John stops struggling, looking at Gramps holding Tiff.

“I love him. But I hate me.” Tiff sobs against his shirt.

Gramps strokes her hair. “I know.”

“I hate me,” she repeats in a whisper.

John and Gramps look at each other over her head.

John covers his face with his hands for the second time.

Sometimes there are bigger problems than zombies from an alien Earth.