Home Improvement: Undead Edition (19 page)

The pickup ground to life, blew heat into the cab.

A quarter tank of gas.

Even with the chains on the pickup, even with four-wheel drive, she’d need to rock the pickup back and forth to create tire tracks to follow. Even if she found roads in the whiteout, that vehicular effort needed a full tank.

Like an electric cloud softened other voices in her brain.

Can’t drive away. Can’t stay here. Enough gas to idle for a couple hours. Don’t look at the dead man, his open eyes. Don’t look at the board nailed to his skull.
She searched his pockets, found a few bucks, coins, and in that shirt pocket,
a plastic bag . . . with another joint! Could stay stoned for . . .
maybe until dawn. She checked her watch: three fourteen P.M.
Make that until midnight. If I come in and out of the house, run the engine . . . every three hours . . . My mind and I will make it to dawn, maybe to the end of the storm.

Told herself:
It’s not what the house can do, it’s what I choose to do.
Only junk in the glove compartment. Nothing on the floor but the thirty-foot orange extension cord Parker used to connect an old-fashioned headbolt heater in the pickup’s engine to any building’s electricity.

Three hours. Stoned enough, staying strong enough, I can survive three hours in there. I can keep
me
.
Louise turned off the pickup, left the keys in the ignition: one less trick for the house to play.

She ran from the pickup, stumbling through the eye-stinging snow and the knee-deep white powder that slowed her stumble up the steps and—

The house door refused to open.

Arctic air shook Louise so hard she fell into the snow on the porch. She ran back to the pickup, turned the engine on to blast heat over her, melting the snow and dampening her clothes
cold, that’s cold, too
, but—

Louise closed her eyes. Like Parker’d said:
If you gotta, you gotta.
She ran back into the storm carrying the orange extension cord, her mind playing the movie of how she’d tie one end to the porch or the door, tie the other end to the pickup’s front bumper, and it wouldn’t matter that the pickup could only charge a few feet, its horsepower against old wood—

The house door opened.

“Fuck you,” whispered Louise. “You get one chance.”

She backed off the porch, dropped the extension cord end far enough from the last step that it didn’t touch wood, tied the other end to the pickup’s bumper to show she meant business, ran back into the house.

The door slammed shut behind her.

Louise ran to the living room with its dried pool of Parker’s blood, with its stacks of four friends’ suitcases that had flown full of dreams from Denver, and sacks with their packed lunches and old newspapers, sleeping bags and the portable heater with a generator and a red plastic jug full of fuel oil that wouldn’t work in a pickup. She closed her fist around the plastic bag with its one-plus joint and metal cigarette lighter as she switched her wet clothes for dry garments, unrolled a sleeping bag.

MIDNIGHT.

Louise sat rocking back and forth on the decrepit mansion’s living room floor. She’d smoked all but an inch of the last joint. Felt her still chemical-addled mind mostly free from capture. To help, she’d crawled on her hands and knees, lapped up drops of the mixed brew spilled in the jumble of broken glass on the dining room floor near Bob’s body.

What more are you than the home you build for your life?

Can’t have a baby without Steve and who would want you now even if some rescuer comes. No rescuer’s coming. Not in time. And when someone does come, someone with a weaker mind than Ali
oh poor Ali.

Lucky Ali. She knew how to use what she had to get what she could.

There’s what’s real and there’s what you believe.

What’s real is that outside in the cold she’d die in an hour.

What’s real is she could feel who she was slipping away.

Here could be home.

The something to love forever that’s been her lifelong dream.

If she keeps this place fixed up, the place will fix what she believes. She can come up with a story for all this.

After all, it’s what works, not what’s real.

She clicked open the metal lighter. Knew that was real.

Clicked it shut. Knew she was still here. For now.

Forever is a moment.

Like now. Louise clicked open the lighter.

And now. Clicked it shut.

The imperative to survive is all the house cares about.

The metal lighter clicks shut.

This is the moment you click open the lighter.

This is the moment you click it shut.

This is a moment when you’re still Louise.

Not some species of zombie slave.

She clicked the lighter open.

“We’re all trapped in a house that needs fixing.”

Bob said that. When he was alive.

He said,
“It ain’t the being dead, it’s the dying.”

Louise thumbed the blue flame to life and fired up the last inch of the joint. Felt the house sigh.

Like,
odds are
, there’ll be more months of sunshine on its wood.

You could be not dead here for a long time.

All you need to do is let go of every imperative except existing.

Louise sucked in a caustic cloud of smoke.

Held it as the house trembled its floor to shake her balance.

Like a movie queen, Louise flicked her lit joint onto the pile of yesterday’s newspapers and birthed a flickering blue flame.

Dust and debris fell from the ceiling like smothering rain.

She grabbed the red plastic jug for the portable heater and splashed fuel oil through the room.

A ball of fire
whumped
up in front of her.

Fire consumed all the house’s thoughts as flames licked its walls.

Louise grabbed her coat, gloves. Fought open the front door that, unlike her, had no feet to flee.

And as she stood outside in the snowy night next to the inferno where a house once lived, unzipping her coat to
heat
from the blaze whose coals might glow long past dawn when rescue would or would not come, Louise hoped she was right about the worth of the imperative that to survive as who you are sometimes requires fixing your house with flames.

The Strength Inside

MELISSA MARR

When Chastity bought the only house on the cul-de-sac with several acres between her and the nearest neighbor, it wasn’t an
accident
. Privacy was a priority. At the time, her plan seemed sound. At the time, she hadn’t yet met the Homeowners’ Association or their subcommittee, the Architectural Review Board.

“Well?” Alison prompted when Chastity walked into the kitchen with the mail. Unlike Chastity, her sister was in comfortable jeans and a longsleeved shirt. The dirt on her cheek—and the muddy footprints on the floor—told Chastity that her sister had been gardening again.

“Another form.” Chastity clutched the latest ARB letter in her hand. By now she could recite the first paragraph:

The River Glades Community prides itself on high community standards. As such any and all exterior architectural alterations must receive approval of the Architectural Review Board. Please submit the attached form to JUSTINE sixty days prior to the date upon which you would like to begin any alteration, addition, removal, or other visible change.

Chastity forced herself to release her grip. She laid the paper on the kitchen counter and smoothed it out. “Every damn form includes the same paragraph. It’s like it’s their letterhead.”

“What do they want this time?” Alison unbraided her hair, finger-combed it, and twisted it up into a loose ponytail while Chastity read—and then reread.

Chastity made a growling noise before saying, “Sufficient neighbor signatures from . . . any house with direct line of sight with or without foliage.”

“Umm.” Alison walked to the door, opened it, and pointedly glanced to the left and right. “They do know we are the last house, right?”

“I’m sure they do.” Chastity kicked off the ridiculous low heels that she wore to work. Her skills were more about focus, so office work made sense. If it didn’t include such uncomfortable clothes, she’d be far happier. Alison floated from job to job when Chastity said they needed more money, but she couldn’t hold a job that involved too much time indoors. Chastity, for better or worse, was content in closer spaces.

Which is why we need both a house and a big yard.

For a moment, the sisters stood face-to-face in their kitchen. It was a lovely space. Beautiful granite countertops, sleek stainless steel appliances, and black tile with black grout. Greenery hung from the ceiling, lined windowsills, and clustered along all of the walls. Like much of the house, the kitchen was as close to an exterior space as possible—but without too many wild creatures or insects. Through the open door, Chastity could see the yard that was Alison’s passion. It was well on its way to resembling a formal garden that had been allowed to grow wild. Alison had the admirable ability to persuade most every plant, shrub, or tree to thrive even when they weren’t native. The result was a fabulous space filled with wildlife and ample places to hide.

“It’s worth fighting for,” Alison reminded her. “I could persuade the woman if you say the word.”

Chastity pushed away the mental image of the conversation her sister would have—or she herself would
like
to have—with the ARB chair; the process was made easier by the fact that she’d not yet
met
Justine. She shook her head. “I can do this.” She paused for a moment, scanned the form again, and looked at her sister. “How many signatures are ‘sufficient’? How do I know that?”

“You could always go to the committee meeting and ask.” Alison widened her eyes in faux innocence. “Take a covered dish, perhaps?”

Chastity flipped her little sister off. “We’re trying to get along here, Ali, not encourage the neighbors to show up with pitchforks and torches.”

Alison shrugged and stepped away from the still-open door. Given her way, she wouldn’t ever close the doors. “So, go fill out your paperwork. I’m going to read.”

“Don’t let the littles con you into treats because of fake hunger pains while I’m out,” Chastity reminded Alison. “They need to learn to
schedule
their meals.”

After a derisive snort, Alison wandered farther into the house. Somewhere in the plant-filled rooms, their siblings hid in dark shadows, but she pretended—for their amusement and hers—that she was unaware that they stalked her. In human years, and to the casual observer, the children appeared to be young teens, but as
Bori
they were the equivalent of toddlers—precocious toddlers, lethal toddlers, but toddlers all the same.

Like some mammals, a
Bori
’s physical growth meant they had strength far beyond their emotional growth. If the littles were left in the wild, they’d be mistaken for feral children—such nestless young were the source of the human stories about children raised by wild animals—but Chastity and Alison weren’t going to let such a fate befall their siblings. A very long time ago, the sisters had struggled as parentless
Bori
; they’d lived in the old ways.

Which is exactly why we won’t fail the littles now.

Despite their considerable longevity, few
Bori
were left in the world. Too often over the centuries humans declared them demons and murdered them, caged them as freaks in carnival sideshows, or destroyed their habitats. Protecting young
Bori
from such horrible fates was daunting. Chastity whispered a silent
Thank you
to whichever deity had granted her Alison as a sister. She could’ve handled the littles without extra help, but having Alison there made it far more manageable. Alison was maternal in a way that made her playmate as much as authority. Chastity, on the other hand, wasn’t fun. It simply wasn’t part of her skill set. There were plenty of things that Chastity considered as
skills
she possessed: she was a hard worker, kept her promises, killed easily, and generally could get along with just about anyone. She might not genuinely like seven out of ten of the people she smiled at, but now that blending was important for survival, faking friendly was essential.

Faux smile in place, Chastity took the papers in hand and went out to start knocking on doors.

“CAN I HELP
you?” The older woman stood in the open doorway, not inviting Chastity in but not refusing to answer the door like the people at the first house.

“I’m Chastity. My sister and I bought the house at the end of Eden Street.” Alison held up the paper. “I’m trying to get approval for a fence for my younger siblings.”

“And Miss High and Mighty said no, did she?” The old woman lifted the glasses from her chest, where they dangled like a necklace. “You know, she tried to tell me I couldn’t have azaleas up front. Azaleas! Who ever heard of azaleas being an issue?”

“I think they’re lovely.”

“Well, of course they are.” The woman took the pen and paper from Chastity’s outstretched hand. “I had to hire a gardener in order to get
approval
. That woman needs a job, or a hobby, or something.”

Chastity smothered a laugh while the woman signed
Mrs. Corrine A. Kostler
on the form and held it out.

“You might as well skip the Hinkeys.” Mrs. Kostler pointed toward a red brick colonial that sat kitty-corner from her house. “They do whatever
Justine
says. Edward files complaints on me right regularly. You just wait until he wants me to sign a form. Ha!”

Wisely, Chastity made a mental note to never anger Mrs. Kostler—and to invite her to tea.
Maybe even a human meal.
The food humans ate was peculiar, but there were things that Chastity could stomach.
The littles would have to eat early, but we could work it out.

“Did you want something else?” Mrs. Kostler prompted.

“No, ma’am.”

The old woman took her glasses off, smiled, and announced, “You’re not half as weird as Justine said you were, girl. I should’ve known. Go talk to the others. Not the Hinkeys, mind, but the Valdezes and the Johanssons are decent enough.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Chastity nodded. She paused. “Thank you.”

“Don’t step in the grass this time. I have a sidewalk for a reason.” Mrs. Kostler scowled. “Bring those children for cookies some afternoon.”

Then she closed the door before Chastity could reply.

Like Mrs. Kostler, the rest of the neighbors seemed friendly. They looked at the signatures on the form, made a few comments—mostly polite small talk, but more than a couple bitter remarks about Justine—and signed. After the fourth house, Chastity figured she might as well keep knocking. More signatures couldn’t hurt her case.

WHEN ALISON ARRIVED
at the builder’s office the next day, she was reassured. She had been discreet in her inquiries.
Chastity isn’t the only one with a plan.
Once she’d narrowed in on the builders in the area with the sort of specialization skills they required, the choice was immediately clear. Damek Vaduva had achieved an odd, almost cultish following for his designs, but he also provided the more traditional building skill she needed. Unfortunately, his reputation for design made it near impossible to get a meeting, so Alison had to persuade the receptionist that she had, in fact, made an appointment but the poor dear had forgotten to enter it into the book.

What Chastity doesn’t know won’t hurt me.

Alison shook her head. “I can reschedule.”

“No, no. It’s my mistake, and Mr. Vaduva had a cancellation earlier, so he’s in. Maybe I told him, but didn’t add it in
my
book. I’ll go in and tell him,” the young woman murmured. Then she nodded to herself, apparently pleased that she’d resolved the dilemma satisfactorily.

“It’s not a problem if he’s busy, I can reschedule—”

“No, of course not!” The woman stood. “We were having such a lovely chat when you called that I must have forgotten.”

Alison didn’t know how much she could reorder the woman’s mind and Damek’s, so she glanced at the nameplate: DARLENE. Names helped.

“Since you’ve already told Mr. Vaduva I’m here, I will just wait out here for our appointment.” Alison motioned to the overstuffed burgundy leather chair in the corner. “You go on to your lunch, Darlene.”

The receptionist frowned briefly as her mind tried to assimilate the revision of reality that Alison was forcing on her. Then, she nodded, picked up her purse, and came around the front of the desk. “That does make sense, doesn’t it?”

“It’s always lovely to talk to you, Darlene . . . Goodness, it feels funny to call you that whole name after the things we’ve discussed.” Alison leaned close enough that Darlene’s little human heart pitter-pattered like a bunny on speed. “You will tell me if you decide to be more than, well,
curious
. Won’t you, Dar?”

For a moment, Alison wondered if she’d overtaxed the poor human girl. Judging how much reality alteration they could take was always tricky, and some biases were a bit more deeply seated than others.

Then Darlene tore a piece of paper, scribbled a number on it, and pressed it into Alison’s hand. “Oh, yes! It feels so liberating to even admit it.”

Alison almost laughed in joy. Humans could be so unexpected.
A relationship might be a fun way to mainstream.
Being a
Bori
meant that one had a regular need to be needed; most of that need was satisfied by adopting and raising a pair of young
Bori
the way the sisters had, but there was something very satisfying about being needed in other ways.

She reached out one hand as if to touch Darlene’s cheek. She held it there until the bunny heartbeat went from bunny-on-speed to bunny-on-speed-with-a-crack-chaser. Once Darlene seemed ready to burst with tension, Alison brushed her knuckles over the girl’s face. “Sweetie, you haven’t even
started
feeling liberated.”

Darlene blinked, but said nothing.

“Go on with you, Dar. I have work to do.” Alison shooed her out the door, admiring the way the girl added an extra sway of her hips.

Definitely worth pondering a relationship.

Once the door was closed, Alison walked over, flicked the lock, and took a moment to herself. Keeping the appearance of a human while exerting influence could be a tricky thing. Utilizing
influence
made a
Bori
’s eyes revert to their natural oblong shape which, sadly, tended to attract attention. It also had the strange result of making far too many humans unsettled even when they couldn’t see the
Bori
’s shifted appearance. For a young
Bori
, exerting
influence
precipitated a form shift. Typically, for most older
Bori
, only the eyes changed, but there was always the chance of a more complete shift—and explaining why there was a wolf or an enormous bird where a human had just stood could be awkward. Alison hadn’t slipped in years, but she did try to adhere to Chastity’s insistence on mainstreaming, enough so that these little sessions were all the more exhilarating for their rarity.

Unnecessary if we just moved home where we belong.

However, the unfortunate truth was that Chastity was right: the littles were growing up in a world where global awareness had changed everything. So few places were truly sequestered, and by the time the littles were on their own, Alison couldn’t imagine how the world would’ve changed.

A century from now, they’ll
need
to be able to assimilate far more than they would be able to if we stayed away from the humans.

When the sisters were hatched centuries ago, it wasn’t so unpleasantly difficult to nestle away in a village or mountain. By the time they were ready to take mates and have young of their own, the telephone had changed things, but it was the Internet that really was ruining things. Her youngest nestmates would need all the tools she could provide if they were to survive in the future that loomed.