The unauthorizedreproduction or distributionof a copyrighted work isillegal. Criminal copyrightinfringement, includinginfringement withoutmonetarygain,isinvestigatedby theFBI and ispunishableby fines and federalimprisonment.

Please purchase onlyauthorized electronic editionsand do not participate in, orencourage, the electronicpiracy of copyrightedmaterials.Yoursupportoftheauthor’srightsisappreciated.

This book is a work of

fiction. Names, characters,places, and incidents are theproducts of the author’simagination or usedfictitiously.Any resemblance

to actual events, locales orpersons, living or dead, isentirelycoincidental.

ReanimatedReadz

Copyright©2015byRustyFischer

ISBN:978-1-61333-799-8CoverartbyTibbsDesigns

All rights reserved.

Exceptforuseinanyreview,thereproductionorutilizationof this work, in whole or in

part, in any form by anyelectronic, mechanical orother means now known orhereafter invented, isforbiddenwithout thewrittenpermissionofthepublisher.

PublishedbyDecadent

PublishingCompany,LLCLookforusonlineat:

www.decadentpublishing.com

ReanimatedReadz

By

RustyFischer

Includes:

Zombie,Interrupted

ProjectZPrivateEyeZ

TheZombieVoteMyBrother,MyZombie

ZombieInterruptedby

RustyFischer

~DEDICATION~

Tomywife,Martha;thebestreporterIknow!!

She picks a coffee shopevenafterItellherthesmellswillbeoverwhelmingforme.

I can smell the fresh-ground beans from a blockaway and kind of slow myroll to get used to it before Ievenstepinthedoor.

Well, I tend to walkprettyslowlyanyway.

I get there a little early,

but only because she’s solate.

It’s a few days afterHalloween and the specialsboard is already crammedwith festive holiday treats:pumpkin scones, harvestblend coffee, pecan tarts,mooseberrymocha.

I get something sweetand cold and squishy—acinnamonandhazelnutwhip-a-chino—and wait for itawkwardly, aware that most

oftheeyesintheroomareonme,asusual.

Thecountergirl isprettywith flawless skin and lookslike your typical collegefreshman.Shehasa tattooofa butterfly on her neck justabovehergreenbaristacollarand another in the web ofskin between her thumb andforefinger.

When she’s done, sheputs the frozen coffee drinkon the counter and backs

away cautiously. I shrug andtake my drink, tempted tolunge just to watch butterflygirl flinch. Bet she wouldn’tlooksoflawlessthen.

I sit in a corner booth,nearawindowbutawayfromthe few hipster couplespretending to stare at theircellphonesinsteadofme.

Even though I havePublic Zone clearance andit’s against the law todiscriminate against the

undead, thatdoesn’tstop lotsof folks from being nasty tomykind.

Whatever. It’s fine. I’musedtoitbynow.

Soft jazz music playsoverhead, somethinginstrumental and old withguitars,butstillvaguelycool.I watch the front door untilshearrives.

She’s in full-in reportermode, right down to thedistressed leather handbag

and beret. Yeah, you heardright:aberet.Shehasoneofthose sleek little voicerecorder things in her handsevenasshestandsinline.It’swhite, and she wields itproudly as if to say,Look atme, I’m gonna recordsomethinginaminute.

She ignores me,completely, while butterflygirlbehindthecountersmilesand gushes and says, I kid

younot,“Iloveyourberet.”Well, Julia’s always had

thateffectonpeople.They talk a little more,

like a couple of Cheer Clubspazzes, until butterfly girlhands over her coffee andJuliafinallycastshereyesonme.They’rebrownandcruel,andshedoesn’tsmile.

Shelooksatmyboothasif to say it’s not big enough,but she can’t complain sincea)shepickedtheplaceandb)

all the seats are pretty muchtablesfortwo.

“Hi, Julia,” I say,watching her flinch to hearthewaymynewvoicegrindsout her name. “What tookyousolong?”

“Huh?” she asks,annoyedthatI’dcallheronit,like my time is any lessvaluable than hers. “Oh, thebusranlate.”

I scoff. Julia?Onabus?Nothardly.

She sits just inside thebooth, one thigh off thecushion and foot pointedtoward the door.My back isagainst the window, armtossed lazily over the top ofthe booth, fingers pale at theendofmy turtleneck sweatersleeve.

She takes her timepullinganotebookoutof theleather bag, clicking and un-clickingabigpurplepenandrolling a breath mint around

hertongue.I rollmyeyes andmove

myhand, as if to get up andstormout. “Youknow, Julia,I’mdoingyouthefavorhere,right? Not the other wayaround?”

Her eyes get big but shedoesn’t budge, at least notuntil I shiftmyfootandstartto inch out of the booth forreal.

She nods and says,“Okay, okay, I’m ready.

Just…letmepush thisbuttonhereand…go.”

She points the sleekwhite recorder in mydirectionandstaresatme.

“Would you like to askmeaquestion first?” I grunt.“Or should I just do all theworkforyou?”

She looks down at hernotebook and nods again.“What’s your name, for therecord?”

I snort and say,

“ReginaldArcherAddison.”She rolls her eyes

dismissively. “I meant yourzombiename.”

I grit my teeth a little;she already knows all this.“Reggie4.”

“What’s the four standfor?”

“Itmeans I’m the fourthzombie named ‘Reggie’ inCalumet County, is what itmeans.”

“IsthereaReggie5?”

“Notyet.”Isigh,peeringoutthewindow.

It’s late afternoon, butthis timeofyear, that’scloseto early evening. Traffic islight in this neighborhood.She chose the café acrosstownsonobodywouldseeussittingtogether.

Across the tree-linedstreet, there is a yoga studio,a pita place, and a cupcakebakery called Mama’sMuffins. There are random

cars parked atmeters up anddown Blythe Boulevard, andoneblackvan.

“Reggie?” she asks,waving the white voicerecorder in my face. “Comebacktoearth.”

There is an urgency inhervoicethatgrates,asifshecan’t stand me lookinganywherebutather.

It was the same waywhen we were dating, onceupon a time.We had to stop

going tomovies because shegot tweaked if I, you know,wanted to see what JasonBourne or Iron Man orCaptain America wereactuallydoing.

I sigh and turn back toher,notsurewhyIagreed toallthis.

“Well, ask betterquestions,” I blurt. “Youcouldhavegottenallthiscrapoff the ReanimationRelocationwebsite,Julia.”

She makes that fakesmile of hers and says,“Yeah, but this way I get tosay I interviewed a realzombie,youknow?”

I flinch; she ignores it. Iremind her, “You know weprefer the term ‘craniallychallenged,’Julia.”

“Yeah, like the HillcrestHighGazetteisgoingtoprintthat.”

I cock my head, feeling

the tendons tighten aroundmy throat. “Are you surethey’re going to print any ofthis? I mean, just becausethey let me back into schooldoesn’tmeanthey’regoingtolet you write about me. Andeven if they do, they maywant to wait until myprobationary period is overnextmonth.”

She givesme her know-it-all face and waves awaymy self-doubt. “I’m Editor-

in-Chief. They have to printit.”

Before I can ask “Printwhat?” she settles back intotheboothandgetsapredatorygleaminhereye.

“So, Reggie, take meback to that night.Whatwasit like to lose your wholefamilyandsurvive?”

Iglowerather,clenchingmy fists atop the tiny blacktable. I take a sip of myfrothy,sugarydrinktoputmy

rage on pause.My counselorat the Relocation Camp saysI’m going to have problemswithragecontrolforthenextfew months. I guess this isoneofthosetimes.

The sugar helps a little.We can’t eat human foodanymore since we can’tdigest stuff in our deadstomachs, but for somereason straight sugar—and alittle caffeine never hurts—makesmefeellessdead.

“You said we weren’tgoing to talk about that,” Iremindher.“That’sthewholereasonIdecidedtodothis inthe first place. You said itwould just be a ‘fluff piece’about what it’s like to eat ahumanbrainorneverhavetosleep again. You said itwould help you get an A inJournalism this semester,maybeevenhelpyougetintoState next year. Now you’repulling this? That’s the

thanksIget?”She waves her hand in

my face. “Like you said,Reggie, I can get all that offthe website. What I want toknow, what other kids wantto know, is what happenedthatnight.”

I peg her with my eyesand squint a little. I’vepracticed the look in themirror at the RelocationCenter, so I know that withmy black eyes and the

furrowed brow, it’s prettyintense.

Most mortal chickswould be quaking in theirberets.

Julia?Nothing.Notsomuchas

aflinch.I guess I forgot how

heartless she is. I thought Iremembered from the wayshebrokeupwithme.Iguessnot.

I guess I wanted to

forget. I guess that’s the realreason I’m here. Not to helphergetherstorypublishedorhave another “clip” for hercollege applications or evenextracredit inherJournalismclass.

Afterallthat’shappened,after how cruel she’s been, IguessIjustwantedtositwithher again, together, like theold days. In a coffee shop,staring at her eyes, thecheekbones Iwould kiss, the

lipsthatmadememelt.She’swaitingonme,and

I’m angry now, so I tell hertheunpolishedversion. “Youwanna knowwhat happened,Julia?Nowyouwannaknow?I’mjustsaying,whenIfoundout what I was, when thetown found out, and I wokeup in the Relocation Campwith the rest of the zombies,you never once asked aboutwhat happened then. Ofcourse, you would have had

tocomeseemetoaskme,butsinceyoudidn’t, here’swhathappened: I’m in my room,texting you, probably,listening to music, when Ihear some grumblingdownstairs. I don’t thinkmuch of it. I figure it’s theneighbor’s dog. But it’s not.It’s the neighbor, Mr. Croft,growling like a dog. And Isee, in his eyes, in his walk,all the things they tellyou tolook for in a zombie: the

shufflingwalk, thegrayskin,the dead eyes. Oh, and thehuman elbow in his mouthdidn’thurt.

“So I yell down to Dad,to tell him to bolt the doorand call the Zombie ReliefSquad before Mr. Croft cangetin,butit’stoolate.Bythetime I get downstairs he’salready in, chomping on mymom,Dad lying in apoolofhis own blood, foot stilljerking.

“I go to help him and,well, I don’t know who bitme. Mr. Croft, or my mom,maybe even my dad. Butwhen I turned, when thehunger came over me, I stillhad enough ofme left inmetogetrevenge.Itookonebiteout of Mr. Croft, and didn’tstop until he was in pieces,lyingontheflooratmyfeet.Idid, Julia. I ripped that dudeapart.After that,my eyes godarkandthat’sthelastthingI

remember before waking upinQuarantine.”

Julia issmiling that littleself-satisfied smile again. Ishake my head. “Don’t youwant to hear what happenednext? About my first bite ofhuman brain? About life inthe camps? About what it’slike to live amongahundredzombies? I thought that’swhatyou—”

She smirks, clicking offthe little white recorder.

“Nope.IgotwhatIwanted.”“Whichiswhat,thegory

details?”“No,yourconfession.”Ipause,alittleroadflare

ofrageswellingupinsidemychest.

“W-w-what confession?”Istammer.

“Justnow,whenyoutoldmewhatreallyhappenedthatnight.”

Whatreallyhappened?

Isitback,alittlestunned.Whatissheonabout?

She opens her leathersack and pulls out a file. Irecognize it from the Camp.We each have one, all thenewzombies.“Inhereitsaysyoudidn’tretaliatethatnight,that you didn’t bite anyoneelse. The neighbor’s deathwas put down as‘undetermined,’butjustnow,ontape,yousaid,andIquote,you ‘ripped that dude apart.’

So,myjobisdone.”“Job?”Iask.Andthat’swhenIstopto

look around the café. It’sempty.Allthecoupleswho’dbeen sitting there, textingeach other when I arrived,gone. Butterfly girl: gone.Her assistant manager, theonewiththegoatee:gone.

I turn to find Juliastanding, file in her bag, bagon her shoulder, smile widerthanever.

“Bye, Reggie,” she sayswithalittlewaveofhershort,stubby fingers. “I won’t beseeing you around schoolanymore, I guess. After all,with your confession, you’llbe expunged from theRelocation Camp and takento the National Center forViolentOffen—”

“Why?” I ask, standingup.

There ismovement frombehindthecounterandoutof

thecornerofmyeyeIspotaRelocator, clad all in black,carrying one of those longmetalpoleswithaleashattheend, like the dog catchersusedto.

That is, before thezombiesateallthedogs.

I inchcloserandanotherone emerges from thebathroom, this time with astungun.

She holds up a hand tostillthemandlooksupatme,

eyes like slits and mouthpinched with revulsion.“Why, Reggie?Why do youthink?Igotosleeponenightwith a boyfriend, the nextmorning I hear he’s a…a…zombie?Iknowsomekidsatschool think it’s cool youhave no heartbeat and eatbrains for lunch, and I knowit’s all legal ever since theReanimation Act of 2014. Iknow you’re supposed to be‘safe’ once your brain intake

is regulated by thegovernment, but let’s face it—you’re gross, Reggie. Anabominationand,frankly,I’mtired of looking at you. Thisway,you’regone,donefor.Inever have to see you again.Nobodyeverdoes.”

She starts towalk away.Her shoes squeak on theemptycafétiles.

I turn. The twoRelocators are now standingnext to each other, eager for

the takedown. I look pastthem to find a third teammember stop Julia at thedoor,takethewhiterecorder,and escort her to thebackofthe black van that’s beenparked across the street thiswhole time. Probably todebrief her, get the storybeforetheylistentothetape,seeifitallmatchesup.

Good. That could begood.

I turn back to the

Relocators and hold out myhand.“Iguessyou’vegotme,then.”

The one with the dogleash smiles. “Reggie 4, youare hereby charged with onecountofviolentassaultwhilezombie,onecountoflyingtoRelocation Camp officialsand two counts of applyingforre-entrytoschoolonfalserecords.”

He steps forward and Istand,perfectlystill.

Theotherpicksupwherethe first left off. “You’ll betaken to the National Centerfor Violent Offenders andsentenced for your crimes.From there, you’ll be givenan Extermination Date andheld until such time.Do youunderstand the severity ofyourcrimes?”

I don’t answer. I don’tspeak. I watch. The noose isintheair,quiveringattheendof the long, metal pole. I’ve

watched them use it in theCamp, when a zombie goesrogue after falling off hisregular brain regimen. I’vealso watched the men whouse it. Whatever happens,they always go for the head,meaning they ignore thehands,andespeciallythefeet.

I wait until the noose isovermyheadbeforeducking,turningandkickingoutatthefirst Relocator’s knee; itsnaps with a sickening

thwack-crack-snap sound,sending him down to thegroundandhispoleclatteringbesidehim.

Ipickitupandpointitathis partner, who smilescockily. I know what he’sthinking. A Relocator with astungunbeatsazombiewitha leash around his neck anyday.

Okay, usually, but nottoday.Iswingthepoleathisstun gun, knocking it to the

floor. It clatters with adeadening weight, slidingharmlesslyunderthebarista’scounter and landing againstthe cappuccino machinestand.

I slip out of the nooseand turn it around,holding itby the rubber grip on thebusinessend.

Now he looks panicked,runningforthedoortogethispartner to help. I bring thenoose down over his neck,

yank on the handle, andtighten the clear plastic strapuntilhisfaceispinkandhe’slying, gasping, on the floornexttohisfriend.

I stand over them,grinning. I don’t know whytheyalways sendhumans forthis kind of thing. Theyshould train zombies to dothis instead. It’d be a muchfairerfight.Butthen,whatdothe humans know? They’veonly had a few years to deal

with us, ever since that firstoutbreakin2014.

It will take time, Isuppose,until theyfigureoutthatcampsandexterminationareonlydrivingus—zombiesandhumans, Imean—furtherandfurtherapart.

Istepbehind thecounterand reach down for the stungun. I’ve never held onebefore, though I see themused often enough in theCamp.

I turn back to the menandlookdownatthem.

They squirm, but don’ttrytorunanymore.

“Did she know?” I ask,cocking my head in thegeneraldirectionoftheblackvan still parked across thestreet.

The one with the leasharound his throat looksconfused. It could be fromlackofoxygen.Irollmyeyesandloosenit,justalittle.But

evenafterIdo,hestillseemsclueless.Who knows,maybethey’re not used to zombiesfightingback.

Maybetheyshouldbe.I glance at the other one

andask,“Didsheknow?Thegirl?”

“Aboutwhat?”hespits.“About the

Extermination?DidsheknowI’dbeputtodeath?”

“Did she know?” Hechuckles. “She wanted it in

writingbeforeshesetup thisinterview.”

My fingers clutch tightaroundthestungunasIheadtowardthedoor.

Ihearscramblingbehindme,morechucklingandthen,“I don’t know what you didto her, pal, but it must havebeensomething.Shecame tous, Reggie 4. They never dothat.Shecametous—”

I turn back to find themhelping each other to their

feet.I smirk, take two steps

andstun them,both, twice inthebackof theneck.Iwatchthemdrop,onebyone,tothecold tile floors. I take thenoose off the one guy, pulltheir arms behind them, andreplace it around all four oftheir hands, cinching it tightbutnottootight.

I should have done thatfrom the very beginning. Idon’t know what I was

thinking. I guess I wasn’tthinking; I guess I was justacting. I’ll have to be morecarefulfromnowon.

I study them for asecond.Theybothwearbeltsaround theirwaists, and littlepouches hold cans of mace,theotherone’sstungun,andknives. No radios, no cellphones. I stand back up andsmile.

AsI turn to leave, Ispotsomethingshinyonthefloor.

Keys.Nice.Islip thestunguninmy

back pocket, twirl the keysaround one ice-cold finger,andwalkfromthecafé.Thereisacrowdaroundthecorner,and they gaspwhen they seeme, but nobody doesanything. They just standbehind the wooden barrierandgawk.

Iseebutterflygirloutofthe corner of my eye and

she’s smiling, wickedly, likemaybe I’m not so bad afterall.

I smirk and turn towardthe black van. I look leftwhile crossing the street,waiting for a second teamofRelocators to speed aroundthecorneratanymoment.Sofar,sogood.

Iturntomyrightandit’sthe same deal. Nothing andnobody.Atleast,notyet.

Iwalk up to the back of

the van. There are twowindows, both tinted, but Ican see through them in theearlyeveningtwilight.Inside,Julia is seated on a kind ofmetalbenchboltedtothesidewall of the van.Across fromher, clueless, the thirdRelocator asks her questionsand takes notes in a pad thatlooks a lot like the one fromhermessengerbag.

I nod and look down.There is a knob on the left

van door. I reach out andtwist it, tight, then tighter,until it snaps off and leavesthe door practically weldedshut.

There is movementinsideandasthevanrockstoand fro, I watch Julia’s facewhile the third Relocatorrushes to the door, frantic toopen it. He shoves andbudges and launches hisbroad shoulder into the doorpanel.Nothing.

I smile, letting Julia seemesmile.

I open the driver’s sidedoor,slidein,andlookintherearview mirror. There isheavy wire grating betweenme and Julia, the kind you’dsee inacopcar,only twoorthreetimesthicker.

Sweet.The engine turns over

smoothly, and I pull awaybefore the crowd can react.The wheels are big and fat

and make short work ofdowntowntrafficasItaketheexit going north and hit thefreewaydoingeighty.

The nearest RelocationCamp is twenty miles in theopposite direction. If I cankeepthispace,atleastforthenext hour or so, I can reachthe Free Zone, where theRelocators have no say andthezombielawsdon’tapply.

Ofcourse,that’sbecauseno humans live there, but by

the time we arrive, it’ll beokay. There will be nohumans in the van tocomplicatematters.

The grate behind me issteel, but mesh. I can hearJulia plotting with the otherRelocator, cursing himbecause the only radio is upfront,whichremindsme.

Ifindit,gripit,andyankitfromthedashboard.Itridesshotgun,nexttothestungun,just in case my two

passengers start any funnybusiness. I drive and drive,andkeepmyeyesopen forarest stop, someplace withquick off and easy-back-onaccess where I can stop thevan,yankopenthebackdoor,andbiteacoupleofscumbagsbeforeIgettotheFreeZone.

Then again, I could justshow up with them in theback, and let the zombies dotheir worst. The thoughtmakesmesmile,andIcruise

onitawhilelonger.Eitherway,it’snicetobe

in the driver’s seat for achange. And I wonder, afterso long in the Camp, how itwill feel to live without barsfromnowon.

I’m thinking, probablyprettygood.

I smell Julia’s breathbefore I hear her speak. It’slikewarmcoffeeonthebackofmy neck. “Theymademedoit,”sheblathers,gratingin

my ear. “The Relocators, Imean. They never believedyou,notfromthe—”

“The less you talk,” Iinterrupt, “the longer youlive.”

“Seriously, Reggie. Youknow I’d never do that toyou,to…us.”

“Like I said, Julia. Talkless,livelonger.”

“W-w-what are yougoingtodo,Reggie?”

I look up into the

rearviewmirror.Hereyesarelike brown beacons beamingout of the dark recessesbehindthewire.“Youwanteda story, right, Julia? I’mgoing to give you one. Yougettodecidewhetherithasahappyendingornot.”

She slides back in thedark, mouth quivering,unsure.

But that’s a lie. I’vealready seen the sign for theMount Crestview rest stop,

twentymilesup.It’sjustdarkenough now; I can pull off,do the deed and get back onthe highway without losingtoomuchtime.

Iwonder,idly,asIdrivethrough the night, if Julia’seyes will still look as coldwhenshe’sundead.

I mean, they couldn’tlookanycolder….

***

The exit is empty thistimeofnight.Anhourearlierand it would have beencrawling with rush-hourtraffic,andanhourfromnow,it will be steady with folksstopping off for a quick cupofcoffeefromtheautomatedvendingmachines.

Fornow,notsomuch.I cruise around behind

the building, by the picnictables, and back the van inbehindaclusteroftrees.You

can see it, if you’re closeenough, but not until you’reright on top. I can hear Juliawhispering to the thirdRelocator, her voice low andurgent.

I ignore her and turn offthevan.

“Hey,” I grunt throughthe mesh wire grate. “Hey,you,comehere.”

Julia looks at theRelocator as if to say,impatiently, “He’s talking to

you.”He inches forward,

uncertain. I wave him closerin.

“Closer,” I say, voicelow.“Iwant toaskyouwhattodoabouther—”

He’s taken the bait. Theminute hegets close enough,hisear to thegrate, I jamthestun gun into the wire andsendajoltofcurrent throughhis brain. He slumps to thefloor and before I can let

Julia’s screamsdistractme, Ileap from the driver’s seatand sprint to the back of thevan.

It’s shaking. I can hearher in there, feel her,panicking.That’sgood.Iwaituntil her anxiety has reacheda fever pitch before yankingopen the back door, wincingas the twisted metal scrapesagainst itself before finallyswingingopen.

She is standing, mid-

stride,eyeswideashubcaps.“No,Reggie,no!”There is real fear in her

voice.Itmaybetheonlyrealthingabouther.Idon’twastetime or prolong her pain.Hard as I hate her, it’s notworth it. Her skin is softbeneath my teeth and herblood,soyoung,soalive,fillsmycellswithlifeofitsown.

I have to stop myself,physically, after only a fewbites, otherwise I’d devour

her. It’s almost too good tostop.

She slumps, soaked inher own blood, in the cornerof thevan.Iusethickplasticstrips from the Relocator’sbelt to tie his hands behindhisbackandleavehimbe.

For now. It takes a fewminutes for Julia’s body toreboot,forhercellstodieoffandberebornintosomethingdead, but different. Shecomes to with a snort, her

eyes already dark, her soulcooling.

She blinks at me withrecognition, then disinterest.I’m not what she wants. Atleast, not yet. I watch hernostrilsflareasshesniffsoutthe human meat. She lookstoward me, as if forpermission,andwhenImakeno move to stop her, shebeginsgnawingontheyoungman’shead.

Forget the fact that he’s

wearingablackballcap.Shechewsrightthroughthatuntilshe reaches flat skull. Thenshe chews through that aswell.Iwinceandstepoutsidethe van, shutting the doorover but still hearing thesound of my ex-girlfriendchowing on the poorRelocator’sbrain.

She steps from the backof the van a few minuteslater, still wiping the gorefrom her chin. She is settled

now; she’ll be fine.Even so,the stun gun is behind myback,justincase.

She eyes me warily,porcelain skin dotted withflecks of blood and brainstemjuice.Shelooksprettier,withthosedarkeyes.

“I guess I deserve this,”she grumbles. Her voice isgrayandgrim.

I smile.Nowshe soundslike me, like all of us. “I’dsay we’re even,” I grumble

back,pocketingthestungun.I bend down to tighten

my shoelaces. When I lookup, she hasn’t moved. Ifinish, stand, and walk pastthevan.

“Where are you going?”she asks, the hint ofdesperationinherthroat.

“I’m going to startwalking toward the FreeZone. It’s just over that hill,giveortakeafewmiles.”

“W-w-what about me?”

sheasks,butIcantellbythecrunch of gravel that she’sfollowingme.

“LikeIsaid,Julia.We’reeven.Youdowhatyouwantfromnowon.Ijustwantedtomakesureyouwouldn’tdoitwithapulse.”

The grass of the picnicarea crunches beneath myfeet, and keeps crunchingeven when I pause to tear athin branch off the nearesttree.

I use the branch as awalking stick and strike outfor the Free Zone. Shefollows, not closely, but justto my left. I smile. Maybethat’s all I wanted, after all.To get, to have Julia back. Iwouldhaveneverbittenherifshe’dplayednice,butmaybeinthebackofmymind,whenshe called to interviewme, Iknewshewouldn’tbenice.

Maybe,thewholetime,Iknew she would do this to

me.And IknewIcouldbeather, for once, at her owngame.

And Iknew that,when Idid,we’dbetogetherforever.

And now we are, forbetterorworse.

AndI’mgladshe’sjustalittlebehindandtotheleft,soshe won’t see me smile forthe first time sinceMr.Croftshowed up at my family’sdoor….

ProjectZ

AReanimatedReadzStoryBy

RustyFischer

There are three cages.Cage 1,Cage 2, andCage…well,youfigureitout.Cage1is full of the rowdy, rough–and-tumble,realzombies.Wecall them theThugsbecause,well,that’showtheyact.

They’re still vaguelyhuman. They can talk,mostly, and dress themselves—thoughnotwell,judgingby

their tendency to wear theirshirts inside out, the tag infront, and read theinstructionsonacanofbrains—but you wouldn’t want tocrosstheirpathinthemiddleof the nightwithout being ina shark cage, let’s just put itthatway.

Cage2hastheFugs.Wecall them that because well,they’re fugly. Most arehomeless, probably. Somejust got out of prison, more

than likely. Others areskanked-out, skeevy drugaddictsfreshoffthecorner.

Theypickthemuponthestreet, I suppose, clean ’emup, put ’em in the standardfug pajamas—thin and whitewith blue stripes—and stick’eminCage2.

Me? I’m in Cage 3.Wecall ourselves the Drugs,because that’s what we take:drugs.Idon’tknowwhattheyare, the drugs we take.

They’resupposedtostaveoffthe infection that wiped outthe rest of our town so wedon’t end up in Cage 1withtheThugs.

It means, okay,technically we’re still theliving dead but we’re moreliving than dead. Our heartsstill beat, a little—we stillhave to breathe, a little.Youcut us, we still bleed. Thedrugsaren’tsupposedtostopus from becoming full-

fledged zombies like theThugs,butjustdelayit.

I’m not sure how welltheywork.I’vebeenheretwoweeks, give or take, sinceFaraway Falls got infected,and I feel like crap frozenover. Look like it, too.There’snomirrorinthecagebutbackinmyroomthereis,and man, I’m waiting forHollywoodtocallmeupanyminute. We’re talking grayskin, black eyes, hollow

cheeks. I must have losttwenty pounds since I’vebeenhere.

Thebuzzerrings,andtheThugs go wild. That’s whatthey do, stupid Thugs.Shaking the bars of theircages, rattling the rest of ourbones, drooling andmewlingin that way they do becausetheyknowthatbloodisabouttobespilled.

Therearefourofthemintheir cage, each more

disgusting and depraved thanthe rest. I shudder to thinkthat, one day, I’ll be likethem,too.Butnotnow.NowI’m still conscious andcoherent and can at least putmyshirtonrightsidein.

And theFugs,well, theyjust kind of cower.Knowingwhat’s coming next. What’scoming?Me.I’mnext.IlookattherestoftheDrugsinthecage—kids like me, really.Classmates from my old

school: the jock, the actualthug,andtheGothchick.

We’ve been here,together, in this place,whatever it is, ever sinceourschool got overrun byzombies a few weeks ago.Whywesurvivedandnooneelse did, well, we’re stilltrying to figure that out. Nooneherewilltellus.

Theynodandstepaside.Myturn.

Imovetothefrontofthe

cage and clench, thenunclenchmyfists.I’mcoldinmy sweatpants and tank top,but wearing more doesn’tmake me any less cold. Thedoctor in charge here says itcomes from inside.No senseputting on clothes to covertheoutside.

Besides, I was always alittle “husky” before, so it’snice to wear a tank top andnot be self-conscious aboutmymoobsandbaby-fatbelly.

Now they’re all gone,replaced by lean, hardmuscle.

I roll my head aroundand listen to the tendonscrack in my neck; the Fugsshrink back in their cage.Technically, you’re notsupposedtomovebeyondthesquare in the middle of thewarehouse floor, the crookedonemadeoutofredtape,butIalwaysdrift a littlebitovertoward Cage 2 just to spook

theFugsasmidge.“Conner,” says Dr.

Creed,who’sinchargeofourcage.Shoot,he’sprettymuchinchargeofthiswholeplace.“Playnice.”

I chuckle, watching thenearestFugpeehispants.

Dr. Creed eyes mewarily. “You’re getting alittle too good at this,Conner,” he says, scratchinghis trademark goatee. “I’mgoingtohavetomoveyouin

withtheThugsifyougetanybetter.”

He winks. It’s an oldjoke. Nobody wants to be aThug,noteventheThugs.

“Maybe if you’d comeupwith amore humanewayof feeding us brains,” I say,bending over at the waist totouch my toes. I hear myspine crack with the effort.Youhavetobealert,afterall.SomeoftheseFugsareprettyfast. “I wouldn’t have to get

sogoodatthis.”Creed nods toward one

of the guards by Cage 1. “Ithink you like being good atthis, Conner. I think it suitsyou.”

Astheguardunlocksthecageandreachesin tograbaFug,IlookbackatCreed.Hetakesastepback.

“I think you’re right,” Igrowl.

IcansmelltheFug’sfearfrom the middle of the

square. He’s big, but greasyandfat.Partofthesmellisn’tjustfear,butthestreet.Sweatand urine and grease andsmoke and booze ooze fromhisporesashestumblesnexttotheguard,tryingtostayasclosetohimashecan—foraslongashecan.

Hispajamasareill-fittingand already yellowed underhismassivearmpits. Icrouchlowandwait.Thisguylookslike a runner. He blinks,

twice, sweat dripping downthefurrowsofhis—yep,therehegoes!

He tosses off the guardandplowsthroughDr.Creed,racing toward the massivewarehouse doors and kickingoffthecheapplasticflip-flopstheygavehimashegoes.

Hisbarefeetslapagainstthe cold concrete floor as hetries to make his escape,either forgetting or unawareofthehalf-dozenmoreguards

just outside the warehousedoor.

I take the shortcut, rightpast the Thugs’ cage, andcatch him just before hereachesthedoors.Notthathecould get out, anyway. Theyboltthemeverytimewehaveone of these cage matches,butstill.

Igrabhimbythemeatofhisrightarmandkickouthisleftleg.Helandsonhisbackwithasickeningthwunk-splat

as his fat head hits thewarehouse floor and splitswide open. The smell ofblood fills my nostrils andI’monhim,instantly.Iknowwe’re supposed to kill themfirst. That’s the humanewaytodoit,orsosaysDr.Creed.

ButI’mhungry.It’sbeentwodayssinceI’vefedandIcan smell his brain seepingthroughthecrackinthebackofhisskulllikethebulgeofatube inside a popped tire. I

kneelonhisneckand ignorehis greasy, fat hands as theytearatmytanktopandpoundonmyarms.

Ireachfortheholeinhisskullandpryonegrayfingerin,deeper,deeper,crackingitopenevenwiderandkneelingdownuntilmy teethcan findpurchaseinthethinbonethatstands between me anddinner.

Orisitlunch?Breakfast?They’ve blacked out all the

windowsinthewarehousesoit’s hard to tell. He squirmsbeneath me, punching,kicking, but I barely notice.Besides, as one of the near-dead,Ihardlyfeelthepainofhis fists in my neck or hiskneesinmyback.

The hole is bigger now,the one in his head. Myfingers and teeth do theirwork until at last I can tearaway a giant chunk of hisbrain, about the size of a

chickenwing,andgnawitasblood and clear liquid dripontohispajamashirt.

I watch as his eyes goglassy, a bloody bubbleforming between his thinlyparted lips as he chokes onone last word. One fistpoundsinvainonmylefthipas the bubble pops and hislids close and the word dieswithhim.Ichewmoreslowlynow, reaching in with twoexpertfingerstodraganeven

bigger chunk of brain outthroughtheraggedholeinhisskull.

Only when the Fug isdead, only when his brain issizzling on the tip of mytongue, its pure electricityfilling my cold, almost deadcells,doIheartheroarinthevastwarehouse.

It washes over me inwaves. The grunting andgroaning of the Fugs, theclanking of the bars as they

rattle them to and fro, thestamping of their feet. Theyyell at me, cursing me fortakingtheirfriend.

Ilookuptofacethethreecages.OnlytheDrugsIspendmost of my time with aresilent. They eye me warilyand I wonder, idly, if I lookquiteasbadasthem.

Chip Wailing, from myoldPEclass,withhisgreasy,deadcurlsandthecleftinhischin even sharper now that

he’s about twenty poundslighterasanearzombie, stillwears his letterman’s jacket,thoughnowthewhitesleevesare stained with blood fromhisowncagematchesthelastfewweeks.

GarrettEvans,theschoolthug, looking even morethuggish now with hishaunted eyes and sunkencheeks and wary, angryexpression as he paces, backandforth,inthecornerofthe

cage.Angela Chase, that

smartass Goth from thewrongsideofthetracks.

They all linger now,hollow-eyed and hungrybehind the cage bars,watchinganxiouslyas Iwipebrain juice from my scruffychin.

Theguardsarecirclinginaround me now, eager tocontrolme,tocorralme,withtheir cattle prods. The ones

with the electrified ends.They use them to keep us inline,buttheyonlyneedtousethem once. One shock withthat thing, and I’ll go wherethey tell me from here toeternity.

Creed waves them offbefore they guide me backinto my cage and says,“Conner,Ithinkit’stimeyoucomewithme.”

I look at his soiled labcoat and vague expression

andask,“W-w-what?Why?”Usually we just go back

to our cages and, once theFugsandtheThugsaregone,they let us out sowe can gobacktoourrooms,whicharereallyjust thesecubicleareaswithsleepingbagsandbuild-them-yourselfbookshelves.

“It’stime,Conner.”I’m following him past

the other cages, careful toavoid the arms of the Thugsas they reach out with their

raggedclawsandemptyeyes.Butevenso,theydon’treacheagerly,asifImightturnmyhalf-zombierageonthemandtear an arm off and yank itthrough thebars.AsIpass, Iflick a glance at the Drugscage, noticing how the otherhalf-humans have inchedtowardmy side to watchmego.

I know they don’t care,per se. It’snot exactly aswewere friends before the

infestation, and we haven’texactly gotten chummy sincebeing caged together for thelastfewweeks.No,theywanttoknowwhathappens tomeso theycanfigureoutwhat’sgoingtohappentothem.

Creedisthickandstockyinhislabcoat,whichisasizetoo small to begin with. Hissneakers, too white, squeakon the cold, cement floor ofthe warehouse. We walkthroughthedoubledoorsand,

insteadof turning left towardtheoldstorageareawhereourcubiclesare,turnrighttowarda suite of cheap, plywoodoffice doors I’ve never seenbefore.

Creed opens one andbeckons me inside. Before Ifollowhimin,Iturntowatchhalf a dozen guards stationthemselves outside the door.Figures.Evenwithastungunin each pocket and awalkie-talkie on his belt, Dr. Creed

never has liked being alonewithanyofus.

Thespaceisaconferenceroom of some sorts, withcheappanelwallsandalong,ovaltableinthemiddleoftheroom.Near as I can tell, thiswas some kind of sportinggoods factory, once upon atime. Before sitting down,Creedwalkstowardacamerainthecorneroftheroomandfiddleswithituntilaredlightglowsover theeyepieceand

he’ssureit’scenteredonme.Thenhesitsdownacross

fromthechairI’vechosen.Creedisinhisfifties,fat

and balding, but solid, likemaybe he could do somedamage if he had to. I neverthought of things that waybefore, but ever sincecatchingtheZ-disease,Ithinkofeverythingthatway.Couldhekillme?CouldIkillhim?

Hisfaceisalwaysred,orat leastreddish,andit’seven

moresonow.“What’s that for?” I ask,

nodding toward the camerawhiletryingnottostareatthestungunhe’sploppedon thetableinfrontofhim.

“The government wantsme to tape this,” he sighs,fixinghisthinninghair.

“What government?Wantstotapewhat?Why?”Igrunt, vocal chords dyingeven as Iwaste a few ofmylast heartbeats getting ticked

off at Creed and his stupidantics.

“This is their study,Conner,”hesaysbreathlessly,as if he’s just happy to be apartofsomethingbiggerthanhimself. “They want proofthatit’sworking.”

Iinchforwardandpoundmyfistonthetable.Bigasitis, it’scheapand flimsy, liketheroom,likethewarehouse,likethepanelingonthewalls,like Creed’s cardboard-stiff

labcoat.“That. What’s.

Working?” I grunt,announcing every word witha thrash of my yellowingteeth and another pound onthetable.

Subtly, achingly slowly,the stun gun vibrates a littlecloser to me with each fistpound.

“That Project Z isworking,ofcourse,”he says,eyeing me intently. So

intently even I forget aboutthestungunforablip.

BeforeIcanask,heleansback in his desk chair andsays, with satisfaction, “Letme break it down for you,kid. That infestation a fewweeks back? Neverhappened.”

Hiswordsfreezeinmid-air so it’s almost like I canwatchthemfallandcrashmyworld. He extends the pauseby picking something from

histeeth.Uncomfortably, I let my

mindflickerbacktothatfirstday. I remember sitting inChorus, themood electric asthemonitoratthefrontoftheroom flickered to life andscenesoftheinfestationfilledthe screen. We all watched,aware that the time formorning announcements waslongover.Thescreenseemedblood-drenched, or at leastthe streets did. Empty-eyed

monsters lurched everforward, chewing on ourneighbors’ limbs. Then animageofthenewsannouncer,screaming, as zombies atehiminfrontofoureyes.

Theteacher,cuttingitoffinstantly,corralledusall intothe gym. Names were calledone after the other over theloudspeakers as kids left andnever came back. Notalphabetically,butconstantly,untilonlyadozenorsoofus

remained.A van came for us then.

It was big and gray. Theschool nurse said one word,“Containment,” as if thatexplained everything. As ifwe needed to be contained.But I felt good or, at least,regular.LikeIalwaysfelt.

I looked around themotley crew and wondered,“Whyus?”

But I couldn’t wonderlong. The van came, men in

whitecoats,Dr.Creedout infront, big and burly andsnapping that stungun.Theybundledusupinthebackandthe minute stupid ChipWailingaskedwhereweweregoing, out come thehypodermic needles. We allgot stuck and that’s the lastthing I remember. Until Iwokeuphere.

“B-b-but I saw it,” Istammer, inching forward inmy chair just a smidge. “I

watched it happen, on TVthatmorning.Wealldid,andthen…andthen….”

Creed smiles as thepossibilities, the alternaterealities, continue to washovermeinwaves.“Andthenwhat,Conner?”

He’s leaning back so farin his chair now, he’s sosatisfied with himself, thestungun iscloser tome thanit is to him. Iwant it, badly.Want to stun the life out of

him,ifthat’sevenpossible—andsurelyitis.

Butmyneedtoknowthetruth, at least for now, issuddenly stronger than myneedtokill.

“The infestation? Yousaid,yous-s-said,youtoldusitkilledeverybody,wipedoutthe whole town of FarawayFalls. Thatwewere the onlysurvivors….”

As I’m talking, hereachesoverandgrabsablue

plastic binder off thebookshelf behind him. It’sthickandeven in thebriefestof moments before he opensit, I can see these wordsprinted in white on the frontcover: PROJECT Z. HighestClearance. InstructorProtocolforHandlingUnrulyParticipants.

“It was all in the script,Conner,” he says, grinning,shaking his head, caressing

the pages of the big, fatnotebookfondlyasifperhapshe’dwrittenwaswhatprintedthere himself. “We tell youthe whole town is infested,getyouhereforafewweeks,isolateyou, feedyounothingand let you out of the cageswith a couple of homelessbums, then see whathappens.”

My stomach feelswarm,warmer than it has inweeks.My head spins, bile rising in

my throat as blood, maybeeven the last of it, pounds inmy ears. I swallow back thewarm juices in my throat,literally, just so I can hearwhatcomesoutofhismouthnext.

Creed looks past me,either not seeing or justignoring the sweat that’spopped out on my forehead,thegurglinginmythroat,thegreenpallorofmywaxyskin.

“The funny thing is,” he

goeson,clueless,“whentheytoldmewhathadhappenedinpast studies, in other townswherethey’dtriedoutProjectZ, I called BS on the wholething. ‘No way,’ I said. ‘Noway are you going to getyoung, sane, red-bloodedAmerican kids to eat eachother just because you tellthemthey’rezombies.’”

He looks at me, disgustslathered all over his fat, redface. “Guess the joke’s on

me,huh,Conner?”“But thedrugs,” I croak.

“Theinjectionstwiceaday?”“Placebos, Conner.

Sugar-watermixedwithsomeantidepressants to slow yourblood pressure and a healthydose of diuretics to shedwater weight. How else doyou think you lose twentypounds in a couple ofweeks?”

“Theteachers,”Isputter,bile sour on my lips, blood

pounding between my ears.“Our teachers, t-t-theyshowed us the video, thezombies,the—”

“We told them it was adrill,Conner. Ever since thatoutbreak over in GallupGorge, folks see zombiesaroundeverycorner.Wehadthem do the drill, loadeveryone in the cafeteria,called them back to theirclasses and that was that.Drillover.”

“But there were seven,eight of us in that van thatfirst day? You can’t just…just…kidnap eight kids andexpectnobodytonotice?”

“You weren’t just anyold kids,Conner,” he sneers.“Look at who we selected.You, with your dad drunkeverynightinthetrailerpark.You think, with his criminalrecord, he’s going to gorunning to the cops the firstnight you don’t come home?

And itwasn’t the first night,was it, Conner? You’relooking at nearly sixteenabsences this year alone,three suspensions. Heprobably just figures you’restayingwithafrienduntilthesemester’sover.”

Well, he’s got a pointthere. Fingers and thumbswould have to start showingup inourmailboxforDad tothink something was wrong.That is, if he’s checked the

mailinthelasttwoweeks.“Butthoseotherkids?”I

wail. “ChipWailing?Garrettand Angela? They’ve gotfolks, right? You can’t just—”

“Chip lives with hissingle mom and five otherkids, who all have files withthe local cops an inch thick.Chip does, too.We arrangedfor an officer to stop by andinform Chip’s mom he’d bespendingtheremainderofthe

semester in juvie. She didn’tlook too surprised. GarrettandAngela are both orphanswho stay over at theMeriwether Home forWayward Boys and Girls.Nobody’s come looking forthemand,chancesare,nooneever will. And by the timethey do, well, Project Z willbeover andnoonewill everfind them. Face it, kid. Thegovernment knows what it’sdoing.Thisain’tthefirsttime

they’ve tried out this littleexperiment.Ihearitwon’tbethelast.”

I look fromCreed to thecamera. The red light isstaring back at me,unblinking.BythetimeIturnbacktoCreed,he’s takenthestungunoffthetable.Igroanandslumpinmychair.

Whatever hope I had, ofthe drugs working, of being“rehabilitated,” as Creedcalled it, of getting out of

here, fade into mist. If thiswas all a setup, a joke, anexperiment, then thatmeans…I’malive. I’veneverbeen dead. Not even for aday,notevenforaminute.

“But the Thugs?” I biteout, suddenly inspired.“They’re zombies, right? Imean, the government can’tafford actors that good, canthey?”

“TheThugs,asyouguyscall them, are zombies. Real

zombies from the GallupGulch outbreak last year.They’re on loan from theDepartment of UndeadSecurity and, when thisexperimentisover, they’llbereturned to the DUS untilthey figure out where tolocate the next experiment,thenextProjectZ.”

“So there are zombiesthen?” I ask, almost…hopefully.

“Yeah,” he chuckles.

“There are. Imagine that.Only, you’re not one ofthem.”

“TheFugs?”He looks at me,

momentarily confused. Irealizehewouldn’tknowtheterm. It’s slang, our slang.“The homeless people youtold us to attack, for theirbrains?”

“They’re homeless, likeyou said. People like you.Peoplenobodywouldmiss if

one day they just…disappeared.”

“W-w-what will happentothem,now?”

He laughs. Bellows ismore like it. “Kid, I just toldyou you’re human, thatyou’ve been murderinginnocent civilians for overfourteen days and you’reworried about saving the lastfew stragglers? They’rekilling them, as we speak.ChipandGarrettandAngela.

“Andwhen they’re donewith their little meal, whenthey’vechewedupthelastofthe evidence, well that’swhen I’ll tell them the samething I’m telling you, andthenI’ll—”

Thebilecomes then,hotandgreen.Aprojectilestreamof brain chunks and bloodand shame covers Creed’sface like red-hot slime atsome theme park stage showand fills his mouth as he

sputtersinshock.Hestands,stumbles,falls

back over his chair and I’monhim,chewingandgnawingbefore he can wipe his eyescleanofmypuke.Thereisnotimeforstungunsorwalkie-talkies now, only my blind,driving rage. I bite a chunkout of his throat and feel theblood gush against my cold,gray skin. I bite off his ear,chomp on his bald spot andchew,chew,untilmyteethhit

bone.ThenIkeepchewing.Ifeedonhisbrains,Ieat

themdown to the stem, untilhis head is hollow and hiseyes are staring, wide andvacant,backupatme.Iwipemymouth, and tear open hislab coat, looking for keys,moreweapons,anything.

Underneath is a uniformwithabadge.Notatinbadge,butonesewnontothepocketof a navy blue shirt. It readsGuard,CulvertCountyJail.

Hewas no doctor at all,justa lackeywithagoatee. Ithought his brain tasteddumb! Now I know why. Itake the stun guns, one ineach hand, and walk towardtheconferenceroomdoor.

There are six guardsoutside, but they’re human. Iam too, I guess, but they’rereal human. Virgins,innocents. Meaning they’venever tasted brain, neverkilledaman,sofarasIknow.

And they’re notdesperate,likeme.

I open the door to findthem talking to one another,twoatatimeintheirassignedpairs. I stun the first two inthe neck, easy as pie. Theyslumptothefloorlikepinsinabowlingalley.

I even stun the thirdbefore he can react, but thefourth is too quick. As I’mextending the gun to zap hisneck,heknocks it outofmy

hand. It falls to the ground,clattering end over end onlime green floor tiles thatseemtogoonforever.

I ignore it and lunge forthe fourth guard, even as thefifth and sixth surround me.He is tall,butbonyandgoesdown fast. He scramblesaway from me on his back,usinghishands likeacrab. Ifollow as his boots kick out,hittingmyelbow,myfingers,as I finally grab hold of one

of his pant cuffs and yankhimontothetilesforgood.

I scramble on board,holding him down andclimbing onto his chest allknees and elbows as I reachfor his neck. I bite him, justout of habit, the taste ofCreed’sbloodstillonmylipsand he stops fighting,immediately.

“Stop,” he begs me,sputtering,kickinghislegstosquirm away. I let him and

slide to the floor as hescampers away. “Just…stopbiting me and you can go.Go, I don’t care. I just…don’t…wanttobelikeyou.”

Iwipemylipsandshakemy head and look upcautiously,waitingforabootfrom the fifth guard to cavemyheadinorthesixthguardto stun me senseless. Butthey’re both standing there,stock still, frozen in motion,just nodding their heads

towardtheirfriend.“Leave him be, kid,”

theysay,Southernaccentsasthick as their necks. “Justleaveusallbeandgodowhatyou’regonnado.Wejustdidwhatweweretold.”

Their talkmaybe tough,but their eyes are fearful andwide.OneflincheswhenIsitupalittletaller.

And that’s when Irealize: they don’t know.Creed, the government,

whoever, didn’t tell themabout Project Z. They stillthink I’m a zombie, a realzombie. I look down at mytank top, stained with blood,withpuke,spottedwithbraingore and no doubt, theybelieveI’mtheundead.

JustlikeIdid,untilaboutfiveminutesago.

Istandthen,kickingtheirfriend softly and gruntinghoarsely so my secret’s stillsafewithme.“Gethimoutof

here then. Go, before Ichangemymind.”

Iwatch them.Onegrabshisfriend,theothergrabshiskeys,thentheybothdraghimto the nearest door. Thewindowsareblackedout,justlike in the warehouse, butwhen he opens them I see ablue sky outside, andsunshine,andgreengrassandwoodsyshrubs.

They drag their friendoutside and one looks atme,

horrified,thengladdenedand,finally, triumphant. I wonderwhyuntil thedoorslamsandIhearthekeyturninthelock,shuttingmebackindarkness,lockingmeinside.

I frown and reach forCreed’s keys inside mypocket.They’restillthere.

The warehouse is silent,the inhabitants of the threecagesallstaringateachotheras they surround the grubbyred square in the middle of

thefloor.EventheThugsaremute, standing stock-still asthey watchme enter throughthe double doors. There arefourmoreguards inside.Thelastofthem,Isuppose.

They make a move fortheir stun guns and I stepforward, quickly, to showthemmine. “We can duke itout,” I growl, using my bestzombie voice, “or you canrun like your friends did.Don’tworry.Iwon’ttell.But

ifyoustay,justknowI’llbiteyoujusttowatchyoudie….”

They scurrypast, carefulto avoid me as they sprinttoward the doors. They lockthemafter theygo,but I justsmile.Atleasttheytriedtodotheirdutyuntilthebitterend.

Asfarastheyknow,theyhave locked me in. Thatshouldcountforsomething.

I let the Fugs out first,but theywon’t come. I don’tblame them. Their scared

eyes shrink in their headsuntil I step back, open thewarehouse doors and say,“You’re free. Go, now, anddon’tlookback.”

They still clamor inside,looking to one another. Ishrug and turn toward thenextcageover.ChipWailingwatches me warily, GarrettEvans picks his nose, andAngela Chase drums herfingersonthesteelbars.

“Tookyoulongenough,”

she says, voice as grim asmine.

“Yeah, where were youfor so long?” asks GarrettEvans,studyinghisbooger.

“EatingCreed’sbrain.” Iburp, opening the cage door.They eye it, and me,cautiously.

“Get out.Comeon, let’sgo,” I urge, yanking Angelaoutbythearm.

“Hey,” she shrieks,yankingitbackviolently.Ilet

her.“Whatgives,dude?”asks

Chip, hovering protectivelyaroundAngela.

“Theexperiment’sover,”Isay,eyeingtheThugs’cage.They sense something is up,something is changing, andwatchmewarily.

Myformercagematesallspeakatonce:

“Whatexperiment?”“Thehell?”“Experiment?”

“We’re not zombies,” Isay, fingering the key in myhand,theoneIknowfitsintothelockthatkeepstheThugsin—and me out. “We neverwere.That’swhatCreedtookme away to tell me. That’swhatwe’ve been doing here,for two weeks—proving tothegovernment that realkidswillkill forbrains ifyoujusttellthemthey’rezombiesandkeep them hungry for longenough.”

“But the drugs,” Angelasays. “The infestation. Wesaw—”

“Look!” I shout, cuttingher off. Her eyes, alreadybleak, look positivelywounded. “I’m sorry, butwedon’t have a lot of time. Ifyou don’t believe me, headout those doors, turn to theleft and replay the video inthe conference room. You’llseeallyouneedtoknow,andthensome.”

Chip looks atme, at theother two, then splits,sneakerssqueakingasherunsout the warehouse doors anddown the long, greenhallway. Garrett looksuncertainly at Angela, whostill looks at me. Then hefollowsChip.

I can hear their shoes astheyslaponthegreentilethatleadstotheconferenceroom,thedoor swingingopen, thenI hear Chip going, “Gross,”

probably as he spies Creed’sbodyonthefloor.

“Go,” I say, sliding thekeyintotheThugscage.“Getout of here, before it’s toolate.”

“W-w-what about you?”she asks, watching me as Ipausewiththekeystillinthelock.

“I’veactedlikeazombiefor two weeks, Angela. I’vekilled, I dunno, six, sevenpeople? I’m basically a

cannibal now. I can’t justwalk outside and go backhomeandstartplayingXboxagain,youknow?Ican’t justtellmystory to reportersandwriteatell-allbookandmakea million. I’m a murderer, akiller.I—”

“But it wasn’t yourfault,” she says. “Theytricked us, right? So, so, Imean….”

Then her voice trails offasithitsher,allofit,allofa

sudden. The brains, thebodies, the people we called“Fugs” just tomake it easierto kill them. What we’vedone,howwe’vedoneit,whowe’ve done it to. how muchwe’ve…enjoyed…it.

Asher face crumples, asshedrops toherknees, I slipinsidetheThugs’cage,lockitfrom the inside and toss thekeysbackthroughthedoor.

“No!” she cries, but herheart’s not in it. She falls on

her backside, crawling awayand watching as the Thugscirclemeclosely.

Theysniff,andpaw,andtear, my shirt falling to thefloor, thefirstdropsofbloodspringingtomyskin.Thereisnotimeforgoodbyes,nolongspeeches. They are onme inseconds, tearing, gnawing,andwhateverdrugsmademyheart beat more slowly arelong,longgone.

I feel every tear, every

claw, every tooth, and I’msmiling,evenasthesoundofmy own skull cracking fillsmyears.

And I wonder, as theytake me down, what it willfeellikeifI liveagain.IfI’llrememberanyof this,or juststare through the bars of thecage,wonderingwhereIam.

AndIcan’ttellwhichI’dprefer….

PrivateEyeZTheZombieDetectiveAgency

AReanimatedReadzStory

By

RustyFischer

I finger the threehundred-dollar bills and lookacross my desk at BrockThornton.“You’repayingmeinfull?Inadvance?”

Brock looks like hisname sounds: tall, dark, andlazy. To prove it, he’s justhanded me three hundreddollarstostalkhisgirlfriend.

“My dad says it’s good

tomotivateyouremployees.”Brock’sdadbeingBrock

Thornton Senior, he of theThornton Auto Mall out onRoute 6. And the ThorntonAuto Store off Highway 16.And the Thornton Auto…well,yougetthepicture.

Brock’s eyes are so dullhe doesn’t even realize he’sjust insultedme.Then again,it’s hard to insult a non-human.Atleast,accordingtofolks like Brock. And in a

little town like Beaver Falls,NorthCarolina,therearealotofpeoplelikeBrock.

He looks around myoffice, which is small andcramped but clean andprofessional.It’sgotthedesk,the three chairs—two on hisside, one on mine—and my(still drying) certificate ofgraduation from the AlliedSecurity School on the wall.Above the certificate is myfreshly printed business

license for the Private EyeZDetective Agency. In caseyou’re wondering, the giant,all-caps “Z” stands forZombie.

He checks out themagazinesonthecoffeetable—TheReanimatedReader, ifyou must know—the fakeplant on the window-unit airconditioner, the dusty fedoraon thecoat rackby thedoor,thencirclesbacktome.“Thiswhat you do since they

kickedyououtofschool?”“What else can I do?” I

askhim.Brock shrugs. He’s not

big on answering questions.“I dunno. I see your zombiebuddy Jim Phillips bagginggroceries at Greenbriar’sGrocersonMain.Thatseemsprettysteady.”

“Didyousayanythingtohim?”Iask.

His face wrinkles like acentipedejusttickledhisyou-

know-what.“Whatfor?”“Becausehewasthebest

wide receiver you ever had,Brock,remember?”

“So?”“Because you drove to

school together for twoyearsstraight.Becausehewasyourfriend.”

Brock runs a big handthrough his feathery blondhair. “Look, just because thelawsaysIhavetoletzombiesbag my groceries doesn’t

mean I have to be nice tothem while they’re doing it,okay? No matter how manytouchdowns they scored fortheBeaverFallsBearcats.”

I nod; he’s right. Itdoesn’t.

“So why are you beingnicetome,then?”

“AmI?”Hesnorts.Ishrug.“Notreally.”He stands, wiping his

hands off as if just sitting inmy chair makes him feel

dirty.“So,youclearonwhatIneed?”

I look down at my deskblotter to the notes I didn’ttake. “Round-the-clocksurveillance of BrandyHutchins for the next threedays,right?”

Hesmilesas if Ideservea gold star or something.There’s a letterman’s jacketunder the fedora on the coatrack. He looks at it, smileswistfully, and brushes a

bruised knuckle against theworn white leather of thenearestsleeve.

“Toobadyoudon’texistanymore, bro,” he says in awaythat,Isuppose,hethinkssounds friendly. “You werethe best center a quarterbackcouldwishfor.”

He looks back at me,over his shoulder, frowning.Asifit’smyfaultIwoundupthis way. As if his familyhadn’t had the only zombie-

proof shelter in CatchacanCounty, he might’ve endedupthisway,too.

Ifollowhimtothedoor,forcingmyself not to slam iton him as he walks out.Scratchthat.Sauntersout.

“Brock?” I ask, just tomakehimstop,mid-stride.

He does then turns.“Yeah?”

“Do you really thinkBrand’scheatingonyou?”

He smirks. “I doubt it,

but…I still want to knowwhat she’s up to when I’mnotaround.”

“Why?”ThenhegivesthatBrock

Thornton smile. “Because Ican.”

Iwaituntilhe’sdownthehall, down the stairs, andstarting his car to shut mydoor behind me and lock ittight. It’s early evening now,too early for Brandy to behomebutnottooearlyforme

to take a spin by where sheworksandseewhatIcanseewhileIcanseeit.

TheBagelBarnisacrosstown, but I walk anywaybecause believe it or not, adriving zombie draws a lotmore attention than one justwalkingdownthestreet.Truestory.

It’s a pleasant evening,nearlydusk,and Ihave threehundred-dollar bills in mywallet. I smile, wishing I

could still eat human foodbecausewheneverIgotawadofcashinmyBeforeLife,thefirst thing Iwouldalwaysdowasbuysomethingtoeat.

TheonlythingIcanholddown now is soda, thesugarierthebetter,butIwantto keep my hands free sinceI’m on the job. So I pass bythe convenience stores andsmoothie shops and pizzaparlors and just keepstrolling.

Peoplelookatmefunny.But then, they always do.Atlast count, there were onehundred twenty-ninezombies—legallywe’rereferredtoas“Reanimated Persons,” butlet’sbereal—inBeaverFalls.Soit’snotlikeI’msouniquethatpeopleare runningawayscreaming, but it’s stillenoughofanoveltythatfolksare mostly like, “Hmmm,there’s one of those guysagain.”

Plus,lotsofpeoplewhenthey’re seeing me, they’reseeing the zombie who atetheir mom, their dad, theirlittle sister or girlfriend orcousin or neighbor, so I’mnot exactlyMr. Popular.NotthatIdidanyofthosethings,mind you, but to them, azombie is a zombie. I can’tsayIblamethem.I’mnofanof the zombies who ate myfamily,either.

They’re not allowed to

touch me, thanks to theReanimated Persons SafetyActof2019,but that doesn’tstop them from assassinatingthe hell out ofmewith theireyeballs,that’sforsure.Ifindthe Bagel Barn tucked inbetween the Smoothie ShopandtheYogurtShackandgoinside.

“Randall?” Brandy asksright away, giving my long-dead, atrophied heart a littleflutter. Then she kills it by

saying, “But, wait…I didn’tthink zombies ate bagels.”Thenshefluttersitagain,twotimesmaybe, by blushing allover.“OhGod, I’msosorry.Did Ioffendyou? Ioffendedyou, didn’t I? I used the Z-word, that’s why. I knew ittheminute it flew out ofmybig,fatmouth—”

“Brandy, really, it’s fine.I’m used to it. I know youdidn’t mean anything by itand, actually, you’re right.

Wecan’teatbagels.ButcanIgetaraspberrySlushee?”

Shelooksatthemachine,then back atme. Brandy hasthick,blackhair,andcherub-y cheeks with dimples andolive skin and a figure thatevenmakesherredandblackpolyesterBagelBarnuniformlook like somethingVictoria’s Secret would puton their catalog cover everyyear.

“Yousure?”

She’s so earnest, I haveto chuckle. “Yeah, trust me,it’s fine. The only thing thatmight happen is a permanentbrainfreeze….”

It’s a little thing I do,with the brain jokes. Mostpeople get them, but mostpeople aren’t BrandyHutchins.Sheignoresmeandpours thebrightblueSlusheeto the brim. I thank her andpaywithatwenty,notoneofher boyfriend’s hundred-

dollar bills. Because, youknow, thatwould just be tooironic. And, actually, a littlebitcruel.

Shehandsmethechangeand I tip her five bucks, justbecause—this week anyway—I can. She smiles sweetlyand triespulling it outof theplastic fish barrel next to thecash register with ahandwritten“Tips”sign.“No,Randall, honestly…that’s toomuch.”

IgotostillherhandbutIknowwhatshe’lldowhenmyice-coldfleshtoucheshers,soI don’t. Instead I just backaway and say, “I wouldn’thavedone it if Ididn’tmeanit,Brandy.”

She looks at it a littlegreedily. “Okay then.” Butshe pockets it instead ofreturning it to the otherwiseempty tip jar. I smile and sitatatalltwo-toptablenearthemetalbinsfullofbagels.

Theysmellalittleyeasty,which can be overpoweringtomyzombiesenseofsmell,but Ikeepmyheadburied inthebigblueSlusheeandhopefor the best. Brandy sauntersout from behind the counter,a moist rag in hand, andwipes the table next to mejustforsomethingtodo.

“How’s school?” I askher,notasaprivatedetectivebut just because I’m curious.It’s been three months since

Local Order 90671, whichprecluded all ReanimatedPersonsfromattendingpublicschool. I never thought I’dmiss slamming lockers andnumber two pencils andrubber chicken cutlets underneonyellowgravy,but…Ido.

“School’s school,” shesays,inchingherripederriereonto thebarstoolacross frommeandpickingatthethreadsof the rag with bitten-downnails. “I finally made the

cheerleadingsquad.”“Awesome,” I say, with

genuineenthusiasm.Thenshefrowns.“Yeah,

well, they were pretty muchbegging for warm bodiesonce the top sevencheerleaders got infected lastyear. I mean, it was prettyhard not to make the teamafterthat.”

“Don’t sell yourselfshort,” I say, the sweetSlushee causing my dry

mouthtotingle.“How are you holding

up?” she asks, avoiding myeyes.

I wonder, in thatmoment,ifsheknowsIhadathing for her all along, or ifshe just isn’t verycomfortable sitting knee-to-kneewithazombie.

“I’mfine,”Isay,andshesighs.

“Isitfunworkinghere?”Iask,hopingforafewclues.

It may seem unorthodox totalkto thesubjectofanopeninvestigation, but we in thebiz call it “hiding in plainsight.”

Besides, I’m probablythe last person—sorry, thelast reanimated person—Brandywouldeverthinkwaschecking up on her. And, ifyouhadn’t noticed, she’s notexactly the brightest bulb inthebox.

“It’s all right, I guess. I

wish more people fromschool would stop by.Everybody’s so busy thesedays. You remember RyanFletcher?”

I perk up. Maybe she’sgoing to tell me they’redating and I’ll earn mymoney while still taking thenexttwodaysoff.“Yeah?”

“He got a job with theReanimation Patrol. First inour class to get hired underthe new law. He’s pretty

stoked.Didn’tyouguysusedtopalaround?”

I think of Ryan and hisshort blond hair that alwaysstayed spiky, even under hishelmet. “Sure, before…well,before.”

Her eyes get a little sad,and I think maybe she’s notso slow after all. “Yeah, youandRyanandBrockandJimPhillips used to be prettytight.”Sheflickshereyesmyway.“Before,Imean.”

“Kind of like you andAmy Brennerman,” I remindher. Amy is a reanimatedperson, too. I see her fromtime to time at the CountyBrain Bank, where we standin line to get our twice-weeklyfeeding.

Sad eyes again.Shegetsup, takes the ragwithher. “Imiss Amy,” she says in asmallvoice.

IfinishmySlushee,waitfor her to say something

aboutBrock.Shedoesn’t.“Well,” I say, gettingup

and tossing my half-finisheddrink in the trash. “Thanksfor the Slushee. Good luckwithcheerleading.”

But she’s snickering,laughing, and I pause at thedoor to look down at myflannel shirt to see if I’vespilled some blue juice fromthedrink.

“What’s so funny?” Iask.

Shemakesasquishyfaceandsays,“Ijustgotyourjokefrom earlier.About the brainfreeze.Ididn’tknowzombiescouldbeso…funny.”

***

Brandy lives in a run-downapartmentbuildingneartheBeaverFallswatertower.There’s a patch of oak treesacross the street, and I’vebeen sitting in one for about

two hours when she finallyrides upon a rustybluebikethat I can hear squeaking fortwocityblocks.

She locks it to the gateoutside her front door, thengoes inside.She’s still inheruniform from work, and theride home in that polyestercan’t have been toocomfortable. The kitchenwindow is open, and I hearher laugh at something hermother says. Her mom’s at

the sink,washingapan fromdinner, and I can see a freshbeerbottleonthewindowsill.By my count, it’s numberthreeoftheevening.

Theysitatalittletableinthe dining room, which alsoseems to function as thelivingroom,sinceaflickeringTV is not three or four feetawayonanendtable,andthemom watches while Brandyeats some type of yellowcasserole with potato chips

crumbledon top.Shewashesitdownwithicedtea,andI’dbet my spiffy new threehundred-dollarbillsit’ssweetversusun-sweet.

They both disappearfromview for aminute, thenMom goes to the fridge forbeernumberfour,andBrandypops up in a bedroomwindow upstairs. It’s darknow, the lights are on, and Iwatch asBrandy slips out ofher uniform. She wears a

black bra and pink pantiesand is pretty much spillingoutofboth.Hubba-hubba.

There’snowindowinthebathroom—not that I wouldhave watched her anyway.Seriously.Forreal.Imeanit.Come on—but when shecomesbackintoherbedroom,herhair isup ina towel,andshe’s wearing a ratty yellowrobe you know she’s hadsincethreeChristmasesago.

Ikeepwaiting forBrock

to showup and takeher out.It’s Saturday, after all, butwhen she slips into a pinkbaby-doll T-shirt that says“It’sallaboutme”andapairof sweatpants cut off at theknees,Ifigureshe’sinforthenight.

Sowhat are those cars Ihearapproaching?

Sure,it’snotexactlyfourinthemorningbutit’salittlelateforpickuptrucktrafficonthis sideof town.As far as I

can tell, there’s not muchnear thewater tower but thisapartment complex, a scruffypublicpark,andabodyshopthat’s closed for the night. Iturn in my tree, leavesscattering in my wake, andspot a familiar four-wheelercomplete with spotlights ontheroof.Theyshinerightintomyeyes.

I raise a hand to coverthemandlosemygriponthebranch, fallingonto thehood

ofthecarthat’sjustpulleduptothetree,blockinganyeasyescape. I land with a thud,denting the shiny blue hood,and tumble over—and off—onto the ground. It doesn’thurt,butitlooksstupidand…whatthehell?

“Get him, Ryan!” Brockshouts from his truck, prettyface turnedprettyuglyashisbeady eyes narrow and hisfulllipsgrowthin.

“Iam,Brock!Holdona

sec!”Ryan Fletcher steps out

of his car in a rent-a-copuniform. I’m still sitting onthe ground and I notice themagnetic signs on his doorpanel.OfficialRepresentativeoftheReanimationPatrol.

Yeah,veryofficial.“Get up, Randall,” he

says, his voice at oncerecognizable yet strange.There is a look in his eyes,

thesamelookBrockgavemeinmy office earlier that day.It’s a look I’ve seen prettymuch daily since I gotinfected lastyear: fearmixedwith anger mixed with rage,plus a little sadness andfamiliarity thrown inaswell.Butmorewith the anger andtherage.

“Fine, fine, Ryan, but…you have no reason to arrestme.”

“Sure, he does.” Brock

spits,gettingoutofhistruck.“Youwere out here, peepingon my girlfriend. Look, youstill have the binocularsaroundyourthroat.”

“Because you paid meto!” I say. “I’ve got yourmoney in my back pocket,fingerprintsalloverit.”

Brock doesn’t evenmissabeat. It’sas ifhe’shadthisplanned all along. “Yeah,creep.Iadmitit:Ipaidyoutostayawayfromher.”

I look from Brock toRyan,waitingforoneofthemtocrackasmile,helpmeup,andbuymeabeer.Yeah,likethat’sgoingtohappen.

“Is…is…that true,Randall?”

The voice is startling,and unexpected. I turn—weall turn—to see Brandystanding on her front porch,shotguninhand,pointedrightatme.

“Of course it isn’t,” I

insist.She shakes her head,

black curls spilling over theshouldersofherbaby-dollT-shirt. “Now it all makessense.” Her voice is sad, hereyes duller than usual, herexpression placid, as if she’sused to being disappointed.“That’s why you showed uptoday,attheBagelBarn,rightoutoftheblue.”

“No! Honest, Brandy,that’snotit.”

“Get him, Brandy!”Brock shouts, inchingforward. “Get that no-goodzombie!Youknowyouwantto!”

Brock’s voice shocks usall. It’s high-pitched andhysterical, a voice that saysmerely arresting a zombieisn’t going to be goodenough.IwishIhadn’theardvoices like it several timesover the last year, but ithappens.

Allthatsadnessandfear,all that pent-up rage andsurvivor’s guilt, just comesspilling out all of a sudden.On the street, in the Slusheeline, at the bank, randomstrangerswilljustexplodeforno reason, simply becausethere’s a zombie in theirmidstandthey’vehadenoughofplayingpolite.

Igetit.Iunderstand.It’sthe cost of living among theliving,Iguess.

“Get up!” Brock says,kickingmyfeet.

“Brock.” Ryan stepsforwardandwavesahand toget him to back up a bit.“Careful,bro.Wehave todothis right. Laws are laws,evenifthey’rezombielaws.”

Sure, he’s saying theright words, but his voiceisn’tmuchmorethanasneer.

“He’s stalking Brandy,Ryan.Whatelsedoyouneedtoknow?”

BrandylooksfrommetoBrock. Her face does thatslow processing thing like itdid at theBagel Barn after Imademy“brains”joke.

“But why tonight,Brock?” she asks, shotgunstill aimed squarely at myhead.“Ihaven’tseenRandallsince they kicked him out ofschool a few months back.Why all of a sudden is heshowing up atmywork, andthen…in the tree outside my

bedroom?On the same nightyou happen to show upwithoneoftheReanimationPatroldudes.Hi,Ryan,bytheway.”

“Hi,Brandy.”“I came by earlier, to

check on you,” Brock lies.“And…and…I saw Randallupinthetree.”

Brandy’s moving a littlefaster now. “So you left andwent to get Ryan? That’syour first thought as aboyfriend? Not to warn me,

nottosneakmeandMomoutthebackdoor?Togogetyourfootball buddy and comebackanhourorsolater.”

Suddenly, she aims theshotgun down an inch. It’sstill in blowing-a-hole-through-the-nearest-zombierange, but at least this wayI’llbeabletokeepmynose.

I wait for Ryan to puttwo and two together—hewasinHonorsclasses,beforeI left school for good—but

from the way he avoidsBrandy’seyes,Icantell:he’sin on it. Has been from theminute Brock walked in mydoor,threebillsinhispocket,so new they barely lookedfolded.

They probably had thisplanned from the get-go. Forwhatever reason, Brockwanted me gone and eversince the plague passed andzombies who’d lived pasttheir “violent stage” were

provenharmless, thiswashisonlyway—hisonlylegalway—ofdoingit.

“Why, Brock?” I ask. Ifigureheowesmethatmuch,anexplanationatleast.“Whyme?Whynow?”

“Why any of you?” hesays, face going all weaselyagain as he stands there,beady-eyed and nostrilsflaring.“Youzombiesgotmymother, my brother, mygrammy. Why not you,

Randall?Whynotnow?”Brandypoutsand lowers

her gun another inch. “Theygotmydad, too,Brock.Andthey got Randall’s parents,too. Both of them. And hislittle sister, right, Randall?And Ryan’s brother, too.They got a lot of us, Brock.Theywere a lot of us. Thishereshotgun’sthesameoneIused to put my dad down.And don’t think I won’t put

youdown,too.”“Me?”Brockasks.Ilook

up and, sure enough, she’sgot the gun pointed atBrocknow. I try to hidemy smile,fail,thenstoptrying.

“Brandy,” Ryan urges,putting on his best OfficialRepresentative of theReanimation Patrol voice.“Putitdown.”

“I will just as soon asyou’reoffmyproperty,Ryan.Andyou,too,Brock.Go.I’m

not in any danger. And if Iam,” she hoists the shotgunjustalittletoohigh,“I’lltakecare of itmy own damn self—”

Brock sees what I do—theshotgunnolongerpointedat his head—and launcheshimself over me and intoBrandy, line-driving her intothe front yard and toppling agarden gnome on hermom’spathetic little postage-stampyard. She landswith an ugly

oomph sound. Somethingsnaps, and I don’t think it’sthisyear’scropofokra.

“Now, Ryan!” Brockscreams in that high, nasal,panickyvoice.“Gethim!”

Ryan inches forward,pulling aTaser from his gunbelt. The Reanimation Patrolis full of kids, mostly. Guysand a few girls my age,Ryan’s age, who lostsomebody we loved in the2018 Infestation and are

lookingtosettlethescore.Ofcourse, they wouldn’t acceptme. Reanimation Patrol ishumansonly.

Theydon’tletthemhavereal guns, anymore, onaccount of what happenedwithoneof thePatrollersoutin Reno. Found a nest ofzombies, unloaded his pistol,reloaded, unloaded it againand kept shooting until theblooddried.

That’s just it: zombies

don’tbleed.Itwasabunchofkids in zombie masks,camping out, scaring eachother on a dare. Ever sincethen,it’sbeenTasers.

But the end game is thesame for me. If Ryan tasesme,I’mout.Done,over.Notdead, but Imight aswell be.While I’m zonked out fromthe overdose of electrodes,they’ll take me toContainment, sentence me,and in a year I’ll be just one

of the dozens of zombiesexecuted every March 12th,theanniversaryoftheBeaverFallsPlague.

I can’t let that happen.Not when I haven’t doneanythingwrong.Igotostandand Ryan inches closer,zappinga little triggeron theside of his weapon so I cansee—sothatIcanalmostfeel—theelectricitypopbetweenthe two pinpoint chargers atthetop.

I flinch and fall backdown,scramblingaway.Thisisn’t how this gig wassupposedtogoatall.

Heclosesin,flickingthetrigger, and every time, thespit of sparks lights up hispale blue eyes. They’rehappy.Brockisupnow,footon Brandy’s throat, cheeringRyan on from the sidelineslike the cheerleader Brandywassoproudofbecoming.

“Come on, dude,” he

cries,likethisissomekindofpeprallybeforethebiggame.“Let’s do this.What are youwaitingfor—?”

A shot rings out,shattering Brock’s headlight.The yard goes a little darkerand I turn, still scrambling,figuring Brandy got off around after all. But it’s notBrandy. Her mom, curlers,slippers, housecoat, and all,fills the doorway. Smokefrom a single shotgun barrel

curlsintothedarknightsky.“What the hell?” Ryan

asks, dropping the Taserinstinctively.

Ileapforwardandpickitup before he can change hismind, or realize what he’sdone.

“What,youdidn’tseethesign?” Brandy’s mom asks,pointingoverher shoulder tothe yard, where a cheapplastic sign says the samething as Ryan’s door frame:

OfficialRepresentativeoftheReanimationPatrol.

I grin. I thought it wasjust there as a precaution,kind of like one of those“This is house is secured byvideomonitoring”signswhenyou know good and well itisn’t.

“Section 9.872 of theReanimatedPatrolCode saysthat when zombies andhumansareboth indangeratthe same time, it’s

appropriate—and legal—todefend human and/orreanimated persons alike. Sostepoff,sonny.Therealcopsareontheway.”

Ryan looks physicallyhurt by the betrayal. “But…but…”hesputters.“We’reonthesameside.”

Brandy’s mom clucks,usingthesmokingendofhershotguntonudgeBrockawayfromher daughter. “You andImaybothbehuman,kid,but

we’re far from being on thesameside.”

Igetup,helpBrandygetup,andthankhermom.

She smirks, a twenty-year-olderversionofBrandy.“Don’t thank me ’til they’regone,kid.”

Later,when they’ve left,whenthecopshavecomeandgone,whenI’vefiledareportand am sitting at Brandy’skitchen table, the scent of athousand cheesy casseroles

filling the air, I thank heragain.

“You’renotverygoodatthis private detective thing,areyoukid?”sheasks.

Brandy smacks hershoulder playfully from thenext chair over. I shake myhead, suddenly getting anidea. “You know, come tothink of it, I could use somebackup from time to time.How about you and Brandyjoiningme?”

The mom scoffs, butBrandy perks up. “Joiningyou?”

“Private EyeZ could useanotherdetective.”Inod.“Ortwo,” I say, smiling at hermom. “I mean, it’d be evenbetter if I had a femaledetective to go where a guycan’t.”

“Orazombiecan’t,”hermotherremindsme.

I nod again. “And itwouldn’t hurt if that female

detective knew her wayaroundashotgunortwo.”

Brandylooksathermomfor approval, and Mrs.Hutchinsshrugsindifferently.I seize the opportunity,imagine my lonely officefilledwith the likes—the lifeforce—ofBrandyHutchins afewdaysaweek.

“I can’t pay much,but….” I fish the hundred-dollar bills out ofmy pocketand slide them across the

desk. “The sign-on bonusisn’ttoobad.”

TheZombieVote

AReanimatedReadzStoryBy

RustyFischer

“Yeah, Tanner, but youcan’t say that. Out loud. Toanyone else but me. Youknowthat,right?”

“Why not?” I ask. “Hecan’t. I mean, it’s a provenfact: zombies can’t read,so….”

“Because of people likehim, Tanner. I’m not quitesure why you’re not getting

that yet. People. Like. The.Zombie.You’re not going toget elected by putting himdown. Period. You have torememberthezombievote.”

Rememberit?HowcanIforgetit?

Unsteady on my heels,which I’m not really used towearing,IinchpastBrodytothe heavy violet curtains thatcurrently cover the stage.(Why are all high schoolauditorium curtains purple?

Tellme!Why?) If you angleyourself just right, andBrody’s not trying to weaselinrightnexttoyou,whichheusually is because he’s thatkind of guy, you can seethrough a slit in the lastcurtainouttotheauditorium.

“It’s standing roomonly,” I say, turning back tohim.

Brody is tall, angular,sharp, and even more so inhis tailored navy blazer and

pleatedkhakislacks.Herollshis big brown eyes and says,“It’sthelastdebatebeforetheelection tomorrow. What’dyou think everyone wasgonna do? Stay home andknit?”

Kinda, I think but don’tsay.

There is a drink stationset up backstage, just for thecandidates. It looks a lot likewhatafancyhotelmighthaveat a continental breakfast.

Coffee, sugar cubes, RedBull, mineral water in bluebottles—thatkindofthing.

I’mnotreallythirsty,butthey never give anythingaway at crummy HillcrestHigh so I saunter over andgrab a long silver can offancy-looking iced coffeefrom a big metal bowl filledwithcrushedice.

“That’s gonnamake youwanna pee,” Brody remindsme,clutchinghisclipboardto

his chest and wagging afinger.

“I won’t drink it all,” Isay,hatingthefactthatIhaveto explain anything, toanyone,period—aboutpeeingor otherwise. “Or maybe Iwill,”Iaddasanaside.

Brody catches it, like hecatcheseverything.“I’llchalkthat up to nerves, Tanner B.Simpson.”

Irollmyeyesandreturnto the slit in the curtain.The

crowd is getting restless. Iwish the administrationwould get started already.Every minute they spendwaiting—and blaming us—isone more minute thecandidates for classpresidentwill have to spend workingreally,reallyhardtogetthemback.

You don’t cram twelvehundred students into anauditorium at the end of theday and then not get up on

stage and tell jokes or tossbeads into the crowd orsomething to keep themoccupied.

Don’t the clowns whorun this school knowanything about crowdcontrol?

“All the zombiesshowed,” Brody points outunnecessarily, inching a longfingerintothefoldofcurtainand sliding it open an extrahalf-inch sowe can both see

the bad news at the sametime.“That’snotgood.”

“Well, this is the firstyear they’ve been allowed tohave a candidate,” I remindhim—not that he needs it.“Ofcoursetheyshowed.”

Hefrowns,pepperingmewithhismintybreath. “I justthought, you know, since italways takes themso long togettothebus,they’dletthemgoearlylikeusual.”

I nod, picturing a

zombie-free gym for thedebate. “That would havebeennice.”

I follow his gaze to theback half of the auditorium,top upper left. The zombiessit together, wearing theirmandatorygreen jacketswithyellow stripes down thesleeves.

When the governmentpassed the ReanimationReformSchoolAct lastyear,and the zombies were

allowedback intoschool, thebill came with all theserestrictions.Thegreenjacketswereone.Supposedly, it’s tohelp teachers spot the deadfromtheliving.Youknow,asif the gray skin and yellowteeth and glazed expressionsand shuffling feet weren’tenough.

I shut the curtain andpace some more. Brodyfollowsme, pace for pace, ahead taller and with those

giant cricket legs of his,slowingdowntokeepup.

Ihearfootsteps,slowandheavy,andgrunt.Brodystopsatmysideandsays,“Benice,Tanner.”

“Hi, Tanner,” saysCalvin, my opponent forsenior class president atHillcrestHigh.“Goodluck.”

Hesticksoutahand,andI know I should shake itbecause Brody and PrincipalJennerandCalvin’scampaign

manager, Sylvia Hecker, areallwatchingme to see if I’lltake it, but I just…hate…touchingthem,youknow?

I look down at his handthen up at Brody, who givesme six inches of eyebrowsand four shades ofjudgmental, then back downtoCalvin’shand.

“Thanks,”Isay,brushingfingers with him slightly tokeep the icy-cold feel of hisdead, gray flesh down to a

minimum.“Goodluck.”Heshrugs.Theydothata

lot.“Idon’treallyneedit,”hesays, slowly, the way theytalk. His skin is taut aroundhishighcheekbones,hiseyesnotquiteblack,buta smidgemorethangray.

I’m about to saysomething snarky, eventhoughBrody is shootingmedaggers from two paces,when Calvin finally finisheshis sentence. “I know I have

nochanceofwinningagainstsomeone like you anyway,Tanner.”

I’mstillwonderingifthisissomekindofpoliticaltrickwhen Sylvia steps in,clipboardintow.What’swithcampaignmanagers and theirclipboards these days? Havetheyneverheardoftablets?

“Don’t be so humble,Calvin,” she smarms in hersmarmy way. “You haveeveryrighttobehereand,as

our polling indicates, you’reneckandneck.”

Yeah,that’stheproblem.There are one hundredtwenty-nine zombiesattending Hillcrest High andjust over a thousand humans—and I’m neck and neckwith the zombie? What’swrongwiththispicture?

“Iwouldn’tsayneckandneck exactly, Sylvia,” Brodypipesup.

“Me either,” Calvin

agrees. “Besides,”headds inthat hoarse, halting voice ofhis, “it’s not so important towin.”

We all look at him as ifhe’s speaking gibberish.“Well,” I can’t help blurtingout, “if you don’t care aboutwinning, then…why are yourunning?”

He looks at me andsmiles. I try not to wince athisyellowteeth,butit’shard—realhard.“I just thought it

would be nice to show myfriendstheybelong.”

Brody blinks twice andstarts to practically applaudhim, and I kick his shin.Sylvia brushes back her longred hair and then uses thesame hand to rub Calvin’sshoulder protectively.Standing just off to the side,Principal Jenner clears histhroat, gives me a kind ofthumbs-up behind Sylvia’sback, and approaches the

curtain.“Now remember, gang,”

he says. He calls everybody“gang,” even when it’s justone or two of us. “Themoderator will ask thequestions, andTanner, you’llhavetwominutestorespond.Calvin, since by law you areallowed twice as long to dopretty much everything,you’ll have four minutes.Once the moderator’squestions are done, I’ll open

the podium to the audiencefor thelastfifteenminutesofthedebate.Gotit?”

I nod nervously. Themoderator’s questions don’tbothermesomuch;I’vebeenpreparing for this for weeks,maybe even months. It’s myfellowstudents that scare thehelloutofme.

Calvinstandsnexttome.I can feel the cold creepingoff his skin, just like I canfeel his eyes searching for

mine. Staring straight atPrincipal Jenner’s back, Iignorehim.

The curtains open andPrincipal Jennerwalks to themiddle of the stage, just aswe’d rehearsed yesterdayafter school. The crowdapplauds politely as heintroducesus.

I walk out first, stridingcarefully in the black heels Iworetopromlastyear.Ihaveon my favorite gray slacks

andthewhiteblousemomgotme, the one with the stiffcollar to show off my pearlearrings. My hair is back,making my rectangularreading glasses thecenterpiece of my face. Idon’t really need them, butBrody said they made melook“presidential.”

Again, there is scatteredapplauseandabigcheerfrommy besties on thecheerleading squad and, of

course, my bros on thefootball team. But they’reonlysoloud,andthere’sonlysomanyofthem.BythetimeI’ve reached my ownmicrophonetotheleftofMr.Jenner,thecrowdissilent.

I kind of stand there,tastingthehostilityintheair,tryingtoignoreit.

Then Principal JennerannouncesCalvin,andboom!Theraftersstartshaking.Kidsare standing, thezombiesare

pounding their feet andpumping their cold gray fistsinto the air.The entire upperleft hand corner of theauditorium is a sea of greensleeves with yellow stripes,allwavingasfastastheycango.

The lights from abovearebright,butIstealaglancepastMr. Jenner to Calvin ashe approaches themicrophone, and he looksbashful as usual, though of

coursehecan’tblush.I’m lucky he still has to

wear the green jacket withyellow stripes, even in apresidentialdebate,becauseifhe’d been allowed to wearsomething natty like a blacksuit with a white shirt, allMen-in-Black style, I’d bedustalready.

Or that tan suit with thebrown shirt, like he wore toour chorus recital last year.Oomph,lookout.I’dhaveto

concede right here. Careful,Tanner, careful. He’s azombie,remember?

I’m asked the firstquestion. The moderator isMrs. Halston, the librarian,and suddenly Iwish I hadn’tcalled her “Mrs. Halitosis”that one time she asked mefor a library pass in front ofmygirls,becauseIcansensethe hostility before she evenopenshermouth.

Mrs. Halston is a thinwoman in a pink suit, tomatch her pink lipstick andpinknails.She leans into themicrophone in front of herand says, “Tanner, can youtell us why you decided toenter the race so late in thegame?”

Iblinkmyeyesandclearmy throat. Then I blink myeyes again. I wasn’t reallyexpectingaquestionlikethat.World peace, the power of

socialmedia, politics—those,Iwaspreparedfor.

I clear my throat againand say, “I entered the racewellbeforethedeadline,Mrs.Halston. Several days beforefinalapplicationsweredue,infact.”

I smile to the scatteredapplause from the jock-blockin the middle of the stands,trying not to notice that myfriends are the only onesapplauding. Or, for that

matter,notopenlysneeringatme.

Mrs. Halitosis gives hertrademark pink lipstick aworkout by smiling from earto ear. “Actually, Tanner, Ihave your application righthere…”—shepulls itoff thecafeteria tableshe’ssittingatfordramaticeffect—“andit’sdated the same day as thedeadline for applications.Would you care to explainthat?”

I sneak a peek at Brodyin the wings, and he’sshaking his head in theuniversal expression forPLEASEdon’tgooffonher!Please,PLEASE,pleasedon’tgooffonher!

SoIdon’t.Idon’ttellherit’s a stupidquestion. I don’ttellherIdon’tseethepoint.Idon’ttellherherbreathstinksand everyone knows it.Instead I say, “I fail to see

what that question has to dowith my candidacy, Mrs.Halston. A deadline is adeadline, right? Why havethemiftheydon’tcount?”

She smiles sweetly. “Ithink voters need to knowwhether or not their classpresidentwilldothingsaheadof time, or simply by thedeadline,don’tyou,Tanner?”

Hoots andwhistles greetMrs. Halston’s statement. Itry to find out where they’re

coming from, but the lightsare bright and by the time Ithink I’ve found the culprits,they’resilentagain.

I’m about to asksomething clever like, “Isthere a question in theresomewhere?” when thebuzzer toherrightrings.Shesmiles and turns to Calvin,who gets the next question.“Calvin, how do you feelabout runningagainstyour…ex-girlfriend?”

Igasp,standingtoocloseto the microphone. It echoesthroughtheauditoriumasthecrowdwaitsanxiouslytohearCalvin’s reply—and waitsand waits. Like I said,zombies never do thingsquickly.

As my heart beatsdouble-time beneath my silkblouse, the crowd grows stillandsilent.Youcanhearapindrop by the time Calvinspeaks.

“I love it,” he replies,turning to me and not Mrs.Halston.“Thisway,Istillgettospendtimewithher.”

Before the applausestarts,thereisasmatteringof“aaaahhhsss,” some of themcoming from the middle ofthe jock-block. I try to keepmy smile plastered on, butit’s hard, especially when Isneak a peek at Calvin, whois looking at me with thosegrayeyesofhis.

He’s wearing the samehurt but understandingexpression as he did when Ibroke up with him a fewmonths back, and my heartdoes the same flip-flop thenasitdidnow.

He still can’t get it. Hestillhasn’tmovedon.Hestilldoesn’t understand thatthere’s no way, honestly noway, I could ever date azombie.

Then the buzzer rings

and I turn to Mrs. Halston.She smiles back at me.“Tanner, I’ll ask you thesame question: how does itfeel to be running againstyourex-boyfriend?”

“It’s not easy,” I say,facing the audience again.“ButIfeltitwasnecessarytorun against Calvin in…thebestinterestofourschool.”

Thereisnoapplausethistime.They’renoteventryingto pretend to like me

anymore.Mrs. Halston cocks her

headtooneside.“Couldyouelaborate,Tanner?”

“Sure.” I smile, happyforthechancetofinallyspeakmy mind freely. “It’s clearthatthisschoolisinthegripsofsometypeof…fad…wherezombies are suddenly cooland that’s why Calvin is sopopular. I’m here to remindstudents that when the dustsettles,when the fad is over,

therewill still be a president—a human president—whocan get things done quicklyanddecisively.”

There is a smattering ofapplause this time, but a few“boos”aswell.Okay,well…morethanafew.Alotmore.Mrs. Halston reminds me,“You know, Tanner, thatsince the third addendum totheReanimationReformAct,zombies are technicallyconsidered ‘human.’ Would

you care to rephrase youranswer?”

IshrugandfacethewallofsilencethatistheHillcrestHighauditorium.“Notreally.I said I was a ‘human,’ andthat’sstillcorrect,right?”

Mrs. Halston purses herlips,waitsforthebuzzer,andthenturnstoCalvin.“Calvin,do you have anything to sayto the zombies in theaudiencethisafternoon?”

Calvin’s face lights up,

andmyheartstingsalittletoseethehumanityreturntohischeekbones, and especiallyhis eyes. If I didn’t knowbetter, I’d think that he wasstill a human. But he’s not,notreally.

His voice is calm andclear as he replies. “Yes, Ido.” Then he pauses andlooks up at the hundred-pluszombies sitting in thenosebleed section, way upthereinthetopleftcorner.“I

hope you’ll vote for mebecause even if we lose, itwillmeanwe’restillapartofthestudentbody.AndIthinkthat this year, our first fullyear allowed back to school—that’s the most importantthing.”

Nowkidsarelosingtheirminds, standing up,whooping, hollering—andwe’re not just talkingzombies. My heart sinks tosee the in-crowd, my crowd,

takinga standaswell. IgiveBrodyapanickyglanceashelurksinthewings,buthejuststands there,his smile frozenon his face, with a thumbonlyhalfwayup.

For the first time allcampaign, his clipboard isnowheretobefound.

What can that mean?When a campaign managerditches his clipboard? Thatcan’tbegood,canit?

Abuzzershocksmeback

to center stage, where Mrs.Halston is looking at meexpectantly. “Tanner, for ourfinalquestion,I’llgiveyouachance to respond: whatwould you like to say to thezombies in our audiencetoday?”

Witch!SomehowIknewthat was coming. I clear mythroatandstaredirectlyatthezombiesinthetopleftcornerof the audience. My smilefeelsstickyandcoldasIopen

my mouth. “I don’t wantanyonetothinkthatavoteforTanner McBride is a voteagainstthezombies,”Ibegin.“I really do have your bestinterests at heart. Someday,yes,azombiewillbeable tohold student office, but fornow…I honestly believe theonly real candidate is ahumancandidate.”

You can hear a cricketchirp in response, but I’mglad because at least they’re

not booing…yet. Oh wait, Iforgot how slow they are.Herecometheboosnow,softandlow,morelikeagroan.

Some are faster, becausethey’rehuman.Louder,too.

“Calvin,”Mrs.Halstonisasking my opponent. “Anylast thoughtsonwhatTannerhastosay?”

Calvinrollsuponeofhisgreen sleeves. He does thatwhenhegetsnervous.Hedidthat on my front stoop, in

fact, the first time he askedmeout.Helooksatme,biteshis thin gray lip and says, “Ibelieve Tanner is sincereabout wanting what’s bestfor…us.”

Pause. “But….” Andhere it comes. “But…as azombie, I don’t need anyonetotakecareofmeanymore.”

And that’s that. Boom,smash, crash…down comethe rafters. I’m sunk. I know

it.Rightthere,thezombiedidit. I sneak a peek at Brody,wholiterallyhashishandsupin defeat. I start to walk offthe stage and he mouths thewords,Q and A like fifteentimes in rapidsuccession.“QandA!QandA!Don’tforgettheQandA!”

I frownand turnback totheaudience.

By the time Ido, I seeastring of zombies, maybe adozen,maybetwo,linedupat

their microphone at thebottomofthebleachers.Mrs.Halston stands primly fromher seat at the foot of thestage and pivots primly tofacethem.

She takes the mic fromitsholderandpoints it in theface of the first zombie, ajunior by the name of CarlGaff.Heused toplayfor thesoccer team before Congressvetoed the Living Dead inSportsActearlierthisyear.

Heisshortandslightandswimminginhisgreenjacket,whichonlyseemstocomeinone size: XXL. He looks atme calmly and says, slowly,deeply, but quite seriously,“What qualifications do youhavethatCalvindoesn’t?”

Before I can hearBrody’s voice screaming inmy head, I snap out the firstthing that comes to mind. “Icanread,forone.”

There is dead silence in

the auditorium as Carl Gafflooks at me. I cringe,expectingtheplacetoboo,toerupt, to storm the stage andtearmelimbfromlimb.WhatIgetisevenworse.

“That’sit?”heasks.I don’t think he really

meant it as a joke but theaudience laughs, and laughsandlaughsandlaughs.

All except for thezombies, but that’s onlybecause they’re still busy

lining up to ask questions.Onebyone, theyget in line,until the steps leading downfrom their section are full,andthentheylineup,sidebyside,veryorderlylike,twobytwo, side by side, a sea ofgreen jackets and yellowteeth patiently waiting theirturns.

I look at them. Greenjackets, yellow stripes downeach sleeve, dark hair, darkeyes,grayskin,patient,slow,

andeager forachanceat themicrophone.

Idon’tgive it to them. Idon’t care if it costs me theelection,Idon’tcareifIlooklike a clown. I don’t careabout anything anymore thangettingoffthatstage.

Immediately.Brody is there, waiting

forme, as I collapse into hisarms, trembling, quaking,crying. Crying. Over…zombies! Somehow he gets

meoutoftheauditorium,outofschool,withoutbeingseen.

But the damage isalready done. I can see it inhis eyes as he drives mehome.

“Listen,”hesays,pokinghisheadoutof thepassengerside window while his caridles at my curb. “You didyourbest.It’sazombieworldnow,Tanner.Allwecandoisliveinit.”

***

“MindifIhaveaseat?”It’s two days later and

I’mouton thequad,under atree, facing away from thecafeteria because, duh,nobody in their right mindwill sit with me. I have anappleinmyhandandamstillchewing the bite I took aminuteago.It’swarmandit’ssour, and I’d spit it out if hewasn’tstandingrightthere.

I start to say something,thenjustnod.Calvin,wearingwhitejeans,sits.BeforeIcanstop myself I say, “You’regoingtogetgrassstains,youknow?”

He smirks that smirk.“Then it’ll match my jacket,right?”

Ifinallyswallowmybiteandput theappleback in thelittle brown bag. It’s all thatwas in there. I haven’t beeneatingmuch,eversinceIlost

theelection.Calvin just sits quietly,

empty hands in his lap. Thezombies don’t eat at school.They get their brainselsewhere, thank you verymuch. Medically approvedbrains, from what Iunderstand.Carefullylabeled,in a Tupperware container,with a spork. All strictlylegal, thanks to thegovernment.

No more munching on

randomstrangers’heads, likebackinthebeginning.

“Congratulations,” Ifinally say after an awkwardpause. Not because he’sexpectingme to, but becauseIwantedto.Sortof.Actually.Inaweirdway.

“You really mean that?”heasks.

Ichuckle likeheused tomake me in the old days.“I’mnotsureyet.”

“You should let some

peoplehearyousaythat,”hesuggestsinhisslow,falteringway. “You might have morecompanyatlunchtime.”

“Them?” I ask, lookingovermy shoulder at the jockcrowd eating happily in thecafeteria. “They can haveeachother.”

He nods. His hair is cutcloseandtighttohisscalp.Itlooks good that way: severe,strong.

“So…whatnow?”

“Why do you care?” Iblurt, sounding meaner—andlouder—than I actuallyintended. “I mean, are youreally this good a person,Calvin?Youshouldbehatingme something major rightnow,aboutwhat I saidaboutyou at the debate. How Iacted. Do you really carewhat happens to me, of allpeople,now?”

He seems hurt. “Ofcourse I do.” He sounds

offendedIwouldevenask.“Ialwayshave,Tanner.”

“EvenafterwhatIdidtoyou? I mean, before theelection, before they let youbackintoschool?”

“I may not be able toread,”hecracks,“butIknewwhatyoumeant.”

I sit there, two feet fromhim, knees almost touching,and think back to that daywhenIcametoseehimattheZombie Re-Education and

Transition Center downtown.Itusedtobeahospital,anditstill smelled like one. I washis only visitor, the first andlast,beforetheylethimbackintoschool.

Hisfamilywasgone,hismother and little brotherwiped out in the GreatZombie Infestation of 2017.I’d only lost my dad, socomparedtohimIwaslucky.I was also human. Sorry.Mortal.

And the things I said tohimthere,outofanger,outofdisgust, they make my faceburn even now. “How?” Isnort, the first tear falling.“How can you care about…me?”

“I care because I knowyou don’t hate me, Tanner.”Hisvoiceissoftandslow,solistening to him is likelistening to one of thoserelaxation CDs with therainforest or snow-melting

sounds.“I care because I knew

evenwhenyoubrokeupwithme, at theCenter, youdidn’thate me. You hated the waytheworld is now.You hatedlosing your dad, and howyour mom shut down afterlosing your dad. Like now,you’re just scared. From thattime on, you’ve just beenscared. But that’s just it,Tanner.I’mscared,too.”

I snort. “Look at you,

Calvin.You’reindestructible.You can’t feel pain. You’reimmortal, for Pete’s sakes.What could you possibly beafraidof?”

Calvin’s eyes soften andhislipspart.

“Life without you, forone.”

He stands then, slowly,like he does everything, andturnsaway.Iwatchhimwalk,smirking throughmy tears atthegrassstainsonthebuttof

hiswhitejeans.I may be the most

unpopulargirlinschoolatthemoment,butsuddenlyIdon’tfeelsoaloneanymore.

MyBrother,MyZombie

AReanimatedReadzStory

By

RustyFischer

There is a big rock aquarter mile from thecheckpoint, and I tellSam tosit.Literally.“Sit,”Isay,likeyou would to a dog. Heknowssixcommands.Thisisthe first, and most common,ofthem.

It’s amazing how oftenyou have to remind them tosit. They’ll just stand all day

if you let them. I don’t carefor him somuch, because henever gets tired, but it’sirritatingashellforme.

It’s like that friend whoalways reads over yourshoulder when you’rechecking out the new TeenBeat in the library beforehomeroom,onlyyou’veliveddown the street from hersinceyouwerelike,five,andyouknownomatterwhatyou

saynowshe’snevergoingtostop.

Sam smiles and sits. Helooks nice in his cargo pantswith all the pockets up anddown the sides, and the stifflumberjack flannel shirt overhisplainwhiteT-shirt.

Ican’tdomuchabouttheglazed look in his eyes, themarble-slab pallor, or theyellowing teeth, but at leasthisclothesarenewandcleanand pressed. Well, at least,

theywerebeforethesixmileswe had to walk to reach thefirstcheckpoint.

Sam is gentle, now,because I’ve been feedinghim every few miles. If Ihadn’t,ifhewashungry,he’dbesnarlyandsnappyandnotso quick to mind me. Hisclothesmightbe tornandhiseyes might be wild and hisnostrilsmightbeflaringatthescent of blood pumpingthrough my veins. But he’s

full, mostly, so he’s beenbehavingforthemostpart.

Ifeedhimnow,stripsofbloody, raw meat from aTupperware container in mybackpack.We’regetting low.Only six strips left. But it’llbe fineoncewepass the lastcheckpoint. He canmisbehaveallhewantsintheZ-Zone, and nobody will beabletotouchhim.

Not anybody human,anyway.

Around us the town ofSableBluffisquiet,almost…peaceful. There are fewerpeoplenowthatschoolisout,andwork is out, and this farout of town, the streets arefairlyempty.

It’s better this way.Fewer people to point andstare; fewer people to heckleandthrowthingsatSam.

He eats hungrily, takingeachstrip frommyhand likeItaughthim.

“Slow,”Isayfirmly.It’sthe second command. Hedoeseverythingsoslownow,ever since, well…ithappened. Everything buteating, that is.He could takethree hours to walk a block,butthreesecondstoeatasideofbeef.Sowhen it comes tohis daily feedings, I have toforce him to take his time.“Slow.”

He nods and chewssteadily,adropofcheapcow

blood on his pale, stubblychin. His eyes are dark,almostgray,whereoncetheywere such a vivid, strikingblue.Of all the changes he’sbeen through, it’s his eyes Imissthemost.Well, thatandhis soul, his friendship, hislaughter,but…it’sbestnottodwellonallthat.

His hair is stubbly, too,blackbristlesagainsthiscold,paleskin.

While he’s busy

chewing, I touch the side ofhis head lightly. He pauses,wary, almost feral, nostrilswidening, but the power ofthe meat, the hunger forconstant blood nourishmentdeepinhiscells,istoomuch.He abides my touch andreturns to his steady, almostrhythmicchewing.

It’s the only time he’ssoft, when he’s eating.Really, it’s the only time it’ssafetogonearhisface.Ispot

atraceofbloodbyhisearandwipeitoffwithatowelIkeephandyforfeedingtimes.

He finishes with a not-quite-satisfied grunt, but hefinishes just the same. I lookat theemptycontainer,at thepuddle of blood that’scollected in the corner, half-congealed from the heat ofourlongpilgrimagetothelastCheckpoint.

I’m tempted to try it, togetatasteofwhatlifewillbe

like on the other side of theCheckpoint, in the Z-Zone. Iraise the plastic to my face,all prepared to do it, then Itakeawhiff.Bigmistake.

It smells like rawhamburger, ugly and moistand almost…hot with anacrid,belchingsteamthathitsmy face like a wet rag. Iretch, wondering if I’ll everbeabletoadaptasSamhastohisworld.Totheirworld.

He snorts, almost

laughing, or maybe he’s juststill hungry. His eyes are sovacant and gray, it’s hard totell. I offer him the plasticcontainer and he takes itgreedily,roughly,makingmystomach hurt at the thoughtthat he was never smiling atall.

At least, not smiling atme.

“Walk,”Isay.Commandnumber three. He standsabruptly,dropping theplastic

containertotheground,driednowofeverydropofblood.Iwipethelastofitoffhischin.Hisgrayeyesaresoftnow.

I look down at thecontainer, tempted to pick itup,cleanitoff,saveit.ThenIfrown and turn on one heel.That’s human thinking, andI’m minutes away from nolongerbeinghuman.Ileaveitbehind, like the house a fewmiles back, my frilly pinkroom,thefridgestockedwith

rawmeatSamwill never eatandthechaininthewallnexttohisbed.

I start walking. Hefollows dutifully. You mayhave to tell him what to do,and often, but once he getsstarted, Sam’s pretty goodaboutfollowing.It’sbeenlikethat for nearly three monthsnow, ever since the viruscame and sank its teeth intomybrother.

The pavement is smooth

under our feet, thestreetlampsdullandjustnowbuzzingtolifeeveryfewfeetor so. Not many people useold Ranger Road anymore,not since they set up the lastCheckpointintotheZ-Zone.

Samwalksquietlybymyside.I’dreachovertotakehishandbutI’vetriedthatafewtimes before and, well, itnever ends well. Either hesqueezes too hard andthreatens to snap a pinky

bone or he jerks away likewe’retotal,random,completestrangers.

I’m never quite surewhich of his reactions hurtsthemost.

His new sneakers scrapethe pavement beneath hisfeet,creatingoddsoundsthatare still somewhat lessdisconcerting than his usualflat-footed shuffle. To thinkhe was All-State in crosscountrylessthanfourmonths

agobreaksmyheart.Orwould,ifIhadaheart

lefttobreak.I don’t know why I

bought those shoes. Oldhabits, I guess.Momused togive me money to take Samshopping every summer, youknow, for back-to-schoolclothes.

Even though he wasolder, he could never betrusted to pick out sensiblethings. If he had his way,

mom knew and I soonrealized,he’dblowthewholetwo-hundred-fiftydollarsonanew pair of shoes and atrucker cap and just wearthose until she gave meanother two-hundred-fiftydollars to take him wintershopping.

Iguess,wakinguptoday,I felt like this was kind of aback-to-school shopping dayfor us both. Or, at least, astarting-something-newday.

The guard stand comesinto view, tall, pointed, andbathedinthelastoftheday’ssetting sun. It’s narrow andpointy, just like the last fewwe’ve had to pass by on ourwayoutoftown.

They used to be bigger,and better manned, with airunits and port-a-potties andKlieglights,thewholeballofwax.Butafterthefirstrushofthe virus, after familymemberscamebythedozens,

shovingoffunwantedzombiefamily members into the Z-Zone, the crowds dried up.Then funding dried up, untilnow there are just a few ofthe old guard posts left.Thisone is the last before thehuman-free,zombie-onlyarea—theZ-Zone—attheedgeoftown.

I hear music playing,somethingrowdyandtechno,like you’d hear atsomebody’s house party just

beforethecopsshoweduptosendeveryonehome.

I see movement insidethe guard stand, which isroughly the same size asthose phone booths you onlysee in oldmovies nowadays.It’saburlyguy.Icanseethatmuch through the singlewindow.Big shoulders, thickneck, thick arms, and he’smoving, dancing maybe, infront of the single bulb thatilluminatesthetinystructure.

Something about himlooksfamiliar,andevenmoresoasweget closer and I seethe spiky flat-top above hisNeanderthal-thick brow andthe kind of flat, pug nosepushed against his wide,angryface.

“Spike?” I ask, as hefinally turns themusic downand emerges from the guardshack. Though it’smore likeaguardshed.

“Emma?” His voice is

deep, but soft, though farfrom kind. His hulkingshoulders fill the trademarktanshirtofhisuniformashisgiant, beefy hands rush tobuttonhis topbutton. “W-w-what’sup?”

“I didn’t know youworked for theCorps.” I sayit with a questioning tone,even though it’s more of astatement because, really, Ididn’t. I figured he’d be toobusy bench-pressing

freshmen in the school gymto take on some crummypositionwiththelocalmilitia.

He shrugs his massiveshoulders, the tin badge onhisleftpocketrustlingagainstthe scratchy-lookingpolyester material of hischeapshirt.

“Only part-time,” hesays, likehe’s toogoodforafull-time job. “Nights andweekends,mostly.PaysmorethanPizzaParlor,atleast.”

Hestopsoglingmychestlong enough to look up andsquintatSam.

Samlowershishead,likehe does with most strangers.Unless he’s hungry, then allbets are off. But he’s nothungry right now, so he’sdocile,evenalittleshy.

“So, who’s the meat-head?”

I cock my head andclench my fists at my sides.Meat-heads. It’s what the

locals call zombies, or haveever since they kicked mostof themoutof town. Just trysaying it to their faces,though.

I watch Sam’s nosewrinkleashetugsonhisear.Hedoesthatsometimeswhenhe’smad,orsad,orlonely,orrestlessorconfused,whichisactuallyalot.

“That’s my brother,Spike. Don’t you rememberhim?”

Heshrugs.“Theyalllookso different after they’regone,youknow?”

ItapSam’shand,theonetugging on his ear, and hedutifully puts it down at hisside.

I turn back to Spike andlower my voice, biting offeachword.“He’s.Not.Gone.Spike.”

Spike snorts, beady eyessquintingbackatmefromhiswide, fleshy face. “Really,

Em?He sure looks that wayto me.” He stares at Sam,nostrilsflaringindisgust.

This time, Sam staresback. It’s not a pretty thing.Trust me, I’ve been on thereceiving end of that stareand…no…notgood.Hisgrayeyes have this way ofmorphingtoblack,maybenotreally,butthat’swhatitfeelslike as the last light of daycastshalfhisfaceinshadow.

With his thin lips, gaunt

cheeks, and dark eyes, he’spretty scary when he’ssmiling.Whenhe’sscowling,about three steps fromeatingyour faceoff, it’snowalk inthepark.

Spike blinks twice as abead of sweat drips from hisforehead and stings his eyes.Turningbacktomehegrunts,“IDandhandlingfee,Emma.Youknowthedrill.”

I dig my brother’sdriver’s license from my

backpack, plus the three-hundred-dollar“handlingfee”the government charges toallow “reanimatedindividuals,”astheycallkidslike Sam on the paperwork,intothe“human-free”zone.

Spike cocks one beadyeye at the money, silentlywondering where a highschool junior coughs up thatkindofcash.

“Myparents.”Isuddenlyfeeltheneedtoexplain.“The

Corpsgavemeaccesstotheirbank account after theywere…killed…in theinfestation.”

Spike stops, pen in handover Sam’s paperwork,zeroing in on that stupidpauseasIswallow.

Heglancesupatmefromwhere he’s hunched over thetinyguardhousedesk,thentoSam. “But didn’t he kill the—”

“Wedon’t talkaboutit,”

Iblurtout,asSamshiftsfromonefoottotheother,hishandcreepingupdesperatelytohisear.

He hasn’t talked sincethat day, hasn’t done morethan grunt or point butwhenever someone brings itup, in passing, a neighborwho survived that day or thepostman at the gate or somerandomasshatlikeSpikewhojust can’t keep their mouthshut, Sam gets all glum and

tight-lipped.It’s like he knows what

he did, but doesn’t quiteknow.Likeheremembersthetasteofhisownparents’fleshburied deep between hisgnashing, gnawing teeth, butwon’tlethimselfremember.

Spike stands, pen stillpoised above the paperworkto get Sam into the Z-Zone.Hejuststandsthere,armstill,hand still, not even shaking,asthepenhoversfour inches

abovetheform.It’slikehe’swaiting,like

he won’t go on, until Iexplain.

“I mean, we don’t talkabout that day in front of…Sam.”

“Sam?” Spike asks,looking more closely at thedriver’s license I’ve justhandedhim.“Itsaysherehisname is Reginald SaxtonGrahamtheThird.”

I shrug. “After

everythinghappened,and thevirus lefthimlike…this…theonlynamehe’drespond to isSam.”

Even now, he looks upwhen I say it. Spike sees it,frowns, and chews his lowerlip.

“Whatever,” he huffs,returningtohispaperwork.“Imean, I love my brother todeath, but if he chomped onmy folks’ brains, killed ’emright in frontofmyeyes like

this one here, I wouldn’t betreating him all warm andfuzzy like you are, that’s forsure—”

I feel something brushagainst my side and turn toSam.“Stop!”Ishout,moreatSpikethanatSam.

Just the same, it’scommand number four. Samgrowls and Spike backs up,holding the entry form intotheZ-Zoneup in frontofhischest.

“I. Told. You,” I saythrough gritted teeth, bitingdownharderoneachwordasI wedge myself between thetwo boys. “We. Don’t. Talk.About.That.Night.”

“Got it, got it,” Spikesqueaks,hastilyhandingoverthepaperwork.

I cut a glance at Sam,whostandsfirm,rigid,inchesfrom the front of the guardshack and one lunge fromsinkinghis teeth intoSpike’s

skull.“Back,” I say, gently,

resisting the urge to touchhim.Do thatnow,whenhe’sa tight wire like this, and hecould go off: absolutely,irretrievably, epically off.Bettertopryhimaway,usingthe fifth—and next-to-last—command.

“Back,” I urge him,showing him as well astellinghim.“Back.”

At last Sam flicks me a

glance, buried in the depthsof his deep gray eyes, andtakes one, then two stepsback, to followme as I stepsoftly away from the guardshack.

“Amazing.” Spike’sbeef-jerkybreathishotonmyneck. “I’ve never seen oneobeylikethatbefore.”

I flinch, because itsoundslikehe’stalkingaboutadog.ThenIlookupintohisbig, blue eyes and see he’s

smiling, tentatively, oreven…approvingly. “How’dyougethimtodoallthat?”

I’vegotmypaperworkinhand.Ourwork here is doneand I really should be going,but as clueless, as dumb andvapid and vain and thuggishas he is, Spike might be thelast person I ever see. So Ianswer him, as if he reallycares.

AsifIreallycare.“Itjusttakestime,”Isay,

watching Sam stand stock-still there by the guard rail.It’s yellow, with blackstripes, and Spike leans onthebusinessend. It’s theendhe’ll have to lift up for uswhen it’s time to let Samwalk into the Z-Zone, nevertoreturn.

“Yeah, well.” Hechuckles.“Zombieshavealotofthat.Time,Imean.”

Iwatch Sam’s face as itgently perceives the Z-word,

crinkleslikehe’sjustsmelledrawmeat,thenquicklyfizzlesout.

Even so, the exerciseleaveshiseyesatadgrayer,atad…sadder.

“Are we good?” I ask,hoping for a few minutesalonewith Sam before,well,just…before.

“What?” Spike looksmomentarily muzzled, as ifmaybehethinksthe“we”I’mtalking about is him andme.

A wry smile curls at thecorner of his thick, liver-colored lips. Then it dawnsonhim:Sam.AreSamand Igood?

“Oh yeah, s-s-sure, letmejust—”Hebeginstopushdownontheguardrail.Iflicka glance at Sam, who peerspast it, senses his kind—offin the distance—and takes ahesitantstepforward.

I reach out to touchSpike’s arm through his

cheap polyester uniformsleeve. It is scratchy! Evenafter three straightmonthsofcaring for Sam, of frettingabout him night and day, ofignoring my wardrobe, myhairstyles, my makeup,sometimes evenmy hygiene,I’m not entirely without mycharms.

He blushes at the touch.HepausesasIusetheinsidesofmybiceptopushmychestforward. Even I can see it

strain against the black tanktopbeneathmygrayhoodie.

“I thought,” I purr,leaninginjustasmidgemore,“before you let him in, SamandIcould…talk.”

Spike nods, glancingdown predictably, but theschool jock buried deepinsideforceshimtosmirk.

Helooksup,atmyeyes,then into my eyes. His arecold again, and cruel. “Hewon’tunderstandyou,Emma.

Theycan’tunderstandyou.”“Hewill andhedoes.” I

straintokeepmyvoiceundercontrol.

He starts to saysomething snappy and off-the-cuff, butmy hand is stillthere on his arm, soft yetinsistent. A girl, at sunset,chestpushedout,eyeswillingandsmilecome-hitheryandazombie for a brother andwhateversmart,saltythinghewas going to say dies on his

thick,slobberylips.“Suit yourself.” He

winks and steps just insidetheguardshack.

“Sam,” I say, loudly, toget his attention.He lolls hishead like he does, soft eyeswarmandgray,smilesothinit could be a smile, or justtwo lips randomly pressingtogether. I can seewhat he’sthinking, if he’s thinkinganythingat all: he’s full, I’mhere,what’stoworry?

I inch closer toSamandlower my voice a fewoctaves.“Wehavetogonow,Sam,” I whisper, calmly,slowly, hoping Spike isn’tlistening too hard, or issmarterthanIgivehimcreditfor.

He cocks his head, but Iwonder if he reallyunderstands, or if it’s justbecause I’m saying his nameso much and standing soclose.“YouandI,Sam,we’re

goinginthere….”I point to the Z-Zone, a

dark and meandering woodthatusedtobeanationalparkontheedgeoftown.Thesunis nearly set now, the hillscastingshadows.Itmustlooksinister even to one of thelivingdead.

Hegruntsandshakeshishead a little, or it could bejustatwitch.

Either way, his nostrilsflare a tiny bit and even

though I know there’s no aircomingoutofthemanymore,I can sense the panic in hischest. The fear, if there issucha thingforazombie,oftheunknown.

“It’s okay, Sam. It’sokay,”Iinsist,usingthesamecalm,eventoneIusedtousewhen Iwas feeding the straycat who showed up on ourbackporchonedayandhungaround for a few weeks lastyear. “I’m going with you.

It’s you, it’s me, nothing’sgoingtochange—”

“No humans allowed,”Spikeoffers,still leaningjustinside the door to the guardshack.“That’swhyit’scalledthe Z-Zone, Emma. That’swhy—”

“Kill!” I order. It’s thesixth,andfinal,command.

“Wait! W-w-what?”Spikesputters.

I ignore him. “Sam!Kill!”

Sam hesitates, at first.I’ve never had to issue thiscommand before. At least,not on a live person. Andthose deserted dime-storemannequins with strips ofmeat wrapped around theirthroats back home didn’tcount.

His eyes, once so blue,now so dark, cloudwith fearand misunderstanding. Hischin trembles. He wants toshake his head, but can’t

quiteseemtorememberwhatthatmeant.

“Kill!” I order as Spikereaches for his walkie-talkie.HethinksImeanhim.

Samshakeshishead,butopenshismouth.

I can’t yell at himanymore; he’ll just backdown.Itakehishand,socoldinmine, so strange and pale.“It’sokay,Sam,”Isaywithasmile, offering my throat,baring it up for him to take

betweenhisteeth.“Kill!”And his mouth opens

wide, and he reaches in,toward me, sniffing mythroat, gaze flickering acrossit, uncertain, until he smellsthe life on my breath, hearsthe blood pumping in myveins and when he’s justclose enough,when his handclenches mine and he drawsmein,Iknowthatit’sover.Iknow that, in one or twobites, we’ll never have to be

apartagain.But it isn’tover.It’s just

beginning.Something inside of

Sam, something buried deep,forceshim topushmeaway,to push me down. Hisstrength is incredible, almostunstoppable.I’veseenflashesof it before, when strangersthreaten us or he gets tooclose to live meat, like thatone time he literally tore upthreefencepoststogettothe

cowsbeyondthebarbedwirebefore the farmer showed up—withashotgun.

Andeventhenhewasn’tafraid.

But now I take the fullbrunt of it, flying across thegravel staging area andlanding with some kind ofthud-crack-whap soundagainstSpike’sJeep.

I’m momentarily dazed,too shocked to panic, the airknockedoutofmychestsoI

can’t scream. And I want toscream.BecauseIseewhat’shappening, and screamingmay be the onlyway to stopit.

BythetimeIdo,it’stoolate.“Sam!No!Stop!”

But Spike’s shoulder isgetting the brunt of it, bloodflying, skin stuck to Sam’sface,Spike’smouthopeninasilent,ghastlyscream.

I stand,but something isstopping me from reaching

myfeetquickly.I lookdownto see my leg bent at anawkwardanglebeneathme.Iknow, even before the bloodflow returns and the painstarts, that it’s broken, orsprainedorworse.

I cry, red hot tearsstainingmycheeksasIcrawlforward, hands trembling inthe dirt and gravel, as Spikeslumpstothegroundinfrontof the tiny guard shack. Hiseyes are open, his mouth is

open, his shoulder is tornopen. Only his future isclosed,sealedoffforever.

Samgrunts, ignoringmeashe stumbles into,and thenover, the yellow and blackstriped guardrail Spike keptfiddlingwithwhilewetalked.HelandsonhisbuttintheZ-Zone, looking left and rightasthesirenswail inresponseto Spike’s fallen, squawkingwalkie-talkie.

The sirens, or maybe

Sam, bring the first of theundead. Squalid things, wiryandleanandmoregreenthangray. They look at Samhungrily,untiltheystopshortand realize…he’s one ofthem.

Thereisamomentthere,only one, maybe two, whereSam and I lock eyes, wherehiseyesbulgeandherealizeswhat he’s done, that we’redone, that we’ll never seeeachotheragain.

And then it’s gone, likeso many of the stolenmoments we’ve had in thelast three months. The half-smiles, the awkward glances,the misinterpreted gestures,the grins that could just begas, the nudges that couldhave just been Sambumpingintome,’causehe’sawkwardlikethat.

Butthisglance,thislook,thisexchange,Ibelieve.

Ihaveto.Whatelsetodo

Ihaveleft?Finallyhestands,grunts,

growls, and joins the livingdead,stumblingoff,shufflingdeeper, deeper into the Z-Zone until the last I see ofhim is him tearing away thered and black flannel shirt Imadehimwearthatmorning.

It flutters to the ground,an afterthought, unnecessaryand something left betterbehindhim.Likeme.

~ABOUTTHEAUTHOR~

A former public schoolteacher, Rusty Fischer haswritten for such educationalmagazines as Learning, TheMailbox and Teaching K-8.Now a full-time freelance

writer,Rusty is the authorofseveral YA supernaturalnovels for DecadentPublishing, includingUshers,Inc. and Panty Raid atZombie High, as well as theReanimated Readz series of99-cent zombie short stories.Youcan readmoreabouthiscurrent and upcomingprojects,anddownloadFREEzombie stories, atzombiesdontblog.blogspot.com