Death 07 - For the Love of Death (5 page)

Deegan

The slap wakes me first.

My face hits the other side of the hard surface.

“
That's it, princess.”

I open my eyes like slits. They're special, like Pax's, but different.

Instantly my second eyelids reveal the Brad of this world. Apparently, he hates me here, too. Of course. It all makes sense. Multiverse is a study in Murphy’s Law. It’s not that bad things
will
happen. It’s that anything that
could
happen, will.

Like now.

My legs are unbound but not my hands.

I wait until my perfect peripheral vision locates the prick, then I grab him with my legs.

His hands fly to my shins squeezing the sides of his head.

He makes a satisfying choking sound that ends in a gurgle.

I cross my ankles and rotate my heels opposite each other. It twists his neck. Sounds like pop rock machine gun fire light off.

Thompson drops.

I jump down, sway, and land on my ass.

The breath leaves me.

Jerk drugged me.

My vision trembles, tripling. Suddenly, there are three Brads. Not a good development.

I take several deep breaths, oxygenating myself as I scan my environment. Commercial building. Old, mid-twentieth-century cement dungeon with glass block windows.

Doors are barn-style with a huge steel bar across the center.

I move my butt backward, heaving it over the bound circle of my arms.

I gasp as a powerful summons for the dead covers me like a shroud.

Paxton.

I’d know his death call anywhere.

But we’re not in our world, and I’m blind here. I can’t see our world if I’m not touching Pax.
I can’t get home.

My throat closes. A lump forms, begging to shed tears.

I clamp down on it, taking my butt through my arms. I bring them in front of me.

Old-fashioned zip ties.
Why are they still using petro here?

Doesn’t matter. They’ll be awful to get off.

My eyes flick to Brad. I scope for movement. I don’t know if this world has auto-heal features.

A finger jumps.

Yeah.

I look for something sharp.

It’ll be a little while for Brad to heal up from a spine injury.

But he will.

I spot an old electric-powered table saw like the one Gramps has in his garage. The spinning serrated disc climbing out of the center appears to have teeth covered in cobwebs.

That'll work.

I stagger to the saw and dip my wrists to the blade. I move them back and forth where the zip tie meets, the thick opaque white binding snags against the tips of the metal. I reposition again.

Then again.

I chance a glance behind my shoulder.

Brad Thompson's eyes are on me.

Oh god.

I move faster and my peripheral lids catalog his recovery. His toe twitches as his entire group of ten fingers move. They press the concrete underneath him.

“You stupid bitch,” he says, enunciating each syllable.

Voice is working fine.

The binding snaps and I turn.

“
Don't even try it, Deegan,” Brad says. He struggles to sit up, manages it and views me sideways.

His head is still touching his shoulder.

The neck's always the last to heal.

I cover my mouth. Then let my hand fall, laughing.

Hate engulfs his expression. “I'll kill you. I have already.”

I nod my head. “Maybe you will, Brad. But right now, I can't take you seriously when you're talking from your shoulder.”

A rage so raw it's naked, meets my eyes. It's absolute—I step back.

An exhale escapes me in a rush.

“It's been fun, but—
bye.
”

I turn
to leave, and his voice follows me.

“I don’t know where you came from, if you’re some holdover Dimensional or what. But I’ll tell you this. You paranormals? You’re extinct here. E-X-T-I-N-C-T.”

His words make me pause. I glance back.

Paracide.

He grins. “That’s right; you leave me here and run off. Go ahead. You won’t get two steps before the cyborgs take you down.”

Cy-what? It's like a bad sci-fi novel.

He interprets my expression. “Artificial Life Bots, princess. The ALBs will fuck your day right up.”

I look him over, his lopsided head still resting against his shoulder.

Or is it a little higher now?

Time to go.

I don't wait, I run.

*

I go where the death summons came from. It's as logical a choice as breathing.

Where the dead are, Paxton will be.

I stay to the greenbelts, noting the bare sidewalks with strange grates. Vapor escapes in rhythmic bursts, heating the cement sidewalks in winter. Our world uses solar and wind. Here they must have harnessed geothermal, maybe using the off gassing of nearby industry or… the earth’s crust. It’s not a field trip, but I can’t help my curiosity.

The ALBs Brad told me about cruise up and down the streets with purpose. Many carry personal items, sundries, groceries, and slim notebook type things.

They look straight ahead, neither backward nor sideways.

Then one stops and I meld into the treeline, using a wild growing rhododendron for cover. It's treelike on its own and I climb up into the lower branches, making myself into a ball.

I nest like a bird in the foliage.

The bot appears to see me, though I know the greenery provides enough cover.

I can hear whirs and clicks from here. Innocuous sounds. Scary sounds. I swallow hard.

“Paranormal detected.”

Shit.

The other bots stop their scurrying like ants on a hill.

More clicking, whirring and chirping ensue. I sink deeper into the arms of the bush. Blood rushes in my ears like a river of trapped noise.

I don’t have Pax’s control of the dead. Actually, I’m caught in a volatile age, only having my power manifestation for about two years. A late bloomer, they said.

Fear forms in my chest like an iceberg. Great calves of ice break off and float to my extremities, the beginnings of terror-induced adrenaline.

I shift my weight and begin to topple out of the bush.

The bots’ eyes go to the commotion I make.

Oh no!

Arms catch me, and a hand covers my mouth. My panic is total.

It’s Brad.
I know it.
Somehow, he’s healed up and ready to hurt me.

Then the familiar, vague, but not unpleasant smell of rot envelops me. Instant comfort.

Not a normal reaction. Not even a human reaction. But a perfectly normal one for an AFTD.

“Shh… I am here, mistress.”

I crane my neck and look into eyes that are deadly, dark, and alive though he’s clearly dead.

He cocks his eyebrows and I nod. My silence is relief, thanks, and agreement rolled into one.

The bots are climbing the hill.

“Your fear tore me out of the earth where I slept.”

I swallow hard.

He traces my jawline with a finger. A tattoo of a sword through a beating heart undulates under the motion of his muscular forearm.

“Such fear, necromancer—where there is no need.”

He was a huge guy in life. In death, he is an unmovable object. His eyes track movement between the branches, and his square jaw sets.

“Don’t…” I begin.

I know my skill level. My control is bad. Paxton could have this guy juggling grapefruit.

Not me.

He sets me on my feet and I come to his shoulder.

His wardrobe looks like late twentieth, early twenty-first.

He smiles, and there’s some teeth missing. I feel guilt then squelch it. My emotions, not a deliberate call, raised him. I’m freaking here and can’t get my shit together.

No one raises a perfect zombie when they’re tripping.

The sound of metal bodies’ stealthy progress over the embankment slides over us as they draw nearer.

“Are they enemies?”

A simple question. His eyes search mine.

“Yes,” I say.

“Why only me?” he asks.

Why did you raise only one zombie?
It's a fair question.

“I'm seventeen,” I blurt. A small untruth.

His lips twitch. Dark hair is a vaguely curling cap against his scalp.

“Then we'll run, mistress.”

He gives me his back, bending over, his arms out at his side.

Piggy back.

A laugh leaks out of me and he turns his face, only his profile visible.

“There is nothing funny about the approach of over ten of those things, mistress.”

I sober and climb on.

His arms wrap my legs. Strong ones.

“Ready?” he asks.

I nod, though he can’t see it. “It’s Deegan.”

The zombies all call us the same thing.

The first bot shoves through the thicket.

Its stare latches onto me.

“Paranormal, level four.” It pauses, then, “Reanimated humanoid.”

I swear it smiles before it says, “Exterminate.”

“Not today, jack,” the zombie beneath me says.

Then he’s running, the wind and bots at our backs.

I don’t even know his name.

Caleb

“Baby, no—ya can't come.”

Jade's emerald gaze narrows down on me like two laser beams.

Damn.

“Do not patronize me, Caleb Hart.”

I don't roll my eyes, but it's an effort.

I try for reasonable, not my best thing. “I don’t know what kind of a snafu the kids have gotten themselves into, or if it’s a volatile situation.” I rake a hand through my hair. “I don’t want to have my entire family to worry about. As you know, the kids are enough.”

She sighs and absently strokes Onyx’s head.

The pack is nervous. The dog scents the cave. Nothing is different. Yet the boy’s worry is bitter in the dog’s nose.

Onyx ducks from underneath Jade’s affection and comes to stand in front of me.

He stares.

It’s all right, Onyx, you’re a good dog.

Thunk, wag, thunk.

The boy makes the good sounds in his head. He wags his tail, yet—the sound does not match the anxiety scent. The dog will watch the pack. Stay alert for danger.

“It’s just, gah!” Jade storms around our small kitchen. Denim and a dark green tee peek out from beneath an apron my mom made for her a decade ago.

Mom.

I shove the sadness deep. I don’t have time for those moments of grief that sneak up when I’m unaware.

She whirls, eyes flashing, and black hair spins around her body. “I’ll go crazy not knowing.”

She studies my face, seems to get an idea of my struggle somehow, and mauls on her lip.

I pull her against me, careful to touch clothes, not skin. “Let me go, Jade. I’ll get the kids handled and pulse communicate what’s happening.”

“Use Deegan.”

Deegan is a psychic conduit. She can relay images like a movie to anyone in the world by touch.

It's faster than pulse, more intimate.

It's also off the government radar. As far as they know, she is catalogued as a four-point AFTD. Among other things. Dee is the latest Random to manifest in the nation. With a genius IQ.

Must've skipped me.

I smirk.

Jade's hands fly to her hips. “What's so funny, buster?”

I tow her behind me, careful to ring her forearm over clothes, and head to the door. We don't have time to waste on talking.

“I'm thinking the kids are all right. Especially Deegan.”

Jade winds her arms around my waist, and I press my lips to the top of her head.

“I'm still pissed you won't take me,” she says against my chest.

“I know. I gotcha,” I say against her hair.

“I love you, you jerk.”

I smile, though she can't see it.

“I love you more.”

I move through the entry door and onto the broad steps that view the grandfathered strip of lawn on the boulevard.

Onyx gives a single sharp bark. It sounds a lot like goodbye.

He and Jade watch through the sidelight windows flanking the solid nine-foot oak door.

She waves once then turns away.

Onyx stays where he is, watching. His tail is still.

*

Gramps stands like the Lone Ranger in a sea of guys in suits, and an eerie calm descends over me.

It reminds me of before.

Before they administered the sterilization. Before we were Randoms. When there were so many paranormals it was just a variant of normal.

I know a Graysheet when I see one. It feels like a twenty year hiatus has come to an end.

Hover cars zip above their heads, the thirty-foot invisible safety ceiling disallowing casualties.

But that can’t be an absolute. As I make my way in my own vehicle, the beeping of the parking security begins as my car descends.

Gramps, plus whoever these clowns are, back away.

<
Twenty seconds to engagement
> The automated voice recites by rote.

<
Five seconds to engagement
>

The car locks into invisible pulse-activated brackets. It rocks as it engages and stills.

<
Disengaging door locks
>

My ears pop as the doors unlock and sweep up like wings. Kind of reminds me of the antique Deloreans of the twentieth.

I climb out, and my car bounces with the loss of my weight.

Gramps’ gaze meets mine. I remind myself again how it sucks to have AFTD and just enough precog to frustrate. What I wouldn’t do to have some telepathy. When I want it.

It’d definitely suck ass to have all the time.

“Gramps.” I flick my gaze to his. A holographic card hangs around his neck via a lanyard. It’s his “
get out of jail free
” card he calls it.

The guys in black look pretty nervous. Not too many of them have met a free bird twentieth before.

With a twelve gauge shotgun.

Gramps maintains all his amendment rights.

I sling my power out like a net and get a hit from one of the chumps in black.

Nice little round-out there.

They have an AFTD. That means there's a Null. But I'm blind to that. I can only recognize my own brand. Like a fart.

I chuckle.

Gramps clamps his lips around a cig and lights it one-handed, his shotgun tucked underneath his arm. The white noise of the highway above our heads drones like a low-level vacuum machine.

“Hey, son.”

My eyes take in my kids’ vehicle. The roof looks like a shark bit the center of it, didn’t like the taste, and spit it out.

I walk closer, keeping one eye on the suits.

There’s a bump in the center where the driver would be. Knuckle-shaped imprints push out the roof.

Paxton.

Chicken skin rises on my bare skin. Our son tried to stop him and Dee from being pancaked.

I’m so glad I didn’t bring Jade.

I continue to circle the car, trying to squelch my rising panic.

The government lurkers are here.

My kids conveniently total an untotal-able car.

Things are adding up. Paranoia Central comes online.

Breeze from the traffic overhead lifts my hair as I cruise around the perimeter of the once-pristine car. I finally look up from the wreckage.

The first guy (
not
the AFTD) says, “Net’s been deployed.” His face is cool, aloof. Hard.

I glance inside the driver’s window. Remnants of high-density tensile netting coat the interior like antique Silly String.

I zero in on Arrogant, keeping my temper in check for the moment. “Two questions.”

The man’s eyebrows rise.

Don’t like him already.

Give me a break. Panic is a close friend to Rage, and right now, they’re tag teaming me.

My power swells in response.

The voices of the undead grow louder. Of course, they’re louder now because so many more people have died since the undead fun began.

I breathe deeply. In. Then out. “Why did my kids’ car crash? With a billion avoidance measures, in theory, that’s a
no
,
guys.”

He opens his mouth, and I glare.

He smirks, holding his hands together and rocking back on his heels. Amused. Confident.

Silent.

Neither amused nor confident I smile, more a baring of teeth.

I’m just pissed.

I take in the five Randoms of mixed abilities and know they’re involved. They’re close to Pax’s age. It’s surreal how little things have changed since I ran into this type before.

“Two: what in the hell are you doing here and why?”

I put my hands on my hips.

“That’s three questions,” Arrogant replies.

I can hear only the sounds of vehicles whizzing over our heads at one hundred fifty-five miles per hour. It’s just loud enough to drown out the small noises of mandatory greenbelts and the wildlife that lives there.

I give Gramps a full look, one he can interpret without any paranormal talent whatsoever.

Gramps doesn’t hesitate. He flicks the cigarette toward the asswipe, and Arrogant reacts instantly, batting the flaming cancer stick away.

Gramps hammers him in the shoulder with the butt of the shotgun.

Arrogant staggers back.

Their telekinetic comes out of hiding and slams Gramps on the road with a palm swipe in the air.

Gramps cracks his head, and I engage.

It’s actually more a matter of my power breathing a sigh of relief to be out of its cage. First, I give old AFTD suit a love tap that parks him on his ass, hard.

Raw satisfaction washes through me.

The undead summons falls over the five miles over which I have complete control. The dead cut a path to me like a beam from a lighthouse.

It’s always been a flaw of mine, the lack of preparedness. If I’d been thinking (and who the hell
is
when your kids are in parts unknown, with government skulkers milling around), I’d have realized that geographically, I’m closer to Gramps than to my house.

The Skopamish rise in a tide of feathers, leather, and war paint.

Oops.

They disrupt the road’s built-in pulse magnetization instantly, and cars spin above us. The other rails instantly reform intersects to stabilize the little disaster I conjure.

Sorry guys, just having a little zombie soiree here in the middle of the highway.

My kids are missing, we have a
situation
, Gramps is on the ground, and I’ve called the dead. Yet the urge for inappropriate laughter boils inside. Some things never change.

I give in to a chuckle as the chief emerges just a meter or two in front of me. He never ages, plumping out before my eyes the same way every time, as he did when I was a teen. The dead don’t grow older. Whatever age they are at death is what they’ll be forever.

I work for a company that relocates the dead. Land’s at a premium in 2049. Can’t have those pesky gravesites in the way of progress.

Did I mention I hate my job?

The chief’s gaze fills with my energy, plumping to grapes from the shriveled raisins of seconds before.

“Master.” His headdress moves as he talks.

“Chief,” I reply. I tear my gaze away. Arrogant looks less so now, trying to rouse his AFTD cohort I put into a fugue a minute ago.

Good luck with that.

“How may I serve you?”

“Injuns again, Caleb?” Gramps chirps from his back. I spare him a glance, smiling despite the grim circumstance.

“You okay?” I yell.

He gives a little smile. “I'll live, got my bell rung.”

I nod at Gramps even as I swing my head to look at the government guys. Maybe time for a little clean up.

The Skopamish track my gaze.

Arrogant’s eyes widen, his hand falling away from the shoulder Gramps whacked.

No words are uttered, but tomahawks are loosened from their bindings. Metal makes a distinct sound as it escapes its moorings.

The Skopamish shuffle forward, dropping the undead awkwardness with each step.

Becoming more alive.

Just more.