Undead with Benefits (22 page)

“I got some of my people searching for your friends,” he explained. “The cool thing about running a dictatorship is that dudes go on errands for you.”

“Um, you know one of them is human, right?” I said, leaning forward and wishing I'd kept my mouth shut last night. “Your guys better not hurt her.”

“Come on, Jake,” Reggie replied, frowning. “That'd be a dick move. And anyway, I've never met one of these psychics in person.”

I leaned back, not sure whether to be glad Reggie was looking for Amanda and Cass or worried that the Lord of Des Moines was hunting them.

“You forgot to say
over
, stupid.” Reggie spoke into the walkie-talkie, shaking his head. “Where you at?
Over
.”

There was a burst of static in response, maybe a syllable, and then nothing. Reggie stared at the walkie-talkie for a few more seconds, his brow furrowed, then put it away.

“Some of these guys aren't so bright,” he grumbled. “I could use a guy like you, actually. A normal guy.”

I didn't reply.

“Look, man,” Reggie finally continued, “if you're not into it, I get it. I'm a little burnt out on all this shit too. Just—hang out for a little bit, all right? See what we're all about. Then, I'll hook you up with some Kope Juice, if you
really
want it.”

“Uh . . . Kope Juice?” I asked, remembering the billboards we'd seen defaced on the way in.

“The cure, man.”

“Oh. Rad.” Playing it cool, trying not to kick my feet, thinking about how hard Amanda was going to make out with me.

“I'll be straight with you, though,” Reggie said, smirking, “things might get a little bonkers. A little, uh, theatrical. Every despot knows, keeping the masses entertained is important.”

 

He wasn't kidding.

“ARE YOU READY?” Lord Reggie's megaphone blared. The crowd screamed in response. “WELCOME TO THIS WEEK'S ROMERO RUN!”

I clung to a section of railing on the mall's second floor as the other zombies crowded in, trying to get a better view. I ended up squeezed in next to Red Bear, his jagged smile pointed in my direction.

“You're gonna love this, bro,” he said.

I had my doubts.

On the first floor, a group of humans shifted like nervous cattle behind the lowered gate of a JCPenney. Farther down the concourse, a pack of zombies milled about anxiously. They were a dozen, mostly the leather-biker types, but they looked scrappier and hungrier than the ones up here, like they might go rotten at any moment. Two hadn't been able to keep it together and had already slipped into a state of near-ghoul decomposition. They had to be held in check by a buff zombie dressed all in red-white-and-blue spandex like an American Gladiator.

“
Dawn of the Dead
theme is my favorite,” Red Bear said in my ear. “You seen that one?”

I nodded. I'd seen my fair share of zombie flicks. Anyway, it didn't take a film buff to figure out what was about to happen. At the opposite end of the concourse from the JCPenney, a finish line had been painted on the floor in front of a Bon-Ton. The humans were going to have to run for it.

“If you don't bring in enough food,” Red Bear explained, giving me a meaningful look, “you'll end up down there with the other scrubs, dancing for your meals.”

I gave him what I hoped was an icy look. He slapped me on the back.

“Don't worry, it's not so bad!” Red Bear yelled. “Sometimes I join in just for fun!”

Someone sounded an air horn. The punk-looking zombie manning Red Bear's sound system changed the track to the fight music from
Star Trek
. The crowd went apeshit.

“RELEASE THE HOUNDS,” Reggie boomed.

Some zombies positioned above the JCPenney yanked a pair of ropes and the gate lifted with a metallic screech. The humans inched forward—huddled together in a tight formation, moving slowly. The crowd jeered. Someone chucked a water balloon filled with god knows what.

The American Gladiator released the ghouls he'd been holding back and they beelined right for the humans. The other zombies took it slower, flanking the group like wolves around sheep, but also apprehensive about something.

“Let's go!” Red Bear screamed, annoyed. “Get 'em, you little bitches!”

Their caution made sense when the first ghoul reached the humans—all thrashing arms and gnashing teeth—and a shirtless black dude in bloodstained cargo pants stepped forward to greet him.

Jamison. That was his name, right? The NCD hard case who'd shot me multiple times last week, who'd gotten captured back on the border, sort of because of me.

“Oh shit!” Red Bear yelled. “Watch out for the ringer!”

Jamison caught the ghoul under the armpits, lifted him, and slammed him viciously onto the tile floor. The ghoul hit so hard, his body bounced. Jamison stomped forward, his boot landing dead center in the ghoul's face, smashing his head like an overripe cantaloupe.

I cheered. Couldn't help it. I like an underdog. Red Bear looked at me sideways, but I wasn't the only one, even though the others were probably just cheering for the violence, or because now there was one less undead belly to compete with in Des Moines. What Truncheon had said about the ecosystem suddenly made a lot of sense.

“Stay tight! Stay together!” Jamison yelled at the other humans. There were only six of them total and none of them looked half as tough as him. Two women and three men, middle-aged and soft, all of them wearing
KOPE BROTHERS COMPANY PICNIC 2009
T-shirts.

The second ghoul reached them. Jamison grabbed this one by the ears, twisted its head around with a crunching sound that carried above all the shouting, and tossed him disgustedly aside. He kept his eyes on the more aware zombies the entire time.

The remaining zombies were all spread out, some perched on top of kiosks, and others stretched out mockingly on benches. The American Gladiator stood in front of the mall's fountain, hopping from foot to foot, watching Jamison with a ferocious grin.

The humans inched forward, Jamison still in the lead. The others looked increasingly nervous as the distance between them and the zombies shortened. One of the old dudes had started to cry.

“They're gonna break,” Red Bear said.

He was right. A water balloon sailed from out of the crowd and hit one of the middle-aged guys in the back of the head. He shrieked and, before Jamison could stop him, took off for the finish line.

Two zombies tackled him almost immediately and started tearing him apart.

“Stop!” Jamison yelled, not at the zombies, but at the humans. “Hold formation!”

For a second, I thought they might actually listen to him. But then one of the eating zombies tossed the severed hand of their comrade at them and the humans all took off, booking for the far end of the concourse.

The zombies on the second floor roared with approval. Red Bear elbowed me in delight.

“Sick,” I said quietly.

I looked around for Reggie. He was farther down the railing, watching the action with his arms folded. He didn't notice me.

Jamison was the only human that didn't get tackled in those first manic thirty seconds. It didn't seem like any of the zombies were eager to tangle with him, more interested in the easy prey. If he'd gone for it right then, he probably could've made it to the safety of the Bon-Ton.

Instead, he tried to help a lady with a scrawny zombie wrapped spiderlike around her torso. That's when the American Gladiator barreled in. The freak in the spandex leotard squeezed Jamison in a bear hug from behind and bit down, hard, on the NCD agent's shoulder.

I thought that was it for him, but Jamison didn't go down easy. He smashed his head back into the zombie's face while trying to pry apart his grip. The American Gladiator was too strong, so Jamison shoved backward with all his weight, and the two of them went crashing through a bench. The zombie's grip loosened and Jamison rolled to the side.

The DJ queued up “Eye of the Tiger.”

As Jamison got to his knees, the American Gladiator grabbed him and took another bite out of his upper arm. Jamison tried to shove the zombie's face away with one hand, groping through broken pieces of bench with his other. The zombie had really latched on, though, and Jamison crumpled backward with the American Gladiator on top, eating him alive. Jamison screamed, I'm not sure whether from frustration or pain, and slapped his hand against the zombie's ear.

The American Gladiator went limp.

He'd gotten hold of a nail from the bench. Jammed it straight through to the zombie's brain.

Jamison staggered to his feet, blood coursing down his shoulder. He looked around. All the other zombies were occupied, hunched over their humans. I saw his features go tight with rage and was sure he was going to charge back in, but he fought it back. Spit. And walked to the finish line. When the crowd cheered his arrival, he shot up a double bird. From above, some zombies lowered the Bon-Ton's gate, trapping Jamison inside.

“Hot damn,” Red Bear exclaimed, “you know how long it's been since we had a returning champion? I am
definitely
playing next week!”

I realized the back of my shirt was soaked with sweat. My fingers tingled and there was a dull ache deep in the pit of my stomach. Like the zombies around me—writhing, screaming, light on deodorant—I gazed down at all the gore and my mouth watered. I was hungry, but in a way that felt dirty and weirdly illicit. I wanted to shove this feeling underneath my mattress and then set that mattress on fire. I felt ashamed having watched that.

The music cut off and a hush fell across the crowd. I looked down the railing and saw that Reggie had raised one hand in the air. Except for the feeding zombies down below, the mall was suddenly eerily quiet. He didn't even need to use the megaphone.

“That, bitches, was one of the greatest Romero Runs your Lord has ever seen! Those motherfuckers down there, they
earned
that meal! Ya dig?”

A cheer went up from the crowd. I glanced to my side and realized that Red Bear had slipped away.

“And that hard-ass human son of a bitch, he
earned
another week of fattening up and marinating in fear sauce! Ya dig?”

Another cheer, although somewhat less enthusiastic. I hoped that fear sauce was just a metaphor because it sounded gross.

“We've got a good thing going here,” Reggie yelled, a growing tension in his voice. “And to keep it working right, all I ask is that you
earn
. That you
take
only what you
need
. This ain't breaking news, is it?”

A resounding
NO!
from the crowd, apparently well versed in the bylaws of Deadzone living. Some of the zombies around me had started to shift anxiously, as if something crazy was about to happen.

“DOUG TAYLOR!” Reggie screamed, spit flying off his lips as he pointed into the crowd. “GET YOUR ASS UP HERE!”

Doug Taylor was one of the middle-aged zombies. Nothing special about him. He was trying way too hard with all his leather gear when it looked like he'd be better suited to selling vacuum cleaners door-to-door. He tried to run when Reggie pointed him out, but Red Bear and Cheyenne had crept up on him. They grabbed him—screaming and thrashing—and dragged him over to Reggie.

“Uh . . . ,” I said, glancing around for some clarification. No one nearby seemed interested in explaining to me what the deal was, or in making eye contact. Everyone was restless now, edging backward from Reggie.

“My friends!” Reggie shouted. “On multiple occasions, Doug here has tried using American dollars—a currency we have no fucking use for!—to bribe extra rations from your fellow citizens! He has stolen! He has gone on unsanctioned hunts and not shared the spoils! He has been warned and he has not listened! YA DIG?”

This time the crowd booed and shouted curses at Doug. Red Bear and Cheyenne forced the poor guy, pleading and struggling, onto his knees before Reggie. With a flourish, Reggie removed a syringe from within his coat. The mere sight of the needle freaked some of the zombies out and they stumbled back.

I inched closer.

“Doug!” Reggie shouted, holding him by the chin. “We reject your kind! You are NOT one of us!”

And then I knew what was about to happen. I knew what was in that syringe. It was the very thing I was searching for.

Red Bear shoved Doug's head down so Reggie could jam the syringe into the base of his skull. An uncomfortable murmur went through the crowd as Reggie methodically pressed down the plunger. I realized that without really trying, I'd elbowed my way right to the front.

They let Doug go. He crumpled onto his face, cradling his head like he was afraid something might pop out of there. Hell, maybe the virus
was
going to explode right out of his brain and that's what Reggie had meant about the cure being complicated. Side effects include: explodey brain. Yeah, I'd call that a complication. Suddenly, I found myself wondering if the cure was really something I wanted after all. This did not look fun.

Everyone was quiet, a sort of reverent silence for Doug's whimpering. He twitched around on the ground, all clenched up, like he was trying to fold into himself. So, yeah, this part looked painful.

Then he stopped moving entirely. I noticed that his hands had turned that congealed-gray zombie color, but it wasn't quite the usual undead discoloration. His hands were a patchwork, spots of normal pink flesh separated by scabby mounds of dead gray. The same was true for an expanse of skin along his neck.

“Is that it?” a zombie behind me whispered.

That wasn't it.

Doug sprung onto his hands and knees and started to puke. He let loose a torrent of rotten-smelling chunks, the color and consistency of marshmallows that'd fallen into a campfire. He hacked and hacked until it didn't seem like anything else could possibly be hiding inside him and then he hacked some more. I covered my nose and mouth with my hand. Even some of the psycho-looking, hard-ass Iowa zombies crowded around me averted their eyes.