Zombies vs. Unicorns (42 page)

I have stolen people lives,
I said.
Lots of them.

Her mouth opened. Nothing came out.

I described—as well as I could—how the jolt felt, that strange mixture of fear and need and hope that came pouring into me. I told her how I had used the people who’d come to me for help. I didn’t tell her anything about the babies. I wanted her to love me, pity me, not hate me.

“You were an addict,” she said when I had finished. “That’s the way my cousin used to talk about meth. He hated himself for being that strung out, but every time he saw the needle, he’d just plunge it in and then tell himself it was the last time. He said he’d had hundreds of ‘last times.’”

I sighed, as though the comparison were fair, even though I knew it wasn’t. How many babies had the meth head killed on purpose?

“Maybe other unicorns have figured this out,” she said.

I have never seen one.

“But if you’re here, there have to be—”

Ree?

She met my eyes, and I lied again.

I can’t find any other unicorns. I have spent more than five hundred years looking.

She took a breath like she was about to say something, then let it out. Then she took another breath. “Most people would
love to live as long as you have. If you want to change your mind, I will under—”

No. Stand still. Trust me.

I walked closer, arching my neck for show, prancing a little. She smiled, one of her quick, painful smiles, as I lifted my horn high. Then she tipped her head back and closed her eyes, like she was waiting to be kissed by someone much taller than she was. I bowed my head so that the tip of my horn touched her lips. The jolt was the best, sweetest one I had ever felt, even though I took not one single second of her life. When I stepped back, I staggered a little.

She opened her eyes.

Smile, Ree.

She looked puzzled.

Smile. It won’t hurt.

She worked her cheeks, and a glorious smile lifted her lips. Tears filled her eyes as she touched her face.

I did a trick-horse bow, and she laughed, giddy and high. She was beautiful. She ran to the creek and used it as a dull mirror, then ran back to me, jerking her shirt up. Her belly was soft and smooth. She turned away from me and pulled her shirt off, her chin ducked as she looked at her breasts. She got her shirt back on, then dropped to the ground and rolled up her jeans, running her hands over the calves of her legs. It was wonderful to watch her—limber, strong, and lovely. And happy.

When she turned to me, her face was contorted with emotion, her cheeks wet with tears. “Thank you. Oh, thank you.”

I just wish I could have been there that night and
—I stopped
abruptly. It was a stupid thing to say. I might have helped. Or I might have decided not to singe my coat. And if I had saved them, who knows how much longer any of them would have lived?

She came close and put her arms around my neck. Her hair smelled like the woods, like pine gum and damp earth. When she stood back, she was wiping her eyes. “You could still think about this for a while and—”

It’s all I have ever thought about,
I said after a dramatic little pause. This was it. The test. If she didn’t love me, she would never go through with it.

I need you to help me.

She took a breath that lifted her shoulders. Then she crossed the clearing and brought the bag to where we were standing. “Why the rope? Just to fool me?”

Yes. And because I thought that once you have a lot of the weight off, maybe you could hoist what’s left of me up. It might make things easier.

She shuddered. “How many pieces to make sure?”

I loved her even more in that instant.
As many as you can stand,
I told her.
Some in the river. Some in the creek. Take what you can carry back with you and scatter it along the way.

She nodded and clenched her teeth together. “Now?”

Yes.

She pointed. Her voice was a whisper. “Could you stand by that tree? In case I decide to use the rope?”

I led the way, and she followed, carrying the bag. She set it to one side, and when she turned toward me, she had the knife
in her hand and tears were running down her cheeks. “If I cut your throat, you shouldn’t feel anything after that.”

I knew she was wrong, but I was sure I could lay still enough that she would think so—and I wanted her to, at least at first. Later, I would test the limits of her love, her gratitude. And I would let her live. Maybe.

“Okay,” she said. “Are you ready?”

The fear and the determination in her voice were so equal, so raw, so honest, that I didn’t respond except to lift my head high and close my eyes. The knife, when it came, was cold and sure. I felt the blood rushing out of my body. The wound hurt, but my thoughts were calm and clear. I lay down to make things easier for her, and to watch her face.

She was shaking as she picked up the saw. I was amazed at what I saw in her eyes. Her caring, the depth of her gratitude and love for me, that she would do something so horrifying because I had asked her to—all these things touched me deeply.

She began with my right forehoof.

The determination in her eyes made me very happy.

I was floating on an ocean of pain when I heard a metallic click and saw the loppers. I closed my eyes, listening to the sound of sharp steel meeting bone, then a thud. I could hear her crying. Grief. She was grieving
me.
It was delicious. I sighed, a long easy breath.

She suddenly stood up and walked away, carrying the bag down the slope to the river. Good. One hoof was a start. Later, I would suggest a bigger piece. She was gone a long time, then walked past me without speaking when she came back. Was
she on her way to the creek to wash, then begin again? I didn’t want to move, to scare her. So I waited hoping she would hurry. Through one barely open eye I could see her pacing, then sitting by the creek. I kept my thoughts as still as I could.

Time was passing. Too much time.

She finally came back, knelt and peered at my right foreleg. I felt her touch the cut she had made. She exhaled and rocked back on her heels and walked away again. I knew what she had seen. The bloody wound was nearly closed. I was healing. When she came back, carrying the bag, I felt my joy dissipating. And then I felt her hands—not the saw, not the loppers—her bare hands, soft, warm and gentle, pressing tattered skin and the ends of my bones back together. She hadn’t thrown anything into the river.

Please don’t do this,
I begged her.
I need your help.

She was making small sounds I couldn’t categorize. Love? Anguish?

I lay flat on my side and closed my eyes, tired from the pain, feeling my body making itself whole again, disappointed that she hadn’t tried harder. When I opened my eyes again, it was evening. I was sure she would be gone. But she wasn’t. I could feel her warmth.

Ree was asleep, one arm over my back, her head resting on my neck. She was snoring quietly. I just lay there.

So.

It was over.

It hadn’t lasted nearly as long as I’d wanted, but her emotions had been remarkable, even better than I’d hoped. I turned my
head to watch her as she slept. She looked so different now. I wanted to leave, but it seemed unkind to desert her here. She might get lost in the woods. And I couldn’t get up without awakening her. Would she tell anyone about this? About
me
? She would, eventually. Some handsome boy? I would be just one more story to tell as they exchanged secrets. Would anyone believe her? I lay still. I knew what I should do.

She stirred.

I love you,
I told her when I felt her sit up. And it felt almost true, in a five-hundred-year-old lonely, selfish, parasitic way.

“Where should we go?” she whispered. “British Columbia is northeast of here. People say it’s beautiful.”

We?
I could still feel the warm shape of her body against my skin.
You should stay here.

“And explain my sudden lack of scars? First to the doctors and then the reporters?”

I let myself imagine it, keeping my thoughts very quiet. Maybe she could find deserving people and I would just steal a little of their lives, barely enough to feel the jolt. It might be easier with her helping me. But even as I thought it, I knew I would want to be alone when I started killing again—and I would eventually. Finding worthy people, virgins, making up ways to feel loved—it was all very hard. Killing strangers was very easy.

She stood up and took two steps, then faced me. “Don’t worry. I don’t mean it. I know you don’t give a shit about me.”

I lifted my head.
Yes, I do.

She touched her face. “You don’t want to die. You just
wanted to pretend someone loves you. You
enjoyed
all this shit.”

Being cut? It hurt.
I knew it was a stupid response, but I couldn’t think of a better one. She was pacing, stiff-legged, almost rigid with anger. I could see her father’s knife, back in its case, sticking out of her pocket.

“The first time I cut my wrists,” she said, without looking at me, “I timed it perfectly—about three minutes before my roommate came in. She called 911, rode in the ambulance, started keeping track of me. And when she got a boyfriend, I bought more razor blades. But she was late coming home that night, so I staggered into the hall. The guy who found me thought he loved me for quite a while.”

She exhaled and gestured at the bloody ground. “You’re not magical. You’re addicted to … terrible things.” I saw pity in her eyes. “Maybe the other unicorns could tell,” she said. “Maybe they hid.”

Then, before I could react, she ran.

I wanted to chase her.

But while I had been asleep, she’d used the rope and all the clever knots she had learned. They tightened when I struggled, and I had time to think.

So she lived. I won’t try to find her. I never want to see her again.

Because she was right.

About everything.

I think I’ll head northeast. Why not?

“Prom Night”

Justine
: A fitting end to the anthology is one of the book’s most haunting stories. I could say a whole lot more but I don’t want to ruin it for you. Read, enjoy, and appreciate how much richer and more poetic a tale of zombies is than a tale of—well, I think I’ve said enough on
that
subject.

Holly
: “Prom Night” creeped me right out. You know what I need? A nice unicorn story to get the taste of zombies out of my mouth!

Justine
: I’m going to ignore Holly’s inability to appreciate one of the best stories in the anthology. It’s never polite to dwell on someone else’s complete lack of good taste. Instead, I would like to thank those of you who tortured yourself by reading the dread unicorn stories in addition to the brilliant zombie stories.

I know you could have easily skipped the stories with that horrifying little unicorn icon. But you didn’t. Proving that you’re made of sterner stuff than most of us. (Including me. I’ll admit now that I only skimmed those stories.) You’ve gone above and beyond any reader’s responsibilities. I’m proud of you. As a reward may I suggest a George A. Romero zombie movie festival? Go on, you know you deserve it.

By Libba Bray
 

The horizon was one long abrasion, the setting sun turning everything an angry red as it slipped below the dusk-bruised mountain range. Tahmina stood on the security platform and raised the binoculars to her eyes. A human skull appeared, the eyeholes absurdly large until she adjusted the magnification, shrinking the skull and bringing the stretch of desert into wider focus.

“Hey, got a new one for you,” her partner, Jeff, said. “What’s the difference between an undead and my last boyfriend?”

“I don’t know. What?”

“One is a soul-sucking beast from hell and the other is an undead.”

“Good one.” Tahmina swept the binoculars over the stark landscape till they found the figure lurching quickly toward the electrified fence. “See him?”