Two days. An eternity when you’re trying to avoid two annoying men determined to treat your home as their own. Even longer when you realize that your hormones have woken up at a very inconvenient time. The tingle between your shoulder blades when a strong hand lands across your lower back to steer you where they want you to go. The tingle between your thighs when you ‘accidentally’ wrap yourself in the throw blanket they’ve used to cover themself on the couch. A sneak peek of tight abs and a mighty fine ass when they’ve inadvertently left the door to the bathroom cracked while changing clothes after a long night of patrolling.
I admit I’ve rocked myself to sleep, stroking Hades a little longer than necessary, wishing it was something other than his soft fur under my hands. Luckily, while they’ve promised to keep me in sight, they’ve been blessedly absent much of the time. Or at least not in my line of vision. Which is good. Very good, in fact. Because I’m still too young to be having the hot flashes that come with close contact.
They’ve also proven effective at pest control. Jonathan barely spoke to me the other day when the guys dropped me at Brewtally Yours for my daily people watching. His ‘hello’ was much less enthusiastic and although he kept to the pharmacy and left me in peace, he watched me balefully from across the square. It was beyond creepy. I’ve never quite felt that air of menace surrounding him before. He did not seem pleased to see me with my security detail. More disturbing was the shadow of the black cat that kept twisting around his ankles as if marking territory. For his part, he didn’t even seem to notice its presence.
As several more slayers drift into town, I finally relax. Maybe it was just a false alarm and this was a one off. Animals can disappear for a variety of reasons, via coyotes or other wild predators. Not that coyotes have ever been spotted in this region. But they could be, right?
Still, we stay vigilant, even if it means waking up to the sound of two sexy baritones jesting in my kitchen as I itch to fling open my bedroom door and invite someone in to personally scratch what’s tempting me. Thank god it’s Halloween night. By tomorrow, I can send my protectors on their way and go back to my prosaic existence, without wondering what I’m craving today.
Dressed in my Red Riding Hood costume, I suck down yet another pixie stick of pure sugar that I bartered a kid for on East Street. All it cost me were two Milky Ways. Boys are such suckers. Any girl would have made me ante up at least two ring pops and an Almond Joy.
So far, so good. Trick or treating has been in full swing for at least three hours and my feet need a rest. Most of the toddlers have long since tapped out and headed to bed, while the older kids are getting more strung out with the onset of the sugar rush as they empty their bags as quickly as they fill them.
The cries in the distance are the first warning, followed by random gunshots. That’s never good. Like a pinball machine, alerts accumulate fast and furious, strobes of light flashing from my phone with enough frequency to cause a seizure. Cries of alarm float in the air from every direction. Damn it! Maybe this is the zombie apocalypse.
The odd, sweeping sound of shambling legs drag across concrete, mixed with dissonant moans—low, gravelly, the kind of sound that raises every fine hair on the back of your neck, letting you know you are in fact a creature with a strong fight-or-flight instinct.
Quickly scanning the text messages, the information points us to zombies ambling toward the town square from all around town. As word spreads, people quickly shut their doors and close windows, hustling children in superhero and princess costumes off the street. The childish wails of ‘just one more’, as they realize that the high of their sugar rush is being cut short, causes more than one tantrum in the streets.
Perhaps the kids think the zombies are just adults in bad costumes. Or perhaps the need for candy is stronger than self-preservation, but more than one child is dragged kicking and screaming away from the holy grail of peanut butter cups and Swedish fish that lay between them and the jerky perambulations of zombies focused on their destination.
Which in itself is odd. Usually, zombies will follow anything they consider edible to feed their appetite for flesh. Either these zombies are already well-fed since they’re mostly ignoring the children, or they’re being drawn by something even stronger than hunger.
Trick’s eyes flick to mine, glee crinkling the corners as he watches me falter in my tracks, before catching my hand in reassurance.
Strains of music float on the air, creating an odd counterpart to the situation. We track behind, keeping a safe distance between us and the walking dead, counting the increasing numbers in disbelief. Five, eleven, eighteen, twenty-five! At this rate, we’ll need the extra slayers to send them all back to their graves, although judging by the grim twist of Treat’s lips and the grip of his hand around his sword, like me, he regrets the necessity.
Normally, a slayer’s first instinct is to kill that which it can’t command. It’s my job to ensure that we give them the opportunity for eternal rest. Unfortunately, I’m pragmatic enough to understand that, given the circumstances, I’ll never save even a fraction of the number facing us.
Brushing my hand softly across Treat’s shoulder, his muscles flex and bulge, before relaxing slightly under my ministrations.
“It’s cool,” he murmurs softly. “As long as they don’t get too close to you, I’ll hold back as long as possible. Then all bets are off!”
The fierce words send a bolt of heat plummeting through my chest, downward, to where I want to wrap my legs around his waist and ride him to safety. Red stains my cheeks, like fire under my pale skin, eliciting a wicked grin that turns Treat’s saturnine features into something less than handsome, but ultimately craveable. Damn! It’s a good thing he isn’t traditionally handsome because that smile would be lethal to any woman’s lady bits. If self-combustion was truly possible, my panties would already be ashes in the wind.
“Gray Team, please circle to the north end of Town Square. Orange Team, west. Blue Team, South. Yellow Team—hang back and try to herd them into the square from the east. Do not approach, do not engage. Just, for God’s sake, keep them from eating anyone!”
Trick’s grimace is just as disgruntled as the children denied their Halloween candy. “Smires is such a spoilsport!”
It’s become clear that Trick isn’t a fan of following rules. That must be interesting for someone who works within the strict parameters of the MPP.
“Let me do my job, Trick. We should save as many as we can. For now, your job is to watch my back.” We jog around the perimeter of the square toward Brewtally Yours.
“No need to remind me, Taryn.” The intensity of his gaze, just like his brother’s, is like being wrapped in the warmest of blankets—or a straightjacket. Who’s the crazy one now? “I’ve taken my sweet time to memorize your back. In depth. From top to bottom, and all the luscious curves in between. It’s your front I’m ready to know better.”
The wink is almost my undoing. Who gets wet in the middle of a zombie apocalypse? But suddenly, every inch of my skin aches to be gripped as hard as his sword.
“Help me up!” I command, gesturing to the jeep in front of us, grabbing both of his hands to step up on the front bumper and clamber onto the hood.
Sitting lotus style on the cool surface, I wonder at the impulse that made me wear a dress to a zombie apocalypse as the cold metal chills my thighs. Digging through my Riding Hood basket, I grab a votive candle in a deep cup, strike a match, and watch the wick catch and flicker before erupting into a small sentinel of flame. Next, I pull out the large piece of crystal I use as a focus for the meditative connection necessary to direct a dead soul.
“They’re getting closer!” I warn as the herd gathers into a group in the center of the square.
Tattered clothing and the smell of decayed flesh is overwhelming. Puzzled, we all watch the unnatural perambulations, the herd suddenly grouping themselves into lines of five bodies, swaying and jerking in an odd kind of unison.
Slowly, the other slayers close into position around the square, two in each direction as we signal to each and wait for something to happen. A booming, nasal voice turns all attention toward the pharmacy where Jonathan has emerged with a cordless microphone, heading toward the undead without concern.
“It’s my pleasure to provide you with tonight’s entertainment. Happy Halloween. I hope you enjoy the show.”
“Jonath–” I call to warn him, my voice drowned out by the music as the song ‘Thriller’ suddenly blares through speakers hidden somewhere in the bushes.
Zombies stumble and sway before moving in a more organized fashion, their actions choreographed to follow the music in a way seen only on television in a music video. It shouldn’t be possible, but it’s unfolding before us. Not as polished as a Hollywood production, but nonetheless fascinating, like a massive car wreck that draws the eye by its unexpected and horrific appearance.
Townspeople emerge cautiously to watch the spectacle, drawn by the music, then held in thrall by the over the top, jerky movements.
“Did he really…?” Treat’s words sound strangled.
“He did.” Trick asserts in wonderment.
“Dumbass!” I contribute.
While it’s quite an accomplishment, it’s the height of vanity to try to command the dead this way. Where’s the respect? Somebody’s father, or brother, or daughter were not meant to be treated like dancing puppets.
With a last crashing of cymbals, the music ends and the zombies jerk to a halt. Jonathan steps into the square once more to address the crowd.
“You’re welcome,” he gloats before dropping the mic.
Like a signal, the microphone hitting the ground sends all the zombies back into motion. Except, without purpose or focus, they now exhibit typical zombie behavior in search of prey. And Jonathan, idiot that he is, is the first to fall as one grabs him from behind and sinks their teeth into his neck. The smell of blood sends the rest into a frenzy as the slayers move in.
Treat and Trick immediately move in front of me, swords at the ready, like a wall of power shielding me from the wave of undead.
Grabbing my crystal, I focus on the prisms catching the light and fall into a mild state of meditation. My sixth sense searches for the weakest of the undead, before my mind grabs it with a metaphysical thread. Feeling its need, I try to dig for a memory of what fed its soul in life. A faint yearning lights up a tiny corner of its mind—groping hands in the backseat of a car, and sloppy kisses on delicate skin. The fuzzy warmth of a sweater sliding over soft skin. Fanning the memory to life, the zombie’s steps slow as it gets caught more by the memory I’ve revived than the unnatural need currently driving it. I tie the memory to the soul, and then send the thread through its body, tethering it to a golden light at its crown. Like drawing a thread through a needle, I carefully release its soul into the afterworld and watch the zombie fall into the street, its body deteriorating back into earth and dust as the battle rages on.
Determined, I grab for another mind as I vaguely register Treat, Trick, and the others battling the undead around me. It’s a cacophony of swords piercing, body parts separating, and screams and grunts floating on the wind. After releasing my fifth soul, I realize the surrounding chaos has abated. Slayers gather body parts into a pile to be transported to a central incineration site, away from the prying eyes of children and families. A special detail will travel with the bodies to ensure that they don’t reanimate before being destroyed. I’m glad they’re being destroyed elsewhere. Remembering the disgusting smell of burnt flesh on Treat’s shirt, I’d rather not be around for the ritual destruction.
Could I save a few more within the mass of disjointed bodies? In theory, yes. But after five banishings, my mind is mush. Even master banishers rarely release more than three souls a day. Guiding five minds in less than an hour was a new personal best, and I’m completely drained.
Hands wave in front of my eyes, waiting for me to grasp them and hop down from the hood of the jeep. I focus on trying not to fall as I sway gently, my legs unsteady, while Treat steadies my shoulders from behind, and Trick gathers up my banishing supplies.
Smiling gratefully at both of them, I whisper the first thing that comes to mind.
Let’s go home.”