Gods of Anthem (29 page)

So he had been with Crystal before. But why…?

The zombie catches me from behind, and we slam into the dirt. I twist my head to see Pretend Man, still there and still real, and he’s got that strange smile on his face.

Was that a nod?

He’d nodded at me.

He’s expecting it to happen again.

He knows it will.

But when?

I fight the urge to scream,
When! When will it happen? How does it work
!

The zombie’s torn through the back of my jacket, and with skin exposed, the attack intensifies. He’s close to biting me.

He holds me down—even my arms are pinned—while he works at the tear with a hungry savageness.

Fear brings on a rigid tension before it releases me from its mighty grip into that strange place again. One minute, the crowd is a dull roar, and the next, the noise mutes. An eerie stillness overtakes my senses, and everything aligns.

The zombie has some of my ski mask in his grasp. Soon … they’ll all see who I am.

Fabric bunches into my eyes as he pulls it up my face, revealing my chin.

It feels slow but must be quick, the roll that sets me on top of the zombie. I’m blind, yet able to overpower him anyway. I kick free and move to the center of the ring, fixing my mask.

That buzzing control is there. I’m that other me again, the new and shiny one with all the bells and whistles.

It makes me smile.

The zombie rises, too, and lunges, but I dodge him like he’s a child trying to get his ball back. My surge is here, tangible … and I can control it this time.

The crowd has become a small sound in the distance, rising with each second. They’ve changed their tune since this latest maneuver; they’re cheering me on.

“Kill him, Skull!” they chant, on and on.

I walk straight at the creature and, grabbing his arm, pull him over me; I toss him down face-first to kneel into his back. With my hands on either side of his head, I grimace at the thought of doing this again, but …

My gaze scans the crowd, first to Jeremy, then it floats down to Pretend Man, who’s nodding again with his pretend smile.

I spin the zombie’s head like a top.

I doze until
morning comes. I’m ready to sleep for another day, but I have to get to formation, and Jo-Jo’s wilting next to me as the sun begins to “dose her,” as she calls it.

“I’m so bored,” she says with a generous yawn.

“Come on,” I tell her, “let’s say your prayers.”

“You first.”

“No way. Go.”

She sighs and closes her eyes. “Fine. Lord, please keep Tommy safe in training, and also, whatever he’s sad about, make him feel better. Thank you for making him a Team Leader for the live-fire mission, ‘cause that’s cool, and he’s doing way better than that loser Cory—”

“Jo.”

“Well, you are. And God knows more than anyone what a bag of—okay, fine. And Lord, give him strength not to tear the head off of that douche bag—”

“Joelle.”

“And could you please, please, please give me something to do tomorrow. Amen.”

“Amen.”

She crosses herself.

“Where’d you learn that?”

“Veronica. She’s a Catholic.”

I smile. “Okay then, into your box.”

“It’s not a coffin!”

I hold up my hands. “I didn’t say ‘coffin.’”

“Just making sure. It’s a bed, Tom-Tom. With a top, is all. Wait.” She pauses outside of the conex, eyeing it suspiciously.

It was made for weapons, but it’s roomy, and we’d outfitted it with a mattress, sheets, and a pillow.

“What?” I ask, looking over the large metal crate.

“Would a coffin be better, you think?” She glances around, then whispers, “Is there a reason they use them, like maybe I’ll get better sleep…?”

I scratch my head. “Um, I have no clue.”

“Hmm.” She stretches. “I’ll think about it.”

“You do that.” And I bite back a grin at her seriousness.

The sky’s a
burnt orange with bits of black above a cracked earth, like dry skin without lotion. Earth is barren now. I’m standing at a bridge I’ve seen before, and each time I’m there, I’m saying sorry for everything I’ve ever done, while it sways, offering me passage. But I never go.

I have something new to add to my confessions. I killed a man. In a rage. The bridge creaks in answer.

You may walk across me now
, it seems to say when I’m finished admitting what I’ve done. It offers me absolution, but I never take it.

I just wake up soaked in sweat.

My eyes adjust to the darkness, and I focus on the bunk above me. All at once, I’m panting, then I shout out in fear, clutching my sheets when I see it—her—there.

Joelle’s underneath the upper bunk mattress, arms and legs pressed into the sides of the metal frame. She hangs above, eyes solid black, like a cat zoomed in on its prey. Her enlarged pupils flicker with an unholy light, and her lips draw back from teeth elongated into needles.

Slowly, she reaches for my throat, and I call out her name like a prayer on my lips. “Joelle.”

She snaps back, eyes glazing over in sleep once again.

Jo-Jo falls, landing on me in a heap.

This is the first day-terror we’ve had in a while.

I lie there, breathing heavily, trying to recover. My dream was already weird, then her hanging above has officially freaked me out.

Thunder makes me jump. Night hasn’t fallen; there’s a storm outside. Lightning flashes and lights up Joelle’s face, relaxed now, and peaceful.

I sit up, careful not to shift her too much. For a vampire, sleep walking is a terrible thing. I’ve seen it enough to know. I’ve tried to wake her in the past, only to be nearly decapitated.

She’s as light as a feather, tiny for such a vibrant girl, and I carry her back to her case, laying her inside and tucking her in. She shifts, gives a small smile in relaxation, and sighs, while another string in my heart pulls taut. If I can give her even a moment of faith in this world, I will. My parents always made us feel safe and loved, and I never knew how lucky I was until I met others who’d been abused long before the zombies started to appear.

In a world that’s far from peaceful, at least I knew what trust once felt like. Some, like Joelle, aren’t so lucky. The people closest to her had forced her again and again under the knife. Someone she’d trusted had strait-jacketed her between feedings until they taught her self-control. And her own mother had brought her into the sunlight with different serums, trying to defeat that certain “weakness” of her prototype.

I check my watch. It’s time to head back. I’d been napping during my lunch break and Murphy’s funeral detail is working in preparation to bury him—well, his ashes—so we’ve had the afternoon off. I need to ready myself in dress blues. Even though I’m the reason he’s dead, I’m expected to be there and no one has even mentioned my involvement.

We rarely dress in our formal wear with black beret, a jacket adorned with medals, and so on. I look like an idiot, but a clean, sharply decorated one, at least.

The tie keeps knotting into a mess. I’m still fighting with the thing when a small chuckle comes from behind me.

“I can help.”

Joelle steps forward, face flush with sleep. It’s nice to see color in her cheeks; she must have already eaten. Her braids are a mess, tangled up in medusa loops. Her eyes, thank God, are normal.