A Mad Zombie Party

There’s an ache deep in my chest now, humming in tune to the movies playing in the back of my mind. Movies on a constant loop—memories of times I shared with my bestie, the coolest chick I’ve ever known.

The first time we met. “I’m Kathryn, but everyone calls me Kat. And do not make any cat jokes or I’ll have to hurt you. With my claws. Truth is, I stopped speaking meow a long time ago.”

My first day at my new school. “Well, well, look what the Kat dragged in. Get it? Of course you do. I only make awesome jokes. But enough of my brilliant banter. I’m so glad you’re here!”

When she first confessed to being sick. “My kidneys don’t exactly work right. I need dialysis, like, a lot.”

Our first squabble. “I told you about my illness, but you won’t tell me what’s going on with you? And I know something’s going on. You’re spending more and more time with Cole, you’re bruised all the time and I would think he was beating you if I hadn’t seen the bruises on everyone else you’re hanging out with. I know you’re involved in whatever Frosty’s involved in, and I know you’re keeping secrets from me.”

We’d made up quickly. We’d always made up quickly. We were sisters of heart rather than blood. But as much as I love those flashbacks of our lives together, I wish they’d stop. My heartache is almost unbearable. And if I feel this way, even though Cole soothes me—even though I occasionally interact with Kat’s spirit—Frosty has to be falling down a pit of never-ending despair. His only source of comfort has been taken away.

Crap! I need a sec to wipe my eyes. Got dirt in them...or something.

An indisputable fact: Frosty loves Kat the way I love Cole. All-encompassing, all-consuming, nothing held back—forever. I’ve heard him say he has nothing to live for, that death would bring him peace.

He’s never been more wrong. He also can’t go on like this. I’ve seen a glimpse of the future, and it isn’t pretty.

The worst is yet to come.

We thought we’d won the war against Anima. We thought wrong. And how freaking sad is that? During our last battle, we lost six of our closest friends, and only consoled ourselves with Anima’s defeat, certain they’d never again hurt another living soul. We should have known the company would rise from the grave just like the zombies they helped create.

Together we slayers must stand. Or one by one we will fall.

We have to— Argh! Kat! Did I forget to mention she’s a witness now? When she died, her spirit went up. She lives in a spirit realm with my biological mom, Helen, and my little sister, Emma. They watch over us, cheering us on and even helping when they can. Sometimes they’re even allowed to visit with me.

I can see and hear them while other slayers cannot. Yes, I did the sweet thing and shared the ability with every member of my crew—another ability to add to my résumé—but soon after, everyone lost it. Just boom, it was gone.

Emma once told me, her voice ominous, “There can be only one,” before she burst out laughing. She then added, “You slayers...you operate in the spirit realm, where faith is your only source of strength. Some of your abilities require more faith than others and right now, only yours is strong enough to see us. Yes, we can help the others out and reveal ourselves through faith of our own, but we need permission from the Supreme Judge for that.”

An-n-nd Kat is now snapping her fingers in front of my face. She won’t stop talking, even though I’ve told her a thousand times she’s probably the worst witness ever, always focused on her— Ow! She’s found a way to pinch my spirit inside my body.

She wants me to add that we slayers will do whatever it takes to save Frosty. And by “whatever,” I mean “whatever.” We have to find a way to reach him before it’s too late. And we will.

Did you hear that, Kat? We will.

We’ll strive for the best...but plan for the worst.

Ow! And save Frosty. Yes, yes. I get it. They get it.

Let your light shine,

Ali Bell

Ow! And Kat Parker

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I crawl out of bed like I’m one of the walking dead and rub my gritty eyes. My temples throb, and my mouth tastes like something furry crawled inside, nested, had babies and died. I’m on my way to the bathroom to brush my teeth with a gallon of bleach when I realize my surroundings are unfamiliar. Ignoring a flood of dizziness, I scan a bedroom that has pictures of flowers hanging on pink walls, sparkly shirts and skirts spilling from an oversized closet and a vanity scattered with a thousand different kinds of makeup.

Not exactly my style.

A sleepy sigh draws my attention to the bed, and memories rush in fast. I spent the night with a girl—the newest in a long line of randoms I’ve selected for one reason and one reason only. A resemblance to Kat. This particular hookup has dark hair and sun-kissed skin...or so I thought. Now, in the bright light of the morning, I see the strands aren’t quite dark enough and her skin is more sun-screwed.

My stomach clenches, and my hands curl into fists as hard as hammerheads. Usually I leave two seconds after the deed is done. Just enough time to zip my pants. What can I say? I’m a class A dick. But at least I’m at the top of my field. Counts for something, right?

I hate the things I’m doing, but I won’t stop doing them. I’m not sure I can. After a few shots of whiskey, I’m able to pretend the girl I’m with is my sweet little Kitty Kat, and I’m touching her again and she’s loving it, begging me for more, and everything will be okay, because we’ll be together forever. I imagine she’ll cuddle close afterward and say things like, “You’re the luckiest guy in the world and you don’t deserve me, but don’t worry, no one does,” and I’ll laugh, because she’s ridiculous and adorable and everything right in my world. In the morning, she’ll demand I apologize for doing bad things in her dreams.

She’ll make my life worth living.

Then morning will actually arrive, and I’ll realize she won’t be doing any of those things because she’s dead, and I’m the puss who couldn’t save her. A fact that still haunts me. But I deserve to be haunted. I deserve to be punished.

Kat deserved my loyalty until the very end—my end. And this crap? I’m cheating on her memory with girls I don’t know, don’t even like, and will always resent. They’re not my Kat, they’ll never be my Kat and they have no right to put their hands on her property.

Hell. Even still, they deserve better.

What I’m doing...it’s wrong. It’s seriously messed up. I’m not this guy. Only assholes use and lose, and once upon a time I would have been the guy who beat a prick like me into blood, pulp and powder.

Ask me if I care.

Before my newest mistake wakes up, I gather my discarded clothing and dress in a hurry. My shirt is wrinkled, ripped and stained with lipstick and whiskey. I don’t bother fastening my pants. The combat boots I leave untied. I look like exactly what I am: a hungover piece of scum who could pass for a zombie. I make my way out the front door and realize I’m on the second floor of an apartment building. I scan the surrounding parking lot but find no sign of my truck.

How the hell did I get here?

I remember going to a nightclub, throwing back one shot after another, dancing with the brunette, throwing back a few more shots and...yeah, okay, piling inside her little sedan. I’d been too wasted to drive. Now I’ll have to walk back to the club, because there’s no way in hell I’m waking Hookup to ask for a ride. I’d have to answer questions about my nonexistent intentions.

As I stride down the sidewalk, the air is warmer than usual, the last vestiges of winter having surrendered to spring. The sun is in the process of rising, igniting the sky with different shades of gold and pink, and it’s one of the most beautiful sights I’ve ever seen.

I give it the finger.

The world should be crying for the treasure it’s lost. Hell, it should be snot-sobbing.

At least I don’t have to worry about being ambushed by zombies right now. The scourge of the earth usually only slink out at night, the bright rays of the sun too harsh for their sensitive husks.

I come across a gas station and buy a toothbrush, tube of toothpaste and a bottle of water. In the bathroom, I take care of the furry thing and her babies still nesting in my mouth and begin to feel human again.

When I’m back outside, I pick up the pace. The sooner I get to my car, the sooner I can—

“What you doing here, pretty boy?” some guy calls. His friends laugh as if he’s said something special. “You want to see what real men are like?”

—get home.

I’m in a part of Birmingham, Alabama, most kids avoid if at all possible, scared by the graffiti on crumbling building walls, the parked cars missing hubcaps and wheels, and the plethora of crimes being perpetrated in every alley—drugs, prostitution, maybe a mugging or two. I keep my head down and my hands at my sides, not because I’m afraid but because in my current mood, I will fight, and I will fight to kill.

As a zombie slayer, I have the skills necessary to make “real men” curl into a ball and beg for their momma. Taking on a group of punk kids or even gang members would be like shooting fish in a barrel—with a rocket grenade launcher.

Yeah. I have one of those. Two, actually, but I’ve always preferred my daggers. Eliminating someone up close and personal comes with a better rewards package.

My cell phone vibrates. I pull the device from my pocket to discover the screen is blown up with texts from Cole, Bronx and even Ali Bell, Cole’s girlfriend and once, Kat’s best friend. They want to know where I am and what I’m doing, if I’m visiting anytime soon. When will they realize it’s too difficult to be around them? Their lives are picture-perfect in a way mine isn’t—and can never be. They have the happily-ever-after I’ve dreamed about since eighth grade, when Kat Parker walked into Asher Jr. High our first day back from summer break. In seconds, I gave that girl my heart.