“And if any of you are doctors,” says Dum, “your patients are waiting for you.”
“Is this all of us?” I ask. “We’re the only survivors?”
Dee looks over at Dum. “Are zombie girls allowed to talk?”
“If they’re cute and willing to do zombie-girl mud fights.”
“Duuude. Right on.”
“That’s a disgusting image.” I give them a sideways look but I’m secretly glad they’re not freaked out about me coming back from the dead.
“It’s not like we’d pick the decayed ones, Penryn. Just ones like you, fresh from the dead.”
“Only, with ripped clothes and stuff.”
“And hungry for breeeeasts.”
“He means brains.”
“That’s exactly what I meant.”
“Could you please answer the question?” asks a guy wearing glasses that are completely free of cracks. He doesn’t look like he’s in a joking mood.
“Right,” says Dee getting all serious. “This is our rendezvous point. The others will meet us here.”
We keep walking in the weak sunshine, and the guy with the glasses ends up in the back of the group.
Dum leans over to Dee and whispers loud enough for me to hear, “How much you want to bet that that guy will be the first in line to bet on the zombie-girl fight?”
They exchange grins and wiggle their eyebrows at each other.
October winds seep through my blouse and I can’t help looking up at the overcast sky for a particular angel with bat-shaped wings and a corny sense of humor. I swipe my foot at the overgrown grass and make myself look away.
The class windows are full of posters and notices about college entrance requirements. Another window displays shelves of student art. Clay, wood, and papier mâché figurines of all colors and styles cover every inch of shelf space. Some of them are so good that it makes me sad that these kids won’t be making art again for a long, long time.
As we move through the school, the twins are careful to stay behind my family. I fall back, thinking it’s not a bad idea to have Paige in front where I can keep an eye on her. She walks stiffly as if she’s still not used to her legs. I’m not used to seeing her like this either, and I can’t stop staring at the crude stitches all over her body that make her look like a voodoo doll.
“So that’s your sister?” asks Dee in a quiet voice.
“Yeah.”
“The one you risked your life for?”
“Yeah.”
The twins nod politely in that automatic way that people do when they don’t want to say something insulting.
“Your family any better?” I ask.
Dee and Dum look at each other, assessing.
“Nah,” says Dee.
“Not really,” says Dum at the same time.
OUR NEW home is a history class. The walls are filled with timelines and posters of the story of humanity. Mesopotamia, the Great Pyramid of Giza, the Ottoman Empire, the Ming Dynasty. And the Black Death.
My history teacher said that the Black Death wiped out thirty to sixty percent of Europe’s population. He asked us to imagine what it’d be like to have sixty percent of your world dead. I couldn’t imagine it at the time. It seemed so unreal.
In weird contrast, dominating all of these ancient history posters is a picture of an astronaut on the moon with blue Earth rising behind him. Every time I see our ball of blue and white in space, I think it must be the most beautiful world in the universe.
But that seems unreal now, too.
Outside, more trucks rumble into the parking lot. I walk over to the window as Mom starts pushing desks and chairs to one side. I peek outside to see one of the twins leading the dazed newcomers into the school like the Pied Piper.
Behind me, my little sister says, “Hungry.”
I stiffen and stuff all kinds of ugliness into the vault in my head.
I see a reflection of Paige in the window. In the blurry otherworld of that image, she looks up at Mom like any other kid expecting dinner. But in the warped glass, her head is distorted, magnifying her stitches and lengthening her razor-grafted teeth.
Mom bends down and strokes her baby’s hair. She begins humming her haunting apology song.
Chpater 3
I SETTLE onto a cot by the corner. Lying with my back against the wall, I can see the entire room by moonlight.
My baby sister lies on a cot against the wall across from me. Paige looks tiny under her blanket beneath the posters of larger-than-life historical figures. Confucius, Florence Nightingale, Gandhi, Helen Keller, the Dalai Lama.
Would she have turned out like them if we weren’t in the World After?
My mother sits cross-legged by Paige’s cot, humming her melody. We’ve tried giving my sister the two things I could get from the disorganized mess in the cafeteria that is supposed to turn into a kitchen by morning. But she couldn’t hold down either the canned soup or the protein bar.
I shift my weight on the canvas cot, trying to find a position where my sword hilt won’t jab into my ribs. Having it on me is the best way to keep anyone from trying to pick it up and finding out that I’m the only one who can lift it. The last thing I need is having to explain how I ended up with an angel sword.
Sleeping with a weapon has nothing to do with my sister being in the room. Nothing at all.
Nor does it have anything to do with Raffe. It’s not like the sword is my only memento of my time with him. I have plenty of cuts and bruises to remind me of the days I spent with my enemy angel.
Who I’ll probably never see again.
So far, no one has asked about him. I guess it’s more common than not to have your group break up these days.
I shut down that thought and close my eyes.
My sister moans again over my mom’s humming.
“Go to sleep, Paige,” I say. To my surprise, her breathing relaxes and she settles down. I take a deep breath and close my eyes.
My mother’s melody fades into oblivion.
I DREAM that I am in the forest where the massacre happened. I am just outside the old Resistance camp where soldiers died trying to defend themselves against low demons.
Blood drips off the branches and plops onto the dead leaves like raindrops. In my dream, none of the bodies that should be here are here and neither are the terrified soldiers who huddled together back-to-back with their rifles facing outward.
It’s just a clearing dripping in blood.
In the center stands Paige.
She wears an old-fashioned flower-print dress, like the ones those girls hanging on the tree wore. Her hair is drenched in blood and so is her dress. I’m not sure which is harder to look at, the blood or the bruised stitches crisscrossing her face.
She lifts her arms toward me as if waiting for me to pick her up even though she’s seven years old now.
I’m pretty sure my sister was not part of the massacre but here she is anyway. Somewhere in the forest, my mother says, “Look into her eyes. They’re the same as they’ve always been.”
But I can’t. I can’t look at her at all. Her eyes aren’t the same. They can’t be.
I turn and run from her.
Tears stream down my face and I call out into the woods away from the girl behind me. “Paige!” My voice cracks. “I’m coming. Hang on. I’ll be there soon.”
But the only sign of my sister is the crunching of the dead leaves as the new Paige shadows me through the woods.
Chpater 4
I WAKE to my mom scraping something out of her sweater pocket. She puts it onto the windowsill where morning light filters through. It’s yellow-brown goo and crushed eggshells. She’s quite careful about it, trying to get every yucky drop onto the sill.
Paige breathes evenly, sounding like she’ll be knocked out for some time. I try to shake off the last of my dream, but wisps of it stay with me.
Someone knocks on the door.
The door opens and the freckled face of one of the twins peeks into our classroom. I don’t know which one so I just think of him as Dee-Dum. His nose wrinkles in distaste when he smells the rotten eggs.
“Obi wants to see you. He’s got some questions.”
“Great,” I say drowsily.
“Come on. It’ll be fun.” He throws me an overly bright smile.
“What if I don’t want to go?”
“I like you, kid,” he says. “You’re a rebel.” He leans against the doorframe and nods his approval. “But to be honest, no one has the obligation to feed you, house you, protect you, be nice to you, treat you like a human being—”
“Okay, okay. I get it.” I drag myself out of bed, glad that I slept in a T-shirt and shorts. My sword thuds onto the floor. I had forgotten that I had it with me under the blanket.
“Shh! You’ll wake Paige,” whispers my mother.
Paige’s eyes open instantly. She lies there like the dead, staring at the ceiling.
“Nice sword,” Dee-Dum says too casually.
Alarm bells go off in my head. “Almost as good as a cow prodder.” I half-expect Mom to zap her prodder at him, but it hangs innocently on her cot frame.
More guilt hits me as I realize how glad I am that Mom has the prodder in case she needs to defend herself from… people.
More than half the people here are carrying some kind of makeshift weapon. The sword is one of the better ones, and I’m glad I don’t have to explain why I’m carrying it. But there’s something about a sword that seems to catch more attention than I like. I pick it up and strap it across my shoulder to discourage him from trying to play with it.
“Got a name for her?” asks Dee-Dum.
“Who?”
“Your sword.” He says it the way I might say Duh.
“Oh, please. Not you too.” I pick through the random assortment of clothes my mom collected last night. She also came back with a bunch of empty soda bottles and other junk from who knows where, but I leave that pile alone.
“I used to know a guy who had a katana.”
“A what?”
“A Japanese samurai sword. Gorgeous.” He clutches his heart like he’s in love. “He called it the Sword of Light. I would have sold my grandmother into slavery for that.”
I nod like that’s a given.
“Can I name your sword?”
“No.” I pull out a pair of jeans that might fit and one sock.
“Why not?”
“Already has a name.” I continue digging through the pile for a matching sock.
“What is it?”
“Pooky Bear.”
His friendly face suddenly becomes serious. “You’re naming your collector’s-item, kick-ass sword that’s made to maim and kill, specifically designed to bring your ginormous enemies to their knees and hear the lamentation of their women—Pooky Bear?”