look up and, sure enough, she’s got the gun pointed at Brock now. I try to hide my smile, fail, then stop trying.
“Brandy,” Ryan urges, putting on his best Official Representative of the Reanimation Patrol voice. “Put it down.”
“I will just as soon as you’re off my property, Ryan. And you, too, Brock. Go. I’m not in any danger. And if I am,” she hoists the shotgun just a little too high, “I’ll take care of it my own damn self—”
Brock sees what I do—the shotgun no longer pointed at his head—and launches himself over me and into Brandy, line-driving her into the front yard and toppling a garden gnome on her mom’s pathetic little postage-stamp yard. She lands with an ugly oomph sound. Something snaps, and I don’t think it’s this year’s crop of okra.
“Now, Ryan!” Brock screams in that high, nasal, panicky voice. “Get him!”
Ryan inches forward, pulling a Taser from his gun belt. The Reanimation Patrol is full of kids, mostly. Guys and a few girls my age, Ryan’s age, who lost somebody we loved in the 2018 Infestation and are looking to settle the score. Of course, they wouldn’t accept me. Reanimation Patrol is humans only.
They don’t let them have real guns, anymore, on account of what happened with one of the Patrollers out in Reno. Found a nest of zombies, unloaded his pistol, reloaded, unloaded it again and kept shooting until the blood dried.
That’s just it: zombies don’t bleed. It was a bunch of kids in zombie masks, camping out, scaring each other on a dare. Ever since then, it’s been Tasers.
But the end game is the same for me. If Ryan tases me, I’m out. Done, over. Not dead, but I might as well be. While I’m zonked out from the overdose of electrodes, they’ll take me to Containment, sentence me, and in a year I’ll be just one of the dozens of zombies executed every March 12th, the anniversary of the Beaver Falls Plague.
I can’t let that happen. Not when I haven’t done anything wrong. I go to stand and Ryan inches closer, zapping a little trigger on the side of his weapon so I can see—so that I can almost feel—the electricity pop between the two pinpoint chargers at the top.
I flinch and fall back down, scrambling away. This isn’t how this gig was supposed to go at all.
He closes in, flicking the trigger, and every time, the spit of sparks lights up his pale blue eyes. They’re happy. Brock is up now, foot on Brandy’s throat, cheering Ryan on from the sidelines like the cheerleader Brandy was so proud of becoming.
“Come on, dude,” he cries, like this is some kind of pep rally before the big game. “Let’s do this. What are you waiting for—?”
A shot rings out, shattering Brock’s headlight. The yard goes a little darker and I turn, still scrambling, figuring Brandy got off a round after all. But it’s not Brandy. Her mom, curlers, slippers, housecoat, and all, fills the doorway. Smoke from a single shotgun barrel curls into the dark night sky.
“What the hell?” Ryan asks, dropping the Taser instinctively.
I leap forward and pick it up before he can change his mind, or realize what he’s done.
“What, you didn’t see the sign?” Brandy’s mom asks, pointing over her shoulder to the yard, where a cheap plastic sign says the same thing as Ryan’s door frame: Official Representative of the Reanimation Patrol.
I grin. I thought it was just there as a precaution, kind of like one of those “This is house is secured by video monitoring” signs when you know good and well it isn’t.
“Section 9.872 of the Reanimated Patrol Code says that when zombies and humans are both in danger at the same time, it’s appropriate—and legal—to defend human and/or reanimated persons alike. So step off, sonny. The real cops are on the way.”
Ryan looks physically hurt by the betrayal. “But…but…” he sputters. “We’re on the same side.”
Brandy’s mom clucks, using the smoking end of her shotgun to nudge Brock
“Brandy,” Ryan urges, putting on his best Official Representative of the Reanimation Patrol voice. “Put it down.”
“I will just as soon as you’re off my property, Ryan. And you, too, Brock. Go. I’m not in any danger. And if I am,” she hoists the shotgun just a little too high, “I’ll take care of it my own damn self—”
Brock sees what I do—the shotgun no longer pointed at his head—and launches himself over me and into Brandy, line-driving her into the front yard and toppling a garden gnome on her mom’s pathetic little postage-stamp yard. She lands with an ugly oomph sound. Something snaps, and I don’t think it’s this year’s crop of okra.
“Now, Ryan!” Brock screams in that high, nasal, panicky voice. “Get him!”
Ryan inches forward, pulling a Taser from his gun belt. The Reanimation Patrol is full of kids, mostly. Guys and a few girls my age, Ryan’s age, who lost somebody we loved in the 2018 Infestation and are looking to settle the score. Of course, they wouldn’t accept me. Reanimation Patrol is humans only.
They don’t let them have real guns, anymore, on account of what happened with one of the Patrollers out in Reno. Found a nest of zombies, unloaded his pistol, reloaded, unloaded it again and kept shooting until the blood dried.
That’s just it: zombies don’t bleed. It was a bunch of kids in zombie masks, camping out, scaring each other on a dare. Ever since then, it’s been Tasers.
But the end game is the same for me. If Ryan tases me, I’m out. Done, over. Not dead, but I might as well be. While I’m zonked out from the overdose of electrodes, they’ll take me to Containment, sentence me, and in a year I’ll be just one of the dozens of zombies executed every March 12th, the anniversary of the Beaver Falls Plague.
I can’t let that happen. Not when I haven’t done anything wrong. I go to stand and Ryan inches closer, zapping a little trigger on the side of his weapon so I can see—so that I can almost feel—the electricity pop between the two pinpoint chargers at the top.
I flinch and fall back down, scrambling away. This isn’t how this gig was supposed to go at all.
He closes in, flicking the trigger, and every time, the spit of sparks lights up his pale blue eyes. They’re happy. Brock is up now, foot on Brandy’s throat, cheering Ryan on from the sidelines like the cheerleader Brandy was so proud of becoming.
“Come on, dude,” he cries, like this is some kind of pep rally before the big game. “Let’s do this. What are you waiting for—?”
A shot rings out, shattering Brock’s headlight. The yard goes a little darker and I turn, still scrambling, figuring Brandy got off a round after all. But it’s not Brandy. Her mom, curlers, slippers, housecoat, and all, fills the doorway. Smoke from a single shotgun barrel curls into the dark night sky.
“What the hell?” Ryan asks, dropping the Taser instinctively.
I leap forward and pick it up before he can change his mind, or realize what he’s done.
“What, you didn’t see the sign?” Brandy’s mom asks, pointing over her shoulder to the yard, where a cheap plastic sign says the same thing as Ryan’s door frame: Official Representative of the Reanimation Patrol.
I grin. I thought it was just there as a precaution, kind of like one of those “This is house is secured by video monitoring” signs when you know good and well it isn’t.
“Section 9.872 of the Reanimated Patrol Code says that when zombies and humans are both in danger at the same time, it’s appropriate—and legal—to defend human and/or reanimated persons alike. So step off, sonny. The real cops are on the way.”
Ryan looks physically hurt by the betrayal. “But…but…” he sputters. “We’re on the same side.”
Brandy’s mom clucks, using the smoking end of her shotgun to nudge Brock
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