The Dead Ones (Death Herself Book 3) (9 page)

“So he left you.”

“No!” I say firmly, horrified by the idea. “He'd never do that, he just...” I pause again. Before the shooting, my father was in the house every day. Since then, I don't think I've seen him once.

“I don't want to talk about it,” I stammer, “I just -”

Before I can pull away, he puts his arms around me and hugs me tight. I try to struggle free, but his hold is too firm and I tell myself it'd be better to just let him hug me for a few seconds rather than fighting back and causing trouble. After a moment, however, I feel his hand moving down my back.

“You're not like the other girls here,” he whispers. “You've been through so much. We all have at this school. Even the teaching staff. Do you think the shooting was easy for
us
?”

“Can I go to class now?” I ask.

“You shouldn't
have
to go to class,” he continues, “not with all those dumb little idiots. You're better than them Bonnie, you deserve to have someone looking after you, someone who can see that you're special. Why don't you stay in here for a while with me? I don't have any other appointments for the rest of the day.” As he leans closer and smiles, a dribble of saliva runs from the corner of his mouth and down his chin. He quickly licks it away. “I think you need some help,” he whispers. “
Proper
help...”

I twist and try to slip away, but he pulls me tighter. Reaching up, I press my hands on his soft belly and push, and finally I manage to duck down and get free. I almost stumble as I hurry around the coffee table, but I'm just about able to stay on my feet as I hurry to the door.

“Bonnie!” Mr. Dyson calls out. “Wait!”

I glance over my shoulder and see that he's hurrying after me.

“Bonnie,” he continues, his voice tense with anticipation, “after school this evening, why don't you let me -”

Before he can finish, a book from his table flies through the air, striking him on the side of the mouth. He lets out a gasp and turns away for a moment, and when he looks at me again I see that his lip is torn.

“What the hell was that?” he hisses, glancing at the desk.

“I don't know,” I stammer, “I -”

Suddenly something else seems to hit him, something I don't even see, but it's enough to send him stumbling forward until he falls against the wall and then slumps down. I step back, shocked, as he lets out a groan and looks up at me.

“What the hell are you doing?” he gasps.

“I'm not doing anything,” I reply, taking a step back.

“What are you -”

He slams into the wall again, as if some unseen force has crashed against him. As he lets out another groan, I step over to the door.

“Bonnie...”

Turning back to him, I watch as he tries to get to his feet.

“Get out of here,” a voice whispers in my ear.

I look around, but there's no sign of anyone. At the same time, I recognized that voice even if I know it can't be who I think it was. There's just no way...

“Get out of here!” it hisses again.

Opening the door, I stumble out into the corridor, only for the door to immediately slam shut behind me. A moment later I hear another thud from inside the room, and then I turn and run. A few hours later, as school ends for the day, I spot Mr. Dyson limping to his car. We briefly make eye contact and I see several cuts and bruises on his face, but he quickly looks away. When I get to the bus stop, I find no sign of Molly or the others, and I realize that they're most likely in detention.

“Josh!” a voice calls out. “Hey, Josh!”

Turning, I see Josh hurrying toward the bus stop, with goddamn Melinda Williams hurrying after him. She's so pathetically desperate, and she's already unbuttoned the top of her shirt so she can flash a little cleavage. I feel my blood starting to boil as she grabs his shoulder.

“Hey,” she continues, “why don't we hang out tonight.”

“I can't,” he replies, not even stopping to look at her.

“I was thinking just the two of us -”

“Sorry,” he adds, “I'm busy.”

With that, she finally stops and lets him walk away, as if she gets the message. She mutters something under her breath, clearly frustrated, and re-buttons the top of her shirt as she turns and stomps back to join her friends.

Figuring that this is my chance, I hurry past the parked cars and make my way to the bus stop, where Josh is already counting through his change.

“Hey,” I say as I reach him. I feel a sliver of fear in my chest, but I know I've put this off for far too long. “I was thinking maybe we should talk.”

I wait for him to reply, but he doesn't even look at me.

“So it's been a while,” I continue, with a lump in my throat. “We never
actually
broke up, not technically, although I kinda got the message when you stopped replying to my messages and started blanking me like this. It's been a while, though, and I was just thinking maybe we could talk... Maybe we can just be friends, like we were before things got serious?”

Again I wait, but he simply looks straight past me, watching for the bus.

“I need a friend,” I tell him. “I need someone to talk to. Please, Josh...”

He checks his watch, just as the bus comes into view.

“I get the rest of them,” I continue, with tears in my eyes, “but I thought you were different. Do you really hate me
this
much, because of something my brother did?”

As the bus slows, I see that it's the number 18, which only goes to the hospital. The doors open, and to my surprise Josh gets onboard, still without acknowledging me at all.

“Can we
please
talk?” I ask, even though I hate begging like this. “I don't know who else to turn to, Josh. I feel like I'm cracking up and -”

Before I can finish, the door swings shut. I look up and see Josh taking a seat, just as the bus drives away.

“Everyone hates me,” I whisper finally, wiping tears from my eyes as I watch the bus rounding the next corner. For a moment, I feel as if I'm about to start sobbing, but then I feel a fresh burst of anger in my chest. “Fine,” I mutter, turning to start the long walk home. “Be like that. I don't need other people anyway!”

Chapter Eleven

“So this is new,” I point out, standing by the fridge and watching as Mom pours the last of her vodka down the sink. “Are you turning over a new leaf?”

“Just shut up,” she mutters, her hands trembling as she pours the last from the bottle. Once she's done, she drops the bottle into the trash and then takes a long, slow drag on her cigarette. I don't know exactly what happened to bring about this change, but I can see the fear in her eyes.

“Did last night's bender finally tip you over the edge?” I ask.

No reply.

“How's the hangover today? Did you -”

“I told you to shut up!” she shouts, turning to me and raising her right hand.

I step back, just in case she decides to hit me again. I've had enough of that, lately.

“I'm sorry,” she stammers, stepping closer and then pulling me into a sudden, somewhat ungainly hug that I don't particularly want. “I'm so sorry, baby. Please, you have to know that I love you. Whatever happens, I love you so much.”

“Um...” I wait for her to let go, but if anything she actually pulls me even tighter. “Sure. I, uh, love you too, Mom.” Again, I wait. This behavior is so unlike her, I'm actually starting to worry that she's having some kind of stroke or aneurysm. “Is something wrong?” I ask finally. “Are you sick? Are you dying?”

She kisses the top of my head.

“Do you have cancer?” I ask, feeling a flash of fear.

“Of course not, honey,” she continues, “I just... Oh God. Oh Jesus Christ, oh God...”

It takes a moment, but I manage to slip out from the hug. When I see her face, I find that she's staring over my shoulder. I glance back to make sure that there's nothing there, and then I turn and see that she seems lost in thought.

“Okay, spill,” I say finally. “You're acting weird, Mom.”

“It's nothing,” she replies, swallowing hard.

“You're a terrible liar.”

Turning, she looks toward the hallway.

“Did something happen last night?” I ask, feeling a hint of genuine curiosity. “When you kicked me out, you seemed all fired up for a major drinking session, but when I got back you'd passed out in Malcolm's old room and -”

“Quiet!” she hisses, turning back to me.

Staring at her, I can't help realizing that she seems genuinely terrified of something.

“Have you seen him?” she whispers.

“Seen who?”

“You know who!” She takes another drag on her cigarette. “In that room, Bonnie! If you've been in there, haven't you seen him? Or heard him?”

A shiver passes through my chest as I realize what she means. “Have
you
seen him?” I ask.

She stubs the cigarette out and immediately lights another.

“No offense,” I continue, “but you were drunk last night, Mom. You're hardly a reliable witness. I wouldn't be surprised if you saw Pete's Dragon and Doctor Seuss running around in front of you.”

“I saw
him
!” she hisses. “Don't make fun of me, Bonnie! I saw your brother and it was nothing to do with the fact I'd had a few drinks. Don't fucking patronize me!”

I open my mouth to tell her that she's nuts, but at the last moment I hold back. “Well... What was he doing?” I ask.

“He was frantic,” she continues. “At first I thought it was all in my head, and then I thought he'd just come back 'cause he was mad. You know, for us not going to visit him or to see him on his last night. But then I realized it was nothing like that, he was looking for something. It's like he was trying to tear his room apart, but he was scared, he kept looking over at the door like he expected someone to come in. I was too scared to run, but finally your brother just screamed and bolted, and then this other...”

Her voice trails off.

“This other
what
?” I ask cautiously.

“There was something else in there,” she continues. “Something... Something was really chasing him.”

“No,” I reply, shaking my head, “it really wasn't.”

“I saw it!” she hisses. “Just for a moment, but I saw it! It turned and looked at me, and I saw the deadest eyes I've ever seen in my life. Dry and old, and withered... It was tall, and its whole body was black, like ash. I don't know what it was, but it wasn't human.” She takes a drag on her new cigarette. “And then it left, but at that moment I swore that I would never,
ever
touch another drop of alcohol again. Not after seeing that... thing!”

“What exactly do you think you saw?” I ask.

She pauses. “Never mind. You wouldn't believe me.”

“Maybe I would,” I tell her. “What was it?”

She stares at me for a moment. “I don't really know,” she continues, her voice filled with fear, “but it was almost as tall as the room, and it was dark like black smoke, and I heard a kind of rushing sound as it went past, and there was a smell of...” Another pause. “I don't know what the smell was, but it was foul, like it burned my nose, and I had this impression of overwhelming anger. It let out a sound, too, like a kind of growl. Jesus Christ, Bonnie, it was awful, I don't ever want to see or hear that thing again, so...” She hurries over to the cupboard on the opposite wall and starts rooting through, before finally pulling out a small, half-empty bottle of whiskey. “I almost forgot about this,” she continues, heading back to the sink and pouring the last of the whiskey away. “I'm never touching another drop,” she stammers. “Never again in all my life.”

“I believe you,” I mutter, seeing the fear in her eyes. “I really do.”

***

The rest of the evening is weird. I mean really,
really
weird. Mom would usually just start drinking herself into a stupor from around 5pm, but this time she's awake and alert, drinking coffee instead of spirits. Sure, she gets a little sparky thanks to all the caffeine, but it's a lot better than the nights when she ends up wasted. She insists that I sit with her to watch the nightly news, and then she tries to start a conversation about how bad things have been lately, and about how we should leave town as soon as we can. It's strange hearing such coherent thoughts coming from her mouth, but at the same time I genuinely believe that she's sobering up. The whole goddamn world seems to be changing.

Oh, and she apologizes for hitting me. I don't know how to deal with that, but I thank her anyway.

“Where's Dad?” I ask eventually.

She glances at me.

“Where is he?” I continue, feeling a flash of fear. “I haven't seen him for a long time. Has he... Has he left us?”

“I don't know,” she mutters, taking another drag on her cigarette. “Watch the news.”

“How can you not know?” I ask. “Either he's gone, or he's still here.”

“Do you see him anywhere?”

I look around, and although I don't see Dad himself, I spot his jacket on the the hook by the door, and his boots on the mat. There are definitely signs that he's around, even if I haven't actually seen or heard him for so long.

“Can I call him?” I ask finally, turning back to Mom. “Do you have a number for him?”

“Stop talking about it.”

“But -”

“Bonnie, please!” She takes another, longer drag, and it's clear that she's on the verge of a full-on breakdown. “Let's just not talk about things like that,” she continues, “not tonight. You're bugging me out.”

Realizing that she's never going to give me a straight answer, I glance at Dad's shoes for a moment. He's not around, but I don't think he left either. In fact, sometimes I think I can sense him in the room with us, even though there's no sign of him actually being here.

Eventually I tell Mom that I have to get some sleep, but the truth is I'm not tired at all. I used to hate it when she drank so much, but now I'm starting to realize that at least I used to have more freedom. There are definitely
some
benefits to having an inattentive, neglectful parent. I used to be able to slip out of the house without worrying that she'd notice, but suddenly I have to actually be sneaky. I spend an hour or so in my room, and she checks on me three times. I guess it's nice that she cares, but at 9pm I tell her I'm going to bed and then she tries to start yet another conversation about how sorry she is for hitting me all those times. I do my best to calm her down and assuage her guilt, but I get the feeling that she's really facing some kind of big life-change. It's not until almost 10pm that I get her to leave my room, and by then I figure I actually
should
get some sleep so I climb into bed and give it a try.

By midnight, however, I know that I need to go out. This whole situation, with a caring mother who actually worries about me, is way too freaky. I go and check on Rudolph again, and he still alternates between being alive and being dead whenever I take the lid off the shoebox. Whatever's causing me to imagine all of that, it's clear my mind still isn't quite right.

***

I only ever come down to the ocean at night. I can't even remember the last time I sat on the beach like this during the day, not when there's always a bunch of people hanging out. I don't get on well with people these days. Quite against my will, I seem to be sinking away from the rest of society, becoming more and more closed-off, and there's nothing I can do to fight that process. At night, however, with darkness all around and the sound of crashing waves in the distance, I feel much more at home. Whenever I want to get out of the house and keep away from other people, and when Molly's busy, this is where I come.

“Hey kid,” I remember Malcolm telling me one night when we were down here together, when he was walking too fast for me and I was dawdling. “Are you gonna keep up or what?”

I don't know how many times we used to wander along the beach after dark, but it was a lot. Malcolm used to go on and on about the ocean, about how it was pure and how one day it'd wash mankind away. I don't think that idea upset him too much, either. Looking back, I'm pretty sure he
wanted
the ocean to come crashing through the town so it could destroy everything, but at the time I thought he was just trying to be poetic. I didn't care, though. I just wanted to hang out with my big brother and listen to him talk.

I miss him.

I know that's wrong of me, but I can't help it. I wish I could get him back, or at least the part of him that wasn't planning to do something awful.

And then there's Josh. He and I used to come down here sometimes as well, just to sit and spend time together in the dark. Even now, I can feel tears welling in my eyes, but I quickly banish them by thinking about how he behaved earlier at the bus stop. I always thought he was a kind, caring guy, but I guess now I know better.

Screw him.

Lost in memories of the old days, I barely even notice the voice at first. Finally, however, I turn and look along the beach just in time to see a few figures coming this way, silhouetted against the night sky. I instinctively scramble to my feet and hurry over to the nearest beach-hut, ducking down so that there's no chance I'll be seen. Sure enough, as the voices come closer, I realize that I recognize them all too well.

“Your parents suck,” Adam is telling his friends. “You should just tell them that right to their faces. Go up to your father and tell him, like, that he's a raging asshole.”

“Yeah,” Danny replies, “and he'd take that so well.”

I hold my breath as they walk past. If they realize I'm here, I'll get another beating for sure, but thankfully I hear them trudging away and slowly their voices recede into the distance. I still wait several more minutes before daring to move, and then I hurry past the beach-huts until I get to the path, at which point I can just about see the silhouettes of Adam and the others making their way up from the beach. With a sigh of relief, I realize that I should be able to hang out down here for a while longer, so I head to the shore and listen to the sound of the ocean. The weirdest part is, I'm cold and I could go home, but I'm so used to getting kicked out in the evenings, I somehow feel as if I still want to be shivering on the shore like this.

I always thought I wanted Mom to sober up, but I guess it's going to take some getting used to.

“Come on!” Malcolm's voice calls out. “This way!”

I turn, momentarily convinced that I
actually
heard him. That's impossible, of course, although after the past couple of days I'm not entirely sure I'm the best judge of what is and isn't real.

“Bonnie!” he shouts suddenly. “We can't stay here! We have to keep moving!”

I freeze, and after a moment I realize I can hear footsteps hurrying away. No matter how hard I try to tell myself that the whole thing is in my head, I swear I recognize the sound of the steps.

“Malcolm?” I whisper.

“Bonnie, hurry!” he calls out, his voice sounding more distant now. “They're coming! It's not safe to stay here!”

I hesitate for a moment, telling myself that this is dumber than dumb, but finally I can't hold back. Hurrying across the beach, I listen to the sound of his footsteps in the distance and I try to catch up.