Every other day(58)

I dropped the gun, and Skylar handed me another one—longer, heavier, possibly illegal. I didn’t question why Bethany’s father might have one. You don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

My skin sang with contact. My back arched as I shot. The sound was deafening, the splatter horrific.

Shot. Shot. Shot.

There was a rhythm to it, a beauty, and maybe it was sick that I could see that, that I felt each and every bullet like it was an extension of my own body, as they tore through flesh and bone, severing the spinal cord, blowing holes in heads.

With only a few bullets left, a suggestion flashed through my subconscious, Zev’s mind melding with mine so completely that he didn’t even have to speak. Without pause, I followed through on his unspoken suggestion, aiming at the collars around the zombies’ necks.

In rapid fire, the glowing red lights went out. Like someone had doused a fire, the eerie human quality drained out of the zombies’ eyes. Instead of focusing on me, they grappled with one another, undead teeth tearing through undead skin, nails making mincemeat of already shredded flesh.

Without thinking, I shoved Skylar back toward the safe, and with an empty shotgun still in my hand, I surged forward, driving the butt of the gun into a straggler’s forehead as another ripped a chunk out of my right shoulder.

My right hand shot out backward, grabbed the biter by the neck, twisted, tore—and soon there was nothing.

Nothing left in my hands.

Nothing left to fight.

Nothing but corpses.

Don’t look now, Zev said, but you’ve got an audience.

I looked up. Elliot and Bethany were standing in the doorway. Skylar had climbed back on top of the safe, and her legs were dangling over the front.

Absolute silence.

I knew how this must have looked, how I must have looked, drenched in blood with bodies spread like petals at my feet.

My heartbeat slowed. I followed Elliot’s gaze—steady, intense—from my chest to my stomach, my stomach to my arms. There was a hole in my side, bits and pieces missing from the fleshy parts of my arms and legs. My jeans were tattered, my body bruised. Bite marks dotted the surface of my skin, like bloody flowers just beginning to bloom.

Swish. Swish. Swish.

The sound of my heart was deafening. The sound of their silence was louder. Pressure built inside my head. The room closed in around me.

I stumbled and started to go down, but Elliot moved forward to catch me. He held me up, his gaze guarded, his eyes on Bethany’s across the room.

Vaguely aware of the fact that one bite from a zombie was enough to drive a human mad, I looked down at my own body, at Elliot’s hand on my arm.

At the gaping hole in my shoulder and the muscles just starting to knit themselves back together.

Bethany took a step toward us, her green eyes every bit as glassy and far away as her mother’s. “You went through the windshield,” she said shrilly. “You broke your neck. The chupacabra didn’t kill you. And those things, they tore you to pieces.…”

This wasn’t the way I’d imagined telling them my secret—and I hadn’t imagined telling Elliot at all. But all of a sudden, I couldn’t hold the words back, couldn’t deny the obvious for a second more. My brain was muddled from poison, my body numb, my eyes dry. Every safeguard that had once stood between me and the outside world crumpled and fell—useless, dead, gone. There was no hiding it, no denial, nowhere else to run.

“I’m not like other girls,” I said, the words coming out in a whisper. “I’m not normal. I don’t feel things, I don’t fear things.” I held out my bloodied hands, palms up. “I don’t die.”

Sometimes, the biggest truths were the simple ones—inescapable, undeniable, pure. I’d worn my secrets like a robe, and now I was naked. I was bleeding and visibly healing and utterly exposed.

Heat spread out from my torso. My head felt fuzzy, light. I blinked and my eyes wouldn’t open. Elliot let go of me, and I went down.

I’d been bitten so many times. There was so much poison in my system.

“I don’t die. I don’t die. I don’t die.”

I heard the words, heard someone saying them over and over again. I didn’t recognize my own voice, didn’t realize until later that it was me.

I blinked and my eyes didn’t open. I’d finally told someone the truth, and fate was conspiring to make me a liar.

I don’t die, I’d said. I don’t die. I don’t die. I don’t die.

But people like me? Sometimes, we did.





I’m in the room again—the room where it hurts. Sometimes it’s loud and sometimes it’s bright and sometimes I have to sit still. Mommy swabs my cheek. Daddy gets out the polka dots—dot, dot, dot all over my head. I make a face at him.