A Mad Zombie Party - Showalter Gena (читать лучшие читаемые книги TXT) 📗

Now River wouldn’t care if I decided to screw anything breathing. Or hey, anything not breathing.

I never should have betrayed his trust in me, never should have tried to save his life by signing the death warrant of Ali Bell, the girlfriend of a rival crew’s leader. But trading one life for another had seemed acceptable at the time. If only that’s how things had gone down. Ali survived, but two innocents had not. Kat Parker and Dr. Richard Ankh. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to forgive myself for the part I played in their deaths.

Scratch that. I will never forgive myself.

A grunt sounds at my left, and I whip around to discover two other zombies have risen. Two zombies not from graves/names on my list. Well, hell. As I once again unsheathe my short swords, my heart slamming against my ribs, I study my newest opponents. Two males. One is morbidly obese, while the other is short and squat. Both have a grayish tint, like the female, the same advanced stage of rot.

They race toward me without stumbling, their bones not yet brittle enough to break.

I dart to the right, their gazes alert enough to follow me. Good. I keep going, drawing the two farther away from the civilians...but I don’t realize until too late that there’s a small headstone in my path. I trip, land on my ass and lose my breath. I’m laid flat for only a second, maybe two, but it’s enough. The pair dive for me. I somersault backward, coming up with my swords extended, ripping through each creature’s torso. Multiple organs plop to the ground, but neither Z seems to notice or care that they’ve been disemboweled. They just keep advancing.

I kick one in the groin, sending him stumbling to the side, at the same time removing the head of the other with a single swipe of my sword. The headless wonder, now behind me, manages to clench his fingers in my hair and yank me closer. Idiot! All he can do is paw at me. I elbow his chest and kick back. As he, too, stumbles to the side, I hack at his left arm, spin and hack at his right. Both limbs hit the ground with a thud.

Pressure on my boot draws my gaze. The severed head is attempting to chew through my leather soles. I jerk my leg away and slam my sword into his ear canal, and if we were in an episode of The Walking Dead, my favorite show despite the inaccuracies, he would be dead. Again. But we aren’t, and he isn’t; he just keeps chomping at me. Now, at least, he’s trapped in place. He can do no real damage while I fight the other—

A stone wall knocks me to the ground. The other zombie, back for more. I lose my grip on my swords, air exploding from my lungs and stars winking in front of my eyes. But I manage to hold him off, the heel of my palm planted firmly on his forehead. His legs move between mine, both of his hands wrapping around my neck, which he clearly hopes to use as a snack pack.

If he were human, all I’d have to do is clasp my hands together at my midsection and shoot them up, between his arms, at the same time placing my feet behind his ankles and applying enough pressure to spread his legs. He would struggle for purchase and lose his grip on me. I would then place one of my hands behind his head and smash the other underneath his chin to close his mouth, pushing with one and pulling with the other to create a counterforce, turning his body and allowing me to roll on top of him. I would balance my weight on one knee, slam the heel of a hand into his nose, breaking the cartilage and, while he writhed in pain, I would stand and stomp on his stupid face. Game over. But he isn’t human, so I can do none of those things; his teeth would be too close to my vulnerable skin, and he would feel no pain.

All I can do is wiggle my free hand between our bodies. There’s a dagger sheathed at my waist...there! Once the weapon is free, I wrench it up and jab it into his neck, again and again. Black goo sprays my flesh, burning me, blistering. Steam curls through the air. When his spine is the only thing holding his head in place, I drop the blade and rearrange my hands, placing one behind his head while smashing the other under his chin, careful to avoid his teeth—looks like I can use one of my moves, after all. With a push and a pull, the counterforce snaps his stupid head from his stupid body.

Panting, I toss the brand-new boxing bag several yards away and fight my way from beneath his heavy weight. Dizziness sweeps over me, but this is not the time for a break. I summon dynamis and place my palm over the zombie’s back. In my weakened state, my fire is not as potent and the zombie’s metamorphosis from rot to ash takes longer than usual, but it does happen.

I push up onto shaky legs and stumble forward, relieved, searching for the head I threw. Gotta rinse and repeat. Only, I come face-to-face with more than a dozen pairs of red, glowing eyes—and every single set is locked on me.

Surprise surprise, I’m back at Hearts, looking for my next hit and run.

Out of habit, I scan my surroundings. Four months ago, just days before Kat—

Yeah. Anyway. A section of the club was destroyed by Anima. Their agents bombed a wall, swooped in and attacked. We fought back hard and dirty, but damage was done. Thankfully, it took us only a month to rebuild. Out with the old, in with the new. There are now black light halogens in the ceiling, making glow-in-the-dark paint come to life around the stage, where a live band plays. The walls are covered with murals of a magical woodland, a floating Cheshire cat with a toothy grin, and a rabbit with a pocket watch. Ali’s suggestion. A tribute to Kat as well as Ali’s younger sister, Emma.

Once, Reeve’s dad owned the club. When he died, he left most of his possessions and wealth to his daughter—his only living relative—and a million dollars each to the rest of us. The club, though, he gave to Tyler Holland, Cole’s dad. I’m on the VIP list, even though I’m only eighteen years old. My ID says I’m twenty-four.

My phone vibrates, and I check the screen to find a text from Cole.

The club again? Really? Why don’t U be a good boy & use UR spank bank? Yeah. I went there. Stop screwing around & come home. UR real home.

One of the employees must have called him. Friends who care are great—until they suck.

There are other texts, too.

Ali: Thought of a title 4 a zombie dating book. Ready... DYING TO MEET YOU. Thoughts???

My boy Gavin, a slayer as irreverent as I used to be: I hear UR plowing UR way through brunettes. Dude! That’s my game. Play w/blondes—they R better 4 UR health. (meaning I will kill U if U don’t make the switch)

Bronx: A new recruit just asked—what’s the #1 thing an average person does when fighting a zombie? I told him—taste delicious. He almost soiled his pants. U should be here.

Ali again: Question. If the zombie apocalypse happens in Vegas, will it stay in Vegas???

Ali yet again: If Chuck Norris gets bitten by a zombie, will he turn in2 a zombie—or will the zombie turns in2 Chuck Norris??

There’s even a text from Derek, who moved to Oklahoma to train and lead another crew.

Consider this an eternal invite 2 come C me. Miss U, man

They want to help me because they love me. When will they accept it’s already too late? I’m far too damaged to be repaired.

I ignore the texts and glance at the time. It’s a few minutes past midnight, and I’ve already had one shot of whiskey too many. If one is the new word for four. Whatever. I don’t want to be here anymore. I want to be in bed, pretending.

Who’s the unlucky girl tonight? I spot a possibility on the dance floor. She’s twentysomething with long dark hair. Are her eyes green? Doesn’t matter, I suppose. When I close my eyes, they’ll be any color I want them to be.