My Sister the Zombie Read online

  My Sister the Zombie

  STACEY LONGO

  Illustrated by Terry George

  Townsend, MA

  The Storyside Press

  Townsend, MA

  www.thestoryside.com

  Copyright © 2017 Stacey Longo

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information and rights requests, please contact the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either to the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Glastonbury, Connecticut, incidentally, is a beautiful place to both visit and live.

  Cover image by AL Cortez

  Interior illustrations by Terry George

  Edited by S & L Editing www.slediting.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  ISBN: 978-0-9986464-2-8

  This one’s for Kim.

  ONE

  “I hate it here!Hate, hate, hate—and it’s all your fault!”

  Okay, technically it wasn’t my sister’s fault we’d been uprooted from our friends in Arizona and dumped in Glastonbury, Connecticut, a pristine little town with lots of impossibly green lawns, about twenty minutes outside of Hartford. It was my parents’ fault. But trust me: we’d moved for Blossom.

  According to our mother, the New England humidity would help keep Blossom’s skin supple, and the winter season would help keep her preserved, so to speak. We’d had less than a month to pack and say goodbye to all of our friends. I was fifteen, and pretty mad I had to leave Paul Peters, who wasn’t my boyfriend yet, but who liked to draw silly cartoons on my hand in art class, so the potential was definitely there.

  Let me explain, in case you’re one of those New England folks who doesn’t quite know what to make of the undead. My sister turned into a zombie when she was sixteen and I was thirteen. It was no big deal where we used to live, in Little Hop, Arizona, just down the road from the Desierto Caliente nuclear power plant. In Little Hop, practically everyone and their brother was a zombie. It was just a fact of life, and nobody thought less of anyone if they had a relative that had been turned into one of the brain-eating undead during the Great Nuclear Disaster of 2010.

  Who got zombified and who didn’t was really the luck of the draw. The day the alarms started blaring from the direction of Desierto Caliente, I was stuck after school, rewriting a history paper I’d gotten a D on. Apparently it was a big deal that I’d mixed up Lyndon Johnson with Andrew Johnson, and had written a ten-page report about how Andrew Johnson had become president after Abraham Lincoln was assassinated in Dealey Plaza, and tried hard to reunite a torn nation, only to get the country mired in the Vietnam War of 1812. Miss Bliss, my teacher, was with me that afternoon, making me reread the chapter on Andrew Johnson in my history textbook, which was just as boring the second time around as when I’d skimmed it the first time. When the alarm rose in the distance, I was grateful for the interruption. Miss Bliss’s eyebrow shot up as she glanced out the window.

  “Caliente?” she asked nobody in particular, but I nodded anyway. Made sense, unless it was an air raid and we were living in England in the early forties during World War II. (See? I paid attention in history when it was interesting.) She turned, clapping her hands briskly. “Up now. This is exactly why we had all those emergency drills. Let’s all walk to the basement in an orderly fashion, please.”

  The janitors locked the various entrances as we marched downstairs. There were only a handful of kids staying after, including the school band, and as we huddled in the basement, they apparently thought it was appropriate to play that old classic, “Nearer My God to Thee.” You’ve probably heard of it. You know, the song the orchestra played as the Titanic sank. Real comedians, those band geeks. In that moment I started to actively hate my school band.

  My cell phone had no signal down in the basement, so I couldn’t contact anyone to find out what was going on and let them know I was okay. Waiting was miserable. We had no food, water only from those school fountains that had the pressure of a kinked garden hose—and none of those Crystal Light packets to make it tastier, I might add—and at one point, I threatened to shove the impossibly happy Amber Mullen’s flute right up her perky little butt. After six cramped and unpleasant hours with the band, we were finally allowed to leave. My mother was waiting outside the front of the school, and she grabbed me, hugging me tight as soon as I came out. “Jasmine! Oh thank God, you’re okay,” she sobbed.

  “Where’s Dad and Blossom?” I looked past her, but didn’t see the rest of our family in the parking lot.

  “Home,” she said, but her lip quivered. I studied her, confused. “Honey, it’s—it’s your sister. She was at the lake with her friends when the hazmat pipe popped. It drained into the water system and flooded the whole area. They were right in the line of exposure, and she really had no chance. Sweetie—your sister’s a zombie now.”

  It was a bit of a shock at first, but we adjusted pretty quickly to Blossom’s new status as one of the undead, mostly out of necessity. At first we all had to wear helmets around the house, because she could be pretty quick about trying to crack open our skulls with her teeth when we weren’t being hypervigilant. Don’t believe that nonsense you see on TV and in the movies of slow-shuffling, aimless hordes of barely reanimated corpses. I can tell you with some authority that if a zombie’s hungry enough, they have the reflexes and speed of a cat stalking a mouse. The high school track team learned this the hard way when they were practicing for an upcoming heat and found Blossom and her undead friends keeping pace with their fastest sprinter, snarling and drooling as they tried to catch him and make a snack of his gray matter. If not for a quick-thinking second-string runner whose brother was a zombie, and therefore happened to have a stash of cow brains in his gear bag to distract the festering mob, the Little Hop track team would’ve been a no-show for the rest of the season.

  Eventually, Mom got tired of fending off my sister’s surprise attacks and had all of Blossom’s teeth pulled, which put an end to that little nuisance. But Blossom had bigger problems: namely, she liked to wander off into the Arizona desert, which led to some issues with mummification. Every teenage girl wants to look as cute as possible, and Blossom was no exception. She cried the first time she showed Mom her desiccated shoulders and neck after a three-day excursion into the sand dunes. Luckily, Mom’s a plastic surgeon, and she was able to Botox Blossom right back to pliability, but it was getting to be an issue. Blossom wasn’t going to stop shambling off, and the Arizona sun wasn’t getting any cooler. Mom had done a crazy amount of research, publishing papers and attending conferences in her effort to study issues associated with zombie skin care, but it was clear that living in the Southwest wasn’t helping one bit.

  That’s when our parents announced we were moving to Connecticut.

  Mom found a job with a private practice in West Hartford. The Glastonbury Citizen did a nice little article on her, welcoming Mom to town and highlighting her specialties within the practice, including cosmetic zombie repair. Dad was hired on as a forensic consultant for the state police. He was happy to be back in a lab all day, solving crimes while working on finding a cure for the zombie plague on the side, and excitedly announced he would even be consulting with Dr. Henry Lee, some sort of famous forensic mastermind none of us had ever heard of. Dad mentioned some of the cases the guy had worked on, but all I got out of the conversation was Dad spent way too much time watching Forensic Files, and I hoped he wouldn’t ever embarrass me in public with all that deat
h stuff. Mom got me and Blossom enrolled at Glastonbury High in time for the fall semester. It looked like everything was in place for us to start our new life.

  ~~**~~

  Back to my completely justified temper tantrum. “This state is stupid and this town is stupid and you’re stupid!”

  Mom poked her head into my bedroom. “You girls want to go school shopping, or is complaining about your stupid life more fun?”

  I was still pretty steamed at Blossom for making us move, but not so mad that I didn’t want to check out the local shopping scene with her. After all, she was the only friend I had in this town. We both needed new clothes before school started, so Mom dropped us off at the mall in nearby Manchester and promised to be back in three hours to pick us up. We Hamilton girls knew how to shop, and Blossom and I were armed with coupons, flyers, and a map of the mall, ready to do some damage with Dad’s credit card.

  “Nyah,” Blossom said, pointing to Hot Topic as soon as we got inside. Blossom’s language skills had declined since she’d turned into a zombie, but I’d gotten pretty good at interpreting her grunts and groans. “Nyah” in this case clearly meant Hey, Jasmine, let’s check out that store. I was game, so we made our way past the discount T-shirt rack and headed in.

  You’d have thought that they’d never even seen a zombie before at the Buckland Hills Mall. Now, I may be biased, since Blossom is my big sister, but I thought she looked pretty good for being dead. I’d pulled her golden blonde hair into a French braid that morning, and she really hadn’t putrefied all that much since turning into a zombie. I mean, I’ve seen worse. Sure, she had a scar on her cheek from where a fly had laid maggots and we didn’t catch it in time, but Mom had done a real nice job of repairing the damage. Other than that, and the drooling, and the whitish-gray skin tone, and the slight odor of rotting meat that no amount of patchouli was able to cover up, she looked almost pretty. My friend Patty’s brother had once been so hungry, he’d ripped off half of his face to get at his own brains. Tore off huge chunks of his cheek and popped out his own eye. Now, he can make for a startling interruption of one’s shopping trip. But Blossom? She looked practically normal.

  Not to the sales clerks at Hot Topic, though. As soon as Blossom shuffled by the sales desk to check out the skull-emblazoned tank tops near the back, a girl about Blossom’s age with hair dyed electric blue and cut in a pixie style started screaming.

  “Ugh?” Blossom said, looking up at the hysterical girl. “Blagaah?”

  Blossom and I scanned the store, trying to spot what the fuss was about. Maybe if I tackled a shoplifter before he got away, I’d get a big discount or some cute free leggings as a reward.

  A skinny guy with an inky black Mohawk and Poindexter glasses stepped up next to Blue Pixie, glanced at us, and started shouting.

  “Get the gun! Under the register! Aim for the head!”

  “Gaah!” Blossom moaned, getting a little hysterical herself. The aim for the head thing made it quite clear what the fuss was about. She took a few steps backward, crouching behind a rack of pink leather pants. “Gaah!”

  “Stop!” I shouted, stepping between Blossom and Mohawk, who had found the pistol and was trying to draw a shaky bead on my sister. “Put that down, you idiot! She can’t hurt you!”

  Mohawk wasn’t backing down, but neither was I. Hands on my hips, I stood my ground. “She doesn’t have any teeth. She can’t bite. Will you please put that thing down before you hurt someone?”

  Mohawk wavered for a moment, then slowly lowered the gun.

  “You sure? She was growling.”

  “Oh, come on. She was moaning. About the prices of your Ed Hardy tank tops, if you must know. Blossom, come on out. I think he’s safe now.”

  Blossom glowered at me from behind the pink pants, and I tugged on her arm to get her up. Not too hard—sometimes zombie skin has an unnerving way of sliding right off the bone—but she stood. She glared at Mohawk, then turned on her heel, storming out of the store.

  “Stupid redneck,” I spat at Mohawk. “You should be nicer to people, even if they’re a little different.” I thrust my nose in the air and made my exit. Blossom was waiting for me outside by a row of vending machines. Her chin wobbled; her feelings had been hurt.

  “Don’t worry about that douchebag, Bloss.” I linked my arm through hers. “Did you see his haircut? He’s got bigger problems than you do!” She snorted, and we strolled off to explore the rest of the mall.

  Our reception wasn’t any friendlier at Sears, where one of the sales clerks came at Blossom screaming like a banshee, wielding an electric screwdriver. I could tell Blossom was getting a little depressed by the way she was keening softly. I stopped at the Auntie Anne’s stand for a pretzel, then we found a table in the food court. I pulled out a baggie with some dried brain snacks for Blossom, and she popped one in her mouth, sucking on it pensively. We hadn’t been able to browse for a single thing to add to our back-to-school wardrobe. And even though we tried to give the Pet Emporium a wide berth, the puppies had started howling and barking like crazy when Blossom walked by. Animals, for the most part, can sense the walking dead, and, except for cats, most of them steer clear and put up a fuss when zombies are close by. Cats, on the other hand, seemed to have zero qualms about being around the walking dead. I figure they know they could outsmart a zombie just as easily as they’re able to outsmart regular humans, and thus had no fear. But dogs? Much too dumb. The stupid Pet Emporium puppies made such a racket, everyone turned to stare.

  So far, I hated Connecticut, and I was pretty sure my sister did, too.

  I spotted the customer service kiosk in the middle of the mall, near where we were sitting. Gift Cards, Wheelchair Rentals, Cell Phone Charging Station, the sign proclaimed. I was suddenly inspired.

  “Bloss, what if we rent you a wheelchair?” She cocked her head at me, gumming the last of her brainy treats. “Think about it. Nobody likes to make eye contact with someone in a wheelchair, right? We can whip our way right through this place and nobody would give you a second glance.”

  Blossom seemed to think about this for a minute. “I’ll push you,” I added. “Fast.” If there’s one thing my sister had enjoyed when she was still alive, it was a good ride.

  Blossom grinned.

  “Wait here.” I jogged off to the rental counter.

  We spent the rest of the afternoon speeding from one end of the mall to the other, me running as I pushed the wheelchair, Blossom shrieking with gooey laughter as we dodged shoppers with young children. I’m sure the glares we got were from fogies who thought we were just being stupid teenagers. And okay, sure, maybe we were.

  Occasionally we squealed to a stop to pop into a store. I found some Converse All-Stars on sale at Foot Locker, and Blossom insisted on wearing her new steel-toed black boots as soon as we paid for them. We found velvet jackets (I went for black, Blossom selected a deep purple), and black jeans, all on sale.

  I picked out a Siouxsie and the Banshees concert shirt I found on clearance at Spencer’s. Blossom took her time, and started snorting midway through the rack. She pulled out a shirt with a poster of George Romero’s Night of the Living Dead emblazoned on the front.

  “Oh, Bloss, you have to get that.”

  “Gargh.” Damn straight I’m getting it.

  While we waited in line to pay, Blossom nudged me in the knee from her wheelchair. “Blaaaahh ngahhh ruh,” she whispered. There’s a guy over by the lava lamp section checking you out.

  “Is he cute? Do I need to break out the irresistible Hamilton smile?” I murmured.

  “Jaaugghh,” she whispered. I didn’t see his face.

  “Maybe he’s checking you out,” I said, and Blossom rolled her eyes.

  “Bleah. Hnugh guuuhh fbbblt maaarrrr Adidas,” she said. Get real. And he was at Hot Topic, too. I recognize his Adidas jacket. “Hhwur?” Is he following us?

  I casually flicked my hair back and let my eyes shift over to the lava lamps. I spotted only a shadow
as the boy in question ducked out of sight. Probably intimidated by my brilliant smile. Instead of a stalker, I decided he was no doubt a freakishly introverted dweeb. “Well, if the guys in Connecticut are that shy, high school’s gonna suck,” I said with a sigh.

  We dropped off the wheelchair before Mom picked us up. She found us sitting on a bench outside the mall entrance, tittering and pawing through our bags to look over our purchases.

  “Well, you girls look like you’ve had a good day.”

  We had. We were the Hamilton sisters, and we were ready to take Glastonbury High School by storm.

  TWO

  Rain fell like bullets on our first day of school. Blossom didn’t have the fine motor skills anymore to operate a car, and I was still six long months away from turning sixteen and getting my driver’s permit, so we had to ride the bus. But it was worse than that. I’d filled Mom in on our adventures at the mall, including Mohawk and his itchy trigger finger, and she really went for the whole wheelchair idea. So now Blossom had to start school in one, wearing a helmet in case anyone tried to take a head shot at her, and we both had to ride the short bus. We’d be pegged as lamestains as soon as it pulled up to the curb!

  I knew Blossom was depressed about wearing a helmet—she hadn’t groaned or whimpered this much since Mom had pulled out all of her teeth—and the wheelchair thing was majorly uncool, because Bloss didn’t really need one. But I didn’t care what Blossom was feeling, because it was my life being ruined by all this. She was the zombie. Why did I have to ride the short bus? But Mom insisted. Where Blossom went, I went too, especially on the first day of school. We’d need each other for support, Mom said.

  I was getting pretty tired of supporting my big sister. When did I get to have a life?