Undeadly. Michele Vail
house wasn’t too far away, either. We lived in a typical Las Vegas house (think beige, Spanish tiles and zero-scaping) on Grimsby Avenue (ironic, right?), which was on the other side of Green Valley High School. I worked for my dad, every afternoon and on the weekends. I got paid, which was good. But I also had less of a social life than most girls my age. Try no social life.
Except for tomorrow. Finally, it was my sixteenth birthday, and I was having a big party. At least I hoped so. Lots of people had RSVP’d, including Rick Widdenstock. Even though he was just a sophomore like me, he was the quarterback for the Green Valley High School Gators. Did I mention Rick’s hotness? We’d been flirting for the past couple of weeks; yesterday and today, he sat with me at lunch. Gena and Becks, my two best friends, had found other things to do, even though we always ate lunch together. That was why they were my best friends—because they knew when to bail. And they didn’t even mind about all the zombie stuff. Most normal people were weirded out by my necro powers. Necros were all over the place, you know? But there were only a handful who attended my high school, and most of them were too dark and angsty for my taste. Plus, I didn’t look good with kohl on my eyes and my nose was too cute to be pierced.
Mrs. Woodbine jerked on the leash she held in her free hand, which was attached to the neck of her husband, Mortimer. He shuffled to the counter, his empty gaze on the floor. Like most zombies, he looked gray and hollow-eyed. His clothes hung loosely on his thin frame. His gray hair stood up in stiff tufts and his skin was flaking. His lips were crusty; his teeth blackened. Had Mrs. Woodbine even bothered to skim the state-issued guide The Care and Feeding of Your Zombie? No wonder parts of her husband kept falling off. Sheesh!
We were required to give every new zombie owner the guide at the end of the four-hour course. Hmph. The Moron’s Guide to Not Getting Eaten by Your Zombie might’ve suited Mrs. Woodbine better. Zombies required care. You had to comb their hair, cut their nails, oil their skin, brush their teeth and give them weather-appropriate clothing and shoes. Even though I was a ka heka (zombie maker) in training and I knew zombies weren’t really people (sorry, but they’re not), I still felt a lurch of pity for the thing that used to be Mortimer Woodbine.
“It’s the same limb,” Mrs. Woodbine said. “Frankly, I’m tired of having to bring him down here. Big Al’s low, low prices certainly don’t translate to quality work.”
I bristled. My dad, Alfonso Bartolucci, was what you’d call larger-than-life (though that’s not the description some people would use). He owned and operated Big Al’s Zomporium, and despite the cheesy name and Mrs. Woodbine’s opinion, we were a decent operation. My mom had been a ka heka, too. She’d walked out on us when I was ten. After she left, Dad hired a guy named Demetrius to be the Zomporium’s ka heka, and he was teaching me and Ally. Demetrius was a cool dude. He was as black as coffee grounds, old as dirt and he still had a smear of a Jamaican accent. I liked him a lot.
But the zombie-abusing Mrs. Woodbine? Not so much.
“Hel-lo!” Mrs. Woodbine screeched, snapping her fingers in my face. I blinked, my thoughts skittering, and resisted the urge to slap her hand away.
“Teenagers today! I swear to God! You’re all worthless.” She huffed at me, turkey neck quivering, as she poked the arm. “Did you hear me? This is the third time his damn arm has fallen off.”
It ka-illlled me, but I smiled. “Let me see what we can do for you.”
“I want a discount,” she said, her flat brown gaze flashing with triumph. “A big one. You’re lucky I don’t call the Zombie Safety and Inspection Service on this place!”
You’re lucky I don’t whap your big stupid mouth with Mortimer’s arm. I slid the pathetic limb off the counter then picked up the phone. I buzzed the cell of my sister, Ally, who was supposed to be organizing the storage room but was probably making picket signs for Citizens for Zombie Rights. Ally and her friends had created the group last year after watching a Dateline exposé on zombie abuse.
She’s such a dork.
“What?” she spat.
Ally didn’t care much about social graces, diplomacy or keeping her mouth shut. That was why I was manning the customer care center and she was stuck rearranging all the crap in storage. I didn’t necessarily like everyone who walked through the doors, but I knew how to be polite. Most of the time.
Ally sighed in that dramatic, you’re-making-my-brain-melt-with-your-stupidity way that always drove me nuts. I wanted to ride her about making idiotic protest signs instead of stacking toilet paper, but I didn’t dare misbehave in front of a customer. Not even cranky, gnarly ol’ Mrs. Woodbine. Nonna Gina had ears like a reaper and a rolling pin we called “lightning fury.” Our grandmother was unafraid of whacking our butts with it. That was how she’d raised our dad, and he was still afraid of the rolling pin.
“Mrs. Woodbine has an issue with her zombie,” I finally said. “Would you mind keeping her company while I take care of Mortimer?”
“That hag is back again?”
I smiled at the hag. “Yes. So, can you come up?”
“Gawd!” She snapped her phone shut.
A moment later she stomped out of the door situated behind the customer care desk. Her scowl zeroed in on Mrs. Woodbine. Ally was fourteen, tall and gangly, still flat-chested and had braces, too. She had the best hair—long, silky chestnut waves with auburn highlights, but did she care? No. She also liked to wear baggy clothes in blah colors. Even though I would never admit it to her (not ever), one day she’d be gorgeous. Y’know, after she lost the metalwork, got some boobs and developed some fashion sense.
“Mrs. Woodbine,” she said. Her voice held a hint of accusation. “Would you like some tea while Molly takes Mortimer for repairs?”
The woman was caught between reacting to my sister’s less-than-friendly tone and the seemingly polite question. Finally, Mrs. Woodbine nodded. “I would love some tea. Did your grandmother make any cookies?”
Sometimes I wondered if she broke Mortimer’s arm on purpose so she could chow down on the almond biscotti Nonna baked fresh every day for customers. Luckily, my grandmother saved the buccellati-fig cookies for us.
Ally gestured toward the seating area and Mrs. Woodbine hurried toward the side table that held dispensers filled with three kinds of herbal tea and two large platters of Nonna’s treats.
I rounded the desk, holding poor Mortimer’s arm, and then grasped the hand of the arm still attached. It was like gripping crusted leather. I felt another surge of anger at Mrs. Woodbine’s poor zombie management skills. “C’mon, z-man. Let’s get you fixed up.”
We entered the same door my sister had flown out of, and she sent me a glare, and hissed, “Hurry!”
“Do you want to take the zombie to Demetrius?” I asked.
Ally eyed Mortimer, and I got the distinct feeling she was imagining some kind of jailbreak. Knowing her and her nutso friends, they probably had a plan for that kind of thing. “Never mind,” I said. “I don’t want to get grounded because you’re planning zombie intervention.”
“Whatevs. Just go already.” She looked down her nose at me, and then she perched on the stool behind the customer care desk. Her glare tracked Mrs. Woodbine as the woman filled a plate with cookies.
I kinda hoped Ally would do something mean to Mrs. Woodbine, but even Ally had her limits on rudeness. Probably.
I took Mortimer down the hallway, which had one door on the left (employee bathroom), two on the right (supplies, storage) and one at the end (sahnetjar).
Sahnetjar was the ancient Egyptian name for the place where they made mummies and zombies. Necromancers still used the term today, probably because it sounded all fancy and mysterious.
As I led the zombie to the sahnetjar, I felt another pang of pity. I don’t know why Mortimer hadn’t put an Advance Zombification Directive into place. Lots of people had an AZD—and sometimes, their relatives