“And if any of you are doctors,” says Dum, “your patients are waiting for you. ”
“Is this all of us?” I ask. “We’re the only survivors?”
Dee looks over at Dum. “Are zombie girls allowed to talk?”
“If they’re cute and willing to do zombie-girl mud fights. ”
“Duuude. Right on. ”
“That’s a disgusting image. ” I give them a sideways look but I’m secretly glad they’re not freaked out about me coming back from the dead.
“It’s not like we’d pick the decayed ones, Penryn. Just ones like you, fresh from the dead. ”
“Only, with ripped clothes and stuff. ”
“And hungry for breeeeasts. ”
“He means brains. ”
“That’s exactly what I meant. ”
“Could you please answer the question?” asks a guy wearing glasses that are completely free of cracks. He doesn’t look like he’s in a joking mood.
“Right,” says Dee getting all serious. “This is our rendezvous point. The others will meet us here. ”
We keep walking in the weak sunshine, and the guy with the glasses ends up in the back of the group.
Dum leans over to Dee and whispers loud enough for me to hear, “How much you want to bet that that guy will be the first in line to bet on the zombie-girl fight?”
They exchange grins and wiggle their eyebrows at each other.
October winds seep through my blouse and I can’t help looking up at the overcast sky for a particular angel with bat-shaped wings and a corny sense of humor. I swipe my foot at the overgrown grass and make myself look away.
The class windows are full of posters and notices about college entrance requirements. Another window displays shelves of student art. Clay, wood, and papier mâché figurines of all colors and styles cover every inch of shelf space. Some of them are so good that it makes me sad that these kids won’t be making art again for a long, long time.
As we move through the school, the twins are careful to stay behind my family. I fall back, thinking it’s not a bad idea to have Paige in front where I can keep an eye on her. She walks stiffly as if she’s still not used to her legs. I’m not used to seeing her like this either, and I can’t stop staring at the crude stitches all over her body that make her look like a voodoo doll.
“So that’s your sister?” asks Dee in a quiet voice.
“Yeah. ”
“The one you risked your life for?”
“Yeah. ”
The twins nod politely in that automatic way that people do when they don’t want to say something insulting.
“Your family any better?” I ask.
Dee and Dum look at each other, assessing.
“Nah,” says Dee.
“Not really,” says Dum at the same time.
OUR NEW home is a history class. The walls are filled with timelines and posters of the story of humanity. Mesopotamia, the Great Pyramid of Giza, the Ottoman Empire, the Ming Dynasty. And the Black Death.
My history teacher said that the Black Death wiped out thirty to sixty percent of Europe’s population. He asked us to imagine what it’d be like to have sixty percent of your world dead. I couldn’t imagine it at the time. It seemed so unreal.
In weird contrast, dominating all of these ancient history posters is a picture of an astronaut on the moon with blue Earth rising behind him. Every time I see our ball of blue and white in space, I think it must be the most beautiful world in the universe.
But that seems unreal now, too.
Outside, more trucks rumble into the parking lot. I walk over to the window as Mom starts pushing desks and chairs to one side. I peek outside to see one of the twins leading the dazed newcomers into the school like the Pied Piper.
Behind me, my little sister says, “Hungry. ”
I stiffen and stuff all kinds of ugliness into the vault in my head.
I see a reflection of Paige in the window. In the blurry otherworld of that image, she looks up at Mom like any other kid expecting dinner. But in the warped glass, her head is distorted, magnifying her stitches and lengthening her razor-grafted teeth.
Mom bends down and strokes her baby’s hair. She begins humming her haunting apology song.
Chpater 3
I SETTLE onto a cot by the corner. Lying with my back against the wall, I can see the entire room by moonlight.
My baby sister lies on a cot against the wall across from me. Paige looks tiny under her blanket beneath the posters of larger-than-life historical figures. Confucius, Florence Nightingale, Gandhi, Helen Keller, the Dalai Lama.
Would she have turned out like them if we weren’t in the World After?
My mother sits cross-legged by Paige’s cot, humming her melody. We’ve tried giving my sister the two things I could get from the disorganized mess in the cafeteria that is supposed to turn into a kitchen by morning. But she couldn’t hold down either the canned soup or the protein bar.
I shift my weight on the canvas cot, trying to find a position where my sword hilt won’t jab into my ribs. Having it on me is the best way to keep anyone from trying to pick it up and finding out that I’m the only one who can lift it. The last thing I need is having to explain how I ended up with an angel sword.
Sleeping with a weapon has nothing to do with my sister being in the room. Nothing at all.
Nor does it have anything to do with Raffe. It’s not like the sword is my only memento of my time with him. I have plenty of cuts and bruises to remind me of the days I spent with my enemy angel.
Who I’ll probably never see again.
So far, no one has asked about him. I guess it’s more common than not to have your group break up these days.