Broken Angel: A Zombie Love Story by Joely Sue Burkhart Page A

pit of my
stomach, twisting me into knots.
    He made a sound of pain and took my hand in
his, lifting my fingers away from his skin where I’d gouged my
nails into him. “That hurts, Angelina. What’s wrong?”
    I couldn’t speak for the dread choking me. I
was still the doll, but I was awake. He rolled up onto his forearm
and smiled down at me. Didn’t terror flash in my eyes, dark with
the screams of nightmares? Or was it the blank stare of the doll?
Which was worse?
    He kissed me, murmuring against my mouth. I
felt the pressure of his lips, but not the heat or wetness, nor the
scratch of his mustache. I clutched him harder, pushing him over
onto his back and climbing onto him. Nothing. No heat, no sweaty
glide of flesh on flesh. Yet he threw his head back and groaned
deep in his throat, his hips arching up beneath me.
    He was inside me, and I couldn’t feel it.
His hands gripped my hips, pulling me into a rocking rhythm that my
body knew but didn’t feel. No stirring fire burned in me. Nothing
but this spreading blackness of fear. I plunged harder, faster,
desperation driving me to feel something, anything.
    He drew me down and whispered, “Are you
ready? I’m coming, oh, my love…”
    Nothing. I couldn’t even cry. He shuddered
and made a masculine purr of satisfaction as he rolled to his side
and tucked me down beside him. “I like these nightmares of
yours.”
    I lay there, strangled with betrayal. How
could he be so blind and oblivious? Didn’t he see? Couldn’t he feel
the coldness in my unresponsive body?
    This reality was worse than the doll’s
nightmare.
     
     
    The next afternoon, I found myself walking
down a dirty street in Cheapside, the darkest slum of the Upper
City. Certainly a place no woman of my standing would ever visit,
never alone and dressed in the fine shimmering materials that drew
every beggar’s greedy eye. None dared lay a hand on me, though.
They averted their gazes, turning and hurrying away even when I
called after them.
    Why was I here? Why did they know me?
Perhaps they recognized my face. After all, I was the Upper
Governor’s wife. The uncanny silence was shrill even on my dead
nerves, grating like metal on metal.
    They’re afraid. Of me.
    I touched my face to assure myself that my
features weren’t shattered like the doll. My cheek felt strange, my
flesh firm, unyielding, cold, like porcelain. Shivering although I
didn’t feel the damp that cloaked the soiled sky, I quickened my
step. Aimless yet determined, I hurried toward the unknown
destination that called me.
    The dreams had been happening more often, no
matter what shots and potions the doctors forced me to take. I
couldn’t deny the image any longer. I had to find that bridge.
Maybe if I stood there beneath the willows and smelled the flowers
trailing in the mirrored water, the dream would cease haunting
me.
    Whether hours or minutes passed, days or
weeks, I honestly had no sense of time. I wasn’t hungry. I wasn’t
cold nor tired, merely possessed. Yes, possessed. Anger filled me.
I didn’t understand why, but oh, joy, I felt something, and so I
kindled that fragile flame.
    A passing woman gasped, her mouth and eyes
rounded with horror. Her little boy stared at me, his whisper
carrying on the breeze. “What’s wrong with her, Ma? Why does she
walk like that?”
    “Shhh.” The woman hurried her child away,
glancing back over her shoulder worriedly.
    I began walking again, paying attention to
my body. My steps lurched, awkward and uneven, my body
uncoordinated. Crazed laughter exploded out of my throat. “I’m a
doll, a walking talking doll.”
    My voice sounded strange and my body felt
disconnected from my mind. I could barely see, whether it was night
or my vision failing as my body shut down, but at last I recognized
something familiar. A tree-lined brook curved ahead, stone arching
over the tinkling waters.
    I stumbled down the path, struggling to make
my numb body work. My loud breathing wheezed in