Zombies Don't Forgive by Rusty Fischer Page A

chins covered with blond peach fuzz, but he’s notso drunk or stoned or tweaking that it’s weakened his grip on my shoulder any.
    â€œTake your hand off me,” I growl, shrugging.
    His hand stays clamped right where it is.
    They both cackle merrily, the taller one closing in. “Off you?” he says, sliding one of his blades against my cheek. “Babe, we’re just getting—”
    I snap his wrist happily, snatching the blade out of the air before it can dive into the loamy graveyard dirt at his feet. I don’t even give him a chance to scream. I shove the crumpled grave rubbing into his mouth and clamp a hand over it. Tight.
    The paper goes in so hard I swear I hear a tooth snap, but maybe that’s just wishful thinking.
    Fat boy lurches, yanking me off balance with a hand on my gray hoodie.
    I pivot and drive the blade down, deep down, into his grubby sneaker. The scent of fresh blood fills the night air.
    He screams until I slap his lower jaw shut, right onto his bleating tongue. A quarter inch of it tumbles to the earth as I scoot my shoe out of splatter range. I snatch the duct tape from my messenger bag and muzzle them both, then drag them one at a time to the cemetery gate.
    Their eyes are fearful and pained as they shake their heads.
    It feels too good, this strength I have now. Andthere’s an anger I didn’t have before. It comes in a flash, so it gets hard to control myself. I know they’re human boys, young guys, despite their size, and still I dispatched them as if they were 200-year-old Zerkers. That can’t be good.
    Remorse waves over me, expelling the rage, making me feel stupid and vulnerable all at the same time. As I watch them, they get more and more pitiful with each step. Even so, I yank their arms behind them through the bars and use every last inch of tape to bind them tight.
    They wriggle. Maybe they’ll get free before the church janitor finds them in a few hours, but I doubt it.
    I stand in front of them, watching them squirm, sneakers digging into the dirt as they try to get away from me. The night air smells of their fear, of their sweat … and worse.
    â€œThanks, boys,” I hiss to their wide-eyed, frightened faces. “I needed that.”
    I walk from the graveyard, grabbing my satchel on the way.
    I hear more footsteps, and this time it is Dane, whose face is crumpled with concern.
    â€œThe hell?” He looks at my torn hoodie and bloody hands.
    I do too. I hadn’t noticed either before.
    â€œA couple of punks jumped me.” I smirk, limbs sore from the effort. “They’re fine.”
    â€œYou sure?”
    I shake my head. “Go check.” I sigh. I know hewon’t be happy until he sees I haven’t broken their necks and sucked out their cerebellums, boiled-peanut style.
    â€œGo,” I insist, stopping and turning to watch him dodge three gravestones to walk deeper into the cemetery. “I’ll wait.”
    He goes, shoes crunching on dry leaves and rustling in the thick, black dirt. I hear the sound of skin hitting skin, a soft groan, and then his feet crunching again. He is smiling when he returns, and before I can ask, he brags, “I just knocked them out, you know, to stop the bleeding.”
    â€œHmmm.” I remember the feel of the big one’s hand, hard and insistent on my shoulder, and wonder what might have happened if I wasn’t a zombie, if I could feel pain, if I hadn’t trained with Dane five days a week since moving to Orlando. “I should have thought of that.”
    â€œI’m sure you would have. Minus the shock and all.”
    He lingers at my side as we weave through the rest of the headstones. I keep waiting for him to take my hand, but he never does. It’s not that he doesn’t want to, I don’t think, just that it’s not his style.
    I’m not defending him. He doesn’t need me for that. He’s just never been a