Kitabı oku: «Alice in Zombieland»
First and foremost, I have to thank God. I became very sick after writing the first draft of this book. I couldn’t work for several months; I was simply in too much pain. I began to seek the Lord, and He healed me. During this time, a whole new world for Alice opened up and I saw the places I’d missed. Creating this ‘wonderland’ was challenging but one of the most rewarding experiences of my life.
Next I want to thank the students of Marlow High School in Oklahoma for having me over, and Leigh Heldermon, Joyce and Emmet Harrison, Sony Harrison, Vicki Tolbert, Mike Tolbert, and Cathy Hazel for setting everything up. I also want to thank Jayson Brown, Justyn Brown, Autumn Jackson, Cassandra Howard, Allison Collins, and Austin Tinney for staying after and chatting with me. I had a blast!
I have to give a huge shout-out to Lauren Floyd for reading the rough draft and giving me honest feedback. She helped me shape some of the character voices, and I will be forever grateful.
I have to give another huge shout-out to Jill Monroe, Roxanne St Claire, Louisa Edwards, Kristen Painter, and Candace Havens, five amazingly talented and beautifully gorgeous ladies. (Yes, I said beautifully gorgeous.) I attended a writer’s conference with these jewels and it was one of the best weekends of my life. I’ll never forget the food, the conversations, and the love.
I must thank the people in my life—who have to deal with me on a daily basis. Max, Roy Showtime, Torrence Vee Merryweather, Haden Tolbert, Seth Tolbert, Chloe Tolbert, Nate and Meg Hurt, Parks and Finn Quine, Shane and Kemmie Tolbert, Christy James, Auston and Casey Dowling, David and Paula Dowling, Shonna and Kyle Hurt, Michelle and Cody Quine, Matt and Jennifer Showalter, Michael Showalter, Pennye and Terry Edwards, Mark and Cindy Watley, Mom and Dad, and Kresley and Swede Cole. (They are all beautifully gorgeous, too!)
And this dedication would not be complete without mentioning the awesome, the incredible, the truly spectacular Natashya Wilson. Her keen insight never fails to amaze me. She went over this book as many times as I did, and went above and beyond the call of duty. You are heaven sent!
About the Author
GENA SHOWALTER is a New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author whose teen novels have been featured on MTV and in Seventeen magazine and have been praised as “unputdownable.” Growing up, she always had her nose buried in a book. When it came time to buckle down and get a job, she knew writing was it for her. Gena lives in Oklahoma with her family and three slobbery English bulldogs. Become her friend on MySpace, or a fan on Facebook and visit her at GenaShowalter.com/young-adult.
Books by Gena Showalter
available from
The Intertwined Novels
INTERTWINED
UNRAVELLED
TWISTED
The White Rabbit Chronicles
ALICE IN ZOMBIELAND
Coming in 2013
ALICE THROUGH THE ZOMBIE GLASS
Visit www.miraink.co.uk
A NOTE FROM ALICE
Had anyone told me that my entire life would change course between one heartbeat and the next, I would have laughed. From blissful to tragic, innocent to ruined? Please.
But that’s all it took. One heartbeat. A blink, a breath, a second, and everything I knew and loved was gone.
My name is Alice Bell, and on the night of my sixteenth birthday I lost the mother I loved, the sister I adored and the father I never understood until it was too late. Until that heartbeat when my entire world collapsed and a new one took shape around me.
My father was right. Monsters walk among us.
At night, these living dead, these … zombies … rise from their graves, and they crave what they lost. Life. They will feed on you. They will infect you. And then they will kill you. If that happens, you will rise from your grave. It’s an endless cycle, like a mouse running inside a barbed wheel, bleeding and dying as those sharp tips dig ever deeper, with no way to stop the lethal momentum.
These zombies feel no fear, know no pain, but they hunger. Oh, do they hunger. There’s only one way to stop them—but I can’t tell you how. You’ll have to be shown. What I can tell you is that we must fight the zombies to disable them. To fight them, we must get close to them. To get close to them, we must be a little brave and a whole lot crazy.
But you know what? I’d rather the world considered me crazy while I go down fighting than spend the rest of my life hiding from the truth. Zombies are real. They’re out there.
If you aren’t vigilant, they’ll get you, too.
So. Yeah. I should have listened to my father. He warned me over and over again never to go out at night, never to venture into a cemetery and never, under any circumstances, to trust someone who wants you to do either. He should have taken his own advice, because he trusted me—and I convinced him to do both.
I wish I could go back and do a thousand things differently. I’d tell my sister no. I’d never beg my mother to talk to my dad. I’d stop my tears from falling. I’d zip my lips and swallow those hateful words. Or, barring all of that, I’d hug my sister, my mom and my dad one last time. I’d tell them I love them.
I wish … yeah, I wish.
Alice in Zombieland
Gena Showalter
1
DOWN THE ZOMBIE HOLE
Six months ago
“Please, Alice. Please.”
I lay sprawled on a blanket in my backyard, weaving a daisy chain for my little sister. The sun shone brightly as puffy white clouds ghosted across an endless expanse of baby blue. As I breathed in the thick honeysuckle and lavender perfume of the Alabama summer, I could make out a few shapes. A long, leggy caterpillar. A butterfly with one of its wings shredded. A fat white rabbit, racing toward a tree.
Eight-year-old Emma danced around me. She wore a glittery pink ballerina costume, her pigtails bouncing with her every movement. She was a miniature version of our mother and the complete opposite of me.
Both possessed a slick fall of dark hair and beautifully uptilted golden eyes. Mom was short, barely over five-three, and I wasn’t sure Em would even make it to five-one. Me? I had wavy white-blond hair, big blue eyes and legs that stretched for miles. At five-ten, I was taller than most of the boys at my school and always stood out—I couldn’t go anywhere without getting a few what-are-you-a-giraffe? stares.
Boys had never shown an interest in me, but I couldn’t count the number of times I had caught one drooling over my mom as she walked by or—gag—heard one whistle as she bent over to pick something up.
“Al-less.” At my side now, Em stomped her slippered foot in a bid for my attention. “Are you even listening to me?”
“Sweetie, we’ve gone over this, like, a thousand times. Your recital might start while it’s sunny out, but it’ll end at dark. You know Dad will never let us leave the house. And Mom agreed to sign you up for the program as long as you swore never to throw a tantrum when you couldn’t make a practice or a, what? Recital.”
She stepped over me and planted those dainty pink slippers at my shoulders, her slight body throwing a large enough shadow to shield my face from the overhead glare. She became all that I could see, shimmering gold pleading down at me. “Today’s your birthday, and I know, I know, I forgot this morning … and this afternoon … but last week I remembered that it was coming up—you remember how I told Mom, right?—and now I’ve remembered again, so doesn’t that count for something? ‘Course it does,” she added before I could say anything. “Daddy has to do whatever you ask. So, if you ask him to let us go, and … and …” so much longing in her tone “… and ask if he’ll come and watch me, too, then he will.”
My birthday. Yeah. My parents had forgotten, too. Again. Unlike Em, they hadn’t remembered—and wouldn’t. Last year, my dad had been a little too busy throwing back shots of single malt and mumbling about monsters only he could see and my mom had been a little too busy cleaning up his mess. As always.
This year, Mom had hidden notes in drawers to remind herself (I’d found them), and as Em had claimed, my baby sis had even hinted before flat out saying, “Hey, Alice’s birthday is coming up and I think she deserves a party!” but I’d woken up this morning to the same old same old. Nothing had changed.
Whatever. I was a year older, finally sweet sixteen, but my life was still the same. Honestly, it wasn’t a big deal. I’d stopped caring a long time ago.
Em, though, she cared. She wanted what I’d never had: their undivided attention.
“Since today’s my birthday, shouldn’t you be doing something for me?” I asked, hoping to tease her into forgetting about her first ballet performance and the princess role she liked to say she “had been born to perform.”
She fisted her hands on her hips, all innocence and indignation and, well, my favorite thing in the entire world. “Hello! Letting you do this for me is my gift to you.”
I tried not to grin. “Is that so?”
“Yeah, because I know you want to watch me so badly you’re practically foaming at the mouth.”
Brat. But like I could really argue with her logic. I did want to watch her.
I remember the night Emma was born. A wild mix of fear and elation had seared the memory into my mind. Just like my parents had done with me, they had opted to use a midwife who made house calls so that, when the big moment arrived, Mom wouldn’t have to leave home.
But even that plan had failed.
The sun had already set by the time her contractions started and my dad had refused to open the door to the midwife, too afraid a monster would follow her in.
So, Dad had delivered Emma while my mom nearly screamed us all to death. I had hidden under my covers, crying and shaking because I’d been so afraid.
When everything had finally quieted, I’d snuck into their bedroom to make sure everyone had survived. Dad bustled about while Mom lounged on the bed. Tentative steps had taken me to the edge, and, to be honest, I’d gasped in horror. Baby Emma had not been attractive. She’d been red and wrinkly, with the most hideous dark hair on her ears. (I’m happy to say the hair has since been shed.) Mom had been all smiles as she waved me over to hold my “new best friend.”
I’d settled beside her, pillows fluffing behind me, and she’d placed the wiggly bundle in my arms. Eyes so beautiful only God Himself could have created them had peered up at me, rosy lips puckering and tiny fists waving.
“What should we name her?” Mom had asked.
When short, chubby fingers had wrapped around one of mine, skin soft and warm, I’d decided that hair on the ears wasn’t such a terrible thing, after all. “Lily,” I’d replied. “We should name her Lily.” I had a book all about flowers, and the lilies were my favorites.
My mom’s soft chuckle had washed over me. “I like that. How about Emmaline Lily Bell, since Nana’s real name is Emmaline and it’d be nice to honor my mother the way we honored your dad’s when you were born. We can call our little miracle Emma for short, and the three of us will share a wonderful secret. You’re my Alice Rose and she’s my Emma Lily, and together the two of you are my perfect bouquet.”
I hadn’t needed time to think about that. “Okay. Deal!”
Emma had gurgled, and I’d taken that as approval.
“Alice Rose,” Emma said now. “You’re lost in your head again, when I’ve never needed you more.”
“All right, fine,” I said on a sigh. I just couldn’t deny her. Never had, never would. “I’m not talking to Dad, though. I’m talking to Mom and making her talk to him.”
The first sparkle of hope ignited. “Really?”
“Yes, really.”
A brilliant smile bloomed, and her bouncing started up again. “Please, Alice. You gotta talk to her now. I don’t want to be late, and if Dad agrees we’ll need to leave soon so I can warm up on stage with the other girls. Please. Nooow.”
I sat up and placed the daisies around her neck. “You know the likelihood of success is pretty low, right?”
A cardinal rule in the Bell household: you did not leave the house if you couldn’t return before dark. Here, Dad had worked up “reinforcements” against the monsters, ensuring none of them could get in. After dark, well, you stayed put. Anyone out in the big bad world was without any type of protection and considered open season.
My father’s paranoia and delusion had caused me to miss numerous school activities and countless sporting events. I’d never even been on a date. Yes, I could have gone on a weekend lunch date and other craptasticly lame things like that, but honestly? I had no desire for a boyfriend. I never wanted to have to explain that my dad was certifiable, or that he sometimes locked us in the “special” basement he’d built as added protection from a boogeyman that did not exist. Yeah, just peachy.
Em threw her arms around me. “You can do it, I know you can. You can do anything!”
Her faith in me … so humbling. “I’ll do my best.”
“Your best is—Oh, ick!” Face scrunched with horror, she jumped as far away from me as she could get. “You’re all gross and wet, and you made me all gross and wet.”
Laughing, I lunged for her. She squealed and darted off. I’d run the hose over myself about half an hour ago, hoping to cool down. Not that I’d tell her. The fun of sibling torture, and all that.
“Stay out here, okay?” Mom would say something that would hurt her feelings, and I’d say something to make her feel bad for asking me to do this, and she’d cry. I hated when she cried.
“Sure, sure,” she said, palms up in a gesture of innocence.
Like I was buying that hasty assurance. She planned to follow me and listen, no question. Girl was devious like that. “Promise me.”
“I can’t believe you’d doubt me.” A delicate hand fluttered over her heart. “That hurts, Alice. That really hurts.”
“First, major congrats. Your acting has improved tremendously,” I said with a round of applause. “Second, say the words or I’ll return to working on a tan I’ll never achieve.”
Grinning, she rose on her toes, stretched out her arms and slowly spun on one leg. The sun chose that moment to toss out an amber ray, creating the perfect spotlight for her perfect pirouette. “Okay, okay. I promise. Happy now?”
“Sublimely.” She might be devious, but she never broke a promise.
“Watch me pretend I know what that means.”
“It means—oh, never mind.” I was stalling, and I knew it. “I’m going.”
With all the enthusiasm of a firing squad candidate, I stood and turned toward our house, a two-story my dad had built in the prime of his construction days, with brown brick on the bottom and brown-and-white-striped wood on the top. Kind of boxy, amazingly average and absolutely, one hundred percent forgettable. But then, that’s what he’d been going for, he’d said.
My flip-flops clapped against the ground, creating a mantra inside my head. Don’t. Fail. Don’t. Fail. Finally I stood at the glass doors that led to our kitchen and spotted my mom, bustling from the sink to the stove and back again. I watched her, a bit sick to my stomach.
Don’t be a wuss. You can do this.
I pushed my way inside. Garlic, butter and tomato paste scented the air. “Hey,” I said, and hoped I hadn’t cringed.
Mom glanced up from the steaming strainer of noodles and smiled. “Hey, baby. Coming in for good, or just taking a break?”
“Break.” The forced incarceration at night drove me to spend as much time as possible outside during daylight hours, whether I burned to lobster-red or not.
“Well, your timing’s great. The spaghetti’s almost done.”
“Yeah, okay, good.” During the summer months, we ate dinner at five sharp. Winter, we switched it up to four. That way, no matter the season, we could be in our rooms and safe before sunset.
The walls were reinforced with some kind of steel, and the doors and locks were impenetrable. And yes, those things made our futuristic dungeon known as “the basement” overkill, but you try reasoning with a crazy person.
Just do it. Just say it. “So, um, yeah.” I shifted from one foot to the other. “Today’s my birthday.”
Her jaw dropped, her cheeks bleaching of color. “Oh … baby. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean … I should have remembered … I even made myself notes. Happy birthday,” she finished lamely. She looked around, as if hoping a present would somehow appear via the force of her will. “I feel terrible.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I’ll do something to make this up to you, I swear.”
And so the negotiations have begun. I squared my shoulders. “Do you really mean that?”
“Of course.”
“Good, because Em has a recital tonight and I want to go.”
Though my mom radiated sadness, she was shaking her head even before I finished. “You know your dad will never agree.”
“So talk to him. Convince him.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because.” A croak.
I loved this woman, I truly did, but, oh, she could frustrate me like no one else. “Because why?” I insisted. Even if she cried, I wasn’t dropping this. Better her tears than Em’s.
Mom pivoted, as graceful as Emma as she carried the strainer to the pot and dumped the contents inside. Steam rose and wafted around her, and for a moment, she looked as if she were part of a dream. “Emma knows the rules. She’ll understand.”
The way I’d had to understand, time and time again before I’d just given up? Anger sparked. “Why do you do this? Why do you always agree with him when you know he’s off-the-charts insane?”
“He’s not—”
“He is!” Like Em, I stomped my foot.
“Quiet,” she said, her tone admonishing. “He’s upstairs.”
Yeah, and I’d bet he was already drunk.
She added, “We’ve talked about this, honey. I believe your dad sees something the rest of us can’t. But before you cast stones at him or me, take a look at the Bible. Once upon a time our Lord and Savior was persecuted. Tons of people doubted Jesus.”
“Dad isn’t Jesus!” He rarely even went to church with us.
“I know, and that’s not what I’m saying. I believe there are forces at work all around us. Forces for good and forces for evil.”
I couldn’t get involved in another good/evil debate with her. I just couldn’t. I believed in God, and I believed there were angels and demons out there, but we never had to deal with the evil stuff, did we? “I wish you would divorce him,” I muttered, then bit my tongue in regret—but even still, I refused to apologize.
She worked from home seven days a week as a medical transcriptionist, and was always type, type, typing away at her computer. On weekends, like this fine Saturday evening, she acted like my dad’s nursemaid, too, cleaning him up, fetching and carrying for him. She deserved so much more. She was young, for a mom, and so dang pretty. She was softhearted and funny and deserved some pampering of her own.
“Most kids want their parents to stay together,” she said, a sharp edge to her voice.
“I’m not like most kids. You guys made sure of that.” There was an even sharper edge to my voice.
I just … I wanted what other kids had. A normal life.
In a snap, the anger drained from her and she sighed. “Alice, honey, I know this is hard. I know you want more for yourself, and one day you’ll have it. You’ll graduate, get a job, move out, go to college, fall in love, travel, do whatever your heart desires. As for now, this is your father’s house and he makes the rules. You will follow those rules and respect his authority.”
Straight out of the Parent’s Official Handbook, right under the heading: What to say when you don’t have a real answer for your kid.
“And maybe,” she added, “when you’re in charge of your own household, you’ll realize your dad did the things he did to protect us. He loves us, and our safety is the most important thing to him. Don’t hate him for that.”
I should have known. The good and evil speech always circled around to love and hate. “Have you ever seen one of his monsters?” I asked.
A pause. A nervous laugh. “I have refused to answer that question the other thousand times you asked, so what makes you think I’ll answer it today?”
“Consider it a late birthday present, since you won’t give me what I really want.” That was a low blow, and I knew it. But again, I refused to apologize.
She flinched. “I don’t like to discuss these things with you girls because I don’t want to scare you further.”
“We aren’t scared now,” I lashed out. “You are!” Calm down. Deep breath in … out … I had to do this rationally. If I freaked, she’d send me to my room and that would be that. “Over the years, you should have seen at least one monster. I mean, you spend the most time with Dad. You’re with him at night, when he patrols the house with a gun.”
The only time I’d dared venture into the hall after midnight, hoping to get a glass of water since I’d forgotten to bring one to my room, that’s what I’d seen. My dad clutching a pistol, marching this way and that, stopping to peer out each and every window.
I’d been thirteen at the time, and I’d almost died of a heart attack. Or maybe embarrassment, since I’d come pretty close to peeing myself.
“Fine. You want to know, I’ll tell you. No, I haven’t seen them,” she said, not really shocking me. “But I have seen the destruction they cause. And before you ask me how I know they were the ones to cause the destruction, let me add that I’ve seen things that can’t be explained any other way.”
“Like what?” I peeked over my shoulder. Em had moved to the swing set and was now rocking back and forth, but she hadn’t dropped me from the crosshairs of her hawk eyes.
“That, I still won’t tell you,” Mom said. “There are some things you’re better off not knowing, no matter what you say. You’re just not ready. Babies can handle milk, but they can’t handle meat.”
I wasn’t a baby, blah, blah, blah, whatever. Worry had contorted Emma’s features. I forced myself to smile, and she immediately brightened as if this was now a done deal. As if I hadn’t failed her in this regard a million times before.
Like the time she’d wanted to attend the art exhibit at her school, where her papier-mâché globe had been on display. Like the time her Girl Scout troop had gone camping. Like the hundred times her friend Jenny had called and asked if she could stay the night. Finally, Jenny had stopped calling.
Pressure building … can’t fail this time …
I faced my mother. She still had her back to me and hadn’t abandoned the stove. In fact, she was forking the noodles one at a time, testing their flexibility as if the chore was the most important thing ever. We’d done this same dance before. She was an avoider, and she’d just hit her stride.
“Forget the monsters and what you have and haven’t seen. Today’s my birthday, and all I want is for us to go to my sister’s ballet recital like a normal family. That’s it. That’s all. I’m not asking for the world. But if you don’t have the guts, fine. If Dad doesn’t, whatever. I’ll call one of my friends from school and we’ll go without you.” The drive into the city was at least half an hour, so there was no way we could walk. “And you know what? If you make me go that route, you’ll break Em’s heart and I will never forgive you.”
She sucked in a breath, stiffened. I’d probably just shocked the crap out of her. I was the calm one in the family. I hardly ever lashed out, rarely went mental. For the most part, I accepted and I rolled.
“Alice,” she said, and I gritted my teeth.
Here it comes. The refusal. Tears of crushing devastation burned my eyes, splashed onto my cheeks. I scrubbed them away with the back of my hand. “Forget about my lack of forgiveness. I will hate you for this.”
She glanced back at me, sighed. Her shoulders sagged in defeat. “All right. I’ll talk to him.”
All through her performance, Em glowed. She also dominated that stage, kicking butt and not bothering with names. Honestly, she put the other girls to shame. And that wasn’t sibling pride talking. That was just plain fact.
She twirled and smiled and utterly dazzled, and everyone who watched her was as enraptured as I was. Surely. By the time the curtain closed two hours later, I was so happy for her I could have burst. And maybe I did burst the eardrums of the people in front of me. I think I clapped louder than anyone, and I definitely whistled shrilly enough to cause brain bleeds.
Those people would just have to deal. This was the best. Birthday. Ever. For once, the Bells had attended an event like a normal family.
Of course, my dad almost ruined everything by continually glancing at his wristwatch and turning to eye the back door as if he expected someone to volley in an H-bomb. So, by the time the crowd jumped up for a standing O, and despite my mad rush of happiness, he’d made me so tense my bones were practically vibrating.
Even still, I wasn’t going to utter a single word of complaint. Miracle of miracles, he’d come. And all right, okay, so the miracle had been heralded by a bottle of his favorite whiskey, and he’d had to be stuffed in the passenger seat of the car like the cream filling in a Twinkie, but whatever. He had come!
“We need to leave,” he said, already edging his way to the back door. At six-four, he was a tall man, and he loomed over everyone around him. “Grab Em and let’s go.”
Despite his shortcomings, despite how tired his self-medication had become, I loved him, and I knew he couldn’t help his paranoia. He’d tried legitimate medication with no luck. He’d tried therapy and gotten worse. He saw monsters no one else could see, and he refused to believe they weren’t actually there—or trying to eat him and kill all those he loved.
In a way, I even understood him. One night, about a year ago, Em had been crying about the injustice of missing yet another slumber party. I, in turn, had raged at our mother, and she had been so shocked by my atypical outburst that she’d explained what she called “the beginning of your father’s battle with evil.”
As a kid, my dad had witnessed the brutal murder of his own father. A murder that had happened at night, in a cemetery, while his father had been visiting Grandmother Alice’s grave. The event had traumatized my dad. So, yes, I got it.
Did that make me feel any better right now? No. He was an adult. Shouldn’t he handle his problems with wisdom and maturity? I mean, how many times had I heard, “Act like an adult, Alice.” Or, “Only a child would do something like that, Alice.”
My take on that? Practice what you preach, people. But what did I know? I wasn’t an ever-knowing adult; I was just expected to act like one. And, yeah. A real nice family tree I had. Murder and mayhem on every gnarled branch. Hardly seemed fair.
“Come on,” he snapped now.
My mom rushed to his side, all comfort and soothing pats. “Calm down, darling. Everything’s going to be okay.”
“We can’t stay here. We have to get home where it’s safe.”
“I’ll grab Em,” I said. The first flickers of guilt hit me, stinging my chest. Maybe I’d asked too much of him. And of my mom, who would have to peel him from the roof of the car when we finally pulled into our monster-proof garage. “Don’t worry.”
My skirt tangled around my legs as I shoved my way through the crowd and raced past the stage curtain. Little girls were everywhere, each of them wearing more makeup, ribbons and glitter than the few strippers I’d seen on TV. When I’d been innocently flipping channels. And accidentally stopped on stations I wasn’t supposed to watch. Moms and dads were hugging their daughters, praising them, handing them flowers, all about the congratulations on a job-well-done thing. Me, I had to grab my sister’s hand and beat feet, dragging her behind me.
“Dad?” she asked, sounding unsurprised.
I threw her a glance over my shoulder. She had paled, those golden eyes too old and knowledgeable for her angel face. “Yeah.”
“What’s the damage?”
“Nothing too bad. You’ll still be able to venture into public without shame.”
“Then I consider this a win.”
Me, too.
People swarmed and buzzed in the lobby like bees, half of them lingering, half of them working their way to the doors. That’s where I found my dad. He’d stopped at the glass, his gaze panning the parking lot. Halogens were placed throughout, lighting the way to our Tahoe, which my mom had parked illegally in the closest handicapped space for an easy in, easy out. His skin had taken on a grayish cast, and his hair now stood on end, as if he’d scrambled his fingers through the strands one too many times.
Mom was still trying to soothe him. Thank goodness she’d managed to disarm him before we’d left the house. Usually he carried guns, knives and throwing stars whenever he dared to venture out.
The moment I reached him, he turned and gripped me by the forearms, shaking me. “You see anything in the shadows, anything at all, you pick up your sister and run. Do you hear me? Pick her up and run back inside. Lock the doors, hide and call for help.” His eyes were an electric blue, wild, his pupils pulsing over his irises.
The guilt, well, it stopped flickering and kicked into a hard-core blaze. “I will,” I promised, and patted both of his hands. “Don’t worry about us. You taught me how to protect myself. Remember? I’ll keep Em safe. No matter what.”
“Okay,” he said, but he looked far from satisfied. “Okay, then.”
I’d spoken the truth. I didn’t know how many hours I’d logged in the backyard with him, learning how to stop an attacker. Sure, those lessons had been all about protecting my vital organs from becoming some mindless being’s dinner, but self-defense was self-defense, right?
