Zombie Blondes Page 9

  I try to tell myself as many rational explanations as I can think up. Like maybe they’re on vacation. Maybe a family member died and they had to drive halfway across the country to take care of funeral arrangements. A rich family member, and that would mean they wouldn’t need to come back. Or it could be that Ms. Earle was mistaken. I know I haven’t known her long, but it definitely seems like she could have a wire or two short-circuiting in her brain. Her eyelids are always twitching and everything, and maybe she’s just getting senile.

  But, somehow, I know that’s not the case. I can feel it. I just know it’s something else. Not sure how but I know. The same way I can feel when it’s going to snow or when a storm is coming. I have that feeling as I stare at Diana’s house and a nagging ache deep in the bottom of my stomach tells me to take a closer look.

  My heart races as I make my way up the driveway. The wind picks up, rustles through the branches like the sound of cars speeding by on the highway, as pine needles rain down like matchsticks. A chill runs through me at the thought of peeking in the window and finding rotting corpses with the flesh chewed down to the bone.

  I take a deep breath and count to three.

  “Stop scaring yourself, Hannah,” I whisper as I step onto the front porch.

  The stale scent of vanilla perfume lingers in the air like the kind Diana and every other girl in our school wears. Cheap pharmacy perfume that sticks around for days and I try not to pay attention to it as I knock on the door and listen to the silence that follows. I knock harder the next time, more determined and deliberate as if I can summon them to appear simply by applying more force when I strike my hand against the door.

  Still no answer and I step off the porch and decide to look in the windows.

  A patch of shrubs blocks the windows in the front of the house. I walk around to the side and find a bedroom window. The first floor is raised slightly because the basement is the kind that’s only half sunken and I have to stretch to see anything. Standing on my toes, I reach up and grab hold of the ledge. My breath fogs up the glass immediately and I wipe it away. It doesn’t make much of a difference. The window is too high. From my angle the only thing I see is the ceiling, so I let go. Trudge through the yard around to the back of the house where there’s a sliding glass door that leads from the kitchen. I figure from there I’ll be able to see everything.

  Even before I get up close to it, I can see the house isn’t empty. I see a kitchen table with chairs arranged around it and place mats set out for a meal. I move closer and can see a glass resting on it, too, half full with water and a crumpled napkin beside it. The counter behind it still littered with appliances and dishes. And in the shadows I can make out the outline of a sofa in the living room off to the side and I know for certain that if they’re moving, they haven’t moved yet.

  I hold my hands up to the side of my face and press my forehead against the door. The glare disappears and the inside of the house comes into focus like a television set. Everything is laid out perfectly. Everything where it’s supposed to be until I look more closely.

  A broken glass on the floor by the kitchen sink.

  A chair turned over in the living room.

  My hands start to tremble as I discover the signs of a struggle. I’ve seen enough crime shows to know that something happened. Something terrible. The nagging feeling inside me turns to panic at the thought of so many horrible possibilities. Maybe it’s just like Lukas said. Maybe no one really moves away. Maybe the Death Squad goes from house to house murdering those who they don’t want around anymore.

  I try to take a deep breath but each one comes out quick and frightened. What if they’re still inside? What if someone sees me? I try to run but my legs are shaking and paralyzed.

  Something flickers in the reflection off the glass. My eyes follow it like a shooting star and I see a shadow looming behind me. A person. A man. And I try to scream but his arm grabs me from behind. An arm around my waist like a rope tying me to a stake and I try to make a noise but it doesn’t sound like anything. Meek and mild like a mouse’s.

  A nauseous sweat breaks out around my mouth as his other palm holds my jaw tight.

  His arms are strong like concrete and I feel lifeless as he drags me away from the door. Spins me around to face him and I find myself staring at a pair of eyes hidden by sunglasses the color of midnight. Eyes like the black holes of skeletons and smiling teeth the color of bleached bones. A badge pinned to his chest in the shape of a star that sparkles like a halo even on a cloudy day.

  It’s okay. Calm down,” the sheriff says over and over as I continue to scream into the palm of his hand. The salty taste of his skin on my tongue fades as I close my mouth. Breathing through my nose in short, fast bursts like a trapped animal, but slowly starting to return to normal as I realize who he is. The badge clipped to his shirt telling me everything I need to know.

  Once he’s sure I’m relaxed, he takes his hand away from my face and releases his grip around my waist. I take a step away from him, my hands shaking as my heart pounds inside me, every tiny hair on my body standing on end.

  If there’s one thing I don’t trust, it’s cops. Not after what they’ve done to my dad. It wasn’t fair how they shut him out for trying to do the right thing. Turned on him when he turned in some dirty cops he worked with. They’re as bad as the cliquey girls in school. Spreading rumors about him that follow us wherever we go, even into the smallest towns a million miles away from the city we used to live in. They’re always giving us a hard time and preventing my dad from doing the job he likes. Sometimes pestering us so much that it’s the reason we move. Giving my dad tickets for things he didn’t do. Questioning him about crimes that never happened. Free to harass us because there’s no one to police them and so I never trust them.

  Not ever.

  I especially distrust one who would sneak up on a girl and scare her half to death like the one standing in front of me with a creepy smile and invisible eyes.

  He cocks his head to the side and folds his arms. His legs planted firmly in my path to keep me from running away as he stares at me. I look small and weak in his mirrored sunglasses. And I know that on the other side of those dark lenses I look like a potential criminal. A teenage misfit snooping where she doesn’t belong.

  “Now, why don’t you tell me what you’re doing here,” he says. His voice is like a car grinding gears. A deep metallic sound like electronic thunder played through worn-out stereo speakers.

  “I . . . I was just . . . ,” stuttering and growing smaller in his eyes as I put my hands up to my mouth to try and keep them from trembling. I swallow my nervousness as best I can and continue. “I was checking up on my friend,” managing to get it out without tripping over the syllables.

  The sheriff scratches the stubble on his face, considering my story as his other hand comes to rest on his hip, inches away from his gun. “You knew the girl who lived here?” Questioning me like a suspect.

  “Sort of,” I confess.

  I can sense that he doesn’t entirely believe me.

  I keep blinking and looking around because I don’t like the way he looks at me. It makes me uncomfortable that I can’t see his eyes but that his head moves slightly from side to side. It feels like a million tiny spiders are crawling under my skin as he checks me out the way boys do. Only he’s not a boy, he’s a strange man with no one else around and a tin star that gives him the right to do whatever he wants. It freaks me out a little and I try to look anywhere but at him. I’m aware it only makes me seem guilty of something, so I try to stop myself. Stare him down and wait in nervous silence for him to say something.

  The sheriff’s chest heaves slightly when he clears his throat. He cocks his head again, first to the left and then to the right and I can hear the bones crack in his spine. “You’re that new girl? The family that just moved in?” His lips barely move as the words escape through clenched teeth and a sneering smile.

  I nod, telling him what he a
lready knows.

  I’ve always tried to tell my dad that it’s impossible to hide in a small town but he never listens. Doesn’t take long before the police know who we are, checking up on us to make sure we’re not grifters come to swindle them out of money, like in so many books that I’ve read. They look into our past and know everything about us before the last of our stuff is put away.

  The sheriff approaches me and I flinch.

  He laughs and throws his hands up to assure me he has no intention of doing me harm. It puts me only slightly at ease. “Sorry to scare you before,” he says and I think it’s about time he apologized. “I was driving by when I saw you duck around back,” he explains. “Never can be too sure about burglars after people move out.”

  “They moved out?” I say, rolling my eyes and pointing to the furniture that sits in the house, waiting for people to come home and find it useful. “But . . . their stuff is here.”

  “Yeah, that’s why I was checking up,” he says. “They asked me to swing by. Lot of people around here wait until they’ve settled somewhere, then send for their things later.”

  He hooks his thumbs into his belt as he staggers past me, brushing me with his elbow as he does. I watch him test the sliding door by giving it a tug. It’s locked and he seems satisfied. Never bothering to notice the chair tossed aside or the glass shattered on the floor. I point them out to him as nicely as I can without making it seem like I’m telling him how to do his job.

  His face puckers up and he shakes his head.

  “Nope, it’s probably nothing. Probably just in a rush to leave.”

  I’ve spent most of my life in a rush to leave and never left a place looking like that. I keep my mouth shut about it, though. Let the wind blow my hair into my face and I feel safer watching him through the strands like a tiger hiding in the tall grass of the jungle.

  “It’s sad really,” he says, but nothing about his voice sounds sad to me as he goes on about how small towns are dying. “Part of my job is protecting empty houses because no one cares about their community anymore,” he says with a grunt of disgust, tapping his knuckles against the side of the house in hatred of all those that disagree with him.

  He leads me away from the door. His arms spread like a bird shooing back a predator and then follows me around to the front of the house. The police car is parked in the street, black and white like a zebra without the stripes, and he walks over to the trunk and opens it. From the sidewalk I can just make out the outline of a bundle of FOR SALE signs stacked like luggage as he takes one out and places it carefully in the lawn.

  I bite my lip as he hammers it into the ground, the frozen dirt yielding to the metal spikes at the bottom of the sign. Seems like a strange job for the sheriff to be doing. Strange like everything else in this town and he catches me looking at him. He can tell what I’m thinking by the way my eyebrows are raised and he stands up straighter. Tall and threatening, with the trees like blades slicing at the horizon behind him.

  “Where is it you live again?” he asks. “I’ll take you home.”

  “That’s okay.” The thought of him knowing where I live makes my skin crawl. Besides, the last thing I want is for him to find out my dad is away. He looks like the kind of cop who wouldn’t think twice about taking me away to some orphanage. “It’s not far, I can walk.”

  “It’s no problem,” he says, taking another step closer. “I’d really like to meet your father, anyway. He was a cop, right?” I tell him that was a long time ago, but I say it too fast and too defensive. He removes his sunglasses and stares at me through eyes the color of water. Sunken eyes surrounded by a soft pink glow and all the air rushes out of my body.

  I slowly start to back away.

  “He’s not home . . . not right now,” I say and concentrate to keep my feet moving. “I’ll tell him you want to meet him sometime.” Then I say good-bye and wave, turn around and force myself to keep from running. Glancing over my shoulder once I’m a few houses away. He’s still watching me and I start to walk a little faster without making it look obvious and by the time I turn the corner I hear the engine come to life.

  The car drives off in the opposite direction.

  I start to breathe easier when the wind takes the noise away and carries it off over the hills. Hurrying all the way back to my house, I lock the door behind me and sink to the floor. Watch the shadows creep across the room and try to lose myself in their safety.

  By the time the water for my dinner is boiling, I’m already mad at myself for getting so carried away earlier. I dump the dried noodles in the pot, watch the bubbles drown, and shake my head at how silly it was to get so scared. This is exactly why I made my dad promise not to leave me alone anymore. Every time he does, I let my imagination dream up the most outrageous plots.

  I should know better by now.

  I should know nothing as interesting as murder would happen in a little town like Maplecrest. That doesn’t mean it’s not weird, though.

  The way the sheriff snuck up on me and all those FOR SALE signs stored in his trunk like dead bodies certainly wasn’t normal. His eyes weren’t normal, either. The same hypnotic eyes as the cheerleaders and the football players and the creatures in Lukas’s comic books.

  I pick the pot up off the burner in a fit and slam it down.

  “STOP IT!” I shout.

  I have to put it out of my mind or I’ll drive myself crazy. Concentrate on making dinner. I drain the water from the pot, leaving only the noodles. Stir in the salt-flavored packet and watch the colors change from white to brown as the noodles soak up the taste. Then I turn on the television and hope it will distract me.

  I spend the next few hours happily flipping through boring shows about the junk people find in their attics, cars that have better televisions than the one I’m watching, and sixteenth-birthday parties that cost more than the house I’m sitting in. It’s comforting in a weird way. Reminds me that these people are more like zombies than the people in Maplecrest. Brainwashed and dumb and I finally feel dulled enough to get some sleep.

  I go around and turn off the lights in every room. Double-check the lock on the door in the front and back of the house and even the windows just to be safe. As I’m debating whether to bother washing up the dishes or not, the phone rings.

  It’s my dad.

  I know before answering it because it’s too late for salesmen or surveys or bill collectors and no one else would call here.

  “Hey, Dad,” I say when I bring the phone to my ear.

  “Hey,” he says and it’s nice to hear the sound of his voice as he asks how I’m holding up. I can hear the traffic in the background and know he pulled over at a rest stop to call me. I picture him leaning against a pay phone, one hand on the phone and the other pressed to his ear to block out the noisy background. He seems so lonely when I imagine him that way. I give up on the idea of trying to hold any kind of grudge against him and simply tell him I’m fine. I can hear him smile. I know that doesn’t make much sense, but it’s the truth.

  I almost tell him about the sheriff but decide to keep it to myself until he comes back. He’d just get all panicky and I don’t want him to worry. Not if I don’t have to.

  “School any better?”

  “One more day is over, that’s something,” I say and he seems happy to hear I’m back to my old pessimistic self.

  We talk for a little while about nothing in particular. He tells me about the traffic around New York and how he’s so glad we don’t live anywhere near there anymore. I tell him about the bug-eyed woman in the pharmacy and how I nearly expected antennas to sprout from her head and he laughs. “You find the strangest-looking people in small towns,” he jokes, but something about it makes me pause.

  It’s always been true about the places we’ve been. The little towns lost in the hills are filled with lumbering, crooked-toothed hicks. So many of them that I lose count.

  And that’s when I realize what’s been bothering me about Maplecre
st. It’s the fact that it’s not filled with those kind of people. There are more beautiful people here than anywhere else. So many pretty girls that it doesn’t seem natural.

  “I’ll try to give you a call tomorrow,” my dad says. “If not, then definitely the day after.”

  “Uh-huh,” I mumble but my mind is still trying to wrap itself around the puzzle of an attractive population in the middle of nowhere. It’s like anyone who isn’t perfect is pushed out one by one until the pretty ones have themselves left with a small town of perfection. Secluded by the mountains and with nothing to attract visitors so that they can create their own little utopia where time stands still.

  It makes me sick to my stomach.

  A recording breaks up our phone conversation. The voice demands more money if we wish to keep talking but we have nothing left to say, anyway.

  “Good night, Hannah,” my dad says.

  “Drive safe,” I say and hang up the phone.

  I stand still in the kitchen for a minute, staring at the dishes in the sink. My fingers still lightly pressing against the receiver as all the events of the past week start playing out in my mind and connecting themselves, getting tangled together like the threads of a spiderweb. The way Diana told me I was destined to be one of them was like she was telling me something that I wasn’t supposed to know. Then she disappears, just like that.

  It’s almost like the book Lukas made me read at lunch.

  It’s almost like someone took her away for leading me closer to the truth.

  I feel like it’s all starting to come together when my concentration is broken by the sound of branches scratching against the window. It startles me out of my thoughts as I snap my head around in the direction of the noise. The sound of leaves being crushed under footsteps just outside the walls. The sound of being watched by hidden eyes. A sound that takes away the calm I’d worked so hard at obtaining throughout hours of mindless television.

  I turn off the lights and stay close to the wall. My back presses flat against it and I hold my breath, hoping whatever it is will go away as long as it doesn’t see me.