Hell. Even still, they deserve better.
What I’m doing...it’s wrong. It’s seriously messed up. I’m not this guy. Only assholes use and lose, and once upon a time I would have been the guy who beat a prick like me into blood, pulp and powder.
Ask me if I care.
Before my newest mistake wakes up, I gather my discarded clothing and dress in a hurry. My shirt is wrinkled, ripped and stained with lipstick and whiskey. I don’t bother fastening my pants. The combat boots I leave untied. I look like exactly what I am: a hungover piece of scum who could pass for a zombie. I make my way out the front door and realize I’m on the second floor of an apartment building. I scan the surrounding parking lot but find no sign of my truck.
How the hell did I get here?
I remember going to a nightclub, throwing back one shot after another, dancing with the brunette, throwing back a few more shots and...yeah, okay, piling inside her little sedan. I’d been too wasted to drive. Now I’ll have to walk back to the club, because there’s no way in hell I’m waking Hookup to ask for a ride. I’d have to answer questions about my nonexistent intentions.
As I stride down the sidewalk, the air is warmer than usual, the last vestiges of winter having surrendered to spring. The sun is in the process of rising, igniting the sky with different shades of gold and pink, and it’s one of the most beautiful sights I’ve ever seen.
I give it the finger.
The world should be crying for the treasure it’s lost. Hell, it should be snot-sobbing.
At least I don’t have to worry about being ambushed by zombies right now. The scourge of the earth usually only slink out at night, the bright rays of the sun too harsh for their sensitive husks.
I come across a gas station and buy a toothbrush, tube of toothpaste and a bottle of water. In the bathroom, I take care of the furry thing and her babies still nesting in my mouth and begin to feel human again.
When I’m back outside, I pick up the pace. The sooner I get to my car, the sooner I can—
“What you doing here, pretty boy?” some guy calls. His friends laugh as if he’s said something special. “You want to see what real men are like?”
—get home.
I’m in a part of Birmingham, Alabama, most kids avoid if at all possible, scared by the graffiti on crumbling building walls, the parked cars missing hubcaps and wheels, and the plethora of crimes being perpetrated in every alley—drugs, prostitution, maybe a mugging or two. I keep my head down and my hands at my sides, not because I’m afraid but because in my current mood, I will fight, and I will fight to kill.
As a zombie slayer, I have the skills necessary to make “real men” curl into a ball and beg for their momma. Taking on a group of punk kids or even gang members would be like shooting fish in a barrel—with a rocket grenade launcher.
Yeah. I have one of those. Two, actually, but I’ve always preferred my daggers. Eliminating someone up close and personal comes with a better rewards package.
My cell phone vibrates. I pull the device from my pocket to discover the screen is blown up with texts from Cole, Bronx and even Ali Bell, Cole’s girlfriend and once, Kat’s best friend. They want to know where I am and what I’m doing, if I’m visiting anytime soon. When will they realize it’s too difficult to be around them? Their lives are picture-perfect in a way mine isn’t—and can never be. They have the happily-ever-after I’ve dreamed about since eighth grade, when Kat Parker walked into Asher Jr. High our first day back from summer break. In seconds, I gave that girl my heart.
Like Cole and Ali, we couldn’t keep our hands off each other. Like Bronx and his girlfriend Reeve, we worshipped the ground the other walked on. Now I have nothing but memories.
No, that’s not true. I also have pain and misery.
A big brute of a guy suddenly gets in my grille. I say “brute” only because the shadow he’s throwing is my size. I’m a big guy, loaded with heavy muscle and topping out well over six feet.
Clearly he thinks he’s tough. He probably expects me to crap my pants and beg for mercy. Good luck with that. If he isn’t careful, he won’t be walking away from this encounter—he’ll be crawling. But as I rake my gaze from his boots to his face, I lose the ’tude.
Here is Cole Holland in the flesh. My friend and fearless leader. I’ve known and loved him like a brother since our elementary school days. Over the years we’ve fought beside each other, bled with each other and saved each other. I’d die for him, and he’d die for me.
Too bad for him I’m not in the mood for another pep talk.
“Don’t,” I say. “Just don’t.”
“Don’t speak to my best friend? How about you don’t say dumb shit?”
Yeah. How about. “How’d you find me?”
“My super amazing detective skills. How else?”