by Angela Scott
Release date: September 20th 2015
Summary from Goodreads:
Zia would give anything to be a typical teenager... again. Heck, she'd settle for being a vampire or smelly werewolf, but a member of the walking dead? The lowliest of all the monsters? No way! Nothing is worse than being a skin-sloughing, limb-losing, maggot-housing, brain-craving undead girl. Nothing.
It wouldn't be so bad if humans didn't insist on "Living Impaireds" wearing bands to keep their insatiable appetites in check. And if LIs want to coexist with humans, then rules must be followed, no matter how ludicrous they might seem. Why do undead teenagers have to go to high school anyway?
Zia does her best to blend in and go unnoticed, but when a new group of LIs are bused in from another school and she finds herself part of a growing horde, all bets are off.
Besides, rules are meant to be broken-especially when an unbeating heart is pulled in two different directions.
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Excerpt:
"Hey, you dropped
something."
I turn around,
surprised anyone else was in the hall with me, and see Eli holding something of
mine in his hand.
I’m not sure what to
make of this or even where he came from—most likely the stoner boys’ bathroom
where he snuck a smoke or something. He’s popular in a dangerous, non-lethal,
totally human way. He’s been mistaken for a vamp before, with his dark leather
jacket and the usual black pants. He isn’t a vamp at all. He just dresses like
one.
Eli Olsen is a normal
human. Why is he talking to me?
I retrace a few of my
steps and he meets me in the middle. He holds his hand out toward me, and I’m
immediately petrified and embarrassed.
He’s holding my finger
in the palm of his hand. My finger!
"Oh my
gosh!" I look down at my hand, hoping beyond all hope the finger he is
holding isn’t mine. But it is. It fell off and I didn’t even realize it.
"I’m so sorry." I snatch it from his hand. When I look at his face, I
don’t see any hint of horror. He stands there as if he was handing me a piece
of gum or something equally common and not my detached finger.
The bell rings and I
hurry and shove it in my pocket, not sure what else to do with it. Kids file
out of the classroom and push past, for the most part ignoring us.
I turn to leave since
I’m already running behind and also want to hide my utter humiliation.
Eli grabs my arm and
stops me. "I can fix that," he says, motioning to the finger in my
pocket. "That is, if you want me to."
I still don’t
understand why he is talking to me. He never talked to me before I was a
zombie; we didn’t run in the same circles. "Okay." I’m not sure why I
say that. Maybe because I had no idea what to do with my finger, anyway.
He starts to walk
away, heading in the opposite direction, but calls back, "Meet me in Mr.
T’s room after school."
I nod, but worry this
might be some sort of sick joke. Humans think it’s funny to mock and terrorize
us. We’re the monsters, but they’re the bullies.
***
It’s weird to have a
finger in my pocket. No one else knows it’s there, and only Lewis notices it’s
missing from my hand.
"Umm... you had
five fingers on that hand this morning, didn’t you?" He takes a big bite
from his lamb sandwich—his usual. It’s chilly outside, but not too bad, and so
we sit together on a bench under the school marquee.
"Yeah." I
reach in my pocket and pull it out to show him.
Lewis is a good
friend. He doesn’t even back away. "That’s nasty." He takes another
bite of his sandwich.
"I know." I
shove the wrinkled digit back in my pocket. "Eli says he can help me fix
it."
He tips his head and
raises an eyebrow. "Eli? As in Eli Olsen?"
I nod before I sip at
my thermos. Gooey chunks of meaty flesh and blood slide down my throat.
"I thought he was
expelled for punching Marcus in the face last week." Marcus is a vamp—a
mean one, at that. He’s a least six-foot-five and weighs over two hundred
pounds. I can’t imagine Eli punching him in the face. He’s not tall enough, for
one thing, and it would have surly gotten him killed for another. Since Eli is
still alive, it seems like something is wrong with the story.
"I have no idea.
He’s here, that’s all I know."
"So how the heck
is he going to fix your finger?"
"Not sure. He
told me to meet him in Mr. T’s room after school."
"The wood shop
class?" Lewis cringes. "There’s a lot of stuff in there that could be
used to kill you. Are you sure that’s a good idea?"
I shrug and take
another sip from my thermos. It always tastes better at 98.7 degrees. I settle
for room temperature. "If I show up at home without a finger, my dad will
start crying again. He already feels bad enough for doing this to me. If I
can’t get it fixed somehow, he’ll just end up feeling even worse."
"What about the
school nurse?" He pops some strips of uncooked bacon in his mouth.
"How would she
fix it? With a band-aid? Besides, we both know she would never help someone
like me. She’s too afraid." I slurp what’s left at the bottom of my
thermos. It’s never enough and I’m still hungry.
"You’re probably
right. Well, I guess it can’t hurt to see what Eli can do. Worst case scenario,
he ends up killing you."
"Gee,
thanks."
Lewis pats me on the
back before he stands and makes a jump shot, landing his sandwich wrapper in
the garbage can thirty feet away. Too bad they won’t let him on the basketball
team. Our one-win-in-five-games team could use his help. Humans are stupid
sometimes.
He starts to walk away
but turns to look at me once more. "If you don’t make it out alive, I sure
am going to miss you." He smiles, and his dimples make their appearance on
his handsome face.
Too bad he’s a werewolf.
Moreover, too bad I’m
a zombie.
***
I push open the door
to Mr. T’s room and hesitate before stepping inside. Large machines and shiny
metal tools line the walls and various work benches. There’s an ominous humming
coming from one extra intimidating machine to my left, and there’s an overall
painter-sawdusty smell that permeates the air. Crap. Lewis was
right. I could lose more than my brain here.
I’m about to change my
mind and walk away when Eli calls to me. "Zia, over
here!" He’s sitting near the back, his backpack tossed on the
floor, and several bottles of chemicals on the table in front of him. He waves
me over.
I didn’t even know he
knew my name. Being only one of two zombies in the school, I should have
figured he’d know.
I start walking to
where he sits, waiting for me. The wood shop is empty. Not even the teacher is
here, which I find rather disturbing. Shouldn’t someone be monitoring our
activity? What if Eli is about to blow up the place with his chemical
concoction or tries to decapitate me? There are laws against both of those
things, but it doesn’t stop some people from trying it.
"I’m not going to
hurt you," he says. "I think I got it figured out."
I’m still not sure
about this. Sandpaper lies next to everything else he has placed on the table.
Sandpaper can’t be good.
"You still got
your finger?" He looks at me, and I nod. I reach in my pocket and hand it
over to him.
He turns it over,
studying it, before he sets it down. "Let me see your hand."
I’m rather
embarrassed. I’ve been trying to hide it all day—self-conscious, I guess.
"It’s okay."
He holds his hand out to me, and I slowly slip my hand into his. He doesn’t
freak or scream. He looks at the knuckle where the finger snapped off and
stares at the jagged bone. "Do you know how you did it?"
I shake my head.
"I have no idea. It was attached one minute. The next, it was in your
hand."
"Interesting,"
he says while still holding my hand in his. He glances at me and smiles.
"So you don’t feel any pain at all?"
"No, nothing."
"Then you need to
be more careful."
I indicated my finger
on the table. "Don’t I know it."
"Your hand’s
really cold." He turns my hand first one way and then another.
"Sorry." I
try to pull my hand from his, but he continues to hold it and doesn’t let
go.
"It’s okay,"
he says. "It doesn’t bother me."
I ask the question
that’s been on my mind all day. "Why are you doing this?"
He narrows his brows
and looks at me as though I’ve asked an odd question. "I thought I could
help."
"That’s exactly
what I mean. No one helps me. Not now, anyway."
He’s still holding my
hand. "I refuse to play school politic type games. I have nothing against
vamps or werewolves"—he pauses and looks at me—"or zombies, but if
anyone tries to bite me or suck my blood, I’ll have to kill them."
I nod. "Fair
enough." I wouldn’t expect any less. It was only several months ago I
carried a wooden stake, a machete, and small pistol loaded with silver bullets
in my backpack. ‘Tis the way of the world now. Most everyone has some sort of
concealed weapon on them, including preschool children.
Now, I’m on the other
side, hoping no one will use their weapons on me. I do my best to behave and
follow the rules, all of them, even if I don’t completely agree.
"For the epoxy to
stick, I’ll have to sand down the two ends of the bones. They won’t match up
and hold together otherwise, but I can have this fixed in no time."
I watch him fold the
sandpaper lengthwise, grab my hand once again, and with as much gentleness he
can afford, he runs it across my exposed bone, being careful not to nick the
remaining skin around it.
"You doing
okay?"
"Yeah, I’m fine.
It doesn’t hurt." Vibrations run up the length of my arm. That’s it. I
feel no pain.
"Did you miss the
bus?"
"Yeah, but that’s
okay. If you can fix my finger, it will be worth it. My dad is still having a
hard time with this whole me being-a-zombie thing."
"I can give you a
ride home if you like."
"That’s okay. I
don’t want to put you out. You’re doing enough as it is and, really, I can
walk. It’s not far." My home is only a few miles from the school. If I’m
lucky, don’t run into trouble and walk faster than my normal gait, I should be
home a little after dark.
"And risk you
losing another finger? No way. I’ll take you home."
"Eli, that’s nice
and everything, but...I’ll stink up your car. It’s not an easy smell to get rid
of either. It’s better if I walk." I hate bringing it up.
"I have a
motorcycle. The smell won’t even be a problem." He looks up and stops
sanding my finger. "Besides, your smell isn’t that bad. Rory’s is much
worse."
He picks up my finger
and sands the bone. When he finishes, he sets it aside and begins to mix the
powder and liquid compounds.
"This will set
fast, so I’ve got to get it right the first time. You don’t want me gluing your
finger on backwards."
A backward finger
would be the least of my problems, but I don’t say so. He puts a bit of the goo
on my finger, takes my hand once more, and presses the two pieces
together.
"Isn’t Isabelle
your sister or something?" He continues to hold my finger in place.
"Or something.
She’s my step-sister. Why?"
He shakes his head.
"No reason. I was trying to connect the dots. I guess being step-sisters
would explain why you’re pretty cool to talk to and she’s... not. No offense,
but she's a bit of a snob."
"No offense
taken. I completely agree with you. Imagine what it’s like living with
her."
Eli laughs a little.
"That’s okay. I’d rather not." He releases my hand. "Test that
out. See what you think."
I bend my finger and
move it around. It seems to be working fine. Eli grabs my reattached digit and
gives it a tug. "Don’t toot."
"What?"
"Never
mind," he says. "Bad joke. Looks like it’s holding."
Eli did a great job.
He even glued the skin around my finger into place and unless someone looks
closely, no one could even tell.
"Thanks. It looks
almost as good as new.""No problem. Let me clean up here and then
I’ll take you home."
He’s the first human,
besides my parents, to take any interest in me. It’s kind of strange. Even
though I’m not sure what to make of it, I like it.
Teaser:
Dear Diary,
I wish I’d been given
the casket and burial plot kind of funeral instead of no funeral at all. I even
know the type of headstone I’d like. Not the ones that lay flat on the ground.
No one sees those. They get mowed over and stepped on. It would be nice to have
an upright one in the shape of a heart with a built-in vase for a nice flower
or two. Preferably a daisy—my favorite.
My headstone would say
my name, Zia Evans, and my birth date—the day I actually came into the world
and not my "rebirth," as many call it: April 16, 1999. And of course,
the day I died—July 26, 2015.
Sing a song. Cry a
little. Let me go to the great beyond. But no, none of that for me.
The day I died has
come and gone and isn’t recorded anywhere. I still walk the earth and do everything
the same as before but with a “handicap”—my word for it—and no one cares when I
died anymore.
I remember,
though.
Because the day I died
was also the day I became a part of the walking dead.
And also the day my
life totally began to suck.
About the Author
I hear voices. Tiny fictional people sit on my shoulders and whisper their stories in my ear. Instead of medicating myself, I decided to pick up a pen, write down everything those voices tell me, and turn it into a book. I'm not crazy. I'm an author.
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