The Dead Ones (Death Herself Book 3) Read online

  Still catching my breath, I wait for them to make a decision.

  “We're not cold-blooded murderers,” Adam continues finally. “We're not gonna do anything unless we're provoked, but...” He takes a step back. “We're done here. For now. But we'll have our eyes on you, Bunny, and you'd better not turn out like your brother. I swear to God, this town doesn't need another sack of shit like him.”

  “I won't,” I whisper darkly, rubbing my neck.

  “She looks like him,” Danny says.

  “She sure does,” Adam replies, turning to walk back to his bike.

  Feeling a flash of relief, I start getting to my feet.

  “Go to hell!” I mutter under my breath.

  “What was that?” Adam shouts.

  “Nothing,” I reply, realizing that I must have been a little too loud.

  “Seriously, dude,” Scott says, “I heard it too.”

  Before I have a chance to react, Adam comes marching back across the grass. I reach up to protect my face, but I'm too late as he swings his right foot and kicks me hard in the jaw. I feel a cracking sensation as I'm sent thudding back against the grass, and the taste of blood bursts into my mouth. Letting out a faint cry, I immediately clutch my belly and roll into a ball, anticipating another hit, and I shudder in silence for several seconds until I hear the sound of their bikes cycling away. Finally daring to open my eyes, I see their silhouettes riding along the street, and I realize that they're leaving me alone. For now, anyway.

  Sitting up, I feel a loose, cracked tooth at the front of my mouth. It's not all the way out, but as I check it with my tongue, I realize that it's hanging by a torn section of flesh. I reach in and take hold of the tooth, and then I twist. There's pain, sure, but it only takes a few seconds to tear the tooth out, and then I lean forward and spit out some blood, followed by a little more. Better to get the pain over with quickly, rather than hanging on.

  Really, I didn't get off too badly. There have definitely been worse nights.

  Stumbling to my feet, I head over to the gutter. My backpack has been tossed aside, so I grab it and pull it over to where my urine-soaked books are waiting. When I pick up the first book, I find that it's completely soggy, but I can't afford to just abandon them. Disgusted, I nevertheless manage to place them one by one into the backpack and then zip the top. I guess I can dry them out, and then find some way to make them stop smelling, and then I'll just have to hope that the librarian in town isn't paying attention when I take them back. I really can't afford to replace them. A guy wanders past, whistling, but I carefully avoid making eye contact and he's soon gone, disappearing into the night.

  After spitting out more blood, I swing the backpack over my shoulders and start limping along the sidewalk again. It's not far to my parents' house, but I twisted my ankle when I fell so I won't be able to walk very fast. Plus, my legs are doing that thing again where they feel a little numb, which makes it even harder to walk. Glancing over my shoulder, I half expect to see Adam and the others coming back this way for another go, but fortunately there's no sign of them. In a way, I guess I'm definitely lucky. A few ruined books and a kick in the teeth is less than some other people in this town would like to give me, and I can't help worrying that there's worse to come. Hell, in some towns my entire family would have been driven out already.

  All because of my brother, and what he did on May twenty-third last year.

  Chapter Two

  Mom's snoring, as usual.

  I close the front door as quietly as possible, before stepping over the trash on the floor and making my way to the sofa. There'll be time to clear up the mess in the morning, but for now I just want to get to bed. It looks like Mom spent another evening watching stuff online while downing beers and whiskey, and now she's fast asleep with her face bathed in the laptop's electric glow. I gently swing the lid shut, leaving her face in darkness, before stepping around her and heading to the kitchen.

  Stepping on a soda can, I freeze for a moment, but Mom just mutters something in her sleep. Fortunately, she doesn't wake up.

  Thank God.

  I really couldn't deal with her right now. I never know what kind of drunk she'll be. Some nights she's angry, other nights she sobs and won't stop hugging me, and sometimes she gets these crazy ideas and insists that we drive off to some all-night shopping mall. Usually I'm able to hide the keys so she can't take the car, but that doesn't always stop her. She once passed out while trying to hot-wire the ignition. Tonight there's an empty bottle of whiskey on the table, along with some beer cans on the floor. Beer and whiskey usually combine to make her pretty argumentative, but only until she blacks out. I guess I missed the best of her tonight.

  As soon as I reach the kitchen, I shut the door and switch the light on. I set my backpack on the table and take out the still-wet books. They stink, of course, so I grab some clear plastic bags and slip the books inside, before setting the bags in the freezer. I'm not entirely sure how that's going to help, but it's the closest I've got to a good idea and I figure I'll work something out in the morning. I head through to the laundry room and put my backpack on to wash, and then I make my way to the bathroom, switch on the light, and examine the damage to my mouth in the bathroom mirror.

  There's blood, of course, and my top and bottom lips are both cracked, and when I smile I see a very noticeable gap. Slipping a fingertip into the gap, I feel the rough edges, but I have to be thankful that I only lost one tooth. I guess miracles do happen after all. Still, I need to be careful at school tomorrow. The last thing I need is for someone to ask how I lost a tooth, especially that creepy counselor who seems determined to poke his nose into my life.

  “Nothing seems to be working,” a voice says suddenly.

  Spinning around, I look across the bathroom, but there's no sign of anyone. I wait, but after a moment I realize it's just another of those brief flashes I get when I haven't slept for a few nights. I turn back to the mirror and see the bags under my eyes. Maybe I should go see a doctor and get some sleeping pills, but right now I'm so exhausted, I figure I have to sleep tonight.

  I wait.

  No more voices.

  Great, at least I haven't completely lost my mind yet, although a moment later I feel another random pinprick of pain on my left arm. Those have been coming more and more lately, although when I roll my sleeve up and take a look I still don't see anything wrong.

  I guess that's just another side-effect of not getting any sleep.

  Once I'm done in the bathroom, I limp back into the kitchen and take a few minutes to cook up a Frankenstein-style sandwich filled with mayonnaise, potato salad and tortilla chips, using moldy old bread from under the counter. Reaching into one of the cupboards, I grab the can of dog food and scoop out a few pea-sized pieces onto the side of my plate. I double-check that there's still a key resting in a pot by the window, then I switch the light off, and then I make my way toward my bedroom. Stopping in the dark corridor, however, I can't help looking at the door to my brother's room. All the posters have long since been torn away, but I know for a fact that Mom hasn't had the stomach to go inside, not since the day when the police finished sorting through all of Malcolm's belongings. I still remember watching them carrying his laptop and notebooks away in evidence bags, but that was almost several years ago and I figure the room has just been left untouched since then.

  One day, I'll go in and take a look. I know I will, I have to, it's just...

  Not now. I'm not brave enough yet.

  Tonight, all that matters is that the door is still locked. I reach out and try the handle, and I feel a flash of relief when I find that although it turns, the door won't budge. I try a couple more times, just to be safe.

  Still locked.

  Still sealed off from the rest of the house.

  When I get to my room, I shut the door and switch on the bedside lamp, and then I head to the shoebox by the window.

  “It's okay,” I say with a smile, trying to sound calm and
reassuring, “it's just me.”

  I take the lumps of dog food from my plate and then gently remove the shoebox's lid. As soon as I look inside, however, I realize that my worst fears have come true. Rudolph, the broken-winged bird I rescue from the sidewalk a few days ago, is dead. I reach in and nudge him a little, but there's no doubt at all that he's beyond help.

  “Sorry,” I whisper. “I tried, little buddy.”

  Setting the lid back on, I figure I'll bury Rudolph properly in the morning. I drop the chunks of dog food into the trash and then I sit on the edge of my bed so I can eat my sandwich. I know what's going to happen next, and I know there's no point fighting it, but that doesn't mean I'm looking forward to the damn thing. I should be strong, I should just get on with things, but I can already feel my chest starting to tremble with shock. I keep thinking back to the feeling of Adam's boot slamming into my mouth, reliving that moment over and over, and although I take care to only chew the sandwich at the back of my mouth, occasionally a crumb or a piece of crust bumps into the bloodied gap, causing a dab of pain. Finally I sniff back a few tears, and the trembling sensation starts to fade. The sandwich is too painful to eat, though, so I set it aside.

  To be fair, that wasn't as bad as most nights. There have been nights lately where I've ended up shivering on the floor for hours, so maybe I should actually be grateful to Adam and his friends. Maybe a little pain is what I need to stay strong, and I should get them to beat me up more often.

  Hearing a rustling sound outside, I turn and look toward the window. I wait, but for a few seconds there's only silence again before, finally, the rustling sound returns.

  Filled with anger, I hurry to the window and look out, but all I see is darkness. I turn the lamp off, so I can get a better view, but I still don't see anyone. Still, I know from bitter experience that there are plenty of assholes who like tagging out house, and this week in particular I guess we're likely to receive some attention. Sighing, I turn and head to my desk, where I take a moment to count the cash next to my laptop. I have enough, just enough, to get the bus tomorrow night.

  If I decide to go, that is.

  For a moment, the thought fills me with dread. The problem is, the alternative is no better. Either way, I know that this time tomorrow night my guts are going to be twisted and I'm going to be sobbing. None of that is in doubt, but what is in doubt is my reaction after it's all over. How will I be the following morning? I guess I have to focus on my long-term health, and that's why it's so hard to decide where I should be tomorrow night when the dreaded hour finally arrives. Looking down at the pitiful collection of cash, I tell myself that at least I have options. At least I can wait and see whether I -

  Suddenly the window smashes behind me as something crashes through. I turn to look, before turning away again as I'm showered in shards, and I hear a thud near my feet. Looking down, I see that someone threw a rock.

  Great. How original. No-one has done that to us before.

  “Go to hell!” an angry voice shouts from the street. “Kill yourself!”

  I turn and look out through the broken window, just in time to see a figure running away. Shaking with shock, I take a step back, and then I turn and look at the clock next to my bed just as the time flicks over to midnight.

  The big day has finally arrived. Wherever I am this time in exactly twenty-four hours, I'm just going to have to find some way to keep my head together, and then hopefully I'll be able to start moving on. Who knows? Maybe things will start to go okay again? I've spent so long expecting the worst, I guess I forgot to consider the possibility that tomorrow night might somehow mark a fresh start. Right now, I just need some sleep. I can hear the whisper of voices in the back of my head, and I know that one of them might burst through at any moment. I'm so exhausted, I think I could even fall asleep standing up.

  Two hours later, flat on my back in bed, I stare up at the dark ceiling. I can hear the rush of voices hissing in the background, like snakes in the back of my mind, but there's nothing I can do about them. Another sleepless night passes, until finally I see the first hint of morning light and I realize it's time to go to school again.

  Chapter Three

  “I just wanted to touch base and see how things are going,” Mr. Dyson says as he swings his office door shut. “Take a seat, Bonnie. It's been, what, two weeks since our last session?”

  “Yeah, I think so.” As I make my way over to the sofa by the window, I can hear kids outside in the corridor, heading to class. I'm supposed to be with them, but every so often the school counselor takes me aside and makes me come to another of these little meetings, and I've learned over the past few months that resisting only strengthens his feeling that I'm in some way struggling. It's better to come in, answer his dumb questions and just let him tick whatever boxes he needs to tick.

  “How are things going?” he asks.

  “Fine,” I reply, taking a seat on the sofa.

  “Fine?”

  I nod.

  “That's what you always say,” he continues, grabbing a notebook from his desk and then coming over to join me. “You're always fine. Such a strange word to use about oneself, isn't it? Not happy, not sad, not angry or frustrated or scared, just fine. What does fine mean, Bonnie?”

  I shrug.

  “You don't know?”

  I open my mouth to reply, but I honestly don't know what to say. I just want to get the hell out of here.

  “Are you ever not fine?” he asks.

  “I guess.”

  “And how does that make you feel?”

  “It's not a big deal,” I tell him, trying not to sound too frustrated. “It's fine.” I sigh as soon as those last two words leave my lips. I didn't mean to say them, they just slipped out again.

  He sits on the next cushion, his left knee just a few inches from my right. “As you know, my primary concern is bullying. I'm not a fool, I know that kids can be cruel, and I know they pick on anyone they perceive to be weak or vulnerable. I also see and hear things as I'm walking around the school, I pick up on hints here and there. I want you to be completely honest with me, Bonnie. Have any of the other students been giving you a hard time because of your brother's actions?”

  I shake my head. After getting no sleep again last night, I can hear the rustling of voices in the back of my mind, but that's definitely not something I want to admit. I don't need help. I'm fine.

  “Are you scared to answer my questions?” he asks.

  “No.”

  “So are you being bulled?”

  I swallow hard. “No.”

  He opens his notebook and flicks through until he finds an empty page, at which point he writes today's date.

  “Kids can be pretty monstrous,” he explains, as if I didn't know that already. “How old are you again? Fifteen?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “Sixteen.” He smiles as he makes some more notes. “Tough age. I mean, tough for anyone, but particularly tough for you. At sixteen, you're supposed to be trying to figure out how you fit into the rest of the world, which isn't easy given your current situation. I'm sure you feel somewhat isolated.”

  “I get by.”

  “Do people ever mention your brother?”

  I shrug. “I mean... Yeah. Obviously”

  “I imagine he comes up a lot.”

  “I guess. But that -”

  Hearing a louder whisper, I turn and look across the room, but of course there's no sign of anyone. Damn it, I really, really need to get some sleep.

  “Bonnie?” Mr. Dyson asks. “Are you okay?”

  I turn to him. “Fine.”

  “The whole school is still healing,” he continues. “The important thing is to remember that there's no right or wrong way to deal with all of this. I sense the pain and loss among the students every single day. There's no text-book that'll tell you what to do when you're the sister of someone who...” His voice trails off for a moment.

  “I know,” I reply. “You've told me
that before.”

  “But I'm not sure whether you've really taken it onboard.”

  “I have.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  I open my mouth to let out a few muttered curse words, but finally I manage to hold them back. “I'm sure,” I say finally.

  He smiles.

  I know what's coming next, I've known ever since he scheduled the session for today, but I still don't want to hear the words come out of his mouth. Why can't people realize that I just don't want to talk about it?

  “Bonnie, tonight -”

  “I know what tonight is,” I snap.

  “Of course you do. And how do you feel about it?”

  “How do I feel?” I ask, unable to hide my frustration. “I don't know, how am I supposed to feel?”

  “Can you put your feelings into words?”

  I shake my head.

  “I don't think there's a playbook,” he tells me. He pauses, before reaching over and squeezing my leg just a little. “To be honest, I thought maybe your mother would take you out of town while this period passes. The atmosphere is likely to be a little febrile for the next few days, and tempers could flare. I'm not suggesting that you run away, but it might have been better if you'd been able to distance yourself temporarily.”

  “Someone threw a rock through the window last night,” I tell him. “Anyway, my mother needs her job, so we can't just take off. I think that's still more of a long-term plan. And Dad -” Pausing for a moment, I realize that every time I mention my father, my thoughts become a little fuzzy. “Dad can't move either,” I say finally. “He just can't.”

  “I think it'd be really good for you,” he explains. “A fresh start, right? You already know this, I've told you enough times, but I think your entire family needs to make a clean break. There's no point denying the obvious, Bonnie. The Bromley family name is never going to be...” He pauses for a moment, as if he's trying to find the right word to finish that sentence. “People remember these things,” he adds finally. “When a community is badly scarred, the healing process can take years. Maybe even decades. Your brother caused a lot of damage to this particular community.”