Chapter 2

Naomi Whistler

I can’t keep my eyes open. It feels like Mrs. Dunn has been talking about zombies for an hour in literature class. They exist, but you wouldn’t know if you saw one because they put on makeup to hide their ugly faces, or so the rumors say. I don’t believe it. If that were true, maybe I wouldn’t feel guilty. I look at the empty desk next to me. The folded paper serving as the name tag is crooked. I fix it and stand it upright. The name Dean is written on it.

I wish I had been nicer to him. He’s dead now. A truck hit him a year and a half ago. I remember all those teary faces at the funeral. Everyone was crying. His mom and dad were hurt the most. Even I couldn’t stop crying. Mr. Dean wouldn’t let go of Ray as his body was being buried. Mrs. Dean convinced him to let the body go after 15 strapping ushers couldn’t rip him away from his son. I wish I could go back in time and change it.

“Sorry, Ray,” I whisper.

A tear runs down my cheek.

The bell rings. School’s over. I head out, walking to the cemetery, where a nearby delivery man is checking the supplies in his truck. I can’t believe it. Someone spray-painted graffiti and smiley faces over the gravestones in the corner. Ray’s stone is around that side. Who would do something so mean? I take a rag from my backpack and wipe the paint off Ray’s stone. Good as new. I put flowers and video games near the grave. It’s strange, I know, but in a way, I want to think they go missing because he comes out of the grave and takes them, not because we’ve got grave robbers.

“I’m sorry for calling you stupid, weird, and saying mean things about your parents,” I say to the stone, starting to break down. “I just wanted to fit in with everyone, and I…I…” I can’t stop crying.

I wipe my eyes, moaning his name. I miss him. I want him back. I want Ray.

I jump back, startled, as a shadow hovers over me. It’s my grandmother, big and black with her green skirt and white button-down blouse.

“I was coming back home, but I got…uh lost?” I say, shrugging my shoulders.

“I told you to come straight home! Children and grown folk are goin’ missing for months! Are you crazy?” grandma asks.

I hug her. She says that because she cares.

Her scowl is replaced by a warm smile. “I can’t stay mad at my grandbaby,” she says.

I see white flakes floating around. I’m not sure what it is, but it seems familiar. I reach to touch it.

“Don’t touch that!” shouts grandma.

A strong wind blows, causing the white flakes to combust into flames. My ears ring from the explosion. For a moment, there’s a muffled silence. The smoke disappears and my ears stop ringing. My grandmother is in front of me. Her arms are crossed and encased by a sturdy, boney material from the elbow up.

As you can tell, my family isn’t normal. We come from a long line of people who can use the power of the dead, or as scientists call it, necro-energy, the energy of the dead. The proper term is the Abiotic Channel, and we, Abiotic Channelers, can use that power for all sorts of things, like what grandma did when she jumped in front of the explosion for me. She saw my death before it happened, and calcified her arm. But we can do more than that. I wish I was as good as she is. She said she learned it from some guy named John or something a long, long time ago.

Necro energy abilities differ from person to person, but there are three basic techniques. There’s calcification, covering your body in bone. Then there are death eyes which allow a Channeler to sense and see imminent doom or harm. And finally, there’s decay, which breaks any substance down on a molecular level. I’m kinda good at that.

The delivery man in the background races towards us.

He sighs with relief. “That’s my bad. The shipment got loose. That Dancing Flower stuff is sensitive to the air.”

I remember now. Those floating white granules are what rich people are using to put in all sorts of products. Dancing Flower in its pure form goes boom.

The man winks at grandma. “Fast reaction for an old lady, almost like you saw it coming.” I know what that means. He wishes he was as good with his powers as she is.

Grandma and I take a 20-minute walk home. We go inside. Mom and dad are sleeping on the couch with the TV still on. I slip the remote from my dad’s heavy arms. I’m going to change it to cartoons, but someone snatches it away with a red towel.

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“Tyrese, give that back!” I shout.

I can’t stand that runt, my annoying baby brother.

He ties the towel around his neck, flinging it across his shoulder like a cape. “Tada! I’m a necromancer! Lord of the dead, King of zombies!”

I take the remote back. “Not how our powers work, runt,” I say.

He pulls my curls as I push his face, fighting for control of the TV.

“Give it back!” he says.

Grandma’s stare instills the fear of God in us. We stop fighting immediately without fuss, as her pupils turn purple. I lower my head, feeling down, as Tyrese calcifies his leg.

Grandma lifts my chin. “Don’t worry, you’ll be a great Channeler. It takes time. I wasn’t good until fifty.”

We laugh together. She’s such a liar. She’s a genius Channeler.

“What? I can’t wait that long,” I moan.

Grandma just laughs. She bends over, groaning. “My back! Not as young as I used to be. That explosion did a little more than I thought. Grandma’s gonna rest a bit.” She gives me such a stare like she sees through my soul. I chuckle nervously. “Naomi Jenna Whistler, you better not sneak off tonight or it’s me and you,” she says.

She heads upstairs complaining about her back, saying grown words I’m not allowed to say. She closes the door behind her.

Later, I realize she’s been up there for over an hour. I need to practice my abilities until I drop. Even my annoying brother knows more than me. I tip-toe upstairs to grandma’s room, she doesn’t hear me. I slowly open her door. She’s out cold. I head for the front door. A little practice wouldn’t hurt.

My brother is standing next to the front door with a curious look. “You better not go out,” he says. “Before they put your face on the back of a milk carton.”

“You better not snitch,” I bark back.

“Or else what?” he says.

I fold my arms, forming a sly smile across my lips. “I’ll tell dad you’ve been running up the bill watching all those violent action movies on demand,” I say.

His eyes widen. He thought I didn’t know.

He steps away from the door. I leave, but not before he sticks his tongue out. I stick mine out back at him before he slams the door. I head downtown to the back alley.

I stare into the bright, purple swirling energy in my palm. “Ok. I can do this,” I say.

I touch the bricks on the building. They break down, but it’s taking forever. By the time they turn to rubble, I’ll be an old lady. I practice for hours and hours, trying to break down the bricks even faster. It’s not good enough.

I wish Ray were here to laugh at me. He’d always make people laugh, especially when he scared the life out of someone. And he loved zombie movies. I did, too. I remember one of the few times I was nice to him, we talked about zombie movies all day, but then my friends showed up. They thought zombie movies were lame. They never bothered to explain why. But I didn’t want my friends to think I wasn’t cool, so I pretended poor Ray didn’t even exist, and I always kept my love of zombie films to myself.

Such is the life of hanging with the cool girls. But at the end of the day, everyone is the same. I wished I’d realized that before losing Ray.

I flop down on a dingy cardboard box, thinking of the few times I was nice to Ray. I once walked home with him when the other kids avoided him like the plague. I don’t know why, but it had something to do with his dad. No one in town liked him. Never knew why.

Screams disrupt my happy thoughts. I leave the alley to see who it is. It’s two men in biker jackets, shouting and pointing their narrow fingers at some old guy. He’s a round, husky fellow, with red-tinted glasses, wearing a Hawaiian shirt and black khakis with sun designs on them.

I don’t know what they’re saying, but the man with the glasses tells them to calm down, saying “Gates” served his purpose. He has a wide smile on his face, as the men are about to pounce on him.

I come to his rescue. “Leave him alone,” I say.

One of the guys has a suspicious look.

“This one will fetch a price,” he says.

I should’ve listened to grandma. These are the guys taking people. They were going to take this old man. The taller biker guy grabs me. I bite his hand and he lets me go. It’s nasty. It tastes like old, spoiled eggs.

The other guy in the vest reaches out. My arm radiates with a purple glow when he touches me. I’m not good at it, so the decay should burn him a little. Instead, his arm comes off.

“I didn’t mean to do that,” I squeal. “Sorry, sorry!”

Worms and dust emerge from his severed arm. That’s disgusting. I feel like hurling. He takes out a thread and needle and sews the arm back like nothing ever happened. The thread dissolves into his arm. His limb is as good as new. These guys are monsters.

I’m paralyzed, too scared to move.

“We’ll get a lot for the Abiotic user,” the biker guy says, reaching out.

The man in the shades pulls me back. The men try to punch the old guy, but he slips by them, tapping their shoulders. He’s fast and nimble for his size. Shortly after, they float in the air like they’re weightless.

“Thank you,” I say to the old guy in the shades.

He looks at me, intrigued, rubbing his chin. “Been a while since I’ve seen a living person use necro energy,” he says. “Dullahan would laugh if he saw this.”

Who’s Dullahan? He then says something about a guy named “Cheonguk” or “Trake” and money.

He looks at me with a curious grin. “You’d fetch a great price, but Trake would find better uses for someone with your abilities.”

I don’t know who Trake or Cheonguk is, but I’m not going to find out. I run as far as my legs can take me. I bump into something and fall to the ground. It feels fleshy. I look up. It’s that guy with the glasses. But how did he get in front of me so fast?

Decay envelops my hand in a black aura. I grab his hand, but it isn’t breaking down.

“Decay isn’t effective against a trained user like me,” he says. “You’re outclassed, kid.”

His finger is imbued with green energy. He flicks me away with his finger.

That stings!

Wait, he’s a Channeler, too? The color washes from his face like makeup, revealing his ashy skin, yellow teeth, and black tongue. He smells like rotting flesh. I look in terror, unable to comprehend what’s before me.

“Name’s Junior Robertson,” he says, adjusting his shades.

I’ve heard that name before. He was executed five years ago for his connections as a clean-up guy for gangsters. The cops couldn’t get the Don, so they pinned the deaths on him. What that means…oh, no. This can’t be the same Junior Robertson! There were several eyewitnesses during his execution.

He gives me the most sinister smile I’ve ever seen. “Kid,” he says, “You have the pleasure of being in the presence of the restless and condemned. Walking vestiges clinging to life, praying to find purpose in a world where none is found. Wandering till we find paradise, such is the existence of a zombie!”