Free Undead with Benefits by Jeff Hart

glorified tabloids, liberal rags—”
    A black-and-white picture of Amanda’s brother, Kyle, appeared in the corner of the screen. He looked grim and beaten up—literally, his left eye swollen closed. I realized it was a mug shot.
    â€œAnd I’m not even going to glorify this nitwit’s story with a recap. He doesn’t deserve it. This toad is basically—those kids’ bodies, they aren’t even cold in the ground—and he’s running his mouth, trying to snatch up some spotlight. These bleeding hearts talking about the first amendment, talking to me about freedom of speech—well, it’s not free, and this bottom-feeder is going to find that out. You ask me, they should sit him down right next to his sister when it comes time for the needle to get passed around—”
    Amanda stabbed the PAUSE key. She had other tabs open in the browser, all stories about her brother and his crazy conspiracy theories, stories about his arrest for “agitation,” all stuff we’d missed being on the road the last few days. All stuff that was sort of our fault.
    Amanda touched her brother’s face on the screen. I figured I should probably stop pretending to be asleep and propped myself up on an elbow. She didn’t look over at me. Maybe she was too pissed off to move.
    â€œHow much did you see?” she asked through gritted teeth.
    â€œToo much,” I replied. “Like, enough to give me brain damage. I’m sorry about your brother.”
    She slapped the laptop closed and tossed it to the end of the bed. “I want this to be over, Jake. I want it to be over so bad.”
    â€œI know,” I replied. “Me too.”
    â€œDo you?” she asked sharply. “Because sometimes it seems like you’re just having fun. Like this is some road-trip vacation or whatever.”
    I didn’t say anything back. She was right—sometimes I was like that. Maybe too often, I don’t know. Maybe I stretched Jake Day and similar moments of awesomeness too far. But the alternative, thinking about the horrible shit that was happening, like, every second? I’d go nuts.
    After a minute, Amanda pushed her forehead into my chest. I lay back with her curled up against me, slowly stroking her hair.
    â€œI’m sorry,” she said quietly.
    â€œIt’s okay.”
    Before I could say anything else, a big chunk of her hair came loose in my hand, a rotten piece of scalp dangling from the roots.
    â€œOh shoot,” I said. “You’re—”
    Amanda snapped into a sitting position and grabbed the hair away from me. She looked mortified in more ways than one. Even in the dim light, I could see her skin had turned that congealed gray. Her eyes glistened with tears. She leapt off the bed, away from me.
    â€œGoddamn it, I thought I could hold it off,” she said, covering her face and running for the bathroom.
    â€œNot like I haven’t seen it before,” I replied. “It’s okay.”
    â€œStop saying that,” she snapped, her words slurring a little. She stopped in the bathroom doorway to shake the chunk of scalp and hair at me. “Nothing about this is okay, Jake!”
    â€œOkay, okay,” I said, trying to calm her down, not realizing that I was okaying totally on reflex. “Shit.”
    Amanda let loose a frustrated zombie sound, then slammed and locked the bathroom door. I climbed out of bed and tried the doorknob, making sure she was locked inside.
    â€œI’m going to get you something from the car,” I called through the door. “Stay in there, all right? No rampaging.”
    She thumped something against the door in reply—maybe her hand, maybe her forehead—and then let out a throaty, sorrowful moan. Could be she’d already gone full zombie, but I didn’t think so. That was thirty percent undead hunger and seventy percent human sadness locked behind that bathroom