Free Death 07 - For the Love of Death by Tamara Rose Blodgett Page B

of death.
    Arrogant’s in his early twenties. All five-points are documented. It’s so rare there’s a half dozen of us.
    Paxton is one. Dee doesn’t count; she’s only four. Of course, the government doesn’t look into her, because four-points can’t raise dick.
    Right.
    A flock of starlings rains from the sky like a cloud of black death. They’re an annoying bird while alive. In death, their focus is so much more intense.
    “You got this?” Gramps asks.
    “Yeah.”
    “Okay, just askin’.”
    I flick an annoyed glance his way.
    The birds dive-bomb Arrogant, and he does what I expect. He flings his hands up in front of his face.
    I command the birds to peck.
    They do.
    Arrogant screeches, jerking around like an electrocution victim.
    I turn my attention to the Skopamish.
    They’re already standing at attention, a few have their  headdresses askew.
    As I think it, hands rise, adjusting them to rightness.
    I grin, my death muscle flexes, and I meet the eyes of the dead that have come.
    They fill what used to be a highway between Lake Tapps and Kent.
    The smell chokes Gramps.
    I feel an abiding comfort.
    The dead.
    Mine , I think, mine .
    They close in around the suit, avoiding the birds that contain Arrogant.
    The Null closes his fist.
    A ripple washes through the subjects of my summons. A backlash like a numbing whip strikes me.
    My scope narrows to whoever is closest. The rest of the dead stop, my bond weakening before the Null’s force.
    I throw my surviving strength to the birds. They peck Arrogant, avoiding the face.
    Don’t want murder charges.
    “Caleb.”
    “I got this, Gramps,” I say through gritted teeth. Sweat runs, burning into my eyes.
    A zombie who was a settler in the late 1800s clotheslines the Null.
    He stumbles, his concentration stolen.
    The death surge covers him like a blanket of arms and legs.
    “Caleb!”
    “Huh?” I’m swimming. The horde is—good. I float in the throng of dead, a river of rightness and serenity.
    “Get your shit together.”
    My head rocks back from the slap.
    My death radar automatically narrows in on the one who's hit me.
    Gramps ʼ angry face fills my pinhole of sight.
    Dead hands tear at his clothing.
    Stop.
    The fist of my power closes.
    The hands stop.
    “ Waking your shit up, pal.”
    “ Gramps,” I say through the fog.
    “ Hello —snap out of it. We've got a group here, and the birds have made Swiss cheese out of numb nuts over there and we don't have answer one.”
    The kids.
    I step back into myself. It'd been dangerous for me to use my power to that degree.
    Hell, I'd scooped myself out like a jack-o-lantern on Halloween.
    Hardy-har-har.
    I call off the troops.
    One of the Skopamish has taken off a bit of flesh from one of the suit’s scalp.
    Whoops.
    They always go for the head. The Indians have a thing for the head. Banging it, scalping it. Hmm.
    “Rest,” I say aloud.
    In my mind, I call out three Skopamish. They move to me like liquid as the rest slide back into the ground.
    I walk over to Arrogant, having a grand time with the starlings.
    Chunks of flesh decorate the old asphalt. Cars whiz by over our heads, oblivious to the undead carnage below.
    Stop.
    The birds’ black eyes are marbles of indifference in their collective faces. Blood covers beaks.
    One slurps in a stringy bit of Arrogant into its mouth.
    “Now that's a sound,” Gramps comments dryly.
    Yeah.
    Arrogant rolls around, groaning.
    “ Here's the thing,” I say, “you're gonna answer some stuff.”
    “ And things,” Gramps adds and I nod, feeling that old teamwork resurrect itself neatly.
    “ I know who you are, Mr. Hart,” he says, groaning.
    I smile. Training forces you to reply neutrally, even when a bunch of you is spread all over the road.
    Arrogant looks like he has a case of measles he’s scratched so badly they scab and bleed again.
    “Good. So now that introductions are unnecessary, where the fuck are my kids?”
    He swings his head. “I don’t know.