Free Get Zombie: 8-Book Set by Raymund Hensley Page A

I feel? I don't want to feel this way
anymore. This has to stop. I have to do something.”
    I
held the wall and climbed to my feet. I felt tired all the time. Too
heavy. Coffee helped sometimes; but just sometimes.
Janice...Janice...Janice. That name was going to haunt my dreams, I
knew it. She'd torture me. What were they doing in her room? What
were they doing in there? What were they doing?
    My
heart raced. I was getting dizzy. I could imagine Janice getting a
sharp rock right to the temple and dying there on the grass, blood
spurting everywhere. Jackson would cry and run off. Later, he'd knock
on my door and fall into my arms. He'd say how sorry he was that he
ever left me. He would want to be with me. He would NEED me.
    Seeing
all this...made me feel better. I felt alive again. Things were going
to be all right: The plan was boiling in my mind. I went over to my
pal Woodrow's room and had a little talk with him.
    “What
do you want me to do?” he asked.
    I
grinned. “I want you to push her down the stairs.”
    “Why
don't you do it?”
    “I
have to be around the warden. When Janice has her little accident,
they'll all say, 'Well, couldn't have been Pepper; she was with Miss
Veronica.' See how it works?”
    “How
much will I get paid?”
    “I
can give you $100.”
    Woodrow
put his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair. I had to
get him on board. He was the only one capable of pulling this off for
me. This 87-year-old man was an ex con. Back in '74, he was convicted
for murdering a Samoan woman. He didn't know her. He was paid by her
husband to do the job. Woodrow took the $100, cut off her head and
hands and feet like he was ordered to for some reason, and paid his
cable bill. When he was in court, he said nothing. He was a man of
his word. I prayed that a little bit of that greed – and honor
– was still in him.
    Walking
back to my room was a hassle. It took all my concentration to not
fall down. It was always embarrassing. Each day, even though I was
living with my fellow elderly folk, I could FEEL their pity applause.
“Go, Granny, go!” That sort of thing. Just leave me
alone. Pretend I'm not here. Don't look at me.
    When
I finally made it to my room, I eased myself into bed and exhaled.
Felt like I was walking for hours. Maybe I was. My feet hurt. My back
was numb. If only there was something to take. All this money in the
world – all these advancements in science – and no one
came up with some kind of “youth” pill? It didn't seem
right. Maybe the government was keeping it from us for themselves. I
got up and went to my closet. The pot inside was boiling. Well... I'd come up with something. My concoction was working so far. Soon I'd be
a hundred. I opened a shoebox and took out a rat and dropped it into
the pot. I stirred. I dipped a cup into the stuff and drank. I felt
strong again. I felt YOUNG again. But my invention wasn't perfect. I
looked in the mirror. Nope. No change. Still old. Still wrinkled.
Still sad-looking. I didn't even bother to look into my mouth. I got
half of it right – the inside part. But more important (to me)
was the outside. I wanted to LOOK young again. Inside, I felt like I
could run a marathon, that I could karate-chop a stack of bricks,
bicycle UP a volcano, jump up and down for hours, kick a football,
dunk a basketball, punch a horse in the face, and, most importantly,
make love with Jackson all night long.
    BUT...it
all meant diddlysquat if my body didn't want to work. I put a lid on
the caldron and closed the closet. I stood there for a long time,
thinking, thinking. That slop was missing something. I was missing a
key ingredient. But what? I went back to bed. More tests had to be
done in the morning. But I was hopeful. I had Jackson. Thinking about
him made me feel better – made me happier.
    “For
now,” I said, “ I can dream about you. ”
    That
night, I dreamed of making love to Jackson. I hadn't dreamed of him
in months. The sex was