La La Land: A Zombie Dystopian Novel (The Last City Series Book 2) Read online

  DEDICATION

  BEGIN READING

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  THANK YOU

  WHERE TO FIND LOGAN

  OTHER BOOKS BY THE AUTHOR

  COPYRIGHT

  This book is dedicated to my husband.

  Love you, TT.

  -1-

  Pain strikes before full wakefulness. One eye cracks open, while the other’s smashed into the cold tile. The wrongness of the position, my shoulder beneath my cheek, doesn’t strike me right off.

  Sitting up is the worst thing to do, but I do this at one hundred miles per hour, slamming my head into the bed frame. My arm flops listlessly at my side. The shoulder’s dislocated.

  I’d transitioned again.

  The monster’s taken over a few times recently, only unable to complete the change, and by the look of my limb, this time, the arm alone had grown and he’d used it to try to escape.

  I’ve tested the bubble of glass at least a foot thick, its strengths and weaknesses, truly a force to be reckoned with. My body bore the reckoning.

  “He’s gotten smarter.”

  Daisy’s back.

  “How so?” I ask. “You know what? Never mind. I’m not interested in knowing about what went on this round.”

  “Okay.”

  Daisy doesn’t know any more than I do … I don’t think … but she’s my clever side, putting the pieces together more quickly, weird as that is to admit. She’s pragmatic to a fault. Had been, too, once upon a time, before …

  The figment of my imagination paces, watching me with a furrowed brow. Between her, the teenaged zombie, and the monster, it’s hard to know what’s stranger.

  “He wants out,” she says unnecessarily.

  “I hadn’t noticed.”

  “Sarcasm is beneath you.”

  I shrug and wince. “Learned it from you.”

  “Very true.”

  Daisy seems pleased, and again I fall for it. Her being real. She’s so like the girl I once knew. Although this apparition is still the age I saw her last — not a day over sixteen — Daisy had been a month older than me.

  I don’t know if she means the monster wants out of my body or out of the bubble itself, but I’m too busy working up the nerve to straighten my arm to interrogate my own subconscious.

  The tendons have stretched out, swollen from the blood pooled inside areas where it shouldn’t have. I grit my teeth, and my vision blurs when I give one quick jerk to my wrist, popping my shoulder back into place.

  “That looked painful.”

  I nod, then fall over to the side. The transition always exhausts me.

  “How’s our girl?” she asks when I can manage to get up.

  Daisy sits on my bed, one foot tucked beneath, the other swinging. Whenever she visits, she asks the same question.

  I check my neighbor’s cell, “Smiling today,” then press my face against the enclosure that’s been my home — my prison — for over a year now.

  Daisy’s wispy in the reflection from behind, almost see-through. Her auburn hair is stringy, and her green eyes are red-rimmed like she’d turned, though probably because I imagine that’s what happened when she disappeared.

  “Is she pretty, do you think?” she asks. “And I’m not a ghost,” Daisy says reading my thoughts. “I’m the result of your psyche folding in on itself. Big difference. Huge.”

  I cringe at the estimation. Being crazy is like being dead. Do you even know it?

  “She’s strong,” I say, still looking at my neighbor in her bed. “That’s good. A girl should be strong before pretty, anyway, don’t you think? Especially now.” I frown, wondering if it’s rude to tell a girl, even a pretend one, that another is pretty. “I can say that right, Dai? You won’t get jealous.”

  “Not any more than you’re expecting.”

  “Right.”

  “But she is pretty.”

  “I agree,” I say, and Daisy asks, “How are you, Tommy?”

  “Old.”

  She laughs.

  “I feel old, anyway. My bones ache.”

  “Growing pains.”

  Now, I’m the one who’s laughing.

  “Well you are eighteen,” she says. “That’s practically ancient.”

  “I am eighteen and so are you … or would be if …”

  “No need to be shy with me, Thomas Ripley Hatter. Our guilt is shared.” She rises in a weird, floating way, then presses her face next to mine at the window. My nose leaves smudges. Hers does, too. For now. But later I’ll look and they will be gone. “If I was alive, you mean,” Daisy says. “Eighteen and legal. An adult finally.”

  I sigh and use the glass to cool my head. “And we’d be married.” With my eyes closed, I venture places I never go. “I loved you. You know that, right?”

  When I open my eyes again, Daisy’s vanished. On the glass where the smudge had been, are instead, fading words she’s left behind: Happy Birthday.

  -2-

  The alarm begins to sound; third time the blaring’s screamed this week. Camp Bodega seems to have a plethora of stiffs this month.

  I turn to find a man standing on the other side of the glass. I look over at Marilyn. Not her real name, but the sleeping beauty is like an old pal, and after so much time alone, I’d had to name her.

  With a stranger at the bubble, I feel protective.

  She’s still peacefully asleep on her back, not a muscle moved. Same as always.

  “Don’t get up, Princess. I’ll get the door.”

  I approach the side where the man waits, facing away from me. He’s just standing there. Bald head, grey smock, a prisoner, like us. I envy him his freedom. Weirdly, I want to demand he trade places with me. Demand isn’t the word. Enforce.

  Why’s he here?

  When he turns, I find out.

  His face is bloody, dripping onto his smock.

  A stiff. On the loose.

  I’ve not seen any since the fight on the California beach. A battle I’d lost.

  I’m not particularly brave up against the undead, but this room is a fortress. Still, they’re scary no matter how many times you’ve seen ’em. Besides the eating part, it’s kind of their strength: being the terrifying creatures where our future’s sunk within.

  His milky eyes track me side to side when I take to pacing. It’s unnerving.

  He watches me like I’m a hot dog spinning on those things they used to have in gas stations.

  Bloody hands smack the glass and I jump back. Feeling like a little girl, I flip him off. The action’s a bit more macho after the squeal that may or may not have passed through my lips.

  He smears red all over the window, then gnaws at it, teeth clacking. With a hand to his nose, a hissing begins as he smells his last victim.

  I’m rooted to this spot in fascination.

  With one finger, he points into the red, and slowly he moves it down then off to the side.

  And again.

  For a moment, he seems to lose interest in his finger painting, like a child checking to see if mother’s realized a bucket of paint’s missing from the cabinet. With stops and starts, he draws another line next to the first. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think a zombie just wrote an “H” on my window.

  My brain wars with itself. How’s this possible?

  Tommy, you fool. Chill. It’s not.

  Just a zombie being a zombie, doing little zombie things. Like spelling an “E” … now. When the thing starts in on the next line, I know, without a doubt, this is happening — it’s trying to communicate. Adrenaline shifts my focus int
o hyper.

  With deep breaths, I fight claustrophobia.

  Small space, big guy. Small space, big guy. The stiff spins around, growling into the empty hallway like a dog, hackles raised, just before the guards rush in.

  They take him out quickly, but more undead come in from behind. The doors remain wide open, shining light I’ve not seen in a lifetime. Natural beams blind me after so long in their absence.

  When I can see again, zombies have flooded the area, overpowering the guards.

  An outbreak.

  They don’t seem to like the taste of the Authority’s watchdogs; they leave the guards’ bodies mangled, quitting them after they’re dead, instead of eating them. Unusual. After a few moments, one of the helmets rises, and he stands, his insides hanging out.

  “Hey, man. Hey!” I point at the door. “Open my door!” As if he can understand me as one of the other things.

  But the last one had spelled out half-a-word on my window, so … worth a try.

  He ignores me, walking on, dragging his guts. He trips on his entrails, foot squishing them, making me gag.

  “Great.”

  Time passes, and the alarms stay on.

  “That’s new,” I say, wishing Daisy would join me.

  This is the liveliest time we’ve had here on our little vacation. She’d bring levity to the situation — make a joke about fast food, or say something about how a zombie that can spell is a zombie you should train as a pet.

  For being part of my own brain, though, she sure is elusive.

  A sucking noise radiates through the thick glass, followed by a pop before the power dies. “That’s new, too.”

  After a few moments of blackness, I move over to Marilyn’s side, worried that her machines have quit. Even though they look dead, her chest is rising all by itself. “Okay. A day full of new.”

  With an ounce of hope, I tap on the divider.

  Then the thunk I’d heard earlier becomes clear. Power controls the locks.

  My door. The air seal had popped.

  I’m free.

  -3-

  It only takes seconds to digest this new information before I jump, headfirst, like a diver when the starting gun’s gone off.

  I prove myself right when the door swings open and I fly through. It’s almost unreal, and I’m scared it’s a dream, but my feet don’t hesitate like my brain does. I flee down the corridor, hopping bodies, slipping in blood, frantic to make it out.

  I land on a knee in a wet spot. The dark matter soaks through, making me cringe, but I’m up and running again.

  The guard from before is up ahead on the ground, dragging himself by an arm.

  I hit his buckets of blood, its sheen unnatural, glowing almost, and I slosh through, falling, knees wet again. My momentum continues like a slip-and-slide, pushing me onward.

  Another guard’s body stops me — his head’s missing — but it’s easy to shove away on the dry floor and get back onto my feet.

  There’s an exit, and no bleeders here to stop me — yet. So, I ram through. The open air fills my lungs, and the sun’s glare strikes me blind, disorients me, forces me to cover my face, even as the euphoria of a fresh breeze makes me laugh.

  I fall backwards. The world — it’s too big again. I’m high with the exhilaration of so much space.

  Despite my blurry vision, I remember where I am, and right myself, jumping into a strange lope toward what looks to be a tree line. Even impaired and eyes not quite adjusted, I press onward, afraid this may be the last chance I’ll have to get away.

  I run.

  I can see better in the shade, but it’s not a pleasant sight. Zombies have cut across the grass surrounding the compound. Hundreds of them, all rushing in my direction, and I’m not fast enough. These have fed, and are Olympians compared to me. I’ve gotten way too bulky for running, so I decide to hide behind some crates stacked nearby where I can squeeze in between and climb to the top.

  Across from my perch is the green sea. I’ve been on an island this entire time. I was told it was an island, I believed it was an island, but actually seeing it for the first time since I’d been drugged and brought here is quite different. Feeling the ocean air from all sides is a whole other story.

  I bite back dark emotions at being both free and trapped at the same time.

  This island’s just another bubble.

  The sound of waves in the distance draws me like a bee to honey. Stiffs can’t swim, I don’t think. Sure, I’ve seen them doggie paddle, but they usually gulp in seawater until they drown.

  Once the worst of the horde has passed, I’m back on the ground, moving from tree to tree toward the sound of the surf. The sudsy rush brings back memories from the mainland and the last shore I was on — and Joelle.

  Though it feels like forever, I finally step onto the softer sand. Large metal posts line the edge of the island — a sort of force field for the prisoners — but when I wave a hand through, nothing happens.

  A trek along the water’s edge reveals empty space and more ocean … wait … out in the distance: a boat.

  It’s too far to swim. Think, Tommy, think.

  Some of the zombies have spotted me, so I sprint along the shore, pretending to have more of a plan than running for my life. Those fastest, close the distance.

  Miles seemingly pass, when something shiny in the water catches my eye. A kayak, anchored right offshore. Someone’s traveled from the ship to the island, then left it to come onto the beach.

  Wading into the water, I don’t forget about the sharks and how they swarm, but they’re not what stop me at the waist in the waves. The kayak beckons me to commandeer it out of this hell hole, but…

  “Tommy!”

  I close my eyes and wade farther.

  “Thomas Ripley Hatter!” Daisy yells. “You get back here right now!”

  I ignore her and swim toward my ride home.

  “I hope a giant shark eats you!” she calls, already sounding more distant.

  The kayak’s close. A couple of shapes churn the water beyond it, but I keep on anyway.

  At the side, I haul myself into the small boat, which has paddles and an open case revealing a gun with ammo.

  Daisy’s still standing on shore, watching me, arms crossed, while the undead run around her, as if avoiding her.

  I’m pulling up the anchor when it strikes, an ugly, dark feeling. Not the monster. Guilt.

  With a sigh, I let the slimy chain slide through my fingers, and I stand with a groan, close the case, and throw it over the side, before I swan dive back into the water.

  Damned chivalry.

  -4-

  Two people are inside Sleeping Beauty’s bubble when I get back in one piece — barely. Took some very careful maneuvering up the tree line once again, working my way inside had been the hardest. Once there, I found I wasn’t alone in my aim to get to Marilyn. She’s damned popular.

  I flatten against the wall to listen to her guests. A young woman asks the man with her, “Phillip, can you figure out these tubes?”

  “Yes,” Phillip replies. “Here, move.”

  She checks outside the door, large weapon in hand, but doesn’t see me. I remember her. Rubber Man had called her Crystal, and she’d spoken fondly of Marilyn.

  “How are we going to get her to the boat, Crystal?” Phillip asks.

  “You’re a good swimmer.”

  They’re taking her?

  I’m undecided if I should introduce myself and hope for the best, but no, these aren’t Underground. That much is clear. And if they aren’t Underground, they aren’t on my side — period.

  I can’t risk imprisonment again. I won’t make it another month inside this fish bowl.

  The one named Phillip wears a mask with a skull across it. Crystal is bare-faced, dressed in camouflage, her dark eyes sharp, demeanor militant. Everything about her screams “leader”.

  I prop open the door at the end of the hall and let in some stiffs.

  They
funnel through, the fast ones running directly for the pair, and the fight begins. Like I guessed, they don’t use their guns inside the glass. Probably afraid of ricochet.

  Slipping between a few zombies, I’m in the room with the growing numbers, elbowing past the two people.

  “Hey!”

  “Stop him!”

  But the stiffs grab them, forcing the two to defend themselves. Some are getting me, too, and I barely avoid a bite to my shoulder before I get to Marilyn’s bedside.

  She’s free from the machines; they’d unplugged her. I tuck my arms under her small body and gather her to me. Luckily for us, with blistering tactical maneuvers, the two have taken out most of the nearest zombies.

  I turn to find Crystal there, gun barrel aimed at my head.

  The weapon I’d stolen from the kayak is in my hand under Marilyn, and I hoist my light burden to show I have it pointed at Phillip.

  Crystal moves to stand between him and me. Interesting.

  “Don’t make me do this,” I say.

  When my chest swells and I grow inches, Crystal’s eyes widen.

  Before I can change, the hallway door closes, and the last bit of dim light dissipates. We’re doused in complete darkness, in a room clustered with zombies.

  Crystal shouts, and she and Phillip begin to scramble, bouncing off the bubble’s edges.

  Me, I know these enclosures with my eyes closed. I count the steps — seven and a half — then again to the door. Phillip cuts me off, eerie eyes shining in the dark. A handy trick, that.

  The zombies are disoriented enough to topple over one another, and I use them to trip up Phillip.

  Bones break as Crystal kills a few, then moves closer. They make good time — great, even. Are they Specials? I don’t have time to think about it. I’m free of the swarm, having muscled through and out the door. Already I’m running down the hall through the slip-and-slide of blood.

  By memory, I turn alongside the building. A horde shuffles directly outside, but with a space this narrow, too many can’t get in, giving me time to get ahead. I’m bigger, so I barrel over the few in my way who’ve gotten stuck, and squeeze between trees and the wall.