Page 3 of Zinnia and the Zombie (Alien Abduction #26)

CHAPTER THREE

“ I really didn’t expect the bank to approve the loan,” Zinnia told her zombie, “but Mrs. Jensen spoke to the bank manager. I suppose that’s one of the advantages of a small town.

Everyone knows everyone, and they didn’t want the shop to close down.

They were trying to bring business back to Main Street, and empty storefronts wouldn’t encourage that. ”

She sighed and patted her zombie’s leg. She’d noticed that when she touched him, the faint golden glow he emitted would increase a little, chasing away more of the shadows that surrounded her.

My zombie.

The nickname had been ironic at first. She’d been telling him about how much she hated horror movies, ever since an early boyfriend had taken her to a late-night screening of Night of the Living Dead.

“I think he thought I’d get scared and turn to him for comfort,” she reminisced with a shake of her head.

“He didn’t realize that I get angry when I’m scared.

I punched him when he put his arm around me and ran out of the theater.

That was the end of that boyfriend. You know, you kind of remind me of one of those zombies—not because you’re gross and disgusting, but because it feels as if you’re alive in there.

And at least I don’t have to worry about you trying to eat my brain. ”

Since she didn’t have any other name for him, her zombie had become his permanent title.

“I still think he was surprised when I paid off the loan three months early,” she continued. “The disadvantage of a small town is that everyone knows about your past. And now you know it too.”

She had no idea how much time had passed since she’d been taken.

There was no difference between night and day in the container, but the number of wafers in her food box had been slowly decreasing.

At least the water never seemed to run dry.

Once she realized that, she’d even used some of it for washing.

She didn’t have anything resembling soap, but it was better than nothing.

She’d started talking to the statue out of sheer desperation, desperate for something to occupy her time and prevent her from thinking about her future.

She found herself telling him her life story—not that there was a lot to tell.

She’d lived in the same small town most of her life, and she’d spent a good part of that life hating it.

Hating being poor. Hating the whispers about her mother.

The fact that a lot of those whispers were true had only made it worse.

But in the end, it had been the town that saved her.

She had been sixteen when her mother died, already working a part-time job at the local grocery store to try and keep food on the table.

The landlord of the small trailer park where they lived had knocked on the door the same day as the funeral.

She had been sitting on the couch, still in shock, wearing the too-tight black dress she’d had to borrow from one of her mother’s friends.

“The rent is due this Saturday,” he told her.

“I don’t have the money.”

He shrugged. “Then you’d better get it.” His eyes traveled down her body in a way that made her shudder. “Of course, you could always pay it the same way your mother did.”

“I’d rather be homeless,” she snapped.

He scowled at her. “Suit yourself, girly, but I’ll be here on Saturday to collect, one way or the other.”

The next day, she’d gone to the manager of the store where she worked, asking for a full-time job and praying he would give her an advance on her future wages.

“You’re still in school.” Mr. Jensen frowned at her. He was a middle-aged man with thinning hair and a perpetually sorrowful look, liking an aging basset hound.

“I’m dropping out.”

“I have a better idea,” he said slowly.

“I’m not sleeping with you,” she snapped, and he reared back as if she’d slapped him.

“Of course not! Why would you even—” He broke off, giving her a far too discerning glance. “Bill Thompson been around?”

“Yeah. The rent is due Saturday, and I can’t…”

“Of course not. Come with me.”

“Where are we going?” she asked, instantly suspicious.

“To see my wife,” he said firmly.

He’d done exactly that and Mrs. Jensen immediately sprang into action.

By the end of the day, Zinnia had a new place to live in the mother-in-law suite over the Jensen’s garage.

Mrs. Jensen and one of the town’s deputies had accompanied her back to the trailer park to collect her belongings, which turned out to be just as well, since Bill Thompson immediately tried to claim she owed back rent.

The deputy had told him he was lucky he wasn’t arrested for attempting to blackmail her into sex, but she suspected it had been Mrs. Jensen’s disapproving glare that had scared him the most.

It hadn’t been all smooth sailing from there.

She was still sad and lonely, and the other kids could still be cruel, but it had gotten better.

Mrs. Jensen had been in her corner every step of the way, even when she went off the rails.

She worked part-time in the Mrs. Jensen’s florist shop until she graduated, and then went full-time while taking business classes at night at the local community college.

When Mrs. Jensen—Margaret, by then—finally decided to retire, she’d passed the business on to Zinnia.

“And now the shop’s going to be empty again,” she told her zombie, her voice cracking. “They’ll think I ran away, that I’m as irresponsible as my mother.”

He didn’t respond, of course, but there was still something comforting about his presence.

She leaned more fully against him, and the soft golden light that emanated from the statue increased.

His temperature rose as well, growing slightly warmer—a welcome change, considering that the container was always chilly.

She was still wearing the green summer maxi-dress she’d put on to go to the botanical gardens.

At the time, she’d thought the dress, with its little daisy buttons up the front, was an appropriate choice.

Now she wished she’d been wearing her usual jeans and T-shirt instead.

She hadn’t just told him about her past. She told him stories as well—some of them fragments of things she’d read, others things she’d made up.

“I used to do this when I was little,” she told him.

“When Mama was out late and I was alone, or if she was… entertaining. I’d tell myself stories.

Lose myself in another world.” She gave a rueful laugh.

“And now I am in another world, and I still want to escape. What am I going to do, zombie? What’s going to happen when they come back for me?

That’s going to be the end of our cozy little world. ”

How ironic that her cell had become her safe place.

“I’m going to miss you,” she said, sighing and leaning more closely against him.

“I don’t think anyone’s going to want to listen to me.

” A tear trickled down her cheek before she could stop it, but she sniffed fiercely and hugged her zombie’s legs harder, refusing to give in to despair.

Jaxx pushed at his stasis shell again. His female needed comfort, and he could not provide it, locked away as he was.

He wondered yet again how long he’d been trapped like this.

If he’d been badly wounded, it could have taken months for him to heal.

Such a thing was not unheard of, but even those who’d been in stasis for so long had come back because someone had drawn them back.

This female was drawing him back now, but he couldn’t break through the shell. As far as he could tell, he was completely healed, but it didn’t seem to matter.

More memories had surfaced. There had been a storage facility.

He thought he’d been there for a long time.

And there had been another place, a place where he’d been displayed, where strangers had gathered to look at him.

But even during those times when he’d been aware of his surroundings, there had been nothing—no one—to help him break free.

At last, his female sighed and rose to her feet, gently patting his arm before moving away.

He knew when she touched him; he could feel the energy vibrating through his body from that spot, but he could not feel her.

He didn’t know if her hands were hard or soft, if her skin was silky or textured like his own.

He didn’t know what she looked like, but that didn’t matter.

He knew her as well as he’d ever known anyone.

He missed her touch when she moved away to rest. He could still feel her energy, knew she was close, but it wasn’t the same.

What she’d said troubled him. What would he do once she was taken away?

He would be alone again, slipping back into that death-like sleep, and perhaps this time it would be permanent.

He pushed at the stasis shell again, but the results were equally futile.

He eventually stopped his fruitless efforts and settled back to think about what his female had told him.

As he focused, he became aware of something else. Someone was approaching. A hostile energy signature. He needed to warn his female, to prepare her, but he couldn’t. Growing increasingly frustrated with his uselessness, he heard a snarl of anger, followed by his female’s soft, startled gasp.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“I’m not doing anything!”

“Do you know how much that Flutari rug is worth? If you’ve damaged it…”

“I haven’t damaged it! I just made a place to rest.”

He could sense his female’s fear and her defiance. Apparently, the male could sense it as well, because he snarled again. “Don’t argue with me, female.”

The angry energy approached, but now it was mixed with something else. Lust.

“Quite a cozy little nest you made here. Be a shame to waste it.”

“Don’t you dare touch me,” she hissed.

“I’m going to do more than touch you. You owe it to me for damaging this rug. It’ll be easier if you comply.”

“Never!”

The male laughed. “I always did like a little fight.”

He heard the sound of flesh meeting flesh, followed by his female’s pained cry.

No.

Anger—white-hot and scalding—blazed through him. He pushed frantically at the stasis shell. It resisted, as it always did. But when his female cried out again, his anger surged, and the shell finally shattered.