Zombies Don't Forgive Read Online Free

zombies. Right?” Dane sounds like an Elder.
    Not that I can blame him. All it’s gonna take is Stamp slipping a little of his dead, cold tongue to the wrong semisober Normal, and boom, instant zombie alert.
    â€œMake that hanging with zombie.” Stamp looks at me. “Singular.”
    I roll my eyes and look away, ignoring both of them as the boxy living room suddenly seems claustrophobic, especially with the bluesy, smooth jazz riff currently oozing out of the stereo. (Hey, wait! When did Dane change the station back?) We might as well be the three newest residents of the Orange County Geriatric and Rehabilitative Center for Zombies Who Can’t Get Along.
    â€œWhat is this anyway?” Stamp slouches toward the kitchen in his shiny black high-tops. “The Spanish Imposition?”
    Dane shrugs.
    Stamp never fesses up when he feels cornered like this. And forget about correcting him. That would really shut him down. Not that I’m not tempted, of course. (Former Normal honor student and all.)
    I get back to rowing.
    Dane halfheartedly pushes his long, pale legs in slow circles.
    Stamp roots around in the fridge for something to drink.
    Like any self-respecting zombies, we have no foodin there. Only sugary sweet, colorful drinks lined in row after row on shelf after shelf after shelf. Soda—the real stuff, never diet. Fruit drinks (not juice). Sports drinks. Anything loaded with sugar, electrolytes, and artificial crap that can boost our energy between bites of fresh brain (currently stored in the freezer, FYI).
    Dane and I pretend to ignore Stamp while he rearranges soda bottles on the top shelf. He slams the fridge door, then slumps into a chair at our little table for three. He chugs the blue liquid Sports Slurp (his favorite) from the plastic bottle, doing his familiar little silent treatment.
    The good news is he usually comes off with some pretty good info once he’s done sulking. The trick is waiting him out long enough.
    He sits there about five minutes before speaking. “What do you guys care anyway?” After another minute, he says, “You’re not the boss of me.”
    Seriously? Did he just say that? Out loud? What is he, six? Scratch that. Four?
    â€œNo,” Dane says, “but, like it or not, we are in this together, so what you do affects us all.”
    Stamp huffs. “You don’t know my friends well, then. They’re about as dangerous as a—”
    â€œAre they human?” Dane barks, sliding off his bike and turning off the music to help make his point that
this is a serious discussion.
“Because if they are, then they can’t be trusted. Any of them. Ever.”
    â€œYes, they’re human. You think I’ve stumbled ontosome huge, secret zombie coven? In downtown Orlando, of all places?”
    â€œIs it called a coven?” I ask seriously, if only to diffuse the tension while Dane paces between the exercise equipment. “I mean, I thought that was for vampires. A vampire’s coven. But wait, that doesn’t sound right either. Maybe it’s witches. Yeah, actually, I think it’s witches who—”
    â€œWho was it, Stamp?” Dane walks dangerously close to the table now. His shoulder muscles are flexed, which is never a good sign. “Who was it this time? Angela? Tracy? Lacy? Spacey? Racy? You need to be more discreet. Seriously.”
    â€œVal,” Stamp says quietly, avoiding our gazes. “Her name is Val.”
    Dane snorts. “Whatever. The thing is—”
    â€œNot whatever.” There is true ugliness in Stamp’s voice, in his face, in his deep-set eyes. “Her name is Val. Remember it, Dane.”
    â€œWhy should I? Is she gonna be around a week from now? Two weeks? Why waste brain cells I don’t have on people who don’t matter?”
    â€œBecause she does matter.” Stamp looks from one of us to the other like some teenager trying not to get