Undead with Benefits Read Online Free Page B

they’d been able to make such a massive space disappear without anyone asking questions made my skin crawl.
    I used to think playing psychic spin doctor for the NCD made sense—we wouldn’t want to start a panic after just a few isolated zombie attacks—but if we’d lost an entire state? That should be on the news, the president doing that whole somber “My Fellow Americans . . .” thing.
    Five minutes of uncomfortable silence later, the familiar orange detour signs started to pop up. Amanda disgustedly shook her head and stepped on the gas. I added a fresh X to the road atlas.
    â€œHave you even been to Iowa?” she asked me.
    â€œNot personally, but they briefed us on emergency access points. We just have to keep looking,” I replied, trying to make this lie sound official. Then, for some reason, I kept talking. “I’m from California, originally.”
    â€œWho asked?” she snapped, and turned on the radio.
    I went back to studying the road atlas, not sure why I’d bothered to share a detail about myself. I guess I expected more talking on my cross-country drives, but then maybe I’d seen too many ’80s road-trip movies. There’d been only one conversational highlight so far, which at least proved life among the undead didn’t have to be constantly miserable.
    It just required Amanda not be around.
    Â 
    We’d stopped at a gas station that morning and I’d decided to stock up on provisions while I had the chance. I had the sinking feeling that microwaved convenience food was going to be my primary diet for as long as I stuck with the zombies. Lucky for me, this minimart had a better selection than most—single-serving boxes of cereal! white-cheddar popcorn!—so I was really loading up.
    I noticed that Jake was wandering the aisles behind me. He must’ve come in to pay for the gas. I stopped to watch him run his fingers longingly across a package of beef jerky. He let out a deep sigh that I interpreted as profoundly sad.
    â€œUm, you all right?” I asked, stepping closer with my armload of people food.
    â€œHuh?” I’d startled him out of some daydream. “Yeah, I’m cool. Just sorta jealous of all your options here.”
    â€œOh,” I replied hesitantly. “Yeah, gas-station burritos are really enviable.”
    Jake looked at me seriously. “They are.”
    I guess when you’re used to eating small, furry animals to stave off human-sized hunger pains, you’ll take anything. I tried to think of something that might make him feel better.
    â€œWell, I’m a little jealous that you get to eat, uh . . .”
    â€œGuinea pigs?”
    â€œI’m jealous of the guinea pigs,” I said quickly.
    Jake grinned. “You’re a bad liar.”
    â€œWhere did you even get so many?” I asked, thinking about the huge cardboard box that occupied my former residence in the trunk.
    â€œPet stores,” he replied, like that should’ve been obvious. “Actually, if you see one while we’re driving, let us know. You can never have too many.”
    â€œOkay, sure.” I paused, not wanting the conversation to end, but flailing for something to say. “Why guinea pigs anyway?”
    â€œCost-effective. And they’re surprisingly dense, like, meatwise.” I could tell Jake wanted to change the subject. He grabbed a package of Oreos from a shelf and looked at them longingly. “If I were you, I’d get these.”
    â€œUm, I’m more of an oatmeal-raisin girl.”
    Jake narrowed his eyes at me. “Oatmeal raisin? Ugh, you’re ruining the vicarious eating experience here.”
    â€œVicarious eating?”
    â€œYeah.” He sheepishly rubbed the stubble growing in around his mohawk. “Yesterday I was watching you eat that pepperoni Hot Pocket and it was, like, I don’t know, a spiritual experience. Is that