Chapter 4
Damon
Ispend the first five minutes of the drive trying not to look at the woman sitting in my passenger seat. Not because she’s talking, since she isn’t. Not because she’s moving, she’s barely doing that, either.
It’s the silence that gets under my skin. The truck bounces over every pothole on the county road, the heater hums against the windshield, and somewhere beneath all of it, I can hear the slow drag of dirt falling from the hem of her dress onto my floorboard.
She sits perfectly upright, hands folded in her lap like she was taught never to take up more space than necessary. A smear of blood streaks across her wrist, where it disappears beneath torn lace. She watches the road ahead without blinking, for so long that I start wondering if she even has to.
I clear my throat.
“So...” I tighten my grip on the wheel. “Is this normal for you?”
Her head turns slowly. “What?”
“The whole...” I wave one hand between us before putting it back on the wheel. “Coming back from the dead. Killing half the town. Riding around in pickup trucks.”
She studies me for a second. “I’ve never been in a pickup truck.”
“Good to know that’s the surprising part.”
Silence settles over us again.
If she wasn’t wearing a shredded dress with dried blood on her hands, she’d almost look like someone catching a ride home after a long night.
The cemetery disappears behind the trees in my rearview mirror, but it doesn’t feel farther away.
I keep seeing Rick, Aaron, the others, even the strangers whose names I’ll never know.
I knew most of those men, but not well enough, apparently.
My stomach twists.
How many times had I stood next to them at cookouts? Shaken their hands? Laughed at something they said without thinking twice?
The thought sticks harder than the blood on my jeans.
What else don’t I see?
I glance toward her before I can stop myself. She sits exactly the same way she did when we left the cemetery: quiet, patient, and waiting. The woman who ripped a man’s heart out with her bare hand shouldn’t look so... lost.
I hate that my brain even goes there.
She presses her fingertips against the window, before jerking her hand back almost immediately.
“It’s cold,” she murmurs.
I glance over. “The glass?”
She nods once.
I don’t tell her it’s November tomorrow. I don’t tell her she probably hasn’t touched glass like that in centuries. Hell, I don’t even know if centuries is right.
The truck turns onto my street. Every porch still glows orange with jack-o’-lanterns, plastic skeletons hang from gutters, and fake cobwebs stretch between bushes.
I pull into my driveway and kill the engine.
Neither of us moves.
“This is where I live,” I state.
“I gathered.”
The engine ticks as it cools. Two houses down, an inflatable ghost sags and reinflates in the wind.
I look over at her. “That was sarcasm.”
“I know.” She’s still watching the house through the windshield, hands folded, like she’s waiting to be told she can move.
“Huh.”
For some reason, that surprises me.
I climb out first.
The night air feels cleaner here, but when I open the passenger door, the smell of damp earth follows her out like it’s attached to her shadow.
She stands beside the truck, looking at my house. It’s a small one-story, with a nice front porch that has two rocking chairs on it. My mother insisted I’d appreciate them someday.
“It’s big. Do you live alone?”
“Yeah.”
“You shouldn’t.”
I frown. “That’s... kind of rude.”
She tilts her head. “I meant, no one should.”
Before I can answer, she walks toward the porch. Dirt falls from the bottom of her dress with every step.
Fantastic. My neighbors are going to love this.
I hurry ahead and unlock the front door.
“Listen,” I say, keeping my voice low, even though there’s no one outside. “We need to set a few ground rules.”
She waits.
“No killing.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“No bringing attention to yourself.”
She looks down at herself. “I don’t know if I can promise that.”
“Great.”
“I am not the color of human flesh, and I have some rot spots.”
I let out a breath through my nose.
“Yeah.”
She says it so plainly, like she’s apologizing for muddy boots instead of... all of this.
I don’t know what to do with that.
She follows me inside. Within three steps, she’s tracked mud, leaves, and grave dirt from the front door to the living room.
I stare at the mess while she stares at the lamp.
“What is that?”
“A lamp.”
“It has… fire.” She crouches in front of the end table.
“It has a light bulb.”
She reaches toward the shade and stops an inch short, the way you would over a candle. “There’s no flame.”
“Nope.”
Her hand stays there, waiting for heat that never comes. “How?”
I rub a hand over my face. “I don’t even know where to start.”
She slowly walks through my living room. Her eyes drift from the television to the bookshelf, before settling on the framed picture of my parents on the mantel.
She stops in front of the refrigerator when it hums.
“It growls.”
“It keeps food cold.”
“Why?”
“So it doesn’t spoil.”
“I know why food spoils.” She sets her palm flat against the door, then takes it away. “I mean, why does it growl?”
“Oh.” I open my mouth to explain, and nothing comes out. There’s a compressor in there somewhere. Beyond that, I’m just guessing. “There’s a motor. It pulls the heat out and pushes it somewhere else.”
“We had a cellar,” she says. “Below the kitchens. Stone, and cold all summer.” Her hand goes back to the door, testing the hum through her palm. “This is smaller.”
She looks at me but says nothing else, so I head to the bathroom to get the shower started. A few minutes later, I come back from the bathroom, carrying a towel.
“I figured-”
I stop in my tracks. Ophelia’s standing in front of the mirror by the hallway, completely still.
One side of her face is almost untouched, pale beneath that green cast, her cheek still carrying the shape of the woman she must’ve been.
The other side isn’t, the skin is split near her jaw.
Darkened flesh peeks through beneath it, and dried earth clings near her temple.
She lifts one hand and touches the glass.
“Is that me?”
The question leaves my chest tight.
“Yeah.”
She doesn’t react, just looks. “I remember being... different.”
“I’d imagine.”
She lowers her hand. “I don’t remember how I looked…before.”
I hold the towel out. “You’ve got dirt.”
She takes it carefully, like she’s never held terry cloth before.
“What do I do with it?”
“You wipe.”
“Everything?”
“I mean...”
I gesture toward the dried blood. “Maybe start there.”
She nods seriously, as though I’ve handed her sacred instructions. She studies the towel for a second before unfolding it with careful hands, like she’s afraid she’ll damage it.
I spent the whole drive wondering how the hell I was supposed to live with a zombie. I wasn’t prepared for one who doesn’t know how to use a bath towel.
I head toward the kitchen before I can laugh; not because it’s funny, but if I don’t laugh, I’m going to remember the cemetery again, and I don’t think I can survive remembering it twice in one night.
I open the cabinet and reach for my favorite mug, then my hand grabs another one. I set them both on the counter before stopping. The second mug sits there beside mine. I stare at it.
She doesn’t drink coffee. Hell, I don’t even know if she drinks.
Slowly, I pick it back up. Before I can put it away, I hear quiet footsteps behind me. I glance over my shoulder. Ophelia stands in the kitchen doorway, still holding the towel. She looks from me to the second mug.
“What is that for?”
I look down.
“I...” The answer should be easy. Instead, I don’t have one.
So, I lie. “Habit.”
She nods like that makes perfect sense. Maybe it does… I don’t know anymore.
I start the coffee maker.
“Come on,” I say. “I’ll show you how the shower works before the water gets cold.”
The bathroom door is still open, and steam is gathered on the mirror. Ophelia stops just inside the doorway, turning slowly as her eyes move over the sink, the toilet, the glowing vanity lights. She watches the water pouring from the shower with the same wary attention she’d given my truck.
“It’s inside,” she says quietly.
“Yeah.”
She steps closer to the sink as I turn the faucet, startling when water stops.
“This turns it on.” I twist it again and the spray returns. “Turn it farther this way for hotter.” I rotate it left, and a cloud of steam rises. “Back this way for colder.”
She nods once, and watches as I pick up the bottles from the corner shelf.
“This one’s shampoo. It’s for your hair.”
She studies the label.
“And this is conditioner. You don’t have to use it, but it helps.”
“You have two kinds of soap?”
I laugh. “Apparently.”
I hold up the last bottle. “This is body wash. It’s basically soap.”
She accepts that answer with the same careful expression she’d given everything else tonight. Then she looks down at the floor, where the water disappears beneath the spray.
“It doesn’t flood.”
“No.” I point toward the metal circle beneath the shower. “That drain carries the water away.”
“Where?”
“Underground.”
She is quiet for a long moment.
“So, the house drinks it.”
I blink. “...You know, that’s not the worst way I’ve ever heard it explained.”
A hint of curiosity softens her face.
I hand her the towel. “When you’re done, dry off with this.”
She takes it carefully.
“And if you need anything...” I hesitate. “Just yell.”
She looks from the towel to the running water, then back to me.
“I will try not to drown.”
I smile before I can stop myself.
“That’s a good plan.”