[GV] Davidson, Mary Janice - Betsy 01 - Undead And Unwed

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UNDEAD AND UNWED

By Mary Janice Davidson

CHAPTER ONE

The day I died started out bad and got worse in a hurry.

I hit my snooze alarm a few too many times and was late for work. And didn’t have time for breakfast.

Okay, that’s a lie, I gobbled a pair of chocolate Pop Tarts while waiting for the bus. My mom would

have approved (who do you think got me hooked on the darned things?), but a nutritionist would have

smacked me upside the head with her calorie counter.

At a nine a.m. meeting I found out the recession (the one the President has been denying for two years)

had hit me right between the eyes: I had been laid off. Not unexpected, but it hurt, just the same. They

had to slash costs, and god forbid any of senior management be shown the door. Nope; the clerks and

secretaries had been deemed expendable.

I cleaned out my desk, avoided the way my co-workers were avoiding looking at me (the ones left, that

is), and scuttled home.

As I walked through my front door I saw my answering machine light winking at me like a small black

dragon. The message was from my stepmonster: “Your father and I won’t be able to make it to your

party tonight…I just realized we have an earlier commitment. Sorry.” Sure you are, jerk. “Have fun

without us.” No problem. “Maybe you’ll meet someone tonight.” Translation: Maybe some poor slob will

marry you and take you off my hands. My stepmonster had, from day one, related to me in only one

way: as a rival for her new husband’s affections.

I went into the kitchen to feed my cat, and that’s when I noticed she’d run away again. Always looking

for adventure, my Giselle (although it’s more like I’m her Betsy).

I looked at the clock. My, my. Not even noon.

Happy birthday to me.

* * * * *

As it turned out, we had a freak April snowstorm, and my party was postponed. Just as well…I didn’t

feel like going out, putting on a happy face, and drinking one too many daiquiris. The Mall of America is

a terrific place, but I’ve got to be in the mood for crowds, overpriced retail merchandise, and six dollar

drinks. Tonight I wasn’t.

Nick called around eight p.m., and that was my day’s sole bright spot. Nick Berry was a detective who

worked out of St. Paul. I’d been attacked a couple of months before, and…

Okay, well, “attacked” is putting it mildly. I don’t like to talk about it—tothink about it—but what

happened was, a bunch of creeps jumped me as I was leaving Kahn’s Mongolian Barbecue (all you can

eat for $11.95, including salad, dessert, and free refills). I have no idea what they wanted—they didn’t

take my purse or try to rape me. Basically, they clawed and bit at me like a bunch of rabid squirrels while

I fended them off with the toes of my Manolo Blahniks and screamed for help as loud as I could…so

loud I couldn’t speak above a whisper for three days. Help didn’t come, but the bad guys ran away.

Skittered away, actually. While I leaned against my car, concentrating on not passing out, I glanced back

and it looked like a few of them were on all fours.

Nick was assigned to the case, and he interviewed me in the hospital while they were disinfecting the

bite marks. All fifteen of them. The intern who took care of me smelled like cilantro and kept humming

the theme from Harry Potter.

That was last fall. Since then, more and more people—they didn’t discriminate between women and

men—were being attacked. The last two had turned up dead. So, yeah, I was freaked out by what

happened, and I’d sworn off Kahn’s until the bad guys were caught, but mostly I was grateful it hadn’t

been worse.

Anyway, Nick called and we chatted and, long story short, I promised to come in to look through the

Big Book O‘ Bad Guys one more time. And I would. For myself, to feel like I was being pro-active, but

mostly to see Nick, who was exactly my height (six feet), dark blonde, swimmer’s build, and looked like

an escapee from a Mr. Hardbody calendar. I’ve broken the law, Officer, take me in.

Making Officer Nick my eye candy would be the closest I’ve gotten to getting laid in…what year was

it? Not that I’m a prude. I’m just picky. I treat myself to the nicest, most expensive shoes I can get my

hands on, which isn’t easy on a secretary’s budget. I save up for months to buy the dumb things. And

those only have to go on my feet.

Yep, that’s me in a nutshell: Elizabeth Taylor (don’t start!), single, dead-end job (well, not anymore),

lives with her cat. And I’m so dull, the fucking cat runs away about three times a month just to get a little

excitement.

And speaking of the cat…I had just heard her telltaleRiaaaooowwwww! from the street. Super! Giselle

hated the snow. She had probably been looking for a little spring lovin‘ and gotten caught in the storm.

Now she was outside waiting for rescue. And when Idid rescue her, she’d be horribly affronted and

wouldn’t make eye contact for the rest of the week.

I slipped into my boots and headed into the yard. It was still snowing, but I could see Giselle crouched

in the middle of the street like a small blob of shadow. One with amber-colored eyes. I wasted ten

seconds calling her—whydo I call cats?—then clomped through my yard into the street.

Normally this wouldn’t be a problem, as I live at the end of the block and it’s a quiet street. However,

in the snow on icy roads, the driver didn’t see me in time. When he did, he did the absolutely worst thing:

slammed on his brakes. That pretty much sealed my doom.

Dying doesn’t hurt. I know that sounds like a crock, some touchy-feely nonsense meant to make

people feel better about biting the big one. But the fact is, your body is so traumatized by what’s

happening, it shuts down your nerve endings. Not only did dying not hurt, I didn’t even feel the cold. And

it was only ten degrees that night.

I handled it badly, I admit. When I saw he was going to plow into me, I froze like a deer in the

headlights. A big, dumb, blonde deer who had just paid for touch-up highlights. I couldn’t move, not

even to save my life.

Giselle certainly could; the ungrateful little wretch scampered right the hell out of there. Me, I went

flying. The car hit me at forty miles an hour, which was survivable, and knocked me into a tree, which

was not.

I heard things break. I heard my own skull shatter—it sounded like someone was chewing ice in my

ear. I felt myself bleed. I felt my bladder let go involuntarily for the first time in twenty-six years. In the

dark, my blood on the snow looked black.

The last thing I saw was Giselle sitting on my porch, waiting for me to let her in. The last thing I heard

was the driver, screaming for help.

CHAPTER TWO

My next memory was of opening my eyes to pure darkness. When I was a kid I read a short story

about a preacher who went to Hell, and when he got there he discovered the dead didn’t have eyelids,

so they couldn’t close their eyes to block out the horror. Right away I knew I wasn’t in Hell, since I

couldn’t see a thing.

I wriggled experimentally. I was in a small, closed space, which was an intriguing combination of soft

and hard. I was lying on something hard, but the sides of my little cage were padded. If this was a

hospital room, it was the strangest one ever. And where was everybody? I wriggled some more, then

had a brainstorm and sat up. My head banged into something soft/hard, which gave way when I shoved.

Then I was sitting up, blinking in the gloom.

At first I thought I was in a large, industrial kitchen.

Then I realized I was sitting in a coffin. Which had been placed on a large, stainless steel table. Which

meant this wasn’t a kitchen, this was—

I nearly broke something scrambling out. As it was, I moved too quickly and the coffin and I tumbled

off the table and onto the floor. I felt the shock in my knees as I hit and didn’t care; in a flash I was on my

feet and running.

I burst through the doors and found myself in a large, wood-paneled entryway. It was even gloomier in

here; there were no windows that I could see, just rows and rows of coat racks. At the far end of the

entry was a tall, wild-eyed blonde dressed in an absurd pink suit. She might have been pretty if she

wasn’t wearing orange blusher and too much blue eye shadow. Her brownish-rose lipstick was all wrong

for her face, too. She was so shockingly pale, just about any makeup would have been wrong for her.

She wobbled toward me on cheap shoes—Payless, buy one pair get the second at half price—and I

saw her hair was actually quite nice: shoulder-length, with a cute flip at the ends and interesting streaky

highlights.

Interesting Shade #23 Lush Golden Blonde highlights.

The woman in the awful suit was me. The woman in thecheap shoes was me!

I staggered closer to the mirror, wide-eyed. Yes, it was really me, and yes, I looked this awful. Well,

why wouldn’t I? I was dead, wasn’t I? That silly ass in the Pontiac Aztek had killed me, hadn’t he?

I was dead but too dumb to lie down. Dead and walking around inside the funeral home in a cheap suit

and fake leather shoes. The funeral must be tomorrow…later today, I amended, looking at the clock.

And my jerkweed of a stepmother must have picked out this outfit for me. And…

I slipped one of the shoes off, looked at the inside.Property of Antonia O’Neil Taylor .

The bitch meant to bury me wearing her cast-off shoes! This seemed more of an injustice than being

driven into a tree while my cat watched.

My cat! Who was going to look after the little monster? Jessica, probably, or maybe my mother…yes,

probably my mother.

My mother.

It occurred to me that I should seek out my grieving friends and family and tell them I had no intentions

of being buried. Then sanity returned. I was dead. I’d been zombified or whatever, and needed to finish

the job the guy in the Aztek had started. Or maybe this was purgatory, a task set for me, something I had

to finish before God opened the gate.

I had the fleeting thought that the doctors in the ER had made a mistake, but shook it off. I

remembered, too well, the sound of my skull shattering. If it hadn’t killed me, I’d be in an ICU now with

more tubes than a chemistry classroom. Not dolled up like a…

(dead)

…whore wearing cheap castoffs on my…

(dead)

…feet.

All that aside, I couldn’t bear to see anyone looking the way I did.

I walked to the end of the hallway, found the stairwell, and started climbing. The funeral home was three

stories high—and what they needed the other two stories for I wasnot going to think about—which

should be high enough, since I planned to go headfirst.

At first I thought the door was locked, but with a good hard shove it obligingly opened with a shriek of

metal on metal. I stepped outside.

It was a beautiful spring night—all traces of snow from the storm had melted. The air smelled wet and

warm, like fertility. I had the oddest feeling that if I were to scatter seeds on the cement rooftop, they

would take hold and grow. A night had never, ever smelled so sweetly, not even the day I moved into my

own place.

As I stepped onto the ledge, I ignored the not-inconsiderable twinge of apprehension that raced up my

spine. This wasn’t my last night on earth. That had been a couple of days ago. There was nothing to feel

sad about. I had been a good girl in life, and now I was going to my reward, dammit. I wasnot going to

stumble around like a zombie, scaring the hell out of people and pretending I still had a place in the

world.

“God,” I said, teetering for balance, “I’m coming to see you now.”

I dove off the roof and hit the street below, headfirst, exactly as I had planned. What wasnot in the plan

was the smashing, crunching pain in my head when I hit, how I didn’t even lose consciousness, much less

see my pal God.

Instead I groaned, clutched my head, then finally stood when the pain abated. Only to get creamed by

an early morning garbage truck. I looked up in time to see the horror-struck driver mouthing…

(Jesus Christ, lady, look out!)

…something, then my forehead made brisk contact with the truck’s front grille. I slid down it like road

kill and hit the street, ass first.

When I stood, brushing dirt from my cheap skirt, the driver slammed the truck in reverse and got the

hell out of Dodge. Not that I could blame him. But who ever heard of a hit and run garbage truck?

CHAPTER THREE

I am nothing if not persistent. Flinging myself into the Mississippi didn’t work: I no longer needed to

breathe. I floundered around on the muddy river bottom for half an hour before giving up and slogging my

way back to shore. Neither did grounding myself while I held onto a live power line (though it didawful

things to my hair). I drank a bottle of bleach, and the only consequence was a startling case of dry mouth.

I shoplifted a butcher knife from the nearby Wal-Mart—the place to shop if you’re dead, it’s three a.m.,

and you don’t have any credit cards—and stabbed myself in the heart: nothing.

I was walking dispiritedly down Lake Street, trying to figure out how to decapitate myself, when I heard

low voices and what sounded like muffled crying. I almost moved on—didn’t I have problems of my

own?—when good sense returned and I walked through the alley and around the corner. I saw three

men hulking around a woman. She was holding hands with a big-eyed girl. The girl looked about six or

so. Fear made the woman look about fifty. Her purse was lying on the ground between them. Nobody

moved to get it, and I had a quick, clear thought: she tossed it at them, and tried to run, and they

cornered her. They don’t want her purse. They want—

“Please,” she said, almost whispered, and I thought the acoustics must be very good, for me to have

heard them from almost a block away. “Don’t do anything to me in front of my daughter. I’ll go with

you—I’ll do whatever you want, just please, please—”

“Mommy, don’t leave me here by myself!” The girl’s eyes were light brown, almost whiskey-colored,

and when they filled with tears I felt something lurch inside my dead heart. “Just—you go away, bad

men! Leave my mommy alone!”

“Shhh, Justine, shhh…” The woman was trying to pry her daughter’s fingers free and made a ghastly

attempt at a laugh. “She’s tired—it’s late—I’ll go with you—”

“Don’t wantyou ,” one of the men said, his eyes on the girl. Justine burst into fresh tears, but not before

kicking the ground, raining pebbles and grit on the man’s feet.

“I’ll take you back to my car—the engine’s dead but I could—with all of you, just don’t—don’t—”

“Hey, assholes!” I said cheerfully. The five of them jumped, which surprised me…I wasn’t the world’s

quietest walker. I couldn’t believe I was doing this. I wasn’t exactly the confrontational type. On the

other hand, what did I possibly have to lose? “Er…you three assholes. Not the lady and the kid. Fellas,

could you come over here and kill me, please?”

Hugely relieved, Justine smiled at me, revealing the gap where she’d lost one of her baby teeth. Then

the men moved forward, and Justine grabbed her mom’s hand and started dragging her toward the

relative safety of Lake Street.

“I’ll—”

“Comeon , Mommy!”

“—get help!”

“Don’t you dare,” I snapped. “If you mess up my murder, I’ll be furious.” One of the men had grabbed

my arm, was dragging me back toward Justine and her mom. “Just a minute, pal, I’ve got to—” He

poked me, hard, and without thought I shoved.

The rest of it happened awfully fast. Jerkoff #1 hadn’t poked me, he’d stabbed me—for all the good it

did. And when I shoved, his feet left the ground and he sailed back as if hurricane-force winds had blown

him. When he finally touched ground he rolled for a good ten feet before he regained his feet and ran like

he’d had one too many chimichangas and needed a bathroom.

While I was staring and making my usual vocalization when I didn’t understand (“Wha…?”), the other

two moved in. I reached up and grabbed them by the backs of their necks, then banged their heads

together. There was a sickening crunch, and I heard—yech!—their skulls cave in. It was the sound I’d

heard at my cousin’s wedding when her groom stomped on the glass. The bad guys dropped to the

ground, deader than disco. Their faces were frozen in eternal expressions of pissed-off.

I nearly threw up into their staring faces. “Oh,shit !”

“Thank you thank you thank you!” Justine’s mom was in my arms, reeking of fear andDune perfume.

She was clutching me with not-inconsiderable strength and babbling into my hair. I wriggled, trying to

extricate myself without hurting her. “Ohmygod I thought they were going to rape me kill me hurt Justine

kill Justine thank you thank you thank you!”

“Err…that’s fine, Miss—uh, miss. Leggo now, there’s a nice hysteric.”

She let go of me, still babbling, staggered a few feet away, knelt, and started picking up the items that

had fallen from her purse. I instantly wanted to grab her back. Something about her—the blood,

the—she had scraped herself, or one of the men had cut her, and she was bleeding, the blood was

flowing beneath her shirt, on the inside of her upper arm, and it trickled steadily and suddenly I was so

thirsty I couldn’t breathe.

Justine was staring up at me. Her tears had dried, making her cheeks shine in the moonlight. She looked

very, very thoughtful. And about five years older than she’d looked five minutes ago. She pointed.

“Doesn’t that hurt like crazy?”

I looked down, then jerked the knife out of my side. Very little blood. “No. Thanks. Uh…don’t be

scared. Anymore, I mean.”

“Why’d you ask them to kill you?”

Normally I wouldn’t share unpleasant confidences with a strange child, but what could I say? It had

been one of those nights. Plus, shehad pointed out the knife sticking out of my ribs; I felt obliged to give

her an honest answer. “I’m a zombie,” I explained, except I was having trouble talking, all of a sudden.

“I’m trying to thtay dead.”

“You’re not a zombie.” She pointed at my mouth. “You’re a vampire. A good one, so that’s all right,”

she added.

My hand came up so quickly I actually bit myself. I felt the sharp tips of new fangs, fangs that had come

out when I’d smelled her mother’s blood, fangs that seemed to be taking up half my mouth.

“A vampire? How ith that pothible? I died in a car ackthident, for God’th thake! Aw, thon of a bith!”

“Are you going to suck our blood?” Justine asked curiously.

“Blood maketh me throw up. Even the thight of it—ugh.”

“Not anymore, I bet,” she said. This was the most level-headed first-grader I’d ever met. I was

tempted to make her my evil sidekick. “It’s okay. You can if you want to. You saved us. My mom,” she

said, her tone dropping; it was low, confidential, “was really scared.”

She’s not the only one, sugar…and by the way, I bet you’d taste like electricity, all that youth

and energy coursing through your bloodstream.

I clapped both hands over my mouth and started backing away. “Run,” I said, but I didn’t have to

bother; Justine’s mama had finished gathering up her things, taken one look at my new dentition, picked

up her daughter, and run in the opposite direction.

“There’th a gath thtathion at the end of this block!” I yelled after her. “You can call triple A!” I stuck my

fingers in my mouth. My lisp was going away, and so were my fangs. “And what were you thinking,

having your daughter out at four o’clock in the morning?” I shouted after her, freshly annoyed. “Dope!”

People think because Minneapolis was in the Midwest, rapes and murders and burglaries didn’t happen

there. They do, just not as often as, say, in Washington D.C. I’d bet a thousand bucks the car that had

broken down on them was a rental.

Well, the mystery was solved. I was a vampire. How, I had no idea. Car accident victims did not rise

from the dead. So I’d always thought, anyway.

Unless…could it have something to do with my attack a few months ago? The attackers had been

savage, snarling, barely human. Until tonight, it had been the most surreal thing to happen to me, and that

included the tax audit and my folks’ divorce. Could the attackers have infected me?

And why was I still me? Now that I was a ravenous member of the undead, I should be sucking little

girls dry and then lunching on their mamas. The men in the alley had been asshole predators, but I was

still horrified when I accidentally killed two of them. I’d let Justine and her mom go—hadordered them to

go. I was thirstier than I’d ever been in my—uh—life, but it wasn’t ruling me. I wasn’t an animal. I was

still me, Betsy, desperately in love with fine footwear and ready to give my eyeteeth (or my new fangs)

for Russell Crowe’s autograph.

Russell Crowe…nowthere was someone who’d make a delightful snack.

CHAPTER FOUR

“Father,” I said, “you have to help me.”

“I’ll be glad to, but I’m not a priest.”

“I’m going to Hell, and I didn’t do a damned thing to deserve being damned. Except for that whole

double homicide thing. But it was an accident! Plus, I should get points for saving Justine and her mom.”

“I’m not a priest, miss. I’m the janitor. And this isn’t a Catholic church—we’re Presbyterians.”

“Can you burn me up with holy water?” I had the man by the shirt, was pulling him up on his toes—he

was about three inches shorter than me. “Poke me to death with your crucifix?”

He gifted me with a sweet, loopy grin. “You’re pretty.”

Surprised, I let go of him. He did a shocking thing, then—flung his arms around me and kissed me.

Hard. Really very hard, and he put a lot into it, too; his tongue was poking into my mouth and something

hard and firm was pressing against my lower belly. He tasted like Wheaties.

I gently pushed him away, but even so he flew over the pew and landed with a jarring thud near the

pulpit. The grin didn’t waver and neither, unfortunately, did his erection; I could see the small tent in his

chinos. “Do it again,” he sighed.

“Oh, for—just—sleep it off!” I snapped and, to my surprise, his head dropped onto his shoulder and he

started to snore. Drunk, then…sure. I should have smelled it on him.

I took another look and cursed myself—of course he was the janitor; he was dressed in blue jeans and

a’t-shirt that read “D&E Cleaning: We’ll Get Your Mess!” In my keyed-up panic, I’d grabbed the first

person I had seen. He’d grabbed me back, but that was only fair.

I was still surprised I had managed to get inside the church without bursting into flame. But nothing like

that had happened. The door had opened easily and the church was the way they all were: forbidding,

yet comforting, like a beloved but stern grandparent.

I cautiously sat down on a pew, expecting a severe ass burning. Nothing happened. I touched the Bible

in front of me…nothing. Rubbed the Bible all over my face—nope.

Dammit! Okay, I was a vampire. Shocking, but I was getting used to it. Except vampire rules weren’t

applying! I should be a writhing tower of flame, not sitting impatiently in a pew waiting for God to send

my soul to Hell.

I glanced at the clock on the far wall. It was after five in the morning; the sun would be up soon. Maybe

a morning stroll would finish me off.

I smelled starch, old cotton, and aftershave, heard footsteps, and turned to see the minister walking

down the aisle toward me. He was a man in his early 50s, completely bald on top with a white monk’s

fringe around the sides and back of his head. He wore black slacks and a black short-sleeved shirt. His

cheeks were pink from where he had shaved, and he wore thick glasses and sported a heroic Roman

nose. A wedding band gleamed on the third finger of his left hand. He was about twenty pounds too

heavy for his height, which meant he probably gave the most excellent hugs.

He took in the scene at a glance: Cleaning Guy passed out and snoring on the floor, and Dead Girl

sitting in the pew looking like baked dog shit.

He smiled at me. “It must be Monday.”

I ended up telling him the whole story while he fixed coffee in the rectory. I drank three cups and

finished with, “Then I came here, but none of the doors or Bibles or anything are hurting me.” I left out

the part about the cleaning guy trying to mack on me in front of the pulpit—no need to get anyone in

trouble. “You don’t have a cross on you, do you?” I added hopefully.

For reply he unpinned the small silver cross on his collar and handed it to me. I closed my fingers

around it, tightly, but nothing happened. I gave it back.

“You can have it,” he said.

“No, that’s all right.”

“No, really! I want you to have it.”

His cheeks were flushed, and the color deepened as I grabbed his hand, pressed the cross into it, and

folded his fingers closed. “Thanks, but it’s yours. You shouldn’t give it to a stranger.”

“A beautiful stranger.”

“What?” First the cleaning guy, now the minister!

As if in response to my shocked thought, he blinked and slowly shook his head. “Forgive me. I don’t

know what’s come over me.” He touched his wedding ring absently, and that seemed to give him the

strength to look me in the eyes. “Please continue.”

“There’s nothing else. I’m lost,” I finished. “I don’t have the faintest idea what to do. I’m sure you think

I’m nuts, but could you just pretend to believe me and give me some advice?”

“You’re not nuts, and I don’t think you’re lying,” he soothed. He had a faint southern accent which

immediately put me in mind of grits and magnolias. “It’s obvious you’ve had a terrible experience and you

need—you just need to talk to someone. And maybe rest.”

I was too tired to stab myself in the heart with my coffee spoon to prove my point. I just nodded.

“As to why the Bible didn’t hurt you, that’s quite obvious, m’dear—God still loves you.”

“Or the rules don’t apply to me,” I pointed out, but even as I said it I realized how arrogant and

ridiculous that was. God’s rules applied to each and every person on the planet…except Betsy Taylor!

Shi…yeah. “So you’re saying I should stop with the attempts at self-immolation?”

“At once.” He was still touching his ring, and his voice was stronger now, less dreamy. “You said

yourself you helped that woman and her little girl, and you haven’t bitten anybody. You’re clearly in

possession of your soul.” He hesitated, then plunged. “A parishioner of mine works for a—a nice place in

downtown Minneapolis. Could I give you her card, and could you call her? If you don’t have a car I’ll be

glad to drive—”

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UNDEADANDUNWEDByMaryJaniceDavidson CHAPTERONE ThedayIdiedstartedoutbadandgotworseinahurry. Ihitmysnoozealarmafewtoomanytimesandwaslateforwork.Anddidn’thavetimeforbreakfast.Okay,that’salie,IgobbledapairofchocolatePopTartswhilewaitingforthebus.Mymomwouldhaveapproved(whodoyouthinkgotmehookedonthedarne...

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[GV] Davidson, Mary Janice - Betsy 01 - Undead And Unwed

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