Jailbait Zombie by Mario Acevedo

Author:Mario Acevedo [Acevedo, Mario]
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2010-08-01T23:22:49.053000+00:00

It was a charcoal sketch of the little Iraqi girl.

C

33

HAPTER

The sketch Phaedra held was a caricature, but the rendering captured mood in a way a camera never could. A round innocent face that had no business being close to war: hair drawn as wild zigzags that got lost in the confused crosshatched texture of the night sky; eyebrows arched in permanent horror; tiny lips twisted in sorrow. Every scratchy mark directed me to her eyes.

Dark eyes. Frightened eyes. Accusing eyes.

Her eyes were smudges of charcoal, but they projected light from deep within the paper. I wanted to slap the portfolio closed and push it away. But I was transfixed, both fascinated and frightened that the blackest of my memories was exposed.

Phaedra pulled out another sketch.

Soldiers huddled around the little girl where she lay dying on a poncho. Shadows radiated like spokes from each soldier as if the girl was a hub of blazing light. One soldier knelt by her side and leaned close with a bayonet. Me. That soldier was me.

I had unsheathed the bayonet to cut away her blood-soaked dress.

Phaedra sorted through the sketches.

A pair of man’s hands.

Covered in blood.

My hands.

The emotions burst out of me.

Fear.

Terror.

Despair.

Phaedra held up the drawings like they were exhibits at a trial.

My kundalini noir shrank into a tiny ball.

Now I understood. Phaedra had crossed the astral plane to dig into my psyche. She’d uncovered my nightmares and endless shame. Phaedra’s psyche had woven into mine and that’s why I’d seen her face merge with the Iraqi girl’s. My mind replayed the events of my vampiric life from the death of the Iraqi girl until now. My turning. My service as a vampire enforcer. The loss of Carmen to alien gangsters. The psychic attacks. Phaedra’s wish to cheat death. Were these events randomly strung together or were they a path leading me to this moment?

And this decision?

Turn Phaedra.

I wouldn’t do it, but to refuse was to let Phaedra die.

I withdrew from the world, falling, rolling, tumbling—delirious in a miserable confusion. A mental image of the little Iraqi girl came into focus.

Years ago, I’d been shot by vampire hunters and was close to dying. Wendy Teagarden, a supernatural dryad, gave me her blood and I was taken by a dream. In this dream I met the Iraqi girl and her family. They rose from the dead to confront me. In order for them to enter heaven, they had to let go of their hatred of me. The little Iraqi girl’s final words were “We forgive you.”

I returned from the dream, strong, complete, hungry.

Why wasn’t this memory depicted?

The delirium melted away. Clear-eyed and wary, I stared at Phaedra. “Why are you doing this?”

Her eyes were tiny yellow slits in the candlelight. “I’ve told you. So you can make me a vampire.”

“That will never happen.”

“It has to.” She jabbed at the drawings. Her fingernails gouged the paper. They left dark shiny smears. Blood?

She waved her stained fingertips. I smelled the blood. Was this a trick? Had she cut herself on the sly?

The revulsion was too much and I recoiled from her.

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