Neverwake by Amy Plum

Author:Amy Plum
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2018-08-08T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 18

Cata

I PASSED OUT ON A HILL IN A CEMETERY. I WAKE up on the floor of a department store.

An elevator-music version of “The Girl from Ipanema” is playing over the speaker system. I hear Fergus groan nearby, and I force myself to sit up and look around.

We’re in a ladies’ sportswear section that looks straight out of the 1970s. The mannequins have shoulder-length, feathered-back hair that looks like my mom’s school photos from junior high. They’re wearing striped sweatbands around their foreheads and wrists that match their knee-length athletic socks.

Across the aisle from us is the men’s section. The male mannequins are dressed in polyester suits with wide lapels and colorful shirts unbuttoned to frame gold medallion necklaces.

“Holy Bee Gees!” Sinclair says, squinting at them as if he doesn’t quite believe it. He shades his eyes from the bright white fluorescent lights, and attempts to push himself up to his feet. Reeling, he reaches out to one of the mannequins for leverage. It comes crashing down as he stumbles drunkenly to the side. Propping himself up with his hands on his knees, he asks, “Anyone else have a completely undeserved hangover?”

“What happened back there?” I ask Fergus, who sits with his head between his knees.

“I don’t know,” he says, raising his head to look at me. “I thought I was having another cataplexy attack. That’s what it felt like, at least.”

“Anesthetic,” says Ant succinctly. “I had a tonsillectomy when I was four. It felt just like that when I went under.”

“But why . . .” I begin, and then it comes to me. “Maybe something happened to us in the real world. Something in the lab.” I look at Fergus for backup.

“Maybe they are trying to save us,” he says. “They must have done something that necessitated our being anesthetized.”

“Doesn’t look like it worked,” says Sinclair, holding his arms out and studying himself as if he expects a limb or digit to be missing.

“Where are we now?” I ask.

“Still in my dream,” Fergus responds, looking around. “Dawn of the Dead, 1978, from what it looks like.”

“The Dreamfall took us from one zombie movie to another?” asks Sinclair.

“At least this one’s a little more comfortable,” says Ant.

“Not for long,” says Fergus. “Not with the racket Sinclair just made.”

“Hey!” Sinclair says. “How was I supposed to know Disco Guy was such a lightweight?”

“Look,” Fergus whispers, and points to the far end of the aisle. A zombie dressed in a security guard costume is staggering around, seemingly searching for whatever made the noise. Its skin is moss green, and blood the color of neon ketchup is smeared on its face and neck.

We scramble to hide behind racks of clothes, but Ant looks unsure. “That doesn’t look scary,” she whispers. “It looks stupid. I’ve done better zombie makeup than that for Halloween.”

“George Romero, the director, wanted them to look cartoonish,” Fergus says.

“They’ll look scary enough when they’re tearing your guts out with their teeth,” Sinclair adds.

Fergus nods his agreement. “These ones move slowly. But they seem to pop up out of nowhere, and the danger is being cornered by too many at once.

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