by Angela Scott
Release date: September 20th 2015
Summary from Goodreads:
Zia would give anything to be a typical teenager... again. Heck, she’d settle for being a vampire or smelly werewolf, but a member of the walking dead? The lowliest of all the monsters? No way! Nothing is worse than being a skin-sloughing, limb-losing, maggot-housing, brain-craving undead girl. Nothing.
It wouldn’t be so bad if humans didn’t insist on “Living Impaireds” wearing bands to keep their insatiable appetites in check. And if LIs want to coexist with humans, then rules must be followed, no matter how ludicrous they might seem. Why do undead teenagers have to go to high school anyway?
Zia does her best to blend in and go unnoticed, but when a new group of LIs are bused in from another school and she finds herself part of a growing horde, all bets are off.
Besides, rules are meant to be broken—especially when an unbeating heart is pulled in two different directions.
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Excerpt:
He’s the first human, besides my parents, to take any interest in me. It’s kind of strange. Even though I’m not sure what to make of it, I like it.
Excerpt:
I push open the door to Mr. T’s room and hesitate before stepping inside. Large machines and shiny metal tools line the walls and various work benches. There’s an ominous humming coming from one extra intimidating machine to my left, and there’s an overall painter-sawdusty smell that permeates the air. Crap. Lewis was right. I could lose more than my brain here.
I’m about to change my mind and walk away when Eli calls to me. "Zia, over here!" He’s sitting near the back, his backpack tossed on the floor, and several bottles of chemicals on the table in front of him. He waves me over.
I didn’t even know he knew my name. Being only one of two zombies in the school, I should have figured he’d know.
I start walking to where he sits, waiting for me. The wood shop is empty. Not even the teacher is here, which I find rather disturbing. Shouldn’t someone be monitoring our activity? What if Eli is about to blow up the place with his chemical concoction or tries to decapitate me? There are laws against both of those things, but it doesn’t stop some people from trying it.
"I’m not going to hurt you," he says. "I think I got it figured out."
I’m still not sure about this. Sandpaper lies next to everything else he has placed on the table. Sandpaper can’t be good.
"You still got your finger?" He looks at me, and I nod. I reach in my pocket and hand it over to him.
He turns it over, studying it, before he sets it down. "Let me see your hand."
I’m rather embarrassed. I’ve been trying to hide it all day—self-conscious, I guess.
"It’s okay." He holds his hand out to me, and I slowly slip my hand into his. He doesn’t freak or scream. He looks at the knuckle where the finger snapped off and stares at the jagged bone. "Do you know how you did it?"
I shake my head. "I have no idea. It was attached one minute. The next, it was in your hand."
"Interesting," he says while still holding my hand in his. He glances at me and smiles. "So you don’t feel any pain at all?"
"No, nothing."
"Then you need to be more careful."
I indicated my finger on the table. "Don’t I know it."
"Your hand’s really cold." He turns my hand first one way and then another.
"Sorry." I try to pull my hand from his, but he continues to hold it and doesn’t let go.
"It’s okay," he says. "It doesn’t bother me."
I ask the question that’s been on my mind all day. "Why are you doing this?"
He narrows his brows and looks at me as though I’ve asked an odd question. "I thought I could help."
"That’s exactly what I mean. No one helps me. Not now, anyway."
He’s still holding my hand. "I refuse to play school politic type games. I have nothing against vamps or werewolves"—he pauses and looks at me—"or zombies, but if anyone tries to bite me or suck my blood, I’ll have to kill them."
I nod. "Fair enough." I wouldn’t expect any less. It was only several months ago I carried a wooden stake, a machete, and small pistol loaded with silver bullets in my backpack. ‘Tis the way of the world now. Most everyone has some sort of concealed weapon on them, including preschool children.
Now, I’m on the other side, hoping no one will use their weapons on me. I do my best to behave and follow the rules, all of them, even if I don’t completely agree.
"For the epoxy to stick, I’ll have to sand down the two ends of the bones. They won’t match up and hold together otherwise, but I can have this fixed in no time."
I watch him fold the sandpaper lengthwise, grab my hand once again, and with as much gentleness he can afford, he runs it across my exposed bone, being careful not to nick the remaining skin around it.
"You doing okay?"
"Yeah, I’m fine. It doesn’t hurt." Vibrations run up the length of my arm. That’s it. I feel no pain.
"Did you miss the bus?"
"Yeah, but that’s okay. If you can fix my finger, it will be worth it. My dad is still having a hard time with this whole me being-a-zombie thing."
"I can give you a ride home if you like."
"That’s okay. I don’t want to put you out. You’re doing enough as it is and, really, I can walk. It’s not far." My home is only a few miles from the school. If I’m lucky, don’t run into trouble and walk faster than my normal gait, I should be home a little after dark.
"And risk you losing another finger? No way. I’ll take you home."
"Eli, that’s nice and everything, but...I’ll stink up your car. It’s not an easy smell to get rid of either. It’s better if I walk." I hate bringing it up.
"I have a motorcycle. The smell won’t even be a problem." He looks up and stops sanding my finger. "Besides, your smell isn’t that bad. Rory’s is much worse."
He picks up my finger and sands the bone. When he finishes, he sets it aside and begins to mix the powder and liquid compounds.
"This will set fast, so I’ve got to get it right the first time. You don’t want me gluing your finger on backwards."
A backward finger would be the least of my problems, but I don’t say so. He puts a bit of the goo on my finger, takes my hand once more, and presses the two pieces together.
"Isn’t Isabelle your sister or something?" He continues to hold my finger in place.
"Or something. She’s my step-sister. Why?"
He shakes his head. "No reason. I was trying to connect the dots. I guess being step-sisters would explain why you’re pretty cool to talk to and she’s... not. No offense, but she's a bit of a snob."
"No offense taken. I completely agree with you. Imagine what it’s like living with her."
Eli laughs a little. "That’s okay. I’d rather not." He releases my hand. "Test that out. See what you think."
I bend my finger and move it around. It seems to be working fine. Eli grabs my reattached digit and gives it a tug. "Don’t toot."
"What?"
"Never mind," he says. "Bad joke. Looks like it’s holding."
Eli did a great job. He even glued the skin around my finger into place and unless someone looks closely, no one could even tell.
"Thanks. It looks almost as good as new.""No problem. Let me clean up here and then I’ll take you home."
He’s the first human, besides my parents, to take any interest in me. It’s kind of strange. Even though I’m not sure what to make of it, I like it.
About the Author
I hear voices. Tiny fictional people sit on my shoulders and whisper their stories in my ear. Instead of medicating myself, I decided to pick up a pen, write down everything those voices tell me, and turn it into a book. I’m not crazy. I’m an author. For the most part, I write contemporary Young Adult novels. However, through a writing exercise that spiraled out of control, I found myself writing about zombies terrorizing the Wild Wild West—and loving it. My zombies don’t sparkle, and they definitely don’t cuddle. At least, I wouldn’t suggest it. I live on the benches of the beautiful Wasatch Mountains with two lovely children, one teenager, and a very patient husband. I graduated from Utah State University with a B.A. degree in English, not because of my love for the written word, but because it was the only major that didn’t require math. I can’t spell, and grammar is my arch nemesis. But they gave me the degree, and there are no take backs. As a child, I never sucked on a pacifier; I chewed on a pencil. I’ve been writing that long. It has only been the past few years that I’ve pursued it professionally, forged relationships with other like-minded individuals, and determined to make a career out of it.
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