Drop Undead: Undeadly Deeds, #1

By Logan Riley

I help undead people. Yep, zombies. As if being a teenage girl isn't hard enough.

 

All the women in my family are zombie settlers. Basically, we help the undead rest in peace by settling their unfinished business. At least I used to, before the accident. For a while there, I thought I'd lost my powers forever.

 

But now they're back. Stronger than ever, and shockingly more volatile.

 

Too bad having powers doesn't help when it comes to mean girls and high school drama.

 

Death and dating. Danger and school dances. Dark spells and (really evil) bullies. That's my life.

 

My main goal right now is to stop whoever's using black magic to turn good zombies bad and wreaking havoc in my small town.

 

Falling recklessly, hopelessly in love for the first time is also on my list.

 

So really, just your typical sophomore year...

 

Previously published as You Are So Undead to Me by Razorbill / Penguin Books (c) 2009. This 2022 edition has extensive revisions, updates, storyline changes, and new added content throughout.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Logan Riley
• Release date: Sep 24, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215835845

Book preview

prologue

A cold wind sweeps across the hill, whistling through the headstones that poke up from the ground like dozens of crooked baby teeth. In the sky, a sickly yellow moon transforms the graveyard’s bare trees into guardians of bleached-white bone and somewhere in the distance, an animal screams…

Call me crazy, but I figure whatever’s going to happen next isn’t going to be fun.

Creepy graveyards aren’t your typical location for good times of the fluffy-bunny-and-rainbow-farting-unicorn variety.

A moment later, my fears are confirmed.

The earth begins to rumble, sending shockwaves of terror shivering up my legs.

My lips part. I try to cry out, but no sound comes, only a pathetic gurgling as the ground beneath me buckles. Gnarled tree roots burst from the soil, wrapping around my arms and legs, lifting me into the air, ripping more silent screams from my throat as the roots fling me down the steep slope toward the oldest part of the graveyard.

I throw my arms out to the side, clawing at patches of grass and loose gravel, trying to slow my tumble, but I’ve already built up too much momentum.

Faster and faster, I roll, skin tearing on the jagged rocks beneath me.

By the time I reach the bottom of the slope, there’s blood on my hands. It smears onto the dead leaves as I peer down into the inky blackness of three open graves. There, from the depths of the holes in the earth, three sets of glowing red eyes stare into mine.

Zombies.

Rotten flesh hangs loosely on their faces, chunks falling away as they groan and reach for me with gnarled hands. The smell of decay hits me like a physical blow, making me gag. I gasp for breath, fighting the urge to be sick, but I still can’t make a sound. I can’t force out so much as a whimper until a soft, rotten hand latches around my ankle and squeezes hard enough to send pain zipping along my nerve endings.

Help! I finally cry out as I kick frantically at the zombie trying to use my leg to leverage his rotten body from his resting place.

My gut tells me someone is nearby, someone who can help me if I can just shout loud enough to attract attention.

Help! I scream. Help me, please!

Before I can call out again, the zombie lunges the last few feet from his grave and tackles me to the ground. Ancient teeth tear through my clothes, shredding the fabric to get to my skin, digging into my shoulder so deep I can feel teeth grinding through my muscles. I howl as I shove at my attacker’s squishy face and kick at the other zombies near my feet, praying someone will hear me before it’s too late.

I’m beginning to lose hope when suddenly the cold night air echoes with a voice nearly as chilling as the moans of feral zombies. Nice outfit, Megan.

I look up to see Monica Parsons, fellow Zombie Settler and general mistress of evil, standing above me, watching the zombies feed with a smirk on her flawless face.

Help me! I beg. Please!

She snorts. "Sorry, not into rescuing fashion victims. What are you wearing?"

I glance down, gasping in horror as I see the hideous circa 1980s prom dress that has somehow found its way onto my body. The fuchsia monstrosity has puffed sleeves, a giant bubble skirt, and enough sequins to be visible from space. It’s the most wretched garment ever to see the light of day, or the light of the full moon in this case, and just may be the instrument of my social undoing.

"Does Josh know you’re wearing that to Homecoming? Monica asks, her lip curling. Poor guy. I really think he should be clued in to what a freak you are." She whips her cell from the pocket of her jean skirt, preparing to document my shame.

No! I wail, torn between fighting the zombies on top of me and covering my face to conceal my identity.

Some people might say real death trumps social death every time, but those people have never been fifteen and recovering from a prolonged awkward phase.

Just as Monica is about to snap her picture, another voice sounds from the darkness, "Desino! Absisto!"

Mercifully the zombie on top of me freezes in mid chomp. Seconds later a blurred shape slams into it, knocking it to the ground. I scream as a chunk of skin disappears with the zombie, but I don’t waste time crying over lost flesh. I scramble away from the graves on my hands and knees while my savior and attacker roll over and over, all the way to the side of the old church.

My lips are buzzing and blood flows down my arm to drip from my fingers, but I get to my feet as fast as I can.

I have to save the person who helped me.

But he’s so far away! I’ll never reach him time.

But I can reach…

Give me your hand! I lurch toward Monica, stumbling across the rocks in my bare feet, the wind whipping against my legs.

Now I’m wearing nothing but a torn sleep shirt. I have no idea where my shoes and the 1980s eyesore went and I don’t care. I need to get to Monica, get her hand in mine, and combine our power before—

Megan, Monica, run! my savior cries out as he wrestles with the zombie in the shadows. Get the others, get—

The boy’s voice becomes a strangled sound, making my heart jerk hard in my chest. I have to save him. I can’t let him die because I was stupid enough to go roaming around a creepy graveyard in the middle of the night.

I risk a brief look over my shoulder to see the other zombies lumbering forward, arms outstretched. Yellow, drooly stuff drips from their mouths and their hungry moans echo through the night air. They’re closing in, but they’re not close enough to stop me before I reach Monica.

I grab her hand, clinging tight to it when she tries to pull away.

Let me go, freak, we’ve got to— Monica’s words end in a screech as I dig my fingers into her palm.

With one last deep breath, I release every barrier to my power, every wall I first learned to erect to keep zombies from following me to the playground when I was five.

That’s it, Monica howls. You are never going to make the pom squad!

But I barely hear her. All I can hear is the roar of blood rushing through my ears, and the quieter hiss of more power than I’ve ever felt sizzling along my nerve endings, surging down to my fingertips.

"Reverto!" As I call out the command, I fling the power at the approaching zombies with a wave of my free hand.

For a moment, the two coming for me hesitate, faltering in their steps. But almost immediately they’re on the move again, groaning with rage, their red eyes burning with hate and hunger.

I tighten my grip on Monica’s hand, knowing we need to run, but unable to make my legs move now that the monsters are so close.

Say it again! Monica demands. "With me this time, you stupid—"

Okay! I sob. Okay!

Monica grips my fingers hard enough to make my bones rub together. Now!

She lifts her free hand, I lift mine, and this time we issue the Reverto command together. The zombies freeze in mid-stagger, spin around, and with a few final groans shuffle away toward the entrance to the woods at the edge of the cemetery.

My eyes fly to the tree line, where a figure in a black cloak is disappearing into the forest. I don’t know who it is, but it looks like they’re on the run.

We’re safe.

Well, at least Monica and I are…

Hello? Are you okay? I spin toward the boy who saved my life, but the world spins with me. My head feels so light I’m sure it’s going to float off my neck at any minute.

Wow, Megan. Desperate for attention much? Monica asks, her words transforming into wicked laughter. Laughter that is soon joined by the hundreds of people attending the Carol High homecoming dance.

No! I wail, trying to cover myself with my arms.

But it’s too late. Everyone has already seen me buck naked in the hot spotlights illuminating the platform where the Homecoming Queen should be standing to receive her crown.

My shame is complete, my life utterly and completely ruined. I will never be able to show my face in Carol again and—

---

I bolt upright in bed with a gasp, drenched in sweat despite the fact that I deliberately cranked down the air conditioning before climbing under the covers.

Thank God, it was a dream.

Just a dream…

At least, most of it was.

Everything except the attack. The scar on my shoulder won’t let me forget how real that was. The puckered flesh aches a bit as I huddle under my quilt, determined to get back to sleep and not to dream. Not to remember. It’s been years since I’ve been able to recall so many details about that night, and I certainly don’t want to dredge up any more. My mind has buried those memories for a reason, and they should stay buried.

Just like corpses should stay in the ground.

But things don’t always go the way they should.

Do they?

one

My cell rings at ten till six.

Jess is talking before I can even say hello.

So what are you wearing, the dress or the butt jeans? she asks, sounding nearly as breathless as I feel.

This is it: the first night of the rest of my life, the beginning of my de-freakification at Carol High. Pom squad tryouts are still a couple of weeks away, but it looks like I’m going to be accepted into the ranks of the normal, fun-loving humans at school even before I’m issued my official Cougar Pride dance team uniform.

Thursday afternoon, over a Bunsen burner in junior chem, I somehow scored a date with the hottest guy in school. I’m a year ahead and Mr. Hottie is a year behind, but it is clearly fate—and not smarts or a lack thereof—that made us lab partners. He needs help combining chemicals without blowing things up, I need help overcoming my ‘nerdy girl whose parents still monitor her screen time’ rep, and the universe stepped in to compassionately intervene. Thank you, universe!

The dress, I say, taking one final spin in front of my mirror. The one with the yellow and brown flowers.

Yellow and brown? I thought they were red.

Nope. Remember, it’s the one we got at—

Email me a pic, and I’ll check it on my laptop, she says. The stepmonster is still borrowing my cell until hers is fixed, but I’m online and—

The doorbell rings and I do my best to stifle a squeal of excitement. He’s here! Josh Pickle—lame last name, but trust me, he’s studly enough to pull it off—is really here to pick me, Megan Berry, socially insignificant sophomore, up for a date!

Okay, go! Jess says. But call as soon as you get home. I want to hear everything!

Will do. Bye, I say, already halfway to the front door.

I have to get there before my parents. Dad is wearing his weird who flung poo? monkey pajama pants and can’t be allowed to interact with anyone. Therefore, I can’t afford to play it cool and make my senior sex god wait a few seconds so it doesn’t seem like I raced to greet him at the door like an eager little puppy.

But whatever, Josh has to know I’m into him. It’s not like I’m good at hiding my emotions, and he still asked me out.

This is going to be fine. Better than fine!

Right. Deep breath, I whisper, pasting my biggest smile on my face as I reach for the door and pull it open. Hey, give me just a sec and—

My words end in a startled gasp.

---

There’s a dead person on my porch.

Again.

My flesh crawls and my stomach threatens a second showing of the seven-layer salad we had for dinner.

Mom! I scream, barely able to force out the word through the softball-sized lump in my throat. I slam the door in the guy’s face, and fumble with the lock with trembling hands, doing my best not to hyperventilate.

This can’t be happening! Josh is supposed to be ringing my doorbell, not some dead guy.

It is a guy right?

I open the door a crack and peek out. Yep. Definitely a dude. The shoulder length hair threw me for a second. The fact that his face is covered in grave dirt—eww!—doesn’t help things. But at least he hasn’t decomposed…much. He must be a fairly recent member of the Unsettled.

What is it, Megan? Dad and I were right in the middle of— Mom spies the dead guy and jumps about a foot in the air, before letting out an excited squeal and racing back into the kitchen. Seconds later, she emerges with a bunch of newspapers and begins spreading them on the floor near the front door.

Déjà vu hits like a ton of bricks.

It’s suddenly as if the past five years haven’t happened, as if I haven’t been zombie-free and normal long enough to lull me into thinking that my freedom was permanent. Even with the creepy dreams I’ve been having lately, I never thought my powers were coming back. After the attack, my entire family assumed I was done Settling the Dead.

But the guy on the porch, the newspaper on the floor to catch the dirt…

Crap on a cracker, it’s all so horribly familiar I expect to look down and find myself wearing the Hello Kitty pajamas I loved when I was ten.

Invite him in, Megan. I’ll go get the record book. My mom brushes her long brown hair out of her eyes and shoots me an excited smile.

She’s excited about this! Excited I am once again one of the freakiest kids in the Midwest.

No way, Mom. I shake my head frantically from side to side. Josh could be here any second. I’m not going to do this tonight!

Or any other night if I have anything to say about it, but no need to go there just yet. I know my mom considers our family’s legacy as Settlers of the Dead something wonderful, a vital paranormal service provided to those recently troubled in death, but she has no idea how hard it is to fit in as the only kid in school without a social media presence. Add in the need to hide the fact that I moonlight as a zombie-wrangler, and I’ll end up a tragic outcast for the rest of my life.

Megan Amanda Berry, she snaps. You invite that boy in. Now. That is a person out there, a person in need of your help.

I know he’s a person, Mom, but he’s a dead person, I moan. His life is already over. Mine doesn’t have to be.

Megan!

"Seriously, my life will be over if Josh shows up for our first date and sees a corpse in the entryway." I use my most reasonable tone, willing her with wide brown eyes to take pity on me in my moment of desperation.

I mean, can’t she understand the position I’m in? Everyone felt sorry for the kid in The Sixth Sense, and he was the only one who could see the dead people. Creepy, yes, but at least he didn’t have to worry about a zombie tailing him to softball practice and traumatizing half the population of Carol, Arkansas.

Well then, you’d better hurry and take his statement before Josh gets here. She disappears into the kitchen, no doubt on her way to her and Dad’s room to look for the Book of Unsettled Records.

I thought I was done with that thing after what happened, after that night.

Even with the humid air streaming into the house, I shiver. I don’t want to think about that night. Not now. Not ever. The dreams are bad enough, no need to torture myself while I’m awake.

I turn back to the zombie, eying him up and down. He seems normal enough—for a zombie. He doesn’t drool or lunge at my throat. He just stands there, looking a little spaced out, the way most Unsettled do until you give them the cue to start spilling their guts.

I motion him inside with a resigned sigh, being careful not to let him touch me as I shuffle around to close the door. It won’t matter how nice I look if I smell like a decomposing corpse. The musty rotten smell of the Unsettled is a bear to get out of clothing and there’s no way I’m ruining the perfect date outfit.

The world’s most gorgeous sundress is retro without being too prissy and fits perfectly. It picks up the goldish swirls in my brown eyes, looks great with my end-of-summer tan, and is basically the most awesome piece of clothing ever.

Over the summer, I finally outgrew the last of my awkward, gangly stage and look good in clothes, even though I still barely fill out the built-in bra of my dress. It’s my mother’s fault. We look scarily alike, and she’s always been super thin and almost pancake flat.

I already know luscious curves are not in my future. It doesn’t seem fair to add zombie sitting to my destiny. I mean, seriously, how much injustice can one person be expected to endure?

Hey Meggy, heard you had a visitor. Dad pops his head out from the kitchen but doesn’t come any closer.

He still isn’t completely cool with the zombie stuff, even though he’s been married to Mom for twenty-three years, the first eight of which she was on active Settling duty. Her zombie-summoning juju started to fade when her offspring—me—began showing signs of power.

Dead people started showing up on my porch when I was five. Dead kids, to be specific—Settlers usually attract zombies around the same age.

Yeah. What a great surprise, right? I smile at Dad, trying to act like this isn’t freaking me out. The dead guy grunts and shuffles on the papers, but his eyes remain fixed somewhere in the distance. I guess he can tell I’m not talking to him yet. Normal zombies are perceptive that way and far more mannerly than your average Walking Dead episode would have you believe.

Your mom said this might happen, you know, as you got older and started to…develop. Dad looks like he swallowed expired milk. I don’t know what’s bothering him more—the zombie or discussing my hormones. Mom warned me a year ago when I finally started my period that hormonal fluctuations sometimes enhance Settler skills.

Gag. As if T-zone breakouts and cramps aren’t enough.

Yeah. Did she find the book yet? I ask, ready for a subject change.

Not yet, Dad says, but you know how things are in The Closet.

The way we say Closet in our house makes it clear the c is capitalized. The Closet is great and fearsome and full of more crap than any three-person family should own, let alone try to squeeze into a four-by-six-foot space. I nearly killed myself trying to sneak a peek at my Christmas presents when I was twelve and haven’t been in there since.

I glance at the clock near the hall closet. Fudge nuggets!

Less than ten minutes to arrival if Josh is on time! This calls for drastic measures.

Dad, could you grab me the notepad Mom uses for the grocery lists? I’ll write the stuff down there and transfer the info later.

Is that SOP? Dad’s retired Air Force and believes there’s an SOP—standard operating procedure—for everything.

No, I say, but neither is letting someone outside the family see an out-of-grave phenomenon.

He nods. Gotcha. I’ll grab you something to write with and then help your mom look. Be back in two minutes.

He practically runs from the room, obviously not wanting Josh to see the zombie in our foyer any more than I do. Before I was born, a neighbor caught on to what was happening at the Berry house. My mom and dad were forced to move halfway across the country—from sunny California to Sticksville, Arkansas—to avoid Mom being outed as a zombie wrangler.

Of course, that would happen before I was born so I don’t even have the cool factor of saying I was born in Cali. Luckily, my dad was able to transfer to an Air Base in Arkansas last time, but I can tell he’s worried where we’ll be sent if we’re discovered again. Settler Affairs doesn’t mess around when it comes to being discovered. If you break cover, they decide how far you run.

Apparently Dad doesn’t want to find out if we’ll be relocating to Outer Mongolia if my movie date meets up with my zombie date. He’s back in a flash with pen and paper. I’ll go check on your mother. If you hurry, you can have this guy out the back door before I dig her out of The Closet.

But she gets mad if I let them walk through the house, I say though that isn’t the real reason for my nerves.

I haven’t done this in so long.

What if I forget something?

I’ll vacuum after you leave for your date. Dad smiles, and I can’t help but smile back as he gives me a thumbs up and disappears. For a man who was adamantly opposed to letting his not-quite-sixteen-year-old go out with a senior, he’s being incredibly cool.

And I can’t let that coolness go to waste. Forget doing things the Settler way. I have to get this guy out of here and get on with my real life.

With a deep breath, I turn back to the dearly departed.

Here goes nothing…

two

Welcome to your after death session. My name is Megan. May I have your name, last name first? The words roll off my tongue with the same practiced ease they did years ago.

And here I thought I had suppressed all that zombie stuff.

Anderson, William. His eyes focus in on mine and I can see that they were once a nice shade of blue. Nearly as nice as the grin he flashes as the human part of him comes on line. Even with dirt in his teeth, you can tell that smile probably broke a few hearts when he was alive. Nice to meet you.

Nice to meet you, too. I feel that familiar flash of sadness that comes from dealing with kids my age who have already met their end. Settlers are a fairly spiritual group, and I’ve been raised to believe that these troubled souls will go to a better place after they get their earthly business off of their chests, but still, it’s sad, especially with people so young.

Can you give me your address before death, William?

My pen flies across the paper as he rattles off an address not too terribly far away. Then I ask him for a phone number and a list of surviving family members.

You have to get all the basic details out of an Unsettled before you let them spill whatever is bothering them so much that they were compelled to crawl out of their grave and go looking for supernatural intervention. If you don’t, chances are you’ll never get the 411. Once they