Read Zombies Don't Forgive for Free Online Page A

disappointed.
    I mean, I thought he was dragging me into his bedroom because Stamp was finally gone …

4
Monsters on Parade
    Growl.
Dane chases me across the stage of
The Great Movie Monster Makeover Show.
    Stamp growls even louder, pursues even more aggressively.
    I nearly duck his wide, swinging arms. “Hey,” I whisper as I hide behind him, the audience laughing as if this is part of the performance. “Take it easy on the overaggression there, big guy.” I shove him, just a little too hard, to let him know I’ll only play the victim so long.
    He goes flying, tumbling toward the end of the stage.
    Just in time, Dane grabs the back of his jacket and keeps him from careening into the third row.
    More laughter, spontaneous applause.
    Dane looks at me from behind the Frankenstein mask. “Cut it out,” he says, using the nervous laughter of the audience as cover.
    Stamp stumbles back, waving his arms, making a big production out of it. I think he’s smiling, even though I can only see his eyes behind the goofy mask. He chases me around the stage, still growling, and now I can’t tell if he’s happy or sad or scared or faking it or for real mad at me. I only know there should be two Frankies chasing me and there’s only one.
    â€œHey,” I blurt when we pass Dane, who’s standing awkwardly at the end of the stage, peering past the house lights at the audience. “What gives?”
    He springs to life, grunting and waving and chasing me offstage.
    The curtain falls.
    I punch Stamp in the arm. “The hell?”
    But he’s already onstage again, ruffling the curtains and poking out through the middle as he yanks off his mask.
    Dane and I join him for our final bows.
    It’s cheesy, sure, but with these tourists, you wouldn’t believe who passes for a celebrity these days. They’d rather get the autograph of some two-bit ham in a rubber Frankenstein mask than go home empty-handed.
    Stamp does his thing, bounding down into the audience, still wearing his mask and then finally revealing his cute face.
    The girls swoon and rush him with their little copies of the black-and-white photo they got up front. Don’t worry. It’s not even of us, so no danger of the Sentinelsusing it to track us down.
    I’m next to Stamp, feeling lonely and out of place because nobody ever asks the non-Frankenstein girl for her autograph, not even out of pity. So I’m not as distracted as Stamp is when Dane bounds by in his sweats and a flannel shirt, looking around the audience before slinking through the chairs to the exit.
    â€œDane?” I follow him. I don’t know. There’s just something about the urgency in his step, the tension of his shoulders, that screams three-alarm fire.
    I look back at Stamp, still playing the ham, growling and mugging for the cameras with the tourists. He doesn’t even notice me. I race past the last row. Outside, I get slight waves from folks.
    â€œHey, hey, lookee there,” says some red-faced bloke with an English accent, tipping his madras driver’s cap. “It’s the lass from the monster show!”
    I bow and smile and see Dane’s bristly head weaving and bobbing through the crowd beyond. I walk as briskly as possible, legs a little rigid for this kind of cat-and-mouse chase. Folks smile at me as I pass, figuring the stiff-legged walk is all part of the act, and suddenly I remember. I’m still in costume!
    It’s a pretty big no-no. If my manager, Mr. Frears, were to spot me offstage like this, I’d be fired. But he’s not working today, so I’m not too worried about it. I look down at the scrappy dress, the fugly shoes, and theblood splatters on my stockings. I must look a fright, but sometimes it’s easier to hide as a monster than it is to pass as a Normal.
    â€œDane!” I finally catch up, yanking him around more roughly than I wanted to.
    He turns around and