My nodding continued. “I second that, though we’ll need to wait until it’s dark then because there are still humans around, too many eyes to easily spot a tottering zombie or two with, especially inside.”
Lola frowned. “Which means more time for our husbands to revert, if they haven’t already.”
“I’m afraid so,” I told her.
“And if they revert, if they’re released out here after that happens?”
My frown hung even lower than hers. After all, I’d seen what humans did to zombies when they encountered them. “Look, if they’re really being used for bargaining chips, if they’re here to prevent us from attacking, then they won’t be released, cognizant or not.”
“Sorry, but no then,” she said after a lengthy pause, surprising me to the quick. “No, I can’t risk my husband turning zombie with a chance of staying that way forever, with a chance of never seeing me again or me him.”
“But what choice do we have?”
And with that the tiniest of smiles appeared on her glorious face. “What if the bad guys were ordered to release our husbands?”
“Ordered?” I said. “By whom? Topaz would be the highest in command, I assume, and she’s the enemy.”
“But there’s a higher power than even the priestess?”
“There is?” I asked, lost as usual. “Who?”
Her smile grew and grew. “Who do the people worship, Creature? Who have they already seen, according to what you told me? Who did they see, in fact, back at the marina?”
“Blondella?” I coughed out. “But she’s dead, and truly dead this time, not her usual form of dead.”
“No one knows that but us.”
I held her hand in mine and gave it a squeeze. “It’ll never work, Lola. They saw me from a distance last time. Up close, they’ll know I’m a zombie, they’ll know I’m not her. I’m too, too . . .”
“Decrepit?”
“Well, you don’t have say it like that.”
It was now her turn to squeeze my hand. “But one of us is not, Creature. Not decrepit, that is. And one of us is quite the good actress. Tony-winning in fact.”
At last, a smile broke free from my face. “Two-time!”
With her next attempt at touching fingertip to nose, she actually hit the mark. “Silence!” she then shouted, sounding like Blondella to a tee. And with my blonde wig atop her head, she’d be looking like her in no time flat. And not the zombie version either. No ma’am, no how.
Plus, I had a secret weapon to ensure our success.
***
We found one of the island’s many golf carts in a parking area to the side of the statue. Lola covered me with a blanket that had been sitting in the back seat. With my wig on and a fresh coat of makeup, she looked human. Me, I looked like a lump, but a talking one just the same, telling my friend where to head to.
Twenty minutes later, give or take, we’d traversed the pontoons instead of searching around Libby, no one the wiser that zombies were in their midst. As for searching the statue, we’d have to wait until it was dark outside, and so we pulled up to the side of the museum instead. A side door was open, the two of us slipping in unseen. As with our last two times in there, the place was empty.
“Whoa,” said Lola, taking it all in, the mural especially.
I couldn’t help but smile. “My friends were some fierce bitches.”
“Blondella included.” She pointed up to the mural, the sun from an upper window illuminating the panel like the holy shrine that is was.
“Death, for you, for me, was quick and painless, Lola,” I explained. “For her, it was long and agonizing. It warped her, made her into what you witnessed. Though, to be fair, even in life she was one taco short of a combination plate. Perhaps that’s what made her so unique in the first place.”
“And the people here, they worship this uniqueness now, worship your friends?” she asked, still admiring the scenery.
I shrugged. “They worship a legend. I suppose all throughout history the same could be said. In any case, the society they’ve formed, it has seemed to work for three hundred years, so why rock a boat that’s clearly in choppy waters to begin with?”
“Good point.” She turned and looked at me. “But why are we here?”
I grabbed her hand and walked her over to the cases, to their clothes. “The cherry on the sundae.” I pointed to the last case.
“Those . . . those were hers?”
“Nope.”
She looked at me, confused. “Nope? What do you mean nope?”
“I mean nope,” I replied. “Blondella clearly wasn’t killed in the zombie attack that the mural depicts. She’s not buried out back. And these weren’t her clothes. They’re too small—for her, that is.”
In an instant, she understood what I was getting at. “This pantsuit, it’s my size.”
“Well, more your size than hers, that’s for sure.”
“And with this wig and just the right makeup . . .”