Crazy Eyes

1

The dark slither of the moon's shadow glared down at me like an eye slit. My nails weren't dry yet. Purple Poison was the new shade to match blue eyes, TeenDaily said. I'd have died for a set of curlers right now - my hair had set in awkward, lanky locks that nobody could ever see me in.
I was going to be late. Three minutes. Two minutes, fifty nine seconds. I was due then, to make my appearance at some wannabe's Halloween party.
"Torrey," Mom called up the stairs, her voice strained. She always hated disappointing anybody - except her daughter. "Your ride is here!"
"Tell them I'll be down if they buy me a set of curlers!" I screamed out of my door.
"Torrey!"
I sighed and wiped the flecks of saliva from my lips - until I realised that I'd removed half of my Provocative Pink lip gloss as well. I hastily slathered on some more and tucked the tube inside my pocket in case I got to kiss anyone. Well. I was Torrey Adams. There'd be a line just to give me a hug.
Admittedly, I would quite like more than a hug or a kiss, but I have to be sensible since my best friend (at the time) kind of went down that route and is in trouble with the police because she's underage. She's called me to visit her in juvie hundreds of times but that'd ruin my reputation. It was her own fault anyway.
"Oi, Torrey!" Chantelle hollered up the stairs. "You coming or not?"
Smacking my lips together to make sure they had an even, glossy tone, I grabbed my clutchbag and hurtled down the stairs.
"Let's get this over and done with," I said, my feet squashed into Mom's Louboutin boots.
"Hey, Torrey? You're not wearing my boots, are you?" She nagged, but I'd swept out the porch before she clapped her eyes on them.
It was beginning to seem stupid to wear my new clutch 'n' cocktail dress I'd pilfered from Gabrielle, the girl in juvie. She'd never worn it and made me promise that I would not wear it either. I was just... keeping it warm for her! Chantelle's tanned olive skin was strapped into a Deluxe Designer Vampiress costume, the sort selling for $43.00 at the shopping centre. She had licked off her Red Redemption lipstick - and could clearly tell that it was visible.
"That was the last if it! Oh, crap!"
"Chill," I said calmly, supplying her with my lip gloss.
"It so doesn't go with my outfit!" She complained, her sooty lashes making marks on her eyelids.
We arrived at the party within a short time space. The foyer, usually swarming with drunk teenagers and beer cans, was empty. The ivy had twined around the plant pots, securing their upside down position.
"It looks like we've hit the wrong house..." Chantelle said slowly.
"No, we haven't. Two-three-seven. That's right! But where is everybody?" I said. I suddenly heard projectile vomiting.
"Ew!" I screamed as swathes of vomit reached us. It was black bile, and smelt like toxins.
I turned the corner to see hundreds of teens bent over, coughing up the same stuff. One girl keeled over, her blonde beauty smeared in bodily fluid. I saw her piercing blue eyes light up, then darken forever. Her pupils dilated into pinpricks as her skin began to mutate. Boils replaced every freckle on her arm and the tissue began to swell.
"We gotta go!" I hollered at Chantelle. A sea of boils and blood rushed towards us. Behind my shoulder, all I could see were daunting blue lights.
"You think we lost them?" I gasped finally. I was not used to sprinting in Louboutin heel boots - and it was not going to become a common thing, either.
"Yeah!" Chantelle seconded, her face puce.
"Great, I can go change my shoes if we're facing a zombie attack. That kid hosting the party probably just put something in the punch."
"Yeah!"
"Let's go to G - 63 for a burger -"
"And boys!"
"Yeah! Just remind me not to drink any punch."
"Okay," Chantelle agreed, flipping through her coin purse for change.
"Anything?" I asked hopefully.
"Zilch."
"Oh, great. I thought there would be chips or something there at the party so I didn't bring anything."
The translucent glow of the moon beams reflected on the glistening texture of the road. Gravel had been loosened with a thousand treads of feet at rush hour.
"Please, help us!" a starched voice whispered behind us. A girl. Straggly hair. British accent. London, maybe. She was supporting another teenager on her back. His dark hair covered his expression: but I knew it would be desperate. Blood dripped in swirls down her arms. Then, the blood stopped. His eyes began to leak a thick, metallic goo like tears.
"How?" I whispered.