Third party POV fic, and completely crack-tastic. Spoilers through 213 or so.

Happy reading, and I'll see you at the bottom!


"Death cannot stop true love. All it can do is delay it for a while."
The Princess Bride

I hate him.

I hate him for thinking that he can control my life and who I choose to sleep with with just because he was using me to forget about the fact that his slutty ex-girlfriend was murdered.

I hate him for thinking that he can replace me so easily, that there are a thousand girls in the world that can give him what I can, what I did.

But I hate her more. I hate the girl that he sought solace with once upon a time, the girl that had the sheer audacity to try to replace my role in his life, to try to take over my rung on the social ladder.

And it's the nerve of that fucking skank that has brought me here today.

I know that they're not together anymore, that she refuses to have anything to do with him now.

But I also know that he still cares about her. I don't understand it. How can he fucking love her when she dumped him for no reason at all?

I'm here today to extract my vengeance, to make that bitch pay for hurting my man. And then he'll see the lengths to which I'll go for him, the enormity of my love for him.

And then he'll be mine once again.

I heft the bow as the girl comes into my line of sight, and I stretch the bowstring back to my ear, my knuckles brushing against my silky blonde curls. My gaze darts just to the left of the girl as I see him arrive, right on schedule.

Zing!

The arrow flies straight and true towards its intended target. However, it rustles some foliage as it moves from my obscured vantage point above the scene below, and that sound catches the attention of the object of my affection.

Impossibly, he darts in the direction of the sound, shoving my archenemy out of the path of the poison-tipped arrow and thrusting himself that much closer to death's door.

Logan Echolls has always been one for theatrics, but this is a bit unbelievable.

"Logan!" she cries out, when his body hits the pavement bonelessly.

"Love you, Veronica," he gasps with his final breaths, and I cannot believe his utter stupidity. He still loves her, this whore who just got him killed?

Quickly, I fit a second arrow to my bow, not wanting to let my intended target escape. Veronica Mars deserved to die for her actions when the day began. Causing the death of Logan Echolls is just another item to add to the list of charges.

"I love you, Logan. I love you too," she cries, as his last breath escapes his lips. She presses a soft kiss against his forehead, likely so wrapped up in missing the man that is only dead because of her that she doesn't realize a second arrow is humming through the air, headed straight for her fickle heart.

It's with no small amount of pride that I watch my nemesis collapse beside Logan's body. I am an excellent shot, after all, having been forced to find some hobby to amuse myself after being ostracized by my high school peers.

Archery has always appealed to me. The romanticism of it all – Cupid shooting arrows from the clouds above to make those below fall in love.

And, well, the idea of vengeance was also preeminent in my mind.

It's a pity, really, that Logan is dead. He was such a good fuck, after all, but there's nothing I can do to change that fact now. It's his own fault anyway, for being so foolish as to want to save the wanton Veronica Mars.

I climb down from the tree, careful not to tear my pretty dress or muss my golden-blonde hair, and reach for the shovel stashed behind the big, sturdy oak tree.

My gaze falls on Logan's gorgeous face, his snarky mouth now locked shut under the curse of death.

Pity he had to be so stupid and die so young, I think as a hail of dirt lands on the two bodies.

Pity he had to fall for that tramp, Veronica Mars.

000000000

It's nighttime. I'm back in the deserted park where the bodies of Logan and Veronica are rotting beneath the surface of the ground. I don't know why I've returned. Returning to the scene of the crime is just a surefire way to be tied to my thus-far-secret crime.

I will never be caught. I will get away with my actions.

After all, punishing Veronica for her slutty ways was justified – and necessary. It was a shame that Logan felt the need to go all noble for the little harlot and get himself killed. But I am not to blame for that, I know that much.

My cause is just, and I will prevail.

I feel a tug on my foot – almost as if someone is pulling at my shoelaces. But there's no one around. Clearly, I'm just imagining things.

But then I feel it again – a little harder this time, a little more urgent this time.

I try to step away from whatever weed has caught hold of my shoes, but I find that I can't move my feet. Immediately, I glance downwards and see a pair of perfectly manicured pink nails holding down one foot and a pair of more masculine hands holding down the other.

I don't know what's going on, and I'm freaking out as I watch these events unfold around me.

I almost feel as if I'm being pulled down into the ground, and I can't figure out what's going on as the ground is clearly solid, and I can't be just whisked underground as easy as that, can I?

It's not too much longer before I understand why I felt the downward pulling motion.

Two heads – one blond and one brown – start to break through the dirt on either side of me.

Logan and Veronica. They're coming back to life. They're coming back to haunt me.

It's not long after that that I awaken in my bedroom. I'm alone in the dark, scared shitless, and unable to make a sound.

000000000

I hear a thumping noise but am still unable to differentiate between any shapes or see any shadows. I don't understand how that is possible, as I saw the full moon rising in the sky as I was walking home. The moonlight, at the very least, should be shining through the window.

My lips tug into my typical pout, and it's then that I feel the pull of my skin against something foreign, something unfamiliar.

A blindfold. Someone – probably the same someone who is making that pounding racket – blindfolded me, bound my hands and feet, and tied me to this stupid fucking chair. Fan-fucking-tastic.

I shake my head repeatedly, trying to get the cloth to move enough so that I can get some idea of what the hell is happening in my room.

I tilt my head to the left, trying to use my shoulder to shift the blindfold, when it suddenly falls away completely and bares my eyes to the sight before me. A sight I had never wanted to see to begin with, a sight that which makes me wish I could replace the cloth over my eyes.

The first thing I notice isn't so bad – not at all. After all, Logan Echolls has always had a very nice body, and the fact that he is naked and on my bed? Definitely not something I ever thought I'd object to.

Rather, it is the fact that Veronica Mars has her legs wrapped around his waist, and he's riding her hard, sending the headboard slamming into the wall every few seconds. That would, of course, be the repetitive, rhythmic noise that I heard earlier.

But, still, the thing that really bothers me – beyond the fact that Logan would rather sleep with that whore than with me – is the fact that both of them are supposed to be dead. After all, I put enough poison on those arrows to kill a decent-sized elephant, and I buried the pair of them earlier that evening.

Then I remember my nightmare.

Their hands, climbing out from under the soil. Their heads, breaking through the ground that hid them from view. Their spirits, coming to wreak their vengeance.

But of course, none of that stuff can be real. The world of zombies and ghosts is too supernatural to be truly believed, right?

I close my eyes, shake my head, and know that when I look again, my room will be empty as I am clearly just hallucinating. I have to be imagining things. That's the only logical explanation for what I thought I saw. So that just has to be it.

Right?

So I take a deep breath and open my eyes, knowing that everything will be right with the world again.

Instead I see Logan's back muscles ripple and tense, which I have to admit is definitely a nice sight to see. It's certainly one that I'd be appreciating under ordinary circumstances. However, the fact that a dead man is having sex on my bed is more than a little disturbing.

He's moving quickly now, the thumps beating louder and more frequently, as he thrusts in and out of Veronica's core. She's raising her hips off the fluffy comforter to meet his every movement, and her hands are tracing his backside, descending to grab his finely toned ass.

I want to look away, to just close my eyes, and try to pretend that this isn't happening. After all, watching Veronica Mars fuck the man that was supposed to be mine is hardly at the top of my to-do list. More like at the top of my to-do-never list.

But the scene before me is like those car accidents that the limo passes by on the freeway. I know that I shouldn't watch, that I would probably be better off not knowing. Still, I just can't look away.

The fact that Logan is insanely oh-so-fucking-hot even in death doesn't really hurt things either. Besides, if I can just ignore the little sounds that Veronica is making and concentrate on Logan's rock-hard and rippling muscles, everything will be just fine.

"Veronica," he growls with the first squeeze of her slender fingers, and I feel a little piece of my heart die.

He's supposed to love me dammit, not this stupid fuckwhoreslut!

A smile spreads across Veronica's features at his response. She opens her mouth to say something, but her zombiegasm interrupts whatever minimal brain flow she has, as she flails about helplessly on the bedspread.

Yeah, that's attractive. Definitely not helping me understand why the fuck Logan chose to die for the snotty little bitch.

My attention is soon brought back to the matter at hand as Logan pounds into Veronica a few more times, and I almost wet myself at the sight of Logan's orgasm.

He's so fucking gorgeous, for one, with the way that his muscles clench and then quickly relax. I love to watch the movement of his muscles and wish that he had been more of an avid swimmer. Logan in a Speedo, Logan soaking wet, Logan shirtless, Logan-muscles moving … I can find absolutely nothing wrong with that scenario.

Minus the fact that he's, like, dead now, so my dreams are rather pointless.

And then he's dropping down over her body, and I have to thank whatever higher power there is for finally hiding Veronica's scrawny frame from my view.

But then – ew – he's kissing her, and the sight of them swapping spit is enough to make me want to hurl. Except I really can't get to a bathroom, and I am not getting vomit all over my beautiful pink silk pajamas.

I try again to yell or scream or do something to distract them from their disgusting spit-swapping, but my vocal chords are still unresponsive. So, instead, as I'm desperate to do just about anything to make them stop with the making out on my bed, I shift my weight back and forth, doing what I can to make a racket with the chair that they've tied me to. It's heavy, and since I've always been so good about maintaining my slim figure, I don't have too much weight to throw around. Still, I manage to make some scratching and knocking noises from moving the chair around on the floor and rocking it back against the wall.

And success! They break apart and approach me hand-in-hand, making no effort to hide their naked bodies. I tell myself to focus on Logan, on his chiseled chest, so that I can avoid feeling nauseous yet again.

"So you're probably wondering why you can't talk," Logan begins, and I think that focusing on his lips is definitely not a bad thing at all. His beautiful, pouty lips could captivate me for hours.

"Usually we wouldn't be able to talk in circumstances such as this, what with being zombies and all," Veronica begins. "However, seeing as how you caused our deaths and prevented us from expressing our love for each other while we were alive, we figured that we'd pay you a visit."

"Payback's a bitch, isn't it?" Logan questions snarkily.

"Anyhow," Veronica continues, mostly ignoring Logan's snide comment, "we stole your voice, and since we are now bound to one another in the afterlife, we can share your voice between us."

They stole my voice? But how can I go on with my life without my voice? I know it's one of my more attractive qualities – although, granted, the list is quite long – and I really don't want to have to learn sign language or anything like that.

"That's not the only thing we'll be sharing though," Logan adds, a wolfish grin covering his features.

I'm worried now, wondering what else of mine they could possibly be sharing. I'm really not interested in the idea of a threesome – especially one that involves the anorexic Veronica Mars.

But if it means getting my voice back? Well, I'll do just about anything for that.

Then Logan's leaning closer, and I can smell his not-so-fresh scent. He's nibbling gently at my ear, and I wonder if maybe this is some weird sort of bondage/foreplay thing.

But then the nibble becomes more of a bite, and then – ouch! – I feel like a piece of my ear was just torn off.

"Mmm, not bad," Logan shares, wiping his shirt across his mouth to rub off the red liquid, my blood, that had splattered there.

Veronica's reaching for my hand then and inspecting my perfectly manicured nails. Almost before I realize it, my pinky and ring finger are just gone, with short, bloody stubs left in their place.

"Hmm," Veronica begins after taking her first bite. "It's a bit bony, and acrylic is probably an acquired taste, but it's not that bad."

"Try some ear," Logan suggests, moving aside to give Veronica access to the ear he's already started eating.

And, yeah, now I'm not just scared about not being able to talk for the rest of my life. I'm worried that I'll have to spend the rest of my days scarred and misshapen. What guy is going to want to fuck a deformed girl?

I feel myself slowly losing my grip on consciousness, and honestly? This whole freaky cannibalism thing would be a lot easier to deal with if I passed out. Seeing as how I'm not a fan of pain or blood, I close my eyes and prepare to succumb to the sedating impulses.

But before I go to sleep, Veronica asks Logan, "What do you think her epitaph will say?"

"I'm not sure," he admits. "But I do have a personal favorite – Caitlin Ford. Tastes like chicken."
END


See? Totally cracktastic, is it not? I admit to forgetting where the zombie inspiration came from, but I hope you enjoyed this crazy interlude.

As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts, so please do leave a review if you have a chance. :) I'm especially curious to know exactly who you thought might have been telling this story. Lots of possibilities out there in VM-verse, but did the Caitlin reveal come as a surprise or was that what you expected?

Thanks again for reading! I hope you enjoyed it. :D