Best New Zombie Tales Trilogy (63 page)

My husband, Mack, and I have been married for twenty-eight joyous years. Even Mack’s untimely Undeath had no effect on our love. Not at first, anyway.

It’s been a little over a year since my husband became a zombie, and things have changed. We’ve always had a very fulfilling relationship, both spiritually and physically, but lately Mack’s grown unresponsive. He won’t give me so much as goodnight kiss; much less engage in more intimate activities.

I’ve been very supportive of him since his zombification, but I just don’t know what to do anymore. Attempts to discuss the matter have been met with either a blank stare or a dismissive grunt. I love Mack, Dr. Quietus, but I have needs too, and they aren’t being met. Is this the end of our happy marriage?

Desperate in Delaware

“Oh, dear…Desperate, let me start by saying I understand your frustration. When my Gina became a zombie, she was somewhat indifferent to my romantic gestures, herself. But with a little patience and understanding, we were able to work through it. We’ve both made numerous adjustments over the years, and I feel our marriage is stronger than ever! Wouldn’t you agree, Gina?”

“Guuuh…uuu.”

“I love you too! Now, Desperate, I hope you’re listening tonight because I have a couple of suggestions for you. First, don’t take your husband’s impassive behavior personally. The reason for his lack of communication could be physiological. I’d suggest taking Mack in for a checkup at your earliest convenience. He may be suffering from esophageal decomposition. Or maybe he simply has food stuck in his throat. A reputable ZomCare provider can check for these and other afflictions, and give you advice on working around any physical issues.

“Another thing you must understand is your husband is dealing with certain changes he may find difficult to discuss with you. His indifference to your sexual overtures may be his way of covering up feelings of inadequacy. Physical deterioration is a big problem for zombies and it has some pretty embarrassing consequences, including tissue shrinkage and abrupt limb loss. Imagine how awkward it would be for Mack should his…ah, ‘manhood’ detach during foreplay. The very
thought
of it may be enough for him to shirk his husbandly duties. Again, a good ZomCare provider can assess your husband’s extremities and offer treatment options that are right for you and Mack. Good luck, Desperate, and keep us updated on how things are going.

“Okay, well, I was hoping to take a few callers, but it looks like we’re up against another commercial break. Back after this message from Bradley’s Brain Emporium.”

* * *

Bradley’s Brain Emporium & Butcher Shop offers the juiciest brains and freshest viscera in the Southeast. They’re the exclusive provider of quality meats to top, zombie-owned restaurants like Visceratti’s and Resurrection, and have been voted ‘Best Meat Shack’ by Modern Zombie Magazine five years running.

At Bradley’s, you’ll find everything you need to create a gourmet meal—all at prices you can afford! Need something special for that important business dinner? Bradley’s now offers catering for groups of ten or more! Choose from a variety of innards, add some savory side dishes and a gallon of our Bodily Fluid Blend, and you’ll be set to impress. In a hurry? Call 555-4BRAINS to place your order by phone. We’ll have your cuts wrapped and ready to go when you get here—guaranteed.

For quality meats at prices you can afford, there’s no place like Bradley’s. Stop by today!

* * *

“…spleen puree is a little hard to come by at the Piggly Wiggly, Gina. You’d probably have to go to…what?”

“Uuuh.”

“Oh, hi there, folks! Didn’t realize we were back on the air. Y’know, Gina and I were talking during the break about the amazing progress our zombie friends have made in the few short years they’ve been granted citizenship. Take the owners of Visceratti’s and Bradley’s, for instance. Those guys aren’t business majors or marketing experts—just a couple of hard-working zombies with the foresight to tap into the Undead market. And look at them now! Mr. Bradley is catering to some of the finest restaurants in the country; Visceratti’s is rated number two worldwide for their incredible Undead Cuisine. I think that says a lot about the entrepreneurial spirit of our Zombified Citizens, don’t you, Gina?”

“Guuh…aaaaaaaagh.”

“Good point, hon! Getting rid of the Biohazard Tariff on zombie-owned companies
did
give struggling upstarts a much needed boost. But hey, we’re getting a little off topic—tonight’s issue is Intimacy and Infidelity. There’s just enough time to take one more caller. Gina? If you would, please patch our next guest through….

“Hello, and welcome to
‘Til Decay Do Us Part.”

“Hi, Dr. Quietus. My name’s Thomas—longtime listener, first time caller. The wife and I really enjoy your show.”

“Hi, Thomas. Always a pleasure to talk with our loyal listeners. What can we do for you this evening?”

“Well, it’s my wife, see? She’s been a zombie for about four years now, and lately she’s been giving off this funky odor. Now, I’m not a shallow man or anything, but it’s a little hard to…y’know…get in the mood when she’s reekin’ like road-kill on a hot afternoon. I don’t want to hurt her feelings none, but it’s got to where I can hardly sleep in the same room with her. Anything I can do about her…um, lack of hygiene?”

“Hmm, I can certainly understand your desire for delicacy, Thomas. There are a few things I can think of that might be contributing to your wife’s not-so-fresh aroma. You said she’s been a zombie for…what? Four years?”

“About that long, yeah.”

“Uh-huh. When was the last time she had a physical, do you know?”

“Lord, Doc…I couldn’t tell you. She’s usually the one to schedule those things. If I had to guess, I’d say it’s been about two years. Maybe more.”

“Well, if I were you, I’d make sure she visited her ZomCare provider right away. Two years is a long time for a zombie to go without having a checkup. She could be suffering from Premature Decomposition Syndrome, especially if she hasn’t been keeping her bi-yearly appointments. PDS can result in a foul odor, tissue loss and other unpleasantries if left unchecked. I’d make an appointment to rule that out as soon as possible.”

“I didn’t know that. I’ll call the ZomCare place first thing in the morning.”

“Good man, Thomas. In the meantime, there are a couple of things you can do at home to ensure your wife stays healthy and odor-free. First, see to it she’s feeding properly—fresh meats and viscera are best, but you can do frozen in a pinch. And make sure she’s not eating junk food, like rotting body parts or brains with high fat content. That’ll only make the odor worse.”

“Okay.”

“There’s also an industrial disinfectant called Putri-Gone. You can buy it at most hardware stores. Comes in a concentrate you mix with water. Have her soak in it twice a week. That should help with the smell.”

“Well, it’s worth a shot. I’ll stop by Handyman Heaven tomorrow and pick some up. Thanks, Doc.”

“You’re quite welcome. Now, don’t forget to make that appointment, Thomas. And give us a call back next week; let us know how everything’s going, okay?”

“What a nice guy. Y’know, people like Thomas and Karen make all the work we put into this show worthwhile. Two people—one a zombie; the other, human—who are doing everything they can to keep their marriages going, despite the challenges of Undeath. Doesn’t that just warm your heart?”

“Aaaaaauuurr.”

“You said it, baby. Well, it looks like our time is up, folks. We hope you enjoyed tonight’s installment of
‘Til Decay Do Us Part.
Tune in next week when we’ll discuss overcoming the zombie/human language barrier. This is must-listen radio for anyone having problems communicating with their loved ones, so don’t miss it! Until next week, this is Dr. Johnny Quietus saying goodnight!”

We Will Rebuild

CODY GOODFELLOW

On the third monthly anniversary of V-D Day, some residents of Ocotillo still came out to wave or put Old Glory up on their porches as Deputies Snopes and Bascomb rolled up the nameless main drag in their armored cruiser, siren blaring to lift the curfew.

“Happy Death Day, suckers,” Bascomb hollered.

“Leave ’em alone,” Snopes said. “Everybody loves a parade.”

Bascomb made V-D Day medals out of Xmas ribbon and teeth for the occasion, but only Bascomb wore his, along with his Army Purple Heart and the special citation for the Battle of the Calexico Wal-Mart, which happened two weeks before. A Wal-Mart greeter’s nametag hung from the ribbon:

Hi! My name is:

SOLE SURVIVOR

Verna Schepsi swept the sidewalk in front of the feed store, but it was a fool’s errand. The particles of ash that still rained down out of the sulfurous yellow sunrise were like downy snowflakes, merging into gray dust devils battling in the empty street.

Chubby Beck lumbered out of the Circle K and waved at them when he got to the end of his chain. Chubby was a good kid, always kept a fresh pot of coffee on until they ran out of it, but he got grabby when they stopped to top off the cruiser once, so they had to chop off his hands. It was all legal; the papers were on file with the judge.

“Wanna go out to the canal and look for deadbeats?” Bascomb was crocked early and itchy today, because his wife got into it with Taffy, their doberman pinscher. He was reluctant to put either of them down, but he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to shoot something today.

“Waste of ammo,” Snopes replied. “Besides, we got to go out and change the sign.”

The sign marking the Interstate 8 off-ramp used to read:

As soon as the dust settled after V-D Day they revised the list of amenities, stenciling ‘NO’ three times in big red letters. Now it read: NO FOOD - NO GAS - NO LODGING. They added shortwave and CB frequencies to call those inside.

Snopes had the idea to borrow scoreboard numbers from the little league field. He displayed the number of the alive with black numbers for the home team, and the number of the dead with red for the visitors. The score was not encouraging: 32 to 67. Gabe Gonzalez got bit by his daughter last night, and after they woke the judge to sign the order, she was put down. Everyone pretty much knew what he was trying to do when he got bit, so no one was overly upset about it.

Still and all, a pretty normal day…

Bascomb wanted to tack a 1 in front of the black number. “If any more gangs come looking for shit, we got to look tough.”

“When the Army comes, we got to look meek, so they don’t just bomb us. You heard on the radio what the Marines did to them rich dicks in Palm Springs.”

Snopes went up the road with his binoculars to check the perimeter. Ocotillo straddled the I-8/S.R.46 junction, snug between the Anza-Borrego mountains, studded with fractured granite boulders and the dusty, drained lakebed of the Imperial Valley.

Nothing alive or dead had come up the 8 or down from the hills in over a week. Gangs and deadbeat stragglers from the conflagration that destroyed El Centro and Calexico still dribbled in from the east, but the deadbeats couldn’t cross the canal. Burnt up with hunger and half-mummified by the desert sun, most of them dissolved like soda crackers in the swift current. Everything on wheels stopped where the deputies had blown the I-8 overpass at the canal, and either turned north on the 46 or abandoned their vehicles.

After that doctor from La Jolla, nobody had successfully pled for asylum in Ocotillo. When they let him in with his wife and three daughters they thought they’d turned a corner, but three days later the shit-bird gassed himself and his whole family with their propane tank. The house blew up and burned down both neighbors.

People from the cities couldn’t handle desert life before or after Day Zero. Nothing out here had changed. There had always been laws on the books for dealing with aliens. If they were from outside the town’s jurisdiction and had nothing to offer, they had to be treated accordingly.

A couple of deadbeats had wandered into the minefield along the highway a while back, and parts of them still tried to crawl through the tumbleweed snarls of razor wire that flanked the interstate and encircled the town. The fields were clearly marked for living and dead alike, cardboard signs and rotting, chattering heads on pikes, but nobody took time to read anymore.

Vultures and crows feuded over the last scraps on the skeletons of the latest live invaders: a small herd of runaway horses that had blundered into the claymores that were set up between the outbuildings of the abandoned Pernicano ranch. The yard-sale scatter of long, elegant bones and stringy flesh looked like the ruins of something built to fly. Sometime ago he might have seen something sad or beautiful in it, but now the waste of meat just made Snopes’ mouth water.

In the crisp heat haze of the quickening day everything seemed to squirm with a tortured thirst for blood and sweat. Snopes went back to the cruiser. With sheet metal and chainlink fence for windows, it was already a sweat lodge inside. Bascomb was in the driver’s seat, hooting at the radio like football was back. “Hell yeah!”

Snopes pushed him over and got in, turned back down the off-ramp. Bascomb loaded shells into the shotgun and stuffed the rest of them in his pockets. “Dead wetbacks!”

They passed a couple of boarded-up houses and Chubby again, who waved a stump at them as he chewed on the other. Mrs. Chesebro wandered her dusty yard in her housecoat, looking for her cats. Next door, Chet Bamberger strained at the end of his leash to get his month-old morning paper. The only thing he wore was a wifebeater tanktop second-skinned to him by yellow seepage and drizzling maggots out the armpits. His muzzle was splashed with bright red blood, which clearly solved the mystery of the missing cats.