Breathers (32 page)

“That's …,” he says, stepping back from the counter. “That's not possible.”

“Why not?” I ask.

“Because …,” he says, backing up and reaching for the telephone. “Because …”

“Step away from the window.”

I turn to look and Gary, the rent-a-cop, is standing to my left near the security door. His right hand hovers near his gun. Like that's going to help him. He could pump every round of his clip into me and I'd still manage to have him spit roasted before
Oprah.

Behind the counter, the service rep is calling the police.

“I just want my Social Security number,” I say.

Gary removes his gun from its holster and levels it at me. “I said, step away from the window.”

I don't particularly want to get shot, so I step back.

“Put your hands on top of your head.”

I do it with a sigh. This is just so inconvenient.

“Be careful,” says the service rep, who is off the phone. “He's a zombie.”

Gary's eyes, previously filled with resolve, widen with fear and uncertainty. His hands begin to shake.

The police station is just two blocks away, so I hear the sirens in seconds.

“Don't move,” says Gary, his voice trembling.

My nose itches and I need to scratch it. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the service rep escaping through a door in the back, leaving Gary and me alone.

Gary realizes this as well, which doesn't seem to help his confidence.

“You don't need the gun,” I say.

Gary doesn't respond, though his hands start to shake more. Yeah, this is who I want protecting me.

“I'm not going to hurt anyone.”

The itch in my nose is maddening. I wonder if I'm coming down with a cold.

“I just need to scratch my nose.”

Outside, the sirens grow louder, followed by the sound of tires squealing to a stop on asphalt. Car doors open, voices shout out. Gary steals a glance at the front door.

I sneeze.

His gun explodes. The first bullet tears into my chest, hot and searing. The second bullet slams into my forehead above my left eye before exiting through the back of my skull.

I would have preferred a
Gesundheit.

I don't know if Gary keeps firing, but if he does, I don't feel any more bullets. I'm just staggering back, reminded of that first morning when I awoke walking along Old San Jose Road. Then I'm falling, my limbs useless, the sound of voices shouting and sirens blaring filling my ears.

Then nothing.

wake to the sound of sirens wailing.

At first I think I'm in the Animal Control van, but we're not moving. And I hear multiple alarms going off one after another, blending like a symphony of sirens. Either that or I'm in hell, which isn't completely out of the question considering the smell.

When I open my eyes and sit up, I'm on the floor in a cage. All around me, dogs are howling. The German shepherd across from me is snarling, flecks of foam flying from his mouth as he barks and growls and tries to chew his way out of his cage. Someone must have forgotten to give him his meds.

Most of the other inmates aren't candidates for Ritalin, though they might need a good therapist.

On my right, a generic-looking shaggy terrier is trying to scratch his way through the concrete floor. The dog in the cage to my left, a black lab male, is pressed into the far corner of his cage, whimpering. When I look directly at him, he pisses on the floor.

Apparently, the zombie kennel was all filled up.

“Hello?”

No one answers.

One of the bonuses of being a card-carrying member of the undead is that no matter what kind of physical abuse or injuries you're subjected to or sustain, you don't feel any pain or discomfort. But for the first time in months, I have a headache.

I reach up and finger the hole above my left eye, which is sticky with congealed blood. I don't know how long I've been out, but it's good to know I'm still healing. How long that'll keep up without any fresh Breather, I don't know. But considering that it's more than likely I'll be here at least a couple of days, I guess I'll get a chance to find out.

The German shepherd across from me has stopped snarling and is now unleashing a relentless barrage of barking. The golden retriever in the adjacent cage decides this looks like fun and joins in, as does the rottweiler next to him.

I could really use some Tylenol.

“Hello?”

The exit wound in the back of my skull is at least three times as big as where the bullet entered and I can feel pieces of skull and brain matter tangled up in my hair. I try using the contents of my water dish to wash it out but I really need some good shampoo to do the job.

There's no exit wound from the bullet that took me in the chest, but there's a ragged opening just beneath my right nipple and a good deal of blood that soaked into the fabric around the dime-sized hole in my black DaVinci Gambino shirt.

That's just great. My favorite shirt, ruined.

The bullet wounds will heal and my skull and brain tissue will regenerate, but it's just so hard to replace good-quality apparel.

I stand up to stretch my legs and to make sure my motor functions are still working, then I walk to the front of my cage.

“Is anyone here?”

From the amount and the angle of sunlight coming in through the windows above, I'm guessing it's late afternoon, which means I've been unconscious at least five hours.

There's a bowl of dog kibble for me to eat, along with a rawhide bone, neither of which is likely to satisfy my hunger. I could go for a Breather burrito with some rice and black beans. Or a roast Breather sandwich with Dijon mustard and potato chips.

I'm sure I could get Rita or Jerry to smuggle something in for me, even if it's just some jerky. But somehow, I don't think I'm going to get my one phone call.

“Hello?”

Nobody answers.

I think about dumping out the rest of my water dish and clanging it against the bars of my cage. Instead, I join the rest of my inmates and howl along with them.

can't believe they shot you, dude.”

It's day three of my captivity and Jerry is sitting on the floor, rubbing his eyes and occasionally letting out a trio of sneezes. At first I thought he'd caught a cold, but it turns out he's allergic to cats.

The staff couldn't handle the constant howling and urinating, even though my voice had grown hoarse and I'd pretty much emptied my bladder, so since the zombie kennel was at capacity, they moved me into the feline kennel. The accommodations aren't as spacious and with all of the hissing I keep dreaming about snakes and vampires and Vaudeville melodramas, but I always was more of a cat person.

Jerry sneezes, then wipes a hand across his nose. His eyes are red and swollen and he keeps having to clear his throat. I'm touched that he asked for a cage near mine rather than with the others in the dog kennel, but I hope his parents come to get him before he develops a rash.

The day after my aborted trip to the Social Security office, Jerry walked into Fast Eddie's to have a drink and shoot some pool. Said he “just wanted to see what would happen.”

What happened was that Jerry had one drink and then
another and then another and after less than two hours, he'd torn up the
Breathers Only
sign posted at the front door and then removed his baseball hat to display what remained of his exposed brain, giving everyone the chance to touch it.

Needless to say, the place emptied out faster than a bulimic's stomach. When Animal Control showed up, Jerry was sitting at the bar, drinking a Jack and Coke and lighting the pieces of the
Breathers Only
sign on fire.

The day before, about the same time I was walking into the Social Security office, Carl showed up to play a round of golf at the Seascape resort, where he'd been a member in good standing prior to his death and reanimation. But Seascape has a strict and long-standing No Zombie policy, so Carl was denied access the moment someone recognized him. In other words, they locked the doors and started screaming for help.

Carl didn't run away or put up a fight, but waited outside for the police and went peacefully, unlike Naomi, who had to be subdued with restraints and a Taser baton before they could get her out of the movie theater.

Buying her ticket and getting through the door proved to be uneventful in spite of her empty eye socket, but while she was waiting in line to get some popcorn, a little boy standing with his mother in front of Naomi kept turning around and staring at her, so she finally said, “What? You never seen a zombie before?”

At least she didn't get shot in the face.

I reach up and touch the ragged hole above my left eye. While I managed to clean it up and rub some Neosporin on it, without any fresh Breather I'm not healing like I used to. And I can't expect Rita to show up with any contraband since she got locked up with Leslie, Beth, and Tom for picketing outside of the SPCA, protesting our incarcerations.

Of course, everyone else can get released as soon as their
appointed caretakers show up to bail them out. I, on the other hand, am in a somewhat more precarious predicament. Not only are my parents not around to pay my fines but the police have realized they're missing. Naturally, I'm the prime suspect even though no evidence has been found, but even if they never dig up anything to prove I killed my parents, I've got four more days before I'll be transferred to County for redistribution. Unless someone steps forward to foster me.

The only problem is, even if someone agreed to foster me, the county wouldn't allow it to happen because of the questions regarding my parents’ disappearance. I'm considered a high-risk zombie, which means when the seven days are up, so is my luck.

This was bound to happen eventually. You can't expect to eat your parents and not have someone notice they're missing. But you just don't think about the consequences of your actions when you're turning your leftover parents into croquettes.

Jerry lets out another series of sneezes, followed by several violent, hacking coughs. Any moment I half expect him to spit up a hairball.