Breathers (37 page)

Just before I reach the other side of his desk, he makes his move.

All the zombie folklore and the films that portray the living dead as slow and plodding hunters?

Please.

We move fast. And we're tenacious.

Before Ted can take more than two steps from his chair, I'm across the desk and all over him, driving him to the floor— my knees pinning his arms, my hands finding his throat. He opens his mouth to scream but I've already crushed his windpipe.

Eating a diet of fresh Breather has given me an almost supernatural strength. Although I can't tear the living limb from limb, I feel like it's possible.

I imagine it's like taking steroids with a PCP chaser.

When I killed my parents, it was in a wine-induced haze that left me with virtually no memory of what transpired. I think, for that, I'm somewhat grateful. I'd hate to think that I enjoyed killing them as much as I'm enjoying this. Well, maybe I wouldn't mind so much about my father.

Ted's arms and legs thrash to no avail. I want to bite into him, to feel his flesh in my mouth—a confection, sweet and decadent, the food of the gods. The temptation is so strong I
can almost feel the invincibility seeping into my blood vessels and flowing down my throat, but I don't want to make a mess. A pool of blood and stray bits of human flesh on the floor tends to shout “zombie attack.” Besides, I just got my shirt back from the dry cleaners.

Ted's eyes find mine for a moment and I smile.

“How are you feeling today, Ted?”

Somehow, I don't think he appreciates the irony.

He looks away, his mouth opening and closing in silent gasps. His struggles taper off and his head twitches once as his final glance falls on the clock, on his life ticking away.

… fifty-seven … fifty-eight … fifty-nine …

For a moment I feel sorry for him, for the fear he felt and the life he lost and the way he died. But then the moment passes. After all, I've got a family to feed.

ita is walking around the family room, offering plates of Breather-stuffed mushrooms and other appetizers to everyone while Jerry plays DJ, spinning tunes like “Monster Mash,” “Were wolves of London,” “Thriller,” John Lee Hooker's “Graveyard Blues,” and a selection of songs by The Zombies.

“If he plays ‘Monster Mash’ one more time,” says Carl, “I swear I'm going to set him on fire.”

All the gang's here except Beth, whose parents wouldn't let her come to the party. It didn't matter that Ian would be in attendance as a token Breather chaperone. Beth's parents weren't trying to protect her from exposure to any potential illegal zombie activity, but from the pornographic influence of Jerry's Sistine Chapel bedroom.

It's too bad, because she missed a real spread. Nothing quite as simple as the barbecue we had nearly a month ago. Of course, it's pretty common for zombie potlucks to end up with a buffet table filled with savory dishes and no green vegetables or sweets. Tonight is no exception, as we have a selection ranging from deep-fried finger rolls and canapés to Breather à la béarnaise and Breather fried rice. Though Zack and Luke
did bring some creamed brains, so at least we won't have to run out and get any ice cream.

With all of us bringing Breather, it's apparent that I'm not the only one who recently went shopping. And according to the news, I'm not the only one who's noticed.

Over the past few days, half a dozen Breathers in Santa Cruz County have been reported missing, including Ted. Other than me, everyone at the party claims to have obtained their Breather off the street, which means that if the other five missing residents are all the victims of zombie attacks, then some of the local zombie population has grown bolder.

The problem with being a zombie in a world of Breathers is one of supply and demand. When Breathers go to the supermarket or the local corner grocery store and an item in the store is running low or out of stock, the inventory manager just places another order. But when the number of Breathers starts to run low, it becomes a bit more problematic than just restocking the inventory.

Apparently, the local zombie population has started to go grocery shopping.

Who can blame them? For decades we've lived in the shadows and been beaten down, forced to accept our place in society. Now, in less time than it took for my heart to start beating again, we've been thrust into the limelight and elevated to celebrity status, tempted with the expectation of improving our social stature.

What can prove more tempting, however, is the power that comes with the knowledge of understanding what you're fully capable of doing, of realizing your true potential. Noble causes and social evolution don't stand much of a chance when they're up against virtual immortality. And virtual immortality doesn't stand much of a chance when it's up against the glare of the media spotlight.

Which is one of the reasons why Rita and I have decided to leave.

There's no foreseeable manner in which the child Rita is carrying can be delivered into a world where Breathers know that we are the undead. Which is a bit problematic, considering my recent celebrity. And the television interview Ted gave is bound to cast some serious doubt on my physical condition. In spite of the recent cutbacks I've made in Breather consumption to deflect suspicion, it 's only a matter of time before someone who saw that interview does some investigating and discovers that I've been eating the hand that feeds me. When that happens, I'll be destroyed along with my dreams of a new family.

Ian has arranged to get Rita and me fake passports and airplane tickets to Scotland, where he has family who will help us get a fresh start and a place to stay in the remote West Highlands—”remote” being the operative word. The last place we want is somewhere with lots of media outlets or tourists or people with cameras. We considered Montana and Wyoming, but decided it was a good idea to get away from the influence of the great big American media. Of course, we had to promise Ian we wouldn't eat any of his family, which wasn't much of a problem since I've never been a big fan of Scottish food.

Naturally, we'll have to take some precautions before we leave—like changing our physical appearance, which means I have to eat enough Breather to heal my wounds and stay out of the limelight as much as possible. But other than that, a little makeup, colored contacts, fake glasses, and some hair coloring and we should be good to go.

While neither one of us is thrilled about having to leave, we realize our options are pretty limited. Sooner or later things will catch up with us here and I have a feeling it's going to be sooner. According to Ian, the passports should be ready within
a week. After that, it's just a matter of packing our suitcases, liquidating as much of my parents’ wealth as possible, and getting on an airplane.

We've told the others about Rita's pregnancy and our plans to leave. They were all supportive and sad and excited for us and everyone cried. Even Carl. So while tonight is New Year's Eve, it's also something of a good-bye party for all of us. An end to not only the existence we once knew, but to the friendships we've developed and the experiences we've shared. It's tough enough to maintain friendships across continents and oceans. But when you've changed your identity and are pretending to be human, having zombies back home as pen pals tends to run up a red flag.

So as the final minutes of this year wind down, we all grab our glasses and cups to toast one another. And it's not just in celebration, but in appreciation for how much we've meant to one another and how much we've overcome.

We are not alone.

We have found our purpose.

We are all survivors.

After the toasts are all done and we wash down our final bites of Breather with champagne, we all head out for the year's inaugural World Death Tour. Leslie stays behind with Ian to help clean up, while Zack and Luke opt to head back to my place to get some sleep so they can get an early start tomorrow preparing my schedule.

I need to give them a raise.

The Santa Cruz Memorial Park and Funeral Home is located just off Ocean Street near the intersection of Highway 1 and Highway 17. None of us have any family or friends buried here so we've never made this one of our stops, but it seemed like a good way to kick things off. Or end them, depending on your point of view.

The sky is clear and the moon is waxing, two days away from a full moon, bathing the cemetery in moonlight. Occasionally, I can see my shadow. When I glance over at Rita beside me, she looks ethereal, her face floating along inside the black hood of her sweatshirt. Every now and then I see her exhale of breath in the cold January air.

“Hey, dude,” says Jerry, noticing the same thing about himself and blowing out puffs of white breath. “Look … it's like I'm totally blowing out a bunch of bong hits but I'm not even stoned.”

“Really?” says Carl. “You could have fooled me.”

Tom and Naomi laugh. They're holding hands. I don't know when this happened, but good for Tom. He needs to get laid. But it must be kind of weird for Naomi when he fumbles for her breast with that one short, hairy arm.

The seven of us gather around an oak tree located near the east end of the cemetery and hold hands, then Helen asks us to mark a moment of silence for all of the lost souls entombed before they reanimated. I can't imagine what that would be like, to wake up inside your coffin, encased in mahogany and velvet, screaming and pounding, wondering how anyone could have mistakenly buried you alive. I wonder how long it takes for them to figure out what happened or if they think the gradual decaying of their bodies is just normal.

In a coffin, with no insects or animals to destroy the body, the hair, nails, and teeth generally become detached within a few weeks. After a month or two the tissues liquefy. Shortly thereafter, the main body cavities burst open.

My guess is, if you're still thinking and talking to yourself at this point, you've probably realized that something's not quite normal.

Granted, bodies in a coffin aren't exposed to beetles or maggots or other insects, unless your family really scrimped
and buried you in quarter-inch plywood held together with glue, but I can't help imagining what it would be like to get eaten alive by maggots:

I think I'll title that one “Snap, Crackle, Pop.”

Once we're done at the oak tree, everyone wanders off for personal reflection, though after the incident with Tom's arm at Oakwood a couple months back, we buddy up instead of going solo. Helen and Carl head off one way while Naomi and Tom wander off another. Jerry tags along with Rita and me.

For the first few minutes Jerry actually manages to be quiet. I don't know if he's spending time on personal reflection or thinking about his next porno masterpiece, but it doesn't take long for him to get chatty.

First he starts in with a comment about Tom and Naomi. A minute later, it's another comment. Then an amusing thought. Then a joke. Before he can get to the punch line, I tell him he needs to be quiet.

“Okay, dude,” he says. “Whatever.” And then he goes sulking off, just far enough that I can still hear him muttering about how no one appreciates his humor.

I can't help but smile. And it occurs to me that some of my fondest memories of not only the past few months but of my entire existence have been with Rita and Jerry—the night we met Ray, going hunting for Breather, staging my parents’ deaths. I never had friends like this in my previous life. And I realize that getting killed in that car accident was the best thing that could have ever happened to me.

I can't wait to share this revelation with Helen and the
rest of the group. My guess is that everyone else feels the same way. Or at least I hope they do.

Rita and I walk for a while in silence, just enjoying each other's company, lost in our own thoughts, watching our shadows on the ground in front of us. I don't know how much time passes, but at some point the silence strikes me as wrong.

I suddenly realize I don't hear Jerry anymore.

I stop and turn around, searching through the moonlit graveyard, but Jerry is nowhere to be seen.