Husk (9 page)

The picture switched to generic shots of the hospital's interior hallways.

Despite Neal's story, hospital officials have stated in a press release that there is no truth to this account, which they have put down to an unfortunate misinterpretation of the night's events brought about through a combination of the trauma of the attack and the pain medication Neal was on at the time of our interview. They stand firm that there was one or possibly two assailants involved, but that is the extent of their knowledge at this time. Officials have also refused to remark on the rumor that a body was taken from the morgue, but Captain Melissa Palmer confirmed the disappearance in her statement.

The captain's face filled the frame, the bottom of the screen dotted with handheld mikes.

“At this time, we do not have any leads as to the reason for this attack. I can confirm a body has gone missing from the grounds of the hospital some time this morning. We are working on the hypothesis that the two events are connected, and that the victim either witnessed the theft or was ambushed beforehand. At present, he is in no condition to provide a full account, and we hope to gain a better picture of the incident in a few hours. That's all for now, thank you.”

Switching back to the two-shot, the anchor wore his concerned-for-the-safety-of-the-citizenry face, the reporter just looked tired. She consulted her notes as she completed her report, barely holding on to the papers fluttering in her hand.

At present, Lorne, the police have not released a name in connection with whomever's body was taken, but an anonymous source within the hospital has stated that the body was admitted under the alias “John Doe,” which is common code for persons of unknown identity. The hospital's surveillance video has been seized to aid the investigation, but police will neither confirm nor deny that a man was seen leaving the hospital and running into last night's snowstorm soon after the attack.

The anchor thanked her for her diligence, and assured the viewers that they would have more information on the story the moment it became available. Then, more soft news, a Pomeranian who could bark the tune of “O Canada.”

I let this sink in for awhile as I fed Sofa, gave her five uninterrupted minutes of head-scratching pleasure, and went to the bedroom to decide on a suitable audition ensemble, something loose to hide my lumpy torso. The police might be able to get a picture from a video, but without a name they'd still have a difficult time tracking me down.

I looked about the bus at the riders, at the press of humanity I was suddenly no longer a member of. Was I alone in all this? It seemed ludicrous that I could be the
only
heartbeat-challenged person on the planet. But someone had to be first, right? The odds were against it being me, but there
were
odds. It stood to reason
someone
had to be a patient zero. I made a quick mental note to purchase lottery tickets on the way home.

And if this were all actually happening — if this wasn't all some bizarre last-ditch effort of my dying brain to give me one last astonishingly realistic dream before it turned out the lights and sent everyone home — what did it mean for reality outside of myself? If people could arise from the grave and walk around, take the bus, make small talk, interview for employment opportunities; if people could do this, what other mythocultural beings might be wandering about the face of the Earth? I searched the faces of my busmates, looking for anything out of the usual. There was a particularly gothy-looking emo kid near the front: was he a zombie who had found a way to live in plain sight? Were those reputed “haunted houses” that seemed to find a place in every neighborhood's folklore actually infected with the spirits of long-dead inhabitants too stupid to float into the light? Could there be honest-to-goodness vampires haunting the suburbs? Worse, would they be sparkly? Could clans of werewolves be running through the forests, feasting on Boy Scout campsites? Was a family of Sasquatch running the Mountain Equipment Co-op? A Minotaur eking out a living as a short-order cook? Were outer-space aliens to blame for every unexplained disappearance since they taught the Aztecs complex binomial theorems far beyond the comprehension of
MIT
graduate students?

Maybe I am death itself
, I mused. The physical manifestation of the Grim Reaper, on Earth to claim souls for harvest. At this point, was that so absurd a suggestion? I
had
always liked wearing hoodies, but shouldn't one have been supplied beforehand? Did I have to purchase a scythe at Canadian Tire? Should I keep the receipt?

I needed a test. My seatmate was not wearing gloves, and had her hands lying flat on her lap. I daintily placed a fingertip atop the right hand and watched her closely, seeing if she would keel over at my touch.

She moved her hands away with a sniff. I reached over and placed my whole hand over hers. “Do you mind?” she asked. This wasn't working. I pressed down, harder; maybe it would take a moment to kick in.

“I have got mace in my purse, asswipe,” she wheezed, “and I am not afraid to use it.” I pulled my hand away and offered a smile of apology. She sniffed and edged away toward the window.

So.
Dead
then, but not
death
.

The old woman pulled at the signal to stop and pushed herself past me and into the aisle. As she shuffled herself around my knees, her hands, ungloved, brushed against my jacket and I got a whiff of her scent, buried underneath layers of
eau de toilette
and Gold Bond Medicated Powder. Pungent, animal. My mouth was immediately saturated with saliva, and a thin stream of drool escaped my lips and trickled down my chin. My breakfast of Fisher had kick-started my autonomic reactions concerning food, apparently. I could see the blood beneath her skin, briskly swimming corpuscles doing laps around her ancient pool. Her heartbeat throbbed arrhythmically in my good ear. The world around me blurred red, and all was blood and hunger. I leaned forward, my mouth cranked itself open, my jaw popping as it gaped past the manual's recommended limit and my teeth bared themselves and snapped at the air where the woman had been seconds before.

I forced my head back, clamping my hands over my mouth. Wiping at the spittle with the back of my hand, I became acutely aware that I was encased in a tin can and surrounded by walking sundries.

Jesus fuck
, I cursed to myself. Instinctively, indifferently, I had almost turned the bus into a public transit slaughterhouse. I slid over into the empty area and put my forehead against the window, barely registering the cold against my skin. Another passenger made for the space I had vacated; a businessman in full regalia of the middle class, leading into the space with his ass. I barked an order his way: “Saved, buddy.” He shot up to a standing position and clutched at the overhead rail, his eyes closed and his skin drained. He opened his eyes and looked at me: I directed my lips to curl upward at their ends and gave the gent a toothy grin of friendship. He passed out, slumping back into the seat. I left him there, unconscious, ignoring the stares of the other riders, satisfied that I had some privacy now.

I wasn't even hungry, that's what bothered me. I felt revitalized after Fisher, energetic almost, and fully satiated. I might have looked a little healthier — the mirror attested that I was as pale and saggy as before, but just maybe a bit pinker, skin tighter, hair more lush — but my thinking patterns were clear. Plainly, eating again so soon was unnecessary to my successful functioning. But the gluttonous gourmand portion of my undead brain wanted more. I'd have to watch that. The morgue doctor was bad enough, and what happened with Fisher was
really
bad, but both were containable if handled correctly.

A public feeding frenzy, however, would not be in my best interests. There'd be police, and bullets, and torches held aloft by angry villagers. If I were caught or contained, black op helicopters would fill the sky, men in hazmat suits would drop on bungee cords. The city would be sterilized. I'd be encased in a bubble, followed by a period of forced confinement and medical probing, followed by likely dissection.

No, I couldn't let that happen. Perhaps I was a menace, maybe I was the beginning of the end of life itself, but until I had figured out a course of action that didn't involve my becoming a Mary Kay makeup test bunny, I would do my damnedest to remain free. I would have to keep my feeding habits more on the downlow. Fisher would probably be enough to last me a while, if I rationed him out over a few weeks. And after I had sucked out his marrow and gnawed his bones to dust, then what? Kill again? Who? A neighbor? Who could I kill out in the suburbs that wouldn't arouse suspicion and panic? I wasn't going to move, I needed a base of operations.

No wonder there were likely so few zombies out there; it was exhausting figuring out how to cope in a world of the living while maintaining a surreptitious feeding schedule of fresh manmeat.

I closed my eyes to shut out the hunger, feeling the skin and hairs scrape across my now-dry lenses. I'd have to pick up some eye drops afterward.

2010/10/27

TRANSCRIPT: Audition file – “Lester Ulysses”

Gary Jackson “GJ”

Director “D”

Casting Agent “CA”

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