Zombie Pulp (9 page)

When Emily came out of the grave, Mother was waiting there for her. She saw little Emily and began to immediately shake and sob. A broken cry came from her throat as the immensity of her daughter’s resurrection hit her. She went down to her knees in the sluicing muck, gasping and staring, her mouth unable to form words.

Emily just stood there, her white burial dress dripping wet and dark with graveyard soil that fell in clots. Even in the wan moonlight, her face was pale as tombstone marble, her eyes huge and black and empty.

“Emily?” Mother said, caught in some sucking, manic whirlpool of utter joy and utter horror.
“Emily?”

Emily just watched her, completely indifferent to the scene. Raindrops rolled down her pallid face like tears. Finally, she grinned because it was what Mother wanted. She grinned and Mother recoiled like she had been slapped. Emily had not grinned in awhile and it came out a bit too crooked, a bit too toothy. “Mother,” she said, her voice dry and scraping like a shovel dragged over a concrete tomb lid.

Mother came forward, uncertain at first, but that endless week of mourning had drained everything from her and she could no longer see how this was wrong, how this was unnatural and insane. So she stumbled forward and collected Emily in her arms, squeezing her in the rain, paying no mind to the fetid stench that came off her daughter.

“I prayed for this, baby! I prayed and I wished and I hoped and I never, ever, ever lost my faith!” Mother said. “I knew you would come back! I knew you would come back to me! I knew you weren’t really dead!”

Emily did not hug her back.

In fact, the warmth of Mother’s flesh slightly repelled her…even though the smell of it was appetizing. She felt Mother’s arms around her, but it did not move her. Emily came out of the grave with certain things, certain needs and desires, but love and affection were not among them.

But Mother did not see any of this and mainly because she did not want to. Grief had shattered her and mourning had laid her bare. The madness that comes with losing a child is a special madness, stark and numbing, seamless and all-encompassing. So Mother simply accepted. There was nothing more. Just acceptance.

Mother rambled on and on about how she had prayed and wished for Emily’s resurrection, how she had sat in her bedroom grim night after night after night, staring into the flame of a single candle and wishing her little girl alive again. And how last night she had dreamed that Emily had opened her eyes in the cloying darkness of her little pearl-white casket and that’s how she had known to come tonight with a shovel to set her baby free.

“But you weren’t dead, baby!” Mother said again and again. “I told them at the wake and I told them at the funeral and they wouldn’t believe me! They wouldn’t believe that my little girl wasn’t dead! But I knew! I knew! I knew you weren’t dead!”

“Yes, I was, Mother,” Emily said.

But Mother didn’t hear that either.

There were only her delusions now which were a high, sturdy brick wall that things like reason and decency could not hope to break through. She had her Emily back and that’s all that mattered, that’s really all that mattered. Emily was back…or something that
looked
like her was.

“Help me, baby,” Mother said, on her hands and knees, pushing wet earth back into the grave. “We have to cover this up so people don’t ask questions. You know how they ask questions. But I won’t let them take you away from me again.”

But Emily did not help.

She just stood there, still grinning, watching Mother fill in the grave, watching her cry and sob and make funny, high-pitched sounds deep in her throat. Emily did not honestly see the point of filling in the grave. She had not been among the walking dead long enough to understand that there was a need to be careful, a need for secrecy in all things relating to her rising.

But that would come with experience.

As all things did.

Emily’s memory was intact and she was sly and cunning. She would learn. For essentially she was still a child and had a child’s love of play and make-believe. So she figured it wouldn’t be too hard to pretend she was a harmless little girl.

As Mother labored, Emily looked around the cemetery, at the crypts and monuments and stones, enjoying this place and thinking she would like to come here often. But not too often. If she did that, sooner or later she would be seen and that would give the game up. People expected dead little girls to stay in their coffins, they did not like them wandering around cemeteries by night.

Even Emily knew that.

Mother finished the grave, filthy from head to foot, only her eyes and teeth white and shining like an old time vaudeville performer in blackface. It all added to the necessary absurdity of the entire situation. She came right over to Emily and hugged her, wrinkled her nose at the smell, but kept hugging all the same. A fat, twisting earthworm fell from Emily’s matted hair and Mother cried out. But even this, she ultimately ignored.

“Let’s go home, baby,” she said. “Let’s get you out of this awful place.”

Emily allowed herself to be led away by the hand amongst the leaning stones and vaults covered in creepers. She did not want to leave. She wanted to run through this place and sing and dance, hide behind stones and leap out in the cold moonlight. The smell of rank earth and rotting boxes, crumbling flesh and yellowed bones intrigued her, made her stomach growl. She wanted to dig down far below with her bare hands and chew on things. Nibble them.

But Mother would not have that.

They went through the gates and a church bell in the distance gonged out the hour of midnight. It was a perfect time for a resurrection and Emily knew it. And knowing it, she giggled. Then they were in the car and Emily remembered that she hadn’t been in the car since the night her appendix burst and the infection set in. She couldn’t remember much of that, just the fever and the pain and the sound of Mother crying at her bedside.

“Everything’s going to be okay now, baby,” Mother said. “You’ll see. Mother will make everything right.”

Emily just kept grinning, feeling the hollow in her belly and wanting to get her teeth in some meat. She thought of crunching bones and chewing graying meat and the image of these things made her stomach growl. If it wasn’t for the heat in the car that Mother insisted on blasting, things would have been perfect. Emily sat there as they drove into town, remembering things from before but associating no warmth with any of it.

She knew only hunger.

“Talk to Mother, baby, please talk to me.”

So Emily did. “I’m hungry,” she said.

*

At home, Mother told her they had to be quiet. Very quiet because George was sleeping upstairs and they didn’t want to wake him. Not yet. Not before Mother had time to explain certain things. But Emily understood. When you came out of the grave, certain things had to be explained. She remembered George just fine. George was her step-father, Mother’s husband. Not Emily’s real dad because he was dead a long time. George had liked Emily when she was alive. He took her to the zoo and the circus, he took her shopping and bought her things and helped her with her homework. George had been very nice. But like everything else, there was no fondness associated with George now. Emily had liked him before and maybe she would even like him now…once he was cold.

“The first thing we have to do is clean you up,” Mother said.

Mother cleaned herself up first and made Emily wait in her old bedroom. Emily looked at the posters on the pink walls, the princess bed and frilly pillows, the books and CDs and dolls lined up on the shelf. It meant nothing to her. Just things that she had collected up and coveted once, but no longer. She did not see how they would get her meat so they had no practical value. The bed felt soft and spongy. Emily did not like it, nor the clean stink of detergents on the Beauty and the Beast coverlet.

What she
did
like was the mirror.

She could remember how she liked to put on dress-up clothes and look at herself in it. She looked at herself in it now. She looked…
changed.
She was very thin and her skin was very white, gray shadows under her eyes, her lips almost black. Still grinning, her teeth looked long and narrow and yellow, black stuff wedged between them. Her gums were gray and her lips were shriveled back from them.

Emily liked how she looked.

She liked the patch of fungus at her throat, the soil that clung to her white lace burial dress. The beetle that crawled over her brow and the larva squirming in her cheek. She especially liked her eyes which were large and black and never seemed to blink. They stared and stared, wide and cataleptic. She held up her hands and her fingers were bony, the skin gray and seamed, dirty and damp.

She had a smell to her that was all her own.

It was fetid.

And absolutely delicious.

Mother took her into the bathroom and scrubbed her under a hot spray of water. The heat was sweltering and it made Emily nearly sick to her stomach. Mother shampooed her hair and scrubbed her with pink soap, scrubbing and scrubbing, cleaning the grave dirt off her and the patches of green mildew that had grown up her cheeks and down her arms. Emily did not like being washed. The soap smelled of berries and lilacs and the shampoo smelled of coconut and she found it nauseating. She liked her other smell. The smell of wormy earth and embalming fluid, putrescence and casket satin.

But Mother would not have that either.

She dressed Emily in lavender pajamas, the ones with prancing cutesy unicorns on them. Emily remembered that she had loved unicorns before, but now things were different. She did not understand unicorns any more. She only understood burial. And meat.

In the kitchen, Emily’s other smell beginning to make itself known, seeping through the perfume of soaps and shampoos, Mother made her some food. First toast and Cocoa Pebbles. Then waffles and Ore-Ida French fries in the oven. But Emily did not want these things. She did not want pre-sweetened cereal or bread, pizza or Hostess pies. She wanted other things.

“You have to eat something,” Mother said. “You’re…you’re so thin.”

“I’m hungry,” Emily said.

So Mother went through the cupboards and refrigerator, trying to find something Emily might want. Emily was sickened by the smell of everything Mother made. But there was another odor, one that was intriguing. When Mother’s back was turned, Emily followed it to its source: the garbage can under the sink. In there, amongst egg shells and old lettuce leaves and discarded tissues there were a few scraps of raw hamburger clinging to a foam carton. They were discolored and rank-smelling. Emily began to lick them free, the juices in her mouth running at the wonderful taste, the wonderfully rotten smell.