Zombies in Love (15 page)

              If this works, am I next?

              Ian loaded the syringe.  He was getting pretty good at it, really.  Maybe there was some kind of career in it--

              The stump of the arm wedged against the side of the box, and the hand flailed up wildly, again and again.  Ian leaned in to inject it, when suddenly the wrist loop broke free of the box, sailing across the room with a clank. 

              Ian heard the two Winthrop men moving, but he didn't get a chance to see what they intended-- the hand drew its fingers underneath, and, like a giant spider, leapt up into the air, sailing forward, to grab Ian's terrified face.  He shrieked and reached for the flailing stump with his left hand, as the fingernails dug into the soft pouches of skin under his eyes, and the sharp thumbnail clawed under his chin. 

              The syringe dropped from his hand, and he grabbed the cold arm in both hands as it flailed and churned like a snake.  The sharp thumbnail slid up his chin and into a nostril, while two more fingers gripped the top of his nose. 
Yeowch! 

              "Help!" Ian cried, pulling on the arm, but it was wicked strong, and now it was tapping one pointed nail on his eyeball... "Someone!  Help!"

              Muttering something that sounded obscene, the professor grabbed the arm and injected it with the antivirus.

              The hand released Ian's clawed-up face, and jumped to the top of his head, the arm bouncing over his face like a backwards ponytail.

              Something smelled bad.  Something smelled really bad, and now the skin was coming detached from the hand, as the arm dangled over Ian's nose and mouth, rotting tatters waving back and forth right in front of his face.

              Ian grabbed the thing--
squish--
and flung it to the floor.  It was already blue and swollen, and the smell was unbelievably foul, beyond belief.  Like every part of the arm was trying to get as far apart from itself as it could, seceding into millions of particles, tainting the air around them with its foul odor--
why hadn't they used the fume hood,
he wondered, too late,
sprayed this into the atmosphere, instead of all over my body
.  Ian rubbed his hands over his face, coming away with foul smelling shreds of skin that disintegrated into oily rot all over his hands. 

              "Ughh," he said.  "Uggggh."  He felt his gorge rising, but struggled to keep control in front of his advisor.

              "You've got a fingernail in your hair," said the redheaded Winthrop guy.

              Ian threw up all over the skeletal remnants of the arm.

#

Of course Jack didn’t want to be at the meeting.  Why would he?  Sitting in a cemetery with a miserable group of rotting, whining corpses?  It made him feel like the sorriest creature ever, that he had nowhere else to go.  But he had nowhere else to go.  And he’d be damned if he sat in his lousy apartment, listening to his next-door neighbor watch Letterman and cackle a second or two after everyone else got the joke.  Some day or other, Jack was just going to break through the paper-thin dividing wall and eat him up, starting with his feet, so he’d be alive for the whole thing.

Okay, maybe Jack was losing it a little. 
Say it under your breath
, he thought,
I am losing it. 
He’d tried so hard to be a good person.  He really had, because he loved Lisa with all of his rotten excuse for a heart.  He'd apologized and apologized.  He'd made every second of every day an apology.  And it hadn’t worked.  It hadn't fooled her at all.

The woman next to him nudged him.  A small brown-haired woman, even shorter than he was, with a scar running over her breastbone and into her shirt.  The sort of creature who looked like she was built to be one of the world’s victims.  “Are you hungry?” she asked.

“Always,” he said.  He took the plate and started chewing on a rotting, tumor-laden lung. 

“If you don’t mind me saying so,” the woman said.  “you look like you’ve had a tough day.”

He laughed unhappily and moved on to the liver.

“Me too,” she said.  “I almost got to see my son today.  I figured out a place to hide where I could see the playground.  I waited and waited.  But he never came.  He must have been sick.  I was so disappointed!”

Jack realized that the woman had probably intended that he pass the plate along.  Well, if she wasn’t going to say anything, he wasn’t going to either. Dead men shouldn’t have to worry about being polite.

“My Joshua’s six now.  He’s my little angel.  They’re such blessings, aren’t they?  What was your name?”

He swallowed the intestine. 
Too chewy
.  “Jack,” he said.

“I’m Miriam.  Miriam Leschke.  Do you have any children?”

Jack was from a part of the country where people were famously ready to tell their whole entire life story to the man standing behind them in the Publix checkout line, but he’d been under the impression that Yankees weren’t so damn chatty.  Was it him?  Did something about his face say, “Tell me something pitiful, and get me even more depressed?” 

“Ma’am,” he said, “I hate to be rude, but my heart is broken, and I’m not really in the mood to talk.”

“Okay,” she said, looking down at the ground.  “I’m sorry.”

He handed her the empty plate.  “Thanks for dinner.”

Whatever she said to him next, he didn’t hear, because he’d just realized something.  This was just like with the
Palmetto
, all over again.  Here he was on the wrong side of the door from the love of his life, and no way back in.  So maybe that’s how it would be from now on.  He would reenact the last couple of years before he died, again and again.  Each time just different enough so that he wouldn’t recognize what was happening until it was too late, until he’d already fallen in love, until he’d already made the mistake that would end it.

God, he needed a drink.  But it didn’t work anymore.  Between his alcoholic’s liver and his undead recovery time, it was like drinking bourbon-scented water.

“Hey!  Skinny!"  Arturo called.  "Tell everyone what you told me!”

What had he told him, that night they'd spent cooking and watching baseball?  Something about telling Donna what they'd learned.  All in all, it was a great time to call in the media, wasn't it? 
We’re all a horrible accident, friends!  And we're turning everyone around us into zombies, too! 

“Jack!” said Arturo.  “Where are you, guy?”

That look of betrayal on Lisa's face.  She'd loved him, she'd trusted him, and he'd ruined it, because he always ruined things, always, always, always, forever and ever.  That look was going to stay with him through every sleepless night from now on.  No scrubbing it out, no escape.  Because this was what he was.  The way he'd always been, and dying hadn't changed him at all.

So what was he going to do?  He’d rip out his stupid demanding heart and stomp on it.  He’d feel nothing.  He’d be dead and he’d stay dead, because he couldn’t do this over and over and over and over again.

Did he hear footsteps?  He stood up as a crowd of thuggish looking people ran into the clearing.  And here was the bad news-- they were all wearing white coveralls that said Winthrop University.

“Run!” yelled Arturo. 

Good plan
, thought Jack. 
But I can't do it.

Arturo grabbed him by the sleeve.  “Not you,” said Arturo.  “You’re with me.”

“Yessir,” said Jack.  Because suddenly he was so tired he felt like he could fall and never move again.  He wished he were dead, and lying in the ground, and he could already feel how good it would be to just lie in the dirt and rot, all done, finally all done at last...

Someone figure out how to kill me, because I'm ready to go.

The men in white jumpsuits were closing in fast, now, except for the few who had split off to chase down the runaways.  They had guns, and they outnumbered the few remaining ghouls clustered together, and time seemed to break into fragments as they got closer and closer.

Big guy with a gun. 
Bang. 
Jack felt the bullet sear through his gut and out the back with a burning sizzle.  Not important.  Jack hit him in the face and he fell and didn't move any more.

Waste of time, come on, come on, finish it!

A short Slavic guy with a machete-- why not?-- which he slammed into Jack's ribs,
oh God that hurts
, and he could already feel his body healing,
there's no point
, so he leaned in and bit off the man's nose.

Come on, do it right!

Guy aiming at Arturo.  Grab him from behind by the neck, bite his shoulder, through flesh and muscle into the bone, until teeth snap together.  Oh the pleasure hits so sweetly, the taste of musk and meat and bitter milk, he’s not going to stop he has no reason to stop.  It’s better when they’re living, he knows that now, and he has no reason to stop--

Blam.

Miriam Leschke, faculty wife, mother of one, and zombie, woke up on a hard linoleum floor.  She could smell ether, yeast, and agar-agar. 
Please let me be wrong
, she prayed, as she opened her eyes.  But she wasn’t wrong.  She was caged in a laboratory she knew perfectly well.

She remembered the first day she had seen it.  David had picked her up off the floor, pregnant and heavy as she was, and swung her around in a circle.  His own lab, and he’d made it to the big leagues.  Winthrop University.  Everything that they’d sacrificed, every penny they’d pinched, every holiday they’d spent far from family, it was all worth it.  And now they would live happily ever after. 

She pulled herself to a stand and rattled the cage door.  Locked.  Did she expect any different?

There was a second cage crammed next to hers, and in it lay the very rude man she’d been sitting next to at the meeting.  She’d forgotten his name, but if she wanted to, she could watch the gunshot wound in his head knit itself back together. 

She rattled the cage door again and sniffled.  David was a good husband.  He wasn’t very demonstrative, and sometimes he had a problem with his temper, but she knew what he was like underneath.  Wasn’t that the gift of motherhood?  To always be able to see the good little boy the man had been, even when he was screaming and shouting and waving his fists like he might hit you?

David had never hit her.  And he had been so patient with her, with all the babies that she didn’t have, before the miracle that was Joshua.

The rude man coughed and spat the remnants of a bullet onto the floor with a dull ping. “Still here,” he whispered.  Then he rolled to his side and either started laughing or crying or throwing up, she couldn’t really tell.

But that wasn't the important thing.  “My David wouldn’t do this,” she explained.  “No, he wouldn’t.” 

The man got up, shakily, supporting himself by the bars.  His face looked slate-gray.  “Who’s David?”

“My husband.  Prof. David Leschke.”

He focused on her.  “Do you know a girl named--”

The door opened.  In walked Ian Comanor, one of her husband’s graduate students.  He had a funny-looking gun tucked into his belt, and two syringes on a paper-covered metal tray, like he was a dentist.

Ian walked over to the rude man’s cage first, but the rude man gave him some kind of a look she couldn’t see, so he walked over to hers.  She turned away.  Whatever he was going to do to her, if she couldn’t prevent it, she didn’t want to see it.

“Now this isn’t going to hurt, ma’am,” said Ian, “because I’m going to knock you out first.  So, really, you don't need to worry, this is just fine.”  He set the tray down with a clatter.  “Ma’am?  Can you look this way, ma’am?”

She looked up at his face.  He was so young!  She could see all the fine little hairs on his skin, like a downy little bird.  And he smelled sweet, like a ripe little apple of a boy.  Clean and pure and new.

“I know you,” he said.  “You’re Professor Leschke’s wife.  I'm sorry I missed the funeral.  I didn't know."

"I don't think there was one," she said.  "No one told me about it."

"Do you remember me?  You probably don’t.  I’m Ian Comanor.  I’m his graduate student.  You had me to your house, once, when I first got here.”

How Miriam remembered those days!  She was proud to get the house absolutely perfect, to be a lovely hostess, to put all those shy little scientists at ease.  “You spilled an entire cup of tea on the carpet,” she smiled.  “You were so embarrassed.”

“I’m really sorry about that.”

“Oh, don’t worry.  Everything in my house is washable.  It has to be, with a child.”

“You do remember, don’t you?”  He moved closer, still holding his gun.

“How’s Joshua?” she asked.

“Your son?”

“David won’t let me see him.  How is he?”

“He’s fine,” Ian said.

She took hold of the bars of her cage, feeling the tears run down her face.  “David lied to him about me, right?  Said I went to visit my sister?”

“I don’t know what he said, Mrs. Leschke.”

“I hope David lied.  I hope he doesn’t think I forgot about him.”  And now the tears were really coming.  She rested the top of her head on the bars of her cage and wiped her eyes with her sleeve.

“This is wrong,” said Ian.  “This is wrong, and I won’t do it.” 

She looked up and saw him set his gun down on the bench.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Leschke,” he said, and left the room.

She watched him go. 
That’s nice,
she thought,
but I wish he’d remembered to let us out. 

“Cheer up, Miriam,” said the rude man, his bright blue eyes shining in his grey face.  In his shaking left hand jingled Ian’s key ring.

#

This is a piece of crap apartment building
, thought Lisa.  She could feel the whole thing shake every time the T went by, and she could smell mice.  And not only was Sarah gone, it looked like she’d been gone a while from the delivery fliers piled around the door. 

Or she wasn’t leaving the apartment. 

Had she come to the same realization as Lisa, that she might be infecting other people?  Or was she hiding from the Board of Overseers that scared her so much?

Lisa knocked on the door and it creaked ajar.  “Sarah?” she called.  No answer.

This was not the kind of neighborhood where you’d leave the door unlocked, even if you’d just stepped downstairs to get the mail.  No, between the unlocked door and the general deserted look, Lisa was beginning to be concerned about Sarah’s safety.

Which meant--

Lisa pushed the door open.  She could see the entire apartment, except for the bathroom, from where she stood, and someone had trashed the place.  The mattress had been slashed, and the desk tipped onto the floor, spilling all its contents on the rug.

Not good
, she thought, her heart racing.  She walked further in.  “Sarah?” she called.  “Where are you?”

The phone on the floor, smashed.  Clothes piled on the floor and smeared with something horrible.  No sign of Sarah. 

Which left one room.  The bathroom.  Lisa imagined Sarah folded into a fetal position, stuffed in the bathtub.  She took a deep breath and pulled back the curtain.

Nothing.  Sarah Chen: totally vanished.

So where was she?

#

There was something soothing about long bus trips, thought Sarah.  It was much better than flying, because they’d take cash, and you could get off midway without telling anyone.  For example, there was no way she’d ride the big grey dog all the way to Lincoln, Nebraska-- she was going to get off in Cleveland and get lost.  Become a sassy waitress in a little pink outfit with an apron, shill pie to truck drivers, call them all Honey.  Why not?  And then, when it was fall again, she’d show up at Stanford, all the Winthrop craziness forgotten.

The only downside is that she hadn’t been able to get Ian to go with her.  She was surprised by how much she missed her pizza-faced butterball.  He was a great sidekick.  Chen and Comanor, tooling across the country!  And-- she’d never said this to him-- but she was pretty sure that she could get Parquette to take Ian on, too.  Maybe not with a scholarship-- not a full ride, like she’d get, certainly-- but anything would be better than working for Prof. Psycho. 

The old lady sitting next to her smiled as she knit.  “Where are you headed, sweetie?”

“I’ve gone to look for America,” said Sarah.

“Aren’t you darling,” she said.  “Care for a homemade cookie?  I made them for my grandson-- that’s who I’m going to see-- but he doesn’t need to eat all of them.  He’s actually a little porky.”

“I couldn’t.”

“They’re my special recipe.”  The old lady set her knitting down and pulled two cookies out of her leather satchel.  Oatmeal chocolate chip-- Sarah’s favorite.  The old lady bit into one of them, and set the other on top of Sarah’s backpack.

How could she resist?

#

Prof. Leschke was thumping up to Ian-- angry, as usual-- but Ian didn’t care anymore.  “I quit,” Ian said.  “I won’t do it.  It would be murder.  I won’t do it.”

Now Prof. Leschke’s big giant face was in his face.  “I think you should consider what you’re saying.”

Ian laughed.  “Are you threatening me?  I’ll leave without my Ph.D.  I don’t care.  I’ll go get a job teaching high school or something.”

Prof. Leschke put a meaty hand on his shoulder, and Ian couldn’t keep from flinching.  “You’d throw eight years of your life away?  You’re being rash.”

“No.  I don’t think so.”

The professor’s face cracked into a genial smile, suddenly the avuncular advisor Ian had met on his first trip to campus, so many years ago.  But Ian knew the real man now-- those tricks didn’t work anymore.  “Let’s just go in my office and discuss this.”  He waved towards the open door.

“Okay, professor,” sighed Ian.  “But you’re not going to change my mind.”

The door slammed behind him, and he could hear the door latch shut from the outside.  The doorknob spun in his hand, but the door didn't open.  He was locked in. 

And from outside the door, he could hear Prof. Leschke say, “Idiot.”