by Ash Parsons
The man pushes the first girl aside, levering on her shoulder like it’s a crutch. She gives a little shriek but is laughing, like this is just a joke.
The man hasn’t taken his eyes off Siggy, until he careens into the teen boy.
“What the hell?” The boy laughs, and he pushes at the man’s shoulder.
The man grabs the boy’s arm and pulls the forearm up to his mouth.
The boy yells in pain.
Now the onlookers finally snap out of their daze and several people jump forward, pulling the man off the boy.
The man starts fighting, an uncoordinated flailing, but it knocks some people back.
Blood and spittle coat his chin.
One of the rescuers, a woman, jumps forward. She grasps the man’s chin and points it up as she drives her shoulder into his, pivoting him as she shoots a leg straight behind him, throwing him backward to the floor with enough force that his teeth snap closed with an audible clack.
“Badass!” I yelp involuntarily. But day-um!
The woman doesn’t look up but instead folds the man’s own arm over his throat, a barrier to his teeth.
Three burly guys move in like they planned it, stepping forward to help hold the man on the ground immobile.
A smattering of applause from the crowd.
The burly guys nod acknowledgment for the applause. The badass lady doesn’t look up, just frowns down at the man’s snapping teeth.
From over here it kind of looks like he’s biting his own arm.
No way. That’s impossible.
Security guards arrive, and the burly men and badass lady start talking to them.
“Let’s go,” Siggy whispers, still standing behind me and Imani. “I don’t want to have to get any closer to that guy.”
I’ve never heard fear in her voice before.
It makes me feel sick. It makes me want to hit something for her. It makes me want to hug her and promise that everything is going to be okay.
Siggy is the freest person I know, and I want her to always stay that way.
“Let’s go, then,” I agree.
“Okay,” Imani says. We turn and start walking away.
We pass the teen boy; he’s holding a T-shirt a vendor gave him over his forearm.
“He bit me!” His voice is incredulous.
The two girls coo over him. Patting his upper arm and shoulders.
“I should kick his ass!” the boy says, puffing his scrawny chest out.
We keep walking, and at the middle aisle we turn and make our way to the podcast stage.
“That was scary,” Imani says. “Good thing that lady knew what to do.”
“She was amazing!” Siggy says, her voice sounding a bit firmer now that we’ve put some distance between her and the man.
“Seriously,” I say. “I think I’m in love. Did you see that move? And what she did with his arm?”
“Did . . . did it . . .” Siggy’s voice quavers, suddenly small. “Did it look like he was chewing on his own arm to you guys?”
“Yeah,” Imani says.
“It looked like it, but that was just the angle, right?” I ask. “It had to be.”
“Talk about an intense fan,” Siggy jokes weakly.
“He bit that boy,” Imani says.
“He was so out of it,” I say. “Maybe he was on something.”
“I bet he’s from Florida,” Siggy says, trying to smile bigger at her own joke.
Trying to laugh her fears away.
“Yeah, no doubt he was,” I agree, encouraging her laugh.
“The OG Florida Man,” Imani says.
We keep walking away from it, putting distance and humor between us and it.
He bit that boy though.
And he was chewing on his own arm.
* * *
• • •
The Undead Listen is already recording when we arrive, so we sit in the back row.
The crowd is laughing, so that’s a good sign that the trio of friends onstage are on a roll.
“Sure, you’d survive,” Melinda says into her mic. She cocks an eyebrow at her cohosts, Jilly and Billy, who are twins. The three of them have been best friends forever.
Jilly snorts into her mic.
“I would!” Billy’s voice comes out a bit higher pitched than perhaps he was prepared for. He coughs a little, laughs, and speaks again. “I would.”
It’s one of the running gags that they do on the podcast. Inevitably, after a new episode of Human Wasteland airs, Billy will work himself up about a “Pointless Zombie Death” (PZD) on the show that week.
“I don’t know,” Jilly says. “Since we’re live, what do you guys think? Would Billy survive the ZA?”
Imani cups her hands around her mouth and yells, “No!” along with most of the crowd.
Siggy and I yell, “Yes!”
“Sorry, Billy,” Melinda says. “Looks like you get et.”
“Okay, but at least I would have a good zombie death!” Billy argues.
Siggy looks at me, her blue eyes bright. “It’s Absurd!” she predicts, bouncing in her chair.
“And with that,” Jilly says, and pushes a button. Their original song, “It’s Absurd, but I Heard, You Got Eaten by the Herd,” plays. It’s a chipper 1920s-style song, and the audience sings along.
“Time to rank ’em,” Jilly says, fading the song out.
“I’m ready,” Billy says, leaning over his mic in readiness.
“Go. Top three PZDs. Is this guy in there?”
I know exactly who they’re talking about, even though I missed the start of the show, because in the last episode it was such a glaring PZD.
The guy (an extra in the opposition camp’s ranks) had seen the zombie, lying on the ground, just a torso. He’d laughed.
So that told you volumes. No respect for zombies, you become zombie kibble.
And then he’d decided to taunt it, to play with it. He poked it with his baseball bat.
So, it was hardly surprising when, in the middle of his fun, the zombie lunged and grabbed the guy’s feet, and he fell on the ground and like a snake the torso was on him.
It was not pretty.
But it had some amazing special effects!
“It was colossally foolish, but it does not go in the number one spot,” Billy says.
Number one, a teen girl who asked the approaching zombie who was her boyfriend, “Adam, is that you?” and “Adam, you’re scaring me!” and just stood there while he approached.
I should add that his head was at a gross-disgusting angle and you could see his spine protruding from his neck. Like, that should be mentioned or it doesn’t sound like a PZD.
“And it definitely doesn’t beat number two,” Jilly says.
Pointless Zombie Death number two was a redneck who tried to “wrassle” it. Really. You cannot make this up. Well, obviously someone did, I guess. But I never would have been able to think of that.
But the guy was in mourning for his dead sister, you see. And he was angry and suicidal. And he told the others to go on.
It was the zombie apocalypse version of walking into the sea.
Still ridiculous. And a definite PZD. Infuriated a lot of fans. Because then his friends had to kill him once he became a zombie. It felt manipulative.
Which my mom definitely didn’t get when I was complaining about it.
She’d said, “Wait. You’re saying a death in a zombie show. Was manipulative.”
And then she gave me the listen to yourself look.
And I gave her the I knew you wouldn’t understand eyes.
And that’s why I really try not to talk about Human Wasteland with her. She doesn’t get it.
“Okay, but does it rank as number three?” Melinda
asks.
Number three is the worst one, and their numbering is all wrong. But Billy really loved the actress who played Samantha, and said as much, and that’s why her death is number three instead of number one.
Also because we know that the reason her character was so poorly killed off was because she was in a contract dispute with the producers.
Talk about a life lesson there. Everyone is expendable in the zombie apocalypse.
But the way they killed her off? So infuriating. And it’s hard not to think that was somehow about her being a girl and a fan favorite who tried to use her leverage to get a better deal.
So yeah, we’re all a bit PO’d about the way they killed Samantha off. She should have had a hero’s death. And it was so much worse than that because it was just so ridiculous.
Imani leans over to me. “Nothing beats Samantha’s fighting a zombie with a nail file.”
“I know,” I moan. “As if she would.”
“That still makes me so mad.” Siggy shakes her head in exasperation, setting her dangly earrings rocking dizzyingly.
I feel someone looking at me. Suddenly, eyes like a weight. You know the feeling: you turn to look before you can think. A response to being stared at that is primal, like scenting danger. Somehow you just know.
And so I look.
And so I don’t hear whatever Jilly says next, because Scott is standing at the edge of the seats, about thirty feet from me.
And he’s staring at me.
The last thing I said to him was “I never want to see you again.”
At least he has the grace to look embarrassed. But he’s not looking away either.
The problem with Scott is he’s charming. He’s cute, and he knows it. He knows exactly how far he can push you, or he thinks he does, at least.
I thought his charm was something that was natural to him, like air, like breathing; but now after what happened with Blair, I think it’s more calculated than that.
I think he likes to see the way he looks in another person’s eyes.
Which means that it never was about how he felt about me, but how I made him feel about himself.
But I didn’t know that when we started dating. Even though he went to a different high school, and had a whole other life up there in Peachtree City, I thought of him as mine, when he was with me, at least.
He’d drive down on Saturdays and we’d go out and spend the whole day together, driving around, listening to music, eating picnics in the state park. Making out.
He’s not gorgeous. He’s cute in an ordinary way. But he’s got a . . . way about him.
His hair is sandy brown, streaked with blond and trimmed so short it’s almost severe.
I was trying to talk him into growing it out.
I realize I’m meeting his eyes when he smiles and gives me a little shrug.
My eyes jump off him fast.
But not before I see that he’s walking over to our row.
“Aw, hell nah,” Siggy mutters as Scott scoots into the row near me.
“Hey,” Scott murmurs.
What do I say? What can I say? I’m not here to talk to him. I want to listen to The Undead Listen, not talk to the boy who I thought was mine. Or was partly mine.
But I also can’t help that I still want to talk to him. And that sucks. Because you can’t just cut out that part of you. The part that liked a person, and liked what they saw in you, or the person that you were with them. But here you are, anyway, in spite of it all, just wanting to talk to them still.
He looks at me, and his smile is the exact one that used to make me feel special, the same one that I used to think of as one that was just for me.
Then I realized it was just the way he looked at any girl.
It’s like his eyes are saying, “You’re not like the other girls.”
But I am. I am the other girls. I am exactly, wonderfully, like all the other girls, jerk.
So stop negging us. For once. Just stop it.
I have this whole speech unfurling in my head as he says, “It’s good to see you.”
But I don’t say any of it.
I just point at the podcast stage. And he at least falls silent until The Undead Listen finishes.
Imani stares daggers at Scott the whole time. And when Jilly, Billy, and Melinda leave the stage, Imani hisses at Scott.
“Get away from us. No one wants you here.”
He ignores her.
“I miss you,” Scott says to me. “I wish you’d let me explain.”
“Let’s go.” Siggy stands and reaches across Imani to tug at my arm.
“I did, remember?” My voice should be venom and anger that could etch glass, but it’s just a dorky-sounding choke that comes out high, making me sound like a little girl.
High voice, tight with tears. Ugh.
“Did you hear the show?” Scott asks, standing with us, and following as we scooch out of the row. “It was great!”
And there it is. All he ever really liked about me: the way I looked at him.
Tell me how great I am again.
Scott is still talking. “I did a live cast! Not prerecorded like some of these other guys.”
“Oh, awesome,” Siggy says in a voice so edged it could slice a block of cheese. “That means no one could enjoy it in the moment. Instead of, you know, no one enjoying it later. Woo!” Her finger twirls in a sarcastic whoop-de-doo celebration.
The way she says it; that attitude, perfected, cutting, in the way that I swear to God only Siggy has mastered. A cute blonde stiletto right to the tender underbelly.
I laugh. It launches out of me like a rocket, shooting a shower of pain and anger but also mirth, actual true honest laughter because it’s funny, my friend is funny, and I know who Scott is.
I know who he is now.
He’s the guy who gets to you by dragging down everyone else. He’s the guy who thinks about himself the most, and anyone else second.
He never really saw me. I can play it all back now, and it’s embarrassing, like a bad movie montage where the girlfriend watches and listens adoringly as the Guy plays his guitar at her. Plays his music. Doesn’t ask for hers, doesn’t care about hers.
Scott frowns at me as my guffaw tapers to giggles.
For once I’m not embarrassed. I’m not wishing I was smaller, or prettier, or anything else.
Blair can have him. Not that she needs my blessing, obviously she didn’t, but hell. It turns out? I think they’re a really great match.
“Oh, Scott.” I clap a hand flat on his shoulder, like we are frat guys. Chums. Drinking buddies. “Man, it was good to see you!”
I slap his back two times, and press past him.
Scott looks like that dog, the one with spots on his ears, tilting his head back and forth at me in confusion.
Cute, clueless, and ready to go crap on someone else’s yard now.
Imani and Siggy fall in behind me, like we’re a walking-away dance squad.
“Who’s the badass now?” Imani asks, smiling at me slyly.
11
That was so epic!” Siggy yelps after we turn the corner and head down the aisle.
“Yeah!” Imani says, linking her arm with mine.
“Man, it was good to see you!” Siggy quotes me. “June, that was perfection.” She kisses her fingertips like a chef in a fancy restaurant.
I can’t help it, I feel simultaneously proud of myself and a little embarrassed by their effusiveness.
We walk out of the exhibit hall past the volcanic rock waterfall and ride the escalator back upstairs. We file into the shuffling line outside the massive ballroom for the full-cast panel.
We’re lucky enough to get inside before they say that the room has reached capacity. It’s standing-room only, so we ease along the back of the
ballroom, following a clump of people spreading along the back of the room.
As we wait for the panel to start, my feeling of invincibility from seeing Scott fades, and I’m left just feeling a little deflated and a little sad.
“So, I guess that’s my first boyfriend, huh?” I murmur to Imani. “Except not even that. Not really.”
“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” Imani says. “He doesn’t deserve you.”
“But do you know how it feels to be the only one who hasn’t had a real boyfriend?” I ask. “You don’t. And Siggy doesn’t. And Blair didn’t. Just me. I’m the only one.”
“That doesn’t mean anything, June,” Imani says, her tone like she wants to grab my shoulders and give them a shake. “High school isn’t everything. High school is just a small bowl. You need more fish. Look at you!”
She means it like you’re so cute!, but she’s not really qualified to speak on the subject. She’s my friend, and more to the point, Imani doesn’t look at me with romantic eyes.
“Don’t get trapped in it, June,” Imani says.
“Just ’cause he was a jerk doesn’t make them all jerks. And it doesn’t mean anything about you, either, so stop that crap,” Siggy says.
Easy for you to say.
Ugh. Shut up, brain.
“Pretty good view for standing-room only, huh? Even the camera stand isn’t in the way.” I point to the camera platform, standing in a clear space to the side of one aisle, approximately in the middle of the room.
Siggy and Imani exchange a glance that says they know I didn’t agree with them, but am just changing the subject.
They roll with it anyway.
“Yeah! The video screen helps, though.” Imani tips her chin up, studying the row of empty chairs onstage. On the screen we can see through the close-up that each has a name sign taped on, but we can’t read who’s sitting where.
“Honestly, after this morning I don’t know that it would be healthy for me to be that close to either Hunter or James again.” Siggy fans herself with her hand.
“Oh lord,” Imani sighs.
“Don’t hormone-shame me,” Siggy says.
“You haven’t even seen your favorite actor yet!” I say.