Zombie Versus Fairy Featuring Albinos

by James Marshall

I wrack my mindless brain. “What about music? What about dancing?”

  “You don’t want to dance,” she says, frowning at the ground.

  “You’re right. I don’t want to. I need to. I have to. I must!”

  She laughs, glancing up at me.

  “If I don’t start dancing in the next couple of minutes, something terrible is going to happen.”

  “Like what?” Her wings blur into motion. She smiles at me. When she’s hanging in mid-air, she rubs her hand down her leg, over the amazing patterns the moss made in her bare skin.

  “I don’t know. I’ll turn into a movie executive and you’ll become a record industry rep.”

  “That’s not funny, Buck,” she says, seriously.

  “Okay, I went too far,” I admit. “But we better start dancing.”

  “All right.” She flies over to her sound system and starts it. Supernatural music pours out. I can almost feel it brighten the dead and dark parts of me.

  CHAPTER

  SEVENTEEN

  A Celebratory Ham

  My wife wakes up at three in the morning and walks in on me eating the cat. “What do you think you’re doing?” Her arms reach out at me in the zombie equivalent of putting her hands on her hips. She’s wearing a ruined evening gown. Once it was shining golden fabric that moved like liquid. Now it’s scraped and scratched. It’s torn. The lustre is gone. It’s coming apart at the seams.

  “You wanted me to eat,” I say, telepathically, with a shrug. “I’m eating.”

  “I didn’t mean Constance.”

  I take a bite of cat thigh. “Well, I guess you should’ve been more specific.”

  “Don’t do this, Buck.”

  Chewing, not looking up at her, I say, “Don’t do what?”

  “Don’t make this about me.”

  After I swallow, I wipe my lips with the back of my hand. “I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are. You want to fight.”

  “You’re the one standing there with your arms outstretched like your hands are on your hips.”

  “I’m a little disappointed,” she admits, gesturing toward the screaming room. There’s no screaming now. Just the sound of a woman’s exhausted sobs breaking into a coughing fit. “After all, we just got groceries.”

  “I’m sorry, Chi.” I lift the thigh to my teeth and tear off another piece. “I wanted something different.”

  “Why didn’t you say so at the store? We could’ve bought somebody foreign or something.” She points at the bloody mess on the table in front of me: the carcass. “Constance was Francis Bacon’s cat, you know. He loved the stupid thing.” Without doing anything differently, she stops pointing and glares at me.

  With my broken teeth, I tear the last of the thigh meat off the bone. With my undead tongue, I push it inside my cheek. “It’s not a big deal. I’ll get Francis Bacon another cat.” I suck the inside of bone, trying to get the marrow. Then I drop the thin white stick on the floor.

  Chi turns away, with her arms outstretched, like they’re crossed. “I don’t know how you can be like this. You’re so cold.”

  I don’t know how she can be like this. I’m cold? She’s thinking about leaving me. She tells a complete stranger she’s thinking about leaving me. Fine. Leave me. Go ahead. Sounds great. I’ll be free. What’ll you be? Huh, Chi? Will you have what you want if you don’t have me?

  Grabbing one of Constance’s remaining legs, I drag her body closer. “What do you want from me? You want me to care? I’m depressed, okay? I have a chemical imbalance. It’s not my fault.” I chew the cat meat I’d kept inside my cheek.

  Still turned away, she shakes her head. “That’s really convenient, isn’t it? That’s your excuse for everything now.” She mocks me. “‘I don’t want to kill the catatonic girl because I’m depressed.’ ‘I’m physically incapable of having zombie sex in the screaming room and making the humans watch because I’m depressed.’ Is that what you’re going to say about everything from now on?”

  Am I your problem? Is our marriage your problem? Should we just dissolve this, all of this, like another teaspoon of salt in the undrinkable water of the world? It’s already impure, right? It’s like Guy Boy Man says, “Good always comes from bad so by doing bad we increase the good.”

  “Look,” I say. “I’m sorry I’m not the perfect husband. I’m sorry I’m not whatever the hell you want. Barry Graves probably. He’s so handsome and sensitive. When I’m done eating Constance, we’ll go into the stupid screaming room and I’ll give you a stupid five-minute distraction from your own stupid unhappiness.”

  She shuffles to face me; her expressionless face is disgusted. “You’re a real romantic, Buck.”

  I wrench one of Constance’s forelegs back and forth. Bones crack. Everything gives in to strength; to force; to violence: tendons, ligaments, muscles. I tear off Constance’s leg. I hold it up to her. “Do you want some?”

  She fumes: putrefaction, decay, rancid rot. “No, I don’t want some. I can’t believe you just asked me if I want some.”

  “Are you sure?” I keep holding it up to her. “Good kitty.”

  “What is it, Buck?” she asks, suddenly sincere. “What’s the matter? Aren’t I enough for you?”

  I take a bite and chew. “You’re making this into something more than it is. I just wanted to eat cat.”

  I don’t know why she always wants to talk about everything. We never resolve anything. We just keep talking.

  “This is an indication,” she says, accusing me. She points at me with her arms. “This says something about our relationship.”

  “Come on, Chi. You know this happens. It’s perfectly natural. It goes on in zombie houses all the time. It probably happens in, I don’t know, fifty percent of zombie homes.”

  “I think that number is a little high.”

  “Twenty-six-point-nine percent. Whatever. They only come down on you if you eat somebody else’s cat.”

  “I’m not worried about that, Buck. I’m worried about our relationship. Relationships are based on trust and communication.”

  I don’t know anymore. I don’t know what I know anymore. Before I started feeling so miserable, I never thought Chi might be cheating on me. Now I think she is. All the time. I think I’m the biggest idiot that ever lived. I think she and Barry Graves are meeting in secret whenever they can. They’re laughing at me. They’re having passionate sex and afterwards they’re laughing at me. At how stupid I am. It makes me furious.

  “I can’t do anything right as far as you’re concerned!” I cry. “You’re never happy! And it’s always my fault! All you do is criticize me! I don’t do this; I don’t do that. But then, when I make the effort and I try, you’re not satisfied with the result because it’s not exactly the same as when you do it! You show me the right way, like I’m stupid. Like I’m”—I wave the arm around some more—“an infant!”

  “It isn’t . . . ! I don’t mean . . . !”

  “You make doctor’s appointments for me!” I yell, telepathically. “You practically try to force feed me! I’m not a child, Chi! Stop mothering me!”

  “I care about you, Buck! I worry! You haven’t been looking after yourself! You quit eating human flesh! You took a shower! With soap! I’m pretty sure you even washed your clothes!”

  “I. Never. Washed. My. Clothes.”

  “What was I supposed to do?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe you could’ve given me a little space! Maybe I’m going through some things right now! Maybe I’m trying to work some stuff out!”

  “How am I supposed to know that? You never told me that!”

  “I think it’s pretty obvious!”

  “What do you want from me, Buck? Do you want me to sit back and watch you starve to death?”

  “Well I’m eating now!” I take another bite of cat. I point at myself with bone. With my mouth full, I say, “What do you wa
nt from me, Chi? Do you want me to completely give in to you? Do you want me to do whatever you want, whenever you want? Is that who you thought you were marrying? Some whipped chump who was going to work all day, come home and make supper, and rub your feet while you watch TV? Well I’m sorry, but that’s not me! I’m not your plaything! I’m not your slave! I’m not going to let you keep me chained up!”

  “That’s not what I want!”

  “What do you want?”

  “I just.” She sends me silence. She sends me her search for words she can’t find and that don’t exist. “I don’t know,” she says, finally, with a sigh. “I want you to talk to me before you eat the cat.”

  I know Chi is ready to make peace now but it isn’t over. It’s never over. It’s insurmountable. The same things just keep happening. “What good would talking have done? You would’ve tried to talk me out of it.”

  “Of course I would!”

  “See? That’s why I didn’t talk to you about it.”

  Her shoulders fall. “I don’t know what’s happening here, Buck. I really don’t.”

  I finally swallow. “Nothing is happening here. I’m eating some cat. That’s it. I’ll replace it. It’s not a big deal.” With my jagged teeth, I pull and tear the last of the meat from the legs. Chewing, I drop the little bones on the floor with the others.

  “It’s a big deal to me!”

  “Maybe I should make you a doctor’s appointment,” I say, snidely. “He can put you on anti-depressants. Then it won’t bother you.” Why am I being like this? Why am I egging her on? Do I want her to leave me?

  “You blame me for everything!” cries Chi.

  “No! You won’t accept responsibility for anything!”

  “Fine. It’s my fault. Are you happy now? It’s all my fault.” Hurt, she shakes her head and looks away.

  “It’s not entirely your fault. It’s partly your fault.”

  “Well, thanks for your generosity.” She’s still not looking at me. “Since you’re being so kind, please, tell me exactly which part is my fault?”

  “The mothering part.”

  “Which part is your fault?”

  “Not expressing my feelings and wishes in an open and honest manner and instead seething with furious resentment that I directed inward when I should’ve directed it toward you.”

  “Yeah,” she laughs, angrily, turning back to me, nodding. “That sounds like it would’ve made our lives a lot better.”

  “You want to know what this is?” I lift up what’s left of Constance: what’s left of her corpse. Limp, she hangs in pieces. Held together by sinew and ligament, tendon and bone, she dangles. “This is an incensed comment on how I, willingly, gave up my genetic imperative to sleep with as many females as possible to be with you but you didn’t give up your genetic imperative to have children to be with me! I never wanted to have a kid in the first place, Chi! You talked me into it!”

  “We agreed!”

  “No.” I drop Constance onto the table. “You argued. I gave in.”

  “I can’t believe you, Buck. I really can’t.”

  CHAPTER

  EIGHTEEN

  Everything Human And Afraid

  Chi goes nuts when I insist I never wanted Francis Bacon. She loses her mindless mind. She screams at me, soundlessly. Telepathically, she floods me with curses and castigations. She rants that I’m not a real zombie; a real zombie doesn’t cry; I’m clean; I think; the only thing I’m destroying is our marriage.

  I can’t take it. I go into the Screaming Room and close the door. I lean back against it in case Chi tries to push it. The bare bulb in a metal cage flicks on and glows dull yellow.

  The plump woman sees me and starts screaming, hoarsely, scrambling backwards into a corner. The catatonic girl wakes, gently, and stares at me with something closer to pity than disgust. Flies swirl around the light like little bits of dark.

  I don’t know what makes me think of it; what makes me remember: the package of butterflies Fairy_26 gave me; the butterflies I can use to call her. I reach into my pocket and get it. It’s such a delicate operation. I don’t know if I can do it. I fall to my knees in wordless prayer, to beg for life.

  For the first time, the catatonic girl seems interested. I try to wipe a clean spot on the filthy floor. It doesn’t work. I can only spread the mess around. Realizing it isn’t going to get any better, I set down the package. I open it. As carefully as I can, I withdraw a perfectly flat butterfly. Is it asleep or dormant? I don’t know. It’s such a beautiful and fragile thing. It reminds me of Fairy_26. It’s so peaceful. I search for it and search for it. There’s no safe place to set it down. Cautiously, the catatonic girl crawls toward me. When she’s within arms’ reach, she kneels, wipes her hands on her legs, on her breasts, on her hair, everywhere and anywhere she can think of, trying to get them clean; not immaculate; just clean enough. In a gesture beyond my comprehension, ultimately, she licks them. She does it with her eyes closed and her face scrunched. She licks off blood, excrement, desperate sex, and sick. She licks off everything human and afraid. She gags but doesn’t stop. When she thinks she has it, she opens her eyes. Satisfied, she waves them in the foul air, drying them. She rubs them together. Then she holds them open to me and nods. I set the butterfly on her palms. I just stare at it for a minute; its patterns: spots, blotches, streaks, and serrations; its colors: orange, black, yellow, and white.

  Why would nature do something like this? Chance? Luck? Why would God? Cruelty? I pick up the other package. I open it. Carefully, I tip and tap it. Dust sprinkles onto the butterfly. Immediately, it begins opening and closing its wings, testing them. Its antennae move around. Staring at the amazing creature, the catatonic girl smiles and says, “Good morning, Painted Lady.”

  Suddenly the butterfly lifts off the catatonic girl’s hand and flutters around the room. I didn’t realize it when it happened but now I notice the plump woman has stopped screaming. She’s staring at the butterfly, flitting around the room and her eyes, like she must be dreaming.

  The catatonic girl waves her hand in front of my face, getting my attention. She gestures toward the door. I understand: open it.

  Awkwardly, I get to my feet. I amble to the door. I open it and look back over my shoulder. The catatonic girl is going back to where she was before, physically and mentally. I watch her leave. The plump woman isn’t looking at the butterfly anymore. She’s seeing something in her mind: a question she knows she’ll never answer. I don’t know how I know I don’t need to look after the butterfly now but I do. It wings its way out of the Screaming Room before I can close the door.

  Seeing it, Chi starts yelling at the top of her telepathic lungs. She stumbles away from it, in horror. It terrifies her.

  “Kill it!” she yells. “Buck, for God’s sakes. This isn’t funny. You know I’m scared of butterflies.” She drops to her knees and crawls under the table. “Kill it, Buck! Kill it!”

  I open the front door. The butterfly flits out into the orange streetlight dark. I watch it for as long as I can.

  “All right. It’s gone. Thank heavens. Buck? Buck, what are you doing? Close the door! Close it! You’re going to let out the rats!”

  CHAPTER

  NINETEEN

  We Need To Talk

  Five minutes after I let out the butterfly, there’s a knock at the door. It’s a soft knock, a sacred, scared knock; fairy knuckles on a zombie’s door. She’s on one side; I’m on the other. Is she thinking and feeling about me the same way I’m feeling and thinking about her? Can fairies be as excited, confused, and scared as zombies?

  “Who’s that?”

  “It’s for me,” I say, stumbling away from Chi. I trip over a corpse and fall. Clumsily, I get back up. “I forgot to tell you. I’m going out.” I take off my jacket and throw it on the floor. “I have to go out. I’m sorry.”

  “What do you mean? You’re going out? You can
’t go out.” She staggers after me. “We need to talk.” Chi’s evening gown has become her: a thing of stiffness, rigidity, stains, and holes: pieces are missing but not missed; they’re just currently, quite possibly forever, unavailable; through no act of will, just happenstance of assembly, the material, or what’s left of it, remains whole but it doesn’t move in the air she stirs.

  “No. You need to talk. And I don’t want to listen.” I jerk off my tie and whip it at the wall.

  “Buck, I don’t like this. Who’s out there? What’s going on? You’re getting all dressed up. What are you doing?”

  “I don’t know what I’m doing, Chi. Stop following me.” I yank open the door, step out, and slam it behind me. Then I pull on it, keeping it closed.

  Behind me, Fairy_26 hovers a few feet off the ground. “What’s going on?” She’s wearing skimpy bedtime clothes—a backless white T-shirt and short tight pink boy-shorts—like the butterfly woke her, and she raced right over. “What are you doing?” She says the same things as my wife. She uses the same words. It sounds so different coming from Fairy_26. Will it always be like this? Or will I get sick of her voice like I’m sick of my wife’s?

  “I don’t know,” I groan, still holding the door shut. “I don’t even know if I’m the one doing it. It might be the albinos in my head. Why am I even talking to you? The pill wore off. You can’t understand me.”

  “I made another one,” says Fairy_26. Behind me, she paces in mid-air, flying back and forth, nervously. “It probably won’t last as long as the first one and the next one won’t last as long as this but I made another one. It’s interesting. The formula is a song that sounds great at first but, after a while, you wonder why you ever liked it. “Anyway. I figured I might as well make another pill. When I felt your butterfly, I took it. I probably should’ve waited until I was sure it was really important but I didn’t think you’d call unless it was really important so I took it. I’m talking a lot, aren’t I? I’m scared. I don’t know why I’m scared. Why are holding the door closed? Who’s pulling on the other side?”