Cinco De Zombie

by Albert Aykler

  I watched the waitress drop the beers at the Biker’s table. Biker Nurse rubbed her nose with a napkin, and both of them waved their plates away, having filled up on enchiladas and burritos from the looks of the left-over goop. “Everything okay, here?”

  “Yeah, just keepin’ an eye on the patient over there.”

  “That’s why I don’t camp.” The Biker Nurse’s other half, Gene, so Biker Gene, had a self-conscious gruffness that sounded good humored at heart. Leather jacket draped over the back of her chair, her tight black T-shirt had some kind of swirling insignia or logo I couldn’t make out from the way she was sitting—leaning forward, beer mug front and center. Her tattoos were the expensive eagle and former military variety along with a wire that ran down the top of her right forearm ending in a large fray that sent sparks into her fingers. Electrician? Yeah.

  Anyway, Biker Gene’s camping comment got a laugh from the good-humored waitress, who, now that I had come to take a good look at her again—the first time since she had dropped off my tacos—had started fighting a runny nose. I couldn’t help thinking about that red fog Ziggy had pointed out.

  The waitress headed my way as the cook hit the bell for my second round of tacos. She diverted to the kitchen and came back with what I thought of as my Bonus Chorizos. Don’t ask ‘Bonus for what?’ It’s a bonus. A bonus bonus. A taco bonus. Everyone deserves one. Every day. That’s my Taco Philosophy start to finish.

  “Is he all done here?” She was about to take away Ziggy’s chimichanga plate.

  “Yep. How’s that guy doing over there?”

  She smiled and sniffled. “He’s either gonna die or forget it ever happened.”

  I smiled and chuckled through my uncomfortable knowledge of impending zombie in reply. The waitress bounced and weaved away as though tipsy or high. Weird. I had not seen her drink anything since our arrival. I had only seen her serving or chatting with folks. And I don’t think she found or made a minute to sneak out for a joint or anything. But I noticed one other change in this chipper bundle of waitress since she had taken our order; the rapid onset of cold symptoms not unlike dear old Soccer Dad’s.

  Z minus five minutes and thirty seconds

  Ziggy returned sooner than I expected.

  “Well, that was fast.”

  “Was it?” He grinned at me, his one good eye blasting fireworks of unrestrained mischievous delight in every direction.

  I looked at him so he knew I was looking at him.

  “What?”

  “That smug grin.”

  “Is zis a grin?”

  “It’s not because you just took the shit of a lifetime.”

  “It was four zings, but only one of zem in ze restroom.”

  “Great.”

  “What happened while I was gone?”

  “You tell me. You’re the one with the ass crack wide grin on your face.”

  “Zat is a horrible image.”

  “Consider the plight of the guy looking at it.”

  “Quite funny, Singleton.”

  New alarms went off at the Soccer Family table.

  “Ohmigod.” Disappointed Tara.

  “What happened?” Digitally marooned Chad.

  The WiFi dropped them as the waitress brought the kids complimentary deep-fried ice cream with chocolate and cinnamon churros. Karen-Mother-of-Two looked desperately to the waitress for some help. She looked at their phones and the available WiFi, but she found no digital tether. The waitress and bartender conferred. No more network. Nothing. They couldn’t even process credit cards.

  “Did you kill the phone line, too?”

  “I don’t know what you’re asking.”

  “Ziggy.”

  “Are you asking if I am an idiot or a fool?”

  “I know it’s always the latter. But are you a thorough fool, that’s my question?”

  “Sí, señor. Quite zorough.”

  “Spanish with an Austrian accent is creepier than English.”

  “What is creepy about ze Austrian accent?”

  “Never mind.”

  The lack of network did not keep the kids from taking pictures of their fancy Mexican desserts and the Biker Nurse and Biker Gene who leathered back up in preparation for their departure.

  “You’ll need to collect zose. All ze phones. And destroy zem.”

  “Not my gig. Silvercrest sends a clean team. But they won't need to. No zombies, Zig. You’re overreacting.”

  “Oh, zis sounds like anozer bet.” And at that, Ziggy got up and headed directly towards the Soccer Family table.

  Was it as he walked over or a second before that the Soccer Dad fell completely out of his chair? I couldn’t say for sure, but I think he had already headed that way, anyway, and Soccer Dad happened to go over at the same time. In these situations, high imminent zombie, my sense of trouble can become overly sensitive. Hypersensitive. Verging on paranoid. So, I think it safe to mark down Ziggy’s timing as unhappy coincidence. I hope so. Anything else would worry me beyond all hope of good sleep.

  Once Soccer Dad hit the floor, Ziggy picked up the pace and joined Biker Nurse, Biker Gene, and the waitress in attending to him. The kids stood on their chairs to get a better vantage of dear old dad. Karen-Mother-of-Corporate-Career did not move from her seat. I saw her give up on tapping on her own phone in frustration. No network, remember, Karen? The pool players looked over from the top step of the poolroom.

  Lots of talking and advising, and I saw Ziggy’s quick bony hands do something. Did he take a sample? Or stick him? I could see enough from my angle to know it was not an encouraging pat on the shoulder, but I could not see exactly what he did. Anyhow, Soccer Dad popped up a moment later, rubbing the bicep over his bitten hand so, in hindsight, I think Ziggy stuck him with something. Oddly, Ziggy then took off his murse and set it on the table near Karen-Mother-of-Two, who told the kids to get down from the chairs. “Dad will be OK. Now sit down now. I don’t want either of you falling.”

  “Whoa. That was weird.” Soccer Dad announced to those assembled.

  Everyone laughed.

  And it was at this light-hearted moment, with almost everything appearing right with the world, that my creep-o-meter went off. Something was wrong. Seriously wrong. Hair on the back of my neck said “Hello. Yes, we’re up, and you should be, too.” I drained my remaining iced tea and had a look around the place. Everyone, including the Soccer Dad, who had only moments before fallen out of his chair, was happy and laughing. Having a great time, sneezing, coughing, blowing noses, and laughing. Including Ziggy.

  Except Karen-Mother-of-Two. She stared across the restaurant into the kitchen, right past the cook’s face in the window, to the young grungy dishwasher behind him, who looked right back at her. I assumed they both must be thinking something very like my own thoughts, “Why is everyone getting sicker and happier at the same time?”

  The jukebox wailed out the last half of an Eagles song most people (not even the Eagles) like or remember, a song I might play to get stragglers out of my house at the end of a party. The whole place had gone creepy on creepy with a side of creepy.

  Karen and the dishwasher didn’t notice me noticing them noticing the situation. I needed to do something. Say something. I didn’t know what. And maybe because of the intense amount of creep all around me, my digestive system decided it would now function more or less as intended, but in a hurry. So, off I went to the restroom.

  The giddiness started to die down. Karen turned back to her husband who I could hear whooping his way down again like he was playing some game except—Bang. I looked back over my shoulder. He banged his flopping backside down on the floor. Several shocked laughs and yells went up. They all thought he was clowning around.

  My digestive needs kept me moving. I felt the dishwasher’s eyes on me. I looked back at him. As I passed, I mouthed the words, “Run. Run, now.” He stood there baffled. My belly did not let me stop to clarify.

  As I turned down the short hall to the restr
oom, I heard the kitchen bell ring. The cook, nearly as giddy as the rest of them, shouted, “Chimichangas El Segundo!” More laughter out in the restaurant. Who says zombie times can’t be good times?

  At Z minus five, I entered the restroom, knowing something had gone or was going seriously awry out in the El Coyote Gordo dining room. I thought poor Soccer Dad had hours before zombification would bring him back. Ignorance may not be bliss, but it can certainly be the foundation of a satisfying trip to the restroom.

  Yesterday. My yesterday, anyway. A Tuesday in September 2016, in the Silvercrest cafeteria. Night. Late. Ziggy and I would hang out after most of the lab coats and dapper snappy casual managers went home. The cafeteria always offered a dinner, and only rarely was it something other than reconfigured lunch leftovers. Tonight, was no different.

  “I hate it.”

  “Why? You love tah-cohs?”

  “This is not tacos.”

  “You love pie.”

  “This is not pie. This is not a taco. Not a pie. Taco pie is a fuckup masquerading as a masterpiece.”

  “Just like you.”

  “Nice.”

  “What’s ze matter, Singleton?”

  “I need to get out, Ziggy.”

  “I know. It will take time.”

  “I’m tired.”

  “Everyone is.”

  “Everyone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does everyone wake up in a corner lab under a bright light staring at a slightly off-kilter centrifuge every other morning wondering how the hell they got there?”

  “No.”

  “Or how about flying to far-flung destinations in the middle of the night to bash the skulls and sever the spinal columns of total strangers whose only crime was signing up for a clinical trial?”

  “Now you’re just being dramatic. Who knows what ozer people find zemselves doing?”

  “Come on.”

  “Have you bothered to ask zem?”

  “Yeah, well, I have no memory of applying for this particular gig.”

  “Zat may not be such a curse.”

  “I’ll remember that next time I’m sent on a cleanup mission.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  I poured the last third of a bottle of Mexican hot sauce on my taco pie and wilted iceberg salad. “If I’m so broken, such an amnesiac mental case, why do they send me into these high stress trauma inducing situations?”

  “Ze cleanups?”

  “Yeah, the cleanups.”

  “You’re immune.”

  “Bullshit. The Hazmat wearing SWAT goons do just fine. No one touches them.”

  Ziggy scraped up the last of his taco pie in a dainty knife-to-fork European dining maneuver. He sighed. “Zey zink ze zombies will make you remember. Zat zey will bring you back.”

  “Why?”

  “I zought zis too. At first. Maybe. Why not?”

  “No, why would they care if I came back?”

  Ziggy smiled at me as though I had just aced an exam, “Now, zat is an interesting question.” He took a flask of tequila from his lab coat pocket and added some into each of our red plastic cafeteria tumblers of soda. “Ze answer to zat all depends on who zey zought zey would get back.” He drank. “Or what.”

  “Seems like bullshit. Seems like Silvercrest’s problem that Silvercrest should solve on their own and leave me out of it.”

  “Maybe.”

  I expected a bigger response from Ziggy, but he looked deep into his drink instead. Or maybe that look was the rest of his answer.

  “Well, am I getting better? Is it working?” I couldn’t tell if I had a better sense of my past or not. We had spent months trying to bring something more back.

  “Fuck no.”

  I pounded the rest of my drink and asked, “Can you get me out?”

  “Yes, but we need time.”

  “Do it.”

  “I will. Give me time. Zings are developing. Zere is even a chance it won’t be necessary. Zese scientists are doing great zings.”

  “Very funny. Fuck you, Ziggy.” I didn’t wait for a reply. I left him to laugh at the joke whose punchline was my life.

  Back in my quarters, I went about the rest of what had become my nightly ritual since the Helsinki incident. This consisted of sitting on a modern looking wooden chair in one corner until I was tired enough to believe I lived here. My sterile white room had a poster of the Marx Brothers sharing a Hookah over a twin bed. I had rammed the bed into the corner. From there, I could look across the room through a narrow sliver of window onto a stark, sun-weathered parking lot. I refused to look into its well-lit emptiness after dark.

  No one lived here. When I knew I was no one, I went to bed.

  So, when Olympia came to me that night, I was happy to talk. I didn’t think to ask how she got there or where she came from. I believed she was beautiful enough to walk through walls, anyway.

  That night, I looked at her and saw her for what she was when we first met, a clueless financial auditor, looking to get some clarity on my chaotic expense reports. She paid me lots of compliments and attention without knowing what I did or what I was made of. Seeing her always made me feel like someone more than no one.

  Looking back, I realize she knew a lot more about me than she let on. And she was no auditor. But the truth won out: she had a deep interest in me.

  And it came to me there on the El Coyote Gordo toilet, staring at the scratched and dented stall door. A vision of Olympia. Not across the table from me in a conference room asking for more details about rental car damages or $40 airport breakfasts.

  No, I could see her face. Her shoulders and neck bare. A light sheet across her breasts rising and falling as she breathed heavily on a summer afternoon. A small, cute bead of sweat on her upper lip.

  I felt something in that memory. Something big and invisible. I lost my breath. Love. I loved Olympia once. Some old me did, anyway. And then as quickly as it came, the memory disappeared and left me angry. Something had been taken from me. No, the memory did not disappear all on its own. A sound brought me back to that bathroom stall in the El Coyote Gordo. A banging on the bathroom door and someone yelling.

  “Hey! You in there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Something’s up with your friend.”

  “Whaddyou mean?”

  “He’s acting weird. A lot of people are. Can’t you hear them?”

  And I could. It must have been going on for a while. Yelling and screaming. Loud bangs and all the usual noise that accompanies zombie trouble.

  “I’ll be right out.”

  I finished up as quick as I could but needed to catch my breath. I could feel Olympia. Back there. Looking for me. Some other me. Or this me. It all ran together. Every part of me like a dream and every dream nothing but me. And then I remembered our conversation again. I couldn’t remember saying goodbye, because I didn’t. I passed out. Ziggy had dosed my Taco Pie with something strong enough to put me under for a few years. “Goodnight,” she said. “This is for the best. We need to slow things down. We need you with us.”

  “What’s happening? What are you talking about?” I don’t know if she could understand me. I remembered feeling heavy and numb. My bones felt spongy in my body.

  “I love you. I asked Ziggy to do it. I asked him to make you sleep.” She was crying. I could not reply, but I could still hear her.

  Wait. Time was out of whack. This was before the first incident. She was not in my room. I was Sid Singleton and out cold in bed, thanks to Ziggy.

  This was something I hadn’t wanted to remember. “Leo, I can’t lose any more of you. You’re dying and this will keep you alive while they figure this out. Ziggy can do it. He can save you.” Leo? Leo. I was Leo. Maybe. Not as real as the feeling for and memory of Olympia, but real-ish.

  I heard Corporate-Career-Karen’s voice through the bathroom door yelling again. “Get out here, Singleton. It’s a boondoggle.” What the…?

  Maybe because she he
ard the stall door slam shut, Corporate Karen came into the bathroom and pulled me away from the sink where I was about to wash my hands. “Singleton. We don’t have time for that.”

  “How do you know my name?”

  “Your friend Ziggy told me.”

  “That’s a lie.”

  “Asshole. Come out here.”

  “You walked in on me in the bathroom. And what’s with boondoggle.”

  “What do you mean what’s with boondoggle?”

  “The word. You and Ziggy both used it.”

  “Ziggy’s dead.”

  5 De Dondé Son Los Sombreros?

  Z minus two minutes.

  “Not only Ziggy.” Corporate-Cutthroat-Karen walked me out of the bathroom and back into the restaurant.

  “What?” And I wanted to know, How does she know Ziggy’s name? But I had no time to ask.

  She had some Karen-Mother-Of-Two work to do. She went to it while I paused at the bar to re-orient.

  Her husband was flat on the floor where he had been sitting up as I had left for the restroom a few minutes before. Tara suppressed her tears by narrating a video of the situation on her cell phone and Chad used his phone to record the changes to his father’s face in closeup. Mediating their lives had equipped them for mediating their trauma. Karen had no time for that.

  “Get away from him. Step away from your father. He’s dead.”

  The kids knew this Corporate-Cutthroat-Karen-Mother-Of-Two voice and stepped back, though not stopping their video work. I saw Chad calmly pinch the zoom of his phone to keep focus on Soccer Dad’s twisting mug.

  “I don’t think he’s dead. His face—”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Your friend…” Pete the Bartender shouted at me. He was behind the bar, waving his cell phone around in a modern update of a primitive dance to the gods. Entreating some cell phone god who had never cared about the El Coyote’s nook of a cranny in these mountains for one thin wave of a signal. I looked at Ziggy stretched out on the barroom floor, the waitress kneeling over him. Ziggy always had a strange way with the ladies towards the end of the night.