The Loving Dead

by Amelia Beamer

  He considered how easily she’d corrected him, despite not seeming to know where they were going. Where exactly did her memory leave off? “Audrey, what happened this morning, after I left?”

  “Um,” she said. “Do you have any pot? I’m dying for a smoke.”

  He decided to ask easier questions. “Where do we work?”

  “Trader Joe’s, silly. And two plus two is four.”

  “Name three kinds of mint.”

  “Um, spear, pepper, and base.”

  That was one of her jokes. It was good that she remembered it.

  “What day is it?”

  “Today.” She paused before that one, either because she was trying to remember, or trying to think of a joke. “Today is today, just like every day. Except for that long, embarrassing parade of yesterdays.”

  Michael kept both hands on the wheel. Her sense of humor was clearly intact. And her long-term memory seemed fine. “Who did I dress up as last night at the party?”

  She answered without hesitation. “A really big bug.”

  “No, tell me for real.”

  “Some Victorian writer-type. You couldn’t do the accent for shit.”

  That time she’d gotten it right.

  “I didn’t try.”

  “Well, that explains it.”

  “And what movies did we watch last night?”

  “Fuck if I stayed awake. You know me. I must have been really fucked up; I’m really hung over. My head hurts. I’m not going in to work. You shouldn’t either. We can watch movies in bed all day.”

  Michael considered. If she really did have some kind of concussion-related amnesia, he didn’t want to distress her by bringing up the zombies. She remembered coming to the party at least, but it seemed like her memory cut out sometime during it. He wouldn’t be surprised if she’d come a bit unhinged. The way she’d lied about the morning, about telling everyone to go home... He didn’t dare try to tell her she’d lost her memory. The way she kept repeating herself, he wasn’t sure how much she was retaining even now.

  Inspiration struck. “Audrey, when did you get back together with Cameron?”

  “Who are you kidding?” She changed the radio to some new hip-hop song that Michael already hated. “Not on your life. I’ve given that boy his chances. He’ll break my heart if I let him, and he knows it. I can joke about it, but you know how you can tell sometimes? When someone’s so wrapped up in the power they have over you, they kinda just want to see how far they can go? Flirting with other girls in front of me, that sort of thing. I’m just glad I broke up with him when I did.”

  So she didn’t remember the morning. Which meant she wouldn’t be able to tell him why their friends were fine when he left the house and zombies when he came back. Maybe she’d recover her memory. Or she was lying. He wasn’t sure what to do about it, if anything. Everyone knew zombies weren’t very articulate, so it wasn’t as if they were going to tell him what had happened. That would be a real bummer, if he never knew. Not that he could go back and fix it. But he wanted some kind of explanation.

  She leaned her head against the window, cradling her cheek in her hand, her elbow propped on the armrest. Her eyes closed.

  Michael remembered that people with concussions weren’t supposed to be allowed to sleep. He couldn’t remember why, or if it was even true. “Hey,” he said, nudging her. “Stay with me, Audrey.”

  “Where you at?”

  “Open your eyes.”

  She did. Her pupils were the same size.

  Michael fumbled his phone from his pocket. Finally, he had service. He dialed 911. It rang a long time before a woman answered: “Highway Patrol, what’s your emergency?”

  “I need 911,” Michael said. He was reminded of that old joke, What’s the number for 911? “Accident in the Oakland hills, at a house.”

  “Cell phones connect automatically to Highway Patrol,” the operator said in a clipped voice. Too professional to be grumpy. “Putting you through to police and fire.” The phone rang again. Michael checked his rearview mirror, just to make sure that he wasn’t being followed by a squad car that would pull him over and give him a ticket for talking on the phone without a hands-free device.

  “911, what’s your emergency?” A male voice this time.

  “Um, hi,” Michael said. “I need a car, or maybe a couple of cars, to go to—” he almost said my house “—this house in the hills. There are a few really dangerous people inside. I think they’re contained for now, but they need medical attention.” He held his breath, waiting for the operator to hang up.

  “Address?”

  He recited it, giving the cross street since it was easy to get lost in the hills.

  “You say they’re contained?”

  “Well, they’re inside. Doors and windows shut. Can they get out? I mean, are they smart enough? Do you know what I’m talking about?”

  “Just stay indoors, sir, and lock your doors and windows. Do you live nearby?”

  “Yes,” Michael said. He hadn’t intended to lie, but he didn’t want to get into trouble for leaving the scene of a crime, if it was a crime. He felt like a criminal.

  The voice cut off without saying goodbye. Operators weren’t supposed to do that.

  The car ahead of them braked, and Michael dropped his phone while he remembered to drive. He slowed just in time, then turned onto the off ramp. There was a man holding a sign that read “Need Help” at the end of the ramp, dressed in a brown coat despite the sun. He didn’t seem to be concerned about zombies. Michael looked away from the man. He gripped the steering wheel to keep his hands from shaking. Maybe he shouldn’t have called the cops. What if they went in and just shot everyone? He thought about getting back on the freeway, the other direction; going back home and loading everyone into a car somehow, and taking them to the hospital. He should have done that in the first place, instead of watching movies and getting blueballed under the blanket. Why would Kate let him get that far and then just stop? He’d enjoyed what they’d done, and knew he should just let it be what it was. But none of it should have happened. She should have talked him into getting their friends to a hospital. As it slipped further into impossibility, the idea sounded better and better. None of them had been thinking straight, he told himself.

  His wallet jabbed him; he took it out of his pocket and put it in the car’s console. There wasn’t much in it, anyway. He put his phone in the same place.

  “You all right over there, kiddo?” He made his voice sound gentle.

  Audrey put a hand into her hair, then brought her fingers up to look at them. It wasn’t a lot of blood.

  Michael concentrated on driving. The street was clogged with traffic. People cluttered the sidewalk, going in and out of boutique shops and restaurants. No one was screaming. No one looked particularly worried. Perhaps they didn’t pay attention to the news. He didn’t make a habit of listening to NPR or reading the newspaper himself, so he couldn’t fault them.

  He saw the parking structure off of MacArthur, and drove towards it. This was where he’d come once his health insurance kicked in from work, and he’d decided to get a physical. It had been five years or so since the last one, which seemed about right. He’d gotten lost in the building. It was a huge medical center, two wings and four floors, with all of the major specialty doctors, several pharmacies, and lots and lots of sick people. He wondered at how many doors inside actually locked. He thought that the doors that did lock had big windows.

  “’Mergency center entrance is around the block, I think,” Audrey said.

  Michael obeyed, driving past the structure. Her voice had sounded clearer than before. Maybe she was getting better. He parked in the 20-minute zone, came around to help Audrey out, and locked the car. He held her arm as they entered the sliding doors. A security guard in a black windbreaker nodded at them, arms crossed over his chest. How could the sun be shining, and people be going about their normal business?

  He approached the desk. “My
friend here needs to see a doctor,” he said to the woman. “I think she has a concussion. She fell. It was an accident,” he added, conscious that he might sound like an abusive boyfriend.

  “Does she have an appointment?”

  “No. Why would she have an appointment?” Michael said, trying to stay calm and not make any comments about pre-approved emergencies.

  “Kaiser card?” the woman said.

  “Audrey, do you have your insurance card?”

  Audrey fumbled with her pockets. She pulled out ChapStick, money, and receipts. “I thought we were going to see your dealer,” she said.

  “That was a joke,” Michael said to the woman behind the desk. She didn’t smile. “I know she’s insured here. I mean, look at her. She needs medical attention. She’s bleeding.”

  The woman sighed. She typed something. Surely other people did this, Michael thought. “Can’t you look up her information from her name?”

  The woman clicked something with the mouse. She used her computer like an old person, wrinkling her eyebrows.

  Audrey swayed, moving like a flag in the breeze. She sat down on the floor, and started laughing. She was a smart girl. She knew how to get attention. It wouldn’t be beyond her to fake it a little bit. He’d only dated her briefly before she declared they were just friends; only took her to bed a few times, and he was pretty sure she’d faked it then, too.

  “Please,” he said to the woman.

  Her smile was businesslike. “Just a second. I need to talk to my supervisor.” She picked up a phone and cradled it between her neck and shoulder. Michael sat next to Audrey, who’d stopped laughing. “Head injury, no card,” the woman said. “Well, with security—”

  Michael was readying his argument. That you couldn’t refuse service in an emergency room, he’d say that first. Then the woman’s words filtered through. He understood what she’d meant. Whatever was going on with security had happened recently. Which meant there were already zombies here. There had to be; people would bring their friends and families to the hospital. People in their right minds, anyway. But the hospital had to avoid panic, because a huge building full of panicking people would be worse than a zombie attack.

  Maybe it was the same thing with the news; that they were keeping it quiet to avoid a panic. Fights over gas and food and supplies that would turn into riots. Freeways clogged as people tried to get out of the cities. Cars stalled out on the side of the road. People hitchhiking. Neighbors shooting each other over the car keys. Cellular phone networks overwhelmed by traffic, and everyone trying to find their families and friends. It’d be like a Max Brooks novel. Michael took a breath, and let it out slowly. Life wasn’t really like that.

  He stood, and looked past the reception desk. About half of the chairs in the waiting room were filled; the place looked like an airport lounge. Of course, any zombies would be hustled inside, to keep them quiet. At a minimum, they’d be contained, and studied. Maybe it was some kind of mutation on the swine flu. Passed along by something in saliva, delivered into the bloodstream. A virus that caused psychotic behavior and changes in appearance. Because they weren’t dead, he knew that much. Cameron’s blood had been the normal color. Something had happened to him, for sure, and to Kate’s friend, and everyone else.

  “Miss? Sir?” The woman called down. “You can wait over there. My computer system is down, so when they call for a Jane Doe, that’s you.” She smiled and gestured towards the waiting room.

  Michael took Audrey’s arm and found them seats. His proximity to Audrey, her arm small in his hand, reminded him of Kate.

  Someone coughed wetly. Michael’s heart beat faster. He leaned over and whispered, “Audrey, are you faking? You can tell me, it’s OK. You don’t even have to tell me why. But this place isn’t safe. I’d rather not stay here if we don’t need to.”

  A young man sitting in eavesdropping distance looked up, and then pretended not to be watching. His cheeks were scarred with acne. He didn’t seem to have anyone with him, no mother or girlfriend standing by.

  Audrey smiled, and put a hand to the goose egg on the back of her head. Michael leaned over but didn’t touch. It looked painful. Blood was drying, dark in her strawberry hair.

  He didn’t let doubt enter his voice. “Honey, you’re a good actor. You’ve had me, several times already. But you’re not concussed,” he said. He wondered whether her pupils had really been different sizes, or if it had been his imagination. A tricky sunbeam; an angle of light. Still, even if she had been concussed, she was better now. “I know you’re in pain, and the past few days, or what feels like a few days at least, has been really rough. I don’t expect that you’re doing any better than me, and I feel like I might be losing it. Sometimes I hope I am, because it would make things easier.”

  She didn’t say anything. They sat for some time. Michael tensed from every cough or rustle, from every time a nurse came out from the swinging doors and called a name. He put his arm around Audrey. She pulled away.

  “Cameron got loose,” Audrey said, her voice small but clear. “This morning, just as we were getting up. I didn’t want to tell you. I was embarrassed. They subdued him, and tied him back up, but they got bitten. Natalie and Henry. I ran and hid in the bathroom, but I heard it all. I heard them talking about what to do. They called for us to do something—they thought you and Kate were home still. They shut themselves up in Lena’s room. Before they turned. They knew what was going to happen. They called for us to stay away. And then they just moaned.”

  “Audrey?” Michael was startled. It was plausible. He pulled her to her feet. “Audrey, don’t fuck with me.”

  There was fear in her expression, but it felt honest. He craved honesty. Was capable of violence to get it. He let go of her. She stood without swaying.

  “Henry let Cameron loose,” she said. “I think it was Henry. Or he got loose on his own, I don’t know. I thought about calling the cops, and I didn’t. I should have. There was no way to go back and save them, and now they’re dead and it’s my fault.” She started crying.

  “They’re not dead. Cameron’s blood—”

  “Who are you kidding?” Audrey said. “You’re the one who put on the Romero movies. This isn’t going to end well.” Her voice was getting louder. People were watching. “It’s my fault. I stayed in that bathroom in the hallway, and I found your copy of the Wade Davis book, and looked up the whip business. I thought I’d dreamed what happened last night, when Cameron obeyed the whip, but it was in the book. And maybe I shouldn’t have let Cameron loose after all that, but I wasn’t thinking straight.”

  Michael realized that they had failed to bring a whip from the house. “There’s more to zombies than movies,” he said, aware of how lame that sounded.

  “Miss?” The woman from the desk called. “We’ll call you in just a moment. Please keep your voice down.” It was clear from her tone that this was not a request.

  The people in the waiting room each pretended not to be watching when Michael tried to make eye contact.

  Michael walked towards the exit, holding tight to Audrey. The double sliding doors opened and closed behind them. They were headed towards his car when someone screamed. Michael turned. He could just see the waiting room. He blinked, hard. People were getting to their feet. A zombie had come into the room, moaning. He wore a paper gown, the kind you had to wear when you were getting examined. His legs and arms were covered with dark hair. His eyes gave it away. He licked his lips. The woman behind the desk went towards him, hands out, attempting reason.

  “No,” Michael said, stepping forward. Maybe the “security” measures hadn’t involved telling the staff what the real dangers were. “Don’t touch him!” he called.

  The security guy stepped into Michael’s path, blocking the sliding glass door. “Excuse me, sir, but you’ll have to clear the premises. Now.” He locked the door from the outside. He would not make eye contact.

  Michael felt a chill. He took a step back. There was a s
cream from inside the hospital. Then another. People beat their fists against the glass door. Michael looked at the lock.

  “Beat it,” the security guard said, lifting his jacket. He wore a gun.

  Michael nodded, grabbing Audrey’s sleeve and backing away. He was shaking with adrenaline. The security guard got into an ambulance. Michael expected the guy was going to take off, but he drove it to the door, and parked it sideways. The vehicle covered the glass door. The guard got out, and took off at a run.

  Michael looked at Audrey. It was all a matter of information. Maybe the security guard knew more than the staff or the doctors. This couldn’t be standard hospital operating procedure. Either way, containment was the bottom line.

  “We gotta go,” he said. They turned. He looked for his car. There was a little green Volvo in the spot where he’d parked.

  “Dude,” Audrey said. “Um, where’s your—”

  “Fucking kidding me. Someone stole my car!” He looked at the sign. Twenty minute parking. There was a phone number for towed cars. “I don’t believe it.” He cursed. “We can’t have been here for that long.”

  An elderly woman approached. She held out a copy of Street Spirit, the homeless newspaper.

  “Donation?” she asked. The newspaper had a suggested cover price of a dollar.

  Michael checked his hip pocket. His wallet was in the car. So was his cell phone. He felt the loss like he’d been hit. “Sorry,” he said. “You should go somewhere safe, ma’am,” he added. “Somewhere indoors. With rope. The zombies are coming. You need whips. Tell people!” There was no time to explain.

  She shook her head and went to find someone else to solicit.

  “Audrey, we gotta hoof it. Can you handle that?” He started walking towards MacArthur, mapping his friends’ residences one by one and discarding each. They were all too far. They were at least five miles from his own house, most of it up a steep hill; Audrey lived in Berkeley, which was further yet.

  “I guess. You don’t want to call for your car?” Audrey was stepping over all of the cracks in the sidewalk. Normally she wasn’t neurotic. Perhaps she thought she was being cute. Michael worried that she did have a head injury, but there was nothing to do about it now.