Zombie Ever After

by Carl S. Plumer

  “Holy fuck!” Donovan shouted, stepping back.

  The gang leader groaned. Something dark green oozed out his mouth. Donovan spotted the man’s compadre behind him, also starting to move, to get up, to reanimate.

  These guys are dead. When you’re dead, you’re supposed to stay dead.

  Donovan did a quick search for Cathren. He didn’t see any sign of her. Hopefully she’d found refuge somewhere around here with one of the local families. Crap, he needed to get the hell out of there as fast as his feet could carry him.

  The corpse moved toward him with a hungry look in its eyes.

  Donovan picked a direction at random and ran.

  He should have picked better.

  He ran north, toward that strange light, looking behind him every once in a while. The thing shuffled after him, but it wasn’t progressing very fast. Okay, maybe it wasn’t too much of a threat after all. After about three blocks, Donovan slowed down.

  A crowd appeared in the distance, advancing in Donovan’s direction, shuffling as if in a funeral procession. He couldn’t make out any features from his position. They were still too far away. He stared for long moment. Sheesh, what was wrong with them? They were moving oddly. Not like an army marching or people parading. Jerky movements. Twitchy. Strange.

  They filled the block from one side of the street to the other, coming at him with the inevitability of a car wreck. Then the moaning started. That damn, familiar moaning. He recognized the lumbering shuffle. As they drew nearer, step by hitched step, Donovan could see their eyes. In some cases, only hollows remained, the orbs missing. In all other cases, the eyes had no light at all behind them.

  Then there was the blood.

  * * *

  Almost without exception, blood splattered every one of the people or creatures or whatever they were, most notably on their faces. Especially around their mouths, as if they’d just finished an all-you-can-eat spaghetti dinner with gusto.

  Behind him were two undead gangbangers. In front of him a sea of the undead. He’d take his chances with the gangbangers, he decided. He picked up a broken two-by-four with a couple of rusty nails sticking out of it that he’d spotted in an alley earlier. He took it with him as he crossed the street and headed down a side road.

  Carlos the Corpse caught up with him somehow, popping out of the shadows like a dead pirate on that Disney ride. Donovan swung the two-by-four at what remained of the dead man’s skull. It smashed open like a rotten jack-o’-lantern. Donovan was relieved that the other gangbanger was not there. He wanted to get as far away from all this ambulatory death as quickly as possible.

  He turned the next corner and almost knocked the other walking corpse from the bodega to the ground. The corpse grabbed Donovan to stop its fall. Once it had Donovan, it tried to take a chunk out of his flesh. Pukish drool dribbled out of its mouth onto the ground, just missing Donovan’s arm.

  They were too close to each other; Donovan couldn’t swing the two-by-four. Instead, he pummeled the zombie’s head like a pile driver. He stunned the corpse enough to cause it to loosen its grip for a second. Donovan broke free and ran.

  At the next intersection, a bus loaded passengers. He ran desperately and reached it in time. He hopped on and slid a couple of bucks into the machine, and then held on tightly as the bus jerked away from the curb. Diesel fumes filled Donovan’s nose as he swayed from the sudden motion.

  The bus bounced along as Donovan gingerly made his way to the bench seats up front. He crash-landed between two other passengers. Exhausted, he sighed and closed his eyes.

  “What’s that I am shmellin’?” the man to his left said. He was dressed in outdated, baggy jeans and a too-tight, blue silk sweater. “Dat chicken?”

  “Yeah,” the man to Donovan’s right said. He sported a black New York Yankees cap and a cheap gold chain around his neck. “That’s fried chicken. I sure of it.”

  “Smells Chinese, though,” the first man said.

  Donovan glanced at him. He didn’t look like a typical goon. Just a run-in-the-mill, neighborhood clown. “You’re both right,” he said.

  “How can we both be right?” the one in the silk shirt mumbled, mostly to himself. He took a handkerchief out of his back pocket and wiped his nose. “I don’t have no friends,” he said. He refolded the hanky into a neat square and stuffed it back in his pocket.

  Donovan ignored them and closed his eyes again. While they bounced through the night, he thought about Cathren. They had been together for a few days. Now, for some crazy, fucked-up reason, he was thinking maybe it was love. But evidently, she’d decided to just pass through, move on. Or possibly she’d passed on. For good this time.

  As he rode along, Donovan gazed out the windows at the city he once knew. The streets were eerily empty. In a city known for its nightlife, he spied no crowds. No revelers. No mimes or jugglers. Nobody walking on stilts. No streetwalkers.

  But plenty of the living dead.

  They came out of stores with the windows smashed apart. They came out of alleys, blood covering their mouths, chests, and hands. They walked like pre-programmed automatons. These ex-mimes. Ex-jugglers. Ex-revelers. Ex-streetwalkers. For Burkhart Egesa, the man who wanted to bring the dead to life, this must be the Bizarro World version of that dream.

  Donovan shook his head. Zombies, he thought. Here in the city. Here in the Haight. Here in reality.

  The bus dropped Donovan off about a block from his home. He stepped out onto the sidewalk, looking nervously in both directions. The bus doors creaked shut like the screams of the Valkyrie, then roared away, blasting Donovan with another hot cloud of diesel smoke.

  Donovan stood in the silence and the dark. The streetlights nearby either flickered on and off or were completely dead. Machine guns popped in the distance, sounding like very small, very determined choo-choo trains.

  Donovan needed to get home. Fast.

  I think I can, I think I can.

  Of course, he was wrong.

  From every direction, the moaning grew like hundreds of decrepit chainsaws. Sputtering along, randomly gaining strength and losing power all around him in the dark.

  So he ran toward his home, even if it meant crashing through zombie hordes to get there. He threw himself at a mob of the undead that stood between him and his home. He smelled their putrid odor. Almost tasted their rank, sticky skin. He sensed their decaying mouths opening, their rancid teeth chomping toward him.

  So, it’s over before it could even start. Death, at last. How long, really, might I have gone on, anyway?

  Then the bullets started. Fa-fa-fa-FA-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa.... Rapid machine gunning. From somewhere over the hill, the troops had arrived.

  He sprinted now. Oblivious to the bullets flying around him, to the noise, to the horrible screeching. To the exploding undead. It was clear that he was in grave danger. To the untrained eye, he was one of the undead, too. Covered in blood, out in the night, just one more zombie in a thousand.

  To complicate matters, the toxic gas—which Donovan observed being released into the air minutes before—continued to drift his way. Donovan realized, as he watched zombie after zombie fall to the ground as it enveloped them, that it wasn’t tear gas. Rather, it was an anti-zombie cloud. He decided he wasn’t going to hang around to see if it worked on humans.

  Donovan made out the sound of high heels clicking toward him in the dark. A woman appeared before him in the circle of light from one of the only working streetlights. Donovan stopped running and stared. She wore a white trench coat, a gray beret, and high-heeled boots. An unexpectedly beautiful sight at that moment. Her long white-blonde hair fell over her left eye like a Hollywood starlet from a bygone era. She looked Donovan over real quick and smiled.

  “You have survived. Good,” she said, extending her hand. “Nice to meet you. I am Alena Portanova, Burkhart Egesa’s right-hand woman.”

  Chapter 34

  “Please, we have no time to waste,” Alena said. “The killing gas, it i
s almost upon us. Follow me—this way.” Flicking her hair behind her, she turned and headed back down the street. They approached a white BMW convertible. Alena beeped the door open and got in the driver’s side. Donovan—seeing the clouds of gas, the voracious remaining zombies, and the approaching armies—figured he had no choice. He got in, and she jammed it into gear. They roared away, bullets screaming past them. Zombies momentarily screaming and clawing right beside them.

  “So-ooo,” Donovan said, exhaling loudly. “What about you and Egesa, anyway? The man’s a disease, in my opinion.”

  “We were lovers, once. I still work with him, to tell you the truth,” Alena said. “I’m the head scientist at ATELIC—well, what’s left of it. But everything has gone to shit. Zombies? I mean, what the freak?” She checked her rearview mirror and then continued, “Egesa knew we were dumping mutant run-off into the drinking water. He didn’t care. I was too—I don’t know … too intimidated? Too in love?—to force him to fix it. Now with Cathren Whitney, it’s no good. He thinks he’s doing the right thing, trying to fix what’s been broken. Find the answer....”

  “Yeah, so he told me,” Donovan said.

  They made a right on an on-ramp and headed south.

  “He seems to think, despite all the damage he’s done, that he’ll still get his Nobel. If he can only find the cure.”

  “Well—” Donovan said.

  “He’s not looking for any antidote, though,” Alena said, slapping her knee suddenly. “He only wants Cathren’s body for one reason—to find the key to immortality! Because she has survived it. She has lived.”

  An awkward silence engulfed the car while Alena navigated through the dark night. Her cell phone rang. She pulled it out of her shirt and snapped it open. “Yes?” she said into the receiver. “Yes, he’s with me now.” It made Donovan wonder what else was down there. A gun? Knockout gas? Cyanide pills? Nunchucks?

  “We’re about five minutes away,” Alena was saying. “No, he’s fine.” She brushed her long hair back behind her shoulders. “Mmmm-bye.”

  Alena sighed. “First of all, Donovan, you should know that the authorities don’t have this problem under control. Not really. They are containing it, yes. But that’s only temporary. The zombie numbers are climbing. They are being joined by every fighter bitten or killed.” She sighed and flipped on the signal light. “No, the only way we can control this—short of blowing up half of California—is with Cathren. She’s the answer. She’s able to fight these things somehow.” Alena straightened the wheel and decelerated off the freeway. “For some reason,” she continued, “the zombie effect, for her, has had quite a different outcome. She seems to have acquired almost superhuman powers. Because of the bite, her DNA, or for some other reason, she’s special. Very possibly one of a kind.”

  They drove along the residential streets right outside the city. Streetlights illuminated the way, although a surprising number of them were dark. Finally, after about fifteen more minutes, they pulled into the driveway of a pleasant bungalow. Painted white, with pink shutters, it rested on a small plot of well-tended lawns and gardens. A big, twisted oak tree squatted in the middle of the front yard like a guardian.

  As they extracted themselves from the car, a couple of dogs barked from somewhere in the neighborhood. It sounded so normal, so safe. They walked to the front door and Alena knocked gently, then went in without waiting for a response. Donovan followed. When they got to the living room, she gestured to the couch, then left the room. The barking outside stopped. Donovan waited, wondering if it would start again, but it stayed quiet. Very quiet. Like the jungle before the lion attacks.

  Donovan did not sit on the couch. He chose a forest-green recliner that had threadbare arms and worn cushions. He chose this seat because, unlike the couch, it gave him a full view of the entranceway. Also because it looked cozy and would let him put his feet up, something he hadn’t been able to do for days.

  But before he could get comfortable, Cathren stepped into the room.

  She was all cleaned up, wearing a black dress that no doubt belonged to Alena. Cathren looked sexy, sweet, and like herself again. Most importantly, she looked alive. Not dead/alive, but alive/alive. She glided into the room and kissed Donovan, then sat down next to him on the arm of the chair.

  “You had me worried,” he said, taking her hand. “I thought you were.... Actually, I didn’t know what to think. I’m glad you’re safe.”

  “I’m glad you’re safe, too,” she said, stroking the side of his face. “So glad.” She sighed. She kissed him again and smiled. He twisted in the chair to hug her. They kissed.

  “We have a battle in front of us,” she said, pulling back but keeping her face close to his. “But for now, all I want is for you to hold me in your arms.”

  “Me, too,” Donovan said. They kissed again.

  “We’ll talk more in the morning,” said Alena, entering the room and interrupting the lovers. “We can work out our strategy then. The guest room is at the top of the stairs, first room on the left. Get a good night’s sleep. You’ll need it.”

  Chapter 35

  Donovan trudged tiredly up the stairs with Cathren, his hand on her back, Cathren’s arm around his waist. It had been one hell of a day. One hell of week, actually. Donovan was glad they were together again. Glad that she was alive and safe.

  They lay in bed, holding each other, for a long time. Even in this joyous moment, though, something ate at Donovan. Their magical reunion. This safe house. It just didn’t feel real. Or permanent.

  After Cathren drifted off, Donovan lay in the dark, as if listening for burglars. Or ghosts. Or the undead.

  The next thing he knew, he awoke to Cathren gently shaking him.

  “What? What time is it?” Donovan said, realizing he had slept, at least for a little while. The room was still shrouded in darkness.

  “Shhh. Listen,” she said, staring at the door.

  Donovan propped himself up on one elbow. Then he heard it. An argument. Hushed shouting.

  “You hear that?” she said. “See?”

  “Yes. Quiet.” Donovan threw the covers back. He opened the door and peeked out into the hallway. Night filled the whole house, except for a slight glow downstairs. He padded to the stairwell and peered down. He turned back to Cathren, who stood at the door. “Stay here,” he said, mouthing the words and waving his hand at the ground.

  He took each step slowly, trying without much success to keep the stairs from creaking. When he finally got to the first floor hallway, he noticed a light under a door across from the kitchen. He walked over and put his ear against it. The shouting had stopped. Now, it was only talk and whispers.

  Donovan twisted the doorknob and eased the door open as quietly as he could. It squeaked badly. Donovan stopped and waited. The voices continued. From the sound of the muffled conversation, he figured no one had detected him. He looked down into the basement. The steps were dark, but a light shone from below. He decided to descend the staircase. No gun, no flashlight, no common sense.

  These stairs thankfully didn’t creak. Maybe the joints were so dust-covered, Donovan thought, that the dust and dirt acted as a damper. As he descended, his eyes slowly adjusted to the dark. He could see light came from somewhere deep in the basement. It grew brighter with every step.

  At the last corner before he’d be seen, Donovan stopped and listened. The talking continued so Donovan was confident he hadn’t been detected. With great care, he peaked around the corner, and with every part of his being and self-control, forced himself not to gasp out loud.

  Sitting in a small wooden chair under a bare bulb cowered Alena Portanova. A man stood at her left, another to her right, their backs to Donovan.

  Standing in front of the three of them, facing Alena, stood Egesa, the inquisitor.

  Donovan studied the scene as long as he dared. Then he pulled his head back, breathing heavy. They had come for Cathren. The odds seemed bad to attempt rescuing Alena. That was suicide. Besi
des, his true allegiance was with Cathren. He knew he had to get to her, to get the hell out of this house.

  Donovan started back up the stairs. Now, while these stairs hadn’t made a sound when he descended them minutes earlier, apparently, the forces involved going down a set of stairs were quite different from going up. They creaked like a motherfucker. Donovan held his hands out to his side as if he walked a tightrope instead of a staircase. But the creaking continued. Out of options, Donovan ran up the steps as fast as possible. He dashed through the kitchen no longer concerned about being stealthy.

  Gun shots flared behind him in the dark.

  With a plan, Donovan ran upstairs to retrieve Cathren. If he was still being chased, he would keep running to the end of the hall and out the nearest window. This strategy was half-baked, but he wanted to give Cathren a chance to get out of there alive, rather than both of them being gunned-down in the guest room.

  He reached the top of the stairs and started yelling, “Cathren, we’re going. Now!” He ran into the bedroom, shut the door, and wedged the chair under the knob.

  A loud crack and a lot of shouting came from downstairs. Before he could put two and two together, the shooting stopped. There was another crack. More yelling. Donovan realized, at last, that the sound he was hearing was of bones being broken. He turned around to address Cathren.

  But she wasn’t in the room.

  Donovan jerked the chair aside and opened the door again. Against his better judgment, he made his way back downstairs and around the corner. There she was. Not in danger, but in control.

  The two men lay on the ground. Surprisingly, they were not ripped to pieces, but rather completely intact. Albeit with most of their extremities at sixes and sevens. Even more surprising, Cathren was not in her half-zombie state. She stood there in her underwear, perfectly normal so to speak.

  “What’s going on here? Where’s Alena?” she said, breathing heavy.