Not one of his girlfriends had understood. He still remembered the last things his latest ex-girlfriend, Torrey, had said to him. "You'll never grow up, will you?" and "You're going to live alone, you're going to die alone, and that stupid little dog of yours is going to eat your body before anyone finds you."
In retrospect, it was hard for him to understand what he'd seen in Torrey.
But despite the sneers of people like her, Arturo loved the idea of a world beyond the tedious real one, a world of power and romance and excitement. One of the great disappointments of his adulthood was the slow realization that there were no real superheroes, no secret identities, and the world was full of plain old Clark Kents. He would never wake up with some new mutant superpower, aliens would never give him a magic ring, and all a spider bite had would ever give him was an itchy welt.
And he didn't want to be a lone wolf like Batman. He wanted to be an Avenger. He wanted a whole team of people, each with his own skill and talent, banded together to be a force for good in the world. They would have a bricked-over warehouse turned secret command center-- maybe somewhere in South Boston?-- with giant computer screens and a holographic exercise room and an underground helipad.
He'd even made some sketches, hidden safely where Torrey and her ilk could never find them.
So when Arturo woke up after his fatal heart attack, sprawled on the living room floor, with his little dog Curly gnawing the flesh from his arm, his first thought was, Wow, this is exactly the way Torrey said I was going to go, a thought that didn't actually make him feel any kindlier towards his sharp-tongued ex-girlfriend. And his second thought, as he watched his arm heal itself, and Curly ran yipping and howling for his kennel, was This is the most amazing thing that has ever happened to me.
Of course there was a cost. There was always a cost. Did Bruce Banner always like being the Hulk? No. But usually, probably... it was an entrance to the new world.
#
"You're going, right?" asked Lisa.
Jack stopped wiping down the table. "Are you serious?"
Yes, she was. She'd gotten another CALL ME, URGENT text from Tina Gallagher, and that was the last thing she wanted to deal with. She'd rather think about Jack's stupid problems than her own. She shrugged at him.
"First of all, Arturo had no idea why this happened to us, so I'm not going to learn anything. Second, if anyone finds out there are giant meetings of people like me, out come the shotguns."
"Now you're being paranoid."
"No, just a guy who watches movies. Besides, can you think of a more depressing way to spend an evening?"
"You spend every night alone in a cemetery digging up a body."
He grinned at her. "It's more fun than you'd think. Very meditative."
Well, she'd brought it up. Yuck.
He dropped his soggy rag in the laundry basket and leaned on the counter opposite her, like he was about to buy a slice. "You want me to go tonight. God knows why. Talk me into it."
"You're smarter than they are," she said, and a little light in his bright blue eyes showed her she was on the right track.
When Jack was alive, he'd probably gotten more attention for his looks than his brains. He was actually a handsome guy, with that lean runner's body, and that beautiful thick black hair and clever blue eyes, and that sharp wolfish smile. She found herself checking him out sometimes, especially when he was wearing his tiny little jogging shorts, stretching before a workout. And that was a direction she really didn't want her mind to go.
Since when did zombies need to stretch, anyway?
"Maybe you can figure out why this happened to all of you," she continued. "And once you know that, maybe you can find a cure."
"That's optimistic."
"I just think if there's a chance, you should take it. And it's not going to happen if you don't meet any other zombies."
He sighed. "All right. I'll go."
Lisa didn't have a lot of vices left, but she'd held on to curiosity. "Need a ride?" she asked.
#
Prof. Leschke was been a terrible teacher in a lot of ways, reflected Ian, but he sure did know how to run a classroom. He only gave introductory lecture courses, so that he could use the course notes he'd developed years earlier, when he'd started teaching, and there was no real need to update them. He taught the courses at 7:30 in the morning-- attendance mandatory, no exceptions. He informed students on the first day that he would not be grading on a curve, and that fifty percent of their grade would be determined by pop quizzes administered at random throughout the course including-- oh why not-- say today? Why haven't you read chapter one yet, students? The book isn't in the bookstore yet? That's no excuse. Ian, Sarah, pass the quizzes out immediately!
On day one of the course three hundred students had been enrolled; on day two, only fifty die-hards remained. And since sectioning had been determined before the course started, Ian and Sarah would each get paid for teaching five sections, none of which had more than six students.
You really had to admire the guy, thought Ian, you really did. Show those obnoxious undergrads who's boss!
There was only one problem; Prof. Leschke was never around, but Ian and Sarah were. Office hours, thought Ian. When every student who's mad at Prof. Leschke gets to yell at me instead. Of course, he wasn't looking forward to the end of office hours, either, because he'd have to go check on the zombie.
Raising the dead wasn't nearly as much fun as you'd think.
He heard a squeak as someone sat down in the chair opposite him. "Prof. Comanor?" she said.
"Just call me Ian," he said, smoothly flipping his notebook shut so she couldn't read his brainstorming notes on how to exterminate zombies. (1. Fire? 2. Acid?) And then his heart stopped for a moment. The student was absolutely gorgeous. She had long blond hair, and lovely patrician features, and she was wearing the tightest white tanktop he'd ever seen in his entire life. Even though it was early May, he found himself thinking it was a little cold for a tank top, especially one that thin.
Most of the graduate student lifestyle was okay with Ian-- he had no trouble with poverty and obedience-- but the chastity part was really getting to him. He tried desperately to remember all the things that they'd taught him in orientation about not fraternizing with undergraduates, especially not ones you were teaching, or might teach. They'd even showed him videos about it. You're going to lose your scholarship! Or get shipped back home to Mom! Won't she be thrilled!
"I'm Sloane, Sloane Pannapacker," she said, smiling at him, and leaning forward a little, so he got a peek down her shirt. Scholarship! Mom! "Remember me from section?"
"Um, no," said Ian. Why didn't he remember this woman? Surely he would remember if he'd seen her before. He had to look up from his lecture notes more often.
She tossed her hair, triggering a ripple of motion through her torso that made poor Ian's brain seize up again. "I have a little problem," she said.
"I'm here to help," said Ian, trying to sound suave.
"I have a family wedding I need to go to, and my dad bought the tickets, and I'm going to miss the midterm. Is there any way I can take a makeup exam?"
"Sure," said Ian. "We do that. I mean, if it's an emergency. Sure. No problem." Okay, they'd never done it before, but it wasn't a problem. He'd write the exam himself if he had to. No problem. Nope.
"You're so sweet," she said, standing up. She reached over and rested her hand on his. "Maybe you'll give it to me personally? Just email me and tell me when?"
Ian swallowed and watched her sashay out the door. She seems nice, he thought. Glad I could help her out.
#
When he came home from the Palmetto, Sam Lazarus followed his wife Lacey up to their bedroom. She had her shopping bags at the foot of their bed, like she always did. This is how it would work: Sam would sit in the antique wingback chair, drinking the water with fresh lemon she’d set out for him, and admire the day’s purchases.
Item one: a pillow with some k
ind of floral pattern. “Won’t this look pretty in the sunroom? On the love seat?”
“It sure will,” he said, trying to sound excited. He’d learned that lack of enthusiasm made Lacey cry. Then she’d call herself a bad wife, promise to return everything, and lock herself in the bathroom for the rest of the evening.
It wasn’t worth it.
Item two: a scarf with big blotchy roses. Not Lacey’s style as far as he knew, so he watched her, trying to suss out an appropriate reaction.
“Aunt Julia’s birthday is next week.”
He nodded. This one was necessary, at least. “She’ll love it. Nice work.”
Lacey carefully refolded the scarf, not looking at him. “Have they said anything yet?”
“Not yet,” he said. They hadn’t made a decision yet, which meant that they hadn’t said no yet, but there were a lot of things it wasn’t worthwhile to tell Lacey. Like the new private investigator he'd spotted going into Uncle Cheves's office. Yet another one. And while in a disinterested light his uncle's optimism was admirable, it just made Sam tired.
How long had everything in the family revolved around Jack? Jack had a new plan. Jack was going to carry it through this time, he just needed a little help and a little money. Oh no, Jack is drinking again. And now we have to ship him off to rehab, his half-built construct never to be finished, looming over the family like some skeletal reminder never to get sucked in again. He was never going to get it right, he was never going to grow up, and he was never ever going to amount to anything.
It was hard being the good cousin, because you always ended up shunted to the rear teat. But Sam had thought at least he could have the Palmetto. You’d have to be delusional to hand off the family enterprise to Jack. Or so partial and blinded that you’d automatically favor your lazy screw-up of a son over his diligent, hardworking, and competent cousin . . . and apparently Cheves and Julia were.
“And I got you a new sport coat!” said Lacey, holding up a jacket that Sam wouldn’t have been caught dead wearing, but would have, actually, been just right for flashy old Jack. “Put it on, put it on!”
Sam put on a smile and slipped the slick-looking thing on. He wanted to make his wife happy, and what made her happiest? Spending money they didn’t have for clothes he wouldn’t wear on a bet. He couldn't talk about money with Lacey. It just made her cry, and then spend more, but only for things on sale, so she felt like she was getting bargains.
He thought he could fix her when he married her, she was so sad and fragile and aching for rescue, but now that he'd rescued her, she was just going to spend the rest of her life bringing him down and down and down...
“Oh, honey,” she said, clapping her hands and grinning. “Don’t you look handsome! I don’t know why you always have to dress the way you do. You dress like an old man, and it makes you look old.”
If she didn’t get it, it wasn’t worth trying to explain. He looked at himself in the mirror. Yes, the resemblance was more pronounced this way, especially if he took off his wilting bow tie and left the shirt open. They could have been brothers, and maybe with Jack gone, he stood for the both of them. Maybe he would drift to center with the counterweight missing.
Or maybe he would just turn into Jack. Wouldn’t that serve him right?
He was putting off the inevitable. "Honey," he said. "I'm going to have to take a business trip."
"Ohh," she whined. "Why?" And whined was the word. She sounded like an unhappy lapdog.
He smiled reassuringly. "Just family business."
ch. 7
“Penny for your thoughts,” said Sarah, as she shifted her ancient Datsun into second gear with a whirring thud.
“I’m trying not to think,” said Ian.
“We don’t have to go to the cemetery. We don’t really need any more. We still have Uncle Fester.”
There were a whole lot of things Ian didn’t want to think about. But the worst at the moment was what was happening to Uncle Fester, who was rotting and stinking but still moving. He spent all day rocking back and forth in his cage, and whenever he heard Ian and Sarah come in the room, he screamed and threw lumps of his decaying flesh at them.
“Are you going to go in his cage?” asked Ian.
“No.” She pulled into the parking space. The car wheezed to a stop. “I feel like such an idiot. Are you ready?”
#
Mount Auburn Cemetery dates from the late nineteenth century, when Americans decided that instead of being gloomy, cemeteries should be park-like, friendly-- the sort of place you could bring your family for a picnic, if you had that kind of family. Possibly its most impressive monument is the large stone rotunda for Mary Baker Eddy, which is where the Boston Zombie Support Group met every Wednesday, because it was so distinctive that even its most rotted-brain members could find it.
Dead people, thought Jack, shouldn’t have to sit through Powerpoint presentations. But here he was, sitting on the damp grass, getting his good jeans all soggy, watching Arturo click through a series of slides projected against the side of a mausoleum.
“Here is what we know about how we died,” said Arturo, aiming a laser pointer at the makeshift screen. “Six heart attacks, five car accidents...” He was reading everything he said directly off the slides.
What a depressing crowd, sitting and slurping over their food like they’d forgotten everything their mothers had taught them. Grey skin, loose skin, arms rotting off, eyeballs dropping out. Even now that he was dead, Jack could tell he took better care of himself than the average guy. You had to get out in the cemetery every night. No excuses. Otherwise you were going to rot, and you had only yourself to blame.
Take the guy to his left crunching his way through a skull like he hadn’t eaten in weeks. He was so excited that he kept chewing off his own thumb. Lazy and sloppy.
Thumb guy finished his skull, sniffed the air, and grinned at Lisa like a big, happy dog. “You smell fantastic,” he said.
Maybe he’d get the chance to beat the crap out of someone tonight. That would be a nice change. “She’s with me,” smiled Jack.
“No problem,” said Thumb Guy. “Totally fine with that.” He got up and limped to the other side of the group.
Too easy, Jack thought, rubbing his forehead. Lisa looked amused. She could laugh now, but there was no way in hell he was ever doing this again.
And she did smell fantastic.
Arturo pitched his voice louder to cover the slurping noises. “So if you put it all together, you end up with one final question.” He clicked to a new page and read, “How can this group make our lives better?”
“It can’t,” mumbled Jack.
“Excuse me?” said Arturo.
Oops. Zombie hearing. “Look, you’ve obviously worked very hard on this. You’ve done a very nice Powerpoint presentation-- you’ve even got pie charts.”
“And you can do better, smartass?” Arturo aimed the laser pointer so a red dot appeared on Jack’s chest.
Now everyone was staring at him. Is there something you’d like to share with the rest of the class, Mr. Kershaw? Shit. He stood up.
“The best thing we can do is stay invisible. And that means no support groups. No giant meetings in historic cemeteries!”
“What are you so afraid of?” said a weedy brunette.
“If anyone finds out we exist-- you’ve seen the movies, right? ‘Oh, you’re a zombie?’ Ka-blam! Shotgun blast to the head!”
Arturo shook his head. “Okay, I love George Romero, but I think you’re overreacting.”
“Overreacting? Have you ever been shot in the head? Do you know what it feels like having your skull fuse back together? Ever make a candy apple with your own brain?"
Now Lisa looked embarrassed. Too much, thought Jack. “Let's stay underground.”
There was a moment of silence from the audience. "You mean literally?" asked Thumb Guy.
"No!" said Jack. "It's a metaphor, people! We all should go home, lead quiet lives, try not to
get noticed."
“And then what happens?” asked Lisa.
“What do you mean?”
“Are you planning to live this way forever?”
Forever? What a strange thought. But he felt like a healthy guy, except for the ever-present hunger for human flesh. And he’d already died once. There was no sign he was going to do it again anytime soon. Forever? What if it were forever? And did he want to live this way forever?
Did he want to spend forever earning minimum wage, living in an apartment that smelled like mice, and buying his clothes from Goodwill? No.
So what did he want?
And at the same time he realized that once again, Lisa had said something that surprised him. He’d underestimated her.
She was still waiting for his answer, but before he could respond he could hear footsteps running towards the group.
#
“I’m getting a definite safrole reading,” said Sarah, adjusting the dials on her portable spectroscope. “A really high one.” She pointed ahead into the shadowy dark of the graveyard.
“Fester Two awaits,” said Ian, and ran where she’d been pointing. Sarah thumped after him.
He was not prepared for what he saw. A whole bunch of zombies, sitting sprawled around a tomb. And one of them had a gun in his hand!
“I don’t think we’ve seen you two here before,” said the one with the gun.
Ian aimed his tranquilizer gun at the armed zombie. But then he saw movement to his right, and without even thinking a moment, he fired. Pop! Zombie down!
Only about forty to go...
Ian realized two things at nearly the same time. First, he had no way to reload. Second, Sarah was gone.
Zombies in Love Page 3