Now they wanted Ian to sit next to them, and the only open seat was next to Hal, who was perfect. He came to Winthrop three years after Ian, and he'd shot so far ahead, that rumor had it that a job at Michigan was his for the asking, whenever he happened to feel like graduating.
"What's new, Hal?" asked Ian, glumly.
"Prof. Rockoff just listed me as a co-contributor on a paper again," said Hal. "So if he wins that Nobel, maybe I get to go along for the ride!"
Hate you hate you hate you, thought Ian.
"And the Professor's doing some consulting in Switzerland, and he's bringing all of us with him!" said Becca, who was wearing a Hello Kitty t-shirt and chewing on the pointed tip of one of her two swinging ironic girl-braids.
Hate you, too, thought Ian.
"We never see Prof. Leschke around," said Hal. "Is his wife any better?"
"He doesn't talk with us about that," said Ian. Yet another thing to feel guilty about-- he didn't ask about Mrs. Leschke nearly enough, mostly because he was trying to stay far away from her husband.
Still, he'd feel like a real jerk if he missed the funeral. She was a nice woman.
"What has he got you working on?" asked Hal.
"Hunting zombies," said Ian.
They all laughed at him. If only they knew.
"Where's the waitress?" he asked.
On the other side of Ian, Becca spit out the end of her braid. "Oh, shit," she said. "It's Tuesday."
#
Usually they fell for the dean thing, reflected Sloane resentfully. No one had even questioned it before, which was good, because her dad had never met the dean.
Heck, Sloane didn't even know the dean's name. Or what a dean was, really.
So here she was at Memorial Hall, wearing nothing but a trench coat, high heels, and a lime-green bikini, because Sloane had to get an A in chemistry if she wanted to go to medical school, and if she read Ian right, she wouldn't even have to do anything really ish-y to get it. But to her surprise, the light in the conference room was off. No Ian.
What was wrong with him? It was office hours, so he should be in his office!
She clicky-clacked over to the lab. The light was off, but the door was unlocked. Maybe she should check if Ian had a calendar, so she could track him down. Or maybe she should just look through his stuff. Sloane was always surprised what embarrassing things people left at the office. How fondly she remembered her old boss, who she always thought of as Mr. Suck-Your-Toes-Dry, after the letter she'd found filed under "Personal" at the back of the file cabinet. She'd gotten free lunch for a whole summer out of that discovery.
She wasn't surprised by the giant wad of condiments, carefully hidden under a pile of napkins, in Ian's private drawer. Or what looked like a handwritten novel about Buffy the Vampire Slayer falling in love with a handsome young chemist. That was embarrassing, but probably not embarrassing enough. But there was also a very stained lab notebook, mashed inside a box of latex gloves, like Ian was trying to hide it. Zombie Lab Book #1. Another novel? That should at least be good for a laugh.
Sloane flipped through a few pages and pulled the camera out of her pocket. Jackpot.
#
Prof. Underhill lurched down the street, his head neatly tucked under his arm, in company with a large group of blue-tinted undergraduates in ripped clothing. He might not be thinking too clearly at the moment, but he was certain that wherever young people led, he was sure to follow. Hadn't he always been known for his knack for connecting with students? It was as though his body aged, but his mind stayed exactly the same.
"Dichotomy," he mumbled.
"I wish I knew how you did that trick with your head," said a tasty little coed in a ripped flannel shirt.
"The eroticization of post-capitalist hegemony recapitulates the legitimization of the nation-state," said Prof. Underhill. "Is civil society bourgeois by nature?"
"You sound like my English prof," said the coed.
#
As Arturo fried the onion, Jack diced the leg into sturdy cubes. He wasn't sure about leaving the hair and toenails on but he figured if it didn't bother him, it wouldn't bother Arturo. They'd do something else with the bones-- maybe just snap them in half and suck out the marrow? Or could they be roasted, salted, shattered into pieces, buttered, and eaten like popcorn?
It felt like a whole new culinary world was opening up ahead of him. Kind of like being the first man to eat an oyster.
"I'm glad we're making this," he said. "I've been craving chili."
"There's got to be something we can make that tastes like wings," said Arturo. "I've got this great recipe for Buffalo chicken marinade."
Jack held up his hands and wiggled his fingers.
"Good call," nodded Arturo.
#
Ian saw where Becca was looking. There was the waitress, dressed in a blue silk teddy and thong underpants, stilettos, and a gigantic scowl. Not a model's superior scowl, more of a pissed-off, I-will-kill-you-all scowl.
It was possibly the least erotic thing Ian had ever seen.
"I can't believe we forgot about the damn lingerie show," said Becca.
"It's going to be at least a half hour until we get our hamburgers. And I just finished my beer," said Hal. The rest of Team Rockoff nodded in sad agreement.
The waitress clomped over to their table. "I am now modeling a satin teddy with a matching thong. If you're interested, this lovely ensemble is for sale." She gestured robotically at her clothing.
"I don't think it would fit me," said Hal. The other Rockoff students laughed, and the waitress snarled at them and stomped away, as proud as a queen, despite her naked ass.
Ian would have been on her side, but she still hadn't taken his order, and it looked like she was going to have to flog her outfit to every table before she got him a drink.
Cheap hamburgers: not free.
Then the door burst open. Ian turned and saw a zombie come in. And another. And another. He leaned over and snaked his hand into his backpack, brushing his fingertips over the barrel of his ever-present tranquilizer gun.
"And it's the zombie pub crawl, too!" moaned Becca. "I knew we should have gone to the Hong Kong!"
Ian relaxed. Of course they were just undergraduates in costumes. Of course.
Except for the guy in the tweed jacket with elbow patches. You didn't get that kind of gray with makeup. Or that aroma. Or the detachable head.
This was Ian's lucky day! A zombie had just wandered into his path, and without a head, how hard could he be to catch? Ian pulled out his gun, and the Rockoff students shrieked.
"What are you doing?" cried Becca.
"Zombie!" yelled Ian.
Becca grabbed his arm as he fired. Poff. The shot went wild, hitting Hal right in the middle of the forehead. His eyes rolled up and he dropped like a rock.
"Are you crazy!" cried Becca. "What is wrong with you? EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"-- the last as Prof. Underhill's head flew across the room, landing neatly in Hal's lap.
"Jouissance," mumbled the head. A horrible chewing noise started from under the table.
Ian turned back to his backpack, ignoring the Rockoff students and their cries of "Get it off him! Get it off him! Oh God, it's got my hand!" He needed to reload and get that zombie while it was still standing there, like a giant headless bowling trophy. He'd shoot it and he'd get the Rockoff students to help him drag it back to campus and get medical help for Hal (can't get a Nobel posthumously, can you Perfect Hal?) and get it in the cage and test the antiviral on it and kill it for good and get his goddamned PhD, with or without Sarah Chen, wherever she was!
"I know you," said a rumbling voice above him.
No. It can't be. But Ian looked up to see the bloodshot eyes of Uncle Fester.
Two zombies, thought Ian, as Uncle Fester lifted him off the ground by his neck.
#
Jack surveyed the scene of carnage that lay in front of him. Every pot that Arturo owned was filthy. Every scrap of meat in the h
ouse was gone. They'd eaten Lisa's pizza, buffalo fingers, chili con carne, nachos, and steak a poivre.
He might never get off the sofa again, but he was a happy man.
"You're a good cook for a skinny guy," said Arturo, loosening his belt. "So, you've got a reporter."
"Yep. Donna something."
"What happened to Mr. Let's-Stay-Underground?"
Maybe it was the meal, maybe it was everything that was happening between him and Lisa, who knew what it was, but all of a sudden, the future seemed a lot more open than it had a few weeks ago. He wasn't cursed, he was a man with an unusual but manageable medical condition. Someone like that had no reason to keep hidden forever. Right?
Besides, if he brought back a story like this, it would be the biggest story the Palmetto had printed in decades. If nothing else, it would show everyone that he'd been a better choice than Sam, that his lie had nothing to do with what happened. He didn't want to punish Sam for murdering him-- as far as he could tell, Sam had done him a favor-- but he still wanted to win.
This was his chance to go home.
#
SLOANE PANNAPACKER
Sloane touched her name on the slate wall and it slid open, revealing the elevator she'd been told to expect. Fingering her roommate's pearls (she'd have to get them back before Ellie noticed they were gone) Sloane stepped inside, enjoying the tic-tic of her heels on the marble floor, a sound that always made her feel powerful, like she was walking on the skulls of her enemies. The elevator lurched upstairs, and the doors opened on a room that was exactly how Sloane had always imagined Winthrop from back home in Minnesota, including the old men looking approvingly at her in her roommate's camel-colored cashmere twinset.
"You must be Miss Pannapacker," said one of the old men.
"Hello," said Sloane, looking shyly at the floor. It was fun pretending to be Miss Co-Ed 1963. You didn't have to do anything too difficult, and if you were pretty, men just gave you things. Also, she had kind of a thing for the smell of Aqua Net.
A simpler time, reflected Sloane. The men all looked at each other-- good, they were confused by how nice she looked-- and then they all sat back down.
"Please sit, my dear," said the man who had spoken earlier. "I am Mr. Dudley. Am I to understand you have something for us?"
"Yes, sir," said Sloane, and handed him the folder of photos she'd taken of Ian's lab notebook.
Zombies: ridiculous! But a crazy TF, and a crazy professor, certainly should mean an A in the class for Sloane. So all she had to do was sit here, look innocent, and then ask the nice old man for help with her big mean bad professor...
Mr. Dudley opened the folder and slowly read through its contents, his wrinkly old lips pursing like he'd sucked a lemon. "You were right to bring this here, my dear. We are very grateful."
Grateful. That sounded good. She nodded, shyly, like a fawn all alone in the great big scary forest.
Mr. Dudley looked behind her. "Carstairs, would you see Miss Pannapacker out?"
Wait, what? "Just one minute!" said Sloane, her head snapping up, forgetting to be Miss Co-Ed for a moment. "What do you mean, see me out? Don't I get something for bringing you this?"
"Ah, the language of the street. Vulgar, but refreshingly direct. Miss Pannapacker, permit me to be equally direct with you. You are a very lucky girl. You get to leave. Now."
"But--"
"Fine, my dear. I'll be generous. We won't even prosecute you for what you've done to the Jubilee Club."
Shit, thought Sloane, and scurried to the elevator.
#
"Sorry!" said Ian, his empty tranquilizer gun flailing uselessly in his hand.
"I'll bet you are," said Uncle Fester. "But you're going to be even more sorry when I'm done with you. First, I'm going to bite you. Then, I'm going to kill you. Then, I'm going to make a little hole and pull out your large intestine slowly, and you're going to watch me eat it like it was spaghetti."
"Is there anything I can do to change your mind?" asked Ian. "I've got a twenty. It's yours!"
"Then, I'm going to start working on your liver..."
Ian smelled something really horrible. More horrible than Uncle Fester. It kind of smelled like the worst barbecue ever.
"Something's on fire," he mumbled.
Fester shrieked and dropped Ian to the ground. Fester's entire back was ablaze. Behind him, the waitress beckoned to Ian with her lighter. "This way!" she said, as he stuck his hand, still holding his gun, through the loop of his backpack.
She grabbed him by his free hand and dragged him through the kitchen of the restaurant, past the filthy grill, past a giant rotting tower of garbage, and out into the alley. Ian splashed into a puddle of something neon green before regaining his equilibrium.
"Thanks," he said. He could still hear screams coming from the inside of the restaurant.
She shrugged.
"Why'd you save me?"
"You didn't laugh," she said. "Not like the rest of those assholes."
Inside the restaurant, something exploded. Ian knew it was time to go but he couldn't quite tear himself away. "How do you know how to fight zombies?"
"You're saying that guy was a zombie?"
"Yeah."
"Didn't seem different than most of our regulars." She almost smiled at him.
When she looked like that, a little less angry, a little softer, Ian realized something: he was standing in an alley with a woman in her underwear, a woman who kind of looked like Angelina Jolie. He could bring this girl with him. They could hunt zombies together. He could even see it, the two of them hunched down behind a monument in Mount Auburn Cemetery. He'd be holding his tranq gun, and she'd still be wearing her lingerie and heels... yes, he could see it now...
Suddenly Ian heard a van squeal to a stop in the street next to the alley. A big, white, Winthrop University van, with another right behind it.
He scootched down into the alley and watched the van doors open up, and a group of men in white Winthrop jumpsuits hop out and start running towards the restaurant.
"Are those flamethrowers?" asked the waitress.
"Yes, yes, I think so."
They knew. Winthrop University knew about the zombie problem. And Ian had to run away, now, before they found out that he knew, and that he was implicated in the whole terrible thing...
Without saying anything to the waitress, he bolted down the alley, back to the safety of his apartment.
ch. 17
Lisa muted the baseball game and picked up the phone. "Hello?"
A woman's voice said a very large number in her ear.
"Tina?" asked Lisa.
"I didn't want you to hang up before you heard the price."
"I'm not interested." She looked over to the kitchen where Jack was making some kind of omelet for his dinner. She hoped he remembered to use his "special" pan for his "special" ingredient. It was a real pain getting the smell out when he forgot.
"Did you hear the number?"
She wrapped the cord around her arm. "Tina, I'm not selling my family's legacy."
"You're not selling the legacy, just the building. You could always reopen somewhere else."
Tina wasn't getting it. She kept Alioto's Pizza exactly the way it had been before her parents died because this way, it was full of ghosts. Lisa could still see her mother working the register, chattering away like she always did, her father slumped in his chair, his half-frozen face smiling at his girls. If she moved, would she still see them beside her? "I've worked here all my life. What would I do if I sold it?"
Tina sighed into the phone. "I don't know. But I do know this: it's a good deal. I wouldn't have brought it to you if it wasn't."
"What's your client going to do with the building?"
"He actually wants the lot, not the building. He's going to put in a boutique hotel."
"WHAT?"
"Ow," said Tina. "You're close to Winthrop, and there aren't enough hotels in Cambridge, so... it seems like a good idea.
"
"He wants to tear down the building that--" Why, why would Tina think this was a good idea? Her commission, of course. "No, Tina, I'm not going to sell. Tell your client, no more negotiations, I'm done."
"You drive a hard--"
Lisa hung up on her and waited, but the phone didn't ring.
"She wants you to sell the building?" asked Jack.
"I'm not going to do it," she said. She didn't want to talk about it anymore, so she changed the subject. "That actually smells good."
"Want a bite?"
"Ha-ha."
"It's the mushrooms," he said, sitting down on the sofa, his plate balanced on his knees. "I used to make this all the time for myself. I'd go running after work, and I'd lose track of time and come home starving and whip one of these up, and sometimes I'd eat it right out of the nonstick pan. The kind of thing you can only do when you live alone, right?"
"Did I buy mushrooms?"
"No, I did. It's the funniest thing," he said, chewing his omelet. He'd used the "special" plate and silverware, she was glad to see. "I went to Star Market yesterday. I hadn't been to a grocery store in months, but I thought I'd just sort of follow my nose around and see if anything appealed to me. So I ended up with some mushrooms, and some blue cheese, and some fish sauce, and some coffee. And I stood there in the checkout line, and I started taking things out of my basket, and I looked down, and my hand was shaking. I couldn't believe I was there. I used to love to cook, did you know that? And here I was, that beep beep beep of the machine, and afterwards the cashier told me to have a nice day. And it was all so normal."
He smiled at her, one of those genuine smiles that always made her heart melt a little. And there was another reason not to sell out. Right now, everything was perfect. If she'd been the kind of woman who told men she loved them, she would have said it right then, but she figured he'd been paying attention. He knew.
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