Zomburbia

by Adam Gallardo

  Mrs. Johnson caught my eye and gave me one of those sad-smile, head-dip things that means a person is really sorry for what you’re going through.

  “Hey,” she said, “welcome back, Courtney.”

  I gave her a quick smile that I meant to look brave and then willed her to please ignore me. Which she did, thank God.

  Fridays are the day when Mrs. Johnson meets with the paper’s designers and paste-up starts. That leaves the rest of us to work on stories or, as was the case with most of us, to goof off and talk. I found Elsa and asked her what was up with Brandon.

  “I think he’s meeting with some recruiters from different colleges,” she said. “The coaches set it up for all the juniors. He said yesterday that he called and left you a message. Did you not get it?”

  I could have smacked my head. Instead I just turned and walked away. I knew that Brandon left me a bunch of messages. I never got around to listening to them. I assumed they’d all say the same thing. Man, I needed to have a better relationship with my phone.

  I dug it out of my bag and went off to a quiet corner of the room. I could have mapped the progress of the news about what happened just listening to those messages. His first message sounded confused; he’d heard about me being taken out of class and wanted to know what was up. In the next, he sounded a little panicky. He’d just heard that I got led out of the school in cuffs by a cop. He called me after he talked to Sherri the first time. She’d also heard the rumor about me being arrested but didn’t know why.

  “She said she thinks she knows what’s going on, but she won’t say,” he said. “Why would she think you could be arrested?” He sounded confused and scared. Oh, Christ, I felt sick to my stomach. Even though she hadn’t done it to be mean, Sherri had let the cat out of the bag. There was no way Brandon wouldn’t bring up what she’d said. I needed to figure out what I was going to tell him the next time I saw him. I was suddenly grateful he wasn’t in class that day.

  The next message was after he’d heard what had really happened. He was really sorry; he felt bad for me and told me to call if I needed to talk. Then there were a couple more like that. Finally he called right before I got out of bed last night telling me he wouldn’t be in school and why. Then he said I could call him later tonight if I wanted. He sounded sort of pathetic. Now on top of everything else I was feeling, I also felt guilty for not getting back to him. How many bad feelings can someone feel before they just plain overload? I thought I was about to find out.

  I wasn’t actually ready to talk to him yet. I decided to text him instead. Texting is, of course, the coward’s alternative to calling. It’s the modern equivalent of the passive-aggressive Post-it note. Even if someone texts you back right away, you can pretend you didn’t get it until you’re ready to deal with it.

  Working 2nite. Will call you 2morrow. Promise.

  Everything is OK.

  That last bit was a lie. I figured it was a harmless one, though. Maybe if he thought everything really was okay he wouldn’t try to contact me until the next day and I’d be able to figure out what to tell him. Maybe I was just kidding myself.

  I moved back over by Elsa. She’d been joined by a few other kids. I sat on the periphery and listened, not feeling like joining in. Not feeling like much of anything, really.

  I hesitated bringing up Brandon’s phone message to Sherri. I knew it had the potential to explode and I didn’t feel like us not talking again. I had to say something, though. Keeping quiet about it was just dumb and would probably cause more problems.

  Sherri drove me to my house after school. She was also going to drive me to work after I changed my clothes.

  “So, I don’t want this to turn into a thing,” I said. “I thought I should tell you that I got a message from Brandon pretty much telling me that you told him about my side job.”

  “Hmm,” was all she said. A sly look told me she wasn’t going to let this go too easily.

  “You know what I’m talking about,” I said. I could already feel my pulse getting quicker. “I just wanted you to know I knew.”

  “Now you know I knew you know,” she said. “What of it?”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Uh-huh,” she said. “So what are you going to say to him?”

  “I won’t talk to him until tomorrow at the earliest,” I said. “I’ll figure out something by then.”

  “I’m sure you will,” she said.

  Later she sat on my bed while I changed into a plain tee and my Dickies work pants. She leafed through a comic I’d left on the floor.

  “We should hang out tomorrow,” she said without looking up from the comic.

  “Maybe, I said, “I have something I have to do during the day.”

  “Are you seeing Brrraaa-aannn-donnn,” she said it in sing-song.

  “No,” I said.

  She looked up from the comic. The Invisibles, I noticed. That’s a good one.

  “What?” she said.

  I heaved a sigh. “I have to go see Buddha tomorrow,” I said. “Also, I need a ride.”

  Her eyes flicked down and I know she was looking at the drawer where I stashed my money. I thought about how it was Willie who built the false bottom in the drawer. I frowned. I wonder what other cool junk he would have built if he were still alive.

  “What?” I asked her.

  “You’ve just got huge balls on you,” she said. “I’m sort of impressed.”

  “Well,” I said, “Willy was going to give me a ride, but . . .” I let it hang in the air.

  “I’m glad you stopped before you said it’s what he would have wanted,” she said. “Because I would have done my best to hurt you.” She heaved a monumental sigh and went back to reading her comic. “Fine. I’ll take you, but you’ll owe me.”

  I stopped myself from smiling or gloating.

  “Thanks,” was all I said.

  I gave myself a once-over in the mirror. I was as ready as I was going to get.

  “Okay,” I said, “let’s hit it.”

  As we drove to the Bully Burger, we talked about crazy things Willie had said or done in our presence. Like the time he rode his bike off the roof of his house and into a huge rhododendron that his mother loved more than her kids. He could hardly walk straight for a week. He thought it was the funniest thing ever. Telling stories like that was a good way to pass the time, and it helped me feel not so angry at him. When I got to work I felt this funny combination of happy and sad. Bittersweet I guess you’d call it. As I walked up to the front doors, I wondered if I’d ever feel just one thing again or if every good feeling would be wrapped up with a bad one.

  “Never mind me,” I said to myself under my breath as I walked into the store. “I’m just busy having a pity party.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Mija

  A lot of people drove away from the Bully Burger very pissed off that night. I had to tell them I wasn’t holding and wouldn’t be until the next week. To add insult to injury, I made them pay for food that they didn’t really want and probably couldn’t eat if they were jonesing for some Z. I built up a pretty hefty karmic debt standing in the drive-thru window. On top of everything else, I guess I could take it.

  When I first got to the store, I thought Mr. Washington was going to send me home. He’d heard from some of my coworkers what had happened. Despite being a running dog of the capitalist et cetera, he’s a pretty decent guy. I assured him I was up to covering my shift.

  “You want to take a break, you let me know,” he said with a wink. “I’ll make one of these slackers take the window.” This earned me reproachful glares from everyone in ear shot.

  It was fairly busy for a Friday night. The front gate stood open most of the time, letting the steady stream of traffic in and out of the lot. Chacho stood out there since the boss was on-site. He watched the entrance for any uninvited guests. Chacho’s a big guy and under all that armor I could tell he was sweating like a pig. I felt sorry for him. I also knew that
Mr. Washington would go home soon and that Chacho could come inside and strip that shit off.

  We had so many cars coming and going I didn’t even notice when Brandon walked into the store until he stood at the counter waving at me like a little kid. I became very aware of the other Bully Burger employees looking at me as I waved back at him. A tiny wave, from the hip. Very little wrist movement.

  He leaned over the counter. “Hey,” he said, “can you take a break for a minute?”

  I hadn’t been expecting this. I looked around and caught the boss’s eye. I asked if I could take a break and he said sure. He put the headset on himself to cover me and he looked annoyed as the first customer off the bat must have ordered a Whopper.

  “Where do you think you are, son?” he demanded. “We don’t serve that crap here!”

  He shot me a “What the hell are these kids on?” look and then turned back to the register. What were these kids on, indeed? It was a good question.

  I took off my shirt of many colors and threw it on the counter in back before stepping into the dining room. I found myself caught up in a hug. I panicked for a second because it was so unexpected. Then I relaxed a bit and just went with it. After a second Brandon pulled away and gave me one of those sad smiles—God, I was really tired of that look.

  I stole a quick glance over at the front counter. Ashley looked pissed as she stared right us. No doubt an evolutionary response to two disparate social circles colliding. I blew her a kiss and let Brandon lead me to an empty table.

  He sat across from me and leaned forward to talk in a low voice. He still had that damned expression plastered on his face.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “I’m better now,” I said. “I’m sorry I checked out. I guess finding out about Willie really sucked it out of me.”

  “No fooling,” he said, “I know what that’s like.”

  “You do?”

  “Sure, when I went to Whitaker one of my best friends killed himself.”

  “I never knew that,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

  He shrugged. “It’s okay,” he said. “It did take a long time to get over it. I realize now that there wasn’t really anything I could do to change his mind.”

  Ugh. “How did he do it?” I asked.

  He’d looked far away for a second. “Oh, yeah. Well, you know how everyone has at least one gun in the house nowadays?”

  “Yeah,” I said, getting the picture.

  He spread his hands. There you go, the gesture said.

  “Anyway,” he said, “I’m glad you’re doing okay. I’m sorry about your friend. It really sucks.”

  “It really does,” I agreed.

  “I was freaked out there for a while when it first happened,” he said, and I squirmed in my seat. “Especially when Sherri thought you might have been arrested.” He paused for a second and looked at me, smiling. “Why would she have thought that?”

  The conversation had taken a weird, and seemingly practiced, turn. Which annoyed me.

  “Listen, Brandon,” I said, “my break time in a booth in the Bully Burger really isn’t where we should be having this conversation.”

  “Where, then?” he asked.

  I tried to keep my face blank as I regarded him. His smile faltered and I couldn’t tell what was beneath it. Anger, concern, something else?

  “Maybe tomorrow,” I said. “Maybe we can talk tomorrow. Would that be okay with you?”

  “Hey,” he said, “I’m sorry to come on so strong. I’m, I don’t know, concerned. You know?”

  “Sure,” I said. He still sounded angry at being put off.

  Mr. Washington’s voice drifted into the dining room. “Why the hell is everyone ordering a Whopper? Is this some kind of stupid prank?”

  “I should get back there,” I said.

  “Okay,” he said, “can I call you tomorrow?”

  I told him he could and he hugged me again before he left—a quick one this time.

  As I walked into the kitchen, Ashley glared at me as I went past.

  “What was that all about?” she asked.

  “What,” I said, “you’ve never seen a girl and her sex slave?”

  I relieved Mr. Washington before he dragged some poor, unsuspecting drug addict through the drive-thru window.

  Even though I was allowed to clock off at the end of the night after I counted my till, I felt generous and decided to help the closing staff clean up. I did the dining room pretty quick—wiped down the tables and chairs and swept up. Carol, the gal washing dishes that night, would mop out the whole restaurant last thing after everyone left. I milled around looking for something else to do and Mary Kate asked if I’d take out the dining room garbages. I wrinkled my nose and she heaved a dramatic sigh.

  “If you don’t want to be helpful, you can just have a seat next to Chacho,” she said, and pointed at him. He just grinned at us from behind his magazine. He’s not an employee of the store, he works for a private security place, and because of that, he didn’t have to clean. Something he liked to remind us of. As I stood there thinking about it, the prospect of sitting with Chacho and watching the other suckers clean up sounded good. I felt the need to be nice, however, so I gathered the trash.

  The garbage at a fast-food joint is the worst. All that processed, fried, greasy food makes for one stinky mess. Then people throw their sodas on top of that and, even after just an hour or so, the trash liner is filled with this coagulated mess that smells a lot like vomit. Woe be unto you if you get any of that shit on you. It’s like a portable version of the Bog of Eternal Stench.

  I yanked one can out of its little house and pulled it over to the other bin. Took that liner out and threw it into the first can. Thankfully neither was very full so I could do this; otherwise I’d have to make two trips to the Dumpster—and the Dumpster smells even worse than the trash cans.

  I wheeled the can out the side door. I patted my pocket on the way to make sure I had my keys on me. That late at night the doors lock behind you automatically and it’s a huge pain in the ass waiting to be let back in, especially since letting you in seems to be pretty far down on everyone’s list of priorities.

  “Courtney!” Chacho yelled at me from behind the counter. “I have to talk to the boss for a minute. Wait for me to go out with you.” He turned and walked toward Mr. Washington’s office.

  I thought about waiting, but then decided to screw it. I’d be done and back before Chacho was finished. I pushed open the door and stepped out.

  It felt nice to be outside after being in the grease pit for six hours. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. As I exhaled, I heard something shift and fall back by the Dumpsters. It startled me, but I didn’t think much about it—whoever threw out the trash last had probably done as sloppy a job as I was about to do.

  I wheeled the can back that way and then stopped again. Had I heard something else? I stood there straining to listen. All I could hear was my own accelerated heartbeat. The gated area where the Dumpster and the incinerator lived was set off from the store; it sat in the back of the lot, about twenty or thirty yards away. That night, all of a sudden, the distance seemed to grow longer and longer as I looked at it.

  And then, ugh, a rat skittered out from under the fence and made a beeline for the back of the parking lot. Disgusting.

  A loud metallic snap behind me made me scream and jump about ten feet in the air. Mary Kate stood at the drive-thru window and glared out at me.

  “How long are you gonna milk this, Courtney?”

  “Go screw, you cow,” I yelled back at her. I heard hysteria creeping into my voice. “You scared the crap out of me.”

  “Whatever,” she said. “Just get back in here.” She slammed the window shut.

  I flipped her the finger even though she was already gone. Fear was replaced with me being really pissed off. I grabbed the trash can and nearly tipped it over as I yanked it behind me. After the can was righted, I pulled it behind me more gi
ngerly. I muttered to myself as I dragged it toward the Dumpster. I wanted to hold on to my anger because I knew what would replace it once it dissipated.

  When I reached the shed, I noticed that its large double doors were ajar. The same hypothetical lazy employee I’d imagined earlier didn’t just leave a mess in the Dumpster that would later settle, they’d also forgotten to close the doors all the way. Right. I craned my neck in various positions to try to see anything in there that might be, you know, deadly. It was too F’ing dark to make out anything.

  As I saw it, I had two choices. One, stand there until MK, or her evil twin, yelled at me again or, two, just open the door and see that there was nothing there.

  Quick as I could, before I could think my way out of it, I grabbed the edge of the nearest door and flung it open.

  And a pair of zombies came lunging at me!

  I stared into the ravaged face of the one on the left and my mind went blank, as empty as his freaking eye socket.

  Then the rotten-meat smell hit me.

  I screamed and backpedaled as fast as I could. I forgot about the trash can behind me. Me and it went over backward—fast-food trash went everywhere—and I found myself sliding around in a pile of congealed grease and soda. If I hadn’t been scared out of my damned mind, I would have puked my guts out.

  I slipped on the ground as I tried to stand. The two shufflers came at me, their mouths gaping. They’d have been salivating if they were still alive. I finally got my feet under me and was about to sprint back to the store when I heard more shuffling behind me. I shot a look in that direction and a third zombie was coming up fast on my blind side. If I hesitated much longer, she’d be right on top of me.

  I backed away as fast as I could without slipping in the filth again. That meant putting more distance between me and the store. Between me and safety. This was no bueno.

  My brain went into overdrive and, at the same time, I couldn’t think what to do. It felt like I was stepping on the gas while the car was in park. I started to find myself caught in this loop where I wondered if I knew them. They all looked to be my age. Two boys and a girl. One of the boys and the girl looked like preppies. Nice clothes before they were ravaged, a popped collar on the boy. But the other guy was a definite grunge head. They all looked freshly dead. Lots of flesh on their bones still—in fact, I didn’t see any obvious chew marks on the grunge dude. You know, there’s no way these three would have hung out in life. Now here they were. Zombification had brought them together. It was like an after-school special directed by Wes Craven.