Zomburbia

by Adam Gallardo

  “You’re right,” Buddha said, “sure. Well, I guess there’s only two reasons someone could get the nickname ‘Buddha. ’ One, you are a serene, peaceful person who’d never hurt a soul, just like the Bodhisattva. Or, two, you’re not.”

  When he spoke next, he tapped a gnarled finger on the glass of the tabletop. “Which do you think was my case, son?” Buddha leaned back and spread his arms along the back of the couch. “So, why’d you bring your friends, Courtney?”

  I pulled the envelope with his money out of my bag and handed it to him. “First things first, I guess.”

  He took it from me and got up. He headed back to his room. “Get everybody some drinks. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  As soon as the door clicked shut I turned on Brandon. “What is your problem?” I hissed at him.

  “What?” He had the balls to look innocent.

  “Getting into a pissing contest with him about his freaking nickname? What is that?”

  “I was just curious.”

  “That stuff about his nickname,” I said as I stood up, “that’s true. I’ve heard stories from his guys about him.”

  “He doesn’t scare me,” Brandon said.

  “Then you’re way dumber than I thought,” said Sherri, “and that’s pretty dumb.”

  I stomped over to the bar and fished some sodas out of the mini-fridge. Brandon refused to look me in the eye as I walked back to the couch and sat down. Which made me even madder because I was trying to give him my best glare the whole time. I set my soda down next to me on the couch and handed one to Sherri. I took the last can and shook it for a good while before I handed it to Brandon. Sherri snorted laughter. Brandon just looked at the can for a second before he said, “You know, no matter how bad you shake them up, if you just let modern Coke cans sit for about ten seconds, they won’t spray.” And he set his can down on the table.

  “Just stop being a dick,” I said to him.

  Buddha came back into the room and sat down.

  “Thanks, Courtney,” he said. “So, what was the other reason you came over today?”

  I didn’t answer. I found that when it was time to actually come right out and say it, I couldn’t ask him to get us high. I’d made a point of never using up to this point. Part of it was that a lot of people said using Vitamin Z just once could make you an addict—in public, I told everyone I thought that was bull. The truth was that I really did believe it. The other part was that I thought people who did use were huge F’ing losers. Everyone I’d ever sold to looked like scum and trash to me. I never felt bad that I was selling them this potentially dangerous drug because I didn’t care about them at all. So, given that, how the hell was I supposed to ask Buddha to fix us up?

  I looked at Sherri. She avoided my eyes. No help there even though it was her idiot idea. I could feel Buddha staring at me. I cleared my throat.

  “We want to know if you’ll get us high,” Brandon said. I looked up and he was looking right at me. “With the Vitamin Z.”

  Buddha looked slowly from Brandon to me. “Is that right, Courtney?” he asked. When I nodded, he said, “I have to admit that that surprises me. I thought you were dead set against it.” He scratched his head. “You know, time was I required my sellers to get high with me. But, like I said, I was a different creature then. So, I’ll ask again: Is this what you want?”

  I nodded. “Yeah,” I said.

  Buddha didn’t answer for a while. Again he looked back at Brandon and I wanted to scream at him, Stop looking at him, this was my decision! But I kept my mouth shut.

  “Right,” Buddha said quietly, and stood up. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to go into my room again.” He walked away, then stopped. “I’ll bring a pipe, okay? None of you look like you’d be very needle-friendly.” And then he disappeared into the room and the door closed behind him.

  “It is what you wanted, right?” Brandon asked.

  “Of course it is,” I snapped at him. I wasn’t done being mad at him yet.

  “Just checking.”

  “I’m having second thoughts,” Sherri said.

  “It’s probably a little late for that,” Brandon said, and just then I really hated him. Hated how calm he was, hated how he didn’t seem afraid of Buddha like he should have been. I hated him because he was there in Buddha’s apartment with me. No one I liked should ever have been in there.

  “It feels too late for a lot of stuff,” I said. Even as I said it, I regretted it. It felt petty and too dramatic. Neither of them reacted, probably too wrapped up in their own worries and fears to notice I was a lame-ass. So, that was good.

  Buddha came out again and headed over. He had a small box in one hand and a big brick-shaped thing wrapped in plastic in the other. He handed me the brick as he sat down.

  “For you,” he said. “’Cause I might forget once we get going.”

  I hefted the bulk of Vitamin Z in my hand. This brick would probably earn me another $5,000, even with what I owed Buddha and other operating expenses. I stowed it away in my bag.

  Buddha opened his box. It was felt-lined and inside was a metal pipe, a tiny bag of Z, and a pretty big bag of weed. He set everything on the table and then opened the bag of pot.

  “Marijuana?” Brandon asked. “Are we gonna smoke that first?”

  “Smoke ’em together,” said Buddha as he loaded a hit into the pipe. “Some people smoke it straight, but they’re pretty far gone. Junkies who can’t get a hit otherwise. Get it?”

  Brandon nodded. “Is it really made out of zombie brains?”

  “You sound nervous, all these questions.” He didn’t look up from what he was doing.

  Brandon swallowed hard and nodded. “I guess I am. I heard using just once can make you addicted.”

  “That’s really rare,” I said. I hoped I didn’t sound too much like I was trying to convince myself.

  “That’s right,” Buddha said as he went back to loading the pipe. “You’re both right. It happens. It’s rare, but it happens.” He zipped up the bag of pot and set it in the box, then he took up the bag of Z and popped it open. He took just a few grains and sprinkled them on top of the weed in the pipe. “And to answer your original question: Yep, it’s made out of actual zombies’ brains. Before you ask, it’s also true that some addicts who die of overdoses come back as zombies.” He held the pipe out to Brandon. “Wanna take the first hit?”

  Brandon just sat there and didn’t make a move for the pipe. I told myself that if he refused, I’d refuse, too. I’d tell Buddha that we’d made a mistake and no hard feelings. I knew Buddha liked me and that he wouldn’t hold it against me. I had my new supply of Z, there was no real reason for us to stick around. All Brandon had to do was turn down the pipe and we could leave.

  Brandon reached out and took it out of Buddha’s hands. My heart sank. “Where’s the fire?” he asked.

  “Oh, right,” Buddha said, and he dug a battered old Zippo out of his pocket.

  I turned away as Brandon took the lighter and raised the pipe to his lips, so I didn’t see him take a hit, but I heard his explosive cough a few seconds later. Buddha chuckled. “Open up that Coke and take a swig,” he said. “It’ll help the burn in your throat.”

  There was the pop/fizz sound of the can being opened and then Brandon’s cough subsided a little. Sherri took the next hit; she handled it better than Brandon, holding the smoke for a good fifteen or twenty seconds before she let it out in a thick stream.

  Then it was my turn. I picked up the pipe in my left hand, the lighter in my right. I was about to light it up when Buddha stopped me.

  “Let me charge that up.” He took a few more grains of Z and sprinkled them on top of the charred pot. “Okay, go for it.”

  Brandon sat back on the couch, his arms relaxed at his sides. He smiled at me and his eyes were already glassy. Sherri wouldn’t look at me; she stared at a string of hair she held in front of her eyes and twirled. No help from either of them. So I forced a smile, took up the
pipe, and took a big toke. I’d smoked pot a few times, and this was just like that—the harsh, acrid smoke attacking the back of my throat. There was something else to it, too. A sweetness flooded my tongue. All I could remember was reading once that human flesh smelled sweet when you cooked it. I started to gag, which triggered a cough. I held it together and kept most of the smoke in my lungs.

  Even before I exhaled the whole hit, I felt a pleasant coolness spreading through my brain. It started in the back of my head—in my lizard brain—and it crept like fog up to the front. My mouth was instantly dry and I immediately picked up my own soda after I handed the pipe and lighter off to Buddha.

  He took a large pinch of black powder out of the bag and grinned at me as he threw all of it on top of the cinder in the pipe. I smiled back and surprised myself because I could tell it was a genuine smile. All the anxiety I’d felt before melted away. My body relaxed, too, molding itself to the couch. It felt good.

  Buddha sucked on the pipe, a startling sound because he sucked so long and deep. My lungs ached a little thinking about it. Then he let fly with a monstrous stream of smoke. He looked like a dragon—it went on and on. When he was finally done, he set the pipe and lighter on the table and grinned at me again.

  “It’s nice to see you relaxed, Courtney,” he said. “You’re usually so uptight all the time.” He put his hand on my knee and rubbed his thumb around in a little circle. It felt nice.

  “Hey,” Brandon said, “that’s my sort-of girlfriend you’re groping, Buddha.” But there was no anger in his voice. He wore a dopey grin and could barely lift his arm to point at us.

  Buddha laughed and raised his hands in mock surrender. “Right,” he said, “right. We need some music.” He stood up and walked over to the stereo. He didn’t wobble at all. I knew that if I stood up just then, there was a good chance I’d fall flat on my face.

  “This is nice,” Sherri said, and she finally smiled, too. “This isn’t so bad.”

  “This?” Buddha asked. “This is just the pot. Give it a few minutes and you’ll feel the Z kick in.” Brandon and Sherri nodded in unison at that and I noticed after a second that I was doing it to. I laughed out loud and they both giggled, although I’m sure they had no idea why.

  Music came out of the speakers and I immediately stopped laughing. I sat up and found Buddha over by the stereo.

  “I know this!” I shouted at him. “Chacho played this in his truck the other night.”

  “Big Star,” Buddha said as he walked back to the couch. “This ‘Muchacho’ has good taste.”

  I stared at him with my mouth wide open. I could feel the gears in my brain spinning at a million miles an hour. None of the gears would catch. Goddamn that pot for making my fuzzy brain even fuzzier. Buddha was looking at me now, a little worried. I think he could tell there was something going on with me. It was something he said. Just a minute ago.

  “That’s it!” I yelled. Buddha sat back away from my explosion. “Muchacho!”

  “Muchacho what?” he asked.

  “Muchacho . . .” I searched my memory. Nothing. “Shit,” I said, and sank back to the couch.

  The other three laughed. Maybe at me, maybe about something else, I didn’t know. I worried at the fact that I couldn’t follow the thread of a minute-long conversation. Was that the pot or the Z? I don’t think pot had ever affected me like that.

  I blinked my eyes and looked around the apartment. Then I blinked some more.

  “Did someone turn down the lights?” I asked.

  “Oh, yeah,” said Sherri. “It’s getting dark.”

  Brandon looked around. He alternately blinked and opened his eyes as wide as he could.

  “It’s not dark,” he said. “There’s something about the color.”

  Buddha nodded. “Get ready, kids, here it comes.”

  “What is this?” Sherri demanded.

  But I never heard if Buddha answered her.

  The world is gray.

  The four of us are the only spots of color and we’re quickly fading. I stand and it’s a struggle. My arms and legs don’t want to work right. I feel an itch that wasn’t in my body. An idea grabs me and won’t let go.

  “I need to get downstairs.”

  I think the others will argue with me, but only two of them stand, ready to join me. The old one with a beard stays and waves us on. He cackles and mutters to himself.

  We head out the door and to the elevator. It takes all three of us to figure out pushing the button to operate the thing. It’s only the call of the others outside that can get us to concentrate enough to figure it out. After an eternity, the doors slide open and we stumble inside. We stare at the buttons on the control panel for a long time before the boy bellows and stabs at one of the buttons with a jerking motion of his arm. I hope it’s the right button.

  The doors open onto an empty room. It smells of gunpowder and meat. There was violence here recently and it makes me salivate despite my dry throat. Beyond the room, through the window, I see the others. The mass of our kind gathered in the streets. All I want in the world is to be with them.

  We run across the room and throw ourselves at the window. Why can’t we get to them? The girl manages to throw herself against the door in such a way that it opens and she falls out. The boy and I see the opening and we follow her.

  As soon as we exit the room, as soon as we’re out on the street, all sense of “I” and “me” is gone. In its place is left “us” and “we.” We are absorbed into the mass of our own kind. Everyone so different but all the same. We feel the comfort of losing our selves. We are lost in an ocean of the group’s thoughts. “Hunger.” And beneath that, we feel or hear something else, something more. We’re not far enough gone yet to sense it properly.

  A misshapen face, nose and cheeks missing, eyes milky, stands inches away from us, staring, sensing we are different. But even we are gray, no trace of pink, of color. The face sniffs us, deep chuffing noises, and then moves on. We are the same and so it has no interest in us.

  We move through this colorless world, fascinated with the feeling of belonging. We are lost within a mass of others just like us. We’ve never felt so free.

  But still, there are the nagging voices, just out of range of our sensing. And, slowly, the realization of hunger. It starts as a feeling—remote—in our stomachs. Soon it’s all we can think about. Our hunger consumes us.

  We wander aimlessly through the gray landscape, bumping into the others like us, choosing turns at random. Searching always for what can sustain us.

  As we stumble down an alley, drawn by the smell of rotting meat—one of us fed here a while ago—we hear something and stop. Something new has come to us. Behind the Dumpster, something radiates. As we walk closer, we see a shimmering flash of color against the wall. The hunger, already more than we could bear, spikes and we’re driven forward.

  An animal yowls at us as it darts farther down the alley. For a moment, we stop and watch it. The cat, alive, pulses with color, stands out in this monochrome world like a flare in the darkness. It’s so easy to track. We run as fast and as well as we can after it.

  We slow as we reach the dead end where the animal has trapped itself. We spread out. We can’t let it escape. Nowhere else to go, it arches its back and growls at us—a hissing, snarling sound deep in its throat.

  As we approach it, our hands outstretched, an idea comes to us. This feeling, it’s not just hunger. We are dazzled by the sight of it, its color and vitality, the life it contains. What we feel is love. We love it and its life so much that we have to have it be a part of us. The thought of letting it go and not having some tiny portion of its life inside of us is unthinkable.

  It tries to find a way through our collective grasp. There’s no way out. Finally, there’s no other option, the creature leaps forward, claws exposed, and it’s a whirlwind of slashing legs and biting teeth. It doesn’t matter. We love it so much, we’ll accept its punishment. The injuries are a small price
to pay to possess it.

  Several of us have our hands on it and we are all desperate to have it to ourselves. It comes apart as we fight over it, and still it screeches as we open our mouths wide and let its blood, its life and vitality, flood our mouths.

  And then there’s blackness.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I’m Sure She’s Fine

  I came to because the sun shone right in my eyes. I squeezed them shut even more tightly than they’d been. It didn’t help. I rolled from my back onto my side and reached for a pillow to throw over my head. That’s when I noticed I wasn’t in my bed. Instead of my worn cotton sheets, I felt grass underneath me. I opened my eyes and propped myself up on my elbows. Sunlight flooded into my head, which I thought was going to explode.

  I immediately lay back down as a headache the size of a rottweiler jumped up and down on my skull. I fought off a wave of nausea. Why was I outside? Why did my mouth feel like it was lined with fur?

  I became aware of a loud snore beside me. Moving my head as little as possible, I rolled over to see Brandon there on the grass beside me. I chanced a look down, my head throbbing the whole time, and I laid back, relieved that we both still had our pants on.

  When I rolled over, I’d pinned my left arm under my body and I became slowly aware that it hurt. A lot. I raised my body up and pulled my arm out from under me, wincing as it scraped against the ground. Three deep gouges ran up and down my arm, each one filled with dried blood.

  What the hell?

  I struggled to remember what happened the night before that could account for this. My mind came up empty. Actually, it felt like it might stay empty for the rest of eternity, which would be fine with me if the pain in my head would just stop.

  “Brandon,” I hissed, and stopped to squeeze my eyes shut again. Speaking brought a new wave of agony and nausea. I blindly reached out with my left hand and hunted around until I found him next to me. I groped my way up his body until I had hold of a lock of his hair. Then I yanked it for all I was worth.