Zomburbia

by Adam Gallardo

  At that moment, falling down was the best feeling I’d ever had.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The Spider-Man of Inappropriate Conversational Gambits

  The only time I visited anyone in the hospital was after my mom slipped a disk falling down in our house. It was because of that injury that she started doing Pilates to try to feel better. That, of course, is where she met her douche bag instructor and then decided to abandon her family and run away to Seattle. Anyway, when she was in the hospital, they stashed her in a big room with three other patients. It didn’t matter if you pulled shut the little “privacy curtain,” you still heard the other people’s conversations, TVs, or snores. I remember at the time that it was super-annoying.

  But I’d have given anything to have a few other people in the room with me as I came to, strapped to a bed in a darkened space. That prick of an EMT had lied to me.

  Once I was awake, only two people ever came in to see me. At least, I think there were only two people that came in—both wore the same type of Tyvek environmental suits and full-face respirators that the EMTs had. One was a nurse who looked at all the monitors hooked up to me and the other stood by the door with a hand on his side arm. I guessed they came in once an hour to do their thing. I tried to speak to them the first couple of times they came in. They never responded. I gave up after a while.

  In between their visits—visits I started looking forward to even though they ignored me completely, which made me feel like I was right back at school—I just lay there in the dark, trapped with my feelings. I kept seeing Sherri. Her as a zombie, her trying to eat me, her with the top of her head flying off. I was almost constantly in tears, which really sucked because I couldn’t wipe my eyes or my nose with my arms strapped down.

  Around what I guessed was bedtime, they gave me some sort of sedative. Any other day and I’d have really enjoyed it. That day it just kept me in this half-awake state where I kept hallucinating. I kept seeing zombies out of the corner of my eye. When I turned to focus they were gone. At one point, I noticed that Willie was standing next to my bed. I tried really hard to apologize to him, but I had a hard time making my tongue work right. The next thing I knew, he’d been replaced by the girl in the bikini from the reservoir. After that it was just a retelling of A Christmas Carol with one ghost after another.

  My dad was in my room at one point, too, and I was convinced I’d stopped tripping and that he’d come to get me out. Then his face melted off. My screams must have been pretty annoying. The nurse and guard came into the room then and the nurse gave me another shot. That one knocked me out but good. I remembered having time to be grateful.

  When I came to, the guard sat in a chair by the door. They’d opened the blinds on the window and sunlight streamed into the room. I blinked against the light and then rubbed my eyes. Then I stared at my arms like I’d never seen them before. I turned to the guard.

  “When’d they take off the straps?”

  He stood up and opened the door. “The doctor is going to want to see you,” was all he said to me, and then he left and closed the door behind him.

  It only took the guard, the nurse, and a tall, old guy a couple of minutes to come back to the room. I spent most of that time just moving my arms and legs. It felt good.

  The doctor smiled at me when he walked in, but it wasn’t a real smile. His eyes didn’t really change. He smiled the way some people ask, “How are you?” Like it was a social nicety. He flipped open a chart and looked at it for a minute. The nurse was also out of the environmental suit. She was a pretty Latina. Older, like fifty or something. She gave me a real smile. The doctor spoke to me without looking up from the chart.

  “Do you often take drugs, Miss Hart?”

  “Why are you asking me that? I thought you were just watching me to make sure I wasn’t going to turn into a zombie.”

  “We were observing you for signs of zombification,” the doctor said, and he was still looking at his chart. “Part of that process is to do blood work and look for the presence of the zombie virus. We didn’t find it. We also did a tox screen and we found modified cocaine in your system. I think the name on the street is ‘Vitamin Z,’ right? I’d guess that you’d taken it sometime within the last seventy-two hours.”

  “Will you look at me when you speak to me?”

  He looked up from his chart, uncertainty in his eyes. He probably wasn’t used to being spoken to like that by patients. I didn’t really care, though; I didn’t like him all of a sudden and I wasn’t going to hide it.

  “So, how often do you use, Miss Hart?”

  “That was the first time. On Saturday night.” I fought hard not to lower my eyes or sound apologetic.

  He made more notes. “It is my business, Courtney,” he said, and I sat up straighter. I hadn’t said it was none of his business. I got the sense he’d rehearsed this little play once or twice before he came in to see me. I also didn’t like him calling me “Courtney.” When people like him start calling you by your first name, it’s usually a sign of trouble. “The hospital has to decide whether or not to report this to the police. We have to report it to your parents, of course.” And then he looked up from the chart and he smiled for real this time.

  Asshole. I kept my face neutral. He went back to his chart.

  “Anyway,” he said, “if you’d been infected during your attack, you’d have exhibited signs by now, so we’re going to release you to the care of your”—he flipped over some pages—“your father.”

  “Great. Thanks, doc.”

  “One last thing, Courtney. A couple of your fellow students reported that it looked like you’d been trying to speak with the zombie before it attacked you. Why would you be doing that?”

  That stung. I thought about Sheri getting high with me and how things turned out for her. Something wanted to click in my brain because of that thought, but the more I tried to latch on to it, the faster it receded. I let it go for now.

  “Can I get dressed now?”

  He gave me that smile again. “Of course. Your father should be here any minute. The nurse will show you where you can find your clothes.”

  He and the guard cleared out, leaving me alone with the nurse.

  “Don’t worry about him,” she said as soon as the door closed. “You’ve heard that joke about doctors?”

  “Which one?” I asked.

  “What’s the difference between God and doctors?”

  I smiled. “What?”

  “God doesn’t think he’s a doctor.”

  I knew I liked her.

  The hospital had washed my clothes and now they smelled like industrial-grade cleaner. Not exactly spring fresh. Whatever, it was nice to be out of the backless gown—and out of the restraints, come to think of it. I could scratch being tied up off any list of possible fetishes.

  The nurse walked down the hall with me and pointed me in the right direction as she went off to do some Florence Nightingale stuff.

  I found the family lounge where I expected my dad was waiting for me. What I didn’t expect was for Brandon to be there, too, holding a huge bouquet of Mylar balloons. He sat right next to Dad. They were talking to each other. Seeing him threw me. The memory of Saturday night came flooding back on a wave of resentment for him. If he’d just said something, stopped us, Sherri would still be alive. Then I had to admit that I could have stopped it, too. Hell, I could have not been selling Z, right? None of this was Brandon’s fault—that was a little fantasy I’d have to give up on.

  Still, why the F was he here with my dad? Part of me wanted to crawl back to the hospital room and tie myself to the bed before they noticed I was here. Best just to get it over with. I cleared my throat.

  They looked up and they both broke into smiles. I didn’t buy Dad’s, though. I wanted to ask him what was up. Then Brandon was mauling me like a big, friendly dog. He wrapped me in his arms and pressed his face into my hair. Dad smiled more genuinely then, so I decided I could let myself ea
se into the hug a little. I’ll admit that it was nice.

  When the hug broke up, Brandon took a step back and gave me one of those “you are so brave” smiles. His eyes may have been a little moist.

  “I was so worried about you,” he said.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  “I heard you’d been attacked by a zombie and I just—I don’t know, I freaked out a little. I’m glad you’re okay.”

  He hugged me again.

  “Okay,” I said. “Thanks.” You know who that zombie was, right? I wanted to ask him. I kept my mouth shut.

  Brandon stepped back when my dad stood up and opened his arms for me. I stepped into the embrace and pressed my face into the hollow of his neck. We didn’t say anything for a long time and just stood there. He smelled like Old Spice and just a hint of sweat. It felt really good. Holding him made it easy to ignore everything that had happened and everything that was going to happen. There should be stores where you can walk in off the street and get a hug and then go on about your business. It would make life easier.

  Dad pulled away finally and rubbed my back. He gave me that same sad smile and then looked over at Brandon who was standing there so patiently with his dopey grin and his bunch of balloons.

  “I hope you don’t mind that I invited Brandon to come with me,” Dad said. “He called the house asking about you several times so, I figured . . .” He trailed off.

  “No, it’s great.” I smiled at Brandon. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “These are for you,” Brandon said, and handed me the balloons.

  “You shouldn’t have gone to any trouble.” Sixteen years of politeness training at the hands of my dad sometimes made me say things I didn’t believe.

  “Yeah, well, it was no trouble. There’s a guy in a coma down there who won’t miss them.”

  “So sweet.” I gave him a nod, acknowledging the joke. “Really, thanks.”

  “Brandon asked if he could drive you home,” my dad cut in.

  “Oh, that isn’t a good idea?” I couldn’t keep the question out of my voice.

  “I told him it was fine with me. But only if he drove you straight home, and if it was okay with you.”

  Brandon was assaulting me with that grin and those teeth. God, the ability to hypnotize their prey must be an inherited trait in WASP families.

  “S-sure,” I said. “I guess I’ll see you at home in a few minutes?”

  Dad kissed my forehead. “Yeah. Drive safely.”

  “I will, sir,” Brandon said. “I always do.”

  Sir? If I hadn’t just been released from the hospital following a zombie attack, I’d feel like we were in a 1950s educational film about etiquette. Dad gave me a wave and headed off toward the parking lot. I let it go.

  “Let’s go,” Brandon said, and he took my arm. This was getting to be too much. I let him lead me down the hall in the opposite direction from my dad. The balloons he gave me kept bumping into stuff as we went. Carrying them along felt weird. Some other girl who wasn’t me could pull it off. Maybe I could “accidentally” let go of them once we got outside.

  He led me to his truck and opened the door for me.

  “Want me to help you up?”

  “You know, I was in the hospital for observation, not because there was anything wrong with me.”

  “Right. Sorry.”

  Damn. “No, listen, Brandon, I’m sorry. It’s just been a stressful few days, you know? Having shit heaped on me like that tends to make me a bitch.”

  “It’s okay.” He gave me a weak smile.

  “Not really. Thanks, though, for—you know, for everything.”

  “You’re welcome, Courtney.”

  “Okay,” I said, “now help hoist me up there before someone tells us to get a room.”

  Once we were both in the truck, Brandon navigated out of the parking lot and got us pointed toward home.

  “It’s good to see you again,” Brandon said.

  “You said that.”

  “I know, but it’s true. What was it like?”

  “Do you know who the zombie was that attacked me?” I asked. I really hadn’t meant to say that. Brandon looked at me like I’d just booted his puppy into traffic.

  “I know it was Sherri,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  “You are sorry,” I repeated.

  “Jesus Christ, Courtney! What do you want me to say? Is there anything that would make it better?” His cheeks were red. I couldn’t tell if he was mad or embarrassed.

  “Yeah, well, she wanted to do something stupid. Mission accomplished.”

  We drove to my house without speaking after that. I guess I kind of burst his bubble. Which I hadn’t meant to. It’s sort of my superpower. I’m like the Spider-Man of inappropriate conversational gambits.

  When we parked on the street in front of my house, Brandon said, “I really am sorry, Courtney. I’m sorry about Sherri. I know you two liked to egg each other on, but I know you liked her, too. I hate that she died. I feel responsible for it. At a bunch of points, I could have said something or I could have stopped it, and I didn’t. I’m sorry that I was so weak.” Tears welled up in his eyes. He really looked like he was in pain.

  I knew it wasn’t his fault; I could have told Sherri no when she said she wanted to go with me to Buddha’s. I knew it was a world-class bad idea. But I just let her ride over me and went along with it. Now I had tears in my eyes.

  “Jesus,” I said as I swiped them away with my sleeve, “it’s like she’s giving us a guilt trip from beyond the grave. Listen, you can let yourself off the hook. I’m more to blame than you are. I need to figure out a way to make it better, okay?”

  “What does that mean?”

  “How the hell should I know?” I asked. “Despite my grade point average, I’m starting to figure out that I’m not all that bright.”

  He chuckled and then so did I. I almost laughed but stopped myself. I wondered if I’d ever laugh again.

  “You’d better go,” Brandon said. “Your dad is watching us from the front porch.”

  And there he was. I suddenly felt a huge surge of love for my dad. There he stood with his pot belly, his shorts with sandals and black socks, and his worried eyes, and I loved him.

  “Yeah,” I said, “I’d better.”

  “Can I call you later?” Brandon asked.

  “If you called me later, I’d answer the phone.”

  I climbed out and quickly got into my yard and closed the gate. I went and stood beside Dad while we watched Brandon drive away.

  “He seemed nice,” Dad said.

  “If you like that sort of thing.”

  “You seem to like that sort of thing. You almost looked happy.”

  He wore that same sad smile that he’d shown me in the hospital.

  “I’m happy,” I said. “Usually. Just not lately.”

  “You want to go inside and rest?”

  “I got plenty of rest being tied to my bed for a day and a half.”

  “Maybe we should go get something to drink and you can tell me everything that happened to you.”

  I grimaced. I said that sounded like a good idea.

  The whole story took more than one soda to tell. After our second can, Dad ran and got some takeaway chicken and I kept going. With some judicious editing, of course. I wanted to tell my dad everything that was going on, but I hadn’t decided how to frame it yet.

  After I was done and we were wiping grease from our mouths and fingers with lemon-scented moist Towelettes, my dad sat back and rubbed his noticeably larger belly.

  “That’s quite a story, Courtney,” he said. “There’s one thing I still don’t understand.”

  “What’s that?” I’ll admit that chicken thighs and mashed potatoes had lulled me into a false sense of security.

  “How did Vitamin Z get into your system?”

  And all of that delicious fried food plummeted to the pit of my stomach like s
o much concrete. A million lies ran through my brain. I could deny it and try to say the hospital had been wrong. To be honest, it just felt like too much effort.

  “They told you about that, huh?”

  “It’s their legal responsibility to tell me.”

  I drew a deep breath, unsure how to go on.

  “Courtney, did you get it out of my dresser?”

  I had to think long and hard about what he’d just said. I opened my mouth a couple of times. I couldn’t make my voice work.

  “I know you were in my dresser,” my dad went on after I didn’t say anything. “Isn’t that right?”

  I nodded.

  “And I assume you saw the packet I had in there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you take some of it?”

  I shook my head.

  “Then where?” he asked.

  I realized too late that I could have totally said I got it from him and all of this would have passed. I’d still be in trouble, but that would have been offset by Dad’s guilt in giving drugs to his little girl. I dimly remembered that the day before yesterday I’d wanted to come clean with my dad and tell him everything about my selling drugs. But the thought of how much trouble I faced suddenly put all of my intentions into doubt. I swallowed my guilt.

  “Courtney?”

  “Well, Sherri—”

  “Oh, Sherri,” my dad said as if just invoking her name explained every bad thing I might have ever done. I suddenly felt flush with anger.

  “What does that mean?”

  “You got the drugs from Sherri, right?”

  I sat there and seethed, hurt by my dad’s dislike and distrust of my best friend. My dead best friend.

  Not that it would hurt her feelings if I played along. Would it?

  “Courtney?”

  “That’s right,” I said. I couldn’t look him in the eyes as I spoke. It felt like I was killing Sherri all over again.

  Dad just sighed and nodded his head, as if all of his worst suspicions about Sherri had just been confirmed. I sat across from him feeling like the smallest piece of crap in the world.