Play Dead: How to care for your Zombie

by landau, marc

  The cameraman cuts in.

  “Charlie?" he says as he gestures to her. It snaps her out of her rant.

  “Yeah, sorry, snip that last part. Let me go again.”

  Charlie collects herself and moves closer to the camera.

  She takes out some pictures of her clients and shows them. “These are real people,” she says almost tearfully. “I'm begging. Please don't take matters into your own hands. Call the proper authorities. Let them do their job. I know there's a lot of anger and pain out there, but I'm begging you to treat the virally challenged the way you would if you had a loved one suffering with a more ‘traditional’ illness. I want to —”

  She pulls the mic from her jacket.

  “This is bullcrap. A bunch of fanatics don't care about what I have to say.”

  As if on cue, a random onlooker yells, “Zombie lover!”

  “Screw you, a-hole,” Charlie replies.

  An unopened beer can hurls through the air and smacks her on the side of her head. It bounces to the cement and splits open spraying liquid like a sprinkler. Charlie touches her head and feels the warmth of blood. She checks her fingers. Luckily, it’s just a small cut.

  The angry drunk rushes her. Gets in her face. “Stupid bitch,” he yells, spraying spittle.

  The cameraman jumps on the man, tries to pull him back, but the guy’s big and strong, and very drunk. He tosses the cameraman aside like a rag doll.

  The good news is, it buys Charlie time to get to her feet. The angry drunk turns back to her, but she's got her bearings now. Charlie makes a tight fist and kidney punches him. It drops him to his knees. Alcohol doesn’t make you invulnerable to kidney punches. It just makes you feel like you are. She follows it up with a sharp chop to the throat. The man doesn’t seem so angry now that he’s clutching at his windpipe sucking air. Another sharp chop for good measure is enough to send him thudding onto the pavement, out cold.

  Charlie checks on the cameraman, helps him up, and brushes him off. She scans for injuries. If anything, his ego is bruised more than his body.

  “You okay?” she asks.

  “Yeah. But I kinda feel like a little bitch.”

  “Well, you're my bitch,” she says with a small smile.

  “Damn, you can fight. Where'd you learn that throat punch stuff?”

  “Tools of the trade I guess.”

  “You learn to fight during the plague?”

  She did, but isn’t going to talk to him, or anyone about it.

  Charlie helps the cameraman pick up his scattered equipment and pack it away. “Thanks for the knight in shining armor routine. I appreciate it,” she says.

  “Yeah, I really saved the day,” he replies.

  “It’s the thought that counts.”

  The cameraman winces as he rubs his neck and shoulder. “Tell that to my shoulder.”

  “You sure you’re okay? Maybe we should take you to the hospital.”

  “I’m fine. Really.” Then, because he just can’t help himself he says, “What we should do is get a drink and celebrate.”

  “Nice try,” she replies.

  “Aw, come on. We gotta celebrate kicking redneck, neo-nazi, anti zombie ass!” he yells while checking out her cute round butt as she walks away.

  “Maybe another time,” she calls back.

  “Maybe another time,” he whispers with a smile and the glint of hope in his eyes.

  ***

  The Brute stares transfixed as he watches Charlie’s show. He stands like a statue. A bit of drool sliding down his chin.

  On the TV screen, Charlie drives her van, smiling her famous smile.“It's six weeks later, and we're heading back to see how Mary and Jackson are doing.”

  Charlie knocks on the door. Mary opens it and lets her in.

  “Hi Mary, good to see —” Mary hugs her before she can finish the sentence.

  “Come in. Come in,” Mary says, then scurries to the kitchen returning a few moments later with two coffees in hand. “I know you love your coffee.” She hands Charlie and the cameraman each a mug.

  “Thanks. I needed that,” the cameraman says with a wink, then goes back to checking his equipment.

  Charlie takes a sip. “So, it's been six weeks and I’m excited to know how things have been going. I know you were worried Jackson would be taken away. What's the update?”

  Mary’s eyes go narrow. She frowns for a long moment. Charlie’s heart drops. The training didn’t work. Then Mary bursts into a wide smile. She was just playing it up. Teasing.

  “He's doing great!” Mary says with happy tears.

  Charlie exhales with relief. “You had me worried there for a minute.”

  “I’m sorry I razzed you. Jackson always says I joke too much.” She corrects herself. “I mean he used to say.”

  “Well, it’s good to see your sense of humor’s back.”

  “It’s so nice to smile again.”

  “So, can we see some of the work you’ve done?” Charlie asks.

  “Of course.” Mary pulls out a video that shows Jackson’s progress over the past few weeks.They watch an assortment of video clips. Mary works with Jackson. She leaves the house, comes back, greets him, reinforces him. As time passes he becomes calmer and calmer. Eventually, he doesn’t seem to notice her leaving at all.

  “Wow, you really did your homework. Was it difficult?” Charlie asks.

  “It was surprisingly easy. You were a good trainer.” She corrects herself again.“I mean teacher.”

  Charlie blushes at the compliment. “Can I go say hello to him?”

  The first thing Charlie notices is that the basement has no holes in the walls. Everything has been painted a fresh coat of pastel blue.

  “I read light blue and green are calming colors. I don’t love green.” Mary says.

  “Seems to be working,” Charlie replies. “Hey Jackson. Remember me?”

  He responds with a small, seemingly friendly, grunt.

  “How are you doing?”

  Jackson walks towards Charlie. He’s calm, not at all agitated like when they first met. He stops and stands motionless in front of her. Then extends a hand. Charlie’s eyes light up, and she reciprocates. They shake. Amazing, she thinks. It’s rare that she actually feels proud but for a moment she does. For a moment she remembers why she puts up with all the a-holes.

  “Jackson, I have something for you. I think you’ll like it. Hold on, I’ll be the right back.”

  Charlie gets a box from the van and returns with what turns out to be a jigsaw puzzle. A very simple one. For young kids. It’s just a few pieces. He can’t handle more than that. Even the few pieces could easily tax his patience. If he can do it at all. Charlie puts the box on the ground and lets Jackson slowly study it. He picks up the box and shakes it.

  “I saw the puzzles you and Mary used to do. I thought you might like a new one to work on together.”

  “We’ll work on the puzzle a little later, honey. After Charlie leaves.”

  Jackson moans. Charlie hopes it was a thank you.

  “I have to go Jackson,” Charlie says. “It was wonderful seeing you again. Keep up the great work.”

  At the front door, Mary hugs Charlie again, whether she likes it, or not.

  “You guys are going to be okay,” Charlie says. “The puzzle could help with some of the brain function and motor skills. Just make sure he doesn't work on it for too long at first. He could get frustrated.”

  Mary nods in agreement.

  “Well, I’m off to visit another virally challenged family.”

  Charlie turns to the camera as she walks to the van. “Mary's done great. She’s worked hard, and it’s paid off. And remember, you don’t have to go it alone. Please reach out for help with your virally challenged loved ones.”

  Charlie smiles wide. This time it’s real. “Safe and secure till we get the cure. See you next time.”

  The Brute lunges at the TV and smashes it. He grabs the duffel bag, swings it over his
shoulder, and steps on the dead man’s crushed skull on his way out.

  ***

  A woman in her mid thirties wearing a casual floral dress sits on a comfortable couch cradling a baby in her arms. The baby coos and smiles at the camera.

  “Thank God my boy is healthy. I guess that’s all you really want when it comes down to it. My friend’s son got infected. He’s still with her. She takes good care of him. She’s strong. She’s got no one else but him. The rest of her family died during the plague.”

  The woman lovingly adjusts her baby, then puts a bottle in his mouth.

  “I think she gets lonely. I’ve seen your show and keep up with your posts. You always have such a warm smile for the families, but I can see the sadness in your eyes.”

  The baby shifts.

  “Do you get lonely?”

  ***

  Charlie sits shower fresh at her computer drinking gin while scrolling emails. Here’s to you dad, she thinks, then takes a gulp. She touches the bruise on her head. It’s still tender but not too bad. A video catches her eye. She hesitates, takes another sip, and steels herself. It better not be another murder video, she thinks, then tentatively clicks “play.”

  Her face relaxes when she sees a handsome man who can’t be over thirty sitting in a simple wooden chair. Behind him is what one might call an old fashioned kitchen. Nothing fancy about it. Plain white refrigerator, white stove, white microwave. No stainless steel. No upgrades. No custom anything.

  “Hi, um, my name's Sam. Sam Atkins.” He shifts nervously in the chair.

  Charlie can’t help notice how cute he is. His brown eyes remind her of women who get light brown contacts. Too luminescent to be real. He doesn’t look the type, but you never know.

  “I'm sending you this for my brother Trevor. I mean, it’s for the both of us. He's all I have left. I'm all he has. I know you ask that people give more details…” Sam swallows nervously. “I’m hoping you’ll come and see Trevor for yourself. He, we really need your help. Please come see for yourself…Please.”

  Charlie shuts the computer down, brushes her teeth, flops into bed and lies there, unable to stop her mind from flashing images of Sam’s captivating light brown eyes. Her hand decides it has a mind of its own. It dials the phone, then presses it to her lips. It’s too late to be calling, but her hand doesn’t care. After a couple of rings she decides she’s being ridiculous. It can wait. Then, just as she’s about to hang up, someone answers.

  “Hello?” the raspy voice says.

  It’s just one word but it stirs a pleasant feeling.

  “Hi, this is Charlie Patterson. I’m sorry I shouldn’t have called so late.”

  “No it’s fine.” He clears his throat, and his voice changes quickly to all business.“I’m so glad you called. Thanks for following up so quickly.”

  “I thought I could come by and meet Trevor.”

  “That would be great.”

  “Does tomorrow afternoon work?" she says, thinking it sounds a bit desperate.

  “Come anytime. We’ll be here,” Sam replies.

  “See you tomorrow then.”

  “We can’t wait,” he says.

  Charlie tucks herself in, and thinks about tomorrow. It’s been a long time since she’s looked forward to a tomorrow. Charlie fights the urge, but is unable to stop her lips from curling upwards.

  ***

  The Brute walks down a rarely traveled road on a pitch black night. Headlights break the darkness and a car rolls up and stops. The driver seems to be offering a ride, but when he sees the face of the man at the window the car peels away screeching, leaving the Brute alone to make the journey on foot.

  ***

  Charlie walks towards the forest green ranch home exhaling into her hand. Her breath seems fine. She hesitantly knocks on the front door. Are those actually butterflies in her stomach? What is she twelve?

  The door opens and Sam Atkins with his light brown eyes appears on the other side. He grins nervously and invites her in. Charlie can’t help but notice he's even more attractive in person. Some people don’t photograph well, others do, but don’t look as good in person. Sam was handsome either way.

  “Thanks so much for coming,” he says.

  “Happy to help,” Charlie replies, thinking how stupid she was for using the word happy. Happy to help your horribly sick brother. Inappropriate.

  “Come on in.”

  Before she even has a chance to look around, Sam asks, “You want coffee? Seems like on the show you always have one.”

  “I wouldn't want to break with tradition,” she replies. “Besides, I could use some caffeine.”

  Sam brings a piping mug and hands it to her. She takes a sip and thanks him. “So why the cloak and dagger in your submission video? Usually people tell me more about their situation.”

  “I'm sorry about that,” Sam says. “I know you like to video these sessions for the show, but I was hoping maybe we could do this without the cameras.”

  He hesitates. “I saw your post about the murder, and got scared for Trevor.”

  “I understand,” she says. “I don't want you doing anything you're not comfortable with. I'm here to help Trevor. That's who's important.”

  Sam nervously clears his throat again.“It’s not just the murder video that freaked me out. Trevor…he can get agitated.”

  “And you were afraid the authorities might see it and take him?”

  Charlie knows she hit the target when Sam’s eyes turn down his feet.

  “Is Trevor dangerous?”

  Sam doesn’t reply, but a quick glance from him tells her the answer is “yes.”

  “Is he taking his medications?”

  “I make sure he does. But it doesn’t always help.”

  “It's okay. We'll deal with it.” She says, trying to comfort him.

  “I'm afraid they'll —"

  “Let's not go there. At least not until we figure out what's going on. Okay?”

  Sam nods, but he doesn’t look reassured.

  “People say I'm living on false hope. They say I should do the humane thing. Bring him to a euthanasia center. They think I'm being selfish for keeping him with me. Said, if I loved him, I'd put an end to his suffering. I do love him. I just can't bring myself to do it.”

  Sam looks away, trying to hide a tear. “He’s my little brother.”

  Charlie unconsciously puts her hand on his arm.

  “You’re making the right choice. We're going to work it out.”

  “Thank you.”

  Charlie scans the room.

  “So where’s Trevor?”

  “His bedroom.”

  “I'm going to say hello on my own first, if that's okay with you.”

  Sam nods. “I’ve watched the show. You say the virally challenged get protective of loved ones, so it’s easier if you meet them first alone.”

  Charlie smiles. It’s nice to work with people who know the deal.

  “His bedroom's upstairs. First door on the left,” Sam says.“Be careful. He can get agitated if you surprise him.”

  “Don't worry. Kid gloves. I promise.”

  As Charlie goes up the stairs it’s quiet. Almost too quiet. Nothing like when she visited Jackson, or many of her other clients, for the first time. She knocks gently on the bedroom door. “Trevor? My name's Charlie. Your brother asked me to come to talk to you.”

  Silence.

  “Is it okay if I come in?”

  There's still no reply.

  “I'm going to open the door and come in Trevor.”

  Charlie slowly opens the door. No one's there. It looks like the room of any red blooded American teenage boy. Posters on the wall of bands, cars, and hot chicks. Comics and video games are strewn about. Charlie slowly checks the room. She steps inside and readies her hand on the stun gun. “Trevor? You here?” She scans the windows. They're all closed. Then she notices the closet door cracked open and moves carefully towards it.

  “Trevor?
My name's Charlie. I’m just here to talk. There's nothing to be afraid of.”

  Still no sound.

  She slowly opens the closet door. It’s empty.

  A hand reaches out from underneath the bed, grabs her by the ankle, and pulls her down to the floor. She and Trevor scuffle and roll around the room. Trevor gets to his feet and charges. Charlie dodges, slips around his back, and puts him in a choke hold. They crash and bang loudly into walls, lamps, bookcases.

  Downstairs, Sam sits agitated on the couch. It’s so loud upstairs he can't ignore the commotion any longer. He heads for the stairs.

  “Everything okay up there?" he yells.

  No answer. Just more loud banging. Sam takes the stairs two at a time. He tries to open the door but it’s locked. He pulls at the doorknob. No luck.

  “Charlie? Is everything okay?”

  Inside the room Trevor is close to biting Charlie's face. His teeth inches from her nose.

  “Everything's fine! Don't come in!" she yells, as she positions the stun gun and zaps Trevor into unconsciousness, or as close to it as possible with the infected. He thumps to the floor.

  “I’m going to break the door down.” Sam pounds his fist on the wood.

  “Just give me a second,” she replies, then retouches her hair, tucks in her shirt, and opens the door.

  In front of her, Sam stands red as an apple. His breathing labored, his eyes so wide they look like they could drop out of his head any moment.

  Casually, Charlie says, “All good. Trevor just needs to rest a little.”

  “That’s it? It sounded like world war three in there.”

  “Don’t worry. It was all bark no bite. You can relax. I know what I’m doing. Trust me.” She adds a cute smile to punctuate the sentence. It takes the edge off. Sam finally lets himself breathe again and returns the smile.