Zombie - A Love Story

by Patricia Lee Macomber

  "Fire," Paul offered, stabbing one finger in the direction of his face. "No money for skin grafts."

  The man smiled and rang up Paul's purchases. He swiped Paul's card, proffered the receipt and placed the items in a bag. Just as Paul turned to leave, the man grasped his arm and pulled him around so as to catch his gaze. The man's eyes were piercing, commanding, and the most understanding that Paul had ever seen.

  "Don't ever be ashamed. What you are on the outside doesn't determine what you are on the inside. Hold your head up, look people straight in the eye, and don't back down from life, you hear?"

  Paul nodded and tried to smile around his droopy lip. "Thank you. So much."

  He gathered the bag into his arms and walked toward the door, keeping his head up for as long as he was in the man's sight. Then he lowered his head and bolted for the car.

  Convinced that he needed to eat, Paul unwrapped the Ding Dongs as he went, greedily stuffing one into his mouth and chewing frantically. He swallowed hard, felt the searing pain in his stomach, and bent over and puked. A loud "eeeew!" came from the kid hanging out of his mom's car window and Paul hurried along, wiping bits of snack cake from his chin.

  Maybe it had just been too long since he last ate. Perhaps his system just wasn't ready for the shock of a pure jolt of sugar. Whatever the reason, Paul gave the soda a shot. He hadn't peed in days and he chalked it up to the fact that he hadn't drunk anything in days. He took a tentative sip, which went down cold and sweet. Then he took two more gulps and waited for the inevitable burp.

  Instead, he vomited soda and the remaining bits of snack cake all over the outside of the car door. In abject misery, he began to sob then, his body shaking with the effort, soft mewling sounds issuing from his lopsided mouth. Still, no tears came.

  He sat still for a few minutes, trying to regain his composure and letting his stomach calm down to a dull roar. There was still a wringing, aching sort of pain in his gut, as if someone were trying to squeeze the last bits of life from his unused parts. His head ached and, when he looked into the mirror, he noted with horror that there were more blotches than before and his lower lip had slipped even further down, giving him a menacing sort of grimace.

  His mind settled on one immutable fact: He had to get to Linda before he completely fell apart. He started the engine and put the car in gear, resolved to reach her before she lost faith in him. He was deteriorating at an alarming rate and there was no time to waste.

  The GPS barked its familiar "recalculating" message at him twice, and then gave him a direction in which to go. Back to the highway, merge, drive straight ahead for another 30 hours. The pain in his gut made itself known once more as he cruised along at a steady pace. He drove for another two hours without incident before his phone signaled an incoming email. He picked up his phone and glanced at the message.

  Linda. She had answered his email. He would have to pull over for this one.

  A rest stop loomed ahead and he took the exit slowly. It was one of those large affairs, with a mini mart attached and enough parking for hundreds of cars. Paul chose a space far from the buildings and away from the other vehicles. He pulled in and switched off his headlights, actually turning the car off and rolling down the window. He had learned through experience that hot or cold were both the same to him and that the stuffiness of the car with its windows closed seemed to affect him not at all.

  He clicked on the email and watched tensely as it opened. There was a smiley after the signature. That was a good sign.

  My dearest Paul:

  Whatever has happened, know that I love you with all my heart and I stand behind you no matter what. I'll be waiting here for you, aching to see you again, my love.

  Always,

  Your Linda

  Paul smiled, or what passed for a smile these days. She still loved him and trusted him enough not to interrogate him through email. God! What had he ever done to deserve such a wonderful woman? The thought of her was what kept him going, moving on toward something rather than simply praying for a real, permanent death. He knew that if he could just get to Linda, hold her, rest his head in her lap and hear the sound of her voice – then – then everything would be all right.

  Another odd thought occurred to him: In all the time since this whole fiasco started, he hadn't once slept or even rested. Usually, it took four or five mugs of coffee to keep him moving through his day. Upon reflection, he found that he wasn't the least bit tired.

  "How can I not be tired?" he said to himself softly.

  Maybe he was tired and didn't know it. Maybe the adrenaline and fear had propelled him through the past two days. Whatever the cause, he felt sure that he would be better off if he just got a little rest.

  He got out of the car then, stretching his legs even though they weren't stiff just because it seemed like the thing to do. Then, he climbed into the back seat and stretched out, laying one thin arm across his eyes to shut out the light streaming from the huge bulbs overhead.

  After a few moments, he rolled onto his side, this being his usual position for good sleeping. To no avail, he rolled onto his back. He tried everything he knew: meditation, clearing his mind, counting backward from one hundred. A stone cold nerd to the core, he even tried factoring Fibonacci's numbers as far as he could. No power on earth would make him sleep.

  He was about to abandon all hope and drive back to the freeway when someone jerked open the driver's side door and leapt into the car. Panic ripped through Paul's very core and he sat bolt upright in the back seat just as the man turned over the engine.

  "What the hell are you doing?" Paul demanded in his new growly-voice.

  The man spun around in his seat in one swift movement, staring daggers through Paul. "Just shut up and sit still and I won't hurt you."

  Panic gave way to stark raving terror and then morphed into sheer madness. Paul's mind snapped. He felt it give way even as he lunged over the back of the seat, one hand locking into the man's hair and pulling his head to the side as his jaw opened impossibly wide. He drove his teeth into the man's neck with every ounce of force he had left in him.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Linda had been puzzled by Paul's email. It sounded so ominous, so frighteningly vague that she had stared at it for a long time before answering. She had decided to be supportive in the end, if for no other reason than that she trusted Paul and he deserved that trust. But now, unanswered questions nagged at her and twisted her stomach into knots.

  Paul was the most conscientious driver she had ever met. He had never even had a parking ticket and he would never, for any reason, text or talk on the phone while he was driving. She knew that he would pull off to the side of the road to read every email, answer every call. It would impede his progress if she kept bugging him. The only other person who might have the answers she sought was Matt, and she fully intended to have those answers.

  She had to scroll down to find Matt's cell number. He wasn't exactly her favorite person. He was Paul's best friend and for that reason alone, he had made it onto her speed dial list. If Paul weren't in the picture, she wouldn't hang out with Matt, but she wouldn't snub him either. Matt was just sort of there, like a loyal spaniel or your stupid little brother. You had to love him. Had to.

  It took four rings for Matt to utter his usual answer. "Say words."

  "Matt? It's Linda." She heard the TV in the background go silent and she could picture Matt sitting up and trying to act like he was not stoned.

  "Hey, Linda." He laughed nervously. "What's the haps?"

  "I got a strange email from Paul a while ago. I was hoping you could help clarify it."

  "Uh … shouldn't you ask Matt?" Now, he sounded really nervous, he knew. It went beyond pot paranoia.

  "I don't want to bother him every few minutes. You know he pulls off the road every time he has a call."

  "Sure." People had a way of making Matt tell them things he never wanted to say in the first place. Linda could almost hear the wheels in his he
ad spinning as he worried over what to say. "So, what is it you want to know?"

  "Paul said he's on the way here, to LA."

  "Yea."

  "And he said that something horrible happened at work." She paused, letting him mull that over. "What was it that happened, exactly?"

  "Well…uh…I think maybe Paul should be the one to tell you."

  "Did he get fired?"

  "No."

  "Did he quit?"

  "No." Matt felt sweat break out on his brow. He swallowed hard.

  "Did he get in a fight? Or get injured? Is he sick?"

  "Not any of those, no. I can't tell you, Linda. I can't. It's Paul's place to tell you when he gets there. That's why he's coming. He just wants to see you…" He stopped right there, just shy of saying, "one last time."

  "See me…why?" She wondered if Paul was going to break up with her. What if he was seeing someone else? What if he decided he didn't want to live in Los Angeles after all? "Is he breaking up with me?"

  "No way." Matt wondered why women always went there first. Linda was not an insecure woman and Paul had never given her reason to doubt him or herself. And yet, her first assumption was that Paul had met someone else and so he was dumping her.

  "Is he seeing somebody else? Did he change his mind about coming out here to live?" She thought she might cry. Her hands twisted at her shirt the same way her guts were twisting at her.

  "Linda, honest to God. Paul loves you so much. And he's not ever gonna break up with you and he wouldn't cheat on you if somebody put a gun to his head. Why would he drive all the way to California to tell you he didn't want to come to California?"

  "Then tell me what the hell's going on!" she snapped, tears filling the corners of her eyes. "Tell me before I go stark raving mad!"

  "I'm sorry, Linda. I'm so sorry. I just can't. Paul will tell you when he gets there, but I can't tell you anything. Just trust me when I say that this is not entirely a bad thing. He'll fix everything…"

  "Not 'entirely'? What's that supposed to mean?" She was screaming now and she knew it. But she just couldn't stop. Hysteria had taken over and she felt her brain melting with the heat of it, making her more frantic by the moment. "And what's he going to fix? Matt?"

  Matt hung up. She knew he was avoiding her. He couldn't take the pressure of keeping Paul's secret and of lying to her, or the chance of letting anything slip out. So, he simply hung up. She called back almost immediately, but there was no answer. She called six more times in quick succession with the same result. Frustrated, she gave up, not sure if she was angry at Matt, angry at Paul, or just frightened.

  What the hell am I doing?

  With that thought fresh in his mind, Paul locked his teeth into the man's flesh, pulling back with his head and pushing away with his hands. The man screamed; his hands flailed madly about as he sought escape.

  Paul heard flesh tear, felt the hot rush of blood as it spurted out of the man's body and into his own. Then, he was leaning back, chewing, swallowing, devouring that hunk of torn-away flesh. A sense of relief washed over him as he swallowed.

  The man's screams ended in a soft, wet gurgle as he died, and Paul leaned forward to rip another strip of meat from the guy's shoulder, than another from his neck. He was drenched in blood now but as he ate, the pain in his head and gut subsided. The taste was not unpleasant, the texture not nearly as disturbing as he might have thought.

  Half the man's neck and shoulder were gone now. Over the teeth and past the gums, Paul thought, leaning back. He swallowed that last mouthful and licked his lips. A sort of peace came over him for a moment, his screaming gut finally quiet and his mind clear. He felt stronger somehow, more alive.

  Then his eyes fell on the man with the gaping neck and he began to scream. He screamed and screamed, his mind ripping apart at the thought of what he had just done. The smell of blood had filled the air and, had he been able to smell properly, it would have made him vomit. Indeed, he tried to make himself vomit, to give up those chunks of human flesh which he had greedily ripped from the man.

  Stricken, he looked crazily about for signs that anyone had heard his screams, had seen what happened. There didn't seem to be anyone else around, so maybe he'd gotten away with it. He wasn't even sure he wanted to get away with it. That one act had sent him careening over a line that no one but a monster would cross.

  Was that what he was now? A monster? Had he no humanity left in him?

  He thought for a moment. He had just committed a heinous act, had been in real danger of being found out. He should be scared – terrified, in fact – his heart racing, his lungs heaving for air. He put his hand over his heart and felt no tell-tale pounding. There was no rapid rise and fall of his chest.

  In desperation, he placed his finger over his wrist, his neck, everywhere he could think of to find a pulse that just wasn't there. His heart didn't beat; he didn't breathe.

  "Oh my God," he muttered, his gaze falling on the dead body before him. "I'm dead. Not dead…undead. I'm an undead, flesh-eating zombie monster!"

  He rested his head on the window and began to weep. There were still no tears but his body, wracked with sobs, convulsed against the door. He didn't know what to do next. How could he get rid of the body? Should he even keep driving? Surely, he couldn't present Linda with a ring and an undead zombie parody of himself. Everything had changed and he didn't know how to adjust.

  Very suddenly, he felt like everything he had tried to do was just an exercise in futility. Linda certainly couldn't love him this way. He wasn't even sure he wanted her to. He wasn't sure he wanted to live. Not that he was really alive…

  He shook his head to clear it. How to get rid of the body? Maybe the best thing now was just to drive straight to the nearest police station and turn himself in for the undead flesh-eater he was. They couldn't possibly blame him. After all, he hadn't done this to himself. And since becoming a monster hadn't been his doing, they couldn't possibly blame him for eating, for trying to survive. Could they?

  He thought to himself that none of this had been his doing and that he had no other choice but to survive. He had to survive and get to Linda. Even if she didn't want him, he had to give her the option. The dead guy in the front seat had tried to rob him – he had defended himself.

  With his mind made up to keep driving toward Linda at all costs, he slipped into the passenger side of the front seat. He would conceal the body until he reached Linda, then base all further decisions on her reaction to the situation. Yes, that was it! He would let Linda decide it all. All he had to do was get to her.

  He hefted the body over the back of the seat and let it drop onto the floor of the car with a sickening thud. The trunk's floor cover was removable and so he pushed the button that unlocked the trunk latch. As quickly as he could, he retrieved the floor cover and threw it over the dead hunk of meat in the back seat. Satisfied that he had done the best job he could of concealing the body, he climbed back into the driver's seat…and that's when he saw it.

  He caught a glimpse of himself in the rear view mirror as he slid into the seat. Leaning forward, he stared into a face that was free from those black and green blotches. His lips were full and even again, his eyes even seemed brighter. His heart still didn't beat and he wasn't breathing, but he looked more like a living human again.

  Paul tried on a smile, less rictus-like and more endearing now. Slowly, he nodded to himself and chuckled.

  "So that's it! I eat live flesh and I become more alive."

  A sudden fascinating thought occurred to him just then: If he had eaten a little flesh and had become more alive, more whole, would it not follow that eating more flesh would make him more alive?

  He felt like a scientist, studying some weird biological phenomena, at least that's what he told himself so that he could climb into the back seat and eat more of the bastard who had tried to steal his car. He ate most of the man's right hand and forearm, and then felt for a pulse. Nothing.

  Disappointed, he
consoled himself with the fact that at least he appeared more normal now, if more than a little blood spattered, and he felt stronger. He started the car and backed out of the space. As long as no one found the body in his back seat, he would be fine. The man had been less than a stellar example of humanity, so maybe he had done the world a service. Maybe he had even saved a life, killing the bastard before he could kill someone else. And that is how Paul Tremblay, son of Marge and Joe Tremblay, soon-to-be fiancé of Linda and best friend of Matt managed to cope with his current condition. Zombie-ism had been forced upon him and, with that new state of being, had come the ability to prevent crime and save lives by eating from the lower belly of society. Amen!

  CHAPTER SIX

  It wasn't until the warning light came on and the beep sounded that Paul realized he had a real problem. He was almost out of gas and in his current state – covered with blood and smelling of death – he would have a hard time getting the gas he needed. People might be able to dismiss a bit of black-and-green blotchiness, but they sure weren't going to understand a cannibalistic murder.

  The upcoming exit sported several gas stations, both large and small. Paul took the exit with the idea of dealing with his problems one at a time. First, he would clean himself up as much as possible, and then he would get his gas. He chose a small, independent station that looked as though it would have fewer customers at that hour.

  He eased into the lot, parking in the shadows at first in order to assess his condition. Since eating a bit, he felt sharper, more able to deal with things than he had over the past few hours. Though the light was bad, one look in the rear view told him that he needed a shower. He might be able to remove his hoodie and eliminate that whole mess, but his face and hands were stained red with blood – and other things – and he needed a wash.

  Paul and Matt had a favorite place to eat lunch. It was a little barbecue truck that generally parked off the intersection of 41st and 3rd. A wipe came with every meal and, since they always cleaned up in the station bathroom afterward, they tossed the wipes into the glove box for future use. To that end, Paul rooted around blindly, finally laying his hands on a cluster of them, secreted behind the breath mints and under the registration. He grabbed three and tore them open, using the dim light and the rear view to clean the blood and guts from his face.