Zombie - A Love Story

by Patricia Lee Macomber

  The phone rang three times before a sleepy voice came on the line with a perfunctory, "Hello?" Matt then launched into a coughing fit, which culminated in a heavy moan.

  "Oh, dear! You're not sick too, are you?"

  "Linda? Oh my God! Linda!" Matt sounded like a man who had been trekking across the desert and had just been confronted with a priest bearing water.

  "Matt. I'm sorry to call so early . . . wait . . . it's three hours later there. What are you still doing in bed?"

  "It was a late night last night." He sneezed, coughed twice. His voice had that deep husky sort of tone that one might get from a night of debauchery.

  "Listen, I called because I haven't heard from Paul. I've called him and mailed him. But I don't get any answer." There was a prolonged silence while Linda tried to get a grip on her rampant emotions. "I'm scared."

  "Linda, listen . . ." He broke off, trying to find a good clear voice to tell her what he needed her to know. "Paul has a few problems just now. And I don't mean that like in the bullshit way a guy has of breaking up with a girl. He has real problems. He's in trouble."

  "Trouble? Paul?" She shivered and choked. "What sort of trouble, Matt?"

  Matt sighed and lit a cigarette. "Paul would kill me if he knew I was telling you this. Some cops came to see me last night. They said that they found our car at a SuperMart somewhere in CrapSplat Kansas. There was a dead guy in the back seat and the car was covered in blood. They don't know whose blood. Anyway, Paul was nowhere to be found and they're looking for him all over the place." He listened as Linda fell apart and decided not to tell her that the body had been partially eaten.

  Linda wailed and screamed, her tears washing over her face, soaking the sheets that she had clutched around herself. Cold didn't just seep into her, it slammed into her, nearly making her pass out. "How . . .?"

  "Listen, we don't know what happened. But we know Paul. And Paul is no killer. So, we have to assume that somebody attacked Paul . . ." and he heard her tumble into insanity again. He waited for the return trip. "Somebody probably attacked him and whoever that dead guy was. And Paul probably ran off. We don't know. We just don't know."

  "Matt, what if . . .?" She couldn't say the rest. As long as those words went unspoken, everything would be all right.

  "Like I said, we have no idea what happened. But Paul's like a brother to me and whatever happened, I'm going to be his friend. I'm going to hope for the best. And I'm damn sure not going to believe that he's dead until they show me a corpse."

  And Linda collapsed once more in a fit of tears, beating the bed, tearing at the covers until she thought they would rip apart like her mind had done. When at last she had recovered enough to speak, she sniffed loudly every few words. "You're right, of course. Paul would never do anything to hurt anyone. He must have escaped. Someone attacked him and that dead guy, and Paul managed to escape. And as soon as he can get himself sorted out, he'll call one of us. Let me know right away if you hear from him, okay? And I'll do the same."

  "Of course. You know I'll call you right away." He swallowed hard and tried to think of something reassuring to say to her. "Hey, this will all get fixed, ya know? But listen, the cops are probably going to pay you a visit, too. Paul was on his way to your place when this happened. If there's any way in hell he can pull it off, he's going to make it there, too. So, watch your back and keep an eye out for Paul."

  "Yea, Matt. You too. And thank you."

  "For what?"

  "For being such a good friend to Paul. And for being honest with me. I appreciate that."

  "No problem, Linda. Later."

  She clicked off the phone and only then did she realize that her tears had all dried. That one fact made her throw herself to the bed and start crying all over again.

  Milligan was just hanging up the phone when Starnes came in. He clutched in his hands a small stack of papers and sported a smile.

  "Hey, Milligan, we got the lab reports back from that car they found in Kansas." He tossed the stack of faxes on Milligan's desk and dropped into a chair.

  Milligan picked up the papers, frowning as he scanned them. "So, the blood all belongs to our vic and the fingerprints in the blood match our missing car-owner."

  "Yep. What do you suppose happened to the guy? Do you think he killed his pal there? Or was there a third guy and this dude just managed to get away from him?"

  Milligan rocked slowly in his chair and thought for a moment. "Well, by all accounts, this Paul Tremblay was a pretty rock-solid guy. Had a steady job with the city, never late, never missed a day. He pays his bills on time, never had any trouble with the law. Hell, he's never even had a speeding ticket."

  "So, what do you think happened, then?"

  "Well, the way I see it, Paul Tremblay was on his way to Cali to see his girlfriend. And he stopped at this SuperMart to get some coffee or something and that's when the killer shows up. Now, I'm not sure whether the killer put the dead guy in the car or whether he killed him in there, but it looks to me like the guy was slaughtered right there in the back seat. Or . . ."

  "Yea? Or what?"

  "Or, the dead guy tried to jack Paul's car and Paul killed him by accident. But that doesn't explain why part of the body was eaten. Paul Tremblay's no flesh-eater, that's for sure."

  "Then who?"

  The cell phone on Milligan's desk rang then, and he reached for it, checked the number but didn't answer. "I dunno. And we won't have any answers until we talk to Paul Tremblay. God knows where he is now. Maybe the killer dragged him off and he's either dead now or . . . worse."

  "I wonder who the corpse is." Starnes chewed absently at his nails, a habit he had fought against since he was a child.

  "Not sure. The boys in Kansas had to send the body to Topeka to be properly autopsied. We'll have to wait to get the results. And in the meantime, we need to talk to this Linda. She's all over Paul's cell phone and according to his best buddy – who may or may not be the most stoned person I've ever met – Paul intended to marry the girl. If anybody knows where Paul is, it's her."

  CHAPTER NINE

  Paul peeked out the crack of the door once more. The sun had fully set and darkness had gobbled up most of the town around him. Most, because there was a huge arc-sodium lamp that lit up a basketball court across the street and down two blocks. Save for that one patch of near-daylight, the town was obliterated.

  He shuffled back to the kitchen then, intent on grabbing the rat from under the pot and gaining some strength and mental agility to boot. His pockets were filled with useful things: sticky notes, a pen, a pocket knife, the flashlight. As much as he hated to admit it, he was a fully-prepared car thief.

  The rat was still bouncing around beneath the pot, trying to find some chink in its armor and make an escape. Paul knew that the thing would bolt the minute he lifted the pot, so he simply slid the pot to the edge until there was enough of a gap for the rat to drop into his waiting hand.

  He stuck the poor thing's head into his mouth and bit down hard. For a dead guy, he had some seriously good teeth. The rat was devoured in a matter of two minutes, and Paul was cleaning his hands on a filthy rag that he supposed used to be a dish towel.

  He had no idea how far he had to walk, but as he stepped outside, he felt strong and capable. Thoughts flew through his mind then, as he figured out how to accomplish his goal.

  Even at nine, there was hardly anyone around to see him. The steady thump of the basketball down the street had silenced some fifteen minutes ago and so Paul was all alone with the tiny dark town. He assumed that he should walk west, the same direction he had been headed before he'd stopped at the SuperMart. He had never been any good at directions. If his car hadn't had a GPS, he'd never have gotten anywhere.

  He mourned the loss of the car; felt bad for the sacrifice that Matt had unknowingly made. In a long list of regrets and debts, Matt was at the top. Paul put one foot in front of the other and plodded along.

  He had been walking for over a
n hour, watching as the buildings thinned out, as the traffic slowed to a trickle and then disappeared altogether. Now, subdivisions sprawled out before him, little dots of light marking each house, each family, each happy life. Paul wondered if he would ever have a happy, safe life again. And he walked.

  An hour later found him in the farmland of his dreams. These were small farms, no sprawling corporate entities yet. Privately owned farms meant privately owned equipment. Surely he would find a battered but usable truck somewhere in this agricultural wonderland. His head had become fuzzy again and his legs seemed heavier than when he had started out. His rat was wearing off, he guessed.

  The air out there smelled different. It was cleaner and fresher, though there was a back-scent of manure and pesticides. Paul didn't breathe anymore. But through some cruel twist of fate, he could still sense smells. His body had become some sort of bio-mechanical robot, thinking and moving under its own power, but weakened and hard to manipulate.

  He heard a sound then, and he stopped in his tracks. All the human residents might have been asleep, but there were still a few pigs on the prowl. At once, Paul's stomach lurched and knotted. The rat he had eaten two hours ago didn't seem to have stuck around long. He wondered, then, what happened to the rat that he had put inside his rotting body. He didn't seem to have any form of digestive system. Had it just dissolved somehow? Would its bones stay in there or be passed out of his body in some manner? These thoughts disturbed him and he grimaced, clutched at his stomach.

  The pigs snorted and rooted. They made stamping sounds in the mud. Paul followed the sound until he found them, happy in their little pen at the very farthest side of the property. The farmhouse was some two hundred yards away. Paul squatted behind a copse of trees and watched the pigs, wondering. He remembered seeing one of those CSI type shows once where they used pigs to demonstrate and test different chemicals and weapons. They said that the pig and its flesh were most like that of a human.

  If nothing else, the pig must surely give him more bang for his buck than a stupid rat. Since the tragedy that had befallen him, he had put together something of a hypothesis. Human meat repaired his body quicker, helped it stay healed longer. The fresher the meat, the longer it lasted. It was like doing drugs, he mused. The better the dope, the better the high. He eyed the pigs, conjuring images of the greased pig races from the county fairs. He also remembered that pigs were vicious and could kill a man. He would have to be careful.

  As quietly as he could, he crept to the edge of the pen and climbed onto the top railing of the enclosure. There were about a dozen pigs in the pen that night, two of them quite small. He doubted that he could take on a full-grown pig on his best day – and this sure wasn't his best day. So, he selected the smallest of all the pigs, and he waited.

  It didn't take long before the rutting, mud-covered little pig worked its way around to where Paul sat. As it came directly in line with him, he leaped, landing on the pig and scaring it into a squealing fit. It tried to pry itself loose from his grasp, dug in its cloven feet, and tried to squirm away. The pig was much stronger than Paul had anticipated, and a lot more slippery. Twice, he nearly lost his grip on it, the bottom half of his body sliding into the mud and his feet scrambling for purchase.

  But then he dug his teeth into the soft, meaty flesh right behind the pig's ear. Blood spurted – much more than he had counted on – and a piece of flesh tore away from the pig. He swallowed it without chewing, panicking briefly as the hunk of meat lodged in his throat. Several gulping swallows later, it went down.

  Another bite and another. It seemed like such a waste to kill a pig and only eat a few bites. And when he could eat no more, Paul pulled out the pocket knife and began to cut long strips of flesh from it. These he stuffed into his pockets, having no other way to carry them. All the other pigs had run off to the corner farthest from Paul and were eying him with something akin to a homicidal glare. Paul climbed out of the pen, wiped the knife on his pants, and put it away.

  There was a large barn some fifty feet from the pig pen, and a smaller one just behind that. Paul made his way through the darkness, keeping to the edge of the trees so he could make a fast escape if he needed to. When he reached the smaller of the two barns, he found it unlocked and so he was able to slip inside unseen.

  Just as he had hoped, there were two trucks inside that barn. The first was large and new-looking. The second was a good deal older and war-weary. It appeared to be from the early 80s and was pocked with rust and dents. Paul chose that one, since its owner would be less likely to report it stolen. At least, he wouldn't rush to report it stolen. Paul checked the door, found it unlocked, and climbed inside.

  It didn't take him five minutes to strip the wires and connect them. These older vehicles didn't have security features the way the newer ones did. The engine choked to life and the gauges all came on. Paul smiled and went to open the barn door so he could drive through.

  "Milligan here," the detective sighed into the phone.

  "This is Davis, over in Lebanon, Kansas. Listen, we got that autopsy back."

  Milligan sat up straighter in his chair and smiled. "Give it to me straight, pal. Don't hold back."

  "Well, the vic is one Dana Manning. He's from Chicago originally, but he's been drifting in years past. As far back as age eleven, the kid has been in trouble with the law. He did a stint in the Illinois prison system for armed robbery, then slipped into carjacking. He's got a rap sheet as long as my arm. According to the coroner, the guy was killed when somebody ripped out his carotid artery . . . with their teeth. Apparently, this kid Tremblay has perfect teeth because he's never been to the dentist. So, we don't know if he's the eater or not."

  "I'm guessing not. It's just doesn't fit. By all accounts, this guy is squeaky clean."

  "I agree. The fingerprints we got off the car match this Manning guy and Tremblay. There are a couple from the other owner, Matt Cassidy."

  "Cassidy's alibis all check out. There's no way he was in Kansas when the murder was committed. Besides, he's too stupid to pull it all off."

  Davis laughed, perhaps a bit too long. "What about that phone I sent you? You come up with any other prospects who might tell us where our boy, Paul, is?"

  "Just one. Apparently, he has a girlfriend on the west coast. Probably one of those online romances, you know. I wouldn't make too much of it. Still, his emails and text messages say that he's heading her way. Somebody needs to talk to her and find out what she knows."

  "If old Paul does show up, it's going to be at her house. Yeah." Davis was quiet for a moment, then he chuckled. "Well, I guess I'm going to Californ-eye-ay."

  "Want some company?" Milligan was smiling. He licked his lips.

  "Well, I don't mind telling you, I'm in over my head with this one. Bring the phone with you and we'll go see what we can see."

  "Yes."

  Milligan hung up the phone and then started doing the paperwork and making his travel arrangements. His best friend and old Army buddy, Clint, lived in Los Feliz. With a little luck, they could wrap the case and still have enough time before his flight out that he could spend a little quality (bar) time with old Clint.

  It occurred to Paul as he drove along in the battered truck that if things had turned out just a little differently for him, he might have made a great criminal. He had stopped at a rest stop some fifty miles ago and exchanged license plates with another truck, whose owner had gone into the rest room. There was no way to disguise himself, but he could trick the cops into ignoring the truck. To that end, he also removed all the logos from the body of the truck, exchanging the front and back one with the truck he had taken the plates from. The Chevy C-10 was now a Ford, for all intents and purposes. Paul smiled, pleased with his cleverness.

  The tank had been nearly full when he'd stolen it, but that old truck ate up gas at a frightening rate. Four hours later, Paul was pulling into a small independent gas station. It had automated pumps and so he wouldn't have to go inside, som
ething he considered to be a plus. He gassed the truck and was nearly done filling the tank when another car pulled in on the other side of the pumps. A single man stepped out of it, his face haggard from a night of driving and his head completely bald. The car he drove was a nice new Camry, and he didn't lock it when he went inside.

  "In for a penny, in for a pound," Paul sighed.

  He put the nozzle back on the pump and opened the truck's door. Then he simply leaned over, grabbed the GPS off the dashboard of the Camry, and drove away. The truck blasted a few clouds of gray smoke as he went, but it accelerated nicely and was around the corner before the guy came out of the station.

  Paul drove as far as the next rest stop, and then he drove two miles farther. There was a dirt road which wound its way back into the woods for some distance and Paul turned left onto it. He backed the truck up into a stand of small trees and cut the engine. He didn't want anybody to see the truck sitting by the side of the road but he had work to do.

  The pig that Paul had eaten had filled him nicely and – even five hours later – was still keeping him vital. Meanwhile, the rest of the pig meat he had stolen was going stale on the seat next to him. Even that wouldn't last him forever. So, Paul began to make notes. On one sticky note, he wrote, GOING TO LINDA'S in LA. On another, he wrote, YOU ARE WANTED FOR MURDER. Still another read, AVOID THE COPS. And so it went. Every single thing that was important for him to remember was written on a sticky note and pasted on the dashboard of the car. He included instructions on the hot wiring, phone numbers, addresses, and the whereabouts of the ring he had bought for Linda.

  When he was sure that absolutely everything of importance was posted somewhere on the truck, he drove back onto the main highway and kicked the truck up to seventy. It shuddered but complied. Kansas was behind him.

  The plane touched down in LAX at ten. By eleven, Milligan was zooming along the freeway, his rented car trapped in the fast-flowing sea of traffic. The GPS would guide him to the police department, where Davis had told him to go. Davis had beaten him there by several hours and the plan was that they – together with the LA detective in charge – would go to Linda's house to interview her. Milligan was already growing weary of the traffic and smog by the time he pulled into the parking lot of the LA precinct. He didn't understand how his buddy, Clint, could stand living here.