Pariah

by Bob Fingerman

  And now, at the end of the road for humanity, Dabney was chewing on vermin jerky.

  The more things change . . .

  18

  “I don’t even know why the fuck you’re worried. Who’s gonna care? And if they did, what would they do, call the cops? Stop sweatin’ it, bro.”

  Dave had been freaking ever since the Wandering Jewess met her fate and it was getting on The Comet’s nerves, big time. Granted, her lickety-split resurrection was a tad harrowing, but shit happens, you deal. That was Eddie’s personal philosophy. If pussy wasn’t available, you made do. But if it presented itself, detours were made to be taken, even if they were skanky and gross.

  “Seriously, bro, you’re wearing me out with all your pacing around. Relax.”

  “I can’t. You killed her, dude. Then I re-killed her. How fucked up is that?”

  “No, no, no. That was fuckin’ awesome. You were just like, bam-bam-bam, workin’ her over with that fuckin’ elephant hoof.” Eddie laughed as he conjured the image. “That was awesome!”

  “It wasn’t awesome, it was disgusting. It was fuckin’ horrific.”

  “Dude, whatever. You wanna be a wet blanket, go ahead on, but don’t harsh my mellow. I thought it was the bomb, bro. For the umpty-millionth time, Dave: no one cares. No one even knows she’s missing. She was a ghost even before I ghosted her. Look, she was barely there, anyway. She was just a creepy shadow lurking in the dark.”

  Dave stopped pacing and considered Eddie’s words.

  “Listen,” Eddie continued, slapping away a mosquito, “I don’t want you to waste any more time on this. Think of it this way, she died in the service of makin’ your bro feel better, like a skeezed-out dehydrated Laura Nightingale.”

  “Florence Nightingale.”

  “Whatever. She saved a life. Two lives.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “I was ready to kill Zotz, so she saved his life, not that that’s that good of a thing, but fuck it, man, she helped me get the lead out and fuck it, it was an accident, anyway. It’s not like I meant to perish her scrawny ass. She just kinda broke is all. Dem bones, dem bones, dem dry bones . . .”

  “I’m made of tougher stuff,” Dave said.

  Eddie smiled and slapped Dave on the back. “That’s the boy. It was a ‘tragic’ mishap,” Eddie smirked, framing his face in air-quotes. “Simple as that.”

  “Well, that’s the last of it,” Karl said, staring into his empty cupboard. Not a morsel of food was left. In the last week he’d nursed each scrap in his coffers; now all he had to chew on was air. His stomach growled and he punched it hard. “Shut up,” he growled back. The kitchenette swam as his eyes teared up, hard edges wavering in lachrymosity. His knees felt flaccid but he willed himself to stay on his feet for fear if he hit the linoleum he’d never rise again. “This is so weak,” he moaned. Was there anyone he could hit up for nourishment? Even the experts at rationing were down to fumes. The end was closing in, all righty.

  He stepped out into the hall and at the top of his lungs shouted, “Tenants meeting! Tenants meeting! All convene in the hall, please! Tenants meeting!”

  What could it hurt?

  The first to answer the call was Eddie with a curt, “The fuck do you want, runt?” Dave followed Eddie into the hall, hopping as he cinched up a pair of sweatpants. It made Karl think of couples he’d known who’d pick up the phone during sex, then sound annoyed. Why’d they pick up in the first place?

  Ruth stepped onto the landing across the hall and blinked at Karl. Though he stood only five foot five-and-a-half, he still towered over Mrs. Fogelhut, the only person in the building significantly smaller than he. It was her only endearing quality. “What’s the hubbub?” she asked in her grating way.

  Joining Eddie and Dave on the fourth floor landing were Alan and Ellen, both of whom emerged from her apartment. Eddie had mentioned Ellen had shacked up with the artist. Karl’s mouth drew into a thin jealous slit. Artists always get the chicks, he thought bitterly. Then he mentally kicked himself for such a puerile thought.

  “What’s going on?” Ellen asked, looking up at Karl, who clung to the banister for balance. He felt woozy from nerves and hunger, but though he wasn’t a fan of public speaking he was even less an admirer of starvation. “Yeah, what’s up, Karl?” Alan added. The range of expressions varied from concern (Ellen), to puzzlement (Alan), to annoyance (Eddie), to indifference (Dave), and finally incomprehension (Ruth). Abe and Dabney weren’t present, but Karl felt satisfied with the brisk turnout. At least he still had his pipes. He hadn’t planned out his spiel, but he knew he should choose his words carefully. Eloquence might be the only armament in his arsenal. Feeling all the eyes burning into his fragile form he looked down, took a deep breath, and cleared his throat.

  “Get the fuck on with it,” Eddie snarled.

  “I’m hungry,” Karl peeped.

  “Oh for Christ’s sake,” Eddie spat. “Like you’re the only one jonesing for chow. Don’t be pullin’ that shit,” he said wagging a threatening finger at Karl. “Next time you call a meeting make it your funeral, you whiny little bitch.”

  “Except for the miserable mosquitoes, we’re all hungry, Mr. Stempler,” Ruth echoed, stepping back into her apartment.

  Karl hung his head, braced for the final rejections.

  “You all out?” Alan said, his face evincing the pained look of a man about to do the decent thing even though he didn’t want to. Karl nodded, shame coloring his bleached-out features. Like an ashen Rod Roddy, Alan waved the little guy over with a halfhearted, “Come on down.”

  “Not much left,” Alan said, gesturing at Ellen and his combined provisions. “But what’s ours is yours, right?” Ellen nodded. Karl’s shoulders began to heave up and down as he tried to stifle tears, but failed. He began to keen like a baby, collapsing to the hard kitchen floor with a rickety kerplop. Once a mother, always a mother, Ellen’s maternal instinct kicked in and soon she was cradling Karl’s oversize noggin in her lap, absorbing his plentiful tears with her thin cotton summer dress. Though the touch of another human being, especially a female one, was of some comfort, Karl tasted every flavor of humiliation a person could as he sobbed into Ellen’s flat stomach. Ellen joined Karl, and soon both were wailing. Alan stood there not knowing what to do, flapping his arms at his sides.

  “I, uh. I’ll make us something to eat,” he said. “Yeah, uh. That’s what I’ll do.”

  As the two entwined figures on the floor filled the air with grief, Alan arranged three small plates of melba toast, turkey jerky, and dried fruit of undetermined classification. All that remained was some uncooked pasta, a few cans of chicken broth, tomato paste, artichoke hearts, a half jar of olives with pimentos, and some stale zwieback from when Ellen’s baby had begun to teethe. That and the water jugs was all there was. Maybe they could stretch it for a week or two, but after that, hello starvation. August was just a couple of days away. Alan wasn’t about to blub like his two companions, but one tear escaped as the absolute hopelessness of their situation sank in. Autumn was his favorite season. Too bad he’d miss it.

  19

  Abe finished yet another Dick book, Time Out of Joint, and stuffed it between his scrawny thigh and the armrest of his chair. This one was less tripped-out than Three Stigmata, but still pretty wacky. In it, the main character discovers things aren’t quite as they seem. A soft drink stand replaced by a slip of paper that reads: SOFT DRINK STAND. The mundane tilted on its ear. Things spiral off in a Dickian direction from that moment on. Illusion or whatever, Abe could use a soft drink right about now. Although it was the second day of August and a faltering breeze actually paid intermittent visits, it was still hot as hell and a frosty grape Nehi would sure hit the spot. Did they even make Nehi anymore? The quick answer was that no one made anything any more, but recently. Did they make it as of days, weeks, or months before Armageddon arrived? Just the thought of a sweating twelve-ounce longneck of that carbonated purple nectar put a nostalg
ic smile on his face.

  Abe inched his chair a bit closer to the open window and leaned out, watching the throng.

  “I’m sick of this show,” he grumbled. “Don’t they ever show anything but reruns? How’s about another NASCAR smash-up? Do something new, you cabbage-heads! Anything!”

  As Abe’s shouting grew louder a handful of the undead lackadaisically raised their heads and looked up. A noseless one moaned as it made eye contact with Abe, but there was no further reaction. Abe snatched the paperback from where it was nestled and hurled it out the window, beaning the one missing its schnoz.

  “How ya like them apples?” Abe bellowed, then winced as he realized he’d pitched Zotz’s book. “Ah, shit.” End times or not, Abe figured it was a crappy thing to not return something he’d borrowed. “Ah, fuggit,” Abe mumbled, chuckling at the word. “Here’s to you, Norman,” he said, standing up and unzipping his fly. A deep amber stream of piss scorched its way out as Abe grimaced and pivoted his creaky hips side to side, raining on as many of those undead piles of pus as possible. “Fug all you fugging sons of bitches!” As the last stinging droplet leaked from his urethra, Abe’s eyes went wide, and not from the stinging. Something very odd was unfolding below, and this time it wasn’t some murky nighttime phantasm. This was happening in broad daylight.

  From the south a tiny figure cut north through the multitude, parting it as Moses had the Red Sea. As the lone figure moved forward the undead closed ranks behind it, sealing the temporary divide. Was this some machete-wielding maniac on a death trip? If so, how’d he last this long? Body armor? What? Abe squinted and fished his smudgy glasses out of his breast pocket. The figure was a block south, still too small to make out, but even from here it was obvious that no violence was occurring. This individual brandished no weapon. He just seemed to be strolling through the crowd, unmolested. Maybe this was some mirage. It was broiling hot, as per. Abe took off his glasses and wiped them as clean as possible.

  The figure made slow progress, but this was happening. This was no delusion.

  “Hey! Hey! Hey!” Abe shouted. “Hey, up here!”

  No reaction.

  Abe kept shouting, loud as he could. Still the figure forged ahead, but never looked up. With all his shouting, where was Ruth? Ignoring him, most likely, convinced he was the old man who cried wolf. Fug her. Abe tried hollering a few more times without luck. He tried to move but was petrified by the sheer anomalousness of what was happening. The figure was now half a block south and Abe still couldn’t make out its gender or age. The zombies pulled back from it, some letting out foul noises of displeasure. The figure seemed completely unperturbed, walking placid as a Zen monk.

  “Hey! Hey! Hey!” Abe shouted again. “Hey, up here! Please!”

  As the figure neared their building, Abe could see it was a woman. No. Not a woman, a girl, maybe in her teens. From the fifth floor it was hard to tell, but she was young, that much he could see, and dressed in black even in this heat—a black tank top, at any rate. He could only see her from the waist up, the cabbage-heads blocking his view somewhat. He had to tell the others but as she came fully into focus, Abe’s mouth dried up and stopped working. With Herculean effort, Abe uprooted himself to leave the room. He staggered into the kitchen and took a swig from the water bottle. Mouth lubricated, he ventured into the hall and after a few inaudible croaks managed to yell, “Help! Help! Help! Everyone come quick! Help!”

  Once again Eddie was the first to answer the call. Since he’d not been interrupted midthrust, he was only slightly hostile. “What the fuck’s all the noise, old man?”

  “There’s a person outside!”

  “Another maniac pullin’ a Dale Earnhardt? I woulda heard that.”

  “You missed it last time. Anyway, no! A girl. Just a person! No car!”

  “Yeah, right.”

  Karl stepped onto the landing as Abe repeated his last thought. “What?” Karl stammered. “What person? What’re you talking about?”

  Ellen and Alan joined the others, as did Dave. Ruth was a no-show.

  “For the love of Mike, come to my apartment, quick! She’s out there! Quick!”

  “It’s a woman?” Karl asked, dazed.

  “Whattaya mean ‘Mike’? Mike is dead, old man,” Eddie said. “He’s out there walkin’ around? Hey, Matlock, Mike was a heap of bones and gristle last I heard.” Looking over at Ellen, Eddie added an insincere, “No offense.”

  “It’s a figure of speech,” Abe shouted. “Anyway, just look out the windows!”

  “This is bullshit. Grandpa Munster’s popped his cork.”

  “Listen, you pea-brained gorilla, I saw what I saw and if you don’t believe me, fine! Go chase yourself! But everyone else please, please, please come see!”

  “If you weren’t so old . . . ,” Eddie began, but all ignored his half uttered half threat and followed Abe into his apartment. When they crowded around the two front windows all was normal, just the usual Undead Sea. Abe poked his head out and looked up and down the avenue. Nothing. Ruth shuffled in and groaned in exasperation.

  “It’s bad enough you drag me into your lunacy,” she lamented, “but the others? Leave them alone, Abraham.”

  “Did I imagine that car? Was that just some phantom hallucination? No, it wasn’t, was it?” Abe twitched with emotion. He’d seen her! She was there moments ago. “You were all too slow,” he grumbled. “She was there, I swear it! She was there. She must’ve gone inside someplace.”

  The others stayed by the windows for a few more minutes, then began to file out of the Fogelhut’s apartment. Alan gave Abe’s shoulder a squeeze and said, “It’s okay, Abe. No harm, no foul.”

  “Fuck you, ‘no harm, no foul.’ Don’t you condescend to me. I saw what I saw and if you had any brains you’d help me draw her attention. Maybe she was deaf, because I raised a ruckus and she didn’t even notice. She was cutting through that crowd down there like a shark. It was like a zipper opening and closing, the way they got out of her way then closed ranks after she passed. I’m telling you, it happened.”

  “Okay, I believe you.” Alan turned to Ellen, who hovered by the door near a mortified Ruth, and said, “I’ll be down in a few. I just want to give Abe the benefit of the doubt.”

  “Again with the patronizing,” Abe groused. “Fine, whatever. Let those putzes do as they will. Show some sense and give your benefit of the doubt.” The last sentiment came out curdled, but Alan didn’t mind. Each manned a window and watched the street. Ruth shuffled back into the bedroom and closed the door, fed up with Abe’s figments. After about fifteen minutes Abe himself began to doubt what he’d seen. He mopped his sweaty brow with a heinously discolored hankie, his features collapsing in sorrow and embarrassment.

  “Maybe I am losing my marbles,” he said in a hushed tone.

  “Who isn’t?” Alan allowed, hoping it didn’t sound condescending.

  Alan stepped away from the window and as if on cue the girl emerged from Food City, a shopping bag in each hand, which she placed on the ground to adjust something in her ears. Headphones! She was wearing headphones!

  “There! There!” Abe shrieked, spinning Alan around. Alan’s jaw nearly hit the floor. As the girl stood before the supermarket, the undead backed away, moaning and hissing. They gave a wide berth and she stepped into the street, aimed south. Abe sputtered, “She can’t hear ’cause she’s got one of those Walkman thingies!”

  Alan tore out of the apartment and into the hall. He ran down to four and pounded each door, all the while shouting, “Abe’s right! Get down to the second floor, Abe’s right!”

  Others rapidly joined Alan in vacant 2A, Abe kvetching, “Sure, him they believe.”

  Everyone crowded by the windows screaming at the tops of their lungs as the figure, now patently obviously a young woman, began to head south.

  “We can’t let her get away,” Ellen squeaked.

  Redoubling their efforts they shrieked raw-throated, over and over, “Help us! Help us
! Help us!”

  With her back turned away from 1620, the girl stopped and plucked an earbud out, head cocked like a dog hearing an unfamiliar noise. Seizing the moment they upped their clamor, shrieking, “We’re here! We’re here! We’re here!” like a nightmare version of the wee folk in Horton Hears a Who. The girl looked this way and that, but didn’t turn around. As she was about to replace the earbud she turned and saw them. She saw them! With their hearts almost escaping their chests, everyone let out a collective gasp, then began waving their arms in a frenzy. As the girl walked toward the building the zombies all recoiled from her, their noises of reproof stomach turning. The girl moved leisurely, like she didn’t have a care in the world. Now that they’d gotten her attention they watched her approach in silent awe. Without a doubt this was the most extraordinary thing any of them had ever seen. Ever.

  When she was right below them, the zombies spread out around her, she the pupil, the exposed street the sclera of the eye she’d opened in the crowd. She looked straight at them and plucked both buds out of her ears. Even through the low din of zombie protestations they could hear the tinny ratta-tat-tat of loud percussive music piping from the tiny speakers of her headphones.

  “What’s up?” she asked in the tone of someone just running into an old acquaintance. Her nonchalance turned every person by the windows into one big goose bump, hairs rising on necks and arms, Adam’s apples bobbing in quandary. Maybe Abe’s derangement had affected them all, because no one in this world or the next had ever displayed such placidity, least of all in a circumstance like this.

  Not even Jesus.

  “We need your help,” Ellen managed, forcing out each word like a fist-sized chunk.

  “Uh-huh. Okay.” Big pause. The girl stuck a finger in her ear and jiggled it. “Whattaya want?”