“I’m taking you into my confidence, Mike. I’m serious, no fucking around.”
“Okay.”
“Seriously, Mike. This is life or death stuff here.”
“I know, I know. This is super serious.”
“This isn’t just fortification, Mike. We’re sealing ourselves into our crypt. The cavalry isn’t coming for us.”
“Sure they are.”
Alan looked deep into Mike’s worried, wearied, eyes. People with kids had to think positive. “No, Mike, they’re not. This is it.”
“You artistic types are so gloom and doom,” Mike said without judgment. “I don’t roll like that. It’s a disaster, granted, but people rally. Maybe we batten down the hatches and wait, but—”
“Fine, Mike, cling to your illusion, but,” and here Alan lowered the volume to a barely audible whisper, “I’ve got plenty of supplies. Tammy and I bought a buttload.”
“Yeah, Ellen mentioned you were stocked up.”
“Not so loud,” Alan hissed. “I don’t want to become the Sally Struthers to 1620’s starving children. I’m offering—so long as we keep it on the QT—you and Ellen some of my stuff. Water, canned goods, whatever. You’ve got a kid to feed. But it’s between us. I don’t want the others to know. I can’t feed everyone.”
Conspiratorial, Mike nodded and then threw his arms around Alan, his voice cracking. “We’re fucked, aren’t we?” He began to sob and Alan, ensnared by the other man’s limbs, mourned the death of Mike’s optimism. He thought about his last exchange with his mother—and it was a last exchange, with her Luddite tendencies and shunning computers and the Internet even when Alan had offered both so she could be more connected. She of the landline and rotary kitchen phone. There’s one sound no child ever wants to hear and that’s the sound of a frightened parent. His mother’s final words to him, choked and perforated by little intakes of air, trying so hard not to cry, to be strong for her boy, were, “I’m all out of turkey. I’m almost out of food and I’m afraid.”
I’m afraid.
Those two words made it all real for Alan. Not the news. Not the panic on the street. Alan wanted to comfort her but it was impossible. He couldn’t get to her. A lifelong mama’s boy and he was trapped, travel between boroughs prohibited. In that moment his insides turned to liquid.
“Mom,” he’d begun.
The line went wild, wailed electronically, died.
He’d held the receiver like it was a totem imbued with the essence of his mother. It had held her voice, a voice he’d never hear again. Why hadn’t he gone to her at the onset? Or brought her here? Because he’d been dumb enough to think this would pass, too. He didn’t recradle the handset. He just held it and stared at it.
The thought of his mom, alone and terrified.
His mom, the rock. The tough lady.
Yeah, Alan thought now, eyes stinging and wet, we are so fucked.
AUGUST, NOW
Karl and Dabney lay on the tarp, the rock pile untouched. Both were admiring the crowd below, awaiting the return of Mona, both psyched to see her do her Moses thang. Between them were a couple of empty cans, one from cling peach slices in light syrup, and the other string beans. Both men were happy and felt a sort of father-and-son companionability. Dabney rolled onto his side and belched, the gassy reflux sweetened by the aftertaste of peaches. In direct response, Karl let out a melodious fart and both men laughed. Their spirits were fine and low comedy wasn’t beneath them.
“Did you like Blazing Saddles?” Karl asked.
“Why, ’cause it had a black sheriff?”
“No, because it had farting. That scene by the campfire, all those cowboys eating beans and letting off.”
“Oh, yeah. That.” Dabney chuckled, feeling foolish for having thought this was some well-intentioned attempt at ebony and ivory racial bonding. But this was nothing to do with the late, great, Cleavon Little. It just had to do with passing gas, something everyone could enjoy, race immaterial. Why was he feeling so stuck on race? The only races that mattered now were humans versus zombies. Skin color was passé.
But he still wondered how it would be if his van had made it home.
He lived in a project, a honeycomb of ten thirteen and fourteen story buildings. All manner of mayhem likely went down there. Even when things were normal it was no great pleasure. Project rats—the human kind, not the rodent kind—whose idea of fun was pissing and setting small fires in the elevators and stairwells. Graffiti. Litter. Noise on top of noise. Every time his wife went out after hours he was nervous that she might not come home or would get molested or what have you—no matter how many times she assured him that other men didn’t lust for her the way he did.
Dabney reached over and ruffled Karl’s hair.
“What’d you do that for?” Karl asked, his face suddenly confused.
“Never ruffled a white boy’s hair before.”
“You’re not getting all funny on me now, are you, Dabney?”
Dabney laughed. “Not if you and I were the last two folks on Earth, son. I’m just missing my own boys and they didn’t exactly have the kind of hair you could ruffle. I figured I’d see what a white daddy might feel. Greasy, but not so bad.”
“You had sons?”
“Two, plus a girl. Both boys grown, left home. I like to think maybe Johnny, my eldest, might be alive—he left the city. A while before my van crashed I spoke to my youngest, my girl, on my cell phone one last time before the signal went dead. Like everything else.” Silence hung between the two men, neither articulating the thought that Dabney’s offspring were likely dead, too. “Yeah, well. At any rate, I hope that Mona comes back soon.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“Is she back yet?”
At Ruth’s grating query Abe shuddered to wakefulness, slapping a fly off his nose. He’d dozed off, the constant ache of hunger no longer there to keep him vigilant. Just like the good old days, after a thick pastrami and tongue sandwich from Second Avenue Deli, he’d grown slumberous on a full belly.
“You were sleeping?” Ruth’s voice rose, her tone accusatory. “Ucch, Abraham, you’re given one simple task, to keep an eye out for our fairy goddaughter, and you botch it.”
“It’s not like I fell asleep on purpose!” He lifted himself off the chair, glissandi of pins and needles strafing his quaking legs, and hobbled off to pee in the bucket in defiance of his prostate. “If she came back she’d have said something. I would have heard. What, I’m the only one around here who can keep a lookout? If she came back she’d call up, wouldn’t she? Hah?”
“Who knows? She’s an odd girl. And don’t go putting the blame on everyone else. You volunteered to keep an eye out for her.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever.” Abe shook off the last few burning droplets and zipped up, wishing he’d asked Mona to pick up some Flomax; maybe next time, if there was one. He maintained his ornery posture but he knew he’d screwed up. He’d admit it to almost anyone but Ruth; she took too much pleasure in seeing him fail. How long had she been watching him slumber? It would be just like her to watch him rather than the street below, just to needle him for having blown his responsibility.
“No, not ‘whatever.’ You had an important task. Maybe a younger person should do it. I thought you were at least capable of doing a job that involved basically sitting around doing almost nothing, but apparently nothing is the only part of that you’re actually qualified for any more.” Her voice lanced through his ears, sharp, pointy, shrill.
Abe exited the bathroom with the sloshing bucket and fought the urge to empty its contents on his fishwife’s head. With all the dignity he could muster he padded by across the moth-eaten Oriental rug and tossed his amber-colored, slightly acid discharge out the front window. In his heart he hoped this act would elicit the stock slapstick cliché: that Mona would be down there, full shopping cart before her, wiping Abe’s piddle from her face. It’s not like he wanted to douse the poor girl, but his tossing the piss seemed
the perfect setup for her return. But no mwah-wah-wah comedy trumpet trill moment was in the offing. The liquid splashed the mindless shufflers and that was that. The last vestiges of light faded, darkness returned, Mona didn’t.
“This is not good,” Abe muttered as he lit a candle. “This is not good at all.”
“So where is she?” Ruth said, her voice small.
“Like I know. Like suddenly I’m the Amazing Kreskin.” Abe looked at Ruth’s face. Even in the shadows it was obvious she was more than upset. She wasn’t hollering and screeching and fussing and nagging. She was silent. Abe shuffled over to her and held her, pressing her balding noggin against himself. It would be too cruel if Mona didn’t come back, but life was nothing if not immeasurably cruel. He patted his wife’s back gently and tried to make his assurances sound heartfelt. Even if Mona didn’t come back, the coffers were well stocked. They’d last a few more weeks. He kept petting Ruth, hoping the tears leaking out of his eyes wouldn’t drip on her. Then the jig would be up.
“I can’t believe that spooky little bitch ditched,” Eddie said to the top of Dave’s head. Dave was busy, so he didn’t reply one way or the other. But Eddie didn’t need confirmation. He could totally believe it. Why the fuck would anyone voluntarily stay with a bunch of losers like the ones in this building? Eddie yearned for being someplace else. There had to be other survivors, somewhere. Pockets of tough motherfuckers holed up, giving the zombies what for—real men with guns and weapons. That totally sucked about this bunch. No weapons. Sure, some kitchen knives, even a couple of professional-grade meat cleavers, but no guns. If Eddie’d stayed in Bensonhurst he’d have access to plenty of guns, but here on the Upper East Side? Please.
What had he been thinking moving up here?
Okay, so he’d enjoyed the bar scene on York Avenue. He’d nailed a lot of slim high-maintenance Jewesses on his innumerable pub crawls and contrary to stereotype, those women sure knew how to give head. Eddie had thought Italian chicks like the ones in his old neighborhood were proficient, but they were rank amateurs compared to the JAPs he’d scored with ’round these parts.
In Brooklyn, fellatio was merely a Catholic stalling act to keep the cherry intact until the wedding day. How many girls had kept Eddie out of their cootchies by offering up auxiliary inputs? That was a laugh. Eddie thought about all those girls lined up trying to get into Heaven now. Saint Peter would be all like, “What? You safeguarded the ’gina but let ’em do what in your what? Sin is sin, Sweetcakes. Scram!” In cars, attics and basements, in stairwells and on rooftops, in all the clandestine locales available to him in his youth he’d done everything but get in the front bottom. He’d lost his own cherry, so to speak, at fifteen to a twelve-year-old she-devil named Roxanne who sat in her bedroom window and smoked menthols and taunted and teased all the neighborhood boys. Eddie thought she’d singled him out for her affections, but it turned out she’d blown every kid on the block, and some from not on the block, and some from Borough Park, and some from Bath Beach, and some from as far as Bay Ridge. And some who weren’t even so young, like her uncles and cousins.
And so Eddie formed the opinion that maybe the fairer sex were all whores, like his pops implied in a not-so-subtle fashion when addressing Eddie’s mother as such. Eddie’s mother was such a flirt it was easy to see why his pops drank and on occasion showed her the back of his hand. She didn’t fight back much, maybe a little harsh language, but she knew she was guilty of whatever and besides, why screw up a good thing? She had a nice house and a nice car. Eddie’s sister Patty, though. She was a tramp, no doubt.
So anyway, here he was, in a faggy neighborhood, bereft of cunt, getting a blowjob from his former Ice Knights teammate. Go Rutgers. Eddie rolled his eyes impatiently. Dave was getting all fancy, licking it like a lollypop and fiddling with the balls. Eddie just wanted to bust a nut and go to sleep, but whatever. Dave had gone full-bore homo and there was nothing to do about it. The facts were the facts. Look at Dave’s lack of interest in the spooky little shorty who’d shown up and brought home the groceries. And Dave harshing on him for wanting to tap that ass? You’d think Dave would want to give his a break. Whatever. The little chick was probably never coming back anyway, so Eddie would make do.
But he wished Dave would just hurry the fuck up.
23
Three in the morning, give or take. Moans of brain-dead protest accompanied by regular knifelike squeaks of a trolley wheel in need of a spritz of WD-40. The squeaks increasing in pitch and loudness, and then silenced. The inhuman groaning continues, growing in fervor. The strike of a match, the smell of sulfur followed by paraffin, and then barely audible bare-footfalls creeping across bare floorboards.
Alan slid the front window open the whole way and looked down at York. Standing in the center of the aperture of the crowd of spread-out zombies stood Mona, looking up at the building, nodding her head in time with whatever tune she was mainlining. Alan just looked down at her for a moment, waiting for her to call out and announce her return. But she didn’t. She just stood there leaning her forearms on the push bar of the extra-large shopping cart she’d liberated from wherever, the cart overstuffed with swag.
The crowd was well illuminated, Mona having affixed a high intensity dual-beam LED flashlight to the front of her cart. In the shockingly bright, cool white light, the faces of the undead looked especially ghastly. Every deformity, every laceration, every cluster of rot underscored by deep dramatic shadows, like the ultimate campfire ghost-story teller. During the day the zombies kind of blended into an undifferentiated mass, but now, lit up in the dark, deep black shadows separating them like bold outlines in a woodcut, each one boasted a uniquely disturbing visage.
Alan fought the urge to grab a pencil and begin sketching, but he studied these specimens, making mental notes. One in particular caught his eye, a female with its head dangling backwards from some hideous past injury. Its deadened eyes stared up at him—or at least in his general direction—and Alan found himself craning his head upside down to make out the face.
Gerri!
“Holy shit,” Alan gasped. He’d wondered where she’d gotten off to and here was his answer. When did this happen? Before he could get dizzy he righted the angle of his head and looked again at Mona. Finally she glanced up and saw him in the window and gave a minimal wave. Alan gestured for her to stay put, then scampered into the bedroom and roused Ellen with an urgent whisper-hissed, “Mona’s back!”
Ellen lay there for a second or two, then sprang up like a jack-in-the-box.
“What?”
“Mona. She’s downstairs. We gotta help her unload the cart and get her back inside.”
Ellen bolted off the bed, stark naked, and made to get down to 2B.
“Uh, Ellen, honey?” Alan said, gesturing at his own nude body. Ellen took in her nakedness, then nodded and bolted back into the bedroom. Within seconds both had thrown on shorts and shirts and made for Mona’s dwelling. When they reached the front windows, Mona had changed position from last Alan saw her. She now sat Indian-style on the roof of Dabney’s van, another flashlight in her lap, the beam fanning across SERVING ALL FIVE BOROUGHS SINCE 1979. She also held a brand-new length of Day-Glo pink mountaineering rope, which she tossed up to Alan, who tied it securely to the nearby standpipe.
Later Mona, Ellen, and Alan shared a round of warm Pepsi around the dining table, Mona sitting on the edge of her chair, her Hello Kitty backpack mashed against the backrest.
“This used to be the super’s apartment,” Alan said as a conversational gambit.
Mona nodded.
“That’s how come there was a rope here in the first place. Although I’m not quite sure what Mr. Spiteri used rope for.”
Mona shrugged, indifferent.
“Shouldn’t we tell the others that Mona’s back, safe and sound?” Ellen asked.
“If no one came to help, clearly they’re all still asleep. Let ’em rest,” Alan said. “They can enjoy a nice start to the day t
omorrow.” Alan surveyed the piles of stuff Mona had brought back. “You really did an amazing job out there, Mona. Just great. Thank you.”
“Uh-huh.”
“No, seriously. You shouldn’t be so modest.”
“I’m not.”
“We were getting pretty worried, I don’t mind telling you, since you were gone so long,” Ellen added, gently grasping Mona’s hand. “Not that I mean to imply that we thought you should have been quicker,” she added. “Far from. We just were concerned.”
“Uh-huh,” Mona said.
Uh-huh.
Alan got up from the table to inspect the loot.
Is it just me? Ellen wondered. She looked at Mona’s blank, pretty face and tried not to stare, not that Mona would notice anyway. Mona, as per, had the headphones blasting away. From the tiny speakers Mona’s music always sounded fast and metallic, like angry insects devouring her brains via the ear canals. Maybe that was it. Maybe all the conservative pundits had been right. Maybe heavy metal, or whatever Mona was listening to, did cause brain damage. Maybe Mona had numbed herself with aggressive music as a way to cope with the harsh reality of the world. Maybe, maybe, maybe. But she was among friends now. Needy friends, admittedly, but friends nonetheless. Maybe she could wean Mona off the tunes—not cold turkey, no need for anything that dramatic, but some nice music to set the tone. Oh my God, Ellen thought. I’m turning into my mother. What, some nice Barry Manilow? Some Ray Conniff? Some Yanni? Get a grip.
“Check this out!” Alan cried as he held up a cardboard box. In the murk Ellen couldn’t make it out, so he elaborated. “It’s a solar camping lantern. How cool is that? She brought back one, two, three, four, holy smokes, five of the suckers.”
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