3-Z

by Lori R. Lopez

“ZZZ. Huh? What’s that banging?” Nelle was asleep when the apocalypse began, so she missed the news. She often napped at midday: midmorning, midafternoon, midevening. It made no difference to her. When the lids drooped, she would doze. It wasn’t Narcolepsy. A doctor said she was Clinically Depressed, which could cause her to feel tired. She dismissed the notion, believing that she simply had a more fulfilling life asleep than when she was awake. Her days were that dull, that tepid, imbued with a listless languor. But in her sleep she dreamed . . . The past was the present, the real world composed of fantasies, and she lived to dream. But this was no dream.

  The woman slid three warm felines from her lap and stiffly rose, vacating a padded easy-chair in a dim parlor. Too much sitting on her rump in the sitting-room, she thought. At least she didn’t stay in bed, she got up and dressed, combed her hair, entertaining a semblance of a normal routine. If you could call a houseful of cats normal. If it weren’t for the cats, she wouldn’t climb out of bed. They would yowl to be fed and patted, their sleek fur stroked on a daily basis. It made her feel needed.

  Lonely and sad, she had adopted a stray that showed up at her door, naming him Rascal. Another meowing waif arrived, to be christened Goofy. Then another and another and another. She welcomed each of them, seeking to fill a blackhole of despair. The cats were companions, her family after losing a husband and son ages ago. Was it really more than two decades? Nelle hobbled to the front entrance. Why didn’t whoever it was ring the buzzer? “What’s the point of having a doorbell if people ignore it?” she muttered — to herself more than the cats. Not that anyone visited. Knocking or buzzing, it was still unusual. It almost sent a chill through her, it was that rare.

  Nelle peeked around the edge of a drape. Probably a kid selling candy.

  Indeed, it appeared to be a child. Perhaps a teenager. Dressed as a monster, in costume. Not vending candy, requesting it, she presumed. Was it Halloween? She had forgotten, often losing count of the date. The end of October. That seemed about right, judging by the cooler weather, the nip in the wind. And the resplendent transformation of trees; the turning of leaves, their descent to the ground. It was morbid and yet serenely beautiful, the autumnal dance of death. Like an annual Zombie Apocalypse, she mused. Her boy loved zombies, had pictures of them plastered all over the walls of his room. She had loved Fall and savored the changing seasons. Now it scarcely registered since the event that ended her world.

  “They” said you lost part of yourself with the death of a loved one. Who were They? What did They know? She lost everything, dying with them! In essence she was a corpse, a wraith. A zombie, like the creatures that her son revered. She approached the door of a figurative tomb, hesitant to unlock it, reluctant to let the undead world invade the sanctuary of her sequestered crypt-like vault. What had the world, the land of the living, done for her except take? She spied through a peephole in the oak door. She had nothing left to give.

  “What do you want?” Nelle asked loudly.

  No answer. The costumed kid stood out there, fidgety, silent. Weren’t they supposed to say “Trick or treat!”?

  “I don’t have any candy!” she announced, in a hurry to return to the placid slumber of her nonexistence. “Go away.”

  He or she stubbornly remained, enduring the unfriendliness. A twinge of remorse stung. Where were her manners?

  “I forgot to buy some. I’m sorry! Try the neighbors,” she added, a smidge kinder. And peered out. The child hadn’t budged.

  A sudden bang; the door shuddered. Nelle bumbled backwards. Then marched to the peephole, frowning. “I said I was sorry! There’s no need to be rude!” She shook her gourd at the lack of courtesy. What were they teaching kids these days? And when had she become the village curmudgeon? Oh yeah.

  Feeling cold, she walked to a closet for a thicker sweater. And stared at the jackets she occasionally donned to remind her of them. Keepsakes. She couldn’t erase them, give what was left of them to strangers. If the living forgot, then they would be gone as if they never were. She had to keep their memories alive. Thus, her Paul’s workshop in the garage, her Danny’s shrine to zombies stayed intact. She hadn’t touched a thing, other than actually touching their things now and then. The tools and toys conveyed a sense of them, perhaps retained a spark of their energy, like spiritual residue. Whatever it might be, it made her feel close to them. Psychics used objects to commune with the deceased. It wasn’t so crazy.

  The door tremored with solid percussions. He was really impatient! Bundled in a cardigan, Nelle hastened to the entrance. “Knock it off or I’ll call the police!” It was a bluff. She didn’t want her privacy violated, by intruders or the authorities. This was a pretty persistent Trick-Or-Treater. What if he (or she) didn’t grow discouraged? Nelle decided to check the kitchen for a treat. It was wiser than risking a trick.

  Anxiously the lady surveyed the shelves of her cabinets. She needed to restock, the pickings were slim. She unreeled the final trashbag from a box. Then traded it for a jumbo plastic salad bowl, the type she used to fill with candy for Halloween. It was bare. In a cupboard, she discovered a few red-and-white-striped rock-hard cellophane-wrapped peppermints from last Christmas. These didn’t taste good when they were fresh. Who would notice if they were stale?

  She hunted the frost-laden tundra of the freezer compartment, rejecting petrified vegetables. Scouring her barren fridge, Nelle tossed in a wilted orange with a green spot and a partial tub of chocolate icing. She had no idea what she would do if another Trick-Or-Treater showed up! The woman loaded an assortment of potential goodies and carted the bowl to the door. Unlatching the portal, she beamed at the brat with the biggest fake smile she could muster. “Okay, here you go!”

  The kid didn’t have a sack. She scurried to retrieve the flimsy plastic one and crammed it with teabags, a banana, half a tray of chocolate-stripe cookies (shoving one in her mouth because she had forgotten about those), a box of saltine crackers, a leftover cupcake from a batch she made a month or so earlier, three curled slices of bread, an old hunk of bitter chocolate for baking —

  The salad bowl clattered. A sob escaped. She had loved to bake for her men. She seldom went to the trouble anymore. Just on those maudlin moments when she wanted the house to smell like it did in the past, instead of like cat urine and kitty litter. The feline population couldn’t care less about her cakes and brownies.

  Winding the neck of the sack, tying a knot, she bustled to the living-room and handed over the loot. The kid had wandered inside. “Oh! Here you are. I see you invited yourself in. Guess you’re not a vampire.” A dry laugh, presenting the bag. “Yeah, you’re a zombie, I know. My son was a fan.”

  Growling, the kid accepted the bag. He was really into the role.

  A thought struck. She found herself blurting, “Would you like to see his room? It’s still decorated. Halloween all year round.”

  The boy grinned in a snarly way. Was that a yes?

  “Follow me.” Nelle led him to the second floor, stepping over several lounging cats, who squealed and darted or leaped from the stairs as the kid clomped up at her heels. His host pushed a door inward and flicked a light switch, revealing a chamber wall-to-wall with classic zombie posters and figures, books and comics, magazine covers, even cute plushies. Her son’s treasury of zombie history and memorabilia. The ghouls had recently become more popular than ever. Danny would be delighted.

  Huffing, gargling as if impressed, the new kid shuffled into the bedroom. He rotated, head tipped, gawping at the exhibit. Nelle sighed, honoring her own boy. It was nice to share his passion with someone who could appreciate it. Nice to have somebody not a cat to converse with, even if he was pretending to be dead.

  “Are you hungry? I could make you a sandwich,” the lonely widow and grieving mother volunteered.

  The lad wobbled and stumped to swivel in an ungraceful pirouette th
en swayed, rumbling like a heckled hacklish dog. He trailed the excited lady downstairs. She reached the bottom and had to jump when her visitor came flopping and thumping, cascading in her wake.

  “Oh dear! Are you okay?” Mortified, she knelt at the kid’s side.

  He floundered, grunting, then clutched the woman’s arm. The zombie bared his teeth, enunciating: “Errrguhhh!”

  “What’s that?” She strove to interpret the syllables.

  “Mmmaaammbull.”

  She leaned closer. “Huh?”

  His grip tightened.

  “Ow. You’re hurting me,” scolded Nelle. This kid must have been raised by wolves, she thought.

  As if reading her mind and proving the conjecture, the boy gnarred in her face. He clambered to his feet and the hand yielded — breaking, still fastened to her arm. The lady peeled his fingers off, marveling over the illusion.

  “You and my son would’ve been great pals,” she enthused, straightening too. Nelle admired the artistry. With a smile, she handed him back his detached body part. It looked so real.

  The Trick-Or-Treater hammed it up, his stride hitching ludicrously.

  “You deserve an Academy Award for this performance,” commended Nelle, ushering him to the parlor. “Have a seat. I’ll make you a