Undead L.A. 1

by Sagliani, Devan

  “I need everyone to stay calm,” he yelled at the top of his lungs. “We're going to need you to stay in your seats while we handle the disturbance. We believe we can get it back under control, but only with your help. I ask for your own safety that you do not try to go outside at this time. We are doing everything we can to restore order as quickly as possible. Thank you for your understanding.”

  No sooner were the words out of his mouth than a loud explosion tore through the air, accompanied by the sound of breaking glass. A flood of dirty looking people in ragged clothing came pouring in past the fireman, climbing onto the tables nearest the door and tackling guests right out of their chairs. There was a loud cry as a homeless man bit down on the fireman's neck from behind, quickly drawing blood. The burly public servant clawed at the top of the wretched man's head, pulling loose grayish clumps of hair and skin from his bleeding scalp. It was no use. The derelict was locked in place, gnawing with needle sharp teeth into the muscular flesh. He locked his jaw and shook his head like a dog thrashing an unlucky squirrel. At last a chunk of meat came loose with a horrible ripping sound. The fireman let out a high-pitched scream, his eyes wide with fright. A fresh torrent of blood shot out of the gaping wound, coating the people nearest him as they wrestled on the ground near his feet. His eyes rolled into the back of his head and he passed out, falling forward. The homeless man was on him in seconds, biting deep into his back and pulling up chunks of steaming meat. His friends soon joined him in a feast fit only for cannibals.

  Kathleen could feel her heart pounding painfully in her chest. She'd spent so long preparing for death by cancer, but never imagined dying in an even more horrifying and gruesome way. Instinct took over and she dropped to the floor, crawling under the table. She was surprised to find she was still scared. What did it matter how she died or when she died? Death for her was inevitable.

  Yeah right, a tiny voice in the back of her head said sarcastically. But not like this, not being eaten alive by foul, terrifying, homeless people. No thank you!

  She closed her eyes and screamed.

  “Shut up! You'll draw them right to us,” someone fiercely whispered to her left.

  She opened her eyes. Crouched under the table with her was Barry Brown, the aging action movie star. She'd grown up watching him jumping off exploding buildings and flying planes into bad guy’s secret lairs and escaping impossible situations where certain death seemed the only way out. She'd never told anyone, but he'd been the first man she ever touched herself over. She'd had a poster of him inside her closet during her junior year of high school. As time had passed she'd forgotten about him, allowing her favors and attentions to stray to more current actors. Being trapped under the table with him during this chaos seemed, well, surreal.

  It's like a strange dream, she thought. Am I asleep in my hotel room? Am I mixing up the events of the last few days? Maybe my subconscious is regurgitating all of this, as I lie twitching in my sleep on that gross bed. Why else would I be escaping a nightmare into the equivalent of a pillow fort with my childhood crush?

  “What's happening?”

  “I don't know,” he whispered back. He didn't look big and tough and strong anymore. He looked like a scared little kid. His eyes darted back and forth in fear as all around them the sounds reached them of people screaming in pain as they were attacked and eaten. A series of unanswerable questions flooded her mind. They rattled off her tongue and out of her mouth before she even realized she was talking.

  “Who are those people?”

  “I don't know.”

  “Why are they doing this?”

  “I don't know.”

  “What is it that they want?”

  “I SAID I DON'T KNOW!”

  There was a hard thump over their heads and the table shook as one of the uninvited guests suddenly realized there was more living food under the table. Tears poured down Barry's tanned, groomed face, running into his “manly” beard. The smell of ammonia hit Kathleen's nostrils in the confined space. She couldn't figure out where it was coming from until she looked down at the growing wet spot on the front of Barry's slacks. He had wet his pants. Their eyes met once more and she tried to hold back the disgust she felt for him in that moment, but failed miserably. A look of sadness came over him as he realized how she saw him now, her fallen idol. He opened his mouth to speak, to defend himself to a former fan, but before the words came out he was yanked screaming from under the tablecloth and into the room.

  “NOOOOOO!”

  He vanished back into the killing room, the sounds of his screaming and crying so close by caused Kathleen to bite down on her fist to keep from making noise and drawing back his killer.

  “Oh God! No! Please God no! NO!”

  His death went on longer than any acceptance speech presented that night. It sounded like the man killing him was taking his time, savoring the cowardly actor one sweet morsel at a time. Eventually his cries began to diminish until they were little more than grunts. There was a skirmish then, as he rose to his feet and knocked his attacker back into the table she was under, nearly knocking it over. A loud roar erupted and then they were both gone. More than anything she yearned to know what had happened, whether he had risen and joined the horde, or if he was still lying on the floor in shock, bleeding to death. She couldn't risk looking so she sat staring at the spot where he had been just minutes before. For the next thirty minutes Kathleen waited for help to come, checking her watch and listening as people roamed through the room, howling like animals and crashing through tables. Help never came.

  Maybe it's for the best, she thought. They'd probably just lock the doors and burn this place to the ground if they saw what was happening here. And I'm not entirely sure that's a bad idea at this point.

  Realizing she was on her own, Kathleen crawled back up from under the table. She heard the sound of heaving and grunting behind her and whipped around. Standing just a few feet away was Dennis Whedon, or what had once been him. Over the years, she'd seen him play everything from the rebellious kid’s uptight dad who learns to bond with a son begging for attention, to the profanity-spouting Chief of Police. He'd co-starred with one of her favorite leading ladies in a romantic comedy about two former lovers reuniting after their kids go to college, and he'd played a ruthless pimp on the mean streets of New York at the turn of the century. He'd won an Emmy for that performance when she was just a teenager. She'd dreamed of meeting him, but not like this. He was a monster now, well dressed in a full tux he'd ruined with bloody carnage. A heavy-set man with bulging eyes, he devoured the human flesh he'd killed in almost comical gulps, like a man overcome with raw, unreasoning hunger. She gasped as he chewed on something that looked like soft belly meat, the fat pooling out with juicy red blood in every noisy bite.

  He turned his swollen face toward her as he worked his way through his succulent treat, and their eyes met. There was no expression in them – no life, no spark. Whatever essence there had been that once made this man human had gone out, like a candle flame being snuffed. She was too terrified to move. Her legs felt weak at the horror she was witnessing. Dennis let out a low growl, like a dog warning another dog not to mess with him while he was feeding. Kathleen raised her trembling hands up and backed away slowly, trying not to trip over anything.

  She felt something cold brush up against her exposed back. Turning quickly she saw an obese woman she recognized from a crime series on television, Norma Tandy. She'd spent her entire career playing the same role on different shows – a dour, no nonsense cop who was as predictable as she was dependable. Only she looked surprisingly different in person, especially with the entire left side of her face peeled off like a grape. There was a white haze covering one of her pupils. A trickle of blood ran down her fat chin and onto the front of her ruined gown. Kathleen was now face-to-face with her. Norma let out a loud burp that smelled like a pile of rotting animal carcasses left in a rancid swamp. Kathleen tried to hold back, but felt the remnants of her luxuri
ous dinner coming up. She bent forward, passing within inches of Norma's grotesque mouth and biting teeth, and threw up on her shoes. Norma didn't seem to notice. Kathleen raised her head to find Norma frantically sniffing the air like a dog. Kathleen held her breath as long as she could while Norma took her time deciding where to sink her teeth first. There was a disgusted look on her face, as if something about Kathleen didn't exactly pass the smell test. Norma curled up her piggy nose as Kathleen let out her breath, shaking her big head from side-to-side and backing away.

  She doesn't want to eat me, thought Kathleen. Is it the drugs she smells? Half the people in this room tonight were probably on more shit than I was. Could it be the cancer? Does she somehow know, with her animal instincts, that the meat is spoiled? Whatever it is, I don't smell right to her so she isn't going to waste her time.

  As if to test her new theory, Kathleen recklessly charged toward Norma but the actress raised her hands and backed away, shaking her head. A newfound confidence began to stir within her. She walked toward the door, stepping over the strewn remains of several former famous celebrities. None of the remaining cannibals gave her a second look as they scoured the room for fresh victims to feast on.

  Standing out in the street, her sense of safety gave way once more to a feeling of deep melancholy. All around her the world was in total chaos, but it seemed as if she didn't belong to either side anymore. The living were hiding away from the horrors of the night while the dead roamed freely around her, biting anything that moved except her. It should have brought her comfort, but all it did was remind her of how close she was to the end of her life.

  “I'm not even fit to feed the dead,” she said, tilting her head back to the night sky. “I'm ready now. There is nothing left for me in this world anymore.”

  Despite hearing her mother's voice warning her against the idea, she slipped off her high heels and walked in the broken glass, trash, and human remains back to her hotel. There were no cars on the streets anymore. She knew it didn't matter. She wouldn't be going back to Seattle after all. The world had officially ended, and she soon would end too. A bottle of chilled champagne and the rest of her pain medicine would help make her transition easy. A lightness settled over her, as if the slightest breeze could lift her up into the sky and carry her away. For the first time since she'd been diagnosed, she was finally at peace with the idea of letting go.

  The lobby of the JW Marriot was empty. All around her was evidence that the nightmare from outside had already penetrated the building, consuming all in its way. There was blood all over the tile. It felt cold on her feet as she mindlessly walked through it, taking the elevator up to her floor. She'd gone right for the bathroom and the bottle of Oxy after that.

  She shook the contents of the bottle into her open hand and began chewing them like Skittles. They were bitter to the taste, but she didn't mind. She washed them down with the expensive champagne from the mini bar, walking back into the suite. She looked out the window. Fires burned off into the distance in every direction she looked. The world was ending, not just for her anymore, but also for all of mankind. Something in that belief gave her cold comfort; knowing she was no longer facing the end alone. She wished she could talk to her mom, or better yet to her best friend Aasiyah, but the phone lines were all overloaded.

  “This is it,” she said, feeling the drugs starting to kick in. The side of the bottle warned against crushing them up because they were designed for time release. She'd heard that drug addicts crushed them up and snorted them. They called it hillbilly heroin. It made sense. She could feel something warm blossoming in her chest, like a flower made of fire come to burn away all the suffering she'd known in the world.

  “I love you Sea. I hope you pass quickly and without any suffering, baby. I know I'll see you soon on the other side.”

  The words trailed off as she slipped sideways into the blindingly beautiful light that fell over her like blissful nectar, washing away all the pain she'd ever known.

  *** *** ***

  Despite being well informed of the poor environmental conditions

  for habitation and statistically high crime rates, people continued

  to arrive in the city up until the outbreak – not only in search of

  better lives but also for fun and relaxation.

  Tourism, a leading industry in Los Angeles,

  generated over $15,000,000,000 a year,

  with as many as 40,000,000 guests visiting annually.

  ***

  La Cucaracha

  My father used to say it all the time when we were kids, as if it were a point of pride for him.

  “I don't move,” he would mumble at the start of a long day of serving mostly locals. “Wheels or not, this is my spot and I'm not going anywhere. And no one can make me. There is power in that. There is pride too. But above all there is love. Never forget that, mija.”

  He would arrive early and park in the usual place in Boyle Heights, just off a side street that leads through the heart of the Los Angeles ghetto, away from East Los Angeles toward the bustle of Downtown. It gave him a spectacular view of the skyline, including the famous US Bank building.

  “All those tall shiny buildings,” he'd whisper with reverence, “like art made out of glass that touches the sky itself. There is nothing like that where I am from. Who could have dreamed up such amazing things? And who would place them in the heart of such squalor? It's a sin.”

  Though not a deeply religious man, my father always considered himself a good Catholic. He'd just stopped going to church after my mother disappeared one afternoon walking home from the store, vanishing without a trace as if she were a trail of vapors climbing toward the heavens in the summer heat. After all the searching had come up empty, after the desperate pleas on local news to return his wife to her husband and two precious daughters, a sadness sank into him that never fully left, causing him to shrink somehow. I don't think he ever fully recovered from losing her. We didn't have a choice. We had to go on. It hurt but what else could we do? We learned to live with that feeling of dread in the pit of our stomachs, walking around every day waiting to be told the worst, as the days turned into months and still we heard nothing.

  Rumors began to circulate that she'd run off with a rich white man, since no body was ever found. I never believed that. I don't think my father ever believed it either. He did his best to shelter us from that kind of talk, but it was all around us in the lingering whispers and accusing stares of the people we saw every day. For a while I grew to hate her for leaving us alone, for making my Papi so sad, but as time went by I learned to make peace with the loss – the empty place in my heart that I knew nothing would ever fill, not even with the passage of time. Eventually I couldn't even remember what her face looked like. All I could remember was the way her hair smelled, like a symphony of chemicals from the cheap shampoo that overpowered you with the memory of fresh green apples.

  Once my father was set up and prepped for the day he'd open up for business, propping up the steel windows and locking them into place. He'd sell until the sun went down or he ran out of fish for the day. He always made the same things; either shrimp tacos or ceviche from the old recipe his grandmother had taught him as a child in their metal box shack in Sayulita, Mexico. Located less than an hour north of the more active and famous tourist destination, Puerto Vallarta, the quaint fishing village had come to be known in the last decade for its amazing surf breaks. Ex-patriots with money from the United States and Canada had moved in and tried to overrun the town.

  Despite their best attempts to transform his beloved place of birth into a bustling gringo paradise, they had failed to do little more than organize weekly meetings to bitch and gripe about local issues. The group, Sayulita Paradisio, also ran a website dedicated to the town which was full of breathtaking photos. My father never understood the Internet so we'd go online and show him the site whenever he'd ask. The images invariably brought tears to his eyes. He'd pointed out the places he
remembered from his carefree days as a young boy, promising to take us there one day when things slowed down. Later he'd laughed about how the site worked hard to cover up even the smallest local crimes for fear of scaring off rich investors.

  “It's kinda funny,” he said, catching his breath. “All those white people fighting to go where we all fought to escape. It's like la pelicula negro, uh? Trading Places.”

  It wasn't uncommon for my sister Rosario to have taken over his cleaning duties, while I began a prep station. We'd been working the truck with him since we were old enough to walk. It was, as he said, our real inheritance. I grew up with the smell of cilantro, onions, and limes permanently burned into the skin of my hands.

  My father would start making some beer battered fish tacos, whistling along with the Banda music as he prepared his best meal for his 'daily guest of honor.' Ultimately a man in dark shades, white t-shirt, and beige work shorts would arrive. We were not allowed to speak to this man, but I heard my father call him Paco. Once he brought us Mexican candies – strawberry and watermelon lollipops dusted with chili powder. As he stuck his hand out to give them to us I saw that he had black ink carved into his arms in funny shapes. There was also a picture of a large breasted woman on his left calf that I came to admire over the years. I dreamed of one day growing such magnificent boobs when puberty hit, but found to my dismay when the time came that my flat chest swelled only slightly by comparison to the cartoon sexual fantasy indelibly set into Paco’s brown skin.

  My father would serve Paco lunch with a smile, handing him an envelope with part of the previous night’s earnings along with his meal and a bottle of pineapple flavored Jarritos. They'd sit and talk about local gossip, news from back in the mother country, and the ever-sliding economy. When he was finished, Paco would graciously thank my father and remind him to speak up if he had any problems. But being protected meant we never had any problems, not even from the cops.