The frigidity of the apartment was now sensibly diminishing, and at about five in the morning, the doctor retired to the bathroom, commanding me to keep him supplied with all the ice I could obtain at all-night drug stores and cafeterias. As I would return from my sometimes discouraging trips and lay my spoils before the closed bathroom door, I could hear a restless splashing within, and a thick voice croaking out the order for “More—more!” At length a warm day broke, and the shops opened one by one. I asked Esteban either to help with the ice-fetching while I obtained the pump piston, or to order the piston while I continued with the ice; but instructed by his mother, he absolutely refused.
Finally I hired a seedy-looking loafer whom I encountered on the corner of Eighth Avenue to keep the patient supplied with ice from a little shop where I introduced him, and applied myself diligently to the task of finding a pump piston and engaging workmen competent to install it. The task seemed interminable, and I raged almost as violently as the hermit when I saw the hours slipping by in a breathless, foodless round of vain telephoning, and a hectic quest from place to place, hither and thither by subway and surface car. About noon I encountered a suitable supply house far downtown, and at approximately one-thirty that afternoon arrived at my boarding-place with the necessary paraphernalia and two sturdy and intelligent mechanics. I had done all I could, and hoped I was in time.
Black terror, however, had preceded me. The house was in utter turmoil, and above the chatter of awed voices I heard a man praying in a deep basso. Fiendish things were in the air, and lodgers told over the beads of their rosaries as they caught the odour from beneath the doctor’s closed door. The lounger I had hired, it seems, had fled screaming and mad-eyed not long after his second delivery of ice: perhaps as a result of excessive curiosity. He could not, of course, have locked the door behind him; yet it was now fastened, presumably from the inside. There was no sound within save a nameless sort of slow, thick dripping.
Briefly consulting with Mrs. Herrero and the workmen despite a fear that gnawed my inmost soul, I advised the breaking down of the door; but the landlady found a way to turn the key from the outside with some wire device. We had previously opened the doors of all the other rooms on that hall, and flung all the windows to the very top. Now, noses protected by handkerchiefs, we tremblingly invaded the accursed south room which blazed with the warm sun of early afternoon.
A kind of dark, slimy trail led from the open bathroom door to the hall door, and thence to the desk, where a terrible little pool had accumulated. Something was scrawled there in pencil in an awful, blind hand on a piece of paper hideously smeared as though by the very claws that traced the hurried last words. Then the trail led to the couch and ended unutterably.
What was, or had been, on the couch I cannot and dare not say here. But this is what I shiveringly puzzled out on the stickily smeared paper before I drew a match and burned it to a crisp; what I puzzled out in terror as the landlady and two mechanics rushed frantically from that hellish place to babble their incoherent stories at the nearest police station. The nauseous words seemed well-nigh incredible in that yellow sunlight, with the clatter of cars and motor trucks ascending clamorously from crowded Fourteenth Street, yet I confess that I believed them then. Whether I believe them now I honestly do not know. There are things about which it is better not to speculate, and all that I can say is that I hate the smell of ammonia, and grow faint at a draught of unusually cool air.
“The end,” ran that noisome scrawl, “is here. No more ice—the man looked and ran away. Warmer every minute, and the tissues can’t last. I fancy you know—what I said about the will and the nerves and the preserved body after the organs ceased to work. It was good theory, but couldn’t keep up indefinitely. There was a gradual deterioration I had not foreseen. Dr. Torres knew, but the shock killed him. He couldn’t stand what he had to do; he had to get me in a strange, dark place when he minded my letter and nursed me back. And the organs never would work again. It had to be done my way—artificial preservation—for you see I died that time eighteen years ago.”
YVONNE NAVARRO
(1957–)
Born in Chicago,Yvonne Navarro worked at a wide range of jobs including secretary, bookkeeper, cashier, nurse’s aide, and accounting clerk before selling her first short story to The Horror Show Magazine in 1984. In 1999, she decided to leave her job at a law firm to become a full-time writer, and in 2002, she moved to Arizona, where she now lives. Her first and second novels, AfterAge (1993) and deadrush (1995), were finalists for the Bram Stoker Award. Among her Buffy the Vampire Slayer novels are Paleo (2000), Wicked Willow I: The Darkening (2004), Wicked Willow II: Shattered Twilight (2004), and Wicked Willow III: Broken Sunrise (2004). Her other novels include Final Impact (1997) and a follow-up novel, Redshadow (1998), That’s Not My Name (2000), Mirror Me (2004), and Highborn (2010).
For the Good of All
(2009)
Fida can hear their moans through the floor. The boarders are restless and hungry—they’re always hungry—but there isn’t much she can do about that.
Broxton House doesn’t do bed and breakfast anymore, doesn’t even rent to new boarders. Hell, nobody needs to rent now that a good seventy percent of the city population is gone. If a person wants to move, they move; all you need to do is make sure the new place is empty of both the living and the dead.
The law now says that if you live in it, you own it, period. Squatting is okay, taking it by force isn’t. People work jobs just like before, but they make less money, and there’s a clear division in classes.
Fida’s in the lower class, and that’s fine with her. She grows most of her own food and has learned to live without the electricity she can’t afford anyway. There’s a weekly flea market in the parking lot of the abandoned high school two suburbs over, nice and safe within a secure eight-foot iron fence. Someone with a sense of humor dubbed it the “Lock’n’ Swap” and the name stuck.
Fida goes over and does small sewing jobs. She picked up the talent from her grandmother (who died decades before this zombie mess), and it earns her money for firewood in the winter, candles, enough gasoline to go to a different church each Sunday, and the few other things she can’t make on her own.
Fida is ready when the priest knocks on her door at a quarter-to-twelve, even though he’s fifteen minutes early. She’s glad he didn’t forget or decide not to come, because when that happens—and it does occasionally—it always shakes up her faith. Faith is all she has, and she mustn’t let it waver. Too much depends upon it.
“Good afternoon, Miss . . .” He falters for a moment because she never told him her last name.
“Just call me Fida,” she tells him. “Long e, rhymes with Rita.” She steps to the side and motions to him. “Please, come inside.”
He nods, and Fida can see the relief in his eyes as he steps over the threshold. His car, a heavy sedan that, like almost everyone’s, has mesh soldered over the windows, is parked at the curb. It had probably seemed like a very long way from the sidewalk to her door. No one without an armed escort wants to be outside too long nowadays.
Fida judiciously bolts the door, then leads him into the drawing room. “Make yourself comfortable.” He obliges by settling on one of the two floral-printed couches and passing a white handkerchief across his forehead. It’s impossible to tell if it’s the June heat or fear that makes him sweat. Some people just do.
She’s made a simple lunch, homemade flat bread baked pizza-style over a grating in the fireplace of the old-fashioned kitchen, then topped with a sliced tomato and green pepper from her little greenhouse (she’s privately called it the “Lock ’n’ Grow” since hearing the nickname of the swap meet). She hasn’t had mozzarella cheese in years, but a sprinkling of dry Parmesan before it goes over the heat works well. She serves it to him along with a glass of room-temperature water freshened by a small sprig of mint. A good man should have a good meal before he gets on about his business. A man such as Father Stane.
They eat without saying much of anything. After about ten minutes, Fida can see the priest finally relaxing. Even though she’s herded the boarders to the far end of the house, they have a tendency to fight amongst themselves and now and then one of them gets loud.
Occasionally a snarl sails along the upstairs air currents and drifts through the unused heating vents. The first time this happens, Father Stane visibly twitches; when all Fida does is meet his gaze and shrug, he appears to accept that she has made her home safe. The next couple of noises make him raise an eyebrow, but his deep brown eyes are wise and he knows that the time for discussion isn’t long in coming.
She can tell by his black hair and heavy bone structure that he is perhaps Slavic or Serbian. A man from the old country, where the faith is ancient and strong. Excellent.
Fida sets the dishes aside and folds her hands on her lap. “I appreciate you coming all this way,” she says. “I know it’s troublesome to travel alone.”
Father Stane tilts his head. “Indeed. You said there was something important you wanted to discuss?”
Fida nods, then picks at the rough edges of her fingernails as she considers the phrasing of her question. “Father, do you believe in forgiveness?”
“Of course,” he answers without hesitation. “Forgiveness is the core of our faith. Christ died for us, so that we would all be redeemed.” He studies her. “You attended my mass last Sunday, but I won’t presume you’re Christian.”
“I’m Catholic.”
“But do you believe? These are difficult times, Fida. Even the strongest man or woman of faith can stumble.”
“I do believe, very strongly.”
He nods. “Then what is it you wanted to discuss?”
Fida takes a deep breath. “Do you believe in redemption? That souls can be saved?”
“Of course,” he says again. He leans forward. “Do you need to make a confession? Is that why you asked me to come here—for privacy?” She shakes her head, but he continues anyway. “These are terrible times, Fida. A lot of people have done . . . questionable things, just to stay alive.” He reaches over and gives her a paternal pat on the hand. “Many don’t want to be public about it. They feel hypocritical. I understand.”
Hypocritical . . . like Jesus and the Pharisees and scribes? No, she does not equate herself with them. “I only try to save people,” she replies, and both of them look toward the ceiling at the sound of a faraway thump.
Father Stane sits back. “Ah,” he says. “You have . . .” He hesitates, unsure of his terminology.
“Boarders,” Fida answers for him. “They all lived here . . .” Another pause. “Before.”
The priest’s forehead furrows. “They came back?”
She nods. “They came home. I don’t believe that the living dead are just monsters, creatures without thought or purpose. They have memory. They seek comfort.” Her hands are squeezing tightly together now, almost in supplication. “They didn’t ask for this. They want to be rescued, to be saved.”
Father Stane rubs his chin. “Have you considered that their return might just be instinct? There have been studies—”
Fida waves away his words. “You mean the experiment labs, where they’re dissected like lab rats, treated with chemicals and used as targets for the security forces to try out their latest and greatest weapons?” Heat climbs up her face. “And let’s not forget that the science centers are the perfect place for people to drop off their relatives—parents, spouses, children, for God’s sake—then walk away with a clean conscience, saying that what they’re doing is for the good of all.
“You mentioned hypocrites? Those are the hypocrites, Father Stane. Those are the monsters. The ones who won’t take responsibility for people they once loved.” She crosses her arms so tightly that the muscles in her shoulders spasm. “So much for until death do us part. The living dead, Father Stane. The living dead.”
He takes a drink of water and puts it back on the coffee table, carefully centering it on a coaster. “All right. Let’s say they are still alive, after a fashion. Then what?”
“They need to be saved,” she tells him firmly. “Forgiven, like Jesus forgave us all at the Last Supper. It was his body and blood—”
“Metaphorically,” the priest reminds her.
“Obviously, Father. I was about to say ‘via the bread and wine.’ ” Fida squashes her irritation, then picks up again. “That’s how mankind was forgiven, through his love and sacrifice. That’s how we continue to be forgiven.” She rises and crosses the drawing room, lifts a photo album from a mahogany side-table next to the fireplace. She brings it back and opens it in front of Father Stane, pointing to the pictures.
“This is Patrick. A good Irish boy, first room at the top of the stairs. He’s been out of work so he’s a bit behind on his rent.” She flips the page. “This is Manuella. She lives . . . lived here with her boy, Reynaldo, in the biggest room at the back. Reynaldo’s gone, though. He was only six.”
Father Stane nods his head sympathetically. She taps a fingernail against a picture of a sallow-skinned Asian man; his eyes are thin and mean and a gang tattoo curves around the back of his bald skull. “This is Cade. I have to admit that he tries my patience sometimes.” She lifts her chin. “Still, I have hope.”
“I see.”
“Do you?” Her eyes burn as she flips a couple more pages, locking her voice, determined not to show too much emotion. “Jesse and Tina. They’re only sixteen. She’s four months pregnant and they’re hiding from her father, who told her he was going to kill Jesse.” Another turn of the page. “Max is a heroin addict, always trying to kick the habit and always blowing it. He’s come back here four times because he knows I’ll help him keep on trying. And the last one is Sylvie. She’s thirteen and a runaway.”
Father Stane frowns at her. “You let a thirteen-year-old runaway stay here?”
Fida’s gaze doesn’t waver. “Her mother turned her out as a prostitute when she was eleven.”
The priest’s jaw works but he says nothing as Fida puts the album back in its place. “These are my tenants, Father.”
“You talk about them as if things never changed.”
“I don’t think they have, at least not to them. In their minds, they’re just lost.” She sits back down and clasps her hands again. “Don’t you see? These are my family. My responsibility. If I don’t care for them, don’t keep them safe and try to save them, then I will be a hypocrite. No better than so many others.”
Father Stane nods and, to his credit, she can see him struggling to comprehend her way of thinking. “So why did you call me here, Fida? What can I do to help you with this situation?”
He stumbles a bit on the word situation and Fida’s stomach twists inside. Does he believe, truly? His faith must be complete. It must be pure. If it isn’t, he might as well go on home now.
“Will you do something for me, Father?” On the other end of the couch is a large wicker basket covered with a simple, clean white cloth. She pulls the basket to her side and lifts the cotton; beneath is more freshly baked flat bread, five good loaves of it, and a round crystal decanter of dark red wine. “Bless this bread and wine,” she says. “Consecrate it with all your faith and everything you believe in. Like you do the Eucharist at mass.”
“And then what?” he asks sternly. His gaze rolls upward. “You feed it to them? There is no forgiveness without confession. You know that.”
She shakes her head. “But we have to try. The body of Christ, the blood of Christ. Miracles have happened. That the dead can walk is in itself a miracle, don’t you think? Who’s to say that a—a reverse miracle can’t occur?”
“And if it doesn’t? Will you be the one to stop them?” He glances pointedly at the machete hanging at her belt.
Fida looks at her hands. Sometimes she feels so much sadness she can hardly speak the words. “To kill out of judgment is not my place.” He doesn’t reply and she turns her hands palm up. “It’
s a small thing that I’m asking, Father. A sacrifice of symbology. A spreading of the Word, the faith, the Sacrament.”
“All right,” he says after a few moments, but he sounds tired. Is he doing it because he wants to, or because he feels it’s what will be necessary for him to leave and feel as if he’s done his best?
He reaches for the basket but she stands and lifts it with her. “Upstairs,” she says. “In Patrick’s room. They’re all down at the end, where Manuella stays.” She doesn’t add that the Mexican woman, whose skin and eyes have gone as grey as old cement and whose mouth is rimmed with the dried blood of her son, spends most of every day moaning and standing over the daybed where the boy used to sleep.
Fida can tell by the expression on Father Stane’s sturdy face that he wants to protest, but he doesn’t. This gives her reason to hope; a faithless man would have refused, would have asked how dangerous it was and was she sure that the creatures were safely locked away. But Father Stane is a good man. A faithful man.
He follows her up the stairs and she hands him the basket, then opens the door to Patrick’s room. The priest pulls back but the room is empty, the door that joins it to Jesse’s closed. The bed is rumpled, as if the boy has slept in it, but she knows it isn’t so. She makes it up every morning, even changes the sheets once a week, but the boarders only bump against it, or sometimes fall onto the antique quilt. They never sleep, though, just get up and wander away. There are no mirrors in this room because the living dead version of Patrick doesn’t like his reflection and he always breaks them.
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