But I wanted to keep things light, so I said, “Are you complaining?”
“Ha,” she answered, humorlessly. “Ha ha.”
“You’d look really good in one of those.”
“Yeah, right, Kevin. I have no desire whatsoever to be seen in anything more skimpy than what I’ve got on.”
I looked over at my oldest, dearest friend, and tried to imagine just exactly that: her in a skimpy two-piece, but I couldn’t. Not now. All my mind kept coming up with was the image of her flesh sloughing away underneath her clothes. How long would it take? Two, three months at the most?
“Go on,” she said, stiffly kicking at me. “Get out of here before you spontaneously combust, you horndog.”
“A guy can dream, can’t he?” I joked. But it felt…empty, like we were saying good-bye. I knew it wasn’t, but that’s how it felt.
“Well, keep dreaming, lover boy. Never in a million years would you catch me in one of those things.” She laughed, and it actually seemed like she was coming out of whatever deep place she’d been slumbering in. Maybe it was from standing here in the warm sun. Her joints were loosening up. The remaining brain cells were firing.
“Not even just once?” I teased.
“Go get a cold shower.”
“A swim sounds better.”
I thought I saw a flicker of something in her eyes. Fear? Sadness? Surprise?
Ripples lapped against the edge of the pool beneath my feet, thrown there by another zombie who’d just jumped into the other end, some guy whose skin still had a lot of pink to it. He must’ve just recently turned.
I gave the surface of the pool a hungry look and watched as he started doing laps, doing more thrashing than actual swimming. I couldn’t shake the image of Jamie in his place. That was going to be her in a few days, a week at the outside.
“You know something,” Jamie said, startling me with her sudden liveliness, “you’re right.” She began to remove her shirt. “A swim does sound good.”
“What?”
“Race you.”
I stood there like an idiot as she struggled to shed her pajama bottoms. Everywhere I looked, all I could see was healthy pink flesh, not a trace of gray or green anywhere. Except for where she’d put Gwen’s avocado cream on.
“You’re drooling again, Kevin.”
I blinked. She wasn’t infected. She’d been telling the truth. And here I’d convinced myself she was slowly turning into a zombie.
Her face, still red from the burn, turned an even deeper shade as I stood there in shock, my mouth hanging open.
“Fine, look then,” she said. “You’re hopeless. But I’ve got to tell you something, Kevin, just because it has to be said.”
“Wait a minute! How could—I mean, you’re not…What has to be said?”
“About who I am.”
“I know you’re not a zombie,” I practically shouted. I felt my heart pounding away. After all she’d put me through. After the sleepless nights, the sacrifices I’d made, to see her…healthy threatened to rip my heart from my chest. “I thought you…”
“Liked guys? That’s what me and Gwen have been trying to tell you. I like girls.”
My mind totally went blank.
“Gwen and I are…” She paused, and gave me this look, as if she expected me to finish the sentence.
“You and Gwen are what?” I said. What the hell did my sister have to do with this? But then I knew, and I hated myself for not figuring it out sooner. “She’s your type.”
Jamie smiled and nodded. “Finally.”
“But that’s…That’s horrible!”
“It’s not horrible. It’s natural.”
“No!” I exclaimed. The ground was shaking beneath my feet, the earth was spinning out of control “She’s my sister! But, how?” I scratched my head. “When did this happen?”
“It didn’t just happen, Kevin. It’s been happening. You just never wanted to accept it. Just like you never accepted the zombies.”
And that’s when the final piece of the puzzle slipped into place. That’s why she’d been so obsessed with the zombies. She knew how it felt to be marginalized, to live on the fringes of society. To be afraid to make her true self known. That’s why she fought so hard for them.
It felt almost criminal that in this day and age of acceptance, that someone like her—and Gwen! Wait, Gwen?—got less respect than dead people.
“I’m sorry, Kevin,” she said. “I know how much this breaks your heart.” She stood up on her tiptoes and kissed my forehead. “I know you love me, Kevin, and I do love you, too. You are my best friend. You’ll always be my best friend.”
I couldn’t look at her. All I could do was fiddle with the bandage on my arm, marveling at how stiff my arm had become just in the past hour as the infection spread.
I’d really had to work hard at getting Gabby to bite me, practically forcing my arm into her mouth. And when she did, I thought for a moment she’d want more, but she wasn’t interested in anything else. Not that I was either. The bite was all I needed.
What had I done?
Jamie had been right. I had been narrow minded and that’s why I hadn’t been able to see what was staring me in the face. Even when Gwen tried to tell me, I still hadn’t seen it. But what was most upsetting was realizing I never actually had a chance with Jamie. I had lost her before I even knew I wanted her.
Jamie didn’t seem to notice my fidgeting. She turned and leaped into the pool. When she came up smiling, she yelled, “Meet you on the other side.”
I had lost her to something I could never be, all while I was too busy trying to be what I thought she wanted me to be.
But then, as I caught sight of Gabby, I realized that I hadn’t lost everything.
I smiled. “Yes, I will meet you on the other side,” I said, and I hungrily licked my lips.
‡ ‡
Author’s note
A Thing for Zombies was one of the funnest stories I’ve had the enjoyment to write. I had no agenda behind it other than to torment poor Kevin the whole way through. Poor, hapless, clueless Kevin. Even the themes that the story is built around—sexuality, political correctness, equal rights for all—are merely props. I take my shots at everyone, no matter what side of a fence they may find themselves on.
There is one group that I must apologist to: those honest, hardworking and faithful fans of classic zombie lit. The premise of A Thing for Zombies may offend your finer sensibilities. After all, whoever heard of zombies wearing g-strings?
The idea for the story came to me in a bit of a roundabout way. I was griping to a fellow writer about all the vampire romance stories being published. You know the ones. Damn glittery bloodsuckers. The writer friend I was with joked that it wasn’t as bad as a world where zombies didn't just walk among us, but tried to be sexy. We had a good laugh and went our separate ways.
A few days later, as I was mulling this discussion, I wondered what exactly would make a zombie sexy. Maybe it says something about my degenerate state of mind, but that’s when I got the idea of zombies suntanning at the community pool.
Despite all this, however, this is not a story about a zombie romance, but about a young man desperate to win the affections of the young lady he loves. And if the “competition” happens to be the Walking Dead, well, I think it makes for both a compelling and comic read.
‡
REACHED IN ERROR
There was a click when the call connected, then Ellen Grabowski heard whoever had picked the phone up take in a breath. She waited, but whoever it was seemed to be taking their sweet time.
“Hello?” she said. “Mom?”
“Ellllennnnn…”
She rolled her eyes when she realized it was Erik, her little brother. Well, he wasn’t so little anymore. At fourteen, he already stood taller than their father, and he’d outgrown her when he was twelve. Still, she’d always be his big sister.
“Why are you calling me from the land of the livinnnnng
? This line is for the deadddd.”
And he’d always be her little brat. Brother. Her little brother.
She sighed. This was a new twist on an old and very worn-out theme, one that had played out pretty much on a daily basis ever since Erik was old enough to speak. Five years separated them, and yet, growing up, it had always seemed like the age gap was so much larger—generational, even. It was almost like they spoke totally different languages. In fact, that pretty accurately described their situation, both figuratively and literally: Erik usually acted like he couldn’t understand a word she said.
“¿Que?” he’d say, cupping his hand around his ear so that she’d yell at him in frustration that he wasn’t deaf. She always fell for it, much to her own frustration. “Sprechen zie human? Oh, I forgot, Ellen, you’re not.”
Maybe the first time it was funny. The last thousand or so? Not so much.
“What do you wish to tell meeeee, Ellen?”
“Come on, Erik. Let me talk to Mom or Dad. I need to tell them that my plans have changed.”
It was the last week before spring vacation at her college and she was looking forward to finishing her freshman mid-term exams later in the morning and going home for a much deserved break. The past six months had been a rollercoaster ride of highs and lows, due in part to the heavy load of classes she was taking, but also because of her upcoming marriage to Todd Previn. The never-ending details, a steady but exciting flow at first, had become an overwhelming torrent threatening to drown her. The thrill she’d experienced early on had turned into an unrelenting headache.
“I’m deaddd…”
“Ha ha,” she said, rubbing her temple. “Stop fooling around. I’m in a hurry. My last exam starts in a half hour. Is Mom or Dad there?”
“Theyyy aren’t with meeeee. They are still in the realm of the livinggggg, but I have passed on into the In Betweeeeen.”
“The in between?”
“The netherrrr world.”
“Be serious for once, will you? Are they there or not?”
“In Betweeen…”
“The only thing that’s going to be in between is your ass, doofus! Like, in between my foot and…”
She stopped, unable to think of anything else to add to the insult.
“Just get them for me,” she finished, tiredly.
“This line is only for the deadddddd. Do you have a message you want to tell the dead?”
“I said I don’t have time for this, dweeb-for-brains. I just wanted to find out if Mom and Dad are going to be home tonight because I’m coming home this afternoon instead of tomorrow. I turned in my econ report a day early.”
“I’mmmm deeeeead I told youuuu.”
“Arghh! Would you just— Just listen, okay? I’m taking the twelve-thirty train. Got that? Twelve. Thirty. Make sure you tell Mom or Dad because I’ll need someone to pick me up at the station at nine o’clock.”
“I’m faaading fast. I can’t commoooonicate with the livinnnnng.”
“Uh huh. Nice try. Just make sure someone’s at the station to pick me up or I’ll kick your puny little ass.”
“You can’t hurt me anymore,” Erik moaned. “I’m deadddd.”
“Damn it, Erik! You will be dead if I get home and no one’s there. The twelve-thirty train. Can you remember that?”
She didn’t wait for an answer. She disconnected the call and shoved the phone into her pocket. Hurling angry curses at the walls of her tiny Boston apartment overlooking the Charles River, she stalked about gathering up her books and closing curtains. A half minute later, she reconsidered her brusqueness on the phone and redialed home. She got a busy signal.
“Figures!”
Still, she couldn’t help laughing a little. Erik was just doing what he always did, which was be a royal pain in the ass. She loved the kid like an older sister loves a little brother—she’d protect him against anyone or anything that ever tried to hurt him—but that didn’t change the fact that he could be an annoying pain in the ass sometimes. Well, make that nearly all of the time.
Anyway, she should know better than to let it bother her.
“Not like you haven’t given him his share of grief over the years, sister.”
Okay. Maybe a little more than his share. They’d pretty much been at each other’s throats since the little brat was old enough to crawl.
But now she was in college and life wasn’t all fun and games anymore. Sometimes you needed to be serious. Sometimes you needed to be taken seriously.
She made a mental note to call home later and leave a message on the answering machine. Hopefully her parents would get to it before Erik did. She knew that if she relied solely on him to pass along the important stuff, it would never reach them. She’d just end up waiting at Newland Station for half the night, wondering where her ride was—well, not wondering. Knowing. Mom and Dad would be sitting obliviously at home watching Law & Order, thinking she wouldn’t be coming home until the following day. Newland wasn’t exactly the safest place to be after dark. No train station was, these days. They always seemed to attract the creepiest sorts.
“I should’ve sent them an email.”
But it was too late to boot up the computer and whip off a message now.
She rushed through the apartment, sweeping up her dirty clothes and shoving them into a laundry bag, which was starting to look pretty yucky itself. She stopped to look around and sighed with resignation. The place was still a mess, littered with empty pizza boxes and soda cans. She’d have to deal with them after she returned in a week.
The still unfinished three-day-old take-out boxes of lo mein and fried rice from her English lit cram session the other night, however, required immediate intervention. They were beginning to grow, and who knew what they’d turn into if allowed to flourish for another week in a sweltering apartment.
Ellen dumped them into the trash, then gathered the opening of the garbage bag and tied it shut before setting it outside her door for the pickup.
Finally, bag of dirty clothes in one hand, an energy bar in the other and her backpack on her shoulder, she scampered down the steps to the carport.
She guided her little Ford out of the apartment complex on Virginia Ave and made her way to Hinch Street. The college was three miles away, fourteen traffic lights. She usually went by bus, which took her all of about eight minutes, but today she needed to drive. She needed to leave for the train station as soon as her parapsych exam was over. There wouldn’t be enough time to go back to the apartment first.
She was glad for the convenience of the Boston-to-DC commuter rail, preferring the eight-and-a-half-hour ride between home and school to the much more nerve-wracking, though somewhat shorter, eight-hour drive—seven and a half hours, if she pushed it and traffic wasn’t too bad. True, train tickets weren’t cheap and the seats weren’t exactly plush—hell, they could be downright ass-numbing—and the train was usually too hot or too cold, but gas wasn’t cheap, either. At least there was a snack car and bathrooms on the train.
The snack car and bathrooms were a mixed blessing, of course, best only if used as measures of last resort. The restrooms were hit or miss—literally—and the snacks were of questionable quality and country of origin.
There was also the very real possibility of delays. The tracks through New York City were especially susceptible to mechanical issues and unexplained stoppages that sometimes lasted several hours, often without explanation. She hadn’t heard in the news of any issues in the past few weeks, so maybe they’d finally figured things out. She hoped they had.
Safety was the biggest factor in her decision to take the train. Ellen knew her chances of getting in an accident were several magnitudes higher in a car than sitting on the train. You took your life in your hands out there in a car, especially crossing the George Washington Bridge. There was talk recently that the ancient structure was on the verge of collapse. And traffic laws going through Connecticut were more like suggestions than dictates.
; On the other hand, the train had its own set of risks. While returning to school after the holidays, for example, she’d witnessed a mugging in the car ahead of hers. The attacker, a thickly-built brutish-looking man with a cord of white hair sprouting from the top of his otherwise bald head and a scar running down one cheek, had punched an elderly woman in the face and thrown her to the ground in the adjacent car. Ellen had been nearly paralyzed with fear when the guy made eye contact with her through the pair of windows separating them. He’d sneered at her like a wild animal before going back to assaulting his helpless victim.
Ellen had done nothing. Just sat there and watched and didn’t even lift a finger to intervene or shout out an alarm. When the man disappeared into the next car beyond, Ellen had breathed a short sigh of relief. He was still on the train, but as long as he was where she couldn’t see him—where she could see him coming if he decided to return—she felt safe.
Safer, anyway.
At the next station, she saw the old woman stumble to her feet and exit out onto the platform. She was holding a cloth up to her bloody nose and her coat was stained crimson. For some reason, the blood made Ellen think of raspberry jelly splattered over perfectly toasted bread.
She’d tried to look away, to avoid meeting the woman’s gaze. But then, after the doors had closed and the train began to speed up again, the woman had raised her eyes to the train, locking them on Ellen’s. She couldn’t not look then. She couldn’t erase the accusation she saw in that face.
For the remaining two hours of her trip, Ellen had curled herself up into a ball on her seat and shivered with fear and—
She didn’t know what else. Horror, maybe, or something akin to it. The woman’s glare had frightened her even more than the mugger’s. It tormented her dreams for weeks afterward.
She’d almost stopped using the train after that, rationalizing to herself that the risks of driving weren’t as bad as people made them out to be. But she eventually realized she was just avoiding the truth. It wasn’t out of fear that she was avoiding the train so much as guilt; she finally accepted that she’d been partially responsible for the attack, since she hadn’t done anything to stop it or to help identify the guy afterward. The jerk was probably still out there, still mugging with impunity.
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