Zombies - Encounters with the Hungry Dead Part 18

"How much longer?" "Soon now. Soon."

These voices weak, like a folding and unfolding of paper.

Brakes grabbed. The doors opened again. A thin light played over Mack-lin's lids, forcing them up.

He had another moment of clarity; they were becoming more frequent now. He blinked and felt pain. This time the van was parked between low hills. Two men in Western costumes pa.s.sed by, one of them leading a horse. The driver stopped a group of figures in togas. He seemed to be asking for directions.

Behind them, a castle lay in ruins. Part of a castle. And over to the side Macklin identified a church steeple, the corner of a turn-of-the-century street, a mock-up of a rocket launching pad and an old brick schoolhouse. Under the flat sky they receded into intersections of angles and vistas which teetered almost imperceptibly, ready to topple.

The driver and the other one set a stretcher on the tailgate. On the litter was a long, crumpled shape, sheeted and encased in a plastic bag. They sloughed it inside and started to secure the doors.

"You got the pacemaker back, I hope." "Stunt director said it's in the body bag." "It better be. Or it's our a.s.s in a sling. Your a.s.s. How'd he get so racked up, anyway?" "Ran him over a cliff in a sports car. Or no, maybe this one was the head-on they staged for, you know, that new cop series. That's what they want now, realism. Good thing he's a cremation-ain't no way Kelly or Dee's gonna get this one pretty again by tomorrow." "That's why, man. That's why they picked him. Ashes don't need makeup."

The van started up.

"Going home," someone said weakly.

"Yes..."

Macklin was awake now. Crouching by the bag, he scanned the faces, Jua-no's and the others'. The eyes were staring, fixed on a point as untouchable as the thinnest of plasma membranes, and quite unreadable.

He crawled over next to the one from the self-service gas station. The s.h.i.+rt hung open like folds of skin. He saw the silver box strapped to the flabby chest, directly over the heart. Pacemaker? he thought wildly.

He knelt and put his ear to the box.

He heard a humming, like an electric wrist.w.a.tch.

What for? To keep the blood pumping just enough so the tissues don't rigor mortis and decay? For G.o.d's sake, for how much longer?

He remembered Whitey and the nurse. "What happens? Between the time they become 'remains' and the services? How long is that? A couple of days? Three?"

A wave of nausea broke inside him. When he gazed at them again the faces were wavering, because his eyes were filled with tears.

"Where are we?" he asked.

"I wish you could be here," said the gas station attendant.

"And where is that?"

"We have all been here before," said another voice.

"Going home," said another.

Yes, he thought, understanding. Soon you will have your rest; soon you will no longer be objects, commodities. You will be honored and grieved for and your personhood given back, and then you will at last rest in peace. It is not for nothing that you have labored so long and so patiently. You will see, all of you. Soon.

He wanted to tell them, but he couldn't. He hoped they already knew.

The van lurched and slowed. The hand brake ratcheted.

He lay down and closed his eyes.

He heard the door creak back.

"Let's go."

The driver began to herd the bodies out. There was the sound of heavy, dragging feet, and from outside the smell of fresh-cut gra.s.s and roses.

"What about this one?" said the driver, kicking Macklin's shoe.

"Oh, he'll do his 48-hours' service, don't worry. It's called utilizing your resources."

"Tell me about it. When do we get the Indian?"

"Soon as St. John's certificates him. He's overdue. The crash was sloppy."

"This one won't be. But first Dee'll want him to talk, what he knows and who he told. Two doggers in two days is too much. Then we'll probably run him back to his car and do it. And phone it in, so St. John's gets him. Even if it's DOA. Clean as hammered s.h.i.+t. Grab the other end."

He felt the body bag sliding against his leg. Grunting, they hauled it out and hefted it toward-where?

He opened his eyes. He hesitated only a second, to take a deep breath.

Then he was out of the van and running.

Gravel kicked up under his feet. He heard curses and metal slamming. He just kept his head down and his legs pumping. Once he twisted around and saw a man scurrying after him. The driver paused by the mortuary building and shouted. But Macklin kept moving.

He stayed on the path as long as he dared. It led him past mossy trees and bird-stained statues. Then he jumped and cut across a carpet of matted leaves and into a glade. He pa.s.sed a gate that spelled dry lawn cemetery in old iron, kept running until he spotted a break in the fence where it sloped by the edge of the grounds. He tore through huge, dusty ivy and skidded down, down. And then he was on a sidewalk.

Cars revved at a wide intersection, impatient to get to work. He heard coughing and footsteps, but it was only a bus stop at the middle of the block. The air brakes of a commuter special hissed and squealed. A clutch of grim people rose from the bench and filed aboard like sleepwalkers.

He ran for it, but the doors flapped shut and the bus roared on.

More people at the corner, stepping blindly between each other. He hurried and merged with them.

Dry cleaners, laundromat, hamburger stand, parking lot, gas station, all closed. But there was a telephone at the gas station.

He ran against the light. He sealed the booth behind him and nearly collapsed against the gla.s.s.

He rattled money into the phone, dialed Operator and called for the police.

The air was close in the booth. He smelled hair tonic. Sweat swelled out of his pores and glazed his skin. Somewhere a radio was playing.

A sergeant punched onto the line. Macklin yelled for them to come and get him. Where was he? He looked around frantically, but there were no street signs. Only a newspaper rack chained to a post, none of the dead has been identified, read the headline.

His throat tightened, his voice racing. "None of the dead has been identified," he said, practically babbling.

Silence.

So he went ahead, pouring it out about a van and a hospital and a man in rumpled clothes who shot guys up with some kind of super-adrenalin and electric pacemakers and nightclerks and crash tests. He struggled to get it all out before it was too late. A part of him heard what he was saying and wondered if he had lost his mind.

"Who will bury them?" he cried. "What kind of monsters-"

The line clicked off.

He hung onto the phone. His eyes were swimming with sweat. He was aware of his heart and counted the beats, while the moisture from his breath condensed on the gla.s.s.

He dropped another coin into the box.

"Good morning, St. John's, may I help you?"

He couldn't remember the room number. He described the man, the accident, the date. Sixth floor, yes, that was right. He kept talking until she got it.

There was a pause. Hold.

He waited.

"Sir?"

He didn't say anything. It was as if he had no words left.

"I'm terribly sorry..."

He felt the blood drain from him. His fingers were cold and numb.

"... But I'm afraid the surgery wasn't successful. The party did not recover. If you wish I'll connect you with-"

"The party's name was White Feather," he said mechanically. The receiver fell and dangled, swinging like the pendulum of a clock.

He braced his legs against the sides of the booth. After what seemed like a very long time he found himself reaching reflexively for his cigarettes. He took one from the crushed pack, straightened it and hung it on his lips.

On the other side of the frosted gla.s.s, featureless shapes lumbered by on the boulevard. He watched them for a while.

He picked up a book of matches from the floor, lit two together and held them close to the gla.s.s. The flame burned a clear spot through the moisture.

Try to set the night on fire, he thought stupidly, repeating the words until they and any others he could think of lost meaning.

The fire started to burn his fingers. He hardly felt it. He ignited the matchbook cover, too, turning it over and over. He wondered if there was anything else that would burn, anything and everything. He squeezed his eyelids together. When he opened them, he was looking down at his own clothing.

He peered out through the clear spot in the gla.s.s.

Outside, the outline fuzzy and distorted but quite unmistakable, was a blue van. It was waiting at the curb.

11/ S. G. Browne A Zombie's.

Lament.

FOR THE DEAD, EVERYTHING'S PRETTY EASY. They have no responsibilities, no plans to make, no one to take care of, and no one gives them any grief-unless, of course, they end up in h.e.l.l, but that opens a whole can of metaphysical worms I don't even want to begin to get into.

The undead, however, have more grief to deal with than southern blacks in the 1950's. Talk about civil rights issues. We can't vote, get a driver's license, or attend public schools. We're not allowed in movie theaters or any other dark, public venue where we might bite or devour a Breather. No one will hire us, we can't apply for unemployment, and we can't find a decent place to live. Even homeless shelters turn us away.

When you die, your social security number gets "retired," which isn't a problem if you stay dead. But if you come back, become a zombie due to some genetic abnormality or because you consumed too much fast food while you were alive, well then, you're pretty much screwed. Your social security number is gone and you can't get it back. And since the undead aren't considered human beings, even by Breathers who don't belong to organized religions, the chances of getting another social security number are about as good as a town in Wyoming electing a gay sheriff.

Of course, without a social security number, you can't get a job, apply for federal or state benefits, or get financial aid to go to school. And if you think your family is willing to take you in and give you shelter and return whatever inheritance you might have left, forget about it. Breathers get pretty p.i.s.sed off when the dead come back.

I don't really understand it. I mean, it's not like we're any different than we were before we died. We crave security, companions.h.i.+p, and love. We laugh and cry and feel emotional pain. We enjoy listening to Elvis Presley and watching public television. Sure, there's the whole eating of human flesh stigma, but that's so George Romero. Outside of Hollywood, the undead typically don't eat the living-except for a growing minority of zombies who give the rest of us a bad name. After all, just because some Asians don't know how to drive doesn't mean they're all bad drivers. Okay. Bad example. But you get my point. Breathers are going to believe what they want to believe, even if they're family.

My parents weren't too happy when I showed up on their front porch, stinking of wet, worm-infested earth and formaldehyde deodorant. That's one of the biggest problems about coming back from the dead. The smell never quite goes away. I've taken dozens of showers and even soaked in a tub filled with disinfectant, but I still smell like I crawled out of a compost bin and washed my hair with ammonia.

Of course, the stench wasn't what initially set my parents off. I can't say I know what they went through, but I can imagine what it must have been like to see their thirty-two-year-old son come walking up to the front door, wearing the suit they'd buried him in. And that doesn't begin to address my physical condition. I didn't exactly die of natural causes.

I spent about a week on my parents' front porch before my dad finally came out and spoke to me, asked me what I wanted. I tried to answer, but the words came out in a croak and a screech. Apparently, my vocal cords were damaged in the accident, which would explain the st.i.tches across my throat.

I've tried to learn sign language, but the cognitive functions just aren't there and it's kind of hard to sign with just one hand. The mortician did a good job of st.i.tching me up, but he didn't bother fixing my left arm, which was pretty much mangled from the shoulder to the elbow. At least he managed to st.i.tch my ear back in place.

I don't remember much about what happened after I died. I didn't see any bright light or hear any ethereal voices, but then this isn't exactly heaven, is it? I just remember the accident and then darkness, endless and close, like a membrane. The next thing I knew, I was walking along the shoulder of Old San Jose Road in the morning, wondering what day it was and where I was coming from and why my left arm didn't work. Then a pick-up truck drove past and a rotten tomato exploded against the side of my face. Two teenage kids were riding in the back of the truck. One of them had his pants around his ankles and his bare a.s.s pointed my way while the second kid threw another tomato at me and yelled: "Go back to your grave, you freak!"

At first I thought they were just being kids-causing mischief, raising h.e.l.l, throwing rotten tomatoes at people for kicks. Denial is one of the first hurdles zombies have to overcome. Then I pa.s.sed Bill's Groceries and caught a glimpse of myself in the front window. As I stood and stared at my reflection, a six-year-old girl who walked out the door dropped her frozen fudge bar when she saw me and ran off screaming.

It took me a while to come to terms with what had happened to me. What I was. I still have trouble with it. It's a big adjustment, harder than you might imagine. After all, I still have the same basic hopes and desires I had when I was alive, but now they're unattainable. I may as well wish for wings.

Some nights, I still hear my father's voice, shaky and high-pitched, as he approached me that first time on the porch.

What... what do you want, Andy?

To be honest, I don't know what I want. I know what I'd like-I'd like to have my life back, to be married again and sitting on the couch in the family room with my wife and daughter, watching a movie while our two cats chase each other around the house. But my wife didn't survive the accident, either, and she's still buried out in the cemetery. I don't know why I came back and she didn't. Maybe it has something to do with genetics. Or fate. Or the universe's twisted sense of humor. Whatever the reason, I miss her. Even though my heart has stopped beating, it still aches.

As if things weren't bad enough, I can't even go out to visit Sara's grave until after the cemetery closes because the mourners freak out. I understand why Breathers don't want the undead at the cemetery during the day, but I don't like having to go there at night. It's so dark and creepy. And there are sounds, things I hear that don't seem natural. I know I'm supposed to be the one everyone's afraid of, but I still get scared. Especially at night.

After the accident, my daughter went to live with my wife's sister. I think about Annie all the time-what she's up to, who her friends are, how she's doing in school. I used to call every day, hoping to hear her voice answer the phone, but then her aunt and uncle got an unlisted number and moved out of state.

As much as I'd like to visit her, I don't think it'd be a good idea, even if I knew where she lived. I don't want her to remember me this way. And I don't think she'd exactly want to take me to any father/daughter picnics. Show and tell, maybe.

Still, I wish I could see her just one more time, tell her how much I love her, how much I miss her, but I've pretty much given up any hope of that. I've pretty much given up any hope of anything. It's just not the way I envisioned spending my life, or my death, or whatever you call this. Mostly I just sit in my parents' attic, staring at the walls and out the ventilation panel, wondering what I'm going to do. I can't get a job, I can't go to school, I can't hang out at The Aptos Club or shoot pool at Fast Eddie's or visit any of the other places I used to haunt. My parents let me stay in the attic, but they avoid me, and none of my old friends want anything to do with me. Sure, there's other zombies I can hang out with-more than a dozen live in the county-but it's not the same.

After a while, I get bored, like a dog left alone in the house who starts chewing on things in frustration-shoes, couches, pillows. And like a dog, I'm starting to feel anxious and frustrated. Except I don't think I'm going to be satisfied with chewing on pillows.

I've joined a support group, the local chapter of UA-Undead Anonymous. I think we need to come up with a new name. After all, when you're undead, you're about as anonymous as a transvest.i.te with a five o'clock shadow, but I guess I shouldn't complain. At least we don't get any support group imposters cras.h.i.+ng our meetings, trying to pick up on vulnerable women. That would be sick. Interesting, but sick.

I've met some nice zombies in the meetings. I mean survivors. That's what the UA handbook says we're supposed to refer to each other and ourselves as. Survivors. It's supposed to make us feel better about ourselves, less estranged from society. More human. Most of us think it's just a bunch of semantic bulls.h.i.+t. As far as Breathers are concerned, we're no more human than dogs or cats. And we don't have the same rights as animals. Since we're dead, any crimes committed against us are misdemeanors at worst. Most of the time, they're not even considered crimes. If you've never known someone who had his arms torn out of his sockets by a gang of drunks who then slapped him repeatedly in the face with his own hands, then you probably wouldn't understand.

A few of us have been getting together outside of the group and talking about what we can do to protect ourselves. At first we stuck to the basics using the buddy system, having a curfew, carrying mace. Lately, however, we've been broaching issues considered taboo in the support group.

One of the members, a forty-seven-year-old truck driver named Carl, managed to get a copy of the original Night of the Living Dead. Rita, a twenty-two-year-old suicide victim, posed as a Breather to get a hotel room with a VCR where we could watch the movie. Bracelets and jewelry hid Rita's scars pretty well. Add sungla.s.ses, a little make-up, a couple bottles of cheap perfume, and a h.o.r.n.y desk clerk with bad vision, and we were good to go.