I've Been Deader (2 page)

At that moment Fred realized two things. He had to see this woman again; and he had to get the hell out of there. Then the bottle hit the ground and things started heating up.

There was a
whumph
, like the sound an explosion of flames makes, followed by an explosion of flames. The next instant the crowd of zombies turned into walking Duraflames.

Fred turned and started to limp away. There were few things more flammable then a zombie.
That woman - that beautiful, amazing woman -
could have poured grape juice on those rotters and they still would have gone up like dry kindling at the mere sight of a Zippo lighter.

While zombies burned easier than toast, they had a tendency to keep walking while they did it. Burning dead began lurching to and fro, and a few were lurching too close to Fred.

An overweight zombie with a flaming beard blindly shuffled toward him. Fred took a few steps back and moved to the left. He could feel the heat as the corpse walked past before falling to its knees. The fire kept burning as it started crawling across the parking lot, seeking God knew what.

Two others were also heading his way. He couldn't tell for sure because the flames were too -
zombie, zombie, burning -
bright but it looked as if they had somehow fused together. The smaller one may have been a woman back in the day, but now she was bubbling a bit around the chest and neck and her eyes were empty sockets. She kept pulling the larger one to the left, and the flaming pair made their way in Fred's general direction via a series of sloppy half circles.

He didn't stick around to see if they made it. Most of the undead hadn't moved much from the door, but a few impersonated walking candles, sending black greasy ash and smoke into the fresh Newark air.

He managed to put some distance between himself and the ZBQ when he heard the car. A black Escalade tore down the parking lot, avoiding the undead more by chance than intent. The driver, head hanging out the window and drunk on adrenaline, screamed in defiance and terror. The windshield was spider-webbed and smeared with ash, hair and gore. The passenger window was also open and Fred could see the woman, the beautiful woman, in the passenger seat. She seemed remarkably calm, all things considered. She kept firing a gun without aiming. A garbage can and Coca-Cola vending machine each took one for the team.
It's shock, not calm
.

As the car sped by, he glimpsed two girls in the back seat and just the smallest wisp of blonde hair peeking above the back window.

That woman ... those eyes
. Fred watched his meals on wheels make good their escape, but food was the last thing on his mind.

Chapter 3

Crush

'
Lord, I was made a shamblin' man.

Trying to keep unliving the best I can.
'

-The Almost Breathers

Fred stood in the rubble-strewn alley, dead flowers clutched in his hands, staring vacantly at the gated brownstone across the street. Like all undead he had two types of looks - vacant and insanely hungry.

He would have stared with longing if he could. Not at the brownstone, although it was a rather nice building with the bedrooms exposed to the morning light, but at the breather inside - the woman from the airport.

She and the others had been living in the building for the last several weeks - along with a white toy Poodle they called Niki. Fred hated Niki. If there was anything more annoying than the incessant moaning of the undead, it was Niki's never-ending yipping. Even now he could hear it barking from somewhere inside the brownstone. He didn't know how the breathers could stand it. On the other hand, if it hadn't been for the mutt, Fred may never have found them again.

Ahh, but none of those petty annoyances seemed to bother Aleta. The wonderful, beautiful,
clean
Aleta. Like a living work of art -
yum
- she sat in front of the upstairs window with a sketch pad in hand, studying the sunset.
Sketchpad. Can you imagine
?

She had short blonde hair and brown eyes.
Two
brown eyes. He absently raised a mangled hand to his ruined right eye. She had the whitest smile he had ever seen. Every day at this time she sat at her window and every day he stood in the rubble across the street.

Fred's eye was empty but his dead heart was filled with fire.

You are beautiful, like an angel
, he thought.

"Braaaiiinss," he moaned.

He'd been watching her for days now, growing more anxious with each passing hour. She couldn't stay there forever. Bad things happened to breathers who stayed in one place too long. Yesterday, for example, one of the lesser dead tried to make its way into the building. He'd seen it attack the iron gate with a single-mindlessness one always finds in zombies and certain radio talk show hosts. It wasn't a Thinker and would never have breached the gate. Still, just knowing it was after Aleta's brains threw Fred into a rage. He picked up a broken Coke bottle and before he knew what he was doing, fell upon the zombie, sawing the jagged piece of glass into its throat. He didn't stop until its entire head flipped back ninety degrees, reminding Fred of a Pez candy dispenser. The deader zombie now lay outside the fence.

If any of this bothered the breathers they didn't show it. The man left earlier that morning, taking the rifle and entrusting Aleta's safety to the spiked fence.
Just a matter of time before others find her - maybe it'll be a Thinker next time. If that happens
...

He knew that he was not like the other zombies. Sure, he ate the brains of breathers and his mortified flesh was in a constant state of decay; but inside, underneath all the gangrene and rot, Fred was different. He didn't know why. He just knew that he was. But how could he show
her
that? How could he get her to see beyond the open neck wound and the shambling gait? To make her see the real Fred and not just another drooling corpse?

He needed a plan.

Earlier Fred had found a box of crayons and a pad of paper in a little girl's bedroom - don't ask - and tried to write Aleta a love letter. But hours later his entire work product consisted of a large purple smudge that under certain lighting conditions might pass as a heart. Frustrated, he had shoved the note in his pocket and went on a blind rampage, smashing and thrashing for long minutes. When his frustration abated, he noticed a black plastic ball lying in the corner of the room.

A magic 8-ball.
He picked up the ball and stared at the small plastic window. The words 'Yes, definitely' floated up to him.

Later he stumbled upon the burned out florist shop.

Now here he stood - dead flowers in one hand, Magic 8-ball in the other. His plan was to wait until she left the building. Then he'd slip inside and wait. When she came back and saw he wasn't interested in eating her, he would declare his love and then ... well, then everything would fall into place. Fred was a zombie, not Einstein.

He was in the middle of a beautiful daydream featuring the both of them walking in the park, when Aleta got up from her chair and disappeared from view.

Fred went into action.

Mumbling "braaiins" into the night air, he shambled over to the iron gate. Both the gate and fence stood almost eight feet high. It looked like several giant spears, spikes pointing up at the sky, enough to discourage any zombie and most Jehovah's Witnesses.

But Fred was not discouraged. Putting the dead bouquet in his mouth, he grabbed the corpse's feet with his free hand and started dragging it around the side of the building, the head bopping and flopping against the pavement. One solid whack and the broken Coke bottle popped out of its neck like a nasty piece of Pez candy.

Taking one last vacant glance down the street to make sure nothing was watching, Fred swung the corpse by its legs in a great arc. It made a whistling sound as it traveled through the air, followed by a satisfying meaty thud when a fence spike pierced through the upper chest and back. The head snapped off, bouncing and rolling across the protected side of the building's grounds.

Got some distance on that
. A few vertebrae peeked through the neck, like some grisly periscope. He pulled on the legs until the corpse was wedged good and tight between two of the spikes. He pushed the 8-ball through the gap in the fence and dug his fingers into the corpse's flesh, puncturing three holes on each side of its waist. Fred hoisted himself up, sliding his fingers out of the corpse and then making new hand holds right under its arms. Cold fluid washed over his fingers and down his forearms.

This is pretty sick, even for a zombie
. He pulled himself up and over the fence. It was one thing to eat the living, but mutilating a corpse just seemed ... wrong

Safe on the other side, Fred picked up the Magic 8-ball and shook it.
Will she like me?
The words floated up:
Future uncertain, ask again later.

Could be worse
.

Now he just had to wait and -

The sharp gasp wasn't quite a scream, but it was the loudest thing Fred had heard since breakfast. He turned around, the flowers still clutched in his mouth, and saw
her
standing there, hands covering her mouth. Behind his dead, vacant eyes Fred was embarrassed and horrified. This was going all wrong. He opened his mouth intending to say something reassuring and the dead flowers spilled onto the ground.

Aleta hadn't expected to have to deal with zombies on this side of the fence. Before he left, Erik had promised the grounds were safe. Even so, she wouldn't have risked going outside if little Niki's barking hadn't triggered a migraine. She didn't know how her daughter could stand that dog. Better to risk being eaten than spend another minute listening to that damn dog. It seemed like a reasonable thought at the time.

Fred was desperate. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out the crumpled note and held it out toward Aleta, hoping it would calm her down some.

Aleta stepped back as the zombie, with arms outstretched and black-red ichor dripping from its fingers, moved toward her.

Fred shuffled over, waving the note and the Magic 8-ball in the air.
No. Please. I don't want to hurt you
, he thought.

"Braaiinsss," he moaned.

If only she’d have just turned around and sprinted for the door, she would have been fine. Instead she stepped backward on the decapitated head, turned her ankle and fell to the ground.

Fred shambled closer.
This can still work
. She had to see that he wouldn't hurt her. He tried to smile, his broken lips revealing blackened and missing teeth. Aleta screamed.

Fred didn't know what to do. He stood over her in a panic, yellowish drool spilling from the corner of his mouth. He raised a finger to his lips in the universal sign of "Shh."

Aleta screamed louder.

Fred bent down, reaching for her.

Oh, the hell with it
, he thought.

"Braaaiinsss," he moaned.

Chapter 4

Family

'
Undead, undead.

All alone I breathe.

In time they come for everyone.
'

- Freddie

Karen was almost eleven years old and an only child now. Her long blonde hair stuck to the sides of her neck, damp with sweat. Yesterday Joe went off to scavenge, leaving the three of them with a few gallons of fresh water and false promises of safety. Her older sister Rose gave mute testament to the lie.

By a small act of grace the bed stood between Karen and her sister's body. Thinking about Rose made her want to scream and cry at the same time, but she didn’t dare do either. Hidden in the corner of her closet, Karen knew that silence meant life.

She peered through the wooden slats of the closet door but in the dark room it was difficult to see anything other than the outline of her bed. Her mind filled in the details she couldn't see; her sister's ravaged body on the other side, eyes staring at the ceiling in silent horror. The back of her head ...

Time froze with a smothering weight that made it hard to breathe. At some time during the day she'd peed herself.
Peed myself like a baby.
The stench disgusted and worried her.
Can they smell?

For once Niki's yipping was a welcome distraction. She could hear her paws clicking on the wooden floor downstairs. The dog would keep quiet for a minute or so and then erupt in a series of small barks before falling silent again. Her barking always drove Karen nuts, but today she craved its company. In the silence between Niki's barking bursts, she heard a thousand small, phantom sounds. She imagined Rose shifting, changing position, trying to get comfortable. But Rose was dead still.
Dead as dead. Please God, keep her dead
. Somewhere in the dark house, however, Mother was still moving and grooving.

It will be okay. I'll just stay here until Joe comes back … or until Mother
leaves.

Sometime later she woke up, surprised at herself for dozing off. Niki wasn't barking but there were a hundred small sounds - soft clicks, ticks, and almost thumps - tinged with doom and dark promise. Somehow she had slept and dusk had turned into full-blown night; the last traces of light had fled and the air felt heavier, making breathing a chore. Her limbs felt wooden and unresponsive. Hair fell over her eyes but the effort to bring hand to face was too great. She had a suicidal urge to scream. Scream and bring everything to an end.

Or maybe I'll laugh. Like when Rose and I played the giggle game. I'll just laugh and laugh and laugh until Mother finds me.

Soon fear and adrenaline took hold of her again.
Hide or run?
She wanted nothing more than to stay buried in the back of the closet until Mother left or Joe returned. But for all she knew Mother might be staying forever, and Joe, armed or not, might not be back for a day or two - maybe more.