I swallow down my dry throat and spit out words. "That's the question. At this point all the humans are dead, so it's just zombies left. You'd think they'd roam around mindlessly with no brains left, but in fact they stack up like this. I'm not sure if I should give the reason for it in the last panel, or sort of leave it open."
She leans back. "OK, like a cliffhanger. So do you know what they’re climbing for?"
"Yeah. It's not aliens or anything. They're not climbing up to the mother ship."
She chuckles. I should probably stop this now while I'm ahead. I don't.
"I'll show you if you like," I say. "I'll be here tomorrow. I come in here most days."
"I know."
There's a bashful quiet. Of course I've seen her before, for the past five months, but I had no notion if I’d registered on her radar. We never talked, and really I'm not supposed to be talking to her now. It could kill me. I should just shut up.
"Dinner," I say instead. It comes into my head and I say it. "I'll show you at dinner tomorrow night. There's a great modern French spot nearby, they do logarithmic art on the walls and they have a cat that sings for its supper. My treat. I'll show you the panel. You render judgment."
Her left eyebrow raises a fraction. "A date? I approached you, though, it's true. I suppose I was asking for this."
"I'm the one asking. I think it'll be fun."
She laughs. "Points for opportunism, then. And for being the mayor. What if I say I have a boyfriend?"
"Then you'll have to buy the comic yourself. No free peeks at the last page."
She laughs again, and her bright eyes narrow, appraising me. "Well, you seem OK. No scurvy, rickets, nothing like that. It's a deal. Give me your phone."
I hand it over solemnly. She taps on it deftly then hands it back. "I'm not in here tomorrow," she says, "but we can have dinner. The cat better sing. I want good logarithms."
"Only the best."
She raises the eyebrow a little higher. I'm not entirely sure I know what a logarithm is, so I hope she won't ask. I saw it on a flyer.
"Lara," she says. "That's my name."
"Amo. It means love in Latin. My parents were hippies."
"Amo the mayor, OK. I'll see you."
She turns and goes. There are other people's novels to check on, probably, and my constituents to serve. Also they profit-share here, there's a career path and everything, which has got to be motivating. Next month Lara could be the manager, next year the world.
Ah shit. My heart is racing. This plus mayor is probably too much excitement for me to take. I sincerely hope I don't fall into a coma and die.
* * *
A year ago I fell into a coma and died.
It lasted for two weeks, and in fact I died many times, with my heart stopping and all brain function fading. Many times they somehow brought me back. I don't remember any of it. No one knows why. When I woke up it wasn't because of anything the doctors did. The fit or infection or whatever it was had just passed. It left me with a severely weakened heart, and a severely weakened mind.
I read somewhere that people who go obese will always be more likely to become obese again, because their body built extra fat cells the first time around, and these start filling up immediately as soon as there's too much food in their belly. They stretched their body like a balloon when they first got fat, and now it's slack and easy to re-inflate.
"Is it like that?" I asked the doctor, after explaining my theory. He was a serious Indian man with bright red glasses, which I found galling. Who wears bright red glasses when they go to see a man coming out of a coma? It's not a catwalk, man.
"It is like that," he told me, or words to that effect, then went on to make his own comparison which was totally different. "Think of it like diabetes. Once you've got it you can't go back, and one lapse can lead to serious complications."
I decided I would think of it as a saggy balloon from that time forward. I don't have brain-diabetes. I just don't.
"Complications like what?"
"Like more comas. Like death."
I was sitting in my hospital bed, in a lovely clean white ward that looked out over Central Park, a bright green contrast against the hospital's sterility. My family had all come in and out hours earlier, quietly of course, and now I was surrounded by bobbing foil balloons in the shape of skeleton and zombie heads, just my kind of thing. My doctor stood at the end of my bed, and I had this revelation: he doesn't have a clue. He doesn't have a goddamned clue what he's talking about.
"So for the saggy balloon," I said, refusing to talk diabetes, "I should try to keep away from blowing it up. How can I do that?"
He actually took off his glasses then. I suppose this was sincere. He wagged them in his hands as he made his points.
"Your family tell me you were under a lot of stress when it happened. You're an artist, yes?"
I nodded.
"Art is tricky. It does things to the brain we don't understand. You don't seem to have any other risk factors, nothing genetic, nothing in your system, only the stress of what you were working on. Was anything else stressful in your life at the time?"
I cast my mind back, but I couldn't think of anything. It was work; I was making the panels for my biggest project yet, an anthology horror piece I was editing that several online stores had already agreed to feature prominently. I'd set it up, bringing eleven other artists on board. It was a big deal for me.
"There was pressure, but not overwhelming. I can't think of anything else."
He sighed. "You won't like to hear this then. I'll put it bluntly. We think you may be allergic to art."
"What?"
He held up his hands. "I know, that's not possible. But your brain is highly abnormal, Amo. Over the course of your coma we've studied you a lot. Some of the best researchers in the country were here, trying to untangle the maze of contradictory data. For all the world it looked like your brain was a fever map, with lights flashing on and out, changing constantly. Some areas seemed to burn out, the ones we normally ascribe to creativity, then just as quickly they reformed. We thought we saw cancers growing, we were ready to operate, but they receded. You died and you came back multiple times. Your brain is essentially entirely new, having regrown itself many times. We don't understand it at all. You'll be a case study for years to come. I honestly don't know how complications will manifest."
I sat there dumbly.
"So I can only advise," he went on. "I'd advise you to avoid stimulation of any kind, particularly any kind of artistic endeavor, plus the parts of the brain associated with romantic love- they lit up some of the brightest. It was like fourth of July in your head."
I frowned at him. He seemed to regret that last phrase. He put his glasses back on and nodded, as though confirming something I'd said.
"Don't do art," he said. "Don't fall in love. It's what I have to advise. I'd prescribe you drugs, Xanax or another sedative mood-stabilizer, but I've no idea what that might do with your fragile brain chemistry. We can't take the risk."
I mull this over. No art? No love?
"So what can I do then?"
"You can recover. Read old books you've read before. Boredom is your bandage."
"What about movies?"
"If they're very dull, or old. Black and white would be best. I have to also advise you against any act of sex. The stimulation could trigger a relapse. However it may be wise to masturbate once a week, as clinically as you can, to avoid any kind of hormone build up. Again I'd prescribe for that, but I don't think it wise. There's too much risk."
I stared at him. Already the first of the twinges was beginning to kick in. "You want me to masturbate clinically?"
He shifted uncomfortably. "As clinically as possible. Use very soft porn if you must."
"Because if I get too excited, I might die?"
"Or worse."
"Or worse? What could be worse than dying?"
The doctor shrugged. "Some would say a never-ending coma is
worse. I've never been in a coma, so I wouldn't know. I imagine if you never wake up though, then you may as well be dead. It's just a horrible, powerless delay."
"I woke up this time."
"You did. Who can say, really?"
"Who can say?" I repeated. I slumped back on my pillows, with the twinge in my head ramping up to migraine proportions.
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Copyright © 2014 by Michael John Grist
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The Mud Girl previously published in Kaleidotrope #Spring, 2013.
Bone Diamond previously published in Beneath Ceaseless Skies #75, 2012.
The Tonsor's Son previously published in Podcastle #229, 2012.
The Orphan Queen previously published in Ideomancer #10:4, 2011.
Sky Painter previously published in Something Wicked #11, 2011.
Caterpillar Man previously published in Shelter of Daylight #9, 2009.
Leanna Drew the Moon previously published in The Harrow #11:5, 2008
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Death of East Page 16
