Zombies: The Recent Dead

by Paula Guran

  “Global warming? Sweetheart, that’s a myth they created to scare you, believe me. No such thing. God knows what He’s doing.”

  I smoothed back my hair. It was unnaturally hot for an October evening. There was something hellish about that kind of heat this time of year. I thought of the ice floes melting at the North pole and the polar bears dying. I was sweating uncomfortably and I was afraid I might be staining my white blouse. I used deodorant but I had stopped wearing antiperspirant because of the link between aluminum and Alzheimer’s. Not that I cared. Alzheimer’s might actually be all right. You stagger around in a state of detachment and forgetting.

  There are certain things I can’t forget, no matter how hard I try. No matter how many photographs I hide or how much zombie research I do. They pop into my mind when I least expect them.

  Max used to ask me, “Mommy, when is the Earth going to explode? When is the sun going to burn us up?” Once he said, “Mommy will you hold me from the time the Earth was made until it ends?”

  “Yes, honey,” I said. “I will hold you forever.”

  He curled up into my arms, his delicately boned, dusty brown feet tucked up on my lap. His eyes were big and brown with eyelashes that all the nurses in the hospital said they wanted.

  “It’s not fair,” they cooed.

  Of course, it was more than fair. The other stuff was what wasn’t fair.

  “How about a Prius?” I asked Mr. Hart.

  “How about a Hummer? Owned by a little old lady from Pasadena. Almost no mileage.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I said. “Sorry,” I said. And left.

  There is a proliferation of zombies around lately, let me tell you.

  My ex Daniel’s girlfriend Kimmy is not behaving at all normally, even for a stressed out, middle-aged, hyperactive kickboxing instructor dame. She drones on and on about herself and is unable to ask anyone questions about how they are doing. She wears the same rapacious grin frozen on her face at all times, even when she is angry. She talks loudly and proudly at all social gatherings about how she had tumors in her uterus and can no longer have any more children. (I know Daniel finds this perversely comforting; no chance of any more children means no chance of any more tragedies for him). She never lets anyone see her eat, not even Daniel. (He told me this; I think even he is worried). While she cooks his dinner she tells him she caught a bite at the gym and that she doesn’t digest food well after four pm. She walks with jerky movements and snaps her gum spastically and calls everyone “dude.” Do you see?

  In addition there is that presidential candidate and his running mate. I believe they have been bitten. Look at their glassy eyes. Listen to their hollow voices—hers more shrill but hollow still. Read about their policies to destroy nature and take away women’s rights, gay rights. I can just imagine them hunting people out of helicopters and gnawing on someone’s thighbone with gristle between their teeth.

  I remember that doctor at the hospital where Max was. He strolled out into the waiting room and tried to take my hand but I wouldn’t let him touch me. His skin was greenish white under the fluorescence and his legs and arms were stiff.

  When I saw him I knew. I thought it was going to be like on TV where they say, “I’m sorry.”

  I didn’t want to hear those words from him. So I said them first.

  “I’m sorry!” I screamed. I fell to my knees. “I’m so so sorry.”

  Zombies are reanimated corpses. I looked it up online. It said that if there is an invasion find a shopping mall or grocery store and barricade yourself inside. Then you will have plenty of supplies until you can come up with a plan.

  I called Coco.

  “Yes, I think you’re right.”

  “What?”

  “He seems to be what you say he is.”

  “Thanks for . . . Sorry . . . Um. What should we do about it?”

  “Come meet me,” I said. “But try not to say ‘sorry’ so much.”

  “Sorry. I mean . . . ”

  “It’s okay. I do it too. You’re very polite. Most people in L.A. don’t say ‘thank you’ so much either.”

  “Oh. Sorry. We’re from Florida.”

  I should be the one saying “sorry.”

  Okay, so I’m not a legitimate P.I. My ex, Daniel, rented this office for me. It’s on Washington next to a store that sells knives and other exotic weaponry. The rent was cheap. Daniel thought it might help me after what happened with Max. He thought it would be good for me to have some place to go to every day, something to get dressed for. Kind of like playing office when you’re a kid. Okay, so I hadn’t really had any clients except for Coco, but hell, at least I had her. The guy with the cheating fiancée—I made him up. But not Coco. Not the zombie father. I would never lie to you about zombies.

  Coco came in wearing a pair of skinny jeans, black-and-white checked Van’s slip-on sneakers and the same oversized sweatshirt with the sleeves pulled down over her hands. She looked like a typical teenager except that her face had a very serious expression. She kept the sleeves of her sweatshirt bunched in her hand while she gnawed on her fingers. She wasn’t even pretending that she didn’t bite her nails this time.

  “Thank you for looking into this.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “What are we going to do?” she asked me. “What did you do before?”

  “You can’t panic,” I said. “But at the same time you must be vigilant not to get bitten.”

  She nodded. “He hasn’t tried that.”

  “What precautionary actions are you taking?” I asked her.

  “I have a secret hideaway stashed with water and food supplies,” she told me.

  “That’s good.”

  “And I sleep with my door locked.”

  “Good.”

  Then she said, “Can I ask you something?”

  I knew what was coming.

  “Would you write on my arm?” She shoved up her sweatshirt sleeve and stuck out her bare forearm. There were raised white scars running horizontally just above her wrists.

  I was wrong. I hadn’t expected that question nor had I expected the scars. It took me a moment to talk. “What do you mean? I asked.

  “With a Sharpie. I think it will help me to be brave. If you write a message.”

  I had no idea what to write but I took the Sharpie she handed me and opened it. It smelled like chemicals. It smelled like back-to-school and summer sports camp when I had to write Max’s name on his baseball hat and backpack and lunch box. A bunch of lunchboxes were recalled because of lead content. I wondered what other dangerous substances lurked in products for children. There were carcinogens in things that seemed perfectly innocuous, like bubble bath and hot dogs.

  “I don’t think Sharpie is good for your skin,” I told Coco. “It doesn’t say non-toxic. It’s permanent.”

  “Exactly.”

  She was still holding her arm out so I wrote, “Farewell, My Zombie,” She smiled with satisfaction and pulled her sleeve down over it.

  “Don’t let your father see,” I said.

  She nodded.

  “What happened? To your wrist.”

  “When I was a baby I got really sick,” she said. “I’m better now. But I had to take all this medication and get all these treatments that really fucked me up. Sorry. Messed me up. I’d survived all that but I my life at home sucked and I didn’t want to live anymore.”

  I suddenly wished I’d insisted on using non-toxic marker on her arm. “I understand,” I said. “But you can’t give up now. I mean, really. You can’t.”

  She looked at me blankly.

  “Okay?”

  “Okay,” she said. Then: “Can I ask you something else?”

  Here it was.

  “What really happened with your son?” she said, just as I thought she would.

  I hadn’t talked about it in so long.

  “Everyone thought he had a brain tumor,” I said. “But it wasn’t like that. It wasn’t like that
at all. They wanted him and they got him. So that’s why I’m here. In case I can help anyone else.”

  Coco reached out and gently touched my hand. “Sorry but . . . do you think, maybe, you just might not want to look at what really happened?”

  I jumped as if she’d slapped me. “Get out please,” I said.

  “Oh! Sorry! I’m so sorry, Miss Merritt. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  The thing is, maybe Coco’s right. Maybe Max really did have cancer. Maybe Coco had cancer and recovered and then wished she hadn’t. Maybe her father isn’t a zombie but maybe he did lay a hand on her. Maybe there’s no such thing as global warming and it’s okay to drive an Escalade but I don’t think so. Maybe people are just out there trying to scare us. Hmmm. Maybe the presidential candidate and his running mate are not trying to eat us up. Maybe I’m crazy; maybe I’m perfectly sane. Who knows?

  Well, baby, I know this. Today I am going to shut the office and ride my bike (because who wants to take a chance on making that hole in the ozone bigger just in case) down Washington to the beach. I am going to take off my shoes and walk on the wet sand. I am going to eat my cheese sandwich and watch the sun set like a beautiful apocalypse. Maybe I’ll even build a sandcastle. Those are the things you and I used to do. That is why I haven’t been to the beach in all these years. But today at sunset I am going to close my eyes and I am going to remember every little thing I can about you. From your eyelashes clumped with salt water, to the sand under your fingernails, to the little curled shells of your toes. I am going to remember all our days at the beach and the way you used to burrow into my arms when you were cold and the way, when you were a little older you used to pick roses from the garden for me, in spite of the thorns. I miss you, baby. I am going to apologize to Coco and when she comes back but I am not going to apologize to any more zombies. I am going to find out some more details and if a zombie or cancer whatever you want to call it threatens Coco Hart or any kids I know I am going to kick that motherfucker zombie’s ass. I miss you, baby. But it is better than forgetting.

  About the Author

  Francesca Lia Block is the award-winning, bestselling author of numerous books. Her work has been translated into many languages. She has received numerous honors, including the Margaret A. Edwards Lifetime Achievement Award and the Phoenix Award, as well as citations from the American Library Association, The New York Times Book Review, and the School Library Journal. Born in Los Angeles, where she still lives, Block’s writing is often informed and inspired by the city’s sprawling subculture.

  Story Notes

  Block’s title is, of course, a parody of Raymond Chandler’s Farewell, My Lovely, the second novel he wrote featuring hard-boiled Los Angeles private eye Philip Marlowe. One of the themes of Chandler’s novel is obsession. The zombie, these days, can be used as a metaphor for many things. Block leaves us wondering if zombies are real in the world she has devised or a metaphor or simply part of Jane’s obsession.

  Trinkets

  Tobias S. Buckell

  George Petros walked down the waterfront, the tails of his coat slapping the back of his knees. An occasional gust of wind would tug at his tri-cornered hat, threatening to snatch it away. But by leaning his head into the wind slightly, George was able to manage a sort of balancing act between the impetuous gusts of wind and civilization’s preference for a covered head.

  The cobblestones made for wobbly walking, and George had just bought new shoes. He hadn’t broken them in yet. But the luxury of new shoes bought the fleeting edges of a self-satisfied smile. The soles of his new shoes made a metronomic tick-tick-tick sound as he hurried towards his destination, only slowing down when he walked around piles of unloaded cargo.

  Men of all sorts, shapes, and sizes bustled around in the snappy, cold weather. Their breath steamed as they used long hooks to snatch the cargo up and unload it. George walked straight past them. He did not put on airs or anything of the sort, but he hardly made eye contact with the grunting dockworkers.

  His destination was the Toussaint. George could tell he was getting closer, the quiet suffering of the New England dockworkers yielded to a more buoyant singing.

  George detoured around one last stack of crates, the live chickens inside putting up a cacophony of squawks and complaint, and saw the Toussaint. The ship was hardly remarkable; it looked like any other docked merchantmen. What did give people a reason to pause were the people around the ship: they were Negroes. Of all shades of colors, George noticed.

  Free Negroes were around the North. But to see this many in one area, carrying guns, talking, chatting, flying their own flag. It made people nervous. Ever since the island of Haiti drove the French from its shores for its independence, their ships had been ranging up and down the American coast. George knew it made American politicians wonder if the Negroes of the South would gain any inspiration from the Haitians visible freedom.

  The crew stood around the ship, unloaded the cargo, and conducted business for supplies with some of the New England shopkeepers. George himself was a shopkeeper, though of jewels and not staples of any sort. He nodded, seeing some familiar faces from his street: Bruce, Thomas. No doubt they would think he was here for some deal with the Haitians.

  The smell of salt and sweat wafted across the docks as George nodded to some of the dockworkers, then passed through them to the gangplank of the ship. One of the Haitians stopped him. George looked down and noticed the pistol stuck in a white sash.

  “What do you need?” He spoke with traces of what could have been a French accent, or something else. It took a second for George to work through the words.

  “I’m here for a package,” George said. “Mother Jacqueline . . . ”

  The man smiled.

  “Ah, you’re that George?”

  “Yes.”

  George stood at the end of the plank as the Haitian walked back onto the ship. He was back in a few minutes, and handed George a brown, carefully wrapped, parcel. Nothing shifted when George shook it.

  He stood there for a second, searching for something to say, but then he suddenly realized that the tables had been turned, and now he was the one who wasn’t wanted here. He left, shoes clicking across the cobblestones.

  In the room over his shop George opened the parcel by the window. Below in the street horses’ feet kicked up a fine scattering of snow. When it settled by the gutters, it was stained brown and muddy with dung.

  The desk in front of him was covered in occasional strands of his hair. He had a small shelf with papers stacked on it, but more importantly, he had his shiny coins and pieces of metal laid out in neat, tiny little rows. George smiled when the light caught their edges and winked at him. Some of the coins had engravings on them, gifts between lovers long passed away. Others had other arcane pieces of attachment to their former owners. Each one told George a little story. The jewelry he sold downstairs meant nothing. Each of the pieces here represented a step closer to a sense of completion.

  He cut the string on the package and pulled the paper away from a warm mahogany box lid. The brass hinges squeaked when he opened it.

  Inside was a letter. The wax seal on it caught George’s full attention; he sat for a moment entranced by it. The faint smell of something vinegary kicked faint memories back from their resting places, and Mama Jaqi’s distant whisper spoke to him from the seal.

  “Hear me, obey me . . . ”

  George sucked in his breath and opened the seal to read his directions. There is a man, the letter read, right now sitting in a tavern fifteen or so miles south of you. You should go and listen to his story . . .

  There was a name. And the address of the tavern.

  Who is Louis Povaught? George wondered. But he didn’t question the implicit order given. Layers of cold ran down his back, making him shiver. Automatically, without realizing it, he pulled something out and put it in his pocket, then shut the box. As he donned his coat and walked out of the shop to find a carriage he told Ryan, the sho
p’s assistant, that he would be back “later,” and he should close the shop himself.

  Hours later, the sky darkening, George’s cab stopped in front of “The Hawser.” A quick wind batted the wooden sign over the door around. George paid and walked through door. It was like any other tavern: dim, and it smelled of stale beer and piss. He looked around and fastened his eyes on a Frenchman at the edge of the counter.

  Frenchman, Negro, Northerner, Southerner, English . . . to George, all humanity seemed more or less the same after he met Mama Jaqi. Yet even now he could feel that he was being nudged towards the Frenchman. This is the man he was supposed to meet, as irrational as it may have seemed. George carefully stamped his new shoes clean, leaned over to brush them off with a handkerchief he kept for exactly that purpose, then crossed the tavern to sit by the Frenchman.

  The Frenchman—who would be Louis Povaught, George assumed—sat slouched over. He hardly stirred when George sat next to him. The barkeep caught George’s eye, and George shook his head. When he turned back to look at Louis, the man was already looking back at him.

  Louis, unfortunately, hadn’t spent much time keeping up his appearances. A long russet-colored beard, patchy in some places, grew haphazardly from his cheeks. His bloodshot eyes contained just a hint of green, lost to the steady strain of enthusiastic drinking.

  “I think, not many people walk in here who do not order drink,” he declared. “No?”

  George pulled out his purse and caught the eye of the barkeep. “He’ll have another,” George told the barkeep. George looked down and pulled out paper money, leaving the shiny coins inside.

  “And you,” Louis said. “Why no drink?”

  “It no longer does anything for me,” George explained. He reached his hand into the pocket of his undercoat. Something was there. Like something standing just at the edge of his vision, he could remember picking it up.

  Now George pulled it out. It was a silver chain with a plain cross on the end. He held it between the fingers of his hand and let the cross rest against the countertop.