The Loving Dead

by Amelia Beamer

  He sat down and took the remote from Henry, who’d been watching a music video with a few guys in sunglasses and a dance floor full of quivering booty. Michael looked at his friends for their reaction. They looked dazed. Sam was gone.

  “Did Sam leave?” he asked.

  Audrey looked around. “I guess so. Didn’t say goodbye. He could have offered me a ride.”

  “Well, I guess we’ve got enough, then,” Michael said. He dug into his pocket, feeling bad about how he’d told Kate that he didn’t have any more pills. “Xanax, anyone?”

  His friends held out their hands, and he distributed the pills. “This is the body of Christ,” he said. He took the last one for himself, swallowing it dry.

  “What do we do?” Henry asked, chewing his pill. “Are they safe?”

  “They’re tied up,” Kate said. She swallowed her pill with a swig of wine. “They’re safe enough. Now I’m worried about what might be wandering the streets out there.” She sat down next to Michael, her thigh brushing his in a distracting way.

  Michael remembered the remote in his hand. “If you guys know anything about zombies, you know that this won’t be an isolated case. We should check the news.” CNN had a story about a poodle show. NBC had some heads talking politics. He flipped through channels. Commercials, Top Chef, a rerun of a lousy episode of Saturday Night Live, and a black-and-white documentary about Hollywood at the end of World War II on PBS. Nothing about zombies.

  “Jesus,” Michael said. He closed his eyes. The room spun. There were too many things that didn’t make sense. He looked at Kate. She bit her lip. He moved his thigh towards hers. She didn’t move away. His head was starting to hurt, and he couldn’t bring himself to believe that they’d hallucinated everything. Touch was the only thing that made any sense.

  “Night of the Loving Dead,” Kate said.

  “What?” He was sure that’s what she’d said. No way was there a zombie movie with that title. He’d have heard of it. He imagined a romantic comedy. Two girls are in bed, and one turns into a zombie, then a guy tries to fuck her and he turns into a zombie. Everything would end well, somehow. Either that or it was porn, and everything always ended well in porn. Maybe they could Netflix it.

  “The Romero one?” Kate elbowed Michael. “Night of the Living Dead?”

  Now he was sure he’d heard her correctly. He was disappointed. That one ended badly; zombie movies always did. If anyone survived, they did it by losing the very things that made them human. He got up and put on the DVD.

  Michael sat next to Kate, leaning his knee against hers.

  “Is this really what we’re doing?” he said softly into her hair.

  “What are we supposed to do?” Kate whispered back.

  “We’re all going to die, like this. The zombies are going to get us.” He inhaled. She smelled of smoke, and sweat, and fear. And shampoo.

  “Oh, God,” Kate said. She put her head on his shoulder. “We deserve it, don’t we.” It wasn’t a question.

  “No. That’s not what zombie stories are about.” He put his arm around her. He waited for the movie to get underway. He fingered her hair. She’d never let him do that before.

  “What the hell are we doing?” Audrey asked. She’d spent the last few minutes holding her head in her hands. She sat up straight now. “Why aren’t we helping him?”

  “It’ll show up on the news soon,” Michael said. “We can’t be holding onto Patients Zero and One here. It’s only a matter of time. If we go to the hospital it’ll be like the Day of the Dead scene when everyone is turning into zombies. Or, worse, the CDC, or FDA, or whoever, will quarantine the lot of us. Imprison us and run tests. Who knows if this is transmitted by contact, or by blood, as well as by bite?”

  “Or even through the air,” Kate said. “And that movie was terrible. Plus the Food and Drug Administration won’t have anything to do with zombies.”

  “We have to do something,” Audrey said.

  “Right. Absolutely,” Michael said. “What do you propose?”

  “Well, I’m calling an ambulance,” Audrey said.

  “That’s five hundred dollars right there,” Henry said.

  “Then we can take him ourselves, both of them,” Audrey said, but there was doubt in her voice now.

  The group was quiet. On the screen, the young woman ran through the cemetery.

  “OK,” Michael said. “All those in favor of trying to wrestle our friends into a car and avoid getting bitten while we take them to the hospital, also dealing with whatever other zombies are out there wandering around, please raise your hands.”

  No one did.

  “We could call the cops,” Audrey said.

  “I tell you what,” Henry said. “If it were just a little thing, like his bits were burning, he can go to a doctor and pay a couple hundred to get himself sorted out, but for something like this, he wouldn’t get out of the hospital for less than a million dollars. That’s if they don’t just cut him up for sport. I mean, research.”

  “Oh,” Audrey said. “What do you want to do, then?”

  “Fuck if I know,” Henry said. “At least now, they’re still in one piece.”

  “Michael?” Audrey turned to him.

  “Sober up until we can think straight? I don’t know. I really don’t know. I’m sorry. Excuse me while I lock the doors and windows.” Michael stood. He wished someone had a better idea. The way things were, it seemed like the zombies would be safe, for a while. Secure. He wouldn’t fall asleep, not with them there. In a few hours, he’d be able to make a better decision.

  Kate interrupted his thoughts. “Hey, does anyone else think that scene in Living Dead, where the white girl slaps the black guy, and he clean knocks her out and then lays her on the couch and undoes the buttons on her jacket—does anyone else think that scene is hot?”

  “Racist,” Audrey said.

  “Liberal,” Henry said, in the same tone.

  Michael was stunned. It was the sexiest thing anyone had said in a long while. Deliberately provocative. And a total non sequitur. It took his mind off of their zombie problem for a blessed moment.

  “It was 1968,” Kate said. “You know, the same year as the first interracial kiss in Star Trek. Don’t you get it? They were trying to push buttons. But, no, what I meant is the tension between them. It’s almost romantic. She’s going nuts, and he’s trying to hold them both together and keep the zombies at bay—”

  “Shh,” Natalie said. There was a zombie on the screen.

  “I’m going to shower.” Kate stood as Michael sat. He watched her walk, wanting to follow her. She obviously had more to say. Michael found it engaging, more so than the movie, which most of them had seen. It sounded a little like the third-wave feminism stuff she’d been talking about from one of her community college classes. He wouldn’t have known what third-wave feminist theory was without her; at first he thought she’d said third-rate feminism, which just sounded mean. Still, he couldn’t very well follow her into the shower. He imagined it for a while as the movie played. After they’d soaped one another, he’d lay her on her back in the tub, warm water falling over both of them. He focused on little things; things he’d done with girls in showers, and things he’d like to do. Her hand tight in his hair. The way the shower washed away a woman’s taste, so that you had to put your tongue inside to find it. Her hips lifting. The way she’d be unsteady on her feet, after. Leaning on him and smiling that precious satisfied smile which always went away after a minute, as if she was embarrassed. He’d go down on Kate until both of them were pruney and the hot water ran out, if she’d let him. Trace the alphabet, over and over. Whatever she liked. His fantasies always centered on a girl’s orgasm. He’d heard of women who could imagine their way to orgasm, literally no-handed. He wondered what they fantasized about: whether they thought about someone touching them, or if, like him, they thought about giving someone else pleasure.

  A moan came from deeper inside the house. Henry took the rem
ote from the table and turned up the volume. Michael was facing the movie but he wasn’t paying attention. Images registered like patterns in clouds, and then disappeared. He found himself thinking of how much smarter than him Kate was. It shamed him. They both read books, and watched movies, and listened to music, and had conversations about culture and how well it was doing whatever it was that it was supposed to do. But Kate was probably brighter, and definitely more studious than he was. She actually talked about going to college full-time, whereas he hadn’t managed to take a single class since high school. Maybe he just needed a study buddy. If they took classes together, that would get him on track.

  Kate came back, her hair wrapped in a towel, wearing SpongeBob-printed pajama pants and a white T-shirt. She smelled edible. Lemony. She sat next to Michael, and he had a hard time not leaning over and putting some part of her in his mouth. He’d teased himself rigid, thinking about her. She dropped the towel on the floor. Normally that would bother him. He supposed that if there were zombies in the house, one wet towel on the carpet didn’t matter.

  “All’s quiet,” she said. “For whatever that’s worth.” She rested her head on his shoulder. There was such trust in that gesture. He decided that would be enough for him. They could take things slowly. She relaxed against him. A moment later, he worked a hand under her shirt. Up, over her belly, the skin soft. She wasn’t wearing a bra. She tensed, and he slowed down. Ran his fingertips over her collarbone, down the center of her chest. Back up. He circled around her breasts. By the time he had a nipple in his fingers, it was hard. He put his tongue in her ear, enjoying her struggle to stay quiet, not caring if anyone was awake to see them. She pulled away from him, sitting up, then leaned back, unfolding a blanket over herself. She slipped a hand inside her pajama pants. He kissed her neck, surprised and pleased and a little jealous. He put an arm around her, so that he had access to both of her nipples under the blanket. She shuddered, and then her breathing became calm. He knew enough to let go. He put his nose in her hair, his hands wrapping around her waist.

  If anyone had been watching, they had the decency to pretend to be asleep. The room was quiet, save for the movie and the regular breathing. Kate disentangled herself and went into the kitchen. She didn’t turn on the light. The faucet ran for a while, like she was washing her hands. He’d never been with a woman who did for herself. It was sexy, how unabashedly in control she was of her own desire. He wanted to take her to bed, but he didn’t want to frighten her off. Never mind the zombie in his bathroom.

  She came back with two glasses of water. She held one out, and he took it. He found that he was thirsty. She was silent. He couldn’t tell what she was thinking, if her expression indicated lust, or shame, or worry. Some combination. Something else entirely. He patted the couch next to him, wanting her to be near him. He ached for her to touch him. She hesitated, then sat. Two empty glasses were set onto the coffee table. She put her arm around him and leaned into him.

  “Sorry,” she whispered. “That was really inappropriate of me. First you catch me in flagrante lesbiano, or maybe it should be lesbiana. And now,” she put her fingers in his hair, tightened them. “You’ll think I’m such a—” she didn’t finish.

  He touched her cheek. “I started it. We both need to remember that we’re alive. And you’re not a—” He pulled her face towards his. She dodged his mouth, biting his ear gently. Her hair was wet against his cheek. He could feel her chest moving with her breathing, and all of the words she wasn’t saying.

  Impulsively, he took her hand and brought it to his crotch. He flexed, wanting her to know the effect she had on him. It was painful, how much he wanted her. She fingered his bulge, then lowered her head to his lap, inhaling. He gripped the couch so as not to grab at her, willing himself to hold still. She pulled away, her hand closing on his arm with surprising force.

  “I can’t do this,” she said. She let go. “We should check the news.” It was as if she’d turned on a light.

  He realized that the movie was over. The introduction music had been looping. Kate found the remote and flicked through the channels. Nothing. Weather and sports. She sat at a distance from him now. Michael waited for his erection to go away. It didn’t. He could feel the beginnings of a hangover. He closed his eyes. At least his head wasn’t spinning any more. He stood, sick of it, sick of the tension between him and Kate. He went to the hall bathroom and closed the door. The mirror was opaque from the shower steam. The temperature in the room was slightly warmer than the living room. It made what he did easier. He came into a handful of toilet paper, then flushed it. He washed his hands, watching as if someone else was doing it.

  Kate had put on Shaun of the Dead. She was lying on the couch, asleep. He worked up the nerve to join her, taking the side closer to the floor so that he’d be the one to fall off if she pushed him. She stirred as he slipped under the blanket. She wrapped a sleep-heavy arm around him.

  He held her hand to his chest, not sure what he was supposed to be feeling. There was the emptiness that he got after masturbating, and the warm and real closeness of her. The way she’d arched her back when he had her nipples in his fingers. He listened to the movie for a few minutes. It made him think about zombies. He didn’t know how to feel about them, either.

  “You know, I think we’re going to die,” he said.

  She tightened her fingers in his shirt, but didn’t say anything.

  chapter five

  Kate’s head ached. She was in a red room. No. She opened her eyes. The living room was bright with sunlight. She closed her eyes. The television was on, playing the DVD introduction to Shaun of the Dead. Michael’s parties often ended this way, with people passed out on the available horizontal space, although Kate usually found her way back to her own bed. Now, though, she was on the couch, pressed up against someone warm and comfortable. She turned to look. It was Michael, which was perhaps not surprising, but in the time they’d been housemates, neither of them had made any overtures, and she liked it that way. She had a bad feeling that something had happened.

  Audrey and Natalie were cuddled up on the opposite couch, Henry on the third. Kate stretched, catlike. She drifted through the fragments of her dreams: in one, all of her teeth had come loose, and then she was late for school. Classic anxiety dreams. She held onto the evaporating images. Then she remembered what had happened last night. Kate was immediately awake. She listened to the house. All was quiet.

  She needed to leave. Needed to get away. Once, in middle school, she’d mistakenly gone to the first lunch period, instead of the second, skipping class. She’d sat with friends she didn’t normally see at lunch, which was nice if strange. When she realized her mistake, she left the school. She used her milk money to call the school from a payphone, after calling Information to get the number. She pretended to be her mother, saying that she’d come to get Kate because of a family emergency, and she was sorry she hadn’t checked in with the office. She spent the rest of the day walking through town, thinking that she was going to get into trouble for skipping. Obsessing over it. She’d gone home at the normal time, fearing there would be cop cars outside the house, and teary parents inside, or at least angry parents. None of that happened. But she felt the same instinct to flee. Something was wrong; she’d fucked up, and she needed to go.

  As carefully as she could, Kate extricated herself from under Michael’s arm, and sat on the edge of the couch. He woke.

  “Shh,” Kate whispered. “I’ve got to run.”

  He rubbed his eyes. “You’re going to leave me?” His voice cracked with sleep. He looked about as hung over as she felt.

  “I needs to get paid, you know.” She smiled, trying to make it a joke. Michael never paid attention to her work schedule, and if he believed she’d be at work, that would save having to tell him what she was really doing. She may as well keep her date with Walter. The Zeppelin was scheduled to fly at noon, and it was already after ten, but maybe she could talk him out of it. If Michael kne
w about Walter, probably he’d think Kate was forward-thinking and empowered, but she had decided several houses (and several sets of housemates) ago that it was better not to talk much about her love life.

  “You’re kidding. You’re really going to go? I thought you got today off.” Michael put his hand over Kate’s, and the touch was surprisingly electric. “What are we going to do about—” He stopped.

  They considered one another. “Wake them all up and send them home. Or not. I don’t fucking know. Why are we even still alive?” Her mouth tasted of warmed-over ass, and her mind was going in little circles trying to piece together the previous evening. She didn’t dare say anything aloud. If they talked about it; if they both remembered the same events, that might make them true.

  “You remember Evil Dead?” Kate whispered. “I know they’re demons, not zombies, but I always thought that the most horrific ending would have been if the guy, after brutally murdering and dismembering his friends, realized the next morning that he’d imagined it all. I thought it was going to end like that when he touched the mirror and it gave way. You could see him coming apart.” She could hear herself rationalizing, as if that situation was anything like theirs. Except their friends really had turned into something, and they’d left them tied up all night. Kate wanted to say something about how they needed to take responsibility for what had happened. “Um, so my car is parked on the street in Berkeley and I don’t want to get a ticket,” she finished.