She didn’t fight him. It would have been better if she had. “I’m sorry, too,” she said. “It’s all my fault. I let Cameron out. This morning. Our friends. My fault. I just thought—I don’t know what I was thinking. All of it. I don’t know why I lied. I didn’t want you to think I was stupid. I didn’t want to admit it was my fault.”
Michael helped Audrey stand. He hugged her. The logical part of his brain screamed for him to get away. She felt so good. Beautiful. Damaged. He didn’t want to let go. He picked her up. She wrapped her legs around him. She kissed his earlobe. He wanted to push her against a wall. Fuck her. He loved it when girls wrapped their legs around him. He felt wanted. Needed. He imagined what it might be like, when she bit him. It would hurt, for a moment, and then there would be nothingness. Simple hunger. Desire. Release.
“Dude,” Jordan said. “What are you doing?”
Michael was tired of people asking him that. Audrey stuck her tongue in his ear. He was vaguely embarrassed, not sure of the last time he’d cleaned out the wax. But she didn’t seem to mind. His knees grew weak. He braced Audrey against the wall. He was hard. He pushed against her. She giggled. He did it again. She moaned. It was a nice moan. Just for him. They had been good together, for the short time they had been together. He’d heard a song like that, on the radio. Something like, “Not that the thrill is gone / but that another thrill came along.” He thought of Kate. He thought of nipples. Taut, hard nipples. The sounds that girls made.
“Dude. Come on already,” Jordan said.
Michael wasn’t listening. He didn’t feel it, the first time. Jordan hit him, on his back. Then again. Michael let go of Audrey. She landed with a thump, on her ass. Now he’d dropped two girls in the space of something like ten minutes. That had to be a new Trader Joe’s record.
“Dammit, man,” he said. He turned back to Audrey.
“Aaah,” she said. She closed her eyes. “Just give me a minute,” she said. She made her pain noise a few more times, then stopped and opened her eyes. “That one’s going to fester. Imagine turning me over, taking down my pants, and seeing this fat bruise on my ass. It’ll purple up. I’d still want you. I don’t care if it hurts. I like it like that. I learned that from you, Michael.” She knew what she was doing to him. That only made it better. They’d experimented, back in the day, with talking dirty. She’d been giggling then.
“Fuck me. Right here. Let them watch. No condom. What have we got to lose?”
Michael held out a hand to her. She took it. He understood something. Attraction was in a direct relationship with guilt. Everyone felt a little sheepish, after. He kissed Audrey’s hand. Her collar was dark with blood. He would come in a few thrusts. And then, after. She’d get hers. And he’d be free.
He could hear people yelling, but he paid it no mind. He pulled Audrey to her feet. He could almost taste her lipstick. It wouldn’t matter that she wasn’t Kate.
“Come on, man,” Jordan said. He pulled at Michael’s elbow. “Let her go, or I’m leaving you now.”
Audrey touched Michael’s cheek. He leaned into her hand. They stood like that for a while. Then Audrey took a step back.
“He’s right,” she said in a small voice. “I gotta go.” She turned away, stopping only to grab the bar they used for moving around cases of milk. It was a few feet long, made of metal, and the hook on the end wasn’t sharp but you could do some damage to someone if you really tried.
Jordan stood by the door to the Box. “I’m so sorry, Audrey,” he said.
She smiled at him, but didn’t say anything.
“You ready?”
Audrey took a breath, then nodded. He opened the door, and she went inside. Jordan shut the door. The cooler locked from the outside. It was relatively soundproof.
Michael fell to his knees. Now he’d have bruises, too. That felt right. People were saying things, asking if he was OK, but he didn’t have an answer. He was torn. Audrey was still alive. Maybe they could save her. Maybe she could save herself. He buried his face in his hands, waiting for his feelings to ebb. They always did, in time. He stayed like that for a while, not caring who was watching.
“C’mon, Mike,” Jordan said. “She’s TOS.” He held out a hand. Then he wiped it on his jeans, and held it out again.
“She’s not Temporarily Out of Stock, dude,” Michael said. “Not yet.” Michael wiped his own hand on his shirt. He took Jordan’s hand. He stood.
“She’s gone, dude,” Jordan said.
“Let’s just go.”
There was nothing else to do. There were still people alive. Maybe Kate was among them.
Without talking, they left through the receiving door. Michael walked as if in a dream. He barely remembered his box of food. Gracie came with them. She held hands with Jordan. Other people followed.
“Drive yourselves,” Jordan called. “I don’t have room, sorry. Go somewhere safe. We’re going to Alcatraz. Get some supplies and come along, or go home and board up the windows. Lay in some supplies. Be careful. Don’t get sentimental.”
Jordan unlocked his car. He looked agitated. He took Michael’s box and put it in the trunk. “Can’t save everyone,” Jordan said.
Without being asked, Michael climbed into the back of the car. The upholstery and air were warm and dusty from sitting in the sun. He settled as best he could in the tiny space. Jordan hadn’t been kidding about the grocery shelf. Jordan closed the trunk. For all Michael knew, both of them could turn into zombies at any minute. He couldn’t bring himself to be concerned. Everyone he cared about was going to be ripped away from him. One by one. The universe was testing how strong he was. Or how stupid. He felt as wrung out as if he’d just taken a long sauna. He’d done that with Kate and a few of their friends recently, at a place down the street from Cato’s that rented sauna rooms by the hour. At first they’d been talking and making jokes, like always, but as the heat set in, they grew quiet. In the shower, after, he was too exhausted to stand. It was nearly a spiritual experience.
Jordan got into the car. He started the engine, and rolled down the windows. There was a welcome whiff of breeze. Gracie got in, and shut the door.
“You OK?” Jordan was asking.
“Um.” Gracie was trembling. “You know.” She screamed then, covering her mouth with her hand. “I mean, what the fuck?”
“Exactly my sentiment,” Jordan said. He looked in the rearview mirror, catching Michael’s eye. “I didn’t believe you, you know.” He repeated to Gracie what Michael had said about zombies. She asked questions.
After a while, they fell silent.
“I’d better call some people,” Jordan said.
Michael found his voice. “Sure, just don’t get pulled over for driving while talking. It’s like a twenty-dollar ticket, but we don’t have the time to waste. We’re already heading towards sunset.”
“I know a dude, on Treasure Island. With a boat. We’ll be cool.” He put a hand on Gracie’s thigh. “All cool, I promise.”
Michael looked out the window while Jordan drove. Promising was dangerous. Jordan spoke on the phone, describing the zombies at TJ’s. In Jordan’s version, Jordan was the brave one. Michael didn’t care. He focused on not listening. Gracie was busily texting with someone, or several someones. Life was all about the transmission of information. Whether or not anyone understood you. That was why zombies didn’t talk much.
Michael knew he ought to call his own family. His dad had left when he was a baby; his mom he called on her birthday, his birthday, and Christmas. She’d moved recently, and he hadn’t memorized her new phone number. He had no siblings. He felt old, as if everyone he cared about was long gone.
The car smelled of plastic and sweat, but the air had at least started to cool. They got on the freeway, and then onto the bridge. Jordan drove in the right lane. Michael looked out at the beginnings of the second Bay Bridge, which had been under construction for longer than anyone could remember. The Bay Bridge itself was constantly under repair;
hardly big enough for the amount of traffic it saw every day. The only reason the bridge had two levels was because the bottom one used to be for trains. He didn’t know when it had been changed over for cars. But it made sense; people going to San Francisco got the top view of clouds and ocean. People going to Oakland, on the bottom, got the hemmed-in Morlock view. The bridge toll was four dollars, not that he had any money. He hoped Jordan did, or Gracie. You had to pay to get into San Francisco. It was free to come back.
He looked out the window while they waited in line. Cars sat, bumper to bumper, easing forward inch by inch. They finally reached the window. Jordan paid the toll, still talking on his phone. He drove forward, slowly, while they waited for the meter. One car per green light, per lane. Michael looked out at the other cars. There weren’t any zombies, not yet. This had to be normal traffic. The lights turned, and turned. Red, green, red, green. After a while, it was green for them. Jordan drove.
“Hello?” Jordan said. He looked at his phone. “Must be between towers. Damn.” He pocketed it, and put on the radio. He flicked between drive-time deejay blather and rock music. Rock was a dying art. Hip hop had already taken over as popular music. Aside from country, which nobody liked, it was the only narrative form of music left.
Looking out the window, Michael’s head cleared. They’d left without Kate. She might be expecting them to come get her. “Guys, we gotta go back. We gotta get Kate,” he said.
“I can’t turn around now,” Jordan said. “I’m on the bridge.”
Michael knew Jordan was right. “Fuck.”
“Sorry, dude.”
“It’s not you that I’m mad at,” he lied. Mostly he was angry with himself, though. Maybe she’d meet them there.
Bridge traffic was sluggish. Windows open, moving at walking speed, they’d be a perfect target. Stuck in the backseat, Michael knew he wouldn’t be able to get out. He was a little surprised to find that he still cared.
They passed a parked car. The driver wasn’t inside. Whenever a car stopped on the bridge, flat tire or out of gas, they’d bring a big truck, like a snowplow, and push you to the other end of the bridge. Only then could you get a tow truck. There was an equation there, stalled traffic and lots of people delayed versus one car getting fucked up. Being humiliated as everyone saw you being pushed off the bridge. The one person always lost. It had happened to a school friend; his car died and he couldn’t get it started. He’d sat on the hood, smoking a cigarette and waiting while people honked and made faces.
“Fuck, guys. Empty car over there,” Michael said.
“Maybe it broke down,” Gracie said.
“But where’s the driver?”
“Maybe he got a ride with someone else? Or she,” Gracie said. She didn’t sound like she was convinced.
“We’re going to see the shamblers soon.”
“Coming back from the dead?” Gracie asked.
“No, corpses would have the decency to lie still. It’s the zombies I’m worried about.”
Then he heard the scream. There was a stopped car ahead. The driver’s window was rolled down. A heavy woman leaned in, as if she were a prostitute giving a john a taste of the goods. There were sirens, far away.
“Roll up the windows,” Michael said. “Now.”
Jordan did. The car grew warm. Michael’s shirt was damp. Jordan tuned the radio to NPR. The traffic report mentioned stalled cars on the bridge. The announcer warned that people should stay in their cars; callers had been describing a violent woman. Maybe psychotic. The announcer mentioned other instances of people becoming violent. In the Oakland hills. At the Kaiser hospital. Somewhere in Berkeley.
“Jesus, it’s hot,” Jordan said.
“Shut up.” Michael wanted to hit him. “Listen.” He’d missed something. The announcer was telling people to go home and stay there.
It had never occurred to Michael to call NPR. The media still hadn’t figured out that everything was connected. As if zombieism was merely a few psychotic episodes. Something to do with the water, or people’s meds, or the moon. People wouldn’t believe that zombies were real, so it made sense that the news wouldn’t cover it for fear of being taken as a joke. Or if the media knew, maybe they were sitting on it, lest people started rioting. Someone needed to tell them it was real.
“Jordan, man, lemme use your phone.”
“No service.”
“Radio just said that people are calling in from the bridge.” He was starting to feel panicky. “Give me the damn phone. I have to try.”
“Oh, I do have service,” Jordan exclaimed, looking at the phone. “Shit, I didn’t a second ago. I need to call—”
“Give me the damn phone.” Michael grabbed it from Jordan’s hand.
“Dude, give it back!”
“Not on your life.”
“Gracie, give me your phone. I need it.” Jordan groped for Gracie’s phone.
She held it away from him. “I need my phone,” she said. They wrestled for it while Jordan drove. The car swerved. Someone honked. Jordan let go of Gracie’s phone.
Michael unlocked the keypad. He tried to think of who might have his mom’s number. He didn’t know any of their numbers, either. He thought of calling Kate. Instead, he dialed information and got the number for the local NPR station. The needs of the many outweighed the needs of the few. Spock had been right. Michael described the bridge situation to the woman who answered the phone. He explained about whips, and sound, and how it worked. He was rushing, afraid that the signal would cut out at any minute. “You need to tell your listeners,” he said. “Zombies, whatever you want to call them, they’re real. They obey whips. Snap a belt if you don’t have a whip. I think they respond to the sound.”
The other end of the phone was quiet. “Hello? Hello? Oh, fuck.” He looked at the phone. It had dropped the call. He pressed the end call button and held it down, restarting the phone. No service. He wanted to hurl it through the window. He could hardly breathe, it was so hot.
“Doesn’t this thing have AC?” he asked.
“Don’t normally need it,” Jordan said. “It died a few years ago.”
Gracie was texting. Her phone kept vibrating with new messages.
“Give me your phone, Gracie,” Michael said. “I need it.”
“Not on your fracking life,” she said. “I Twittered the zombie uprising, and then I told my whole address book what’s up. I need to keep responding. I’ve got just enough signal to keep texting. You can’t call from my phone because there’s not enough service to call, but there’s enough to text.” She was scared, holding her phone with both hands. Maybe she was lying. Or maybe she was telling the truth.
Michael forced himself to sit back. He’d grown up in the Bay Area. Nearly everyone he knew was still around. How were Gracie’s friends and family more important than his?
“We’ll have service in a minute,” Jordan said. “Once we get to the island. I’m sure there’s a tower there.”
They passed the stalled cars. Traffic picked up. Jordan rolled down the windows without asking. Michael’s skin and lungs felt ready to burst. The cool, moving air was a balm. He counted his breaths. His shirt was soaked.
Jordan pulled off at Treasure Island. The exit was a hairpin turn. He seemed like he knew where he was going.
“It’s around here somewhere,” Jordan said. The island was devoid of traffic. It was beautiful out here. Quiet.
He was a good guy, Michael thought. He’d already saved Michael’s life once today, and was trying to keep the three of them in the black. Michael thought of how close he’d been, with Audrey. He belonged with Audrey and Cindy and Sandra, cooling their heels in the walk-in, and it was only because of Jordan that he wasn’t there.
“Here we go.” Jordan pulled up at the marina. He parked the car. Gracie got out, and moved the seat up to make room for Michael.
“Thanks,” he said. He handed Jordan his phone. It still didn’t have service. He was embarrassed at their argument. H
e barely knew Gracie, for one thing. She was relatively new; he hadn’t spent much time with her. It would make sense that she and Jordan, as the new kids, would have had something in common. Not that he’d been at TJ’s very long. A few years. What had he been doing with his life?
Michael retrieved his box from the trunk. It didn’t seem like enough food, and certainly not enough water. He decided to think about Treasure Island instead. It was small, only a mile or so, built out of dirt and rocks left over from when they dug a tunnel through Yerba Buena island to put in the Bay Bridge. The island was riddled with suburbs now. You had to get on the bridge to go anywhere. Or a boat. The BART train, which ran through a cement tube on the ocean floor, did not stop at the island.
The dock itself was small, only a few rows of boats. Any of them would do. Jordan kept walking past them. The whole place was eerily quiet.
“Is your friend going to meet us here?” Michael asked. Alcatraz wasn’t far, at least. What would have been better, it occurred to him while he looked out at the boats, would be to get themselves a yacht, load it up with food and water, pilot it out to the middle of the ocean, and just wait out the storm. Your only enemy would be boredom, and if you brought some interesting friends and some books and games, you’d be OK. He wished he’d had the idea sooner, and that he had any way of making it happen. Surely other people would think to do that. After a while, when the supplies were dwindling, there would be pirate-style battles and raids. Rich people fighting rich people. Some of them might even have guns. There’d be ships where someone turned into a zombie, and their friends had to deal with it. Toss their friend overboard. Or they all end up being bitten, and then you’d have zombie ships. Drifting. Being raided by nouveau pirates that had 401(k)s and stock options and golf injuries.
“He said to go ahead,” Jordan said. “He’ll get a ride with someone else. I just worry about how he’ll find the island.”
“Dude, it’s a lighthouse,” Michael said. “Brightest thing in the bay, all night long.”
The Loving Dead Page 19
