“On the inside, eh? It’s the best place to have them. They are less annoying to others that way.” Ambrose rose easily and offered me a hand. It was long-fingered and, I recalled, very strong. There should have been some hesitation after what I had witnessed him doing, but I reached out immediately and let him pull me to my feet. As our hands clasped, I felt a jolt of what might have been electricity travel up my arm and reach into my chest. Some of my pain went away as my heart returned to a steady beat. I’ve been defibrillated before, when my heartbeat has become erratic, and this was something similar though far less painful.
“Let’s get you back to your cottage so you can have a hot shower. And some olives. You’ve earned them.”
I nodded in agreement. I also kept holding his hand. I don’t normally follow meekly when men decide to lead, but I still didn’t know if I was coming or going, and I was just as happy not to loiter on the beach alone.
I glanced back once, feeling odd about walking off with a body burning in the barbecue pit. There was surprisingly little smoke now. It seemed to mainly be steam that was rolling out of the pit and toward the water. Deep down, in the part of my brain that likes things neatly classified, I did hear a small voice asking if what had just happened was murder. But the rest of my brain answered back with a resounding no. The creature Ambrose had cooked was already dead. I was absolutely sure of that. The worst thing we could be accused of was destroying a body. That wasn’t good, but it wasn’t murder.
“Ambrose?” I asked reluctantly.
“Yes?”
“How do you know it was just one zombie headed here? That it wasn’t part of a pack?”
“I was rather hoping that you wouldn’t ask me that. Once I’ve stashed you in the shower, I’m going for a swim.”
“Absolutely not,” I said, stopping. Or, rather, pausing. I may have stopped moving my feet, but Ambrose didn’t, and he was stronger than I. It was walk or get dragged. “What if something happens to you? I’ll be here all alone with the zombies.”
This was a slight exaggeration. There were a half-dozen employees and at least a dozen guests. But I wasn’t willing to bet that any one of them knew how to deal with zombies as effectively as he did. I wasn’t so out of the mainstream of human life that I didn’t know that zombie hunting was unusual. “You may be immortal, but I’m not.”
“What do you suggest?” he asked. “I really can’t recommend getting back in the water. You were lucky to get away from it, you know. They’re very strong, and they don’t need air.”
I swallowed. “I know. I mean, I know I was lucky. The sharks gave me some warning but it was still too close a thing.”
“The sharks?”
“Yes, a bunch of gray reef sharks came blasting out on the void like Moby Dick with Ahab on his tail. At first I thought they were chasing after the baby turtles, but I could see that they were swimming right past. I figured if that thing could scare sharks away, then I would be dumb to linger.”
That wasn’t exactly what had happened, but it made me seem less cowardly and more logical, and I found that I wanted Ambrose’s respect.
“I don’t like the sound of this. There could be more than one if the sharks are being driven shoreward in any numbers.”
“All the more reason for me to keep watch,” I said. “From shore. Do you have a gun?”
“Yes,” he said slowly, and then changed directions abruptly, cutting into the narrow belt of palm trees that separated the cottages from the main office and dining room. Since my feet were bare, I was grateful that the sand was smooth and free of shell fragments. “We’ll go to my cottage first. You do know how to use a gun?”
“Yes.” And I did. Not well, but I had once gone shooting with my father and the day had rather branded itself into my memory.
“Okay. Be careful not to shoot anyone except zombies,” he instructed.
“For sure.”
“And if you have to shoot a zombie, you’ll need to do it twice. Once in the head and once in the heart. Anything else just annoys them.”
“Okay,” I said, though things were far, far from being okay. “How many people are on the island now?” I asked. Translation: How many people might I accidentally shoot?
“Only six cottages are rented, but the other guests will be leaving tomorrow. Everyone wants to be home for New Year’s Eve. It seems that it’s all right to avoid your family on Christmas, but not your friends on New Year’s.”
I shrugged. I didn’t feel judgmental.
“How many staff?”
“Emori, Jope, Manasa…Um, six. I can send them away tomorrow as well. If need be.”
Translation: If the island is about to be overrun with zombies. It was amazing how much information we were conveying to each other without actually saying much of anything.
“But you’re staying?” I asked him.
“Yes. Some fights you can’t back away from.”
“But some you can,” I insisted as we walked up to a small cottage set away from the others. The small windows were shuttered.
“I agree. But first I need to know what kind of fight this is. If I have to make a stand, I want it to be somewhere that innocent bystanders won’t be involved. Anyway, if he’s found me once, he’ll find me again. At least this time, thanks to you, I have some warning and a home-field advantage.”
I sighed. “You’re a complicated man.”
Translation: You’re an idiot, but very brave and I like your weird dark eyes.
“Only on the outside,” he answered, opening the cottage door. I noticed at once that this cottage was different from mine. For one thing, the walls were a foot thick, the door was made of some kind of metal, and there were iron shutters on the inside of the windows and not just those cute bamboo ones on the outside. There were also no light fixtures, just an oil lamp on a small table. This seemed appropriate since Ambrose had been born before the days of neon and fluorescents and other man-made glares.
“Early Norman-invasion style,” I muttered. And unappealing in every way except one. Unfortunately, at that moment, thick walls and an iron door were what mattered most to me. I was ready to move in.
There was also almost no furniture. The effect was not some sort of restful Japanese simplicity, but reminded me more of a penitent’s cell. There was some support of this notion when I saw a small plaster statue resting on the window sill next to a burned-down candlestick. The inscription read: Lazaro.
Lazarus, patron saint of lepers and other outcasts. This item seemed strange to me at first. Ambrose Bierce had believed in God but had not been a religious man. It would have taken something life-altering to drive him into the bosom of Catholic mysticism. But wasn’t that exactly what had happened? I’m theologically neutral and am not usually bothered by religious icons of other people’s faith, but this statue was disconcerting because it made things feel very real and very immediate, and all about good and evil. Ambrose Bierce required strength from a higher power. Wouldn’t I, a mere mortal, require help too? And if I did, would it be forthcoming? I don’t usually pray to any of the pantheon of Moral Absolutes of the ultimate gated community: saints, angels, Jesus, God himself. I guess I never had any faith that they would help little ol’ flawed me who was neither particularly moral nor absolute.
I forced myself to look away from the statue. If I needed anything else to confirm his story of being a werewolf, there were deep gouges in the concrete floor, suggestive marks that looked an awful lot like they were made by giant claws. I also saw what looked like a wisp of animal hair caught in the rough wood around the door. The golden brown fur was at shoulder height. There might also have been smudges of blood. Obviously housekeeping hadn’t been in to clean for a few days.
“Bad weekend?” I asked, staring at the fuzz and then the torn floor.
Ambrose paused, looking at the fur in the jamb for a moment before brushing it away.“Same old, same old. Like you, I hate the holidays. It seems that no matter what I do, I always end up wi
th coal in my stocking and blood on my floor,” he answered, disappearing into another room. I heard a drawer open. It screeched like a rusted file cabinet. Ambrose reappeared a minute later with a nine-millimeter handgun and a shotgun. He was also wearing a T-shirt that said: ANY DAY ABOVE THE GROUND IS A GOOD ONE. I concurred with the sentiment.
He handed me the pistol. It was a Colt Peacemaker. I recognized it both because it was the gun I had shot on that memorable occasion when I had my one father-daughter bonding experience, but also because of the lecture I got along with the lesson on how to shoot this rather heavy pistol without injuring myself.
For those of you who don’t know the Colt, it had an illustrious history—and by that I mean it has a long and bloody history. It was the handgun of choice at the OK Corral, for instance. It’s shot a lot of soldiers and a lot of “injuns.” Unlike its sleeker, modern brethren that shoot high-velocity, steel-cased, narrow-caliber shells that leave neat little holes in targets—and bodies, I assume—the Colt shoots large, unjacketed, soft-nosed bullets that mushroom on impact, ripping large messy holes in targets. And bodies, again presumably. My father told me that if I was stupid enough to shoot myself in the foot with it, I would no longer have a foot. I had handled the gun with great care. As I still valued my feet, I handled this one with great care as well.
“Don’t worry. It’s already loaded. You just have to point and shoot.”
“Okay,” I said, again at a loss for words. Miss Manners’s etiquette guide just didn’t cover a situation like this.
I kept the gun pointed well away from my feet, though my finger was nowhere near the trigger. I know, it’s dumb, but the whole “if I shot myself in the foot I wouldn’t have a foot” thing has always stuck in my mind.
“Ready?”
Well, not really. But I nodded and we went back outside. In the few moments we had been indoors, the weather had changed. Clouds had roiled in from the west and blocked out the sun. The smell of ozone was strong in the air.
“So, shower and olives first?” Ambrose asked. “Or do we head right for the beach?”
Olives! Pick olives! My cowardly side sniveled. But I said: “The beach. We need to find out what’s going on.”
I sounded so brave I almost fooled myself. I could never have faked it if I hadn’t known that Ambrose really wasn’t afraid, and confident that he could handle anything we might face. I was strictly a second-string benchwarmer.
“Or at least if there are any more zombies,” Ambrose muttered. I don’t have supersensitive ears, but my hearing is rather good and I was listening carefully, so I caught this.
Ambrose and I were walking differently as we stalked over the sand. Weapons do that to a person. They make one move with deliberation and purpose. Also, one’s balance is different when one is holding a handgun out to the side so it doesn’t point at one’s feet.
We didn’t speak, though it was unlikely that we could have heard anything over the sound of waves shushing across the beach and the increasing screech of the wind as it whipped its way through the thrashing palms and up the side of the mountain that divided the island in two.
“A storm’s coming. That’s odd, because there wasn’t anything in the long-range forecast about one.” Ambrose sounded a bit grim.
“Great,” I muttered, thinking of all the horror movies I’d seen where people got trapped on islands because of terrible storms. For a moment, I thought Ambrose was going to say something more, but he decided to keep his counsel for the time being.
All too soon we reached the edge of the water. I stopped a foot away from the waterline, reluctant to get my feet wet with water that had also touched a zombie.
“I’m going to put you up on the rocks. You’ll have a better vantage point,” Ambrose said, taking me by the waist and tossing me and the Colt on top of a flat-topped, shoulder-high boulder that was damp but not slimy. The casual use of his unusual strength was still disconcerting, though I had no fear of him turning that strength upon me. “You’re sure you’re okay?”
I nodded, being tired of saying so. Particularly since I was increasingly less okay every time he asked.
“Keep this for now,” he said, handing me the shotgun, which I laid on the rock beside me. It was probably more accurate than the Colt, but I’d never used one before and I didn’t think this was the day to begin lessons. Ambrose’s dark eyes considered me as I straightened. “I’d prefer you not shoot me, but if I come out of the water with anything attached, feel free to let fly. I don’t like getting shot, but even less do I like getting bitten by zombies.”
I looked at the deadly Colt in my hand and remembered how it kicked and how loud the percussion was. Then I thought about the zombie and what it might look like fastened to Ambrose’s neck. Injury by bullets or teeth, neither option appealed to me, but his preferences had been clearly stated. I would honor them.
“I’ll try to keep away from your face,” I said, which was a grim sort of truth, but for some reason it made him laugh.
“Please do. That Colt will drop a charging bull at fifty yards. I’d be hours picking up pieces of my head.”
Before I could say anything else, he peeled off his khaki shorts and T-shirt and began walking naked toward the water. I thought about asking him what the hell he was doing, but decided that I didn’t want him to turn around and talk to me while he wasn’t wearing clothes. One naked body a day was enough, even though Ambrose’s body was a much more pleasant form to look at.
In a distressingly short period of time he had disappeared under the water. I saw him break the surface once when he was out beyond the waves. He traveled the distance in half the time it had taken me.
It began to rain the moment I was alone. Big fat stinging drops, which I hated both because it decreased visibility and also because it was surprisingly cold after a while. Or maybe it was fear whose cold hands ran themselves over my body and lingered at my heart.
“Shit. Why me?” I asked the heavens. “I’m not good at stressful situations, and this situation would turn John Wayne into a bed wetter.” In answer, the rain began falling hard enough to hit the rocks and then bounce back into the air. The drops that hit me bounced back, too, but only after they had bruised my flesh. Also—and I tried hard to tell myself it was only my overwrought imagination—I thought I could smell traces of rot and sulfur in the air. That wasn’t normal. I didn’t know if I should be looking for more zombies creeping up behind me from the beach, or watching for the cone of what might be a reawakening volcano.
All around me the wind jeered and bushes whispered slyly. I could have shouted back, but the wind would have shredded my voice as it did all other sound.
I recalled a particularly horrid story that had haunted me all my days at boarding school. It was about the Jólasveinar or Yulemen. They were sneaky goblins who showed up around Christmas time and lingered until Twelfth Night. These are the thirteen progeny of Grýla and Leppalúöi, an Icelandic troll couple opposed to family planning who, additionally, had a habit of eating disobedient human kids who desperately needed to get up to use the bathroom in the night even when it was against dormitory rules. The ogre kids weren’t truly evil like their parents, but they were malicious. They had names like Door Slammer, Window Peeper, Meat Hooker and, rather horribly, Doorway Sniffer. Most terrifying of all of them were the Lamp Shadow, the Smoke Gulper and the Crevice Imp, because they could be anywhere and everywhere. What house was there that didn’t have lamps or a fireplace or the odd crack or two where something wicked could hide? It made every nighttime trip to the bathroom at the end of the long, icy hall an exercise in terror.
But that just goes to show you how even the worst things can have a silver lining, I told myself. It was excellent training for someone who might have to play hide-and-seek with zombies.
Nevertheless, I had worked myself into a good state of pre-hysteria and heart palpitations when Ambrose reappeared from the agitated surf. I was so grateful to see him—sans zombies—that I forgot
to be bothered by his nudity.
“Did you see anything?” I called, a hand at my chest in a protective gesture that was probably a bit theatrical but still comforting. The wind tossed my words back at me, but he seemed to hear them anyway. I kept my eyes on his face. I wasn’t ready for any other distractions.
“Not yet. But the sharks are definitely behaving oddly.” He picked up his damp shorts and shirt but didn’t put them on at once. “Hand me the rifle,” he said, and I bent to retrieve the shotgun.
“Okay, let’s get dried off and have a bite to eat and then I’m going over to see the mangroves.”
“W-we’re going to see the mangroves,” I corrected. My teeth had begun to chatter either from fright or the cold. I didn’t mention the volcano. The smell was gone and the idea seemed stupid once I was no longer alone. Also, though it is anthropomorphizing, I felt that the island was grateful the wind had stopped its eerie moaning. A few birds appeared in nearby bushes and a long green lizard crawled up onto the rock where I was standing. He moved warily, as though expecting further assault. I sympathized.
“Okay, we’re going to see the mangroves. But not until you’ve warmed up. I don’t mind pale women, but you look like plasterboard. Gray just isn’t your best color.” He could probably also hear my heart galloping along like a wild horse with a lame leg.
The cold didn’t seem to bother him, but I was beginning to shake and didn’t protest when he lifted me down from my perch. His hands were still wonderfully warm as was his naked but wet body. “E-everyone’s a c-critic,” I muttered and then laughed. I had recalled Ambrose’s entry on this subject in his Devil’s Dictionary: Critic, n. A person who boasts himself hard to please because nobody tries to please him.
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