Love in the Time of Zombies

by Lynn Messina

  I pause to inhale and Mehta jumps right in. “I can see why you think that’s a great idea, and I like that you’re thinking about the magazine. I want to encourage you to do more of that. But dating a zombie isn’t fresh enough for us.”

  “The Zombopolitan article only came out two days ago,” I say, feeling defensive. How fresh does an idea have to be? Do I have to chat up reporters to find out what they’re writing before they write it?

  She nods. “I haven’t seen the Zombopolitan piece, but several other publications have written on the same theme in recent months. The New Yorker has already done a Shouts & Murmurs with fake zombie-dating tips such as: Don’t date a zombie.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m surprised you haven’t noticed the trend. In the last two months, about a dozen publications have written articles advocating female human–zombie male relationships. It’s such a thing that The Daily Scoopage has created an entire conspiracy behind it, claiming that the increased coverage is due not to zombie dating reaching a tipping point but to Geyser & Meiser engineering a campaign to create a zombie-dating culture in an effort to increase sales of its number-one-selling zombie-behavioral-modification medication, Zombachol.”

  The Daily Scoopage is a supermarket rag that peddles a lurid mix of celebrity gossip, government conspiracies, and zombie curiosities. Its cover features fuzzy images of so-called unconfirmed zombie phenomena such as Zombyeti, Cuprazombra, and Zombzilla. The photos are ostensibly taken by a crew of fearless photogs rushing headlong into dark forests and dense jungles to bring the truth to light, but anyone who hasn’t been completely zombified can tell that the pictures are doctored by a skilled team of Photoshoppers.

  The tabloid is an embarrassment to journalists everywhere. It’s the polar opposite of The Xombie Review and the last place on earth I would work.

  And that’s why Mehta’s point is so well taken. If The Daily Scoopage is making up conspiracies about something, then it doesn’t belong in Whirligig (or anywhere, really).

  “I didn’t realize,” I say quietly.

  Mehta leans forward and wipes doughnut crumbs onto a Claudette’s napkin. “We live in an accelerated culture, and sometimes it’s hard to keep up. The key to a successful Whirligig is anticipating the curve. Don’t write something reactive; write something proactive. If Joannie Stunt Girl over at Zombopolitan is giving tips on how to date a zombie, then you give tips on how to date a human male. See what I mean? Be one step ahead.”

  “Date a human male?” I repeat, dazed by the absurdity of the suggestion. She might as well have said date a unicorn.

  If that’s the crazy-high bar to get into Whirligig, I might as well give up now and go work for The Daily Scoopage. They could Photoshop me on a date with a human male and stick it on the cover.

  Mehta smiles. “Well, I was just using that as an example, but if you can somehow get a date with a human male, then I can pretty much guarantee you an item in Whirligig.”

  I don’t know how many times Mehta has said, “I can pretty much guarantee you an item in Whirligig” in her lifetime. Perhaps she says it once a week; perhaps this is the first time ever. Regardless, she said the words to me now and there’s no going back.

  I can pretty much guarantee you an item in Whirligig.

  I will find a human male, I’ll date him, I’ll write it up, I’ll publish it in Whirligig, I’ll get a job as an assistant editor at The Xombie Review, I’ll have the life I’ve always wanted.

  And that’s that.

  Feeling charged and ready for battle, my heart racing with an unprecedented sense of purpose, I thank Mehta She was far more kind and encouraging than I’d ever expected. She’s an insightful editor, a great boss and an excellent mentor. I can feel myself being molded as I stand there.

  “Thank you for the doughnuts, Ms. Cross,” she says, proving that she’s also a thoughtful person.

  I’m the luckiest intern in the world.

  As I close the door to her office, she reminds me to fetch her milk from the newsstand in the lobby.

  According to the literature of the time, the best way to meet a single man in the waning days of the twentieth century was by accident. You would trip over his briefcase or pick up his cell phone by mistake or hail the same cab. This form of introduction was called a “meet cute.”

  That’s a difficult concept to grasp, because I was six years old when the 99.9999 percent of men on earth turned into disgusting blobs of rotting, stinking flesh. Clearly, before the zombie apocalypse struck, the world was a far cuter place.

  Women were far more adorable, too. Per my research, they frequently lost the ability to speak coherently in the presence of an available male, a phenomenon known as “babbling.” Similarly, they lost all coordination and the ability to properly control gross motor function. This stumbling around was called “bumbling.” In some cases, women were required to hide their intelligence, a process called “playing dumb.” This was done to appease the male ego.

  There were tons of rules for dating in the late 1990s, some of them from a book actually called The Rules. In addition to The Rules, I spend days poring over relationship manuals, advice columns, and thoughtful novels confusingly described as women’s fiction. I also watch clips of pre-plague TV shows and movies. Sitcoms, in particular, offer illuminating examples of women playing down their abilities, usually proving how much smarter they are than their husbands in smug asides so that the men don’t have to know the truth. I get it: This total father-knows-least cluelessness is adorable.

  A surprising amount of the literature focuses on the actual places you could meet a man—surprising because men were literally all around: behind you on the checkout line, beside you at a traffic light, next to you on the subway. There was such an abundance of human males, you’d think all you had to do was turn to your left to meet one cutely. In reality, however, you had to seek them out by, say, signing up for an auto-repair class at the local community center. The idea was to find a place where men gathered and gather there, too.

  What works during times of abundance would seem to work twice as well in times of scarcity, so I stake out the closest sperm-donation center, which is located in Long Island City. The building is spare and squat, with yellow aluminum siding and a low roof. Before the plague hit, it was a nightclub called the Cathedral, which I presume was ironic, as there’s nothing grand about it. It was probably built in the 1960s to store loaves of Wonder Bread.

  “I don’t get what we’re doing,” Cammie says, sliding down in the car seat next to me as she rests her sneakers on the glove compartment.

  “We’re figuring out how to get in,” I explain, again. Given that all unzombified human males are required by law to pass on their H1Z1-resistant genes, a sperm-donation center seems like the ideal place to meet men. “And get your feet down. This is a rental.”

  Cammie drops her feet with a hefty sigh, as if resting them on the floor of the car is the world’s greatest hardship. I want to be annoyed by the drama, but I can’t. Sighing heftily is Cammie Corrigan’s signature move. It’s like her catchphrase.

  “That’s a Provisional Government Authority Class-A governmental facility,” she says, as if speaking to a child. “You can tell because it’s surrounded by a ten-foot-high gate and barbed wire.”

  “I know.”

  “The only way for you to ‘get in’ is to break in.” She shifts again, this time crossing her legs. “You need a retina scan just to enter the parking lot.”

  “You do?” I say, leaning forward to get a better look at the kiosk-like structure at the parking lot entrance. “I thought that was a vending machine.”

  “Really, Hattie?” she asks, her tone contemptuous. “That big silver thing that everyone is staring into looks like a candy dispenser to you? Really?”

  “Soda, too,” I mutter.

  Cammie stares at me without blinking until I’m forced to look away. She’s always been able to beat me at that. Always.

  “I still do
n’t get why we’re here.” She looks around at the quiet street lined with warehouses and an Italian restaurant with a neon sign that says Gio’s Trattoria.

  “I told you.” And I had—eight times. “If I can get a date with a unzombified human male, The Xombie Review will run my story in Whirligig. It’s the single biggest opportunity of my life.”

  “And you’re going to go on a date in there?” she says, gesturing to the low, squat building. I can understand her concern. There was very little about the utilitarian structure that said romance.

  “There’s probably a staff cafeteria,” I point out reasonably. “I don’t have to give chapter and verse on the date. I just need to meet a man, have a conversation with him and take photographic evidence. So what if we don’t eat lobster thermidor or go dancing at the Rainbow Room? Two or three good quotes and I’m done. And maybe a cute anecdote about how I stumbled over his briefcase and babbled an apology.”

  Cammie stares at me again, but I know better than to get into a contest. “You realize you’re insane, right?” she says. “That isn’t breaking news.”

  Just then, a black SUV turns left into the parking lot. Since it’s the third such vehicle in an hour, I’m pretty sure this is how the human male donors arrive. The car must pick them up and chauffer them to the facility, where they fulfill their patriotic duty before being driven back home.

  “I still don’t get why I’m here.”

  “I wanted company.”

  “Okay, but why me?”

  “Because you’re a student.”

  “At the police academy,” she says, with particular emphasis.

  “Yeah, so you have the inside track.”

  “You want inside track? How about this: Illegally entering a Class-A government facility carries a ten-year sentence at a maximum-security prison.”

  The driver of the SUV pulls up to the retina-scanning machine, lowers her window, and leans forward. She waits a moment, then pulls something from the machine. The item could very well be a receipt or a ticket, but from this distance I can’t definitively rule out a super-thin candy bar.

  “Is the maximum-security prison the one where they give you the cute orange jumpsuits? Because I look surprisingly good in orange.”

  Cammie lets out a sigh so hefty I worry for her lungs. She throws her hand up into the air as she shifts again in her seat. Now her sneakers are on the armrest. “You know what? I’m not worried. I’m not worried. There’s no way you’re going to get past that front gate. You can’t beat the retina scan, and you can’t climb the fence because it’s ten feet high and covered with barbed wire. So at worst you’ll get a loitering fine, which is only a misdemeanor.”

  While she talks, a black SUV emerges from the depths of the parking lot and I catch a glimpse of a bearded man in the back seat before the dark-tinted windows erase him completely.

  A plan begins to percolate.

  “I don’t have to beat the retina scan. You see that SUV?” I point at the dark vehicle as the gate rises to let it pass. “That’s how the sperm donors get in and out of the facility. In those black SUVs that have been arriving every twenty minutes. So if I can steal my way into the back of one of those, the Provisional Government Authority will drive me right through the gate. Once in the parking garage, I’ll sneak in the front door. All I need is a white lab coat to blend in. Do you have one I could borrow?” I ask Cammie, but she’s too busy staring out her window to respond. “Never mind. I can pick one up at a medical supply store or off the Internet. Then all I have to do is find a human male, convince him not to call security, charm him into having a date, snap a few selfies of us sharing rice pudding in the cafeteria, sneak out of the building, and creep back into the SUV without anyone being the wiser.”

  “Yeah, you could do that,” Cammie says, her eyes still focused on the window, which she taps lightly with her knuckles. “Or you could just go into that restaurant across the street and have lunch.”

  With a sharp turn of my head, I follow her gaze. The black SUV, whose movements I had been following so closely, was now parked in front of the trattoria. Two women in standard PGA guard uniforms are escorting the bearded man into the building.

  I squeal with excitement. “Omigod! Omigod! I love you, Cammie. I will love you until the day I die.”

  She shrugs.

  The unzombified human male is beautiful. His cheeks are so non-mottled, his forehead so non-rotted, his chin not even a bit rancid. It’s almost as if I’m looking at a mannequin. He has skin that stretches smoothly from ear to ear. He can’t be real. In addition to having all his skin, this human male specimen has a close-cropped beard, blue eyes, a square jaw, and a rangy build. His hair is brown with a liberal sprinkling of gray, but it’s all there, attached to his scalp, which is still attached to his skull, which is still protecting his brain, which isn’t sliding greasily down his forehead.

  Mankind is amazing.

  As soon as the human male spots us in the doorway, he jumps. Then he holds the menu in front of his face and slides down in his chair.

  Gio’s Trattoria is small, with a dozen tables in the center and the same number of booths lining the walls. The décor is old school—wood paneling, white linoleum, red-checked tablecloths, incandescent chandeliers. Duckbill Platypussies’ cover of “Wannabe” by the Spice Girls plays softly over the speakers while a waitress in a pristine white apron pours Pellegrino for the human male, who doesn’t acknowledge her.

  Off to the side, sitting at a booth rather than a table like their charge, are the two guards who escorted him in. According to the white stitching on their uniforms, they are Officers Ritchie and Cantor. The former has smooth blond hair pulled into a utilitarian ponytail; the latter, pixie-red hair held back with colorful clips.

  Neither one bothers to look up when we enter.

  “Well, there’s your dreamboat,” Cammie says softly, as she gives me a gentle shove. “Go get him, tiger.”

  I appreciate the push because I’m too shocked by this turn of events to react. I can’t believe that my madcap scheme to meet a man to get into Whirligig has actually resulted in me meeting a man to get into Whirligig. A plan that insane never works out.

  With a darting glance at the officers, who are too busy chatting about their weekend plans (skiing, couch shopping) to notice me, I stride purposefully to the human male and hold out my hand. “Hi,” I say, with my brightest smile. “I’m Hattie Cross.”

  The unzombified human male shrieks and cowers in his seat; the menu falls to the floor. “Help, I’m being attacked. Help! Help!”

  At the word attack, my heart kicks up, my muscles tense and I turn quickly to fend off the assailant he’s so terrified of. She isn’t on my right. She isn’t on my left. I look back and forth again and again. No one is there.

  Nobody else reacts. The guards continue their discussion without pause (“I don’t know. I mean, red? It’s so bold. Maybe you should go more brownish. Like a burnt sienna”), as the server places a basket of bread on their table.

  I look at Cammie in the doorway. She waves.

  The man cries out again for help and curls up in his chair, his shoulders hunched over as if expecting a blow. With dawning horror, I realize that he’s afraid of me. I’m the assailant. I’m the one who’s attacking him.

  “Omigod, no, no, no,” I say, stepping forward to offer reassurance. “I’m not going to hurt you. I was just introducing myself. I’m Hattie Cross.”

  My perfectly reasonable explanation unsettles the human male even more, and he knocks over his chair and takes shelter behind it. “Don’t touch it. Please don’t touch it.”

  Now the guards stop talking and look over to us. “She doesn’t want to touch it, Larry,” Ritchie says matter-of-factly.

  “She does. She does, I just know it,” Larry insists. “Please help me. You’re supposed to protect me from danger.”

  Cantor breaks off a piece of bread. “You’re not in danger, Larry, so chill. Have the minestrone. You know you
love the minestrone.”

  Larry peeks over the edge of the chair, looking far from comforted by his guards’ blasé attitude, but he doesn’t argue when the waitresses announces, “One minestrone coming right up.”

  Not that he gets up off the floor.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Cammie asks.

  It’s a good question, exactly the sort that I, the journalist, should be asking. But I’m too confused by what’s going on to ask good questions. All I can do is stand over the huddled man with my hand out.

  “He thinks she wants to touch his dick,” one of the officers says, as she dips bread into a small ceramic bowl of olive oil.

  Appalled, I take several steps back and look at the woman. “What?”

  The other guard smiles. “Don’t take it personally. It’s just the way men are these days. After seventeen years of being hounded and chased and pampered and petted as an exotic rarity, they’ve lost perspective. They think all women want to touch their privates, all women are after them for sex.”

  “OMG.” Cammie giggles. “That’s insane.”

  “The condition is called PNZSD,” Cantor explains, “Post Nonzombification Stress Disorder. An unsettling number of UHMs suffer from it.”

  “Therapy helps but it works much better if the therapist is a man, and there are only a dozen of those in the world still practicing,” says Ritchie. “Geyser & Meiser is working on a drug for it.”

  Cammie walks over to the booth and points to the bread. “May I?”

  Cantor slides over to make room and Cammie sits down. “So working security for the PGA. What’s that like?”

  “It’s a good gig,” Ritchie says. “Reliable, interesting, great benefits.”

  “Yeah, the health plan is to die for.”

  “I’m studying at the police academy,” Cammie says.

  “Cool,” Cantor says. “Are you thinking urban security or maybe Zombie Investigation Bureau?”

  The server emerges with the minestrone soup for Larry, who, still quivering on the floor, peeks out from behind his chair and looks at me accusingly. I take another step back.