And it's not necessarily something to be proud of. Damn it if I wasn't half ashamed.
You know, maybe I deserved it. Back from the time when I "played through" an older couples picnic. Maybe it was from the time I decided to reinvent the recipe for glue. Or directly after the glue incident, the time I decided not to clean up. It took weeks to scrape the glue from the carpet, which ultimately needed to be replaced.
"Excel?"
"Hmm?"
"You zoned out on me for a minute." "Yeah, sorry. What did you"
"I asked if you had any idea where he could have gone." "Who?"
"Ian." "No."
"Then where are you planning on going?" I looked at her.
I looked at my surroundings. And I pointed to my left. "That'a way."
"Jesus Christ," she breathed. "You're going to get us killed." "Not until I get Ian back."
"After you get Ian back?"
"I'm probably going to get us killed." "Pleasant."
But she never stopped walking beside me, which I probably should have thanked her for. It would have been the nicest thing to do. But given I didn't, and just kept walking she was a pretty good sport about it. Maybe she thought my head was still mushy on the inside. Or she understood that I just
didn't
have the presence of mind to thank her. Whatever the reason, she didn't pursue the matter.
Not even a little bit.
Thank God for common sense. Thank God for tacos.
Tacos.
Why the
hell
did I smell Goddamned tacos at such an inappropriate friggen moment? Why did I smell tacos
period
?
No, not only tacos.
It smelled like someone was having a barbecue. With extremely
ripe
meat.
I decided at that moment that I'd be saving one last shot for myself. Because even if I did manage to get out of the zombie ordeal alive, I'd be too fucking crazy to enjoy it. I was walking down the street, barely watching out for zombies, while trying to track down a missing friend, and I was thinking about barbecues. I was thinking about it so hard that I was able to smell it.
And it brought me back to childhood.
Back to days when doing cannon balls out the second floor window into the pool was okay. Back to when I was able to eat my hot dogs and other only slightly charred food (because that's the
only
kind of barbecued food worth eating, period end of statement, no room for argument) while my toes wiggled around in the mud. Back to days when zombies weren't peaking around every corner at us, without approaching.
"Cathy" "I know." "But I"
"I know."
"How can you believe any of this?" "You're witnessing it too aren't you?" Boy was I witnessing it.
I almost wished I had a video camera. In the back of my mind I couldn't help but think that my grandchildren would never believe this story, so I'd need proof of it. Why I was thinking of
grandchildren
at such a time, I didn't quite know either. But I was. So I figured I needed to be kicked in the temple with a stiletto heel. Twice.
No. No.
Three times for good measure.
And turning the corner revealed not a barbecue, but a group of burning bodies. They were sprawled in the middle of the street, smoking, letting off a horrendous odor. One that I
presently couldn't figure a connection to tacos for. It made my stomach churn. My eyes water. I almost hurled again. "Watch your step."
And I wasn't paying nearly enough attention to the real world. The world around me. The one that could quite easily get me killed. I mean, get me killed better than a professional hit. A mob kind of professional hit. If that didn't say something I wasn't entirely sure that the rest of everything else wasn't deaf or something. Because that's the only way it wouldn't speak.
"Are you okay, Excel?"
"Just trying to rationalize the 'if insert person, place or thing here doesn't say it' phrase, in my head." "Well, don't think on it too hard, it could hurt you."
"I think it already has." "Haha."
"Cute, I know."
Most people in a situation such as our own, would probably have found themselves thinking, "Oh, she's making a joke! That's a good sign." But it wasn't a good sign. It wasn't a good sign at all. The dry humor worried me a bit. Her dry humor. My dry humor. All of it. Trying to be funny just to ease tension was never a very successful thing in my experience.
Just annoying.
I didn't
want
funny anyway.
All I really wanted was the opportunity to lay down and sleep. Lay down, sleep, and wake up in my own bed, with my brother trying to shove ice down my pants because he's a stinky butt face like that. Because I could love him even though he was a stinky butt face.
So long as he was trying to
eat
my face.
I was perfectly alright under those conditions.
Jesus I wanted to see my brother so badly at that moment. I just wanted him to be there to take care of me like he always did, because he was so damned good at it. He always knew exactly what would be best for me, no matter what it was. Maybe it was the way our parents raised him. I remember, as a child, hearing them nearly order him to "Take care of Excel." Because I was "just a kid." Even though he really wasn't that much older than myself. Maybe that was the reason he always knew what I needed. No matter whether I realized it myself or not. He knew it.
He always knew it. "And now?"
"What?"
"What is it now, Excel?"
I contemplated ignoring the question altogether, but figured getting it out might help. People were always saying that talking about what's bothering you makes you feel better. I
was hoping that, for once in my relatively decent life (up to present date that is) such an antic would work for me. Just once. I wanted it to work just once. "My brother."
"Your brother?" "He's I He"
"Is one of them?" "Yeah."
Nope.
It didn't make me feel better at all. "How long?"
"Since this whole ordeal started. Let's just say he didn't stay dead." Not even a little.
"He sort of.. I dunno.. keeled over while we were watching a movie. I don't even remember what. All I know is he stopped breathing, and was gone by the time I'd called the police. He ended up attic I guess he was infected a long time ago or something. But he was never bitten. Trust me, I would have known he was bitten."
"How?"
"Because, unless he'd been bitten getting a b.j. or something, than he just wasn't." "Why?"
"Because he walked around nearly naked often enough. I'm quite sure I would have seen the tell tale signs of skin breakage at one point or another." "He walked around naked?"
"Well, he wore his boxers." "Big help."
"Come on, we're related. It's not that bad." "You
were
related."
Maybe the words hurt me more than they should have.
Way
more than they should have. I felt this stinging pain in my heart when Cathy said what I was sure I knew deep down. What I wouldn't admit. What I couldn't bring myself to say. Dead, or alive, or undead he was still my brother. The bastard was still my brother and I
"I I guess I didn't love him enough to stay with him. I definitely didn't love him enough to kill him, because that's what he would have wanted." I felt a hand squeeze my shoulder in a surprisingly comforting gesture. I understood what she couldn't say. "I mean, the man probably would have preferred to get a vasectomy preformed with a turkey baster than live
if it can be called living as a zombie."
"Excel, please don't tell me you're blaming yourself." "Why would I blame myself?"
"I could ask you the same question." "I'm not blaming myself."
"Then why do you sound so guilty?" "It's an art form."
I ignored what sounded suspiciously like a sigh, and just kept moving. I found myself occasionally squinting my eyes to see if Ian was there. With my luck, of course he wasn't. It was just one zombie or another who happened to resemble him from far away. Each and every one of them ducked behind its chosen chunk of shelter once it realized I'd seen it.
But I couldn't figure out why they were doing that. Even if Cathy sort of explained it.
I just didn't understand.
Zombies didn't think, other than to decide which side of the neck was most accessible to them. But then I figured that wasn't really thinking, it was just instinct. So it made absolutely no sense to me. The situation was confusing. Incredibly confusing. And I found myself wanting to clear it up again, even if only a little.
"So what did you say his name was?" "Criss, or something."
"Criss or something. Helpful." "I know, I know. Excel"
"Do you know?"
"Excel, don't go twisting my words on me, now." "Who said I was twisting your words?"
"That's what it sounded like."
"Then your ears must being playing tricks on you."
Deep down, I hadn't meant to snap at her. But I was a little cranky. Big deal, right? Everyone gets cranky sometimes. Cathy was nice enough to deal with me. She even continued following me when I started mumbling to myself, shaking a fist at the retreating zombies like a loon. I'm not entirely sure what I was mumbling, just that it was kind of mean. And completely uncalled for. And possibly about Cathy. But she still walked beside me.
What a sport right?
In her position I probably would have Falcon punched the insolent child mumbling mean things about me. But she quietly bore the frustration, and even smiled when I looked at her. She
smiled
when I looked at her. Instead of attempting to tear my eyeballs out. I mean, come on, I wanted to tear my
own
eyeballs out.
I really was mumbling some nasty things about her.
I wasn't entirely sure why I was angry. But I was. It was that bubbly kind of anger that starts in your throat, and gives you this barely controllable longing to scream as loudly as you possibly can and throw shit around. Particularly something heavy, and or pointy. Maybe a little sharp around the edges. Yeah, that's about right. The kind of anger that makes you want to throw sharp, heavy, pointy things. I
really
just wanted to scream, and break something. Anything. But I didn't. I
tried
to calm myself down.
I failed, sure enough. But I tried.
I couldn't figure why I was so damned angry. It made no sense.
"If there was ever a moment I needed a happy pill.." "Pardon?"
"Smile and nod, Cathy. Smile and nod." "Excel"
"I really don't want to talk about it." "You never want to talk about it." "So?"
And then I was beginning to sound like a child on the verge of a temper tantrum. The "Mommy won't buy me the double ice cream float that'll rot my teeth!" kind of tantrum. Not
the "Daddy took away my computer privileges because I snuck a dwarf into my bedroom!" tantrum. I figure the former is always
always
just a little more violent than the latter. Mostly because the former is normally thrown by the younger children, and the younger children are the ones who don't realize what violence is quite well enough yet.
"Stop acting like such a child, Excel." "I am
not
acting like a child."
"Yes you are." "No I'm not." "
Yes
you
are
." "
No
I'm
not
." "God!"
I grinned in satisfaction when the woman threw her arms in the air and groaned. She was quite obviously frustrated with the way I was acting, and I was
way
too proud about it. Common sense said I should apologize, because she was helping me so kindly. But pride just made me smile and want to do it all over again.
Suppose I did have a bit of an attitude.
"What makes you think I'm acting like a child, Cathy? Honestly. A child wouldn't be traveling around, looking for one of her friends, ready to kill zombies." "More like ready to be
killed
by zombies."
"Excuse me?"
"I don't see you so capable of taking down too many of the suckers." "Bitch."
"That's me." "God!"
It was my turn to throw my arms up in the air and groan. She'd done it on purpose, I could tell. Glancing over showed that she had the very same grin I'd worn moments before. She was giving me a taste of my own medicine one could say.