Zomburbia (3 page)

“Hey, kiddo,” Dad said from the couch.

I avoided eye contact, hoping I could just slip on past.

“Hey,” I said, and started walking down the hall to my room.

“Why don't you sit down and tell me about your day?” he asked.

I grimaced, then put my bland face back on by the time I'd turned around.

I heard him mute the TV.

“Sure,” I said, and walked over to the couch.

Dad sat there, a ratty old robe wrapped around him, his skinny little legs poking out the bottom. I guess he could have been handsome once. Now he looks too sad and defeated to be good looking. His face is kind of pinched up, and his hair is really thin and straggly. I guess it's a good thing he wasn't interested in finding a replacement for my mom.

I sat on the far side of the couch and scooted over when he patted the spot next to him. He flashed me a weak smile. I don't think he's very used to smiling.

“I thought you'd be in bed all ready,” I said.

“Not without checking in with my favorite girl,” he said, and patted my arm. “So, how was your day?”

“Pretty uneventful,” I told him. I thought about Chacho taking on that zombie earlier. I didn't say anything.

“That's it?” he asked. “ ‘Uneventful'?”

I shrugged. “Come on,” I said, “I'm a high school student, how much exciting stuff could there be in my life?”

He nodded. “Sure,” he said. “Sure.”

He smiled. “You know you can talk to me about anything, right?” he asked.

I thought again about Chacho taking on the zombie earlier and the sick feeling in my gut when he knocked it on the head with his club. Again I didn't say anything. We both turned and concentrated on the TV because that's easier sometimes.

“What are you watching?” I asked.

Dad waved his hand dismissively. “One of those late-night talk shows,” he said. “This wacko thinks we should be trying to talk to the Returned.”

I groaned. I've always hated the term “Returned” for the zombies. It's got this slightly religious flavor like a cool-ranch communion wafer or something. But then, Dad always had a flair for the dramatic. For instance, whenever he talks about my mom, he makes people believe that she died in a zombie attack, when the real reason she's gone is because she left to go live up in Seattle with her Pilates instructor. Honestly, though, I was happy to think of her as dead, too.

“Huh,” was my only response. Best to nip these things in the bud.

“Well,” he said as he stood up, “I'm going to hit the hay. Don't stay up too late, huh?”

He shuffled off down the hallway, and a second later I heard his bedroom door close.

I turned my attention to the TV.

Two middle-aged white guys in suits sat across a table. If it weren't for the titles that appeared beneath them on the screen, I wouldn't be able to tell them apart. The zombie talker was a professor somewhere and he was mildly annoyed. Probably because the host was barely containing his derision as he spoke to the dude. Being a high school student, I can discern even the best-hidden condescension. I'm sure the professor was used to this since the host made a point of saying how many people thought his ideas were total crap. Though he used nicer words than that.

The prof didn't take any of the host's shit, which made me like him. He sat forward, looked the guy right in the eyes, and told him he didn't care what others thought of his theories.

“The world of academia changes course so slowly in response to changes in the world, they make the
Titanic
look like a race car,” he said, and then gave a hint of a smile. I thought about my teachers and smiled, too.

“The truth is,” he said, “there is a great deal of interest in this subject in the general population. These creatures have come back, that's undeniable, and now it's up to us to figure out what that means. I simply don't understand why,” he said, “despite the fact that these creatures were once human, no one has tried to communicate with them. Literally no one. Once spotted, the immediate response is to kill them.”

The host turned to the camera and practically rolled his eyes. “Yes,” he said. “Why would we ever kill flesh-eating monsters bent on our destruction?”

There were lots of guffaws from the audience.

Before the guest could say anything in his defense, the host jumped in again.

“What do you think these things could possibly tell us,” he asked, “provided you could get one to talk?”

“What they have to tell us may be nothing less than how to save the world,” the guest answered.

The host turned and mugged for the camera.

“Only if the answer is, ‘braaiins . . .' ” he said.

All of the goons in the audience laughed like hyenas. The guest sat there and stared at the host. I'm sure he was wondering why he ever agreed to be on the show and talk with this douche bag.

“That's all the time we have tonight,” the host went on. I could hear the guest in the background trying to get a word in. The host just steamrollered over him. “I'd like to thank our guest tonight, Professor Richard Keller. Good night and we'll see you again tomorrow.” The lights dimmed and the camera showed the two of them. This is the part of the show where the guest and host pretend to carry on the conversation even though the audience can't hear it and the credits roll up. The professor—Keller—wasn't playing along. He was on his feet and trying to get the mic off his lapel so he could leave. The host was looking off camera, probably at his producer, and probably waiting for advice on what to do. After a few seconds, the screen went black.

I turned it off before another crappy program had a chance to come on and suck me in. The remote clattered on the coffee table where I threw it and I got up to get ready for bed.

As I washed my face and brushed my teeth, I thought about Professor Keller. I suddenly realized I was happy that Sherri wasn't here—which was really weird to feel. If she'd been here she'd be making fun of the guy and I'd feel the need to jump in and make fun, too. I didn't know if I believed what the guy was saying. I wanted to contemplate it for a while. If I decided the guy was full of it, then I'd bring it up to Sherri and Willie. If I decided there was something to what he said, I'd probably keep it to myself. It felt good to have something that was just for me.

On the way back down the hall, I paused in front of the door to my dad's room. I held my breath, listened, and heard faint snoring. I tiptoed back to my room and closed the door behind me.

I pulled a wad of bills out of my backpack—$600, not a bad night—and hid them in my underwear drawer. That drawer has a false bottom that Willie helped me make. Or that Willie made, if you want to be entirely accurate. My dad said he wouldn't go through my room without permission, but I still worried about it. If he ever did decide to violate my Fourth Amendment rights, the one place he'd never dig into is my underwear drawer. Pawing my delicates would be too creepy. I hoped.

Right before I turned off the light, I took a small revolver from my bag. It's a pretty compact Smith & Wesson .38. It's nickel-plated and cute. My dad gave it to me after I started working nights at Bully Burger. He's come a long way since he freaked out about me wanting to look at the family shotgun. I removed the rounds from the cylinder and put them in one drawer of my nightstand and put the pistol in another. I'd clean it in the morning before school.

That last bit of business taken care of, it was time to hit the hay.

I crawled into bed and turned off the lamp on the bedside table.

I drifted off thinking about what kind of conversation I would have with a zombie. It would probably be a lot like talking to my dad or my teachers.

M
y dad taught an early class every day, which meant he left to prepare for it before I woke up. He was on the faculty at the community college. Psychology. Whenever I think about my dad being a psychologist, I think of that old saying,
The cobbler's children always go unshod.
Though, in my case, I guess it would be,
The psychologist's children always go around complete emotional wrecks.
Not as catchy, but true.

After I showered, I got into my uniform for the day. Jeans, oversized flannel shirt, black Chuck Taylors, minimal makeup but heavy on the mascara. Basically, I look like the world's tiniest emo lumberjack—which does not help with the “Courtney and Sherri are lesbian” rumors. I grabbed my backpack, the pistol once again tucked into the front pocket, and headed out the door.

Willie's land boat idled at the curb. The street was free of shufflers, so I opened the gate and jumped into the battered old Buick. I barely had the door closed before Willie gassed it and we were out of there.

“Hey,” he said. I barely heard him over the squeal of the passenger door closing.

“'Morning,” I said as I did up the seat belt. The way Willie drives, the seat belt is necessary even if it separates my boobs and makes them look all wonky.

After I turned the radio to an appropriate, listenable station rather than the ear-bleed sonata Willie had chosen, I settled back in the seat.

“You up for a Portland run this weekend?” I asked. For the last few months, Willie had been driving me up to meet with the guy that sells me Vitamin Z. Sherri used to do it, but then she decided to become Ms. Morals about the whole deal.

“Sure,” Willie said. “Just let me know when.”

“Can do,” I said.

Silence filled the car as Willie threw us around corners. Thursdays were always kind of a mixed blessing. Sherri had a late start, so I got a break from her constant critiques of everything in the entire world. On the downside, I was stuck all alone in a confined space with Willie.

He's a great guy and all—as great as a guy can be, anyway—but his crush on me was a little hard to take sometimes. He refused to admit it and so he acted weird all the time. If he'd just get it out in the open, I could shoot him down and crush his dreams and we'd move on from there, you know?

We rode along a little while without saying anything. I never know what to say to Willie when we're alone. But I've learned that you have to fire off the first salvo in any conversation or else he'll start it and then you're stuck talking about Danish hard-core bands or his latest D&D adventures for the entire ride to school.

I saw him open his mouth to speak, so I plunged ahead.

“So I saw this crazy guy on TV last night,” I said in a rush.

I winced. Just last night I'd told myself I wouldn't bring this up to Willie or Sherri until I was sure it was bunk. But here I was, blabbing away about it. Next I'd be telling him about my sexual fantasies. I really sucked sometimes.

I sat and waited to see if Willie was going to bite.

He raised an eyebrow.

“Crazy how?” he asked.

“He thinks we need to start trying to talk to the UDs,” I said. I kept my voice neutral.

Willie considered this as we drove.

“Like the
Pro-Deathers,
” he said. “It sort of makes sense.” The Pro-Deathers are a group of kids on campus who think we shouldn't be killing zombies on sight. Most of them are religious, I hate to say. And most of them have also had family members or loved ones turned by the virus. They argue that destroying the shufflers is like killing them twice. Needless to say, this outlook is not a popular one.

Willie surprised me sometimes. I expected him to mock the idea, and maybe he would have if Sherri had been there. Right then he was open to it.

“It sort of does, huh?” I asked.

“What's that kid doing in the road?” he asked, and pointed out the windshield. Maybe a hundred yards ahead, a kid was walking beside the road. You never see anyone out on foot, or alone, anymore. At most you see packs of kids on bikes.

“I don't know,” I said, “maybe he missed the bus. Wanna offer him a ride?”

“Sure,” Willie said. “Okay, so what were you saying?”

“Right,” I said, “this guy, this
professor,
figured that zombies used to be human, right? So maybe we'd be able to communicate with them if someone could figure out how to, you know, speak their language.”

“Okay,” Willie said.

“The host of the show was sort of a tool,” I went on. “He didn't give the guy much of a chance to talk. I was thinking about it this morning, and I was wondering what sorts of things they could tell us.”

“Besides ‘braaaaains'?” Willie asked.

“That's the same joke the tool of a host made last night,” I said. “I'm being serious.”

Willie grunted.

We got closer to the kid. With every step, his leg hitched up in a weird way, like he'd hurt his hip.

Willie slowed the car and I rolled down the window.

“I mean, what if they could tell us how to cure the zombie plague?” I asked. Then I stuck my head out the window.

“Hey, dude!” I yelled at the kid. “Do you need a ride to school?”

He looked up at the sound of my voice. The front of his shirt was torn open and his guts—what was left of them—hung down around his knees.

“Oh, shit!” I said, and reeled back into the car and rolled the window up as fast as I could.

Calm as anything, Willie slammed on the brakes, then threw the boat into reverse.

“Maybe the shufflers could tell us things like what happens after we die,” he said as he turned to look out the back window.

By now, the zombie had turned toward us, his eyes glinting. I told myself that I didn't recognize him.

“Since they're dead, they might know all kinds of stuff about being alive,” Willie said as he brought the car to another screeching halt. He sat forward and put the car in drive, then he revved the engine a couple of times.

Willie turned to look at me and smiled.

“It's like how, if you're in the forest, you can't really describe it too well.”

He stomped on the gas and the car shot forward, pushing me back into my seat.

“You have to be outside of it to really get a good look at it, you know?” Willie asked.

The kid stood in the middle of the road and he threw up his arms in a grabbing gesture—classic zombie—and opened his mouth greedily.

Willie swerved at the last minute so that just the edge of that huge bumper caught the kid. The car lurched a bit, but that was all. The kid flew over us, barely grazing the roof as he went.

I turned in my seat and watched him land on his head and neck. I imagined the sound it must have made and winced. I watched for a few seconds. The thing just lay there unmoving.

I sat forward.

“I think that guy might be onto something,” Willie said. “I hope people start to listen to him.”

I got to spend the rest of the ride to school listening to Willie go on about a band called der Wankendoomen, or something else just as equally depressing and Nordic, that he'd just discovered on the Internet.

 

I don't know what schools were like before the dead came back. I'm guessing they didn't look like maximum-security prisons. My high school featured chain-link fences topped with razor wire, towers with snipers, and guards roaming the grounds with shotguns. It didn't do much for school spirit, though it did cut down on on-campus violence.

A grim-faced guard dressed in full riot gear and carrying a scatter gun—seriously, this guy made Chacho look positively cuddly—checked our student IDs and waved us through the gate; all the while, his partner scanned the surrounding area with his own shotgun.

Things had gotten really bad since one of the PE teachers, Ms. Sawyer, went missing a couple of weeks ago. The rumor mill said her empty car was found in the parking lot and that the front gate wasn't closed properly. I guess getting caught being lousy at their jobs gave the guards itchy trigger fingers.

We moored the boat and got out. There was always this awkward moment when Willie and I parted where I thought he was going to go in for a hug. That day he settled for chucking me on the shoulder—for real!—and then we went to our classes on opposite sides of the school.

I sleepwalked my way through Homeroom and AP English. At one point Mrs. Hamburger called on me and asked if I did the reading because I wasn't joining the discussion. I controlled myself and did not roll my eyes.
Of course I did the reading
. I just didn't feel much like talking. I kept thinking about that professor from last night, and Willie that morning running over that UD. I also felt like there was something else, like a dream I couldn't remember. Does that ever happen to you? You wake up feeling bad—scared maybe, or angry, and you know you had a bad dream, but you can't remember it.

Things picked up in Health and Hygiene. Mostly that's because it was the only class I had with Sherri and she kept up a steady stream of derisive comments about everything Mr. Souza told us. H&H was really just a nice name for the class they teach us
every year
about how to identify zombies and make sure we don't get infected. Basically the second part all boils down to not being bitten or scratched by one. The virus, whatever else it might be, is wicked communicable. Doctors have seen it transmitted in scratches that don't even draw blood. Thank God it's not airborne, you know? The government forces the school to teach the class to us every year. Really, there's a limited amount of information on all of this so they tend to review the same stuff over and over again. And again. Maybe it worked, though, because I heard that cases of zombie-ism were down lately. Maybe it was clearing up altogether and we'd be able to move back into the cities. That'd be nice. Living in the suburbs was just killing me.

The only cool thing about suburbs before the undead popped up is that you could visit the city any time you wanted to. But now all the cities have been abandoned to the shufflers and the military keeps those of us with pulses out. Mostly, anyway. It was like the worst of both worlds.

Sherri started calling where we live Zomburbia, and that sounds just about right. Lately, she says the whole world feels like Zomburbia. “Every city that ever mattered is closed 'cause of the shufflers,” she said, “so now the whole world lives in the freaking suburbs.”

We made it through Mr. Souza's endless drone and headed out into the halls along with everyone else in the school. We used the ten minutes between classes to stand there confirming our plans.

“See you at lunch?” Sherri asked. “The tables behind the school, over by Cancer Corner?”

“Sounds good,” I said. It should have sounded good; it's been the plan every day since we started high school.

We were just about to break up and go our separate ways when there was a big commotion down the hall. Naturally, we headed that way to see what was what.

A crowd gathered in the middle of the main hall, and everyone had carved out a space in the center to watch a couple of jocktoids pushing around a Goth kid. I didn't know the jocks' names. The Goth kid was named Chris. He and I used to be friends back in grade school. We drifted apart around the time he bought a floor-length leather duster.

Life wasn't too easy for the darkwave kids. Regular folks were touchy about the whole undead thing, and wearing white fright makeup wasn't exactly endearing. I had to admit that as antisocial as I tried to be, they made me uncomfortable, too. Still, I didn't condone beating them up.

Apparently the jocks did not have the same generous outlook as me. They gleefully took turns slamming Chris up against some lockers. No one stepped in to help. Not even other Goths. They have a pretty strict code that basically boils down to, “You're on your own.” I've never met a Goth who didn't delight in showing you the scars they'd received just because they were enamored with the undead. For instance, I could see the unofficial head of the group, their Dark Prince—a kid I'd known all my life as Ray Simmons, but who now probably went by the name Reginald Bloodsbane—standing in the back of the crowd watching the whole thing without emotion. He sported a huge neck brace that disappeared under his floor-length black coat.

I don't even remember what the juicers said as they bounced the kid around—I'm sure it was your standard “You're different from us and so worthy of our scorn and derision, not to mention our thinly veiled homoerotic aggression.”

A security guard watched the melee, his shotgun slung over his shoulder, the visor of his helmet raised for a better view. He seemed to be enjoying the show. Popular rumor around the schools was that the folks patrolling our halls all wanted to be prison guards but couldn't pass the Psych exam.

After Chris's head bounced off the locker for the third time, I heard a man's voice booming down the hall.

“
Move
it, people!” he shouted. “Pretend you're at a sale at Hot Topic!”

Mr. Santori, who is a moving five-and-a-half-foot-tall wall of muscle and anger, plowed through the group of kids. He didn't seem to mind that he actually knocked over at least one guy.

The two jocks stopped using Chris as a human punching bag and tried to straighten his torn clothes. For his part, Chris just stood, embarrassed.

“Jock A” opened his mouth to start defending himself, but Mr. Santori cut him off with a quick hand gesture.

“Shut your pie-hole, Mitchell!” he said, and even I cringed. “And if you're smart, you'll keep it shut until we get to Principal Ibrahim's office.”

Then I remembered—Kim Mitchell. He was probably overcompensating for the fact that his parents gave him a girl's name. Either that or he was currying favor with the upper echelons of the varsity elite since he was a junior and only on the JV football team.