Zomburbia (6 page)

It fell to me to bring up something next. I couldn't think of anything Nazi-related so I started telling them about the scene that Sherri, Willie, and I had come across earlier: the lady who'd been attacked by zombies in broad daylight. I meant it just as a story to tell. Certainly not funny or anything. Not too serious, either. I mean, odds were good that none of us knew the woman and besides, attacks like that happen all the time. Taking any one too seriously would be like getting all het up every time it rained or something. I could tell that Brandon really was affected, though. His cheeks were all red and he was kind of snorting. His mouth was a straight line. I'd never seen him angry before, but I'd be willing to bet money that he was angry now.

“Are you okay?” Elsa asked him. I'm glad she took point on that one.

He took a moment to answer, and when he did, his voice was low and strained. “I'm fine,” he said. “It's just that stories like that . . . they get to me, you know.” I found myself nodding, just like Elsa, even though I didn't think I did quite get it.

“It's just that,” he paused and looked down at his hands. “It's just that my mom . . .”

Oh, Christ
. Now I felt like an ass. I mean, I didn't know he'd lost his mom in a zombie attack. Really, am I supposed to go around all the time never saying anything because I'm going to rub some sensitive jerk the wrong way? It's not like I did it on purpose.

None of that made me feel like less of an ass, of course. Now I felt sorry for Brandon, and that was definitely not how I wanted to feel about him.

“I'm sorry,” I finally said, my own voice sounding pathetic in my ears. “I didn't know.”
Stellar performance, Courtney. You are one top-notch human being.

A really loud silence followed that. I heard the kitchen clock ticking away in the other room. The ice cracking in my glass sounded like a gunshot.

Brandon steepled his fingers together and looked down at the table.

“Well,” he said, “now that we've broken the ice . . .”

I giggled nervously until he looked up and I saw his grin. Then I giggled for real. He and Elsa joined in, and I felt something go out of the room. It felt better. We actually started to talk after that—not just waiting for our turn to say something. A real conversation. It was nice. For a while. Until it was time to leave.

Elsa looked at the time on her phone and frowned. “I have to get going, guys,” she said. “My folks are expecting me back.”

“Me, too, I guess,” I said.

We all stood and started to move toward the door.

“Okay, you two,” Brandon said, “drive safe.”

Elsa said she would, and I must have had one of those looks on my face. It would have been easy enough for me to say okay, too, even though I hadn't driven. To be honest, there's a part of me that never wants to miss an opportunity to correct someone.

“What?” Brandon asked.

“Well,” I said, “I'll
ride safely
. I rode my bike.”

“Oh,” Brandon said, “you should let me give you a ride.”

“No, that's okay,” I said, “I don't live far from here and I don't want to leave my bike.”

“It's not okay,” Brandon said. “I can't let you ride your bike home.”

“Excuse me,” I said. “You
can't let me
?”

We were between Elsa and the door. I shot her a look, and I could tell she wanted to be anywhere other than where she was.

“What the hell does that mean?” I asked.

“It's dark out, Courtney,” Brandon said, and I could tell he was as frustrated with me as I was with him. “And you told that story about the lady who got attacked today!”

“First of all,” I said, “I can take care of myself. Second, even if I couldn't,
you
are not who I'd run to to save me. So, please, take your macho, chauvinistic bullshit and cram it!” I threw the door open and checked Brandon as hard as I could with my shoulder. Granted, he barely moved. I heard footsteps on the driveway behind me and turned to see Elsa getting her keys out of her purse. Thank God Brandon hadn't come after me.

I hopped on my bike and was about to ride away when she spoke to me. “You know,” she said, “he was just trying to be nice.”

“Yeah, well,” I said, “he was being kind of a dick about it.”

She shrugged. “Maybe,” she said. “Do you want a ride? We could probably put your bike in the trunk.”

“No,” I said, “but thanks. I don't have far to go.”

“Okay,” she said, and climbed into her car and pulled out onto the street.

I made my own way behind her. It was a lot easier getting out of the subdivision than it had been getting in. The security guard seemed eager to have me leave. That made two of us.

I heard the gate clang shut behind me and I rode out into the darkness on my way home.

I
'm going to admit right up front that turning down that ride from Brandon was not one of my best ideas. Or, to put it another way: I was stupid to ride my bike home in the dark. The first mile or so was fine since I had to ride up Commercial Street with all of its traffic streaming by. The passing cars and the well-lit parking lots made me feel safe. Hell, I almost forgot that it was dark outside.

Almost, that is, until I turned off the main drag onto Madrona Street and slowly left the halogen lights of the parking lots behind. Madrona is a really steep hill at that point, and, because I refused to get off and walk my bike up the incline, I was a sweaty, huffy pile of humanity by the time I crested the hill. It's not even like it goes down after that, it just levels out. But believe me, after that climb it felt like I was coasting. I realized that the hard work of climbing the hill had actually held back any fear I might have felt. Once I could breathe normally, that feeling started to creep in on the edges.

I turned down 12th Street toward my part of town, and the streetlights were few and far between. A lot of those had been busted out. I found myself riding from one insubstantial puddle of light to the next. The occasional car that did pass me wasn't reassuring at all; their lights created weird swaths of shadow where anything could be hiding. For the most part, I rode in the middle of the street where, theoretically, it would be easiest for me to avoid any attacking undead. My heart rate spiked every time I had to swerve to the sidewalk because of a passing car.

Because my mind is a bitch and likes to conspire against me, I started to think about every zombie attack I'd ever seen, whether it was real or not. Real life scenes started to get mixed up in my mind with stuff I'd seen in horror movies. Dead, gray hands reaching out of the dark, rigor-mortised lips pulled back from hungry teeth. It didn't matter if the shuffler coming after you was a complete stranger or your best friend or your mom when they had been alive, because after they'd been turned, all that mattered was their unending hunger for live flesh. Nothing was going to stop them till they got their teeth into you.

I found myself panting again even though I was on flat ground. I was tempted to stop there in the middle of the street and grab my pistol out of my bag and maybe shove it in my waistband like some TV show cop. Somehow the thought of stopping there in the dark was even worse than the thought that my gun was so hard to get to, which meant I was unprotected.

I shuddered as my mind flashed on the image of a pair of zombies crouching over a still-screaming woman and feasting on her guts. At least that was a scene from a movie. Thank God. I needed to get a grip on myself. I needed something else to occupy my stupid brain.

I started thinking about how I would tell off Brandon the next time I saw him. I'd start by pointing out I was very much alive and intact and in no way eaten by any stupid shufflers. Then I'd ask where he got off assuming I couldn't take care of myself. I've probably been through more attacks than him and could handle myself better—

I nearly let out a scream when I rounded a corner and saw someone on the sidewalk. I was just a few blocks from home by that point and was really not expecting anyone to be out, especially not on foot. It was a woman and I relaxed a little when I saw she had her hands on her swollen belly. Jeez, what was a pregnant lady doing out here by herself after dark?

“Hey,” I called out, “are you okay?”

I swerved the bike toward the curb, and she turned more swiftly than I thought possible, her yellow teeth bared, her desiccated hands outstretched. I tried to maneuver the bike away from her, overcorrected, and toppled over. The next thing I knew, my cheek was pressed against the asphalt—that was gonna hurt like a bitch later. If there was a later. My legs tangled in the bike and I felt panic setting in, my breath coming fast and shallow.

I forced myself to slow down my breathing and to actually look at my legs. It only took a second after that to get them free and under me. By that time the zombie had made it out into the street and bore down on me. I swung my bag around and tore at the zipper. My pistol. I needed my pistol. I could hear the zombie right behind me, her shuffling steps so loud despite my ragged breath. There wasn't enough time. Why did I have so much crap in my bag? Why couldn't I find the pistol? It was the only gun-shaped object in there!

I became dimly aware of a rustling from the bushes behind me. Great, the expectant shuffler brought friends, probably her baby-daddy.

My hand wrapped around the pistol's grip—just as I felt the zombie's hand fall on my shoulder.

I heard a loud thud and felt a jolt travel up the zombie's arm. Her grip dropped away from my shoulder and she fell to the ground beside me. A couple of guys in camo and face paint stood there with homemade weapons.

“Phil?”
I yelled as I stood and backed away from the quivering zombie. I kept the pistol trained on her, even though my hands shook. My mind refused to accept this. Phil was the troll who lived in the back of the Bully Burger and washed dishes; he wasn't the guy who came to my rescue.

Phil looked at me for a moment, like he was considering whether or not he should have saved me. Then, very swiftly, he raised his weapon—a baseball bat with nails driven through it—and brought it down on the shuffler's face. She stopped quivering.

“Hey, Courtney,” he said as he straightened. “What are you doing out here?”

“Me?”
I nearly screamed. “What the hell are you and Junior G.I. Joe doing out here?”

He shrugged. “Saving your ass, I guess.”

Fair enough.

“Who's your buddy?” I asked.

Phil pointed with his bat. The end of which was covered in black zombie-brain-stuff. Nice.

“Cody,” he said. “Cody, Courtney. We work together.”

Cody gave me a chin nod. “Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” I said back.

“So, you know it's not a good idea to be out joyriding by yourself after dark, right?” Phil asked.

Joyriding?
“Jesus, am I going to have to take crap from you tonight, too?”

“Well, you have to admit it was a pretty bad idea,” Phil said.

“Hey, guys?” Cody started to say. I cut him off.

“For your information, douche,” I snapped at Phil, “I was doing fine!” I brandished the pistol.

Phil looked unimpressed. “Yeah,” he said, “from the looks of things, that undead bitch was about to take that thing away and shove it up your butt. Then she was set to chow down.”

“Go to hell, Phil,” I said, not really having an answer to what was basically the truth. “I didn't need—”

“Hey, guys,” Cody said again, this time urgently.

Out of his black face paint, Cody's eyes were huge and too-white.

“What is it?” Phil asked. But Cody didn't say anything, he just pointed down at the for-real-dead zombie.

All I noticed was the place where her face used to be. Thank God her matted hair covered the worst of it. I couldn't see what freaked out Cody. I was ready to ask him what his beef was, but then I caught Phil's expression. His face contorted into this horrified mask, his mouth open in a kind of disgusted grimace.

“You have to be shitting me,” he said in a husky voice.

The zombie's swollen belly was moving. It looked like a puppy playing under a blanket. Of course, that's not what it was. I couldn't process what I saw. My mind felt blank—a long, silent scream filled it. The baby. It was still inside her and it wanted to get out and get at us. I could imagine its empty eyes and its gaping toothless mouth. I thought I was going to puke.

I looked back at the boys. They were right there with me.

“This is too much,” I said, and my voice croaked out of my throat. Cody nodded.

“We have to kill it,” Phil said.

I started to back away slowly. I wanted to back out of this whole stupid night.

“We can't leave it,” he said. “It's going to get out soon.” I looked at the zombie's belly. A tiny hand pushed against the skin, its little fingers very distinct. He was right, the mother's desiccated flesh wouldn't hold up for long.

“Call the police,” I said, “it's
their
job.” Even to me, that sounded lame.

“It could get out by the time they get here,” he said. “
We
have to do it.”

Cody shook his head and turned away. He looked ashamed. Phil pointed at what I held in my hand. “You have a gun,” he said. “You could make it quick.”

I cradled the gun to my chest. There was no way I could kill a baby, even if it was a zombie baby. My cheeks burned and I was glad at least for the fact that it was dark. Phil couldn't see me blushing.

“No?” he said to both me and Cody. “Well, I guess I'll have to do it then.” He hefted his nail-studded bat over his shoulder. He hesitated and looked right at me. I couldn't read the look. I'm sure it was hate or disgust. He swung the bat with a grunt.

I turned away just in time, though I still heard the sound of its making contact. A wet thump followed by a kind of sucking sound as he pulled the nails out. I know it took more than one blow to get the job done, but I didn't hear anymore after that. I was too occupied with throwing up to hear much of anything besides my own retching.

I felt a hand on my shoulder as I finished dry-heaving. Phil stood over me and offered me a bandanna. I wondered how long it had been riding around in his pocket. I went ahead and wiped my mouth and tongue with it anyway.

“Thanks,” I said.

“C'mon,” he said, “we'll walk you home.” I didn't say anything, just started my feet moving.

Phil walked beside me with my bike. Cody held back a little and carried their weapons. We walked in silence for a minute, our feet on the pavement the only sound.

“Is this something you do?” I asked. “Saving people from shufflers?”

“This is only the third time we've gone out like this,” Phil answered. “And this is the first time we've even seen one of the undead.”

One of the undead
. There was something in the phrase Phil used, but I left it alone. I didn't have the energy or brain capacity to think about it.

“Well, thanks,” I said, “you're right, I'd've been toast if you two hadn't come along.”

“Sure,” was all he said.

I became aware of a distant buzzing sound.

“Is that your phone?” Phil asked.

I started digging through my bag, looking for my cell. It was probably my dad—
oh, shit, my dad!
—I was supposed to call him when I was done at Brandon's house. I found the phone and looked at the caller ID. Sherri. I groaned; I didn't have the strength to talk to her right now. I let it go to voice mail. I then checked for messages from my dad. He'd called from work and left me two voice mails and three texts. The last message said that if he didn't hear from me in half an hour, he was coming home to look for me. He'd left it twenty minutes ago. I texted him right away and apologized for not getting back to him. I lied and said I'd been somewhere without service and I stressed that I was fine. I felt my chin and cheek throbbing and I let my dad know I wrecked my bike so he wouldn't freak out the next time he saw me.

By the time I finished typing the message, we stood in front of my house. Cody opened the gate and Phil pushed the bike into the yard. I walked to the front door and let myself in. Phil and Cody waited outside the fence to make sure I got in okay, and I waved to them as I closed the door. They waved back silently, and there was something so crazy about these two guys in camo and face paint, both holding weapons—one of them covered in gore—waving good night to me that I got the giggles. I couldn't help it, and I couldn't stop it. I stood at the door, racked with laughter until I realized that it had somehow become sobs. I sat on the floor and just let myself cry and cry. I wasn't even sure why I was crying, but, God, it felt good.

Phil and Cody stood there looking awkward. I waved them away, and they looked almost relieved to hightail it out of there.

When the episode passed, I went inside and cleaned up. Being covered in snot and tears when my dad got home, I'd have no choice but to engage him in conversation. I needed to head off that situation.

I took a shower and picked gravel out of my chin and both my palms. I hadn't even noticed the damage to my hands what with the nearly dying. I dressed for bed: boy's boxers and a T-shirt. Before I got under the covers, I figured I could use a pick-me-up so I decided to look on the web for news of the army retaking New York City. The latest gossip was that the city would be open by the beginning of the new year. I tried to not look it up too often because that led to heartache. I had a feeling that tonight had been so shitty, there just had to be good news to counteract its sheer lousiness.

I fired up my Mac—my dad got a wicked good discount at the college's bookstore—and logged onto my Google homepage. I had a filter set that automatically sent me stories about the NYC situation. The first headline made me groan. P
LAN TO
R
ETAKE
NYC M
EETS
S
ETBACKS.
Long story short, the Army was looking at next spring before they'd try to take the city back from the mass of shufflers. My plan to save the world from the zombie hordes was going to shit the bed if the U.S. military didn't get on the stick. This was a situation so massively screwed it demanded I update my Facebook status.

I opened a new tab and logged onto the site.
Is it wrong to take global events as a personal insult?
I typed and hit
SEND.
I was about to log off when a chat window popped up. It was Sherri. Damn.