Zombies: The Recent Dead Part 36

In this way, she might make it home.

Now Justine really could hear the girls coming. Someone muttering, low and sarcastic, followed by a high-pitched giggle. She couldn't hear shoes. Maybe they weren't wearing shoes. Oh f.u.c.k, where were their shoes?

Every molecule in her body fired a starting shot, quick and hot and electric, and then she was off.

About the Author.

Alice Sola Kim is currently a student in the MFA Writing Program at Washington University in St. Louis. Her short fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in Asimov's Science Fiction, Lightspeed, Strange Horizons, and Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet. "Beautiful White Bodies" was honor-listed for the 2009 James Tiptree, Jr. Award.

Story Notes.

Zombies are an empty canvas, unmolded clay, a blank screen you can project anything onto. You can accept a disease that turns the dead into walking corpses who want only to devour the living? It's even easier to believe in zombie virus that turns teenage girls into the societal ideal of the desirable female. Oh yeah, you get pretty-then you die. You think the consequence of death would stop most people from wanting to "catch" beauty?

Glorietta.

Gary A. Braunbeck.

"Pining to live, I was constrained to die, Here, then, am I . . .

"Poor soul; he suffered. But, at end, no child Ever more gently fell asleep.

He smiled.

As if all contraries were reconciled."

-Walter de la Mare, "Epilogue"

The first questions are always the same, as are the responses: Mom? Dad? Sis? Do you recognize me this year?

Do you like the Christmas tree? Remember when I made this decoration in kindergarten? You liked it so much, Dad. Remember? See, I even strung popcorn.

Yet another Christmas spent both above-ground and alive. You can't understand why you still bother, why it is you hang on to a pitiful, even pathetic, shred of hope. Some nights, watching the lights as they blink on the tree and the Christmas music fills the empty rooms of the family home, you can almost-almost-pretend that everything is fine, you're still ten years old and that this year you will stay awake long enough to catch Santa slipping down the chimney, even if there is a banked fire blazing.

You'll listen, as always, and hope for something; a sound, a whisper, a spark of recognition in the eyes. Listen and hope, but all the while know what you'll get.

Still, even their silence is a sort-of gift, isn't it? Because at least they remember enough about their previous lives to come home for Christmas. They remember the house. They remember in which rooms they spent the most time during the holidays. They remember where everyone sits around the tree and how to turn off the lights so only the glow of the tree and tinsel and the fire provide illumination. They remember all of this, all three of them.

They just don't remember you.

At age forty-eight you have learned a new, albeit nearly useless, lesson: something about your disease repels the living dead. The first time you realized this, in the days and weeks following the awakenings, was when you had no choice but to leave the house and go in search of food and medicine. There was still power then, and the unlooted grocery stores and pharmacies still had plenty of supplies, much to your astonishment. You were in the pharmacy, gathering up the boxes of hypodermics, the vials of Dilauded, and the steroids you'd need to keep yourself alive and pain-free. You were almost finished when you decided, what the h.e.l.l, grab some Percocet and Demerol, as well, because sometimes the Dilauded made you far too weak and woozy. Six large shopping bags you had, filled with enough prescription medicine to keep you going for a couple of years, even if you took more than the prescribed dosage. You were on your way out when you walked right into a group of five of the living dead, gathered around your car in the parking lot. You thought, This is it, as they began stumbling toward you, but as soon as the first one was close enough to touch you, something like a shadow crossed its decomposed features and it pulled away its hand, and then simply stood there staring at you. The rest did the same. After what seemed an hour but was in fact only a minute or two, the five of them turned away from you and shambled on.

You used to keep a gun, but that's long been thrown out. They want nothing to do with you. You spent months afterward in search of others who were sick-cancer, AIDS, leukemia-something, anything that marked them as persona non grata to the living dead. You did find a few people, but they were so far gone that there was no community made with them; you even helped a few to end their suffering, and then used their guns to pulp their brains so they wouldn't come back. The eleven-year-old boy with leukemia thanked you as you sank the plunger, sighing into sleep, dressed in his Spider-Man pajamas. You hated shooting him, but you'd promised, and he'd kissed your cheek before falling asleep for the very last time. You sat there, holding his hand until you were certain he was gone. Then did what had to be done.

You no longer search out the marked ones. Though you know what you do-what you did-was the right thing, it still hurt too much, caused too many sleepless nights, gave you too many bad dreams and sick-making memories. It's better this way. You keep telling yourself that. Maybe one of these days you'll even start to believe it in your heart of hearts.

And then came that first Christmas after Mom, Dad, and Jenny died in the automobile accident when Dad had swerved to avoid hitting a cat that had frozen in fear. You handled all the arrangements, set up viewing hours, sent notices to the paper. The day before the funeral all of the dead opened their eyes, stood up, and began walking around. You did not see the mangled remains of your family until Christmas Eve, when you awoke from a nap to find all three of them sitting in the living room, staring at the spot where the Christmas tree was usually displayed. So you did what a good son and older brother would do under the circ.u.mstances; you went to the bas.e.m.e.nt and dug out the tree and all of the decorations and began setting up everything. A few minutes into your project, your family began removing decorations from the boxes and hung everything exactly, precisely where the traditional decorations always went. Your little sister even arranged the Nativity set on the fireplace mantle.

But not a one of them looked at you with anything like recognition.

Still, it was better than being alone. It is always better than being alone-another thing you tell yourself constantly in the hopes that you will one day believe it.

Merry Christmas, everyone, you say to them every year.

Merry Christmas.

This year will be no different. Oh, some of the accoutrements will change-you taught yourself how to make t.u.r.ducken, and your recipe is pretty good, if you do say so yourself, and you'll set four places at the dinner table, knowing that you'll be the only one eating. The menthol cream you rub under your nose kills most of your family's stench, so you at least can keep an appet.i.te, providing you don't look at them for too long, or too often.

In the years since the awakenings, you have become a good carpenter, a decent-enough electrician, an excellent plumber, an all-around first-rate handyman. The gas-powered generators keep the electricity flowing into the house, though you're careful not to waste power. You use only the downstairs, having boarded up and sealed the entrance to the upper floors after removing everything you might need or want.

You stand in the kitchen watching them decorate the tree, arrange the Nativity set, string the popcorn. It's a Wonderful Life is playing on DVD in high-definition Blu-Ray, Jimmy Stewart's face filling the 65-inch flat-screen plasma television you took from an electronics store last year. A digital home theater system guarantees exquisite sound. You couldn't give less of a d.a.m.n about any of it right now-although you find that you've come to appreciate the middle of the movie much more, the part where it's all dark and hopeless. You recognize that look of terror and grief and helplessness that is a permanent fixture on Stewart's face in these sequences. You see something like it every time you glance at your reflection in a mirror. You laugh at the heavy-handed melodrama of that thought. It's an odd sound, hearing your own laughter at Christmas time. It's almost like the old days, the good days, the happy-enough days.

They've rotted away so much, you wonder how it is they manage to move around at all, but somehow they manage. They drip, they leak, sometimes sections of flesh or a digit falls off, a tooth drops to the floor, yet they keep going. You wonder if there is something still them in there, some small part of their consciousness that remembers who and what they once were, and is trying to recapture some essence of that former life. Do they dream? you wonder.

So you ask.

Do you dream?

Cornbread or rolls?

Red wine okay with everyone?

Did I ever mean anything to any of you?

No need to get all sugary on me, folks, just a simple yes or no.

I still love you guys, you know that?

You move into the living room, stepping around the Christmas paraphernalia, and turn off the sound on the DVD player. It's time for Christmas music. This year, you stole a multi-disc player, one that reads MP3s, and you've set up the discs so that you will have twenty-four hours of continuous Christmas music. Dad used to love to sit in the kitchen with the lights turned down and listen to Christmas music while he had a beer or two. You've got several cases of his favorite beer. One bottle sets open next to his favorite mug. For a moment earlier, he stared at it as a shadow crossed his face, as if he knew this were something he ought to remember. Mug and bottle are still on the table.

How do you like the new refrigerator? I got it a couple of weeks ago. Moved it all by myself. d.a.m.n thing can hold a ton of food. Do you like it, Mom?

Hey, why do you suppose doctors never use the word consumption anymore? No, now it's TB. I think consumption's a fine word, you know?

I found the old photo alb.u.ms. They're right there on the coffee table. Maybe you want to look through them later? That might be fun, don't you think? All of us flipping through the images, the years, the memories. Been a while since I took a trip down Amnesia Lane. Sound good?

Sorry, I didn't quite catch that.

That's okay, you can tell me later.

You turn around and d.a.m.n near drop the salad bowl because your little sister is standing right there in front of you, just . . . staring.

Jenny?

Jenny, is there something you want?

What is it, Sis?

Please say . . . something. Grunt. Sigh, snort, anything.

You close your eyes and swallow back the feelings that are trying to come to the surface. You knew this year would be no different. Christ only knows what Jen wants in here, what she remembers. You just know it's got nothing to do with you. You step around her and put the salad bowl on the table. Jen does not move. The oven timer sounds: the t.u.r.ducken is ready to go.

Dinner's ready!

You sit. They sit. You eat. They don't. On the disc, Greg Lake is singing about how he believed in Father Christmas. This is your favorite Christmas song, even though if you think about it, it's a d.a.m.ned depressing one-but then so is Elvis's "Blue Christmas," so why overthink it?

The t.u.r.ducken is delicious. The mashed potatoes are just right. The rolls are great. And the homemade pecan pie is the perfect way to end the meal.

You go to your usual place on the far right-hand side of the sofa and watch the tree lights blink, watch the banked fire blaze, watch Jimmy Stewart run through dark streets. You pick up one of the photo alb.u.ms and open to a random page. That was you, once. That was your family, once.

The pain is getting pretty bad. You've been sticking with the Demerol for the last couple of days because you wanted to be lucid enough in case something happened-a word, a gesture, a touch, something, anything.

The rest of the family take their traditional places. You look out the window and see that it's begun to snow. Good G.o.d, could there ever be a more perfect Norman Rockwell-type of Christmas scene?

You make yourself an eggnog and Pepsi. Everyone used to say how disgusting that sounded, so when you'd make the drink for your friends and family when all were still alive, you'd never tell them what it was until after they'd tasted it. Once tasted, everyone loved it. Your legacy. Could do worse.

Afraid I'm not feeling too well, folks. Haven't been taking my meds like I should.

Isn't anyone going to scold me for that?

You stare at the unopened Christmas presents under the tree. It's been so long since you've wrapped them you've forgotten what's in any of the boxes, only that they were gifts you gave a lot of thought to, hoping that they'd make everyone smile.

You go into the kitchen and remove several 4 mg vials of Dilauded from the refrigerator, make yourself another eggnog and Pepsi, and grab the bottles of Percocet and Demerol.

Back in the living room, in your traditional place, you lay out everything, then discard the Percocet and Demerol because they seem like overkill. Overkill. Funny-sounding word, that. Considering.

You draw the vials of Dilauded into the syringe until it is full. You almost tap it to clear any air bubbles, then realize what a silly thing that would be.

This has been a nice Christmas, hasn't it?

It really means a lot to me, that you still come here and help with all the decorating.

You look at the television. Jimmy Stewart is now back in the real world, and everyone in town is dumping money on his table. Donna Reed smiles that incredibly gorgeous smile that no other actress has ever managed to match.

Bach's "Sheep May Safely Graze" begins to play. The perfect song to end the day. To end on. To end. You slip the needle into your arm but do not yet sink the plunger. There is a pa.s.sing moment of brief regret that you threw out the gun, because you know what that's going to mean. But maybe you won't remember, and, in not remembering, there will be no caring, no hurt, no regret or loneliness.

You look at each of your family members one more time. None return your gaze. They look either at the tree or the fire or at the snow outside.

Merry Christmas, everyone, you say.

You slowly sink the plunger. If your research has been correct, once the syringe has been emptied, you will have at best ninety seconds of consciousness remaining, but you can already feel yourself slipping down toward darkness before the plunger has. .h.i.t bottom. But that's all right.

You have enough time to pull the needle from your arm and lay back your head.

Bach fades away, and is followed by "Let There Be Peace on Earth." You're surprised to feel a single tear forming in your right eye.

Do you like . . . like the music, Dad?

Shadows cross your face, obscuring the lights of the tree. You blink, still slipping downward, and see that your family is surrounding you. Looking at you. At you.

You reach out one of your hands. It takes everything that remains of you to do this.

. . . , you say.

. . . , they reply.

And your family, with the light of recognition in their eyes, as if they have missed their son and brother for all of these years, takes hold of you, enfolding you in their arms, and the best Christmas you've ever known is completed.

About the Author.

Gary A. Braunbeck is the author of the acclaimed Cedar Hill series of stories and novels, which includes In Silent Graves, Coffin County, Far Dark Fields, and the forthcoming A Cracked and Broken Path. His work had garnered five Bram Stoker Awards, as well as an International Horror Guild Award. He lives in Worthington, Ohio with his wife, author Lucy A. Snyder, and five cats that don't hesitate to draw blood if he fails to feed them in time. He has been rumored to sing along with Broadway show tunes, but no recorded evidence of this exists or has yet to be found.

Story Notes.

Although Braunbeck hints there are dangers to humans from zombies-his protagonist's disease makes him immune to the "awakening" and unpalatable to zombies-it appears "offstage." And, despite the zombie family's apparent lack of recognition of their still-human relation, something draws them back, year after year, to their home. He leaves it to the reader to decide what.

Farewell, My Zombie.

Francesca Lia Block.

They call a male P.I. a private d.i.c.k. So what would they call me? Not the C word or the V word, that would be much too offensive. There are plenty of d.i.c.ks but no v.a.g.i.n.as walking around. That just wouldn't be right, now would it? Maybe my t.i.tle would be Jane. Private Jane. d.i.c.k and Jane. Makes you wonder why Jane hasn't been used as a nickname for female genitalia before. Better than a lot of them. Men have a nicer selection.

It was one of those warm L.A. autumn days when you felt guilty if you were at the beach while other people were working or freezing their a.s.ses off somewhere, and even more guilty if you were sitting in an office letting your life slip away. That's what I was doing. Sitting in my office with my black-booted feet up on the table (even though it was too hot for boots), staring at the window, wondering why I wasn't at the beach. But I knew why. The beach made me think of Max.

I tried to distract myself by poking around some paranormal activity Web sites on the iMac. There was an extended family in the Midwest who ghost hunted together. They had a disclaimer on their site that they could turn down any job that felt too dangerous. The woman kept spelling the word "were" like "where" and "You're" like "your." That happened so much online I wondered if someone had officially changed it and not told me.