Breathers (30 page)

I'm beginning to think that maybe Ray managed to get away before the raid like Zack and Luke, but then I see him brought out, strapped down to a gurney. Ray's struggling to get loose, without success, and I can hear him trying to shout through the restraint strapped across his mouth.

In spite of the fact that Ray's gagged and bound, everyone gives the gurney a wide berth, moving away from it as if it's transporting nuclear waste. Not until Ray is loaded into the back of one of the Animal Control vans and the rear doors close do the Breathers relax.

I want to help Ray but I know if I tried I'd just end up in the back of the van with him. This is a trip Ray's going to have to make on his own. He won't get to make a phone call, he
won't get a trial by his peers, he won't be protected by any of the First Amendment rights of the Constitution, and no one will come to his defense.

I stay hidden and watch as the van drives off, knowing that I'll never see Ray again.

oor Ray,” says Rita. She's wearing a pink V-neck cashmere sweater with skin-tight white polyester/Lycra blend pants, and black boots. Her lips are Euphoric Pink.

“Poor Ray?” says Carl. “What about the rest of us?”

“Jesus, Carl,” says Naomi, lighting another cigarette and exhaling. “Don't you ever think about anyone but yourself?”

The irony of her accusation drifts through the group in a cloud of secondhand smoke.

“I think about you every time I see a commercial for golf clubs,” says Carl.

Naomi responds with the requisite hostility, prompting another exchange from Carl, while Tom and Leslie try to play peacemaker. Jerry finds the entire scene amusing and just laughs. Beth laughs along with him in a show of solidarity.

“Carl's right,” says Helen, her voice rising above the din.

Everyone stops talking, laughing, or arguing and looks at Helen. On the chalkboard behind her is written:

I WILL NOT BE A VICTIM.

A little more proactive than her usual inspirational
quotes, but considering what happened to Ray, it seems like bad timing.

“The local authorities aren't likely to treat what they found at Ray's as an anomaly.”

Jerry looks around with a blank expression. My guess is he's never heard the word “anomaly” before. “Is that, like, some kind of Indian food?” he asks.

“It means they won't think he's the only one eating Breathers,” says Rita.

“Oh,” says Jerry. “Bummer.”

Bummer is right. I've got two big bummers in the freezer at home.

“Chances are they're going to monitor our activities much more closely,” says Helen. “Scrutinize our behavior, maybe even remove some of us from circulation to keep the rest of us in line.”

“That totally sucks,” says Jerry.

“Totally,” agrees Beth.

The two of them knuckle five each other softly, then each take a swig from their cans of Orange Crush. All Beth needs now is an Oakland A's baseball cap on sideways and pants hanging off her ass.

“So what should we do?” asks Tom.

“First thing,” says Helen, “is we all need to try to be discreet and not draw attention to ourselves.”

I feel the temperature in the room rise about ten degrees.

“And it would probably be a good idea if we all refrained from eating Breather.”

I'm driving through Death Valley in a car without air conditioning.

“What about Andy's parents?” says Jerry.

I hear the Kalahari Desert is nice this time of year.

Discussing how you've killed and eaten your parents is personal—it's
something you'd prefer to share with others when the timing seems appropriate. But the UA handbook doesn't address zombie etiquette when dealing with something like this, so I have to cut Jerry some slack.

“What about your parents?” asks Helen.

With Rita's help, I explain what happened. Then I bring out the Ziploc bags with cooked pieces of my parents to share with everyone. No one refuses the offering. Not even Helen.

“Well,” says Carl, licking his lips as he devours part of my father's shoulder. “So much for refraining.”

For the next few minutes, the only sounds are those of teeth tearing into flesh and moans of carnal pleasure that are impossible to describe.

If you've never been in a roomful of zombies eating freshly cooked pieces of human flesh, then you probably wouldn't understand.

“Mmmmm mmmmm,” says Naomi, savoring the last of one of my mother's breasts. “This is better than sex.”

“Speak for yourself,” says Rita.

Everyone looks at Rita and me with varying degrees of surprise or mirth, followed by laughter and whistles and good-natured teasing.

“I hate to break the good mood,” says Helen, “but if Andy gets caught with a refrigerator full of Breather, every one of us will probably get donated to science.”

“So how do we get rid of his parents?” asks Tom.

No one says anything. T hey just look at each other, then at the floor, then at the chalkboard. Anywhere but at me.

“If I might make a suggestion,” says Leslie, stripping the last slivers of flesh from the bones of my father's left hand. “I think it would be best if we ate them.”

“You mean like a barbecue?” says Jerry.

For good barbecued Breat her, add 1 tablespoon each ketchup,
Worcestershire sauce, red wine vinegar, and chili powder, ¼ teaspoon salt, and ⅛ teaspoon cayenne pepper. Mix with ground Breather, shape and cook over an open fire.

“What part of ‘being discreet and not drawing attention to ourselves’ did you not understand?” says Carl.

“We're zombies,” says Rita. “We draw attention to ourselves simply by existing.”

“Existing and standing around with a beer and a Breather burger aren't exactly the same thing,” says Carl.

“Actually,” says Leslie, “I was thinking more along the lines of a dinner party.”

“Didn't you listen to Helen?” says Carl. “The zombie patrol is going to monitor our behavior more closely after what happened out at Ray's.”

“I heard what Helen said,” says Rita. “But I think the longer we wait, the greater our chances of being caught.”

Carl offers up a counterpoint but his argument is met by a chorus of support for the barbecue. Even Helen seems to acknowledge that we need to get rid of the evidence before Sunday, though Tom sides with Carl because he's afraid of what will happen if we get caught.

In the middle of everything, I get up from my chair and walk over to the chalkboard and erase the quote that Helen had written earlier:

I WILL NOT BE A VICTIM.

No one tries to stop me or asks me what I'm doing. I didn't even know I was going to do it. But then I'm picking up the chalk and writing down my own quote. I feel the same way I did when I made my signs before I went out to protest for zombie rights. But this time, my message is reaching the right audience.

When I finish, no one is arguing. No one is talking. They're
all just staring at the chalkboard, at the six words I've written, and nodding their heads:

WE HAVE THE RIGHT TO EXIST.

“Okay,” says Carl. “Where should we have this barbecue?”

“How about Andy's?” asks Tom.

Rita explains that we don't want to draw attention to the fact that my parents are dead, so throwing a party at my house with them as the main course probably isn't a good idea.

“We could have it at my place,” says Jerry. “My parents are out of town all weekend.”

Rita suggests Saturday after sunset to cut down on any excessive lookie-loos. Helen offers up transportation to get the rest of my parents over to Jerry's. Leslie and Naomi offer to make hors d'oeuv res. And Carl offers to cook. I, of course, will bring the wine.

“All right,” says Helen. “We're all agreed. Now let's just try to keep this as discreet as possible.”

ingo Boingo's “Dead Man's Party” is blasting from the stereo speakers when Rita and I arrive at Jerry's.

Rita is wearing a sheer red blouse with a red bra and a matching miniskirt. She's also wearing red thong underwear that says
Thursday
even though this is Saturday. Red knee-high platforms complete the outfit.

Out back, Carl is tending the barbecue.

He's prepared the lower portions of my parents’ anatomy into multiple edible forms, including top loin strips, bottom round steaks, flank steaks, and ground Mom and Dad shaped into burgers. Since I'm in the mood for steak and since I don't trust what part of my parents Carl ground up to make the burgers, I choose a top loin strip, while Rita opts for the bottom round.

“How do you want it cooked?” asks Carl.

“Medium well,” I say.

I still have problems with the concept of eating uncooked
human flesh, though I don't need mine cooked well-done like Tom, who still insists on throwing a couple of tofu dogs on the grill so he feels like he's maintaining a vegetarian diet.

Rita asks for hers rare.

While Carl throws our Breather steaks over the coals, Rita and I wander inside in search of the host.

Naomi and Leslie are in the kitchen splitting a bottle of 2000 Beringer Merlot and preparing appetizers. There's liver pâté with homemade crostini, kidney-stuffed mushrooms, beer-battered fingers, and fresh Breather cocktail.

Apparently, my parents aren't the only ones on the menu this evening.

“You two hungry?” asks Naomi, offering us a plate of deep fried fingers with ranch sauce.

Rita takes one but I decline. I'm not much for finger food.

I set down two bottles of wine from my father's collection—a 1992 Au Bon Climat Pinot Noir and a 1990 Chateau Latour Bordeaux. The Pinot runs $1,500 a bottle, so I pour Rita and myself a glass each, then ask if anyone's seen Jerry.

“He's giving tours of his bedroom,” says Leslie, pouring the last of the Merlot into her glass.

“His bedroom?” says Rita. “What's so special about his bedroom that he's giving tours?”

“Oh, you have
got
to check it out,” says Naomi, opening the Bordeaux. “You will not believe it.”

As we walk through the house and down the hallway to Jerry's room, I try to imagine what it is that Jerry has done with his room that is so outlandish as not to be believed, but nothing I can come up with compares with the reality.