Breathers (8 page)

I nod and say “exactly” but it comes out sounding like a sneeze combined with a dry heave.

“Well, you've gotta admire someone for trying to help others,” says Ray. “But eventually, you've got to help yourself. Isn't that right, Mr. Hefner?”

Jerry glances up from the
Playboy
with a glazed expression and his mouth slightly ajar. I think he's drooling.

“Personally, I'm not ashamed of what I am,” says Ray. “And you shouldn't be, neither. The point is to make the most with what you have. And if you don't have as much as you need, then take it. Or find a way to make it yours.”

Basically, Ray is saying the same things Helen's been telling us for the past three months, only coming from him, the words seem to make a lot more sense.

“Would you come to our meeting?” asks Rita. “I'm sure the others would like to meet you.”

“Well, I can't speak for these two,” says Ray, pointing to the twins asleep next to the fire, “but I'm not much for self-help groups. Still, I guess it wouldn't hurt to stop by for a visit.”

Rita gives Ray the details about the meeting and asks him to bring the twins along. He says he'll do his best, then offers each of us another beer.

“We should probably get going,” says Rita, checking her watch. “It's getting late.”

There's a midnight curfew for zombies to prevent the un-dead from gathering unchecked in large groups. And other than UA meetings and cemeteries, zombies aren't allowed to congregate in public places at all. We've even been restricted from cyberspace, as Breathers don't want us surfing the Internet. Maybe they're afraid we'll create zombie pornography. Or lure unsuspecting Breathers into online romances. Or develop a political community that would petition for social change. Although that's possible, it's more likely we'd petition for the right to develop zombie hygiene products.

Rita and I thank Ray for his hospitality, which he continues by giving each of us another jar of venison for the road. Jerry
stands up, a stack of
Playboy
s in his arms, and says, “Dude, can I borrow some of these, instead?”

When we leave, I glance back at the granary, watching it recede into the darkness, feeling like I've discovered something that's been missing. I can't put my finger on why, but for the first time since I woke up into a world that has discarded my humanity, I feel almost human. For the first time, I feel like I have value.

For the first time, I feel like I matter.

unday morning when I wake up, the pervasive feeling of impotence, of resigned monotony that has defined my existence for the past three and a half months, is overwhelmed by a sense of restlessness. Of agitation. Of feeling like an adolescent who can't stop fidgeting.

“What, you got ants in your pants?” my father used to say to me.

I don't know about ants in my pants, but it feels like something's crawling under my skin.

That and my parents have invited friends over to watch the 49ers game with mimosas and pupus. I can hear them and their guests upstairs, laughing and cheering, shouting at the television, while the walls of the wine cellar surround me with ennui.

I feel like a prisoner.

I try subduing my anxiety with reruns of
The Nanny
and
The Golden Girls.
I try subduing it with a bottle of 1985 Chateau Cheval Blanc. I try subduing it with the extra jar of venison Ray gave me. All I accomplish is to discover that the Lifetime Channel, expensive French wine, and preserved game meat aren't good remedies for combating restlessness.

I need to get out.

To ensure that I don't make an unexpected appearance and ruin their first hosted party since I took up residence in the wine cellar, my parents have locked the door at the top of the stairs. Fortunately, the wine cellar has an exterior entrance through a storm door in the back of the house, which is how I come and go. It's more convenient than using the front door and there aren't as many stairs, but mostly it saves my parents the embarrassment of having to explain me to their company.

The recent rain has left behind sullen skies with pregnant clouds, so I throw on a black hooded rain slicker, grab my dry erase board, and head out the rear exit into the backyard, closing the storm door behind me. Through one of the rear windows I can see my father sitting in his favorite chair in front of the television—a beer in one hand and a handful of chips in the other, laughing it up with the Putnams and the Dolucas while my mother walks in smiling and carrying a tray of mimosas.

Everybody's having a good time.

I consider staggering in through the front door and letting out a wail or a screech just to see the looks on their faces, but it's not worth the familial fallout, so I lurch away from the window and around the side of the house, where a narrow path cuts between our house and the next, leading to a small creek that runs through a gulch behind our street. On the other side of the gulch are some industrial buildings that are generally silent on weekends. No one to hassle me. No one to hear me scream if someone decides to have some fun at my expense.

Generally, it's not a good idea for zombies to walk around without a chaperone. Helen always says there's strength in numbers, but I don't want company. I just want to take a
walk. I don't think that's asking too much. To be able to take a walk without having to explain myself. Without having to look over my shoulder.

The great thing about having to wear a dry erase board around your neck to communicate is that it doubles as a picket sign.

I remove the dry erase board and set it on a tree stump at the edge of the gully. I think for a moment, considering my options, then decide to take the clear and simple approach. Using my black erasable marker, I write

then I slip the dry erase board back over my head and continue on my way.

The gully is wet and muddy, making the going a little more challenging, but I manage to get through without falling down, which is a first for me. I stand at the top of the opposite embankment looking down at the thirty-foot drop and imagine that climbers who scale Mount Everest must experience this when they reach the summit—a feeling of total satisfaction and accomplishment. Or maybe I need some perspective.

As expected on a Sunday, the industrial complexes are silent, except for a radio somewhere playing “Sweet Home Alabama.” Even though Confederate flags and gun racks are rare in Santa Cruz County, I figure it's a good idea to steer clear of anyone listening to southern-fried rock and roll, so I head across the street, past Elaine's Dance Studio, and down an alley behind Pet Pals before I come to a stop in front of an empty building that used to be the Berge-Pappas Funeral Home.

I stop and look through the front window, drawn by a morbid
fascination to the mortuary even though it's been empty for years. I've never been inside but still I feel a connection with the place, as though I'm attuned to its energy.

I spend a lot of time thinking about death.

Not Death, as in the Grim Reaper, skulking around in his dated Goth robe and carrying that ridiculous scythe. What a poser. No. I'm talking about the experience and how it affects and consumes the body and the mind.

When the heart stops pumping blood, tissues and cells are deprived of oxygen. Carbon dioxide levels increase and wastes accumulate, poisoning the cells, which begin to dissolve from the inside out, rupturing and releasing fluids that make their way throughout the body. Brain and liver cells tend to go first, while skin cells can be taken from a corpse twenty-four hours after death and still grow in a laboratory culture.

I have a lot of time on my hands.

Maybe I can't stop thinking about death because it's on my list of things to do:

The rate of decomposition of a human body above ground is twice as fast as when the body is under water and four times as fast as when it's buried. Corpses tend to last longer when buried deeper, providing the soil isn't saturated with water, while a corpse left to rot outside is rapidly consumed by insects and animals—such as carrion fly maggots, beetles, ants, and wasps. In tropical climates, a corpse can become a riotous rave of maggots in under twenty-four hours.

These are the comforting thoughts that help me relax when I'm having trouble falling asleep.

Maybe I'm preoccupied with death because I got cheated out of it. My wife won an all-expenses-paid ticket from the Afterlife Travel Agency while I was left standing at the gate with my luggage. Except I don't really have any luggage. Nothing from my life followed me into my undeath. No suitcases. No keepsakes. No personal effects. Nothing but the suit I was wearing when I staggered out of cold storage. Everything else we had, all the material things that connected me to Annie and Rachel in life, were claimed, sold, donated, or thrown away. Sometimes it seems as though Annie and Rachel never existed anywhere but inside my head.

Helen always encourages us not to dwell on the past, to let go of the life we used to know and all its accompanying baggage. While I have to admit that the group has helped me to stop feeling sorry for myself, that doesn't change the fact that I miss my wife and daughter. Even though my heart has stopped beating, it still aches.

Before I turn to leave the mortuary, I notice my reflection in the glass. As a rule I tend to stay away from mirrors or anything that casts a solid reflection. It's hard enough trying not to dwell on the past without having a visual reminder of what I look like now. Maybe it's the hazy reflection or the soft lighting or Ray telling us that we shouldn't be ashamed of what we are, but this morning my scars and stitches don't look quite so horrifying.

Filled with a confidence I haven't felt in months, I make my way out to Soquel Drive, cross the street, and stagger along the opposite shoulder toward Soquel Village. It's the same route I take to get to the Community Center, but this is the cloud-filtered light of late morning instead of the shadowy twilight of early evening and I'm alone—hunched forward and limping, the quintessential, stereotypical zombie wearing a black rain poncho and a sign of protest around my neck. So
even with my hood pulled up, I stand out like a vegetarian at a Texas barbecue.

Less than two minutes on the street and cars are honking at me. The shouts and insults come next. I have to admit, some of the comments are at least inventive.

“Hey zombie, it's the time of the season for rotting.”

“George Romero called and you didn't get the part.”

But most of what I get is your basic gutter variety abuse, the lowest common denominator of insults.

“Zombie go home.”

“Dead guys suck.”

And my personal favorite:

“Eat this!” (accompanied by the extended middle finger).

I wonder how many of these people go to church.

Not all Breathers are nasty and venomous toward us, but sometimes I'm embarrassed to think that I used to be one of them.

In spite of the abuse, I'm compelled to continue toward the village. I don't know if it's the restlessness I've felt the past few days or the self-righteousness of standing up for what I believe in or the sign of protest around my neck that has emboldened me, but I've given in to the impulse. It's as if nothing else matters.

A black Nissan Sentra passes me and a woman leans out the window and calls me a freak. A silver Dodge Plymouth slows down so a black guy with dreadlocks and a goatee can spit on me. A kid in the backseat of a white BMW launches a half-eaten sandwich that hits me in the chest, splattering mayonnaise and tuna across my sign and my rain poncho. I hear his laughter, followed by his mother's praise as the car passes.

“Good one, Steven.”

Just past Safeway and Round Table Pizza, the road descends into Soquel Village. By the time I reach the sign that says Soquel—Founded 1852, I've been hit with coffee, potato salad, raw eggs, orange juice, and a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken. Original recipe.