Don’t Eat Cat (2 page)

Of course, I had known for some time that Marci wasn’t happy. Our last couple of years had been tough on her, tough on both of us. Most of our friends had moved out of the city. Our apartment had lost most of its value. That fall, our procreation application had been red-flagged—Marci’s gene scan uncovering some recessive issue. I told her I didn’t
care if we had a kid. But it became part of the class stuff between us: I was from money, Marci wasn’t; I’d aced my E-RADs and Gen-Tests; she’d been borderline in both. None of that had mattered when we’d started seeing each other. And it still didn’t for me. But when the procreation board said she couldn’t have a kid? I guess it was too much for her.

But did I know Marci was using
Replexen? I don’t think so. It’s hard to separate what you suspect from what you know later. Certainly, she seemed
off
that spring, disoriented, nervous, wearing more makeup, eating more yet somehow getting thinner. Then I got promoted at work, to the Asian desk, only days after Marci’s job was eliminated. “We’re fine,” I kept telling her, and I meant financially. But it must have seemed insane
to her, the way I just kept saying we were fine. That March there was a story on the sim-tweets about a couple in the Magnolia neighborhood that had chosen to go zombie. I turned away from the screen to Marci and I just … asked.
Would you ever?

I think she’d been waiting for me to bring it up. “Yes,” she said quietly.

“Yes what?” I asked.

Yes, she had
used Replexen. A few times. Snorted it.

I asked, “Recently?” She slumped in her chair. “Yes,” she said.

“How recently?”

“I’m using it now,” she whispered.

We were in the living room. I stood. And for some reason, the question that popped into my mind was this one: “Where did you get it?”

She glanced up at me, and in that moment I suppose we
were thinking the same thing: why, when Marci tells me she’s taking the most dangerous club drug in the world, the first thing to pop into my mind would not be her health, but where she had gotten it.

A few months earlier, Marci and I had gone through an especially rocky time. Her company had just been bought up, and the inevitable squeeze had begun. Marci had wanted to leave Seattle,
to move closer to her family, but my company was thriving, so I said no. She said I was imperious and blind to reality; I said she was defeatist. We split up for a few weeks before we realized we’d made a mistake and got back together. It was only after she came back that time that I began to suspect Marci had gone back to her previous boyfriend, Andrew. He was a club owner and a “nonbie,”
one
of the lucky 15 percent who could use Replexen without any of the undesirable zombie side effects.

So I asked: “Did you get the drugs from Andrew?”

“No,” she said, “I got them from a woman I used to work with.”

“What woman?”

“You don’t know her.”

“Why would you do that, Marci?”

“Oh, Owen,” she said, “this isn’t about you.
It’s about me.”

It was the cliché that got to me. (“Yeah, you’re right, it’s about you, Marci …
You’re becoming a fucking zombie!
”) I yanked her sleeve up and saw the red marks against her white skin, and Jesus, shooting it is twice as dangerous as snorting it.
Once your skin starts to go, you’ve already done permanent damage. She shrank away from me, cried, apologized, promised to
get treatment,
and when we went to bed that night I honestly believed we could get through this, that we’d caught it in time. I spent the next day applying for loans from all the food-service/banks—Starbucks Financial, Walmart-Schwab, KFC/B-of-A. I would have debited my apartment, my car, my organs for her treatment, but I came home from work that night and she was gone. No sim, no note, no nothing.

I simmed our friends and her parents, her old coworkers, but no one had heard from Marci. I even went to see her old boyfriend, Andrew, at his club in what was still called the U District, even though the state university there had shut down years earlier. Andrew was bald and lean—a little taller than me, with a long neck and cavernous eyes, pockmarks on his sunken cheeks.
Nonbies always have that feral look, as if they’ve just finished running a road race in their clothes, or they haven’t slept in months. We had met once, in passing, but I would never have picked him out of a lineup, so many years had been put on his face. Andrew came from behind the bar and I could smell the nonbie on him—like a soup of sweat, smoke,
and old bacon. He stared at my suit and tie,
at my wool coat.

“Slumming, Owen?”

I looked around the seedy club but said nothing.

He crossed his arms. “What do you want?”

I explained that Marci had begun using Replexen and that she was missing. I watched his face to see if maybe he already knew what I was telling him. Andrew was wearing a black leather coat, too short on his arms. I saw
one of his hands twitch. He stared at the door to his club. He let out a deep breath. “Was she snorting it?” he asked quietly.

“Needles,” I said. His eyes closed, and I realized that he hadn’t seen her after all. He asked about her skin. “Yes,” I said, “milky.”

“You didn’t notice?” he asked. Then he looked down. “Sorry.”

Even for nonbies, Replexen use shortens
your lifespan. They are hard years spent on that shit. I followed Andrew’s weary eyes as he looked around his own club … painted windows and scarred wood on the tables and floors. Did he wonder,
How did I get here?
This wasn’t a full zombie club; it catered more to nonbies and first-timers; no, it wasn’t hell, but it was the waiting room.

“I haven’t seen her,” Andrew said,
and he turned and went back behind the bar. I could’ve just simmed him my number, but I wrote it on a piece of paper and slid it across the bar. He looked up. He was chewing on one of those pocked cheeks, and it looked as if he was trying to say something. I left before he could.

My guess was that Marci had disappeared into what was already starting to be called Z Town. And if that
was the case, of course, I was too late. Seattle was one of the worst cities for derelict zombies—old Fremont had been turned over to the hardcore clubs, brothels, and shooting galleries, to bars that supposedly released rodents during happy hour—places that made Andrew’s shitty club seem like a Four Seasons.

For two years after that, I waited for Marci to come back. But it wasn’t until
my last doctor’s appointment and the bad news I got—it wasn’t until after Brando snapped and the death of that poor zombie girl—that I finally felt compelled to go to Z Town and look for her, for the only woman I have ever loved.

Wendy Gasson was the last of my neighbors to have a pet: Fidel. He was an indoor cat, and she was careful about making sure he didn’t get out,
but one day, as Fidel sat there by the window watching birds,
Wendy came in with the groceries and the cat bolted out of the apartment, down the steps, through the door, and into the street.

After the initial sim-tweets about hypo-ETE, a new sector of the economy had appeared: private eyes who went into Z towns and looked for missing kids and spouses and took them to quack
deprogrammers, or surgeons, a whole industry of people who promised—lied, really—that they could reverse the effects of long-term Replexen abuse. The sleaziest of these P-Is would even take cat cases, usually for elderly people who just couldn’t come to terms with the fact that Fluffy was
seriously
not coming back. Some of the private eyes just went to a pet store and got a tabby to match the
pictures (“No, this is Fluffy; I’m sure of it”). Wendy told me she’d tried to hire one of these guys off the Craig-sim to find Fidel, but the guy only went after people. “Lady,” he said, “your cat’s gone.”

I got the detective’s name from Wendy, but I didn’t contact him right away. I tried everything else I could think of first: simming Marci’s friends and family, taking out
Craig-sim ads. I even went back to Andrew’s club in the U District, but it was closed; a Dumpster Divas secondhand food store was now in its place. Nobody knew anything. I had no choice.

So I simmed the detective and made plans to meet him outside my doctor’s office. I stepped out into the cool air, chest still burning from the radiation, when a tall, gray guy in a long suede jacket
stepped forward. “I’m Mick.”

“Owen.”

Mick was in his fifties, with a high forehead and severe blue eyes. I hadn’t explained much in my tweet, but he didn’t seem to want details. I followed him to an antique red hybrid and we climbed in. I asked where he found gas for this old car, and he just smiled at me, like it was proof of his investigative powers.

It was a
flat rate, he explained as we drove, five thousand up front.

I pulled out my iVice to debit him the five grand, but he shook his head. “Cash,” he said.

So we went to the nearest KFC/B-of-A, where I was preapproved for the highest food debits. I lied on the application and said it was for dinner at a nice restaurant. Mick counted the five grand, folded the bills, tucked them
in his waistband, and started driving. He pulled a small bottle of homemade hooch from beneath his car seat and handed it to me. I took a drink. Vodka.

I pulled out my iVice to show him the pictures of Marci, to tell him about her, but he held up his hand. “Save it till we get there.” We drove quietly along Westlake.

“Get where?” I asked.

He chuckled at something.
“Hey, what’d one zombie say to another?”

I stared at him. “What did you say?”

“What … did one zombie say to the other?”

“Is … that a joke?”

“
Dystopia?
What dystopia? Dis da only ’topia dere is.”

I stared at him.

“You
do
know what a dystopia is, right?”

I said I did.

It was dusk as we approached
the Fremont Bridge. Even before Fremont became Z Town, the construction of the Aurora Tunnel had cut down on traffic crossing into Fremont. Now it was six o’clock and there were maybe a dozen cars on the road. The bridge’s cross braces were covered with holo-boards warning about the dangers of Replexen abuse and reminding people it was illegal to transport “cats and other pets” into Fremont,
and finally there was the big black-and-white sign: “WARNING: Entering Hypo-ETE Concentration District.”

Mick held out the bottle again. “Couple looking for an affordable condo in Seattle calls a real estate agent,” he said. “Agent says, ‘I know a place, five rooms, city views. Bad news, it’s in Zombie Town. Good news? It’s very pet-friendly.”

I took a drink of his vodka,
my hands shaking. The streetlights in Fremont were tinted blue—it’s calming for them—and this gave everything a strange underwater glow, like an aquarium. There were few people on the streets, zombie or otherwise, the buildings nondescript, simple brick storefronts. We turned and started back toward the water. We passed Gas Works Park, and I imagined I saw figures moving in the shadows of the hulking
works, flashing matches, bits of skin.

“How many zombies does it take to screw in a lightbulb?” Mick asked.

I closed my eyes. “Please,” I whispered.

“UUUUNNNNGGG!”
he said.

We turned again, and again, and back again, down a street with no lights, and I had the sense Mick was driving serpentine to make me disoriented. Finally, we pulled up in
front of a dark four-story building.

“This is it,” Mick said.

I looked up at the building.

“You got those pictures of her?” he asked.

I held up my iVice.

Mick nodded and got out of the car. I followed him. We stood in front of the building. I could hear yowling in the distance. I shivered as I stared at the dark building in front of us. “You
haven’t asked me a single question about Marci,” I said. “What makes you think she’ll even be here?”

Mick shrugged. “What’s the worst part about having sex with a zombie?”

I put my hands up. “Please. No more jokes.”

“Burying your cat afterward.”

We climbed the stairs and pushed open a heavy door. We came into a dimly lit foyer, closed heavy doors on
either end. A wall-mounted eye cam pointed at us. Mick held up a pair of thousand-dollar bills. He crinkled them. Then he opened his coat for the camera, I guess to show that he had no weapons. Then he elbowed me. I did the same, opened my coat.

After a moment, an electronic lock clicked and one of the doors opened and a muscular young zombie kid in baggy shorts, a sweatshirt, sunglasses,
and flip-flops came through. At first I thought it was Brando, but of course it wasn’t.

“Follow me,” the zombie kid rasped.

I looked at Mick. “Aren’t you coming?”

“What’s the difference between a zombie and a bagel?” Mick asked. I just stared at him.
“UUUUNNNNGGG!”
he said again.

The zombie kid grunted a kind of laugh. “Good one, Mick.”

Mick shrugged. “It kinda works with anything.
UUNNGG!
” Then he turned and went back outside. I watched him go, wondering whether I should turn and follow him out. Instead I hurried after the zombie kid. It was cold in the long hallway, clammy. Closed doors lined the walls; strange sounds came from the rooms. At the end of the hall, we came to a set of doors that opened onto a huge ballroom,
a lounge of some kind—heavy timbers and ornate molding, like an old social club, an Elks Lodge maybe, smoky, filled with the movements of people on overstuffed leather couches and chairs, and as my eyes focused I could see a bar at the front, and a couple of zombies serving drinks. Everywhere else, white-skinned women in scanty clothing lounged around, talking to men like me.

It was a brothel.

“This is a mistake,” I said to the kid.

The zombie kid turned, and at first I thought he was staring at me, but he was looking at someone over my shoulder. “Dina,” said the zombie kid.

“You have pictures?” a woman asked from behind me.

I turned. The woman, Dina, was in her thirties, with shimmery black hair and pale skin, her eyes
that cloudy blue but somehow not entirely gone zombie yet, or just controlled in some way. Like the kid who had led me back here. In fact, there seemed to be a whole range here—not just zombies and nonbies but people who seemed to function under the effects of the drug.