Undead and Unpopular (21 page)

The figure pivoted slowly to face me. My hand was back up, but this time to prevent a gag instead of a sneeze.

I could see bone sticking out of the remnants of what might have once been a white dress-shirt sleeve. Bone? That wasn't bone. It was something else, something gray and weird. It was—

"Nice zombie costume," I managed. Complete with authentic stink and rotted clothes and—this was a great touch—graveyard dirt in the wig.

"Betsy, that's what I've been trying to tell you. It's not a costume. It's a real live zombie." Cathie was circling it admiringly. "The things you see when you're dead! I thought it was a movie thing."

"Nuhhhhhhhh," it said. It reached toward me. It had long fingernails, so long they started to curve under, like claws. There was dirt under every one.

I backed up a step. It compensated by taking a step closer. I couldn't bear to look in its face—and then I did. At first I thought he—he was wearing the decayed remains of a suit—was smiling. Then I realized one of his cheeks had rotted away and I could see his teeth through his face.

I had thought I was frozen with fear. No, that was too simple a word: terror. Absolute numbing terror. It was silly, but I had a lifelong terror of dead things. Especially zombies. The way they kept coming toward you

(the way this one was coming toward me now)

and the way they reeked of the grave

(the way this one did)

and the way they moaned and reached for you and nothing stopped them, no matter what you did, they came and came

(the way this one was coming)

and I thought I was frozen with fear, thought I could never move, but somehow I was backing up. Internally, yeah, I was frozen, I couldn't make myself speak, scream, figure out where the door was, reason, think. But my legs were moving just fine. And that was good. Because if that thing touched me, I would die. Die for real. Die forever.

It

(he?)

reached still, and I was backed up against one of the dusty couches, and its hand brushed my shoulder, and then my internal freeze vanished like an ice cube on a July sidewalk and I let loose with the loudest scream I'd ever heard anybody scream. I sounded like a fire alarm.

I fell back over the couch and hit the floor, raising a cloud of dust. I was trying to back up and stand up at the same time while the zombie calmly walked around the side of the couch and kept coming. As a result, I was leaving a Betsy-wide track through the dust on the floor as I shoved myself along the floorboards.

I screamed again. This time words. But more fire alarm than words, because Cathie said, "What?"

I chewed on the phrase, actually coughed it out of my mouth: "Go get Eric!"

She rushed toward me—it seemed to take her forever to cross the fifteen feet or so between us. "Betsy, I can't!"

"Then get Tina! Get Marc! Get the Ant! I don't give a shit!
Help
!"

Suddenly, her hands shot through the zombie's chest. It kept coming.

"I can't! Nobody can see me but you! What do you want me to do?"

I'd shoved myself into the far wall and clawed my way to my feet. God, the stink! I could handle almost anything else except for the stink, the godawful, rotting, disgusting, fucking
stink
. "I don't know," I said, and never had I been so angry about being so dumb.

"Well, kill it! In the movies, the good guys shoot them in the head."

I didn't say anything, just knocked away its arm as it reached for me. Cathie finally remembered: "You don't have a gun. Okay, but you're not without skills. You're a vampire. Break his neck!"

But then I'd have to touch it. I couldn't bear to touch it. I'd go crazy if I had to touch it.

I grabbed its wrist and pushed. Hard. It went sprawling off into a broken coffee table, and smashed to the ground.

Okay, I'd touched it. And it hadn't been so bad. Okay, it had been crawly and awful—like touching a shirt full of squirming maggots—but there were worse things. Like—like—

I couldn't think of anything worse.

I looked at my hand and saw there was dirt and skin on the tips of my fingers. I started to cry and frantically wiped my hand on my jeans.

"Maybe it isn't trying to kill you," Cathie said helpfully from right beside me. "Maybe it's trying to communicate. You know, like I was. Maybe it came here because you're the Queen and you can help it. Please stop crying. Betsy, come on. It's not that bad. It's just a zombie. It can't even do anything to you."

Couldn't do anything? It was hurting me just by existing. It was—my hysterical brain groped for the word and caught it. It was an
abomination
. It was wrong for this thing to be anywhere, never mind my attic. It went against everything right and good and sane and normal.

It was getting up. It was coming toward me again. It was saying "Nuhhhhhhhhh" again. It was trying to touch me again. I cried harder. It seemed that crying like a B-movie heroine (the ones who always got saved at the last minute, but who was going to save me?) was going to be the way I dealt with this. Well, that was all right. Crying didn't hurt anybody. Crying never—

"Betsy, will you for Christ's sake do something!"

Here it came again. Here it reached again. Here it was touching me. Here it was showing me its teeth. Here it was pulling on me. Here it was making an odd noise—ah. It was trying to smack its lips, but they had rotted away. Smacking its lips the way a hungry fella smacked his lips as he contemplated Thanksgiving dinner. Or a big steak. Or—

Me.

Its hands were on my shoulders. The stench rose, almost a living thing. I raised my own hands. It pulled me close. I put my hands on either side of its head. It slobbered without saliva. I twisted. But of course it didn't die, of course it leaned in like a grotesque parody of a vampire and bit me, chewed on me, ate me while I screamed and screamed, while Cathie darted around helplessly and watched me get eaten, while—

—it fell down, its head twisted around so that, if it were alive, it would have been looking down on its own butt.

"Now that's what I'm talking about," Cathie said. "Whew! I thought you were really going to—Betsy?"

I had walked stiffly over to one of the couches. Sat down, almost impaling myself on a broken spring. Cried and cried and rubbed my hands on my jeans. They would never be clean. My fingers would always stink. They would always have dead meat and graveyard dirt on them. Always. Always.

I sat on the couch and looked at the (dead) zombie. I never, ever wanted to get away from a place more than I wanted to get out of that attic, but I couldn't make myself get up and make the long walk to the door at the top of the stairs. The only thing I had the strength for was sitting on a filthy, broken couch that was so dusty I didn't know what color it was under all the dirt. That, and looking at the zombie I'd killed.

I suppose part of me was waiting for it to get up and come at me again. Like Jessica would get up and come at me if I'd gone through with it, if I'd ignored her wishes (as, truthfully, I'd been tempted to do) and made her a vampire. She wouldn't be Jessica anymore if I did that; she'd be a slobbering, crazy vampire. Fast forward ten years, by then maybe she'd have a little bit of control over the thirst. Then her new life would begin: being more careful about meals. Never aging, but getting old just the same. Pulling further and further away from the mortal Jessica, my friend, the older she got. Getting sly, like Eric and Alonzo.

Alonzo. He had made a vampire without a single thought to the consequences: for Sophie or for himself. He had killed her and gone on his way, and he had to pay. That was it, that was how it was: he fucked up, and he had to pay. What if it had been Jessica, dead in some alley in France how many years ago?

And how could I have gone to her room and asked her to let me do that? I deserved a zombie hiding in my attic. I deserved a hundred zombies.

"Why do you think it was here? How did it get in, and get all the way up here without anybody seeing?" Cathie was chattering nervously and looking at me the way you looked at a recent mental ward escapee. "What do you think it wanted?"

"I don't give a ripe shit," I said, and stood.

It took a long time to find the door.