Zombies in Love (10 page)

Say a chemist has been having trouble coming up with an idea.  Say-- for example-- the head of the Board of Overseers asked him to solve a problem that is insoluble, according to the normal laws of science.  And he knows that if he fails, it'll be his job.  At least.

So at midnight on the new moon, he goes down to the crossroads at the center of Winthrop Yard with his lab book, and he pours out a vial of hydrosulfuric acid on the ground.  A cloud of smoke rises and dissipates.  In the cloud is the horned and goat-legged figure of John Winthrop.  Winthrop takes the chemist's lab book and trades it with his own.  In his new lab book, the chemist will find the solution to all his problems.

Temporarily.

#

The Braves were up 7-6 at the bottom of the sixth, and Jack was working on his fourth slice of pizza and trying not to get any sauce on Arturo's suede sofa.  There was enough bone meal in the crust and meat in the sauce to give it a nice kick he could feel all the way down.

"What are these things that look like pepperoni?" asked Arturo.

Jack shrugged.  Could even be pepperoni, for all he knew.  Who could tell what was in that stuff?

"Your girlfriend can cook." 

"Mmmph," agreed Jack.  Too bad the pizza was gone, because he was still hungry. 

Which gave him an idea.  He looked over at Arturo and flashed him a friendly smile.

"Uh-oh," said Arturo. 

#

Ian sat glumly in the laboratory.  Prof. Leschke wasn't happy-- what else was new?  “You lost the test subject?” asked Prof. Leschke.

“He was too fast for me.  Too strong.  He knocked me down and ran past me.”

“And you have no idea where Sarah is?”

“She said something about a dentist’s appointment.”

“That doesn't even make sense!  Why did you think it would be a good idea to open the cage without Sarah there?”

Like most academics, Ian found it nearly impossible to lie. 
Nearly
impossible.  But if it meant keeping Sarah out of trouble, he could stretch a point.  Especially if it meant she might be grateful later.  “You asked us to test the antivirus, and I couldn’t reach him otherwise... it was stupid, wasn’t it?”

“Stupid?  You’ve just released a ravenous zombie onto the campus of Winthrop University.”

“Maybe he won’t eat anybody important.”

Prof. Leschke grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. 
Ouch
.  “This is Winthrop.  Everybody’s important.  Except the graduate students.  Find another test subject.  And Sarah.”

Deep within his tired heart, Ian rebelled.

#

Ian didn't get out much-- he was too busy and too broke-- but he did have one beloved hangout. 

Maybe beloved wasn't the right word.  A place that he went to sometimes where they sold hamburgers that were cheap but probably nonlethal, at least in the near term, where he could stare off into space and drink a beer without anyone asking him a question about a problem set, because the undergraduates usually went to the less bacteriologically-rich places, or at least the places where they were less fussy about fake ID's.  There were worn-out old TVs that almost showed the game, and a dusty mirrored wall of spirits that no one ever drank, and the surliest waitress Ian had ever met, no more than twenty-five, but whom nature or nurture had given a soul as small, wrinkled, and acid as a lemon seed. 

It was the perfect place to go when you hated the world and every single person in it.

Ian opened the door, stepped inside, and nearly closed it and walked right back out again.  Of all the people he didn't want to see!  But it was too late.  They'd spotted him and were already beckoning him to their table, with big friendly smiles on their faces. 
Jerks.

The happy graduate students.  The ones with the good advisor, Prof. Rockoff.  Rockoff made his students go home if he saw them in the lab before breakfast or after dinner.  He had them over to his house at least once a semester, and his wife made twice as much food as necessary, and gave each student his own individually-pre-labeled Tupperware for leftovers.  And they all played volleyball together in an intercollegiate league.

Now they wanted Ian to sit next to them, and the only open seat was next to Hal, who was perfect.  He came to Winthrop three years after Ian, and he'd shot so far ahead, that rumor had it that a job at Michigan was his for the asking, whenever he happened to feel like graduating.

"What's new, Hal?" asked Ian, glumly.

"Prof. Rockoff just listed me as a co-contributor on a paper again," said Hal.  "So if he wins that Nobel, maybe I get to go along for the ride!" 

Hate you hate you hate you,
thought Ian.

"And the Professor's doing some consulting in Switzerland, and he's bringing all of us with him!" said Becca, who was wearing a Hello Kitty t-shirt and chewing on the pointed tip of one of her two swinging ironic girl-braids.

Hate you, too,
thought Ian.

"We never see Prof. Leschke around," said Hal.  "Is his wife any better?"

"He doesn't talk with us about that," said Ian.  Yet another thing to feel guilty about-- he didn't ask about Mrs. Leschke nearly enough, mostly because he was trying to stay far away from her husband. 

Still, he'd feel like a real jerk if he missed the funeral.  She was a nice woman. 

"What has he got you working on?" asked Hal.

"Hunting zombies," said Ian.

They all laughed at him.  If only they knew.

"Where's the waitress?" he asked.

On the other side of Ian, Becca spit out the end of her braid.  "Oh, shit," she said.  "It's Tuesday."

#

Usually they fell for the dean thing, reflected Sloane resentfully.  No one had even questioned it before, which was good, because her dad had never met the dean. 

Heck, Sloane didn't even know the dean's name.  Or what a dean was, really. 

So here she was at Memorial Hall, wearing nothing but a trench coat, high heels, and a lime-green bikini, because Sloane had to get an A in chemistry if she wanted to go to medical school, and if she read Ian right, she wouldn't even have to do anything really ish-y to get it.  But to her surprise, the light in the conference room was off.  No Ian.

What was wrong with him?  It was office hours, so he should be in his office!

She clicky-clacked over to the lab.  The light was off, but the door was unlocked.  Maybe she should check if Ian had a calendar, so she could track him down.  Or maybe she should just look through his stuff.  Sloane was always surprised what embarrassing things people left at the office.  How fondly she remembered her old boss, who she always thought of as Mr. Suck-Your-Toes-Dry, after the letter she'd found filed under "Personal" at the back of the file cabinet.  She'd gotten free lunch for a whole summer out of that discovery.

She wasn't surprised by the giant wad of condiments, carefully hidden under a pile of napkins, in Ian's private drawer.  Or what looked like a handwritten novel about Buffy the Vampire Slayer falling in love with a handsome young chemist.  That was embarrassing, but probably not embarrassing enough.  But there was also a very stained lab notebook, mashed inside a box of latex gloves, like Ian was trying to hide it. 
Zombie Lab Book #1. 
Another novel?  That should at least be good for a laugh.

Sloane flipped through a few pages and pulled the camera out of her pocket.  Jackpot.

#

Prof. Underhill lurched down the street, his head neatly tucked under his arm, in company with a large group of blue-tinted undergraduates in ripped clothing.  He might not be thinking too clearly at the moment, but he was certain that wherever young people led, he was sure to follow.  Hadn't he always been known for his knack for connecting with students?  It was as though his body aged, but his mind stayed exactly the same.

"Dichotomy," he mumbled.

"I wish I knew how you did that trick with your head," said a tasty little coed in a ripped flannel shirt.

"The eroticization of post-capitalist hegemony recapitulates the legitimization of the nation-state," said Prof. Underhill.  "Is civil society bourgeois by nature?"

"You sound like my English prof," said the coed.

#

As Arturo fried the onion, Jack diced the leg into sturdy cubes.  He wasn't sure about leaving the hair and toenails on but he figured if it didn't bother him, it wouldn't bother Arturo.  They'd do something else with the bones-- maybe just snap them in half and suck out the marrow?  Or could they be roasted, salted, shattered into pieces, buttered, and eaten like popcorn?

It felt like a whole new culinary world was opening up ahead of him.  Kind of like being the first man to eat an oyster.

"I'm glad we're making this," he said.  "I've been craving chili."

"There's got to be something we can make that tastes like wings," said Arturo.  "I've got this great recipe for Buffalo chicken marinade."

Jack held up his hands and wiggled his fingers.

"Good call," nodded Arturo.

#

Ian saw where Becca was looking.  There was the waitress, dressed in a blue silk teddy and thong underpants, stilettos, and a gigantic scowl.  Not a model's superior scowl, more of a pissed-off, I-will-kill-you-all scowl.

It was possibly the least erotic thing Ian had ever seen.

"I can't believe we forgot about the damn lingerie show," said Becca.

"It's going to be at least a half hour until we get our hamburgers.  And I just finished my beer," said Hal.  The rest of Team Rockoff nodded in sad agreement.

The waitress clomped over to their table.  "I am now modeling a satin teddy with a matching thong.  If you're interested, this lovely ensemble is for sale."  She gestured robotically at her clothing.

"I don't think it would fit me," said Hal.  The other Rockoff students laughed, and the waitress snarled at them and stomped away, as proud as a queen, despite her naked ass.

Ian would have been on her side, but she still hadn't taken his order, and it looked like she was going to have to flog her outfit to every table before she got him a drink.

Cheap hamburgers: not free.

Then the door burst open.  Ian turned and saw a zombie come in.  And another.  And another.  He leaned over and snaked his hand into his backpack, brushing his fingertips over the barrel of his ever-present tranquilizer gun.

"And it's the zombie pub crawl, too!"  moaned Becca.  "I knew we should have gone to the Hong Kong!"

Ian relaxed.  Of course they were just undergraduates in costumes.  Of course.

Except for the guy in the tweed jacket with elbow patches.  You didn't get that kind of gray with makeup.  Or that aroma.  Or the detachable head.

This was Ian's lucky day!  A zombie had just wandered into his path, and without a head, how hard could he be to catch?  Ian pulled out his gun, and the Rockoff students shrieked.

"What are you doing?" cried Becca.

"Zombie!" yelled Ian.

Becca grabbed his arm as he fired. 
Poff
.  The shot went wild, hitting Hal right in the middle of the forehead.  His eyes rolled up and he dropped like a rock.

"Are you crazy!" cried Becca.  "What is wrong with you? 
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!
"-- the last as Prof. Underhill's head flew across the room, landing neatly in Hal's lap.

"
Jouissance
," mumbled the head.  A horrible chewing noise started from under the table.

Ian turned back to his backpack, ignoring the Rockoff students and their cries of "Get it off him!  Get it off him!  Oh God, it's got my hand!"  He needed to reload and get that zombie while it was still standing there, like a giant headless bowling trophy.  He'd shoot it and he'd get the Rockoff students to help him drag it back to campus and get medical help for Hal (
can't get a Nobel posthumously, can you Perfect Hal?
) and get it in the cage and test the antiviral on it and kill it for good and get his goddamned PhD, with or without Sarah Chen, wherever she was!

"I know you," said a rumbling voice above him.

No.  It can't be. 
But Ian looked up to see the bloodshot eyes of Uncle Fester.

Two zombies
, thought Ian, as Uncle Fester lifted him off the ground by his neck.

#

Jack surveyed the scene of carnage that lay in front of him.  Every pot that Arturo owned was filthy.  Every scrap of meat in the house was gone.  They'd eaten Lisa's pizza, buffalo fingers, chili con carne, nachos, and steak a poivre. 

He might never get off the sofa again, but he was a happy man.