Zombified (12 page)

“I'm Ashley!” she yelled. “You said hi to me when you walked up!”

I put on as sweet a smile as I was able to muster. “Did I? Gosh, I'm sorry.”

“Is there a problem here, Ashley?” the shift supervisor asked from behind the fry station.

“No,” Ashley said, then she stripped off her apron. “I'm going on my break.” And she stalked off.

Phil and I walked off to get napkins and ketchup while we waited for our order.

“There's no way our food is going to be spit-free,” he said.

“We're about to eat Bully Burger food,” I said. “Spit will be the least of our concerns.”

When we took our possibly saliva-laden food back to the table, Chacho was grinning up at us. “Charming as ever, huh?” he asked.

“I do what I can to brighten the lives of those around me,” I said with a shrug.

“And what are you doing hanging around with this creep?” he asked Phil.

“I like her,” he said, “and she's the second-best zombie killer I've ever seen.”

“Why aren't you dating the first best you've ever seen?” Chacho asked.

“Because I'm not gay,” Phil said, “and you're already married.”

That got a big laugh from Chacho, which earned us a sour look from the shift boss behind the counter. Chacho didn't seem to care, though. He doesn't work for Bully Burger; he works for a security place that contracts with the BB, so he doesn't really care what anyone other than the store's owner thinks of him. Phil was right, Chacho was the best zombie killer around. As long as that stayed true, he had job security.

We didn't talk for a while as Phil and I dug into our food. Did you know that you can develop cravings for things that are flat-out awful and just plain bad for you? That was how I felt about Bully Burgers. I knew the secrets of how they were made, so I should have been repulsed, but man, when that greasy patty and soggy bun hit my tongue, I was in heaven. I may even have moaned a little bit.

“So you took my advice?” Chacho asked after a bit.

“What advice was that?” I asked around a mouthful of edible garbage.

“You straightened your shit out,” he said. “I told you you needed to do that the last time I drove you home.”

Oh, right. That. That was the night I went sort of crazy and tried to kill three zombies out in the Bully Burger parking lot by myself. It wasn't the best idea, but thankfully Chacho showed up with a shotgun to lend a hand. That had been a bad time for me—my buddy Willie'd killed himself, I'd been deeply conflicted about selling drugs back then and hadn't realized it. It might have come out as an urge to kill things or self-destruct. If only I'd had access to a mental health professional to talk about all of it with. That was a joke; there was no way I would have brought any of that up with someone like my dad.

“Sure,” I said. “I laid off some pretty antisocial behavior, and hooked up with a good group of friends.” I shoulder-bumped Phil, who'd barely taken a bite of his sandwich. I'd give him five more minutes before I asked him if he was going to finish it.

I heard someone behind the counter shout, “Someone wants onto the lot!” but I ignored it. Just another sucker making an unwise food choice.

“So why'd you come to see me, Courtney?” Chacho asked. He eyed me warily.

I leaned forward in my hard, plastic seat.

“Why can't you believe I just wanted to see you?” I said, and I laughed when he looked even more suspicious. But that was the simple truth. I'd wanted to see him. Chacho had cared enough to try to give me some advice when I'd been at a really low point, and I'd appreciated it. I'd have been to see him sooner if I hadn't spent the summer under house arrest.

I was about to say all of that—minus the part about being grounded because it would have raised some uncomfortable questions—when the look on Chacho's face changed. He went from suspicious but slightly amused to downright disgusted. Thank God he wasn't looking at me anymore. Nope, he was looking at whoever was standing right next to our table.

At first I thought a zombie had shuffled into the store from the parking lot. Gray, ashen skin; stringy hair; a complexion that was either runaway acne, or outright rot; a unique body odor. Then he smiled.

“Hi, Brandon,” I said.

“Brandon!” Phil and Chacho said it in unison.

“Hey, Courtney,” Brandon said. That smile again. I remembered how dazzling it had been; before, it had almost hypnotized me. Now it was gray and dirty and I couldn't stand to look at it.

“What are you doing here?” I asked. I scooted a little closer to Phil. But not so close that Brandon might feel it was an invitation to sit down.

“I just came in to grab a bite to eat, Courtney,” he said. Reasonable. It was a completely reasonable thing to say for anyone who didn't look like a member of the walking dead.

“Are you following me?” I asked him. Chacho shot me a look, then went back to staring at Brandon, but now his interest looked, I guess you'd call it “professional.”

He chuckled, a low, almost coughing sound.

“Why would I be following you?”

“I don't know,” I said. “Just seems like a weird coincidence you showing up here.”

“And here I thought you'd be happy to see me,” Brandon said.

“If you're here to eat,” Chacho said, his voice flat and menacing, “maybe you can go order your food.”

Brandon looked at Chacho, and it seemed like he was seeing him for the first time.

“This your dad?” he asked.

“You've met my dad before,” I said. “This isn't him.”

Brandon squinted, focusing on Chacho. “Right,” he said finally. “Right. This is your buddy. The rent-a-cop.”

“Son,” Chacho started, but I put my hand on top of his and he fell silent.

“Brandon,” I said, “I'm trying to have a talk with my friends. If there's something you have to say to me, say it. Otherwise, I think we're done.”

Anger and hurt flashed in his eyes. “I just thought you'd be happy to see me,” he repeated.

He stood there a moment without saying anything, just sort of swaying back and forth. Then he nodded, like he'd come to a decision, and said, “Okay. Well, it was still good to see you.” Then he turned and walked toward the exit. I wished I'd stopped watching him. If I had, I'd have missed it when he stopped at the door, turned, and looked at me. He gave me a weird look I wasn't able to decipher, then opened the door and went outside. He climbed into the passenger side of a beat-up, old car and drove off.

“That was Brandon?” Phil said.

“That was the jock?” Chacho joined in.

“Yeah,” I said. “That was Brandon. He's looked better.”

“What the hell happened to him?” Chacho asked.

“Vitamin Z, I think,” I said. I didn't think it. I knew it for a fact, but it made me feel better to throw in a hint of doubt for some reason.

Phil still hadn't eaten his burger, but suddenly I didn't want it anymore. I started to wonder if I'd keep down what I'd already eaten.

“That's too bad,” Chacho said. “Messing with that shit'll kill you for sure.” Then he looked a whole lot less sympathetic. “Is he hassling you? Like, since you two broke up?”

“Not really,” I said, and I wasn't sure whether or not that was the truth. “He's texted me a couple of times, but he's never just shown up like that before.” Except for that one time at the coffee shop that I didn't mention.

“Well,” Chacho said, “if he keeps showing up where he's not wanted, you let me know. Okay?”

“Okay,” I said. “Thanks.”

“No worries.”

“Hey, Chacho!” a kid I didn't recognize called from behind the counter. “Mr. Washington called and says he's coming over.”

“Thanks, Gabe,” Chacho said. He turned to us. “You know what that means,” he said.

Mr. Washington owned the Bully Burger, and if he was there, he wanted Chacho outside in his gear making customers feel safe.

Chacho climbed out of the booth, put away his magazine, and started putting on his gear.

I took that as my cue to leave. I got up out of the bench.

“I'm glad you came over to see me,” Chacho said. “When the weather's good, you can come over and meet my wife and boys. I'll grill. I guarantee the food will be better than this place.”

“No way is it worse,” Phil said.

“Thanks, Chacho,” I said. “I might take you up on that.” And I meant it.

Not knowing what else to do, but feeling really self-conscious about it, I threw my arms around him and gave him a hug. After a second, he returned it.

“You're a good kid,” he said to me. “And I'm glad you're working things out. You help her keep on the straight and narrow, right?” he said to Phil.

“I can only do so much,” Phil said.

Chacho shot him a look, because he'd said it with no emotion, so there was no way to tell if it was a joke or not. After a second, Chacho's face broke into a smile.

“Yeah,” he said, “well, just do what you can.” He went back to putting on his gear.

We said our final good-byes and Chacho told us not to be such strangers.

When we got outside, it was colder than I'd expected, and dark. It felt like rain was coming soon. We rushed to the car. Phil got it started and cranked the heater. The car might have been a piece of shit, but the heater worked pretty well.

“Let's get you home,” Phil said.

“Yeah,” I said. “I'll text my dad and let him know I'm on the way.”

“Well,” Phil said as the gate slid open for us to leave the parking lot, “that was almost a nice visit.”

I made an agreement sound. I was thinking about things and didn't want to lose the trail.

“One good thing about Brandon showing up,” I said.

“What's that?” Phil asked.

“I figured out why all those jocks are missing school,” I said.

“Why's that?” Phil asked.

“Brandon's got them all hooked on Vitamin Z.”

Phil didn't have a response to that, but then, really, what response might he have had?

CHAPTER ELEVEN

A
few days before Christmas, Dad woke me by knocking on my door. I must have made a “come in” noise because that's what he did.

“Come on, Courtney,” he said.

I opened one eye. There was no hint of light outside the drawn window shades. “Is the sun up?” I asked. “I don't think the sun is up yet.”

“Come on,” he repeated.

“Where?”

“You're driving me to the airport,” he said.

That made me open both eyes. I sat up and tried to assess the seriousness of his previous statement. “You want me? To drive?”

“You have your license, yes?” he asked.

“I do?” I said. It came out more of a question than I'd meant it to. “But I don't. Don't drive. Much.”

“Well, you can do some today,” Dad said. I felt like I should be irritated by how amused he seemed right now. “And you'll need to get from place to place while I'm gone.”

Now he was going to let me use the car while he was gone?

“Is this some sort of trick?” I asked.

“Yes,” Dad said, “me displaying trust in you and your judgment is definitely a trick. We talked about this.”

So, yes, it
was
a trick.

“Okay,” I said. “Let me get dressed.”

“Okay, we need to leave in about fifteen minutes,” he said as he turned away. “I brewed a pot of coffee!”

“God, you're the best,” I said. I made sure to pitch my voice so there was no possible way for him to hear me.

“I
am
the best,” he said.

Neither of us had any idea how great he really was.

Fifteen minutes later, we were on the road, my hands at ten and two, my head constantly swiveling to check all mirrors at once. It wasn't that I was a bad driver, it was that I was a very timid driver. Everything on the road, including me, scared the living crap out of me.

“It's best if you sort of relax,” Dad said.

“I think relaxing behind the wheel of a two-ton piece of machinery will lead to death,” I countered.

“Fair enough,” Dad said and went back to gripping the oh-shit bar above his seat.

Back before the dead returned, the Salem airport was a pretty rinky-dink affair. It was tiny—two landing strips—and serviced no commercial flights. Since the Portland airport had been knocked out of commission by an army of shufflers, Salem's had grown to about ten times its original size. Now it was a pretty major hub. It also took forever to get through security. On top of the Homeland Security guys checking your shoes for explosives, there were also CDC people looking for the slightest signs of illness. Woe unto you if you showed up for a flight with so much as a sniffle.

There were three or four cordoned areas you had to get through to reach the airport itself. Dad had me stop just outside the first one. Several guards in reflective face masks watched us, their weapons at the ready.

“I'll walk in from here,” he said. “No reason for you to drive all the way in just to have to drive out again.”

“Makes sense,” I said.

“I don't have to tell you what a big responsibility it is to have access to the car, right?” he asked.

“Nope,” I said. “I get that this is a big deal.”

“Okay,” he said. He leaned over and kissed me on the cheek.

“All the info about where I'm at is on the fridge,” he said, “along with some cash. It'd be nice if there was some left over when I got back.”

“I make no promises,” I said.

“I'll be back the day before Christmas Eve,” he said. “I'll text you my arrival time. Pick me up here, okay?”

“Okay,” I said.

He gave me another kiss and then he left. I pulled away from the curb and found the closest taqueria. While I sat behind the wheel and ate my breakfast burrito—being very careful not to spill anything—I contemplated what to do with my free access to a motor vehicle. Actually my first thought bummed me out. I thought,
I need to call Sherri!
This was followed by the almost immediate realization that my best friend was dead—and had been dead for about six months now. Then I thought about calling Phil, but something kept me from doing that.

Instead, I threw the car in drive, found some not-too-offensive music on the radio, and just drove by myself around the city. The sun was starting to come up by then, and the clouds had opened up enough so you were able to see it. For more than an hour, I drove around the city, singing along with the radio when I knew enough words, and feeling reasonably free. Since there were hardly any cars on the road, I wasn't even too worried about dying in a fiery crash. It was nice. At some point I started to think the city looked sort of pretty in the early morning light. I shook my head and decided I'd had enough.

I headed for home, planning to do the homework I'd been assigned over the Christmas break. I felt so good, I was sure nothing could spoil the day.

Stupid, right?

 

It was dark out again before I poked my head up from my homework. I'd finished nearly all of it, though, so I wouldn't have it hanging over me for the rest of the break. I checked in with Phil and he was adequately impressed with me having the car while Dad was out of town. “Good, now you can haul my butt around town for a change,” may have been his exact words.

I also decided to do something I'd sort of been dreading, but that needed doing. Especially while I had the car.

I picked up my phone and dialed Buddha.

Buddha, the guy who used to supply me with Vitamin Z to sell. That Buddha.

I'd never had his number in the contacts on my phone—he wouldn't allow it—and I still remembered it. My heart pounded as I hit the send button.

I thought it was going to go to voice mail and started to feel relieved, when a connection was made.

“Courtney?” said Buddha's deep voice.

“Hi,” I said.

“I have to admit, I was never expecting to see a call come in from this number again.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I was never expecting to call you, to be honest.”

“Well,” he said, “now that you have, what can I do for you?”

I paused as I heard a siren outside. For a paranoid second, I thought that the cops had tapped the call or something and the SWAT team was descending down on me. Then the sound receded in the distance.

“Courtney?” Buddha asked.

“I'm calling because,” I said and paused. How much was safe to say over the phone? “Because of what you sell.”

“What specifically about what I sell?” he asked. A reasonable question.

“Getting my hands on some.”

“For personal use?” he asked.

“Not the sort you think,” I said. It seemed important to let him know I wasn't using.

“Well,” he said, “I have a new sales associate in your area, Courtney.”

“And I think you might know why I'd be reluctant to go to him,” I said.

There was a moment of silence, then a big sigh. “I understand. Give me a few days. Come up Tuesday or Wednesday.”

“Can it be Tuesday?” I asked. Wednesday was the day Dad came back home.

“Sure,” he said. “I'll call the roadblocks. Same deal as always to get past them.”

“I remember,” I said. “Thanks, Buddha.”

“My pleasure,” he said. “I have to admit, I'm glad you called. I'll see you Tuesday.”

I told him to count on it, then hung up. My heart had stopped beating so fast, but now I had this weird queasy feeling in my stomach. Whatever, stomach. I'd visit Buddha, and then Dr. Keller would have the Vitamin Z sample I'd promised him so long ago. I didn't know what there was to feel bad about.

 

I fell asleep after that, and I might have slept through the whole night except that I'd forgotten to turn off the ringer on my phone.

I woke up disoriented. A dream full of teeth and the smell of rotten meat still wrapped around me.

“Who the hell is this?” I asked. I didn't really care who I pissed off.

“Hey, Courtney.” Brandon. Of course it was Brandon.

“What time is it?” I asked. “What do you want?”

“I wondered if I could come over and visit for a little while,” he said.

I had to take a moment and let that sink in. I kicked the covers off my legs and sat up.

“I don't think that's a good idea, Brandon.”

“Why not?” he asked.

“Ooh, boy,” I said. “Where to start.” I leaned over and switched on my bedside table lamp. “We barely dated and we broke up six months ago. You should have moved on, you know?”

“This isn't about us getting back together,” he said.

“Then what?”

“Things have gone downhill a little for me,” he said. “The last time they were good was when we were together—”

“See,” I interrupted, “this is why it's a bad idea.”

“Let me finish, please,” he said. “I don't want to get together again with you. I just thought that maybe if we were friends again, then it might help things.”

This was getting pathetic. I tried to feel zero sympathy for him, but I was failing. I finally decided that I needed to lay down the hammer, call on my inner bitch, and end this.

“Listen, Brandon,” I said.

“Let me come over,” he said over me. “And if it doesn't work out, I'll leave and I'll never bother you again.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“No more calls, no more texts, no more showing up at random places,” he said.

So you did do that, you little shit!
I wanted to shout at him. “I don't know,” I said.

“I promise, Courtney.”

I stood up and started pacing. I didn't know what to do. Take him at his word and maybe be rid of him forever? Tell him to go screw himself and have him continue hounding me? Why was I even having to deal with this? I broke up with him half a year ago and he was still obsessing about me. It made no sense.

“Courtney?”

“Fine,” I said. “Come over, but I'm not making any promises.”

He might have started to say something, but I killed the line.

There were a couple of things I wanted to do before Brandon got there—like call Phil and dig my pistol out of my bag, but first I had to pee. I figured I had plenty of time for all of those things before Brandon got there.

Then the doorbell rang as I walked down the hall toward the bathroom.

“This is a joke,” I said to no one at all. I went into the living room and looked out the window at the front porch. Big as shit, there was Brandon. Okay, then.

I opened the door and he turned on that smile.

“Were you on the curb when you called?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said. He stepped inside, then stopped and turned. He waved at the same crappy car I'd seen him get into at the Bully Burger earlier. When he waved, the car pulled away from the house.

“That your ride?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said. He stepped into the living room, gawking at everything like it was his first time inside a shelter of any kind.

“Where's your truck?” I asked.

He laughed at that, though I didn't get the joke. “I sold that thing months ago.”

So, now he was having someone haul his ass all over town. I didn't want to ask how he paid the person for the privilege. Then another question came to me that I did want to ask.

“And how are you going to leave when it's time for you to go?”

He held up his cell phone. “He'll just be a few minutes away.”

“Okay,” I said. “I guess.” I closed the front door.

“Show me the rest of the house,” he said.

“Why don't we just sit out here and talk,” I said. “If that's what you want to do.”

“Sure,” he said. He grinned like it was a joke. “You can give me the grand tour later.”

He sat down on the couch, leaving plenty of room for me to sit next to him. I flopped down on the armchair. He grimaced, but hid it quickly.

“So, how you been?” he asked.

“Crappy to good,” I said.

“How are classes?”

“Classes are always good,” I said.

“I'm picking up on some hostility,” he said.

“I wonder why.”

A really uncomfortable silence settled on us like, I don't know, a really overweight stripper's butt or something. If Brandon had been anyone else, I might have offered him something to drink, or a snack, but this really didn't feel like a refreshment type of visit.

“How's business?” I asked.

“What business?”

I gave him a please don't screw with me look.

“It's good,” he said, throwing up his hands. “I started selling for Buddha a couple of weeks after you stopped.”

“Selling to your friends.”

“Not
just
to them,” he said. “I, uh, what do you call it, expanded my customer base. I knew they had the cash, and they trust me, so . . .”

“I don't think we're going to bond over work stories,” I said.

He threw up his hands. “I'm not sure why you invited me over if you're not going to give me a chance,” he said.

I'd been wondering the same thing. I felt mean and unfair, but the more I looked at Brandon sitting there—with his stringy muscles where he'd once had fleshy arms; his ratty clothes; his gray smile; and, worst, his dead eyes—the more I felt sick to my stomach. Sick with guilt and anger. I'd caused this. I was the reason this kid had gone to the dark side. I was the Emperor Palpatine to his Anakin Skywalker and I didn't like it one little bit. Mostly because there was nothing I could think of to make it better.