Zomblog 04: Snoe (20 page)

I am not afraid. Even if it means that I may be walking to my death, I will do this on my terms. If all I get out of this is the chance to see Mama Lindsay once again, then I will die happy.

I have considered leaving this journal behind; however, I was given a better choice. Felicia and Bob. Yesterday, I was hunkered down in my hideout when I heard breaking glass. I have no idea how many times I actually heard the sound and ignored it, but when it happened a few times, I remembered Felicia telling me about Bob’s little signal.

On the off chance that it was them, I forced myself to leave my lookout post. I actually saw Bob as he was hurling a rock through a big window on a house that sat on a hill maybe a mile from where I was staying.

They explained that they talked it over, and they just felt like they needed to come find me. I told them what I was going to do, and have asked them to take this book. I told them who is down there and they both acted like I had mentioned the Devil himself. I seriously hope that Dominique is not the monster she has been painted as over the years. Perhaps, much like the legacy of Meredith, much of her image has been exaggerated and distorted over the years. (I can’t say I am too optimistic considering all that I have witnessed so far.) I could not bear to think of what might come of this journal if Dominique got her hands on it.

Whatever fate has in store for me, I am prepared to accept it. If I am able, then perhaps I will start another one of these journals. I have found something very therapeutic about the ritual. Before I stop and hand it over, I felt that I should say briefly what I have learned from this experience.

As the zombies become less of a threat, it is our own nature that threatens our existence. If any form of society is to survive and thrive, we need to come together and pool our strengths. While I may have spent my life raised by one family, there is something inside of me that can not be attributed to anybody other than the woman who gave birth to me. While I am no warrior, I am also capable of much more than I gave myself credit. Call it genetics or whatever you like, but…like it or not…I am the daughter of Meredith Gainey.

And now, a sneak peek at

That Ghoul Ava: Her First Adventure

It’s Sunday. I hate Sundays. If cornered, I’d say I hate Tuesdays, too. They’re just such Nothing days. Oh…and it’s snowing; but I love the snow, so it makes today a bit of a wash.

Wait! I’m being so rude. My name is Ava Birch.  It’s pronounced Ay-va.  I’m not some shiny, white robot in a Disney flick in love with a trash compactor, so do not call me Eee-va.  Oh yeah, and I’m a ghoul.

Now before you get all weirded out, I’m not a zombie and I’m not a deranged vampire. I don’t lie in wait for innocent men, women, and children and feast on them. I eat the already dead. And no, I don’t hang out in graveyards and dine on those about to be buried. Do you know what sorts of things they pump into dead bodies? Then I suggest you read
Behind the Formaldehyde Curtain
by Jessica Mitford.

Ewwwwww!

Ghouls, for those of you in utter confusion or sucked into the strange alternate realities that besmirch a ghoul’s good name, eat the dead. We aren’t contagious. We can’t bite or scratch you and turn you—a good thing for those who have found themselves in my bed—into one of us.  (Poor, unwitting necros.)  From what I understand—I’ve only met one other ghoul and he wasn’t very helpful—our condition is genetic. Then, we have to die in such a way that enough remains to come back.

I’m sure there are a thousand things I could tell you, but I’m equally sure that, if it’s important, it will come up over the course of events. What you do need to know is that I’m no Betsy Sinclair or Amanda Feral!  I’m pretty sure my love of blue eye shadow, 80s fashion sense, and adoration of Poison—the group, not the substance—would prevent me from ever being confused with the likes of
them
.

Did I just mention Poison? I’ve got to admit, if Brett Michaels ever succumbs to his illness, I may have to rethink my dietary rules. If I could manage to sneak his cold, blue body from whatever morgue he ended up in? Mmmmmm…Brett Michaels.

I had a thing for C.C. DeVille, but he got all clean and sober. That skinny little bastard will probably live to be ninety. That’s a bit too stringy for me.

Anyways, I’ve digressed enough. Back to me. How did it all start? And what were those first few weeks like? Chances are, if you’re reading this, you know tons about zombies, vampires, and maybe werewolves. Unless of course, your exposure to the undead consists of that silly
Twilight
crap…yuck! Well, I’m here to tell you that the undead aren’t all sexy twenty-somethings or pretty boys with six-pack abs.

I was thirty-two when I went through The Change. It was 1999, and I was not—in fact—partying like the song suggests.  That year was terrible. My husband left me for a girl he was having a not-so-subtle affair with from his office. I can’t be too mad; I’d had a fling of my own with a bartender at the restaurant where I was a waitress. Still…I wasn’t gonna run away with him or anything. It was casual flirting that lead to sitting in a car after work passing a bottle and a joint back and forth. One thing led to another, and pretty soon we were doing the ‘back seat mambo’ while
Every Rose Has Its Thorn
played on the car stereo.

The autopsy on my marriage went something like this: we were married for six years; stopped having regular sex after two; and were down to birthday and anniversary sex after four. Last I heard, Edgar was still married to that sl—.  Excuse me, to that sweet girl. They even had twin girls. Good for him…them.

The worst part about the divorce was that I was a waitress.
He
was/is a rising executive in an advertising firm. I ended up in a rundown apartment complex in Southeast Portland.
He
has a gorgeous colonial in Tualatin. I didn’t ask for alimony, and since we didn’t have any children…I was pretty much back to square one.

I never cared much for school. I met Edgar at a party thrown by twice-removed mutual friends. Honestly, I wasn’t gold-digger. We met. We hit it off. The freaky sex was fun. Marriage just sorta happened. I wish it was more exciting than that, but real life seldom is.

After we split, I tried to reinvent myself about a dozen times. Somehow, I always ended up waitressing in places with party atmosphere bars, going home—or at least to the parking lot—with too many co-workers or big tippers, and waking up with that gnawing sense of self-loathing.

When I looked in the mirror, I saw a used car. Sure, my Elvira-length, jet-black hair, gray eyes, and, oh yeah, thirty-eight DDs looked good. The time hadn’t run out yet on my hourglass figure, but I could see a few cracks here and there. Crows were definitely perching on the edges of my eyes, and my once-flat belly was developing a bit of a speed bump. Hey! I did say I was thirty-two.

One morning I just fell off my mental ledge. I’d woke to a phone call from my most recent boyfriend who decided that he needed to “at least try and give an honest go” at being a good husband to his wife. That meant those plans we’d made for my thirty-third birthday the next week were probably scratched.  Somehow, I ended up standing in front of my medicine cabinet.  A moment later, all my prescription bottles were empty…along with the half a bottle of white zin I had left over from the previous day’s lunch.

Now, I don’t know all the mojo and hocus pocus that went on. What I do know is that I woke up two days later on my bathroom floor. I admit I sat there wanting to cry, but nothing happened. That should’ve been my first clue. I mean, it was like my brain was telling me I was sad, but the voice in my head trying to pass on that message was two doors down and had a rag stuffed in its mouth.

When I stood up and looked in the mirror, I did one of those “Eek! I saw a mouse!” squeals. My eyes were (are) black. I don’t just mean the pretty part. I had two shiny black orbs staring back at me. Then I did something a bit silly…I blinked a few times like that might help.

After I got over trying to fake out my reflection by jumping out from, and back in front of the mirror a dozen or so times, I huffed a stand of hair out of my face and ventured into my apartment. That was when I got surprise number two: it was the middle of the night. My place was shrouded in darkness. Of course that had me dashing back into the bathroom. Nope, the light was definitely out. I could see in the dark! Weird. Right?

So many times, you hear about people turning Were or Vamp—or whatever else there is to turn into—and there is some sort of guide or helper that shows up to at least walk them through those first awkward steps.  Hell…even Buffy had Giles.  Guess who showed up to help poor little Ava? Nobody. Well, there was that one guy…but that was way late and I mostly had it down by then.

While I was wandering around my apartment amazing myself at things like how well I could see—even when I stepped inside my closet and shut the door—I smelled it. How do I describe it? Imagine your favorite food is cooking in the kitchen. Now, multiply it by about a hundred so that the smell seems to be seeping into your pores. It’s so thick that you taste it in the back of your throat. Got it? Well it’s like that coupled with a weird homing beacon thingy so you know exactly where to go to serve up a big plateful.

Here’s where it gets yucky. I could feel my mouth doing…something. I resisted the pull of the homing beacon (which is apparently quite a feat for a ghoul) and ran into the bathroom. Then I did another one of those “Eeks!” only this time it was like I’d seen a machete-wielding serial killer. My mouth had changed all right. A set of razor-sharp chompers had sprouted, complete with fierce-looking fangs—upper and lower—replacing my normally pretty white teeth that mommy and daddy spent a fortune on when I was younger. I don’t care who you are, headgear in sixth grade is far more embarrassing than your first bra or first period.

So I’ve got this wood chipper for a mouth now, and even worse, my toothy grin could be substituted for a close up from something out of
Shark Week
. You’ve heard the expression ‘ear-to-ear grin’? Well, I actually had one!

By now, there is this disgusting strand of drool dangling from my chin. I
want
to be totally mortified, but that smell seems to be physically pulling me towards it. The next thing I know, I’m in the parking lot of my apartment complex, and in what seems like two steps, I’m past the dozen or so parking spaces and standing beside the big, green Dumpster for use by the tenants. There is a vile, nasty, seeped-in-his-own-filth wino sprawled on the ground.  He may as well have been a plate of cheese-stuffed tortellini with pesto and caramelized garlic.

I stared down at him. He was so grimy and shaggy. He had that uni-bomber beard going on, and the hair on his head was matted, sticking out from under a beanie that looked to have been dipped in motor oil.

Oh well…presentation isn’t everything.

Before I knew what was happening, I was chowing on my wino-buffet. When I was done, I gurged up his clothes, shoes, ratty socks, and that beanie like a cat with a hairball.

I was still in a bit of a daze when I got back to my apartment. My brain was trying to process what I’d done, but I couldn’t muster up even a teensy weensy bit of revulsion. After brushing and flossing and brushing again, I flopped down on my couch. Then, that first beam of sunlight shot through my partially open curtains. It was like a laser trying to burn through my skull.

I was literally climbing my living room walls to get away from it. My fingernails had become vicious claws.
Huh. That’s interesting
. I’m fairly certain that was the extent of my thoughts at the moment. That, and
Sunlight bad! Ava no likey!

The lesson I took away from that was, if I’m spooked or threatened, I get all ‘scary monster’ with long claws. Did I fail to mention that my toenails had done pretty much the same thing, ruining a perfectly good pair of Nikes? I tried to imagine the look on the face of that little Korean lady who I went to on the rare occasions when I could afford to treat myself to a mani-pedi.

Anyways, I spent the rest of that first day in my bedroom closet. Funny thing was that I didn’t actually sleep. I
heard
everything going on around me. I heard the mailman slide my bills and all the advertisements addressed to ‘occupant’ through the slot on my door. I heard the children in the complex leave for school and eventually return. I heard that sleazebag neighbor, Elliot Richards, kiss his wife—who worked two jobs to his none—as she hurried off to catch the bus. Twenty minutes later I heard Belinda Beatty, the nineteen-year-old slut with two kids from two different fathers who lives off welfare and a little undeclared babysitting money—along with whatever she wrings out of the guys like Elliott who she visits at all hours of the day—knock on his door for a mid-morning bang. I do believe I told you I live in a slummy little apartment complex.

Funny thing, while I was sitting in my closet, avoiding sunlight, listening to a forty-year-old perv play out some sort of sick fantasy with a nineteen-year-old hussy, my nails sprouted. It’s like my
Hulk
powers! I get scared
or
angry and my hands and feet go all switchblade.

I was going just a little crazy when I discovered that I can dial my attention around like a radio. I even have a bit of a SEEK function. My downstairs neighbor had a home visit by his parole officer. The Hispanics four doors down were watching one of those over-the-top telenovelas. The managers were making a list of all the folks who were late with rent. I wasn’t on it…

Yay!

So I sat there all day doing the equivalent of channel surfing. At some point, it struck me: my phone hadn’t rung. I didn’t recall seeing the little flashing light indicating that I had voicemail. Nobody had knocked on my door to see if I was okay.

I didn’t matter.

At some point, I had fallen through the cracks. I was indistinguishable from all the other anonymous faces in the crowd. Not even my work had called. At some point, you’d think that at least my place of employment would be… aware?...concerned?...something.