I've Been Deader Page 2

  He needed a plan.

  Earlier Fred had found a box of crayons and a pad of paper in a little girl's bedroom - don't ask - and tried to write Aleta a love letter. But hours later his entire work product consisted of a large purple smudge that under certain lighting conditions might pass as a heart. Frustrated, he had shoved the note in his pocket and went on a blind rampage, smashing and thrashing for long minutes. When his frustration abated, he noticed a black plastic ball lying in the corner of the room.

  A magic 8-ball. He picked up the ball and stared at the small plastic window. The words 'Yes, definitely' floated up to him.

  Later he stumbled upon the burned out florist shop.

  Now here he stood - dead flowers in one hand, Magic 8-ball in the other. His plan was to wait until she left the building. Then he'd slip inside and wait. When she came back and saw he wasn't interested in eating her, he would declare his love and then ... well, then everything would fall into place. Fred was a zombie, not Einstein.

  He was in the middle of a beautiful daydream featuring the both of them walking in the park, when Aleta got up from her chair and disappeared from view.

  Fred went into action.

  Mumbling "braaiins" into the night air, he shambled over to the iron gate. Both the gate and fence stood almost eight feet high. It looked like several giant spears, spikes pointing up at the sky, enough to discourage any zombie and most Jehovah's Witnesses.

  But Fred was not discouraged. Putting the dead bouquet in his mouth, he grabbed the corpse's feet with his free hand and started dragging it around the side of the building, the head bopping and flopping against the pavement. One solid whack and the broken Coke bottle popped out of its neck like a nasty piece of Pez candy.

  Taking one last vacant glance down the street to make sure nothing was watching, Fred swung the corpse by its legs in a great arc. It made a whistling sound as it traveled through the air, followed by a satisfying meaty thud when a fence spike pierced through the upper chest and back. The head snapped off, bouncing and rolling across the protected side of the building's grounds.

  Got some distance on that. A few vertebrae peeked through the neck, like some grisly periscope. He pulled on the legs until the corpse was wedged good and tight between two of the spikes. He pushed the 8-ball through the gap in the fence and dug his fingers into the corpse's flesh, puncturing three holes on each side of its waist. Fred hoisted himself up, sliding his fingers out of the corpse and then making new hand holds right under its arms. Cold fluid washed over his fingers and down his forearms.

  This is pretty sick, even for a zombie. He pulled himself up and over the fence. It was one thing to eat the living, but mutilating a corpse just seemed ... wrong

  Safe on the other side, Fred picked up the Magic 8-ball and shook it. Will she like me? The words floated up: Future uncertain, ask again later.

  Could be worse.

  Now he just had to wait and -

  The sharp gasp wasn't quite a scream, but it was the loudest thing Fred had heard since breakfast. He turned around, the flowers still clutched in his mouth, and saw her standing there, hands covering her mouth. Behind his dead, vacant eyes Fred was embarrassed and horrified. This was going all wrong. He opened his mouth intending to say something reassuring and the dead flowers spilled onto the ground.

  Aleta hadn't expected to have to deal with zombies on this side of the fence. Before he left, Erik had promised the grounds were safe. Even so, she wouldn't have risked going outside if little Niki's barking hadn't triggered a migraine. She didn't know how her daughter could stand that dog. Better to risk being eaten than spend another minute listening to that damn dog. It seemed like a reasonable thought at the time.

  Fred was desperate. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out the crumpled note and held it out toward Aleta, hoping it would calm her down some.

  Aleta stepped back as the zombie, with arms outstretched and black-red ichor dripping from its fingers, moved toward her.

  Fred shuffled over, waving the note and the Magic 8-ball in the air. No. Please. I don't want to hurt you, he thought.

  "Braaiinsss," he moaned.

  If only she’d have just turned around and sprinted for the door, she would have been fine. Instead she stepped backward on the decapitated head, turned her ankle and fell to the ground.

  Fred shambled closer. This can still work. She had to see that he wouldn't hurt her. He tried to smile, his broken lips revealing blackened and missing teeth. Aleta screamed.

  Fred didn't know what to do. He stood over her in a panic, yellowish drool spilling from the corner of his mouth. He raised a finger to his lips in the universal sign of "Shh."

  Aleta screamed louder.

  Fred bent down, reaching for her.

  Oh, the hell with it, he thought.

  "Braaaiinsss," he moaned.

  Chapter 4

  Family

  'Undead, undead.

  All alone I breathe.

  In time they come for everyone.'

  - Freddie

  Karen was almost eleven years old and an only child now. Her long blonde hair stuck to the sides of her neck, damp with sweat. Yesterday Joe went off to scavenge, leaving the three of them with a few gallons of fresh water and false promises of safety. Her older sister Rose gave mute testament to the lie.

  By a small act of grace the bed stood between Karen and her sister's body. Thinking about Rose made her want to scream and cry at the same time, but she didn’t dare do either. Hidden in the corner of her closet, Karen knew that silence meant life.

  She peered through the wooden slats of the closet door but in the dark room it was difficult to see anything other than the outline of her bed. Her mind filled in the details she couldn't see; her sister's ravaged body on the other side, eyes staring at the ceiling in silent horror. The back of her head ...

  Time froze with a smothering weight that made it hard to breathe. At some time during the day she'd peed herself. Peed myself like a baby. The stench disgusted and worried her. Can they smell?

  For once Niki's yipping was a welcome distraction. She could hear her paws clicking on the wooden floor downstairs. The dog would keep quiet for a minute or so and then erupt in a series of small barks before falling silent again. Her barking always drove Karen nuts, but today she craved its company. In the silence between Niki's barking bursts, she heard a thousand small, phantom sounds. She imagined Rose shifting, changing position, trying to get comfortable. But Rose was dead still. Dead as dead. Please God, keep her dead. Somewhere in the dark house, however, Mother was still moving and grooving.

  It will be okay. I'll just stay here until Joe comes back … or until Mother leaves.

  Sometime later she woke up, surprised at herself for dozing off. Niki wasn't barking but there were a hundred small sounds - soft clicks, ticks, and almost thumps - tinged with doom and dark promise. Somehow she had slept and dusk had turned into full-blown night; the last traces of light had fled and the air felt heavier, making breathing a chore. Her limbs felt wooden and unresponsive. Hair fell over her eyes but the effort to bring hand to face was too great. She had a suicidal urge to scream. Scream and bring everything to an end.

  Or maybe I'll laugh. Like when Rose and I played the giggle game. I'll just laugh and laugh and laugh until Mother finds me.

  Soon fear and adrenaline took hold of her again. Hide or run? She wanted nothing more than to stay buried in the back of the closet until Mother left or Joe returned. But for all she knew Mother might be staying forever, and Joe, armed or not, might not be back for a day or two - maybe more.

  Maybe not at all. They'd met him at the airport a few weeks ago. He'd saved their lives back there, no denying it. But there were no promises that he'd do it again. What about food and water?

  Run then. She'd never be stronger than she was right now. Easier to avoid running into zombies out there than the one downstairs. Please let her be downstairs.

  She inched forward and pushed the closet
door open the tiniest bit, terrified it would betray her by squeaking. It did squeak and to her horror she peed herself again. Sometime later, when her heart settled down to a steady race and the thing that was Mother didn't come running into the room, she pushed the door open the rest of the way.

  For a second she thought she could see Slinky on the floor by the bed - dead still. She'd won Slinky last Labor Day with Rose. They were supposed to be at Walgreens buying back-to-school supplies. Instead they ended up at St. Mary's carnival, squandering precious quarters on Jesus-approved games of chance. She remembered tossing the small ceramic ring into the air and watching it land neat as you please around the neck of an empty Coke bottle - first try. When they got home, Rose went inside first and kept Mother distracted while Karen snuck the green alligator into her room, where Slinky lived happily ever after.

  Of course the shape sticking out by the bed wasn't Slinky. If the lights worked Karen knew she'd be staring at Rose's leg. But in the dark she could pretend it belonged to her stuffed friend.

  Something crashed and shattered on the floor downstairs, and Niki renewed her barking, redoubling her efforts to wake the still-dead dead. Mother was on the move. Karen was out of time.

  In her mind, Karen saw herself run across the room, eyes turned away from her poor sister - dead still, still dead; running across the hall to Mother's bedroom, opening the casements on the large window, climbing out onto the room ledge, dropping to the front yard and making good her escape. Easy peasy.

  A soft thud floated up from downstairs.

  Downstairs for sure, right? Definitely.

  Time to run.

  She couldn't do it. She remained on hands and knees, unable to cross the closet's threshold. Her arms and legs started shaking, like some dark epilepsy. Sweat dripped off her face and forearms. Some ran into her eyes, blurring her vision and causing the dark shape of dead-still Rose's leg to shift in the dark. Karen squeezed her eyes shut.

  Nothing moved. Nothing's up here. Just scared, that's all. I'll open my eyes and it will still be there. Not moving. Nothing's moving.

  Thud.

  Definitely from downstairs.

  "Nothing here," she mouthed. Niki stopped barking.

  Now, now, now.

  She stood up. The blood rushed to her feet and her head swam. No time. She ran across the room, staring up at the ceiling, making sure to avoid looking at Rose. The bedroom door hung open, framing the darkened hallway. Mother's bedroom wasn't visible but Karen knew it stood ten - maybe fifteen - feet away. Easy peasy.

  She tripped over Rose's leg and hit the floor with the sound of thunder.

  "No, no, no. Please, please." She backed away as fast as she could, untangling herself from the stuffed toy.

  Slinky?

  Her stuffed alligator was entwined in her legs, its button eyes staring at the ceiling.

  "Just Slinky. No Rose. Just Slinky."

  Tears of relief sprang from her eyes. She managed to get back on her feet, ready to sprint across the hall to the window. Escape. She would escape and find help. Maybe hide somewhere close and wait for Joe to come back.

  He'll need to be warned and -

  Karen blinked, confused.

  Not Rose. But where -

  A soft thud interrupted her thought.

  And it definitely did not come from downstairs.

  Chapter 5

  Waking Up

  A simpler time. A time when Dennis Miller was still funny, Roman Polanski didn't have a care in the world and Zombies weren't popping out from every dark alley and closet in North America.

  It was a beautiful fall day in Comfort, Colorado, a sleepy little village nestled at the foot of the Rocky Mountains. Ellen stood on the second step of her front stoop, hands clutching the wooden railing in a death grip; eyes squeezed shut and heart racing, too terrified to go inside and too terrified to stay outside. This was nothing new.

  For the last thirty-seven years of her life, she’d suffered from intense agoraphobia and claustrophobia and a few other phobias thrown in for good measure. Yesterday she had made it all the way down the driveway to the mailbox. She was doing fine until a car sped by, so close her dress tried to follow in its wake. The noise drove her to her knees and she had crawled all the way back into the house, unable to stop sobbing.

  Today is a new day, and every journey starts with one step.

  Her house was a too-small ranch but the inside was one large room. She had all the interior walls knocked down and everything painted in pale blue. She spent her remaining savings on six skylights and track lighting along all four walls. Ellen kept the hundred-watt bulbs burning bright, day and night.

  A large bed occupied the center of the room. A small television stood in one corner, and in another a computer desk with a large monitor and web-cam. Against the west wall a small refrigerator and stove, but other than that, the house was devoid of any furniture.

  Ellen hated using the internet, frightened that someone would find a way to hack into her system. She had no real idea what this entailed, but the mere thought brought horrifying images to mind. She logged in once a week for her sessions with Dr. Katz, but that was it.

  Today was Tuesday and her goal was to walk down the driveway, past the mailbox and across the street. Then she would come back, document her successful foray in her journal for Dr. Katz, and spend the day reading a book.

  On Wednesday she was supposed to turn off half the lights when it got dark, and sit in her bed for ten minutes. As things were going now, her journal would say she spent Tuesday through Friday on the front stoop, afraid to open her eyes.

  "This is ridiculous."

  With surprisingly little effort - for her - Ellen opened her eyes. It was a beautiful day … peaceful. The street, never busy even at the worst of times, was always empty during this time of day. Aside from the faint noise of traffic drifting in from Rt. 202, and Mr. Potts delivering the mail a few houses down the road, Ellen could have been standing in a ghost town.

  Now that would be lovely.

  Remembering her relaxation exercises she took in a deep breath, held it for a moment and exhaled, feeling some of the tension drain from her arms and neck. Her hands loosened and the blood returned to her cramped fingers in equal parts of relief and pain.

  Next step, take a step; then on to the mailbox.

  At Dr. Katz' suggestion she made a game of the outing. Her goal was to get to the mail box before Mr. Potts made it to her house. Get the mail, hopefully without having to engage in any lengthy conversation with the mailman - one of the few people in Comfort older than Ellen - cross the street and then return to the stoop before Mr. Potts finished delivering the mail to the rest of the street.

  The whole thing was exciting. Terrifying but exciting. She took a shaky step and then two.

  Ladies and gents, she is off the stoop.

  Being outside reminded her of when she was young and beautiful. All the boys in town wanted to walk with her then. Even if most of them were too shy to ask, she knew. That was before all her fears had taken root in her heart. Now she was old, scared, scarred and alone - always alone. But buried somewhere under all her fears was a memory of lightness and freedom. It wasn't much but it was all she had these days.

  She saw Mr. Potts laboriously make his way up to the Cullens' house next door, walking even slower than usual. Must be Sears Catalog day. Watching the mailman caused another layer of uneasiness to settle over her. It was the uniform. Uniforms made her think of eviction and jail.

  She tried to block out mailmen, mail, insects, pollen, wind, noise and the thousand other little terrors she knew waited out there for her.

  Best get moving if I'm going to win this game.

  She wanted to shut her eyes, but knew she was too damned old to try walking blind. Once started, best to keep up the momentum. Before she could think herself into paralysis she took another step, and another, and another.

  She was about five feet from her mailbox when an angry roar broke th
rough the stillness of the day. Its deep thrumming sound washed over Ellen, drowning out all thought. Her hands flew up to her face, trying to cover both eyes and ears. Sometime later the noise receded and she heard someone speaking to her, trying to soothe her.

  "Just a plane. It's just a plane. Just a plane." It took her a few moments to realize the person speaking was her.

  So stupid. I was doing so well and I let a stupid, noisy jet ruin the game.

  There were tears on her cheeks and she was shaking all over. She stood like that forever. I'll die standing here - the crazy old lady who turned herself into stone. She was so angry. Angry. The thought startled her. For the first time since, well, since forever, she was more angry than afraid. When did my life become so ridiculous? Pathetic.

  Without thinking she walked straight to the mailbox and touched the metal red flag. She felt like laughing and crying at the same time.

  "Victory!" she shouted up at the sky and the departing plane. "Victory!"

  "Braaainss," moaned Mr. Potts.

  She turned, confused, and then froze. Ellen had found one more thing to terrify her.

  * * *

  Something was wrong. It was pitch black. Where were the lights? There were always lights. And why was she so hungry? So dark. And the smell. What was that god-awful stench? She tried to sit up and bumped into something hard and unyielding. Panic bloomed in her chest and overwhelmed her. She tried rolling over and came up against a wall.

  No, no, no no, a tiny voice whispered inside her. Can't be happening ... not real. Not real. She managed to get her hands raised a little and started pushing against the box. She was rewarded with a small shower of fine dirt - a musky dusting that coated her face.

  Fear wrapped itself around her heart and squeezed. She couldn't breathe. Her hands beat against the box lid with surprising strength but other than causing more dirt to rain down on her, nothing happened. Ellen thrashed her head side to side and started kicking her feet. Small, ineffectual kicks stuttering out a muted, crazed drumbeat against the floor and ceiling of the coffin. Some small thing snaked its way up her leg. She opened her mouth to scream but the darkness, seasoned with grave dirt, poured into her throat. Ellen forgot how to talk; how to breathe. She forgot everything except terror. And hunger.