Pariah

Karl watched her form as it trotted to the blown-out windows, stepped over the threshold, tossed the gun away, and disappeared from view.

38

Alan heard a sharp whistle from the street followed by the squawk of the walkie-talkie that announced Mona’s return. He tore himself away from the touch-ups he’d been doing on an earlier canvas of Mona only to see the real McCoy outside, solo, not looking quite as detached as usual. Solo. Alan tore down the stairs and into 2B, so upset by her arriving stag that he didn’t even alert the others. As he dropped the rope for her readmittance Mona was just climbing onto the roof of Dabney’s van. Ellen stepped up and looked over his shoulder, giving Alan a start.

“Where’s Karl?” she asked.

“Good question.”

Mona’s explanation, monosyllabic and fragmented, managed to paint an ugly portrait of Karl splayed on the carcass of a display table, his upper story turned this way, his lower that, and leaking fluids like a hooptie. Ellen fought the urge to ask if this accident happened before or after Mona had managed to score her “morning after” pills. Timing.

“We have to get him out of there,” Alan said, affecting calm. “He can’t just be left there to die, or worse, be eaten alive. Before he fell, that whole umbrella thing was working out pretty well for you?” Mona nodded. “Right.” Alan exhaled heavily and pushed back on his chair, the front legs off the floor. He didn’t want to go out there, but duty called. He walked over to the front window and looked at the horde. “Ugh,” he said. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

“Do what?” Ellen said. “Go out there? No way. You’re not even primed at all.”

Alan whipped his head back at her, flashing the say-no-more look.

“Oh give me a break, Alan,” Ellen said, not having it. “Karl’s out there snapped like a rotten branch and you want to protect the pact of betrayal? Fuck that. You’re not going out there. Let Eddie go. Or Dave. They were so fucking eager to invade Mona’s stash, let ’em put it to the test.” Ellen paused and looked over at Mona, a slightly patronizing tone creeping into her voice. “Mona, sweetie, those guys-Karl included-have been filching your pills to-”

“I know,” Mona said.

“You know?”

“Yeah. I can count.”

“You knew and you let it happen? But they invaded your space. They violated your trust. I didn’t want to keep it secret, but frankly the gorillas in our midst spook me.”

“I know.”

“She knows.” Ellen felt almost as annoyed at Mona for knowing and keeping mum as she felt about the conspirators’ theft in the first place. “So why didn’t you say something?”

“Like what?”

“Like, ‘stop stealing my drugs,’ for starters. What is wrong with you? What are they even taking? These clowns have convinced themselves the pills are your secret weapon, you know, against the zombies. And you knew? I can’t believe it.”

“Hard not to.”

Alan stepped away from the window, Karl’s plight temporarily cast aside. He was probably dead, anyway. “Hard not to what? Notice the theft?”

“Side effects.”

“Ooooh,” the couple said in unison. Eddie and Dave’s rooftop activities. Karl’s schizo religiosity. Side effects. They seemed like natural progressions. Or regressions. But not unexpected. Still. Ellen and Alan felt pretty stupid.

“Severe contraindications,” Mona said, carefully pronouncing the words with a hint of a smile.

“So why do you take them?”

“Gotta,” Mona said, sounding not the least bit defensive.

“What are they?”

“Brain chemistry.”

“I just can’t believe you knew and let it happen,” Ellen said, shaking her head.

“I can get more.”

“So, if we’re putting our cards on the table,” Alan said, hesitating, “are they your secret? Could Karl have just gone out there on his own? Could Eddie?”

“Doubt it.”

“Why? If they’re taking what you’re taking.”

“Maybe after a few years.”

“Why? Why years? Why maybe?”

“They weren’t born addicted.”

“Born addicted.”

“Sort of.”

It was like pulling teeth from a toothless baby, but slowly a picture emerged of Mona’s mother. Not a harried housewife taking part in a clinical prescription-drug trial-just a plain old, garden-variety addict. Mona was chemically altered in the womb and chemically dependent out of it. Alan smiled as he mused, four toes on each foot. He remembered documentaries on PBS about thalidomide and crack babies. Four toes and a blunted persona were a lot better than flippers or no limbs at all. So this was the key to Mona’s immunity? As birth defects went, this one was as Darwinian as they came. Defect or evolution? Better living through chemistry, as the maxim went.

And when the drugs ran out, whither Mona?

Did she even need them any more?

Did she ever?

As Karl lay on the table contemplating his imminent demise, he failed to notice he’d shifted his weight off his hips and crossed his legs. From his upside down perspective he stared vacantly across the verge, to the street choked with undead. He glanced up at the hole through which he’d fallen, hoping to catch a glimpse of Jesus or some angel beckoning him forth, home, but no such luck. He wiped his forehead and started counting off the moments left.

“What a moron!”

Karl sat upright, feeling pins and needles where before he felt nothing.

“What an idiot!”

He looked at his hands, flexing the fingers and rotating the wrists.

“What a stupid ass! Thank you God! Thank you Jesus! Thank… Oops.”

Not being paralyzed equaled glee equaled lack of judgment equaled shouting. He turned toward the street and saw zombies staring back. “Oh, balls,” Karl peeped. The mob amassed by the window frames hadn’t quite figured out how to vault the two-and-a-half-foot wall that separated them from their appetizing quarry, but it was only a matter of time. Even if they didn’t have the smarts to lift one leg over, repeat, the shoving from the peanut gallery would deliver the first wave over the hump in a trice. Karl massaged his legs, trying to rid himself of the paraesthesia in his thighs and calves. They prickled under his palms, which did likewise. From no sensation to an overabundance in scant moments. Karl would feel blessed were he not on the verge of soiling himself in terror. He dropped to the floor, feeling wobbly, but feeling.

For a nanosecond he felt angry with Mona for leaving him, but she was no medico. She was just a girl. A spooky chick. But she’d gone for help. He couldn’t wait for her to return. She’d be pleased that she’d been wrong.

The floor felt solid. Then again, it had felt solid upstairs, too. The zombies’ ingress was looming. So much for Mona’s miracle drug. Fucking Eddie. How could he have been stupid enough to believe Eddie was right about