Pariah

struck Alan, as he waded through the crowd, that zombies didn’t really walk. The ones that could stood upright, sort of, but they just kind of shuffled around aimlessly, their movement dictated by the group rather than the individual. They were like plants impelled to move by a breeze. The only time he saw them propel themselves with purpose was when it was feeding time. But I’m moving with purpose. Maybe because I’m moving so slowly. It had to be scent. Were there scientists anywhere working on answers? Some underground bunker somewhere? If so, was that even a comforting thought?

As he cleared the southwest corner of Second Avenue, Alan felt his passenger again snag on something; this time the sensation was accompanied by the sound of fabric tearing. Alan looked down and saw the culprit, scarcely visible through the haze: not his zombie hanger-on, but a rusty detached bumper. His guest’s detached hand, however, was still hooked onto Alan’s pants leg, the rest of the zombie lost in the profusion of spindly legs. Then Alan noticed a splotch of something pale and pinkish. Paint? Chalk? His own pale skin exposed in the perforation. Fuck. The bumper had torn it, too. He transfixed on a small blossom of red dripping down his calf.

The adjacent zombies’ postures stiffened a fraction, as did Alan’s.

Inches away, one zombie canted its head at an angle that telegraphed its intent: to begin the beguine. Fuck that. Faster than Alan would have thought possible the zombie lunged and snapped at him, burying its teeth in the outer layer of the parka, near the shoulder. The padding was thinnest there and Alan felt a pinch. Not skin breaking, but piss inducing. Alan punched his attacker hard and it fell away, leaving behind a couple of teeth.

Nonetheless, the word was out: dinner is served.

Scent.

Violent motion.

The zombie’s associates heaved toward Alan, their need raw, guileless. Alan swatted at them, punching and shouldering. They were weak but plentiful. He was practically blind, but his goal was within yards. More teeth and limbs bit, pawed, and clawed at Alan. He heard more material tearing. One arm penetrated the outer parka shell and he felt it groping at the bib of his overall. If he started hemorrhaging Baby Sof’ Suit^® infant winter onesies he’d soon graduate to plain old hemorrhaging. The image of his own entrails boiling out filled his forebrain. No, no, no! He twisted side to side and the perpetrator’s arm snapped off with a sickening pop, still twitching within Alan’s coat, its bony digits grazing his right nipple, which stiffened inappropriately. Oh god, oh god, I’m being felt up by a severed arm!

Alan drew his arms in, making himself as compact and missilelike as possible, then, bulky as he was, tore ass toward the bookstore. Skeletal hands snatched at him, as did stumps. His hood got yanked down, snapping his head back, material cinching around his throat. He gagged, but kept on. The goggles pulled sideways across his face exposing one eye, blocking the other, his glasses straining between them and his face. Terrified as he was, the sudden rush of air on his wet face felt refreshing. Don’t readjust. Keep moving. Keep moving, you fucker! Do it! No blitz, no fucking blitz! Please. He rammed forward. Another pair of rotting arms attempted to detain him. I’m not a huggy person! Get off of me! He wrenched to one side and broke away. Half blind he saw his objective loom ahead. Make way for Stay Puft!

Even if Mona’s not in there, even if they’re all perished, I’ll-Alan couldn’t think of anything encouraging. I’ll be stranded here and die. So be it. Maybe I can find some duct tape and mend the rips, provided they don’t eat me alive in there. Alan vaulted over the broken window, palmed the scarf off his muzzle and with his teeth yanked off a glove. Dexterity restored, he readjusted his now defogged glasses, fished a flashlight out and clicked it on. The zombies were right on his ass, stumbling into the confines of the store, the first wave making a nice carpet for the others to tumble over. Alan whipped the light left and right, up and down.

“Mona!” he shouted. “Mona!”

No reply.

With no other options, he bounded up the escalator and cast the beam of light in every direction, deciding on heading deep into the store. He was a goner, but why make it easy for them? Stumbling over piles of burnt books and ruined standee displays he tripped and cracked his goggles on a bookshelf. He peeled off the other glove and removed them. “Okay,” he wheezed, breathless. “Okay. Okay.” He crawled behind the bookcase and, staying on his knees, ventured deeper into the store’s second floor. He could hear the graceless footfalls and ravenous moans of his pursuers. When properly motivated, those fuckers could move.

Edging out of the aisle, his palm made contact with something moist and sticky. He aimed the beam of light at the floor, which was shellacked with a well-trodden layer of semifresh blood that led to the men’s room door.

“Oh Jesus.”

Rising, Alan looked over his shoulder and caught an eyeful of the mob. They’d reach him in moments. Ellen was right. This was a stupid idea. Foolhardy. Dumb. Not concerned with what killed cats, curiosity compelled Alan toward the john, his footsteps punctuated by the audible tackiness of the coagulating blood. Pushing open the door he saw Mona, curled in a fetal position under the sink, her pants pulled down and blood smeared across her thighs and bare ass.

“Mona! Oh my God, what happened? Mona! Mona!”

No response.

He knelt beside her and touched her throat. His pulse was racing so fast he couldn’t tell if she had one. He pressed his face to hers. It was warm. He felt gentle breath escaping her pursed lips. A huge sigh of relief escaped his own. “Mona?” he repeated a few times. Nothing. But she was alive. The sound of the mob approaching cleared his head. He stooped over and lifted her up, swallowed some deep lungfuls of air and kicked open the door to be greeted by the faces of several dozen zombies, whose greed melted to disdain as they got dosed with Mona mojo.

And with unfettered joy, Alan laughed.

Back on Eighty-sixth, with the retreating crowd creating a concentrically widening berth, Alan gently lowered Mona to the ground and removed his now-thank goodness-superfluous damaged outerwear. As the giant parka disgorged a torrent of sopping-wet baby winter onesies the zombies hung back, snarling, some rocking their heads back and forth so violently they looked in danger of snapping off.

“Wouldn’t that be a tragedy?” Alan scoffed.

Alan made his way homeward, Mona cradled in his arms. In the light of day he saw her face, neck, and shoulders were badly bruised, her cheek bore a long gash and both her lips were split. One eyelid looked puffy and discolored. After the zombies had withdrawn in the bookstore Alan noticed what was left of Karl on the bathroom floor-not even enough to reanimate. Alan didn’t bother looking for Eddie, not even for the pleasure of gloating over his corpse. Mona’s contusions and disheveled wardrobe told the story. Eddie could rot. Alan’s injuries were limited to scrapes and bruises. He sighed with relief.

At the intersection of Second Avenue and Eighty-sixth Mona’s eyes opened and, seeing Alan and the clear blue sky above, she actually smiled. It was the single most beautiful thing Alan had ever seen.

“Hey, you,” he said, trying not to mist up.

“Hey,” she replied. “You can put me down.”

“You sure? I don’t mind carrying you.”

“Who are you, Jesus?”

Though uninflected, Alan gaped at her remark.

“Was that a joke?”

“Just put me down.”

Stunned, Alan gently angled her till her feet touched the ground. She took a few moments to stretch and get her land legs, readjust her clothes, then fished a folded piece of paper out of her pocket and, with a light limp, started walking with purpose.

“What’s that?” Alan asked, keeping pace.

“The list.”

Alan was gobsmacked.

“Are you kidding?” he stammered. “After what you’ve been through? Jeez, Mona, take the day off.”