Dead Men (and Women) Walking Page 11

  HONOR BOUND

  By Jennifer Schoonover

  "You gonna marry me now, right, Cyrus?"

  I remember sittin' in the loft---air so thick you were drownin' and the hay ridin' into my ass---thinking, over my dead body. Now, ten months later, that'un's exactly what it's gonna be.

  Momma told me once that if'n I was gonna marry or breed, do it with a woman offa the mountain, an' above all else, stay away from the LeConte gals, 'cause despite bein' cousins, they was bad news. Now, Lolly LeConte was one of the prettiest gals I'd ever seen and she was after me like a flea onna dog. Oh, there'd been rumors, I suppose, but when she leaned over and showed me her goods and looked at me with those big swamp-green eyes, well... next thing I know I'm in her daddy's tobacco barn seein' heaven.

  She waited six weeks before tellin' me she was in the family way. I figgered it wasn't like we were in the old days---hell, this here's the twentieth century and she can go about her own way and she'd be all right. I'd give her money, food, whatever she needed, but there ain't no way I was gonna marry her. Then she told her pa.

  Donny LeConte was a big man, but more'n that. He was the seventh of the seventh and had been born with a death mask on his face. He could speak to the trees and could tell you why your crops died or your horse was ailin'. And, Lord, he could talk to ghosts and they'd lissen. He gave me a chance to set things right, holding my coondog by the scruff as I looked out from my window, Momma standin' behind me with her prayer beads cryin'. And as he tore my dog apart, I still swore I'd never marry her. Later, the 'lectric and phone was gone, and town bein' too far away, me and momma figgered on holin' up with a shotgun and a batch a chicken in the house to wait 'em out. That night we hear noises and shufflin' outside...

  I never thought he'd take my momma, his own sister n'law. But that mornin' she was gone, blood and swampwater mixin' with the eggs still cookin' on the stove. That night looking outa my window, I seen her, standin' next to Granddaddy and Uncle Arnie, who had a bad day with a chainsaw nigh on two years ago. Nearly a dozen of 'em circlin' the house, starin' up at me with those damned milky eyes. Tried shootin' 'em a couple of times, but they paid it no mind. And seein' my pappy dead five years this past Christmas with his face half gone was 'nough to keep me screamin' for hours up in the attic. They was waitin' for something...

  Then a couple weeks ago, Lottie joined 'em, holding a gray-green gurgling infant to one breast, her innards pourin' out from between her legs. 'Parrently, I'm a daddy after all.

  Soon as the moon went down this evenin' I knew they was coming, only this time, I hear them tear down the back door. I went up to the attic where I've been hidin' out with my momma's prayer beads. The last chicken was et four days ago and I'm tired. I can hear them in the house comin' up the stairs. I guess it's finally time to meet the in-laws....

  THE WALKING WOUNDED

  Emily M. Z. Carlyle

  Nick met Mr. Birnbaum on the stairs. "Good evening, Mr. Birnbaum," he said. He was known in his apartment building as a polite, well brought-up young man.

  Mr. Birnbaum didn't talk, but his smile was sufficient response. It didn't scare Nick the way it did some of the neighbors' smaller kids. "Dad sent me down to the store for some milk." He deliberately wouldn't mention the other person his father had him run errands for. "Is there anything I can get you?" he asked, although he knew zombies don't eat.

  Mr. Birnbaum's head seemed about to roll right off of his shoulders when he shook it -- he was quite old. Nick said goodnight then and went on his way, feeling vaguely triumphant. His father didn't like him talking to the Birnbaums.

  "Zombies are vile and nasty," he had a habit of saying. "And they smell bad."

  "Mr. Birnbaum doesn't," Nick would retort. "He buys more deodorants and air-fresheners than anyone I know. He alone probably keeps some cosmetics factory in Asia in business."

  At that point his father would always bring forth his main

  argument: zombies were violent and dangerous, which anyone with half a brain -- dead or alive -- knew wasn't true. A zombie was like a loaded gun in the wrong hands, true; but left to its own devices, it was meek, somewhat pathetic and kind of sweet.

  Mr. Birnbaum and his wife were babes in arms next to Mrs. Roberts from the second floor, not that Nick's dad would ever believe that. So far as he was concerned, Mrs. Roberts was simply a beldame with certain needs -- an aged lady first, a retired schoolteacher second, and a vampire only a distant third.

  "You're only being such an asshole because Mom left, and the guy she went with is fully human, so that's really no excuse." Nick always thought so during his father's rants, but he'd only said so once, and the following day the school nurse had threatened to call a social worker. Ever since then he kept his thoughts strictly to himself.

  Nick hurried down the dark street from the convenience store. He skirted the half a dozen ghouls squatting around the burning barrel on the corner and made a beeline for the ill-lit entrance to his building. In his shopping bag the milk carton collided with the disposable plastic cage. The mice inside the cage squeaked in unison.

  When Nick was five years old, he woke up one night to find a face floating, pressed against the outside of his bedroom window. It was only upon its third appearance that he recognized Mrs. Roberts. She kept coming to leer at him through the long nights of his childhood, but he never invited her inside, and he never told anyone.

  She stopped coming soon after Nick's tenth birthday.

  Nick suspected her preference for baby mice tied in with her choice of occupation, not to mention the night terrors of the building's youngest residents. It was a private suspicion, though, never voiced. Nick loved his father, but he couldn't find it in himself to trust the old man's judgment.

  The mouse cage was deposited on Mrs. Roberts's doorstep; the doorbell was rung briefly. Nick lost no time running up the six flights of stairs to his door, knowing she could hear him every step of the way, not caring.

  His dad didn't look up from their old TV set when Nick handed him the change, so he probably wouldn't notice the missing quarters which were the price of Tessa's favorite chocolate bar, currently nestled in Nick's pocket. He planned to give it to her next Tuesday, in Human Science class.

  He wouldn't make plans beyond that point. The thought of her reaction to his silly gesture was scary enough without envisioning what it would be like to introduce Tessa, a daughter of werewolves, to his father.

  Nick was resolved to take things as they came, one step at a time.

  CAT FOOD

  By Garth Wright

  Jim Turner did not know at first what he was dealing with. The woman looked malnourished, wore torn jeans and a t-shirt caked with dirt, and acted completely out of her mind. She came at him lurching as though half-drunk, or on such a drug high he expected her to pass out in mid-stride. Unfortunately she didn't. She made a bee-line for him, despite the other pedestrians sharing the sidewalk, all giving her a wide berth. Her hands looked arthritic, fingers bent in a claw-like fashion, and he barely caught her frail wrists in time as dirty fingernails came at his face.

  A few people paused briefly to watch her feeble struggles as he held her, and then moved on, but nobody questioned, nor stopped to help either of them, even as he looked around confused. He relaxed his grip as she stopped struggling, and she collapsed against him, fingers curled in his shirt. Surely she couldn't be alone, yet nobody in the crowds gave either one of them another passing glance. He patted her awkwardly on the back, consoling her with a "There, there, no harm done," and looked around for an excuse to slip away from the despondent woman.

  When she seemed to show no signs of letting him go, he sighed heavily, making up his mind. "Listen," he said gently, "I'll take you some place where you can get help. Maybe to a phone. Do you have someone you can call?"

  She shook her head slowly, suddenly realizing as though for the first time his presence since her initial attack, and pulled away from him. Glancing up and down the street, he suddenly
feared she would dart out into the heavy evening traffic.

  He hurried up to her, grabbing her arm. "Let me help you." Her eyes met his, his words barely sinking in. "Do you have a name?"

  Her mouth opened and closed, as though searching for words. When she found her voice, it was cracked and dry. "I don't remember."

  "Will you come with me, let me get you help?"

  She nodded, and swooned. "Easy does it." He held her arm, feeling awkward, and guided her away from the curb. "My apartment is close, just a block away. If we need to we can call for an ambulance or cop from there." He very much regretted not owning a cell phone suddenly. He wasn't sure he wanted this woman in his apartment at all. He should've left work on time, and then he wouldn't be in this situation.

  He'd just been telling his partner George at the lab that he didn't need the overtime that bad, the car was almost paid off (though it needed a new alternator, and until he had the money it would sit in the parking lot), and his credit cards weren't overdue this month. But no, he'd told the manager he'd take the hours since Sarah on the swing shift was on pregnancy leave. And now here he was, stuck with some junkie wanting to claw his eyes out, going to his apartment, where she would probably puke before they even called anyone. Was it worth the karmic brownie points?

  Minutes later, they both stumbled up the two flights of stairs to his place, Jim supporting the woman who obviously felt obliged to dump all of her weight upon him (not that she weighed much, maybe ninety-five?). The hallway remained empty as he leaned her against the wall and fumbled the key into the lock. He wasn't in the mood to answer questions of prying neighbors anyway. The old lady in the corner apartment didn't even have her head poking out. He must've timed it perfectly while she was visiting the can.

  "Okay now," he urged, lifting the woman back to her feet, "I need you to start thinking of someone to call, whether you want an ambulance or cop, or your family." As they walked in, he grimaced at the smell of kitty litter. Not that this lady will notice. She smells worse. He guided her over to the couch, somehow managing to kick his cat and the laundry onto the floor as the woman dropped down. "We've got company, Rasputin." The cat glared at him and curled back up in the laundry.

  Jim scrambled around the room, searching for the phone. Why didn't he ever put it by the charger where he could find it? He dug through the mail on the table, and beneath the pizza boxes, wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans in anxiety. The bedroom! He'd spoken to his mother last night before bed. Sure enough, the phone lay on the floor in a pile of sheets. He walked hurriedly back to the woman, but her eyes were closed, not registering his presence in the least.

  He shook her gently. She didn't budge. "Miss? I have the phone here. Lady?" She looked so pale and lifeless. Suddenly cold chills shot up his spine. What if she's dead? He grabbed her wrist searching for a pulse. Nothing! He checked her neck. Nothing there either. "No! Wake up! You can't die here," He covered his face with his hands. "My landlord will kick me out."

  Now he supposed he should call the cops. What an idiot he was, taking some junkie to his place. He should've gone to some place public. Now there would be questions, people pointing, rumors, and hell to pay. His mother would probably quit calling and sending him money.

  He went to the refrigerator, searching for a beer. Nothing but expired milk. Well, his grandfather never seemed to mind the taste. He poured some into a glass and drank it down, grimacing. Now he could think. He would have to do what was right. He walked back over to the corpse, but found her sitting up, eyes staring at him.

  For a second, his heart leaped to his throat, but the shock was quickly replaced by joy. "You're alive! You scared the hell out of me. I thought you'd died."

  She didn't smile, nor did she respond. Her eyes stared at him with a strange mixture of loathing and something akin to hunger, and they never blinked.

  He froze where he stood, suddenly unable to approach her. "The phone." He motioned in her general direction, and leaned back in what he hoped was a casual manner. "It's, uhm, right there next to you. That is, if you're ready to use it now. If you, you know, uhh, remember someone you can call." He swallowed. "Would you like some milk?"

  Still she did not respond verbally, nor did her expression change as she slowly stood. Her hands once more looked prepared to gouge out his eyes. Then she fell to the floor.

  At first Jim thought she tripped. Then rapidly it dawned on him that the motion was more of a pounce as his cat let out an ear-splitting wail. The woman sat on her knees, huddling over Rasputin. Blood ran from between her fingers where they dug through flesh and fur, and her teeth were buried into the cat behind its head. Before he could figure out her actions in any semblance whatsoever of a rational thought, Rasputin stopped squirming.

  He surged forward trying to pull her head and hands off the cat. "Stop eating my cat!" he shrieked, giving her hair a hard tug. Her head whipped up, hissing at him. Blood and gore dripped from her sanguine chin, her eyes bloodshot and angry. Before he could react, her hand shot up. Filthy claws raked his cheek as he threw himself back. "What the hell?" he gasped, crawling away from her. If he made it to the kitchen, maybe he could scare her off with a knife. There was no karmic brownie point for helping this person. This was a karmic backhand. His progress stopped when his head contacted the counter.

  As he watched in horror, she sucked her bloody fingers clean of the gore, one by one. The curdled milk in his stomach threatening to heave itself back up. She grabbed the cat's tail and tossed it across the room where it landed with a wet slap next to the lamp. Then she smiled, licked her lips slowly as she fell forward on her hands and knees, crawling toward him.

  "Take what you want!" Jim shrieked, "You can have the cat! I won't stop you again. Stay away!"

  Whether she heard him or not, she gave no sign, but continued crawling toward him. There was no sign of the frail woman now, only a bloodthirsty, cat-eating psychopath making its way toward him. He kicked his feet at her, but she pinned them down with unnatural strength, her nails digging through his pant legs. He threw a punch at her, and her hands were there as well, blocking each blow as though he were nothing but an angry toddler. She bore him down, her body pressing against him. Her breath stank of dirt and dead cat as she brought her face to his own, a black tongue darting out to lick his neck, traveling up along his chin, tasting him. Though he struggled, he could not move.

  From the other side of the room, he faintly registered the sound of someone knocking, though it merged well enough with the thudding of his heart that he almost denied it. He weakly called out "Help!" as the black tongue darted into his open mouth.

  But as fortune would have it, the visitor at the door must have heard his screams, for the door opened and a shadowy figure walked in. He was saved! Hands grabbed her, lifting her off of him, dragging her back to the couch. He didn't know his savior; he'd never seen the man before. He shook his head, taking in the mess, including the cat, with a sweep of his eyes.

  The man walked back over to him, extending a manicured hand to help him up. He was dark of skin, well-dressed, and when he spoke, his words were heavy with some European accent. "I am sorry. She hasn't developed any etiquette yet."

  Jim stood on shaky legs. "She ate my cat," he said weakly.

  "Oh yes. That." The man shook his head in disgust. "I thought she had better taste."

  Better taste? "Who is she?" Jim asked, "Who are you?"

  The man, though, was walking away from him, back to the woman. "My dear, you knew better than to run away again," he scolded, "I can always find you. And you've made such a mess of yourself this time."

  She looked up at him as he approached. "I'm hungry," she whined, clutching at his pant legs.

  The man reached down and pulled her gently to her feet. "You must promise not to run away again."

  Jim shook his head in bewilderment. "So what's wrong with her?"

  Before he could register the movement, the man was standing next to him, fists wrapped in Jim's shirt, ho
lding him off the ground. "Nothing is wrong with my bride. How dare you!"

  "But she ate my cat!" Even as the words came out, he knew he should've held his tongue. The man tossed him against the wall, where he landed next to his dead feline.

  "You insult my bride," the man's face twisted angrily, spit flying from his mouth. "Does your cat look eaten? I still see it. If she ate your damn cat, would it be lying there?"

  Jim turned defiantly. "You need help! You both need a doctor! Get out of my apartment!"

  The man seemed about to charge him, took a deep breath, apparently reconsidering that course of action. "Very well," he said in a calm voice, despite the rage in his eyes, "We shall go." He motioned for the woman to follow, and she dutifully fell in behind him.

  As the two approached the door, the man paused, looking Jim in the eyes. "You are lucky to live in such civilized times. Once, this would have been settled differently. As it stands, there is little harm done, yes?"

  Jim nodded, willing them to leave faster.

  "Come along dear," as he walked out the door. However, she too paused. She wrung her hands, looking at Jim and her husband. He turned, raising a single eyebrow. "What is it? Haven't you troubled this gentleman enough?"

  She reached past Jim and grabbed the body of Rasputin. "He said I could have the cat," she said hurriedly. The door swung shut behind them.

  A NEW YEAR'S TALE

  By Dave Bartlett

  "Of all the God damn nights, why now!"

  "How should I know? And watch your language, He seems to be mad enough as it is!" shouted Walt Miller over the wind that whipped the snow in entwining "S"-shaped cyclones around his head.