Best New Zombie [3] - Best New Zombie Tales, Vol. 3 Read online

  "Take care of them? Is that what lobbing their fucking arms off is for?"

  He frowned. "I'm not a fucking retard.

  "Truth of the matter is, The Lord works in mysterious ways. These angels, they're one of those ways." He walked down the center aisle, and the dead on either side snapped at him, their chains keeping them at bay.

  He patted one on the shoulder, snatching his hand away when the zombie tried to bite him. "See? They kill us, but they want to save us. It's all very Old Testament; I don't expect you to understand."

  "So what do you expect me to do, Toby? You going to kill me, make me another member of your little flock?"

  A hurt expression flashed across his face. He placed a hand to his heart, leaning back. "What? Why, no, Sister Holly! I have enough angels. Now, I just need to take care of them, bestow blessing unto them until they feel the desire to bestow their blessing unto me."

  A chill raced down Holly's spine. She closed her eyes for a moment, opened them. She had an idea what was coming next.

  When Toby drew the knife out of his waistband, she realized she was right.

  He approached her slowly, letting her get a good look at the blade. When he drew close enough, her grabbed a fistful of her hair.

  "It appears it's communion day!"

  The knife sawed through her hair, yanking the roots from her scalp. She screamed, then bit down and rode out the pain.

  The pressure suddenly eased, and Toby stepped away with a handful of her hair, the hair that she hadn't even realized had been growing so long.

  He stepped toward a zombie seated directly across from her in the first pew. It wore a filth-smeared suit that might have once been a lighter shade of blue.

  "This used to be the preacher here," Toby said. "I believe he told me his name was Michael, but I can't be too sure. It was a pretty long time ago."

  He pulled a few strands of hair from the fistful he carried with him, dangled them over the dead man's head. The former preacher leaned back, his jaw opening and closing, black tongue flopping out like a dying fish.

  "That's right, Padre. Little appetizer for ya." Toby lowered the hair into the corpse's mouth, and the preacher sucked it in like pasta, chewed it for a long moment.

  Holly had to turn away when the creature swallowed.

  She heard a crescendo of groans, heard Toby cheer the dead on as he fed them morsels of her hair. She tried to think. There had to be a way out of this, someway to break free. She pulled against her binds, but they held fast. The son of a bitch had tied her to a chair. She was his to play with until he felt differently.

  She guessed that would be a long time coming.

  She tried again, leaning forward as far as she could, opening her eyes to watch her captor as he fed his congregation. She eyed him so carefully that she almost didn't notice the chair's rear leg's lift from the ground.

  Her eyes widened. She could move! She watched Toby, making sure he wasn't watching, and she checked her balance. She leaned forward, curling in half until the chair lifted completely off of the ground. She lowered it to the floor again, but continued to struggle. She had an idea, but she knew she would only have one chance, and that depended on catching the lunatic off guard.

  She glanced at the dead folk in the pew in front of her, watching as the former preacher and three others chewed on her hair, an expression like ecstasy filling their faces. They looked so anxious, so hungry. She knew the next thing Toby carved off of her wouldn't be hair, and she also knew she couldn't let that happen.

  He'd have to kill her first.

  "All gone!" he said, his voice almost child-like.

  You can do this, Holly, she told herself. You ran a town for almost a year. You can handle one religious psychopath.

  "What happens now?" she asked, putting an extra hint of terror in her voice.

  He smiled. "Oh, I think you know, Sister Holly." He pointed the knife at her, twisting it in the air as he stepped closer. "I think you have a really good idea what I'm gonna do next."

  He stepped past the first pew, stood directly in front of her.

  "Do you have a good idea?"

  "Yeah," she said. "I've got a fuckin' great one."

  She screamed at the top of her lungs as she surged forward, lifting the chair behind her. She slammed her shoulder into Toby's gut, and she almost smiled when she felt him double over, the air whooshing from his lungs. She kept pushing, pumping her legs across the carpet, until she hit something solid.

  Toby flew off of her, landing on the preacher and the rest. He tried to scramble away, but it was too late. Their teeth had already clamped down on him. The dead holy man had him by the throat, and with a great wrenching movement, ripped the flesh and tendons and veins away, spraying the area with blood.

  Toby's scream died before it could even get started.

  Holly staggered backward, then leapt into the air, leaning back. She landed with her full weight, and the chair cracked and splintered around her. She kept her eyes on Toby, watching the light drain from his eyes, as she struggled to her feet and managed to wrench her hands free of the rope coiled around her wrists.

  "Is that the message you wanted?" she asked, but the only reply was the sound of teeth chewing meat.

  Slowly, Holly walked down the center aisle, ignoring the dead as they leaned out, trying desperately to reach her with their jaws. She didn't bother to stop and look for water. She would find a creek in the forest. Instead, she stepped across the church's deserted lot and onto the country road beyond. She would walk until she found Route 62, and from there she'd make her way to the proving ground.

  Maybe there she would find something worth believing in.

  Those Below

  JEREMY C. SHIPP

  Say you're lost in the hustle-bustle of the local farmer's market in search of some shiny bibelot for your girlfriend, and you find your mother mouth-to-mouth with a man who isn't your father. In fact, he's nothing like your father. He's skinny and shaggy and short. You tell yourself that if he at least looked like your father, you could stomach the scene. Deep down you know that's not true.

  And maybe that's not how it happens. Maybe you track her down. Maybe you climb the fruitless mulberry in front of their house and that's how you cut your leg. Maybe you bought yourself some night-vision goggles off of e-bay. Maybe you're watching and waiting, and when you finally do see them together, in their bedroom, naked, you drop a bomb of vomit onto an unsuspecting yard gnome below.

  You think, "Get your fucking hands off my mother."

  But she's not your mother, is she? She used to be. Before she moved in here. Before she changed her name. Before the funeral. Say this was your mother, and this is your life. You'd be here too, like me. You'd hear about Porter from a friend of a friend, and you'd show up at his doorstep with a hundred bucks and a wrenching knot in your gut.

  Porter opens the door. "Yeah?"

  I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

  "You're Hadley?" he says.

  "Yeah."

  "Alright. Come in.

  I follow him inside. My mind spins, but I still notice that his home is a shitty place. Every step and my feet crunch down on trash and squish on soggy carpet. Lines of duct tape patch a few holes in the wall, but most are left gaping. I stop breathing through my nose before I have time to identity the sour stench assaulting the air.

  He takes me to an empty room. At this point, the walls are more hole than wall. Under more relaxed circumstances I would crack up over such irony as the tarp on the floor, but I'm more in the mood for weeping.

  "You brought the money?" he says.

  I nod and hand him the bill.

  He gives it back. "Not until after."

  "Oh."

  He takes another look at the money. "That's a hundred dollar bill, huh?"

  "Yeah."

  "I don't think I've seen one before. In person, I mean."

  "Oh." I stuff the thing in my pocket, almost violently.

  "Should I get
undressed?" he says, and starts for his belt.

  "I'm not here for... that."

  "I know, man." He grins. "Just some people like me naked when they're doing it. I don't mind either way."

  I consider this. "Keep your clothes." Part of me, though, wants to give the other answer. The thought makes me shudder.

  "Whatever floats your boat." He kneels. "Whenever you're ready."

  I take a step forward, and then pause. "Is this going to hurt you?"

  "Fuck, man, what do you care?"

  "I care."

  "You say that now. Let's see if you ask me again in five minutes."

  "Maybe I'm not your normal clientele."

  He sighs. "No, we don't feel much pain, so clear your fucking conscience."

  "Are you just telling me that or do you mean it?"

  He runs his hand down his face. "Look, man. You can either do this or go home. But no one ever goes home, so just face the fucking music and get on with it."

  So I do. I start off by slapping him hard across the face, and go from there. Five minutes later, I'm not asking, "Is this hurting you?"

  Five minutes later, I'm straddling his chest, smashing his mangled face in with my bloody fists, over and over and over. He's shouting, "Stop it!" and I'm loving every second of it.

  Hafwen's nickname is Zippy. She likes to skip and sing about the dishes as she's washing them, and write poetry with waterproof paper in the rain. She'll call me up just to tell me that she's discovered the name for those imprints left in the skin when you press it against a textured surface too long. A frittle.

  So when I see her sitting cross-legged on my bed, motionless, not frowning, but not smiling, I know something's wrong.

  I sit beside her and kiss her. "What's up, Haf?"

  She doesn't look at me. "I have to tell you something."

  My insides erupt. I'm afraid.

  I'm afraid her feelings for me were just a frittle in her heart and now she wants to end what we have before I even have the chance to tell her I love her.

  "Tell me," I say. I try to sound brave, but I fail.

  "My mom," she says. "She's a Remade-American."

  "Oh," I say. "I didn't know Cambree wasn't your real mom."

  "No, Hadley. Cambree is my real mom. She's a Remade-American."

  "Oh god... I'm so sorry. When did this happen? I saw her last week."

  "No, Hadley. She was a Remade since before she married my dad."

  "Oh."

  "I'm a Remade, Hadley."

  "But..." I can't think of anything else to say except, "You don't look like one of them."

  "One of them?"

  "I'm sorry. I..."

  She looks at me now. "I should've told you before we started going out, but... I liked you so much. I wanted you to get to know me first before you... you know... decided."

  "Oh."

  "I told myself that I wasn't lying to you, because I never said that I was alive, but keeping this from you was deceitful and I'm sorry. I understand if you're angry at me. I'm angry at me too."

  "I'm not angry," I say, and that's true. I'd have to be feeling anything to feel angry."

  "I don't know if that's a good sign or a bad one," she says.

  "Me neither."

  She puts her face in the bowl of her hands and makes crying sounds. No tears come out, obviously.

  I almost put my arm around her, but I don't.

  "I can't keep living this way, Hadley," she says. "I'm a Remade. I'm tired of hiding it."

  I want to tell her, "Don't worry."

  I want to tell her, "I'll love you no matter what."

  But I fail.

  I thought Hafwen was happy before. But she tells me she wasn't. She says she was smiling on the outside and crying on the inside.

  Now, she cries a lot.

  Now she's pale, because she's stopped wearing makeup. She's cold, because she's stopped wearing heated clothing. Her hair is white, because she's stopped dyeing it. She looks dead, and says she's the happiest she's ever been.

  I should be happy for her. Instead, I keep thinking about how someone else used to inhabit her body. I can't look at her the same way anymore.

  She's used.

  Second-hand.

  Impure.

  She says a lot of Remade girls try to pass for living, because they're ashamed of who they are. They buy into the whole natural is ugly paradigm. But natural isn't ugly, she says. Death isn't ugly.

  Whether she's right or not, I don't know.

  If there is a beauty in death, I don't want to see it.

  I hate death. I hate that my mom died of thirst in a ditch on the side of the road. People drove by, but they didn't see her. They didn't hear her. Now when Hafwen stands right in front of me, I try to look through her. When she talks to me, I try to tune out her voice. Deep down, I know she doesn't deserve this kind of treatment. I also know that Porter doesn't deserve the beatings I give him every Tuesday morning.

  I just don't care.

  "Animal brains have to be illegal," I say. I say it with conviction, but I don't really know what I'm talking about. I defend the living and the systems controlled by the living only because doing otherwise would feel like a betrayal. "They're a gateway to human brains."

  Hafwen laughs. "You really think there are hordes of Remades out there feasting on the brains of the living?"

  "I don't know," I say. "It could happen."

  "Hadley, animal brains are illegal because Remades eat them. They make us feel good."

  "Have you ever eaten any?"

  "No, but that's not the point. The point is, prisons are filled with Remades, and most of them are there just because they've eaten animal brains. The government sells these prisoners to corporations to use for manual labor, and every living person involved makes a lot of money. Doesn't this seem wrong to you?"

  "I guess," I say. "But you have to admit, violent Remade crime is a big problem."

  "If you read the statistics, you'd know that violent living crime is an even bigger problem. It only seems like a Remade problem because the media publicizes Remade crime a lot more often. A lot."

  "I don't want to talk about this anymore."

  "But we are talking about it, Hadley. It's important to me."

  A few days ago, Hafwen told me the story of her parent's divorce. I expected her to say that her mother lied about being a Remade, and when her father found out the truth he left her.

  But that's not how it happened.

  Her father, Barry, knew her mother was a Remade from the very beginning. He was an activist for Remade rights and that's how they met in the first place. He loved Cambree and he wanted to start a family with her. So they had a baby. Her name was Bronwyn. Since she was born from a Remade mother, Barry and Cambree knew that at any time she could pass away and be Remade with a new personality. This happened when Bronwyn was 19 years old. Barry loved Bronwyn, and refused to connect with Hafwen in any meaningful way, and all the while he blamed Cambree for his daughter's death. One day he left for work and never came home again.

  Now, this story buzzes in my head. I know that Hafwen's just looking for some living person to listen to her. To understand her. To say, "You're right. These things are very unfair."

  But instead I say, "I'm going to bed."

  This is our coffee-shop, Hafwen's and mine. Neither of us drink coffee but we enjoy the comity and the photographs of dancing mannequins on the walls.

  Today, I don't invite her. I've never seen a Remade in here before, though I tell myself the reason I don't call her is because I need some alone time.

  A man and a woman at the next table converse in loud whispers.

  I stare at my book like I'm reading.

  "I'm no racist," the woman says. "But they have no legal right to be here."

  "I say send them back to where they came from," the man says. "Start paving all the cemeteries and let that be the end of it."

  At least I'm not them. I don't want to get rid of the Re
mades. I'm all for equal rights. Hell, I'm even dating one of them.

  I'm not a terrible person. So why do I feel like such a monster?

  Minutes later I'm in my car making a call.

  "Porter?" I say.

  "Yeah," he says. "Hey, man."

  "Do you want to hang out?"

  "Hang out?"

  "Yeah. We could go bowling or something."

  "I hate bowling."

  "Whatever you want."

  "I don't know, man. I don't usually hang out with clients."

  "Come on."

  "Alright."

  Fifteen minutes later, and I'm in a Remade bar. My mind spins, but I still notice that this is a shitty place. Like it hasn't been cleaned since it opened. Maybe that's true.

  The waitress, who's either a living person or one of those Remades who buy into the natural is ugly paradigm, hands me my chai, and gives Porter a wad of tin foil.

  "Thanks, man," he says to the girl.

  She smiles and walks away.

  Porter unwraps the foil.