Bob Fingerman - Pariah

West Nile was another so-called medical emergency that the local media had blown all out of proportion. Fear was always a powerful ally to keep people tuned in. Look out, West Nile will get you , like it was some kind of microscopic boogeyman. A few old folks got ushered into the afterlife minutes before their time by West Nile, but that was about all. Still it panicked the city and suburbs several seasons in a row.

Malaria.

That was another story. Dabney had done some time working freighters in his youth and had traveled through some places rife with malaria-Haiti, Panama, and bits of Southeast Asia. He’d seen locals, but more frighteningly shipmates come down with it. One by one the crew of his last ship was afflicted. Fever, the shakes, head and muscle aches, tiredness. Nausea, vomiting, and diarrhea. Anemia and jaundice. In the most extreme cases kidney failure, seizures, mental confusion, coma, and death. The skeeters spread malaria around like a whore spreads ass-amongst other things.

Maybe, unlike yellow fever and malaria, zombification wasn’t transmitted through mosquito saliva. Studies had disproved that AIDS could be spread through mosquitoes, so that was of some comfort. It was bad enough to get turned into one of those shambling sacks of meat from getting attacked by one, but to have it happen through a bug bite seemed so wrong. Here’s hoping zombie fever is more like AIDS , Dabney thought.

“Jesus God,” he sighed. “This is what passes for optimism these days.”

Dabney stepped over to his smoker and retrieved a small sliver of whatever-it-was jerky. There wasn’t much left. Dabney hadn’t eaten anything but his homemade charqui and the occasional can of okra or peas in weeks. Wasn’t this that Atkins diet? It was funny how the white folks in the building had donated their okra and black-eyed peas to him, kind of like a canned goods drive consisting purely of donated Purina Nigger Chow-well intentioned, but racist all the same. Why’d they have this stuff in the first place? Martha Stewart or someone on the cooking channel must’ve inspired them to buy these “exotic” ingredients, but then they chickened out when it came to actually eating them. Give ’em to the darkie; they eat anything . Dabney smirked because there was some truth to that. He recalled holiday trips to rural Tennessee, eating his Aunt Zena’s chitlins and bear-liver loaf. That was some crazy shit. Or chitlins with hog maws. Shit, anything with chitlins was pretty fierce, especially drowned in hot sauce. Neck bones, backbones. Black folks had to be resourceful in their cooking; recipes formulated by dirt-poor bastards making do with what the white folks considered garbage.

And now, at the end of the road for humanity, Dabney was chewing on vermin jerky.

The more things change…

“I don’t even know why the fuck you’re worried. Who’s gonna care? And if they did, what would they do, call the cops? Stop sweatin’ it, bro.”

Dave had been freaking ever since the Wandering Jewess met her fate and it was getting on The Comet’s nerves, big time. Granted, her lickety-split resurrection was a tad harrowing, but shit happens, you deal. That was Eddie’s personal philosophy. If pussy wasn’t available, you made do. But if it presented itself, detours were made to be taken, even if they were skanky and gross.

“Seriously, bro, you’re wearing me out with all your pacing around. Relax.”

“I can’t. You killed her, dude. Then I re -killed her. How fucked up is that?”

“No, no, no. That was fuckin’ awesome . You were just like, bam-bam-bam , workin’ her over with that fuckin’ elephant hoof.” Eddie laughed as he conjured the image. “That was awesome !”

“It wasn’t awesome, it was disgusting. It was fuckin’ horrific.”

“Dude, whatever . You wanna be a wet blanket, go ahead on, but don’t harsh my mellow. I thought it was the bomb, bro. For the umpty-millionth time, Dave: no one cares . No one even knows she’s missing. She was a ghost even before I ghosted her. Look, she was barely there, anyway. She was just a creepy shadow lurking in the dark.”

Dave stopped pacing and considered Eddie’s words.

“Listen,” Eddie continued, slapping away a mosquito, “I don’t want you to waste any more time on this. Think of it this way, she died in the service of makin’ your bro feel better, like a skeezed-out dehydrated Laura Nightingale.”

“Florence Nightingale.”

“Whatever. She saved a life. Two lives.”

“How do you figure?”

“I was ready to kill Zotz, so she saved his life, not that that’s that good of a thing, but fuck it, man, she helped me get the lead out and fuck it, it was an accident, anyway. It’s not like I meant to perish her scrawny ass. She just kinda broke is all. Dem bones, dem bones, dem dry bones…”

“I’m made of tougher stuff,” Dave said.

Eddie smiled and slapped Dave on the back. “That’s the boy. It was a ‘tragic’ mishap,” Eddie smirked, framing his face in air-quotes. “Simple as that.”

“Well, that’s the last of it,” Karl said, staring into his empty cupboard. Not a morsel of food was left. In the last week he’d nursed each scrap in his coffers; now all he had to chew on was air. His stomach growled and he punched it hard. “Shut up,” he growled back. The kitchenette swam as his eyes teared up, hard edges wavering in lachrymosity. His knees felt flaccid but he willed himself to stay on his feet for fear if he hit the linoleum he’d never rise again. “This is so weak,” he moaned. Was there anyone he could hit up for nourishment? Even the experts at rationing were down to fumes. The end was closing in, all righty.

He stepped out into the hall and at the top of his lungs shouted, “Tenants meeting! Tenants meeting! All convene in the hall, please! Tenants meeting! ”

What could it hurt?

The first to answer the call was Eddie with a curt, “The fuck do you want, runt?” Dave followed Eddie into the hall, hopping as he cinched up a pair of sweatpants. It made Karl think of couples he’d known who’d pick up the phone during sex, then sound annoyed. Why’d they pick up in the first place?

Ruth stepped onto the landing across the hall and blinked at Karl. Though he stood only five foot five-and-a-half, he still towered over Mrs. Fogelhut, the only person in the building significantly smaller than he. It was her only endearing quality. “What’s the hubbub?” she asked in her grating way.

Joining Eddie and Dave on the fourth floor landing were Alan and Ellen, both of whom emerged from her apartment. Eddie had mentioned Ellen had shacked up with the artist. Karl’s mouth drew into a thin jealous slit. Artists always get the chicks, he thought bitterly. Then he mentally kicked himself for such a puerile thought.

“What’s going on?” Ellen asked, looking up at Karl, who clung to the banister for balance. He felt woozy from nerves and hunger, but though he wasn’t a fan of public speaking he was even less an admirer of starvation. “Yeah, what’s up, Karl?” Alan added. The range of expressions varied from concern (Ellen), to puzzlement (Alan), to annoyance (Eddie), to indifference (Dave), and finally incomprehension (Ruth). Abe and Dabney weren’t present, but Karl felt satisfied with the brisk turnout. At least he still had his pipes. He hadn’t planned out his spiel, but he knew he should choose his words carefully. Eloquence might be the only armament in his arsenal. Feeling all the eyes burning into his fragile form he looked down, took a deep breath, and cleared his throat.

“Get the fuck on with it,” Eddie snarled.