Bob Fingerman - Pariah

“I’m hungry,” Karl peeped.

“Oh for Christ’s sake,” Eddie spat. “Like you’re the only one jonesing for chow. Don’t be pullin’ that shit,” he said wagging a threatening finger at Karl. “Next time you call a meeting make it your funeral, you whiny little bitch.”

“Except for the miserable mosquitoes, we’re all hungry, Mr. Stempler,” Ruth echoed, stepping back into her apartment.

Karl hung his head, braced for the final rejections.

“You all out?” Alan said, his face evincing the pained look of a man about to do the decent thing even though he didn’t want to. Karl nodded, shame coloring his bleached-out features. Like an ashen Rod Roddy, Alan waved the little guy over with a halfhearted, “Come on down.”

“Not much left,” Alan said, gesturing at Ellen and his combined provisions. “But what’s ours is yours, right?” Ellen nodded. Karl’s shoulders began to heave up and down as he tried to stifle tears, but failed. He began to keen like a baby, collapsing to the hard kitchen floor with a rickety kerplop. Once a mother, always a mother, Ellen’s maternal instinct kicked in and soon she was cradling Karl’s oversize noggin in her lap, absorbing his plentiful tears with her thin cotton summer dress. Though the touch of another human being, especially a female one, was of some comfort, Karl tasted every flavor of humiliation a person could as he sobbed into Ellen’s flat stomach. Ellen joined Karl, and soon both were wailing. Alan stood there not knowing what to do, flapping his arms at his sides.

“I, uh. I’ll make us something to eat,” he said. “Yeah, uh. That’s what I’ll do.”

As the two entwined figures on the floor filled the air with grief, Alan arranged three small plates of melba toast, turkey jerky, and dried fruit of undetermined classification. All that remained was some uncooked pasta, a few cans of chicken broth, tomato paste, artichoke hearts, a half jar of olives with pimentos, and some stale zwieback from when Ellen’s baby had begun to teethe. That and the water jugs was all there was. Maybe they could stretch it for a week or two, but after that, hello starvation. August was just a couple of days away. Alan wasn’t about to blub like his two companions, but one tear escaped as the absolute hopelessness of their situation sank in. Autumn was his favorite season. Too bad he’d miss it.

Abe finished yet another Dick book, Time Out of Joint, and stuffed it between his scrawny thigh and the armrest of his chair. This one was less tripped-out than Three Stigmata , but still pretty wacky. In it, the main character discovers things aren’t quite as they seem. A soft drink stand replaced by a slip of paper that reads: SOFT DRINK STAND. The mundane tilted on its ear. Things spiral off in a Dickian direction from that moment on. Illusion or whatever, Abe could use a soft drink right about now. Although it was the second day of August and a faltering breeze actually paid intermittent visits, it was still hot as hell and a frosty grape Nehi would sure hit the spot. Did they even make Nehi anymore? The quick answer was that no one made anything any more, but recently. Did they make it as of days, weeks, or months before Armageddon arrived? Just the thought of a sweating twelve-ounce longneck of that carbonated purple nectar put a nostalgic smile on his face.

Abe inched his chair a bit closer to the open window and leaned out, watching the throng.

“I’m sick of this show,” he grumbled. “Don’t they ever show anything but reruns? How’s about another NASCAR smash-up? Do something new, you cabbage-heads! Anything!”

As Abe’s shouting grew louder a handful of the undead lackadaisically raised their heads and looked up. A noseless one moaned as it made eye contact with Abe, but there was no further reaction. Abe snatched the paperback from where it was nestled and hurled it out the window, beaning the one missing its schnoz.

“How ya like them apples?” Abe bellowed, then winced as he realized he’d pitched Zotz’s book. “Ah, shit.” End times or not, Abe figured it was a crappy thing to not return something he’d borrowed. “Ah, fuggit,” Abe mumbled, chuckling at the word. “Here’s to you, Norman,” he said, standing up and unzipping his fly. A deep amber stream of piss scorched its way out as Abe grimaced and pivoted his creaky hips side to side, raining on as many of those undead piles of pus as possible. “Fug all you fugging sons of bitches!” As the last stinging droplet leaked from his urethra, Abe’s eyes went wide, and not from the stinging. Something very odd was unfolding below, and this time it wasn’t some murky nighttime phantasm. This was happening in broad daylight.

From the south a tiny figure cut north through the multitude, parting it as Moses had the Red Sea. As the lone figure moved forward the undead closed ranks behind it, sealing the temporary divide. Was this some machete-wielding maniac on a death trip? If so, how’d he last this long? Body armor? What? Abe squinted and fished his smudgy glasses out of his breast pocket. The figure was a block south, still too small to make out, but even from here it was obvious that no violence was occurring. This individual brandished no weapon. He just seemed to be strolling through the crowd, unmolested. Maybe this was some mirage. It was broiling hot, as per. Abe took off his glasses and wiped them as clean as possible.

The figure made slow progress, but this was happening. This was no delusion.

“Hey! Hey! Hey!” Abe shouted. “Hey, up here!”

No reaction.

Abe kept shouting, loud as he could. Still the figure forged ahead, but never looked up. With all his shouting, where was Ruth? Ignoring him, most likely, convinced he was the old man who cried wolf. Fug her . Abe tried hollering a few more times without luck. He tried to move but was petrified by the sheer anomalousness of what was happening. The figure was now half a block south and Abe still couldn’t make out its gender or age. The zombies pulled back from it, some letting out foul noises of displeasure. The figure seemed completely unperturbed, walking placid as a Zen monk.

“Hey! Hey! Hey!” Abe shouted again. “Hey, up here! Please!”

As the figure neared their building, Abe could see it was a woman. No. Not a woman, a girl , maybe in her teens. From the fifth floor it was hard to tell, but she was young, that much he could see, and dressed in black even in this heat-a black tank top, at any rate. He could only see her from the waist up, the cabbage-heads blocking his view somewhat. He had to tell the others but as she came fully into focus, Abe’s mouth dried up and stopped working. With Herculean effort, Abe uprooted himself to leave the room. He staggered into the kitchen and took a swig from the water bottle. Mouth lubricated, he ventured into the hall and after a few inaudible croaks managed to yell, “ Help! Help! Help! Everyone come quick! Help! ”

Once again Eddie was the first to answer the call. Since he’d not been interrupted midthrust, he was only slightly hostile. “What the fuck’s all the noise, old man?”

“There’s a person outside!”

“Another maniac pullin’ a Dale Earnhardt? I woulda heard that.”

“You missed it last time. Anyway, no! A girl . Just a person! No car!”

“Yeah, right.”

Karl stepped onto the landing as Abe repeated his last thought. “What?” Karl stammered. “What person? What’re you talking about?”

Ellen and Alan joined the others, as did Dave. Ruth was a no-show.

“For the love of Mike, come to my apartment, quick! She’s out there! Quick! ”

“It’s a woman?” Karl asked, dazed.