Bob Fingerman - Pariah

“Damn,” he said, assessing the ruined carrion. These were not the fearsome cannibals they’d been down below. This was a sad mess of humanity, retired. In death it was hard to tell male from female, black from white from Asian from whatever. One of the fractured heads looked maybe sort of Negroid. But the skin was so excavated and overcooked it stymied easy identification. It was obvious Eddie was a total racist, so did hauling in a brother bring him extra pleasure or were all zombies created equal? Dabney sniggered as he contemplated those two crazy white boys snaring undead brothers.

So stupid.

He reached out for the bottle but had left it three roofs behind.

So stupid.

He fell asleep, the hot sun baking his marinated brains.

“You know we’re completely nuts for having let Eddie escort Mona.”

“Mona escorted Eddie.”

“Whatever, Alan,” Ellen snapped. “Don’t nitpick. Eddie’s on a wild tear all hopped up on Mona’s mystery meds. He was trouble before, now he’s flat-out dangerous.”

Alan couldn’t argue that point. He looked out the window. It hadn’t even been an hour since they’d left to rescue Karl, but anxiety was peaking. Ellen was right and Alan cursed himself for his cowardice.

“She might be immune to those things,” Ellen said, “but she’s not immune to a Neanderthal like Tommasi. We’re idiots. And now there’s nothing we can do about it.”

She joined Alan at the window and put an arm around his waist, the first tender contact they’d shared in ages. That touch, that small embrace, rattled Alan even more than Ellen’s words. Though he made no sound, she felt something in his manner change. She looked at his face and caressed his cheek. She tilted her head back and he responded with a kiss that lasted for long, restorative minutes. For all their sexual encounters, this was the first time either of them felt real love for the other. When their lips disengaged they both stared down at the crowd below.

Within the sepulchral gloom of the bookstore, Mona slipped on her headlamp and flicked on the beam. She didn’t have another to offer Eddie, so she beckoned him to stay close, within the light, within the umbrella.

“If I find any Steinbecks I’m gonna piss on ’em,” Eddie said.

“Mm-hmm.”

Mona made a beeline for the table Karl had fallen onto, finding nothing but burnt books in his place and a couple of completely kaput zombies, their backs and limbs broken, the last vestiges of unlife gone.

“He was here,” she said, pointing.

“He ain’t here now.”

Mona looked up, aiming the light at the hole Karl had made, which was now many times larger. That explained the wrecked carcasses and the additional timber. Eddie looked up at the opening.

“That’s a big fuckin’ hole.”

“Mm-hmm.”

I’ll “Mm-hmm” you, you little bucket of fuck .

“So whatta you suggest?” Eddie said, swallowing his annoyance. “It looks like Karl might’ve got up on his own steam, no? Them zombies clean their plates, but not so’s there’s nothing left. There’d be blood or something. Bones. Something moist . Some residue.” He wiped his sweaty brow. If this Barnes & Noble had a café he wanted to check the beverage case and see if there was any bottled water left. “Hey, does bottled water go bad?”

“Dunno.”

One of these days, Mona… bang, zoom!

“Think he got up and went on home?”

“We’d have seen him.”

She had a point. It seemed unlikely that Karl would have taken a divergent path from the one he and little miss talkative just took, especially if he was all busted up. A noise came from the upper landing and Eddie looked up into the gloom at the spot where the hole was. In the murk it looked like a busted mouth, the splintery floorboards like crooked teeth.

“You heard that.” Lacking any clear inflection, it wasn’t so much a question as a statement. Eddie made a face as he considered Mona’s way of speaking might be contagious. He said it again, this time as an obvious query.

“Mm-hmm.”

Suck it up, Eddie , he cautioned himself. Just suck it up .

Without waiting for Mona he dashed up the down escalator and ran onto the mezzanine, taking care to avoid the gaping hole. The gun felt good against his thigh, heavy and reassuring. Screw Mona and her “no guns” policy. Finders, keepers. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness he saw nothing unusual: some chairs, the upholstery cooked away, the springs and foundations jutting out, bookcases, books, books, and more books.

“Yo!” he shouted, caution to the wind. “Karl, you in here?”

A soft moan from the back of the landing.

Mona softly touched his bare shoulder and he felt a tingle from head to toe. It was the first time a woman had voluntarily made contact with him since everything went kablooey. What was harder, he wondered, his dick or the barrel of the gun, and which would do more damage if it went off? The light from Mona’s headlamp bothered Eddie’s dark-adjusted eyes and he fanned it away, frowning deeply as she stepped ahead of him. Those dead eyes of hers. Those pointy little titties. Her nipples weren’t hard but they were visible. His dick was very hard. This was fucked up. He was sweating more than the temperature warranted and again his mouth felt horrible; he could taste his breath, which was bad. He wanted some mints. His eyes darted back and forth in their sockets and he could feel his skin, like it was swarming with ants.

The moan sounded again.

“Karl!”

“ Shhh ,” Mona cautioned.

“Why? What’s th’ fuckin’ diff’? We’re immune, so it’s all good.” He gave his erection a firm squeeze through the coarse fabric of his pants. He was freeballing, so no underwear cushioned his jewels and scepter. He moved his hand up and down once or twice. The gun felt good. His hand felt good. His whole body felt like a cell phone on vibrate.

“We’re immune?” Mona repeated, eyeing him.

“ You’re immune,” Eddie gabbled. “You are. You . We got the umbrella going on.”

Mona squinted at him in a way that made her sexier and more slappable in equal measure. The moan came again. Mona gestured for Eddie to follow her. He was sick of this follow-the-leader arrangement. He was the man. She should be following him. She should be doing a lot she wasn’t doing. Aping a yawn Eddie tossed down a couple of her purloined pharmaceuticals, smacking his lips in a gross, cartoonish manner.

“The Comet needs some water, soon.”

“ Shhh .”

“Cotton mouth.”

“ Shhh .”

They turned the corner and the headlamp illuminated a group of hunched over zombies polishing off Karl’s remains, his torso opened like a savaged piñata. Vibrant graffito of arterial spray decorated the bathroom wall, fresh blood pooled in all directions, and Mona had a bona fide reaction: she threw up. Sensing her presence, the zombies recoiled and retreated deeper into the men’s room, smearing blood and viscera. Mona wiped her mouth and was about to suggest escape when Eddie opened fire, blasting away huge chunks from the zombies’ tatty frames. The grisly collage of hominid stroganoff-some old, some new, some juicy, some juiceless-was an Ed Gein wet dream.

Staid Mona, momentarily wigged out by the gore-and-gun combo platter, hugged the wall behind her and clamped her eyes shut, humming to internally mute the gunfire.

“Yeah!” Eddie bellowed. “Suck on that, bitch! Suck it! Suuuuuck it!”

He stood back and pumped off another shot. He didn’t know how many were in the clip. He didn’t care. He wasn’t thinking. He was priapic in his bloodlust, engorged and fully engaged, reveling in the moment. The reports from the gun were deafening. He loved it. This was even better than flynchin’. He had to get more ammo. Didn’t matter how long it took to find some, this bitch was not going to impede his need for munitions any longer.