Bob Fingerman: Pariah

“Fuck yeah, baby! Fuckety fuck fuck yeeeeaaaah!”

Unnoticed by her gun-crazed companion, Mona edged away and turned the corner, hunkered down amidst scattered remainders, and clamped her hands over her ears. Eddie pulled the trigger a tenth time, enjoyed the muzzle flash and resultant damage, and found his new toy spent. Click, click, click . He looked over in the direction Mona had been to find empty wall. The fuck? Confusion followed by the incomparable sensation of jagged teeth bearing down on bare shoulder meat. His.

Eddie’s orbs met those of the zombie whose teeth were dug into his upper arm. Eddie’s deep brown and lively, his attacker’s gummous and gray. The communication between them crystalline: I am going to eat you versus oh no you aren’t .

Eddie shrugged off his assailant and brought the Smith & Wesson down on the bridge of its former nose, now just crusty cavernous slits. Bone splintered and the thing let out a low groan, but didn’t lose interest in its dinner. So much for immunity . He scanned frantically for Mona. Another zombie fell on Eddie, teeth bared, bony fingers digging into his waist, not quite breaking the skin, but near enough. Eddie batted away at both, shrieking, “ Mona, help! ” So much for pride.

Mona came around the corner, looking less apathetic than usual, but with her mojo intact. The zombies caught one whiff and, like skeeters from deet, fled. Eddie assayed the damage. A ring of oozing, bloody tooth holes limned his shoulder. His abdomen ached.

“You took your sweet fuckin’ time,” he growled.

He felt sickened by his girly plaint for assistance.

“I covered my ears,” Mona said. “The gunshots.”

And yet still he was hard.

“The gunshots,” he echoed. “You and guns. What’s up with that? You go out and see these fuckers every fuckin’ day an’ you go all weak at th’ knees ’cause of some loud noise? The fuck is that shit?”

Mona shrugged, wiping her nose on the back of her hand. She was gross. Like a little kid, only a little kid with womanly hips and a nice round ass.

“So I don’t know how this shit works,” Eddie said, staring at his wound. “Do I become one of those things or what? In the movies they always become one of those things. But maybe movies are bullshit.”

Mona shrugged.

“God, that pisses me off,” Eddie spat. “That little shrug of yours. You’re no mute. You can speak. So what’s with the little tics and shit? You got something to say, say it .”

“I dunno what to say.”

Eddie rubbed the damaged spot, smearing blood. He looked at his palm. It scintillated. He was sweatier than before, his face hot. Burning. Feverish. His mouth felt drier than ever. Maybe it was just adrenaline-his nerves were pretty jangly-or maybe it was the infection.

“This could’ve been prevented,” he said, more to himself than Mona. “But I blame you. You misled us. Those drugs ain’t worth shit.” He rubbed his crotch absently, inadvertently wiping blood all over it. The sweat stung his injury. “Fuckin’ drugs.” He shook his head, face pinched.

“We should go,” said Mona, her voice fainter than usual.

“I blame you .”

“Really, we should.”

“Fuckin’ drugs.”

“You’ll be okay.”

“I need a pick-me-up.”

Eddie yanked her into the bathroom and, amidst the bloody ruins that were Karl and his attackers, palmed Mona’s head down toward the sink, ripped down her pants and underwear, then spat into the cleft between her buttocks. It was then that he noticed his dick had gone soft. “Are you fuckin’ kidding me?” he shouted at his offending member. Mona pushed back against his arm and Eddie ground her face into the scuffed porcelain, gripping the back of her head with one hand and trying to massage vigor back into his flaccid appendage.

“You’re not goin’ anywhere,” he snarled at her. “And you,” he directed at his groin, “you better learn some fuckin’ teamwork.” He attempted to push his unit in, but it just bent away from its target, spongy as a Twinkie. “This is unreal. Un- fuckin’ -real.” It always bugged Eddie when guys in porn made do with soft-ons, trying to push rope uphill. He never understood how these ingrates couldn’t get wood. Now he did and it made him angry.

He released Mona’s head from the basin but as she raised it he cautioned her with his fist. “Nowhere,” he whispered, face creased with rage. “ Nowhere .” Though her back was still to him their eyes locked in the mirror. That was another thing he didn’t like about her; she barely ever blinked. She was like a cat. Or a baby. And Eddie had no fondness for either.

He tugged at the uncooperative flesh and with each stroke it seemed more willfully limp. He broke eye contact with Mona and let his focus drift down her face where it alighted on the corner of her mouth, which curled almost imperceptibly into a smirk of ridicule.

“You laughing at me?”

He pulled on his dick harder. That face of hers. That deadpan fucking face. It was almost worse when it showed a glimmer of personality. Personality that mocked him.

“You fuckin’ laughing at me?”

Maintaining eye contact she slowly shook her head, pressing herself against the pedestal and washbasin. Her fingers snailed their way along her bare upper thigh toward her underpants until they made contact and lightly curled around the elastic waistband.

“Oh no you fuckin’ don’t.”

Eddie lunged at her and she juked toward the door, unable to run with her pants half-mast. His arm shot out and grabbed her, and as he yanked the small girl toward him, he backhanded her across the face. She stumbled backward, raising her hands in self-defense. With zero mirth, Eddie laughed, the ugly sound echoing in the tile-covered tight quarters.

“That’s hilarious. Your mojo don’t work on me , toots.”

Ten minutes later, wiping his hands off on his pants, he stepped off the escalator and made for the sunny street.

The street.

The crowded street.

The street chockablock with zombies.

Oops .

He turned to fetch Mona.

More teeth on flesh.

Not immune .

Not just his shoulder.

Should’ve worn a shirt .

Bony fingers gripping.

The drugs .

Not immune .

Flesh tearing. More blood. So much blood.

Why didn’t she say something?

As he came apart Eddie whispered, “Ellen would’ve struggled.”

“You can’t be serious,” Ellen sputtered, following Alan past the barricaded front entrance and down into the musty basement. She was still feeling like they’d had some kind of breakthrough by the window and now here was her inamorato psyching himself up for a quixotic, most likely suicidal undertaking.

“Of course I’m serious. You think I want to be doing this? I have to. If there’s no more Mona there’s no more us. She’s our lifeline. So, I have to.”

“Can’t we give it a little more time?” Ellen pled. “It’s only been-”

“A day. A whole day. It’s like Ten Little Indians, Ellen. We’re down two men and Mona. Plus, Abe, Ruth, and who knows what became of Gerri.”

Alan placed the camping lamp on a stack of crates and looked around the room. In all the months since the pandemic began he’d been down here only once or twice. There were a couple of cage-style wire mesh lockers for tenants near the boiler, one rented by the Fogelhuts, the other unoccupied. Alan approached the Fogelhuts’ locker and gave the combination lock a yank.

“Figures,” he muttered. “I’d suggest looking for the combination in their apartment, but that could take forever.”