Bob Fingerman: Pariah

“I’d suggest you abandon this, period.”

He wanted to. He really did, but this was all there was to do. He wasn’t about to go to Dave or Dabney. Both were borderline basket cases these days, Dave going through cold-turkey withdrawal from both Eddie and the drugs, and Dabney recapturing the days of wine and roses. No, no outsourcing this time. Time to man up, even if he wasn’t necessarily the man he wanted to be.

Alan dug around Mr. Spiteri’s tools, which lay in a haphazard array on and about a crude wooden worktable by the stairs. There were several toolboxes, which he rummaged through until he produced a thick, heavy-gauge pipe wrench. He took several vicious whacks at the lock, the only result being the bones in his fairly delicate hands being rattled.

“See? Futile,” Ellen said, a manic smile splitting her face. “Okay, you gave it your best shot, so-”

“Not that easy,” Alan said. He fetched a thick pair of rubberized work gloves off the bench and returned to the locker, smashing not the sturdy lock, but the lightly rusted fitting through which it was looped. That broke away from the locker after ten focused whacks and with a creak, the door swung open. Alan grinned, pleased with his mettle.

“This is the worst idea, ever,” Ellen said, panic rising. “ Ever .”

“You ever read Swift’s ‘A Modest Proposal’? If we don’t get Mona back we’re looking at the longest short winter of our lives and a very limited menu.”

Ellen rubbed her still-flat belly, absorbing Alan’s comment. “That’s in very bad taste,” she said.

“Maybe so, but this is all I can think of. It worked for Abe. How many times did Abe suggest one of us young bucks- ” Alan made air-quotes “-do this? Dozens. ‘If an old fart like me could do it, what’s your excuse?’ ”

“It worked for Abe because he did it before things got so bad out there. There were countless morsels besides him for the ghouls to eat. They didn’t need to pick a well-insulated geezer.”

“I suppose.” Alan knew she was right.

“You recall anyone else trying this ploy and succeeding?” she added.

Alan couldn’t because no one had. Back in April that Venezuelan from 2B had been shamed enough by Abe to make an attempt and was devoured in plain sight within yards of the building. But he hadn’t donned Abe’s gear, assuming enough of his own would suffice. It hadn’t. Alan pulled the boxes out and ripped them open. Inside were Abe’s improvised armor: the Baby Sof’ Suit ®infant winter onesies and the XXXL pair of Bender’s Breathable Sub-zero Shield ® Sooper-System ™ Weather Bibs . Leaving the bib down-as Abe has described in detail many times in the prior months-Alan began stuffing onesies down the pants, padding himself from the ankles up. When he’d reached maximum density he pulled up the bib, heaved on the matching camouflage parka, and stuffed in more onesies. With the hood of the giant parka cinched tight around a scarf and wearing a pair of snow goggles, Alan resembled a camouflaged Michelin Man.

“So,” Ellen said, a hint of worried derision in her tone, “how are you going to get upstairs now, Stay Puft?”

Alan cursed under his breath. He should have suited up in the apartment. Already he was self-basting in perspiration. With his gloved hands he gripped the railings and hauled himself up the narrow flights of stairs to 2B. By the time he reached the window with the rappelling line he was soaked with sweat.

“I think we really had a moment, there,” Ellen said.

“I know we did.”

“I think we really have something, period,” Ellen said.

“I think so, too.”

“I shouldn’t have ever busted your hump about Mona. I know you were loyal. I guess I just needed some drama to pass the time.”

Alan laughed, not with disdain. With affection.

“I deserve your mocking,” Ellen said.

“Don’t be such a drama queen,” Alan said. Shifting the scarf and balaclava and goggles he smiled at Ellen and she could see the affection, which made this so much worse.

“Can’t you wait another day? Maybe they’re all okay.”

“Ellen,” Alan said.

“Just one more day. One.”

He touched her face with the thick glove, then removed it to touch her skin to skin. Ellen kissed his hand, which was slick with sweat.

“This may be the last I get to taste you,” she said, now tearing up.

“No, it won’t. In the words of that great statesman, the Governator, ‘ Ah’ll be bock .’ ”

Ellen semi-smiled, her face scrunched up, trying to hold back the tsunami of emotion.

“Okay then,” Alan said, refitting the scarf, balaclava and goggles, then gloves.

With the grace of Paul Prudhomme, he positioned himself on the windowsill-he was barely able to fit through the opening-swung his legs out, gripped the rope and lowered himself onto Dabney’s van. The zombies noticed the motion but didn’t seem overly riled. Ellen’s heart jackhammered her innards. Her ribs ached. Her eyes felt in danger of escaping their sockets, so focused were they on Alan and the horde below. She couldn’t watch. She couldn’t not watch. With a faint wave, Alan sat on the van’s roof, lowered himself to the ground and disappeared from view.

Several excruciating minutes passed and then Ellen spotted Alan’s bloated form bobbing up York toward Eighty-sixth Street. Though the zombies didn’t make way, they didn’t attack, either.

When she exhaled, it felt like the first time in her life.

It was more than weird to be out among the undead.

Though he couldn’t be certain, Alan felt as though in spite of the temperature and copious garments, he’d stopped sweating altogether. It was unlikely, but he felt a permeating chill. To combat fear he kept his thoughts clinical. He’d absorb the detail he couldn’t see from his window for future studies in watercolor and oils. Their skin was matte, but with oily patches, the pigment bleached or discolored. The white zombies were pasty yellow, the black ones gray and ashy. Even the matter underneath their shredded derma, the fasciae, peeled to reveal brown muscle tissue and dry bone. Everything looked desiccated. What you guys need is a good moisturizer , Alan thought. Some Oil of Olay or some Neutrogena. Something with a high SPF rating. I mean, look at you guys .

He focused on the path ahead. The bookstore was two and a half avenues west. Even at a snail’s pace, without realizing it, he’d already made it to First Avenue uneaten. That was good. That was very good. Were he a man of faith he’d think it miraculous.

Since the zombies hadn’t made an opening for him he was rubbing elbows with them-even the elbowless. Though there was generous padding between him and them, each contact mainlined straight to his nerve endings. Focus , he thought. Focus . He recalled self-help gurus like Tony Robbins, with their “can do” attitude and their mind-over-matter mantras. Alan had always taken those guys to be con men, though, so conjuring them didn’t help. And really, didn’t their shticks always boil down to creating wealth? Not helping. Not fucking helping.

Condensation accrued on his glasses and interior of the goggles, the top portion of his view becoming erased by fog. Great. Soon I’ll be blind. Mr. Magoo on a rescue mission. That’s genius . Something shoved Alan from behind, propelling him forward a few paces too quickly. His face contorted under its wrappings, his lips compressed between his jaws, half swallowed to stifle the shriek lodged in his throat, eyes shut, preparing for the worst. He collided with several zombies, but they responded only by growling and lightly shoving back. Am I immune? Alan wondered. All this time, maybe I could’ve gone out. Maybe I don’t even need all this gear. Yeah? Don’t get cocky, his brain chided. Good idea, brain.