Aleksandar Hemon - The Making of Zombie Wars

The cabbie’s neck was not unlike a tree trunk with hair vines crawling toward the bald crown. The hospital made Stagger wear a gown, lest he be arrested in Joshua’s shorts for public indecency. His right arm was in a cast extending to his biceps, bending at his elbow. The cab crawled to a stop along Lake Shore Drive, stuck in the Cubs-game traffic. It was evening already, the lights were on, the city sparkling with despair.

“Jonjo!” Stagger said. “I gotta say something.”

“Please, don’t,” Joshua said. “And stop calling me Jonjo.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“What wasn’t my fault?”

“That guy busting my balls.”

“Was it my fault?”

“No, it wasn’t. Even if you should’ve let me cut him.”

In an obscure language the cabbie spoke to someone who could have been anywhere on Earth, or — why not? — another planet. Suddenly, everywhere around him, everyone around him — other than Stagger — was a foreigner. Script Idea #142: Space aliens undercover as cabbies abduct the fiancée of the main character and he has to find a way to a remote planet to save her. Title: Love Trek.

“Also,” Stagger said. “I’ve never been married. I was just fucking with you.”

“Were you this nuts before Desert Storm?”

“Desert Storm was a holiday in the sand,” Stagger said. “But there did use to be a life before it.”

“You need help, Stagger.”

Stagger shrugged, as if it all had already been tried. His cast was on top of the duffel bag between them, no doubt crushing Bushy’s stiff body. Joshua was bothered by it, but couldn’t formulate anything to justify a complaint. Stagger was pitiful in the stinking hospital gown, his fingers swollen and white from the cast.

“Where’s my sword?” Stagger suddenly asked, and Joshua groaned with annoyance.

“It is behind the fucking washing machine. Did you want to take it to the hospital and discuss the incident with the police? We’ll get you your sword in due time, I promise. Let’s just get out of this situation safe and unharmed.”

“Washing machine? Why washing machine?”

“Why the hell not? It’s where it is and I’ll get it when I can. Right now, I’m exhausted. God! Take another pill!”

Stagger opened the pill bottle with his teeth and tipped it back to suck in another dose of painkillers. They sat in heavy-breathing silence as the cab crept up Lake Shore Drive. Joshua watched the waves spurred on by a northwest wind, crashing into the concrete ramparts, foaming in fury. As a kid, he’d liked to see ice cover the lake all the way to the horizon. On insanely cold, sunny days, when flesh fell off the bone and there was no bird in sight, the frozen lake surface would blaze with perfect iciness. Even if it didn’t really freeze all the way to Michigan, the lake somehow managed to complete itself, to reach its outermost possibilities and then stop there. When the cold grip was released, the ice would start cracking and floes would be pushed against the shore, forming ice mountain ranges. And then it would all thaw and return to its routine grayness. Any given point is the end point of something. Nothing is ever a beginning.

“I’d like to say something,” Stagger said, but Joshua’s cell phone rang just then. Joshua checked the phone screen: Kimiko M. Home. He ignored it, but something inside him — his prostate, maybe — cramped.

“I like the way you smell,” Stagger said. “There, I’ve said it.”

“Okay, you’ve said it,” Joshua said. “Could we not talk about it, please?”

“Okay. Not a word. I’ve shut up.”

Kimiko M. Home. Script Idea #144: A man saves the life of his comrade, which impresses his girlfriend so much that she suggests a threesome .

“I just want you to know that I’m not a homo,” Stagger said.

“I didn’t ask, so you don’t have to tell,” Joshua said. “That’s something you’ll have to sort out all by yourself.”

There was a runner on the bike path along Lake Shore Drive, trudging along with obvious effort as if it were his twenty-sixth mile, throwing his head to one side to pull his body forth. A homeless man stumbled — not unlike a zombie — toward the runner to bum something, but the runner just sped by. Joshua turned to look at the runner’s face as they passed him and he could see the pain. My soul, return to your resting place.

“Do you think we could find another cat like this?” Stagger said, tapping on the duffel bag with his cast.

“Where? It’s not like I can go to a cat shop. He’s not a vacuum cleaner. She would know,” Joshua said. “And Bushy would know.”

Stagger unzipped the bag to look at the stiff Bushy, whose eyes were wide open.

“He was a fine cat,” Stagger said.

“He was a slut,” Joshua said. “Please zip up the bag. He’s looking at me.”

“My arm is broken,” Stagger said.

Joshua’s cell phone rang again and it was, again, “Kimiko M. Home.”

“Oh, man!” Joshua said and took the call.

* * *

Kimmy waited at the top of the porch stairs, her position and pose promising nothing good. Kimmy in her sharp work clothes: the narrow skirt, the wide-shouldered blazer, her arms akimbo, her hair in a tight ponytail. Joshua had always liked the smoothness of her jawline, but now it looked like she was concealing razors under her skin. He stood at the foot of the stairs, the duffel bag in hand, unsure whether to dare going up as if everything were as usual. At the center of him, where his modest guts used to be, there was now a vacant, overheated chamber.

“And who’s your wounded friend?” she asked. A step behind Joshua, like a bodyguard, Stagger attempted to stretch his tumescent lips into a grin.

“That’s Stagger,” Joshua said. “My landlord.”

Kimmy stared at Stagger the helpless martyr: damaged face, broken arm, bare feet, snotgreen gown, ridiculous pigtails. She had a lot of questions, but she didn’t ask any of them.

“I’ve heard so much about you, Mr. Stagger,” she said.

“Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Home,” Stagger responded.

“I can’t find Bushy,” Kimmy announced. This was the moment to come clean and face the consequences, not least because Kimmy glanced at the New Balance bag. Rather than come clean and face the consequences, however, Joshua stepped up to the first stair without going farther. He was close enough to smell her: her lavender-scented perfume could not conceal a wet-cloth smell of anxiety and frustration, as when she was menstruating.

“He must have run after a squirrel or something,” Stagger said.

“Please stay out of this, Mr. Stagger,” Kimmy said. “This is between my partner and me.”

Partner , as if they were a law firm. Joshua moved up a couple more stairs and reached Kimmy’s eye level. He foolishly considered kissing her cheek.

“Howdy, pardner,” she said, the ice in her voice stretching all the way to her own private Michigan. Her eyes were dark and — as they’d say in a novel — foreboding. “Your friends have stopped by to see you.”

INT. UNDERGROUND LAB — DAY

A desk lamp casts a narrow circle of light on the desk, where there is a syringe and a notebook. Major K is hunched at the desk, his head in his hands. He sits up, punches himself in the face.

MAJOR K

Do it, goddamn it! Be a man! You gotta do it!

Finally, he grabs the syringe and stares at it. He cleans with a wipe a spot on his forearm and plunges the needle into it, emptying the syringe. He pulls it out, carefully dismantles it, and disposes of it. He sits back and closes his eyes. His jaw is clenched to the point of breaking.

MOMENTS LATER

Major K opens his eyes, takes a pen, and opens his notebook. He writes the date at the top of the page.