Breathers (24 page)

“They don't have to talk to Ray,” says Helen, her voice regaining some of her trademark energy. “The undead don't just miraculously heal by eating venison.”

“You knew about this?” asks Carl. “That this was possible?”

Turns out, one of the zombies Helen counseled when she was still among the living claimed he'd found a way to not only reverse decomposition, but to heal wounds and injuries.

“Though I'd only seen him three times, I noticed that he
appeared healthier than your average zombie,” says Helen. “When I asked him how it was possible, he just smiled and told me I'd rather not know. Of course, I suspected he was eating Breathers, but I didn't report it to anyone.”

“What happened to him?” asks Rita.

“He said that as soon as he could pass for a Breather, he was going to move someplace where nobody knew what he was so he could start a new life,” says Helen. “I never saw him again after that. According to the records, he just disappeared.”

“Did you ever tell anyone else about what he'd said?” asks Leslie.

Helen shakes her head. “Not until now.”

“Do Breathers know about this?” asks Naomi.

“I don't know,” says Helen. “I presume someone at some level knows. Or at least suspects. But if they do, it's not something they've revealed to the general public.”

I can understand now why we're not allowed to have access to the Internet. Sharing information like this on a global level would create a lot of problems for the living.

“But I guarantee that if the Department of Resurrection comes in here and realizes our physical conditions have improved,” says Helen, “we'll all get reported.”

In addition to being used for crash tests, plastic surgery, chop shops, and an assortment of unspeakable scientific experiments, abandoned or fallen zombies can end up in what is commonly known in the undead community as “reanimated purgatory”—discarded in landfills, sold to zombie zoos, or enslaved on one of a handful of television reality shows.
Zombie Nanny
is probably the worst of the bunch, though I hear
Survivor Zombie
runs a close second.

“So, where do we go from here?” asks Leslie.

“We don't go anywhere.” Helen stands up, walks over
to the chalkboard, and starts writing. “We don't accept any more jars of Ray's venison, we don't share this information with anyone outside of the group, we use makeup and props to conceal any visible improvements, and we practice restraint.”

Helen steps aside and reveals what she has written:

I WILL NOT CONSUME THE LIVING.

“Say it with me now.”

erry, Rita, and I are walking along the side of the road on our way to see if Ray has any more jars of Breather.

Initially, Jerry was concerned that we were in direct conflict with Helen's instructions, but Rita convinced him that since the Breather who donated the meat is already dead, technically we're not consuming the living.

“What if Ray's not home?” asks Jerry.

I shrug. It's the first time I've been able to shrug with both shoulders since the accident. Not exactly headline news, but when your left shoulder has been a useless mass of bone and tissue for nearly five months, a shrug is like winning the lottery.

Jerry takes off his baseball hat and scratches at his scalp. In the wash of light from a street lamp, I can see there's less of his brain exposed than before.

“Do you think he'd mind if I borrowed some more
Playboy
s?”

At some point along the way, Rita slips her right hand into my left. I shiver as much from her touch as I do from the fact that I can actually feel her hand in mine. I'm also aware that I'm growing more aroused by the second. Fortunately, Jerry
has scampered ahead to chase after a possum, so he doesn't see Rita's hand slide out of mine and down the front of my pants.

By the time we reach the back door of the granary, it's nearly ten o'clock. A couple of weeks ago, the prospect of breaking curfew, even with an hour or so to spare, would have given me the phantom sweats. But once you've eaten Breather, all the other rules and taboos just don't seem like such a big deal anymore.

“Doesn't look like anyone's home,” says Rita.

“Well, since we're already here …,” says Jerry.

Just as Jerry reaches for the door, we hear muffled voices inside, male and female, followed by the sound of glass breaking.

“Shit,” says a female voice.

This is followed by another voice, this one male. “I think I'm going to throw up again.”

Footsteps are suddenly coming toward us from behind the door. Before we can move away, the back door swings open and a figure lurches out and throws up all over Jerry's shoes.

“Oh man,” says Jerry, walking away and trying to kick the vomit off of his shoes. “These are my favorite pair of Converse.”

“Sorry,” says Tom.

“Are you all right, dear?” asks Leslie as she arrives in the doorway behind him.

“Yeah, kind of,” says Tom, standing up and wiping his mouth with his hand.

Naomi appears next to Leslie and sees us. “What are you three doing here?”

“Apparently, the same thing you are,” says Rita. “Any luck?”

“No,” says Naomi. “Just a bunch of warm beer and
Playboy
magazines.”

“Don't touch those!” says Jerry, wiping his shoes on some weeds. “I need to borrow them.”

“Ss Ray ear?” I ask.

“No,” says Leslie. “No one's here but us.”

Out on Old San Jose Road, headlights flash past and tires hum on asphalt.

“I think we should get out of sight,” says Rita.

The six of us go inside, which is lit up by Ray's propane lantern. Carl is crouched near one of the grain storage areas trying to clean up a couple of broken bottles of beer with a magazine. Which explains the glass we heard breaking.

“Dude!” yells Jerry as he runs over to Carl and takes the magazine from him. He wipes the magazine on his shirt, then holds it up. “This is the Fiftieth Anniversary Playmate issue.”

I wonder where Ray is. When I check the coals in the fire pit, they're cold. But in addition to the femur, there's a pair of shoulder blades.

I suddenly feel like it's wrong for all of us to be in here searching for Ray's jars of human flesh.

“I hink we sood eeve,” I say.

“Andy's right,” says Rita. “Let's get this place cleaned up and go home.”

While Rita, Leslie, Naomi, and Carl pick up the pieces of broken glass, Tom waits by the back door, just in case he has to throw up again.

“Erry,” I say. “Et's go.”

“Hold on,” he says, rummaging through the grain storage area. “I just want to grab a few more
Playboy
s.”

Before I can say another word, we hear the sound of a car approaching alongside the granary.

“Shit,” whispers Naomi.

We all freeze and listen as the car pulls up and then stops near the back door.

“What do we do?” says Tom, joining the rest of us as the car engine shuts off.

Rita turns off the propane lantern. “Hide.”

Other than the two grain storage bins, there's not anyplace to hide, and all seven of us won't fit, so Rita and Leslie crawl into one while Tom joins Jerry in the other. Naomi hunkers down behind one of the bins and I do the same behind its twin. Carl, with no place left, climbs halfway up one of the ladders.

Outside, a car door opens and closes. Footsteps approach the back door. Unable to help myself, I peek up over the top of the storage bin as the back door swings open and a figure appears in the doorway. A flashlight beam stabs into the granary.

I realize that I'm actually perspiring.

Before I can fully appreciate the significance of the sensation I'm experiencing, the figure's voice intrudes upon the moment.

“Hello? Is anybody home?”

Carl and Naomi start laughing. I can't help myself and I start to laugh, too. Seconds later, Rita and Leslie's muffled giggles drift out from the storage bin.

The flashlight beam sweeps back and forth, searching for the source of the laughter, finally settling on Carl fifteen feet up on the ladder.

“So,” he says, laughing so hard he nearly loses his grip, “is this what you meant by practicing restraint?”

“Oh, son of a bitch,” says Helen.

n addition to an improvement in physical appearance and an increase in self-confidence, another side-effect of eating Breather is that once you get a taste for them, you tend to want more.

Unless, of course, you're a vegetarian.

“I can't believe I ate two jars,” says Tom. He hasn't thrown up since we left the granary, but he has the look of a man who might change his mind at any second.

“Believe it,” says Jerry, sitting beside Tom in the backseat of Helen's sister's minivan. “I mean, come on. You had to know that stuff wasn't tuna.”

“Can we not talk about this, please?” says Tom.

“You brought it up,” says Jerry.

“Will you two be quiet,” says Naomi from the front seat. “You're making Helen nervous.”

Helen has already dropped off Carl and Leslie, but she's had to take the long way to avoid the main streets. A car full of zombies cruising around late at night isn't exactly something the police would consider business as usual.

Rita and I sit in the center seat section, holding hands. We haven't told anyone about us yet, but I think they kind of
get the idea. Leslie even told me she thought we made a cute couple.

“Did you think it tasted like tuna?” asks Jerry.

“Can someone please roll down a window?” says Tom.

I can't help but laugh.

“Tom,” says Rita, turning around in her seat. “Have you looked in the mirror lately?”

“Not really,” says Tom. “I kind of avoid mirrors altogether. Why?”

She pulls a compact out of her purse and opens it up for him. “Why don't you take a look.”

Tom reluctantly takes the compact and holds it up in front of his face. At first his expression doesn't change. Then he adjusts the compact and holds it up closer, trying to get a better look. In the dome light of the minivan it's hard to see, and the improvement isn't obvious at first glance, but the flap of skin that is Tom's right cheek has begun to heal.

As if unconvinced, Tom reaches up and touches his face. In spite of the fact that he's still holding the compact with his good left hand, he doesn't seem to realize that his alien right hand is the one exploring his cheek. Apparently, his face isn't the only wound that's healing.