Breathers (40 page)

We're all going to be destroyed.

“Well,” says Carl, breaking the silence, his voice muffled behind his leather muzzle. “I don't know about the rest of you, but that was definitely worth the price of admission.”

Tom voices his agreement. Across from me, Helen and Naomi nod their heads. Although there's no sense of joy, there's a definite sense of satisfaction, of having done what we needed to do.

I look around the van at my four remaining friends and I'm reminded of the dream I had where we were all in the limo. Except we're in an Animal Control van.

And Jerry and Rita are dead.

And Carl's not barbecuing.

Though he did tend the grill at the dinner party, so there's that.

I just wish Rita and Jerry were here to share this with us. Granted, events probably wouldn't have played out the way they did had Rita and Jerry not been destroyed, but it just doesn't seem complete without them. A piece of us is missing. And for me, that piece is larger than for the others.

I close my eyes and I think about Rita.

I think about her touch and her laugh and the way she made me feel alive.

I think about her taking my hand in the rain and walking with her through Soquel Village and eating my mother's ribs together by candlelight.

I think about all of the things about her that I'm going to miss.

I've never believed in reincarnation or an afterlife or
heaven, but if one of them exists and affords me the opportunity to see Rita again, then I'm willing to take a leap of faith. I'm willing to renounce all of my preconceptions and all of my doubts about God just to be able to see Rita's face one more time, to hold her hand and take one more walk.

Of course, considering all of the Breathers I've killed and barbecued over the past month, I probably wouldn't be on God's short list for having my prayers answered. It's more likely his counterpart would be interested in setting up a meeting. Unless I don't actually have a soul, which would pretty much put the kibosh on the whole afterlife thing.

The Animal Control van comes to a stop. I open my eyes and look across at Helen and Naomi, then turn to Tom and Carl. Outside, voices shout commands and the unmistakable sound of footsteps can be heard coming around the side of the van.

I don't know if this is the end of the road, but it sure feels like where we part.

No one says anything. We all just share glances, though I can see tears in Helen's and Naomi's eyes. Before I realize what's happening, I feel them spilling down my own cheeks.

Outside, the shouting continues. Any moment I expect the back doors to open and for us to be taken to our final destinations by our SWAT team escort armed with Taser batons and flamethrowers. But the doors don't open. And in addition to the commands being given, I hear the sound of vehicles arriving behind us and car doors opening and other voices shouting back in defiance.

The volley of shouting continues to escalate until it's punctuated by the sound of gunfire that echoes through the walls of the van. Silence follows this, stretching out for several moments, thick and heavy. Then, from somewhere off in the distance, comes the sound of laughter.

After that, it's a mixture of voices shouting and weapons firing, the unmistakable
whoosh
of a flamethrower and the howl of someone in agony. Screams seem to come from all around us. More commands are shouted, the voice giving them sounding rushed and rattled. Footsteps race past on either side of us, at least a dozen by the sound of it. Something thumps against the outside of the van. A scream starts up and cuts off. Nearby, a frantic voice is calling for backup. Then it falls silent.

Footsteps come around the van again and the five of us turn our heads. Moments later, the back doors open and headlights from the SWAT truck behind us flood the inside of the van. I can't see anything other than shapes and shadows as several figures climb inside and start to unhook our wall restraints one at a time while several other figures stand guard outside. It's not until he's right in front of me, smiling through the burns and blisters of his already healing face, that I recognize Luke. And right beside him, unlocking Naomi's wrist restraints, is Zack.

I really do need to give them a raise.

Once our restraints are unlocked and our leather harnesses removed, we exit the van to discover that we're about thirty miles north of Santa Cruz on an empty stretch of the Pacific Coast Highway. On one side of the two-lane highway a sheer cliff rises up into the dark winter sky. On the other side, a guard rail is all that stands between the highway and a drop to the Pacific Ocean nearly two hundred feet down.

Behind us, several cars sit with their engines running and their doors open, while up ahead, in the headlights of the Santa Cruz County Sheriff's cruiser and the Animal Control van, a couple of SUVs block both lanes of the highway.

In addition to Zack and Luke and the handful of others who helped free us from the van, more than two dozen members
of the undead roam the highway—checking for survivors, high-fiving each other, feeding on fallen Breathers. Intermittent gunfire and the occasional scream of agony comes out of the darkness, and more than a few of the undead have been permanently processed, to use one of Helen's euphemisms, but for the most part the battle here appears over.

Unfortunately, it doesn't look like we'll have much time to savor the victory.

Off in the distance, the flicker of emergency lights appears as vehicles converge on us from both directions along the highway. While the attack Zack and Luke led on our armed escort had the advantage of the living dead outnumbering the Breathers more than two to one, from the looks of it, this time the numbers appear to be significantly in the favor of the living.

Several of the undead, apparently not up to the challenge, leap over the side of the highway, choosing to take their chances on surviving the fall on the rocks below. I look over and recognize one of them, standing atop the guardrail. Tom glances back at me and smiles sheepishly with a shrug, then waves with his shortened, hairy arm before leaping off the guardrail into the darkness.

I look around at the rest of us. At Helen and Naomi and Carl. At Zack and Luke. At the two dozen remaining zombies gathered on the highway on this first day of the New Year.

It's at that moment I realize everyone is looking at me. Everyone is waiting.

Like Ray said, you can't wait around for someone else to solve your problems. Sooner or later, you have to help yourself.

“Zack. Luke,” I say. “We've got company.”

Without needing any more instruction, they're organizing everyone for the arrival of the enemy. Naomi and Helen both
come over and give me a hug before heading off to help the twins. Carl turns to me, shakes my hand, and says, “Andy, it's been a pleasure.”

And then he's gone, running to join the others, picking up a discarded flamethrower along the way.

For a moment I'm left alone, standing by the side of the Animal Control van, thinking about how all of this started for me.

How I lived.

How I died.

How I survived.

I look at the column of approaching emergency vehicles, at the procession of lights getting closer, and I realize this is probably where it ends for me. Where it ends for most of us. But at least we'll go down on our own terms and not theirs. We'll go down fighting for our right to exist.

Though, I have to admit, I'm not exactly thrilled about the prospect of being set on fire or having my head chopped off. I can think of better ways to spend a Friday night. But it sure beats spending the rest of my existence at an organ farm, an impact-testing center, or a human decay research facility.

If you've never been dismembered or crushed or allowed to slowly disintegrate until you turn into chicken soup, then you probably wouldn't understand.

I would like to thank my agent, Michelle Brower, for her support and enthusiasm and for believing in me. And for liking zombies. My editor, Laura Swerdloff, for her suggestions and insight and for listening to me when I complained. And for liking zombies. Julie Sills and Jillian Wohlforth for all of their energy and ideas, and everyone else at Random House and Broadway Books who helped to make this possible. And Clifford Brooks, Heather Liston, and Keith White for their invaluable feedback on the early drafts of
Breathers
, along with the rest of the Zombie Club for their support and camaraderie.

While I've taken certain liberties with post-mortem human physiology to suit the needs of my zombies, I couldn't have written this without doing some research. So I'd like to thank Dr. Trisha Macnair for allowing me to cannibalize her article on human decomposition, helping me to add a realistic, visceral touch to Andy's world. And I'd like to thank Mary Roach, the author of
STIFF: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers
, from whom I learned about sloughage, cadaver impact testing, and that up until 1965, necrophilia wasn't a crime in any U.S. state.

Finally, I'd like to thank my parents, my family, and all of my friends who have provided their love and encouragement over the years. Without all of you, this doesn't happen.