Dead Men (and Women) Walking (16 page)

At that point his father
would always bring forth his main

argument: zombies were
violent and dangerous, which anyone with half a brain – dead or
alive – knew wasn’t true. A zombie was like a loaded gun in the
wrong hands, true; but left to its own devices, it was meek,
somewhat pathetic and kind of sweet.

Mr. Birnbaum and his wife
were babes in arms next to Mrs. Roberts from the second floor, not
that Nick’s dad would ever believe that. So far as he was
concerned, Mrs. Roberts was simply a beldame with certain needs –
an aged lady first, a retired schoolteacher second, and a vampire
only a distant third.

“
You’re only being such an
asshole because Mom left, and the guy she went with is fully human,
so that’s really no excuse.” Nick always thought so during his
father’s rants, but he’d only said so once, and the following day
the school nurse had threatened to call a social worker. Ever since
then he kept his thoughts strictly to himself.

Nick hurried down the dark
street from the convenience store. He skirted the half a dozen
ghouls squatting around the burning barrel on the corner and made a
beeline for the ill-lit entrance to his building. In his shopping
bag the milk carton collided with the disposable plastic cage. The
mice inside the cage squeaked in unison.

When Nick was five years
old, he woke up one night to find a face floating, pressed against
the outside of his bedroom window. It was only upon its third
appearance that he recognized Mrs. Roberts. She kept coming to leer
at him through the long nights of his childhood, but he never
invited her inside, and he never told anyone.

She stopped coming soon
after Nick’s tenth birthday.

Nick suspected her
preference for baby mice tied in with her choice of occupation, not
to mention the night terrors of the building’s youngest residents.
It was a private suspicion, though, never voiced. Nick loved his
father, but he couldn’t find it in himself to trust the old man’s
judgment.

The mouse cage was deposited
on Mrs. Roberts’s doorstep; the doorbell was rung briefly. Nick
lost no time running up the six flights of stairs to his door,
knowing she could hear him every step of the way, not
caring.

His dad didn’t look up from
their old TV set when Nick handed him the change, so he probably
wouldn’t notice the missing quarters which were the price of
Tessa’s favorite chocolate bar, currently nestled in Nick’s pocket.
He planned to give it to her next Tuesday, in Human Science
class.

He wouldn’t make plans
beyond that point. The thought of her reaction to his silly gesture
was scary enough without envisioning what it would be like to
introduce Tessa, a daughter of werewolves, to his
father.

Nick was resolved to take
things as they came, one step at a time.

By Garth Wright

Jim Turner did not know at
first what he was dealing with. The woman looked malnourished, wore
torn jeans and a t-shirt caked with dirt, and acted completely out
of her mind. She came at him lurching as though half-drunk, or on
such a drug high he expected her to pass out in mid-stride.
Unfortunately she didn't. She made a bee-line for him, despite the
other pedestrians sharing the sidewalk, all giving her a wide
berth. Her hands looked arthritic, fingers bent in a claw-like
fashion, and he barely caught her frail wrists in time as dirty
fingernails came at his face.

A few people paused briefly
to watch her feeble struggles as he held her, and then moved on,
but nobody questioned, nor stopped to help either of them, even as
he looked around confused. He relaxed his grip as she stopped
struggling, and she collapsed against him, fingers curled in his
shirt. Surely she couldn't be alone, yet nobody in the crowds gave
either one of them another passing glance. He patted her awkwardly
on the back, consoling her with a "There, there, no harm done," and
looked around for an excuse to slip away from the despondent
woman.

When she seemed to show no
signs of letting him go, he sighed heavily, making up his mind.
"Listen," he said gently, "I'll take you some place where you can
get help. Maybe to a phone. Do you have someone you can
call?"

She shook her head slowly,
suddenly realizing as though for the first time his presence since
her initial attack, and pulled away from him. Glancing up and down
the street, he suddenly feared she would dart out into the heavy
evening traffic.

He hurried up to her,
grabbing her arm. "Let me help you." Her eyes met his, his words
barely sinking in. "Do you have a name?"

Her mouth opened and closed,
as though searching for words. When she found her voice, it was
cracked and dry. "I don't remember."

"Will you come with me, let
me get you help?"

She nodded, and swooned.
"Easy does it." He held her arm, feeling awkward, and guided her
away from the curb. "My apartment is close, just a block away. If
we need to we can call for an ambulance or cop from there." He very
much regretted not owning a cell phone suddenly. He wasn't sure he
wanted this woman in his apartment at all. He should've left work
on time, and then he wouldn't be in this situation.

He'd just been telling his
partner George at the lab that he didn't need the overtime that
bad, the car was almost paid off (though it needed a new
alternator, and until he had the money it would sit in the parking
lot), and his credit cards weren't overdue this month. But no, he'd
told the manager he'd take the hours since Sarah on the swing shift
was on pregnancy leave. And now here he was, stuck with some junkie
wanting to claw his eyes out, going to his apartment, where she
would probably puke before they even called anyone. Was it worth
the karmic brownie points?

Minutes later, they both
stumbled up the two flights of stairs to his place, Jim supporting
the woman who obviously felt obliged to dump all of her weight upon
him (not that she weighed much, maybe ninety-five?). The hallway
remained empty as he leaned her against the wall and fumbled the
key into the lock. He wasn't in the mood to answer questions of
prying neighbors anyway. The old lady in the corner apartment
didn't even have her head poking out. He must've timed it perfectly
while she was visiting the can.

"Okay now," he urged,
lifting the woman back to her feet, "I need you to start thinking
of someone to call, whether you want an ambulance or cop, or your
family." As they walked in, he grimaced at the smell of kitty
litter. Not that this lady will notice. She smells worse. He guided
her over to the couch, somehow managing to kick his cat and the
laundry onto the floor as the woman dropped down. "We've got
company, Rasputin." The cat glared at him and curled back up in the
laundry.

Jim scrambled around the
room, searching for the phone. Why didn't he ever put it by the
charger where he could find it? He dug through the mail on the
table, and beneath the pizza boxes, wiping his sweaty palms on his
jeans in anxiety. The bedroom! He'd spoken to his mother last night
before bed. Sure enough, the phone lay on the floor in a pile of
sheets. He walked hurriedly back to the woman, but her eyes were
closed, not registering his presence in the least.

He shook her gently. She
didn't budge. "Miss? I have the phone here. Lady?" She looked so
pale and lifeless. Suddenly cold chills shot up his spine. What if
she's dead? He grabbed her wrist searching for a pulse. Nothing! He
checked her neck. Nothing there either. "No! Wake up! You can't die
here," He covered his face with his hands. "My landlord will kick
me out."

Now he supposed he should
call the cops. What an idiot he was, taking some junkie to his
place. He should've gone to some place public. Now there would be
questions, people pointing, rumors, and hell to pay. His mother
would probably quit calling and sending him money.

He went to the refrigerator,
searching for a beer. Nothing but expired milk. Well, his
grandfather never seemed to mind the taste. He poured some into a
glass and drank it down, grimacing. Now he could think. He would
have to do what was right. He walked back over to the corpse, but
found her sitting up, eyes staring at him.

For a second, his heart
leaped to his throat, but the shock was quickly replaced by joy.
"You're alive! You scared the hell out of me. I thought you'd
died."

She didn't smile, nor did
she respond. Her eyes stared at him with a strange mixture of
loathing and something akin to hunger, and they never
blinked.

He froze where he stood,
suddenly unable to approach her. "The phone." He motioned in her
general direction, and leaned back in what he hoped was a casual
manner. "It's, uhm, right there next to you. That is, if you're
ready to use it now. If you, you know, uhh, remember someone you
can call." He swallowed. "Would you like some milk?"

Still she did not respond
verbally, nor did her expression change as she slowly stood. Her
hands once more looked prepared to gouge out his eyes. Then she
fell to the floor.

At first Jim thought she
tripped. Then rapidly it dawned on him that the motion was more of
a pounce as his cat let out an ear-splitting wail. The woman sat on
her knees, huddling over Rasputin. Blood ran from between her
fingers where they dug through flesh and fur, and her teeth were
buried into the cat behind its head. Before he could figure out her
actions in any semblance whatsoever of a rational thought, Rasputin
stopped squirming.

He surged forward trying to
pull her head and hands off the cat. "Stop eating my cat!" he
shrieked, giving her hair a hard tug. Her head whipped up, hissing
at him. Blood and gore dripped from her sanguine chin, her eyes
bloodshot and angry. Before he could react, her hand shot up.
Filthy claws raked his cheek as he threw himself back. "What the
hell?" he gasped, crawling away from her. If he made it to the
kitchen, maybe he could scare her off with a knife. There was no
karmic brownie point for helping this person. This was a karmic
backhand. His progress stopped when his head contacted the
counter.

As he watched in horror, she
sucked her bloody fingers clean of the gore, one by one. The
curdled milk in his stomach threatening to heave itself back up.
She grabbed the cat's tail and tossed it across the room where it
landed with a wet slap next to the lamp. Then she smiled, licked
her lips slowly as she fell forward on her hands and knees,
crawling toward him.

"Take what you want!" Jim
shrieked, "You can have the cat! I won't stop you again. Stay
away!"

Whether she heard him or
not, she gave no sign, but continued crawling toward him. There was
no sign of the frail woman now, only a bloodthirsty, cat-eating
psychopath making its way toward him. He kicked his feet at her,
but she pinned them down with unnatural strength, her nails digging
through his pant legs. He threw a punch at her, and her hands were
there as well, blocking each blow as though he were nothing but an
angry toddler. She bore him down, her body pressing against him.
Her breath stank of dirt and dead cat as she brought her face to
his own, a black tongue darting out to lick his neck, traveling up
along his chin, tasting him. Though he struggled, he could not
move.

From the other side of the
room, he faintly registered the sound of someone knocking, though
it merged well enough with the thudding of his heart that he almost
denied it. He weakly called out "Help!" as the black tongue darted
into his open mouth.

But as fortune would have
it, the visitor at the door must have heard his screams, for the
door opened and a shadowy figure walked in. He was saved! Hands
grabbed her, lifting her off of him, dragging her back to the
couch. He didn't know his savior; he'd never seen the man before.
He shook his head, taking in the mess, including the cat, with a
sweep of his eyes.

The man walked back over to
him, extending a manicured hand to help him up. He was dark of
skin, well-dressed, and when he spoke, his words were heavy with
some European accent. "I am sorry. She hasn't developed any
etiquette yet."

Jim stood on shaky legs.
"She ate my cat," he said weakly.

"Oh yes. That." The man
shook his head in disgust. "I thought she had better
taste."

Better taste? "Who is she?"
Jim asked, "Who are you?"

The man, though, was walking
away from him, back to the woman. "My dear, you knew better than to
run away again," he scolded, "I can always find you. And you've
made such a mess of yourself this time."

She looked up at him as he
approached. "I'm hungry," she whined, clutching at his pant
legs.

The man reached down and
pulled her gently to her feet. "You must promise not to run away
again."

Jim shook his head in
bewilderment. "So what's wrong with her?"

Before he could register the
movement, the man was standing next to him, fists wrapped in Jim's
shirt, holding him off the ground. "Nothing is wrong with my bride.
How dare you!"

"But she ate my cat!" Even
as the words came out, he knew he should've held his tongue. The
man tossed him against the wall, where he landed next to his dead
feline.