Love in the Time of Zombies (2 page)

I cue up the sound file, snag a cup of coffee from the kitchen, and settle in for the long slog of transcribing.

Mehta arrives a little after 10 and nods her head curtly. “Ms. Cross,” she says as she strolls by my desk. Then she closes her office door and sends me an email with the morning's priorities. The transcription I'm working on is fourth, so I stop what I'm doing and switch to number one: sending out a contract to Whitney Dhurrie, whose piece on the zombie pinball champion of Harlem is running in next week's Whirligig.

At 11:07, I get the buzz. “Ms. Cross, I find myself with a sudden desire for a chocolate doughnut. Please see what you can do about it.”

I can do plenty
, I think as I pick up out the lemon-yellow box. I knock at her door and wait for the brisk command to enter.

“Doughnuts,” I announce triumphantly, holding the box aloft.

“Thank you, Ms. Cross,” she says, her fingers flying across the keyboard. She doesn't stop typing. She doesn't look up. She doesn't notice that something is amiss—namely that only 43 seconds separated her request for doughnuts and my delivery of them. This is because in her universe, that's exactly how long it should take to have her desire fulfilled.

With sickening dread, I realized that rather than being successful on this occasion, I've been a failure on every other.

Although I'm thrown by this revelation, I refuse to be cowed by it. I straighten my shoulders and try again. “I have doughnuts from Claudette's.”

“Claudette's?” she asks, her typing as brisk as ever. “Where'd you get those?”

“From Claudette's,” I explain as I put the box down on her desk. Holding it up like a trophy feels meaningless now. “I picked them up this morning.”

Now Mehta stops writing and looks at me. “This morning? Before work?” She draws her brows together in confusion. “Before I asked for a doughnut?”

“Well, it
is
my job to anticipate your needs,” I say modestly, then open the box with a flourish to reveal a brightly colored assortment.

Mehta immediately homes in on a chocolate doughnut with rainbow sprinkles. “I must admit, Ms. Cross, that I'm impressed with your prescience. Well done.”

I wave my hand dismissively, as if getting doughnuts for my boss is something I do every day. Because it is. “I was running a little early this morning,” I say waiting for her to offer me one. There are 12 of them and only one of her. The math is undeniable.

And yet.

“I appreciate your effort. This doughnut is delicious, so delicious, that I find myself craving a cold glass of milk. Do you think you could track some down?”

“Of course,” I say, because the newsstand in the lobby stocks little boxes of milk in three flavors (vanilla, chocolate, strawberry) as well as plain. “I'll go out and get some ASAP. But first”—I take one deep, terrified breath—“I wanted to run an idea by you.”

Mehta raises an eyebrow. “An idea?”

“For an article. For Whirligig,” I explain quickly. “I want to pitch an article idea for Whirligig.”

There, I said it.

And now she gets to put the upstart intern back in her place.

But rather than slap me down, she leans back in her chair. “All right,” she says.

I'm prepared for a fight, and her mild reply almost derails my spiel.

“All right,” I say. “So, um, this month
Zombopolitan
magazine ran an article listing six surefire tips for dating a zombie that included things like what to wear and what to serve. It had a lot of detail, and I thought it would make a fun, informative first-person piece if I went on a date with a zombie and tried all the tips from the article.”

I pause to inhale and Mehta jumps right in. “I can see why you think that's a great idea, and I like that you're thinking about the magazine. I want to encourage you to do more of that. But dating a zombie isn't fresh enough for us.”

“The
Zombopolitan
article only came out two days ago,” I say, feeling defensive. How fresh does an idea have to be? Do I have to chat up reporters to find out what they're writing before they write it?

She nods. “I haven't seen the
Zombopolitan
piece, but several other publications have written on the same theme in recent months.
The New Yorker
has already done a Shouts & Murmurs with fake zombie-dating tips such as: Don't date a zombie.”

“Oh.”

“I'm surprised you haven't noticed the trend. In the last two months, about a dozen publications have written articles advocating female human–zombie male relationships. It's such a thing that
The Daily Scoopage
has created an entire conspiracy behind it, claiming that the increased coverage is due not to zombie dating reaching a tipping point but to Geyser & Meiser engineering a campaign to create a zombie-dating culture in an effort to increase sales of its number-one-selling zombie-behavioral-modification medication, Zombachol.”

The Daily Scoopage
is a supermarket rag that peddles a lurid mix of celebrity gossip, government conspiracies, and zombie curiosities. Its cover features fuzzy images of so-called unconfirmed zombie phenomena such as Zombyeti, Cuprazombra, and Zombzilla. The photos are ostensibly taken by a crew of fearless photogs rushing headlong into dark forests and dense jungles to bring the truth to light, but anyone who hasn't been completely zombified can tell that the pictures are doctored by a skilled team of Photoshoppers.

The tabloid is an embarrassment to journalists everywhere. It's the polar opposite of
The Xombie Review
and the last place on earth I would work.

And that's why Mehta's point is so well taken. If
The Daily Scoopage
is making up conspiracies about something, then it doesn't belong in Whirligig (or anywhere, really).

“I didn't realize,” I say quietly.

Mehta leans forward and wipes doughnut crumbs onto a Claudette's napkin. “We live in an accelerated culture, and sometimes it's hard to keep up. The key to a successful Whirligig is anticipating the curve. Don't write something reactive; write something proactive. If Joannie Stunt Girl over at
Zombopolitan
is giving tips on how to date a zombie, then you give tips on how to date a human male. See what I mean? Be one step ahead.”

“Date a human male?” I repeat, dazed by the absurdity of the suggestion. She might as well have said date a unicorn.

If that's the crazy-high bar to get into Whirligig, I might as well give up now and go work for
The Daily Scoopage.
They could Photoshop me on a date with a human male and stick it on the cover.

Mehta smiles. “Well, I was just using that as an example, but if you can somehow get a date with a human male, then I can pretty much guarantee you an item in Whirligig.”

I don't know how many times Mehta has said, “I can pretty much guarantee you an item in Whirligig” in her lifetime. Perhaps she says it once a week; perhaps this is the first time ever. Regardless, she said the words to me now and there's no going back.

I can pretty much guarantee you an item in Whirligig.

I will find a human male, I'll date him, I'll write it up, I'll publish it in Whirligig, I'll get a job as an assistant editor at
The Xombie Review
, I'll have the life I've always wanted.

And that's that.

Feeling charged and ready for battle, my heart racing with an unprecedented sense of purpose, I thank Mehta She was far more kind and encouraging than I'd ever expected. She's an insightful editor, a great boss and an excellent mentor. I can feel myself being molded as I stand there.

“Thank you for the doughnuts, Ms. Cross,” she says, proving that she's also a thoughtful person.

I'm the luckiest intern in the world.

As I close the door to her office, she reminds me to fetch her milk from the newsstand in the lobby.

According to the literature of the time, the best way to meet a single man in the waning days of the twentieth century was by accident. You would trip over his briefcase or pick up his cell phone by mistake or hail the same cab. This form of introduction was called a “meet cute.”

That's a difficult concept to grasp, because I was six years old when the 99.9999 percent of men on earth turned into disgusting blobs of rotting, stinking flesh. Clearly, before the zombie apocalypse struck, the world was a far cuter place.

Women were far more adorable, too. Per my research, they frequently lost the ability to speak coherently in the presence of an available male, a phenomenon known as “babbling.” Similarly, they lost all coordination and the ability to properly control gross motor function. This stumbling around was called “bumbling.” In some cases, women were required to hide their intelligence, a process called “playing dumb.” This was done to appease the male ego.

There were tons of rules for dating in the late 1990s, some of them from a book actually called
The Rules
. In addition to
The Rules
, I spend days poring over relationship manuals, advice columns, and thoughtful novels confusingly described as women's fiction. I also watch clips of pre-plague TV shows and movies. Sitcoms, in particular, offer illuminating examples of women playing down their abilities, usually proving how much smarter they are than their husbands in smug asides so that the men don't have to know the truth. I get it: This total father-knows-least cluelessness
is
adorable.

A surprising amount of the literature focuses on the actual places you could meet a man—surprising because men were literally all around: behind you on the checkout line, beside you at a traffic light, next to you on the subway. There was such an abundance of human males, you'd think all you had to do was turn to your left to meet one cutely. In reality, however, you had to seek them out by, say, signing up for an auto-repair class at the local community center. The idea was to find a place where men gathered and gather there, too.

What works during times of abundance would seem to work twice as well in times of scarcity, so I stake out the closest sperm-donation center, which is located in Long Island City. The building is spare and squat, with yellow aluminum siding and a low roof. Before the plague hit, it was a nightclub called the Cathedral, which I presume was ironic, as there's nothing grand about it. It was probably built in the 1960s to store loaves of Wonder Bread.

“I don't get what we're doing,” Cammie says, sliding down in the car seat next to me as she rests her sneakers on the glove compartment.

“We're figuring out how to get in,” I explain, again. Given that all unzombified human males are required by law to pass on their H1Z1-resistant genes, a sperm-donation center seems like the ideal place to meet men. “And get your feet down. This is a rental.”

Cammie drops her feet with a hefty sigh, as if resting them on the floor of the car is the world's greatest hardship. I want to be annoyed by the drama, but I can't. Sighing heftily is Cammie Corrigan's signature move. It's like her catchphrase.

“That's a Provisional Government Authority Class-A governmental facility,” she says, as if speaking to a child. “You can tell because it's surrounded by a ten-foot-high gate and barbed wire.”

“I know.”

“The only way for you to ‘get in' is to break in.” She shifts again, this time crossing her legs. “You need a retina scan just to enter the parking lot.”

“You do?” I say, leaning forward to get a better look at the kiosk-like structure at the parking lot entrance. “I thought that was a vending machine.”

“Really, Hattie?” she asks, her tone contemptuous. “That big silver thing that everyone is staring into looks like a candy dispenser to you? Really?”

“Soda, too,” I mutter.

Cammie stares at me without blinking until I'm forced to look away. She's always been able to beat me at that. Always.

“I still don't get why we're here.” She looks around at the quiet street lined with warehouses and an Italian restaurant with a neon sign that says Gio's Trattoria.

“I told you.” And I had—eight times. “If I can get a date with a unzombified human male,
The Xombie Review
will run my story in Whirligig. It's the single biggest opportunity of my life.”

“And you're going to go on a date in there?” she says, gesturing to the low, squat building. I can understand her concern. There was very little about the utilitarian structure that said romance.

“There's probably a staff cafeteria,” I point out reasonably. “I don't have to give chapter and verse on the date. I just need to meet a man, have a conversation with him and take photographic evidence. So what if we don't eat lobster thermidor or go dancing at the Rainbow Room? Two or three good quotes and I'm done. And maybe a cute anecdote about how I stumbled over his briefcase and babbled an apology.”

Cammie stares at me again, but I know better than to get into a contest. “You realize you're insane, right?” she says. “That isn't breaking news.”

Just then, a black SUV turns left into the parking lot. Since it's the third such vehicle in an hour, I'm pretty sure this is how the human male donors arrive. The car must pick them up and chauffer them to the facility, where they fulfill their patriotic duty before being driven back home.

“I still don't get why I'm here.”

“I wanted company.”

“Okay, but why me?”

“Because you're a student.”

“At the police academy,” she says, with particular emphasis.

“Yeah, so you have the inside track.”

“You want inside track? How about this: Illegally entering a Class-A government facility carries a ten-year sentence at a maximum-security prison.”

The driver of the SUV pulls up to the retina-scanning machine, lowers her window, and leans forward. She waits a moment, then pulls something from the machine. The item could very well be a receipt or a ticket, but from this distance I can't definitively rule out a super-thin candy bar.