Zombies: The Recent Dead (23 page)

The next day he called for her, trying to inject sunshine into his voice. He remembered sunshine, wistfully.

Hi Caroline, this is Jerry.

Hello, Jerry. How are you?

Very well, thanks.

That’s good. I had a really fun time on the hayride, Jerry. Thank you for taking me.

I enjoyed it, too. That’s why I was calling, Caroline. I wanted to apologize for my behavior at your place. I shouldn’t have run off like that. You said it was okay if I hung around, and I should have trusted you.

Oh gosh, Jerry, there’s no need to apologize. I understand. You were just trying to be sweet.

You’re not mad at me then?

Of course not.

Wow, that’s great to hear, Caroline. I wasn’t sure. I mean, I didn’t know. My eye . . .

You’re fine, Jerry.

How about if I make it up to you anyway? The gang is going sledding this afternoon. Do you want to go?

Well, to be honest, Jerry, I was hoping we could do something by ourselves once.

Oh no . . .

Uh, what did you have in mind?

Why don’t we just go for a walk? What do you say?

Jerry knew what he had to say.

Sure, Caroline, that sounds swell. What time do you want me to come over?

How about three?

Three it is.

Terrific. I’ll see you then.

Goodbye, Caroline.

Jerry spent the rest of the day wringing his hand.

He couldn’t keep his problem in his pocket all afternoon. He had to be honest with Caroline. If only they had given me gloves, he thought with high melancholy.

Three o’clock came like it couldn’t wait to see him humiliated.

Jerry hated the fact that he felt trepidation about seeing Caroline. He wanted to feel excitement, anticipation, affection. Not this squeamish, nervous feeling.

On the way over to Caroline’s, Jerry felt an odd sensation and it had nothing to do with his interior life. Something in the region of his feet. Suddenly he had trouble walking. And he didn’t have to look to know that his toes had been eaten away by time or worms or some burrowing creature.

Jerry didn’t get upset, just philosophical. He had hit some kind of plateau, gone from a being with one foot in this world and the other foot in the next, to both feet on the verge of rotting off his legs.

When his deterioration had been easy to hide, it had been possible to keep up appearances, pass as something he was not.

But now, with a dangling eye, stumps instead of fingers, a lot of extra space down at the end of his polished black shoes, there was only one path to take.

Jerry presented himself to Caroline as he was, a young man on the downside of his death. He hobbled the rest of the way to her place.

She was waiting for him, smelling the plastic flowers. A ice-crusted bouquet of pale purples, reds, and yellows.

Hi, Caroline.

Oh hi, Jerry. I didn’t hear you coming.
She looked at him with concern.
Are you okay? You’re walking so strangely.

This was it.

Well, Caroline, you see, my feet are rotting away. And my hand. He displayed it for her.
And tried to force a smile on his natural and peaceful face.
I’m a real mess, aren’t I?

Maybe we should just stay here today. We could talk or something.

I want to walk,
said Jerry.
Please walk with me, Caroline.

Sure, Jerry. I’ll walk with you.

They slowly strolled among the monuments and trees, stark oaks coated with ice, evergreens hanging heavy with snow. The moon was circled by a pale orange halo.

Why is it happening now, so fast?
Caroline gently asked him.
Just the other day you were fine.

Bud says it’s because I won’t rest in peace.

Have I met Bud?

I’m not sure. Bud Pollard. 1959-1976. Loving son devoted student friend of the community.

Oh, yes, I remember seeing him.

He’s a good guy. He’s always given me helpful advice.

I’m so sorry, Jerry. What are you going to do?

They had reached a bench sheltered by a hedge planted in an arc. With every step it seemed harder for Jerry to walk properly. His gait was a rolling, teetering travesty.

Let’s sit down,
Jerry said, and she helped him do that.

She was seated on his left, so he was able to hold her hand properly.

Caroline put her head on his shoulder. The decay hadn’t hit there yet.

We need to have a talk,
Jerry said.

Okay.

They looked at each other, his dangling eye trying to get into the act, too.

You know, Caroline, you’re the first girl I’ve kept company with since I came here. And even if I would have known that dating you would make me decompose to beat the band, I wouldn’t have changed a thing, that’s how much I’ve treasured our time together.

I feel the same way. Listen, Jerry, pretty soon what’s happening to you will overtake me, too. My eyeballs will go pop, toes and fingers fall off, bits and pieces eaten away. And the bugs . . .

We have this time together. We have the present, before all that happens.

Yes, isn’t it wonderful?

Yes, but I’m withering away so quickly,
said Jerry.
I don’t know how long I’ve got before I won’t be able to go for walks, or ice skating, or anything.

Your suit still looks sharp.

I don’t want to rush us, Caroline, but those are the facts. If we let the days go by thinking things will always be the way they are now, one day we’ll wake up and I’ll just be a pile of sludge you used to call a friend.

Oh, Jerry, please, don’t talk like that.

We have to face it, Caroline. We can’t deny this.
He reached out for her with his rotting stump. She drew her hand away.

He gazed grimly at her.
This is our future, Caroline. In a few days you’re going to be afraid to even look at me.

A few remnant tears squeezed themselves from her barren ducts.
I won’t be afraid, Jerry. I promise.

Jerry hesitated for a moment.
What I’m saying, Caroline, is that if you want us to have any sort of . . . physical relationship, we can’t wait.

Caroline’s peaceful, natural face was clouded with sadness.

I’m sorry it has to be like this,
said Jerry.
I know this isn’t considered good dating etiquette. It’s not proper to pressure a girl into intimate relations. If there was another way . . .

No, you’re right,
she said.
We have to face this. I don’t want death to be denial, too.

They sat in quiet spaces for a time, holding hands. A nuthatch lit on an evergreen branch, then flew off when it realized it wasn’t alone. Its weight disturbed the branch, sending a dusting of snow down upon the heads of the dead.

So, Caroline,
Jerry said shyly,
do you want to go back to my place?

Jerry’s place was in bad need of a dusting.

It’s not much,
he said,
but it’s home.

I like it. It’s cozy.

Are you comfortable? he asked her.

I’m just fine. It’s nice to be so close to you.

Don’t worry about hurting me.

I won’t. Can we do something about that eye? It’s sort of in the way.

Oh, sure. Hang on . . . got it. Is that better?

Much better. Now I can touch your face, all over.

He began to touch her, too.

You don’t think I’m easy, Jerry, do you?

No, of course not.

Have there been other girls . . . like me?

No, only the living.

That makes me feel good.

As they began to probe and pet, and then proceed to the most private of realms, Jerry began to feel parts of himself break away, disintegrate. His fine suit slowly collapsed in upon itself, soaking up what remained of his bodily fluids.

Jerry suddenly felt disgusted, even horrified and he didn’t know why.

I have very strong feelings for you,
Caroline whispered to him.

I feel the same about you.

What’s wrong with me? he wondered. This should be the crowning moment of my death. Why do I feel so terrible, so guilt-wracked, so . . . wrong?

Caroline sensed it, too.
What’s going on? Are you okay?

I’m okay,
he said.
I’m okay.

But he wasn’t. This felt so wrong, so . . . immoral.

At the very moment they consummated their deaths, as his body rotted away to utter uselessness, a shock of awareness hit him, as he understood what had disturbed him, why everything had felt so wrong.

And why now everything was feeling so right.

The final dating secret.

Jerry realized, as both of Caroline’s eyes popped out upon her climax, and their precious ooze commingled, that if a living person has intimate relations with a dead body, it’s called necrophilia.

If two dead bodies have intimate relations, it must be love.

About the Author

David Prill
is the author of the cult novels
The Unnatural, Serial Killer Days
, and
Second Coming Attractions
, and the collection
Dating Secrets of the Dead
. “The Last Horror Show,” from the
Dating Secrets
collection, was nominated for an International Horror Guild Award. His short fiction has appeared in
The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Subterranean, Cemetery Dance,
and at Ellen Datlow’s late, lamented
SciFiction
Web site. His story, “The Mask of ’67,” was published in the 2007 World Fantasy Award-winning anthology
Salon Fantastique
, edited by Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling. Another story, “Vivisepulture,” can be found in
Logorrhea: Good Words Make Good Stories
, edited by John Klima. He lives in a small town in the Minnesota north woods.

Story Notes

When the words “zombie romance” started being flung around a couple of years back, all I could think was:
A zom-rom-com classic was already published back in ought-two!
Okay, so maybe it’s not sexy enough for today’s market and the new-style zombie love is just
not
going to take decomposition into account. But Prill manages to pull off a combination of Booth Tarkington, those health class films and brochures that were out of date even when I was a teenager, laugh-aloud dark humor, adolescent psychology commentary, and a poignant story of first—albeit post-mortem—love. It even ends happily. I mean, as happily as it can . . . under the circumstances.