Pariah

20

As they hoisted the fifth load of canned and dry goods into the windows of 2B, the girl looked up at them, indifferent as when she’d arrived. Everyone was sweatier than usual, but there was a feeling of giddiness and camaraderie that hadn’t been evident in the group since ever. One bag toppled over in the excitement and several mouths involuntarily began to drool at the sight of such delicacies as Hormel Chili, Dinty Moore Beef Stew, Del Monte Lite Fruit Cocktail, and more. Even good old SPAM. Several eyes were also leaking, but with anticipated pleasure for a change.

“Okay, then,” the girl announced, her voice wholly monotone. With that she picked up her own shopping bags, turned around and began to head south in no particular hurry. On her back was a bulging button- and badge-festooned Hello Kitty backpack, its beady black eyes as blank as hers.

“Wait! Wait!” Ellen screeched, hating the desperation in her voice.

The girl stopped and looked back. “What?”

What?

“Can’t you stay?” Ellen shouted, regaining composure.

“Why?”

Why? Was this chick for real? Was she so shattered by the world she couldn’t even be horrified by it any more? It was possible. It was certainly possible. Around her, for the first time in months, the zombies’ barely functioning brains were engaged, and they didn’t like it. The bounty in the building above tantalized them, out of reach. For a moment Ellen wondered if the zombies were as hungry as she was. The girl was clearly abhorrent to them. Inarticulate confusion and chagrin reigned, displayed in a chorus of guttural grunts and thick, phlegmy hissing. In direct contrast, the girl stood there, calm as a mink at a PETA rally.

“Why?” Ellen repeated, dumbfounded. “Because we need you to stay. Won’t you please stay and help us?”

The others all nodded encouragement at Ellen, mutely acknowledging their acceptance of her as their advocate. As they fought the urge to tear into the groceries they watched the back and forth between the two females, their heads looking up, then down in unison, like spectators at a lopsided tennis match.

“You want me to stay,” the girl said, sounding it out for her own benefit.

“Yes. Yes we do. Very much. Please stay. We’d be very grateful if you did.”

Ellen was trembling, trying to keep it together. The girl stood there and looked at her feet, which were encased in black combat boots. She wore longish black cargo shorts, low on her hips, exposing a generous helping of her very healthy-looking belly. She had no boobs to speak of, but possessed wide, womanly hips. Her hair, also black, was short, choppy, and boyish. She wound and unwound the cord of her earbuds around her hand, pondering, occasionally fanning away a pesky fly. Epochal seconds passed.

“Yeah, okay,” she finally responded, voice flat as the world before Columbus.

Ellen and Alan set up her expandable dining table on the roof and Dabney fired up the slightly rusty hibachi he’d found two roofs over, preparing to share their first communal meal since they’d been forced into these straits. Paper and plastic plates and utensils were distributed, freshly liberated from Food City along with all the comestibles. Everyone greedily eyed the various cans and boxes as they were freed from the plastic shopping bags, their colorful labels beacons of the feast yet to come.

“Fuckin’ awesome,” Eddie declared, holding aloft a bag of Doritos.

At first the meal had been hard to enjoy, everyone’s reawakened sense of smell welcome as the scent of grilling meats and veggies seduced them, then not so welcome as they choked on the stench of their rotting neighbors down in the street. But good smells triumphed over rotten and soon dishes brimming with steaming hot meat products and vegetables were devoured with relish. Real relish. Jars of it. Condiments had reverted to seasoning status, to enhance but not be the main course.

The mood was high and the behavior almost courtly, each course consumed amidst choruses of “please” and “thank you.” Even Eddie was caught up in the graciousness. His mama would’ve been proud. The SPAM family of products-Hot & Spicy, Lite, Oven Roasted Turkey, Hickory Smoked, and Classic, of course-had never tasted so good.

“This is like filet mignon,” Abe said, savoring a chunk of the briny potted meat.

“Better,” Karl said, shoveling a heap of baked beans onto his plate. “Oh my God, I can’t believe how great this is.”

Innumerable permutations of the same sentiment were repeated throughout the repast, punctuated by grateful belches and the occasional fart. When everyone was too stuffed to budge, Abe, being the resident old man of Jewish persuasion, uttered the customary cornball joke that follows big meals: “Waiter, check please.” But rather than the groans of embarrassment he’d gotten in the past from his family, laughter erupted, even from Ruth. Abe blinked in astonishment and said, “No one ever laughs at that line. We should starve to death more often.”

“Ucch, Abraham. Quit while you’re ahead.” Even Ruth got a laugh.

It had been a long while since anyone’s stomach ached from overeating, but that was the case, and the pain was delectable. A symphony of blurps and blorps, gastric juices breaking down adult-size portions, serenaded the residents of 1620 as they rubbed full bellies and had seconds and thirds. When no one could cram down any more, Alan and Karl brought the soiled disposable dishes and so forth to the edge of the roof and rained the debris down on the zombies below, feeling smug in their well-fed state. Ellen’s smile faded and her brow furrowed as it hit her the girl was not among them. She hadn’t even partaken of the feast.

“What kind of ingrates and assholes are we?” she gasped, slapping her forehead.

“Huh?” Alan said, turning to face her.

“The girl. The girl! Our good Samaritan! We didn’t even invite her to join us. Are we insane?”

“Crazed by hunger, yeah,” Eddie said.

“It was an oversight,” Abe said. “No disrespect intended.”

“No disrespect? We’re idiots,” Ellen said.

“Don’t ruin the mo-”

Ellen raced downstairs and into 2A, where the girl sat by the window, feet up on the sill, nodding her head to the rapid beats assailing her ears. Ellen smoothed her features, then stepped over to the girl and gently tapped her shoulder. The girl looked up and again plucked out an earbud. “What’s up?” she asked.

“I, uh. We just ate, and I feel like a real idiot that we got so caught up in our celebration and all that we, uh… Christ, this is mortifying, that we, uh, forgot to invite you. It’s unconscionable and…”

“I ate earlier.” She was about to replace the earbud, but Ellen grasped the girl’s wrist and prevented it. The girl wasn’t miffed at all. She was indifference incarnate. Her sangfroid ruffled Ellen.

“Still,” Ellen said, “it was wrong of us and I’m really so, so, so very sorry.”

“No sweat.” Again the girl made to replace her headphone.

“I, uh,” Ellen half laughed and managed a fretful smile. “I, that is, we don’t even know your name. We should have been having this dinner to celebrate your arrival. The food just made us forget the whole raison d’être for our party, which is pretty stupid.”

“No big. Can I, uh?” She gestured with the rappity-tapping earbud.

“Your name. Could you at least tell me your name?” Ellen hoped she didn’t sound hysterical, but this girl’s demeanor was rattling her, big time.

“Mona.”

“Mona, I’m Ellen,” she said, offering her right hand, which Mona shook. Her handshake was unexpectedly firm, though it might just seem so to Ellen, her hand being so frangible.

“Okay then.” And with that Mona slipped the earbud back in and resumed nodding her head.

Ellen stood there, uncertain what to do. Though there was no belligerence from Mona whatsoever, she felt as if royalty had dismissed her, which was irrational. Maybe Mona was just getting her bearings, a stranger in new surroundings. Up close and personal, Ellen admired Mona’s complexion, which was smooth and perfect, the bridge of her nose and cheeks lightly freckled. Mona’s eyes, though listless, were blue as the Caribbean. Her lips were bee-stung, and pointed up slightly in the corners, as if caught in a permanent smirk. Ellen’s eyes traveled down Mona’s neck, which was solid and round, not a course of concavities and sinew like her own. Maybe now that food was back on the menu Ellen could look forward to being curvy again. What a thought.

Freckles speckled Mona’s shoulders, which flared out in a strong V, and while her arms weren’t exactly muscular, they were solid. All of her was solid. Ellen cast her eyes toward Mona’s legs, which rested on the sill, one ankle cocked atop the other, the toe of the boot tapping out the tattoo of her private tunes. Tattoos. That’s what Mona was missing. Though she looked the type her skin was bare of decoration. Her calves looked formidable. This girl did a lot of walking. Maybe in no hurry, but she’d been out there on foot, somehow surviving.

“Okay then,” Ellen echoed, certain Mona wasn’t listening, and turned and walked back toward the door. As she reached for the doorknob Mona said, “Hey,” causing Ellen’s chest to seize.

“Yes?” Ellen answered, heart thudding.

“This my space or do I hafta share?”

“N-no. This is yours, if you want it. The apartment across the hall is vacant, too, if you’d like that one better. Or there’s one on the fifth floor if you…”

“This is fine.”

Ellen was about to say something, but Mona poked the buds back in and that was that, which was probably for the best. Ellen stepped into the common hall, closed the door to 2A, and stood there, still feeling that sense of unreality. She could hear sounds of reverie from the roof, the jubilant mood persisting. Ellen felt none of it now, but didn’t want to be a killjoy. Let the others luxuriate in the moment. Eat, drink and be merry, she thought, for tomorrow we suss out our benefactress.

“Maybe she’s just antisocial,” Alan said, wanting to fall asleep while still enjoying the sensation of fullness. How long had it been since anyone in the building had gone to bed not hungry?

“It’s more than that,” Ellen said, her tone firm. “It’s like she’s not quite there.”

“That’s kind of a snap judgment, isn’t it? How long has she been here, five hours? She’s been out there on her own for who knows how long, probably lost everyone she ever knew. Yeah, she seems a little out of it, from what little I saw, but she’ll come around. We’re like a bunch of needy kids she’s been saddled with out of nowhere. Give her a little time to adjust. You should be grateful she showed up.”

“I am. Don’t put words in my mouth, or thoughts in my head, or whatever. I’m deliriously happy that she’s here. Hopefully we can get her to stay and go out and get more. If she’s immune to those things, hell yes I’m grateful. I didn’t hear any of the rest of you calling out to her to get her to help, so cut me some slack, Alan.”

“Jeez, relax a little. Just get some sleep, please. Tomorrow’s another day.” And with that he rolled over and blew out the candle, illustrating that the conversation was over.

Ellen lay on her back absentmindedly rubbing her full stomach. Her full stomach. What the hell was she so worked up about? Alan was right. This girl was a godsend, simple as that. Was she jealous? Oh Jesus, if that was it she needed help. A young nubile girl arrives and what, she’s afraid she’ll lose her man? Oh that’s insane. But maybe that was what was troubling her. Mona was a pretty young thing with a pretty young body. On the one hand maybe Alan would cast an impure eye her way, but on the other, so might the apes across the hall. That would take some pressure off.

If Mona stuck around, Ellen could maybe fill out her skin again, put the curves back. Her breasts had once been brimming with milk, sustainers of life. She’d once had the tiny mouth of her infant daughter suckling her large, distended nipples. Her nipples had been in a perpetual state of stimulation. They’d felt raw, but vital. Mike had grown jealous, even resentful of the baby. “That’s my turf,” he’d said, insisting it was a joke, but Ellen and he knew full well that many truths were said in jest. “She gets one year grazing privileges, tops,” Mike had said, “then all rights revert to yours truly.” They’d laughed, but Mike would watch the baby nursing and raise an eyebrow, tap the crystal of his watch. “One year,” he’d repeat. “Not a day longer.”

Ellen’s hand drifted up from her belly and felt the hollowed lobes of flesh. She’d have them back. Maybe they wouldn’t produce sustenance any more, but they could make Alan happy. She traced orbits around her areola with her fingertip, the nipple responding, straining up to greet her digit.

Her baby.

Her dead baby.

She almost had to struggle to remember her name.

Fully hydrated for the first time in ages, Ellen lay there and shed nary a tear. She was all cried out. The world was a dead place full of dead things too stupid and stubborn to realize it. She remembered the boys in her old neighborhood that ran around playing cops and robbers or cowboys and Indians. They’d shoot cap guns or finger guns at each other shouting, “Pow! Pow!” even if they were firing caps. Then the recipient of imaginary lead was supposed to fall down. “You’re dead!” the boys would shout. “Fall down!” If the victim defied them with an impudent, “Uh-uh, you missed,” or “Make me,” arguments ensued and sometimes fists would fly.

Those things outside were poor sports that refused to fall down.

She could feel them, still restless from their encounter with Mona. There was some cognizance there. Maybe it was rudimentary, but those things knew something was up. Some groaned in their clabbered subhuman manner, sounds so thick and ugly they prodded Ellen’s bowels. Think happy thoughts, Ellen commanded herself. You will be beautiful again. You will be desirable again. Alan already desires you. You will be vital again.

Mona isn’t a threat.

Dabney lay on his tarp, staring up at the cosmos. The haze had cleared and for the first time in weeks the sky was pinpricked with countless stars. He ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth, sucking small deposits of food from between his teeth. His belly churned happily. There were leftovers on the table, which remained on the roof. Leftovers. How decadent. The only thing lacking in this equation was a cigarette. Oh sweet Lord above, a cigarette would be glorious. The thought sent a shiver of pleasure through his body. Dabney eased up off the ground, trod over to the table, and scooped out the remnants of a can of peas, then drank the pea water, swishing it around like a funky mouthwash. He thought about dental hygiene. Maybe that girl could get some toothpaste and Scope and whatnot. Listerine, but not the nasty medicinal kind. That minty stuff. Or the citrus kind! If it tasted like orange soda he’d gargle all day and keep the gingivitis at bay.

And cigarettes. Definitely cigarettes.

He was sorry he hadn’t spotted her. All his time up here playing lookout when there was nothing to see and the one time something was brewing he’d been napping on the job. Abe got that glory.

“Thank you, God,” he said aloud, just in case he seemed unappreciative.

With his lantern burning, Dabney polished off every morsel that remained.

“I wouldn’t mind breaking off a piece of that,” Eddie said, the only one in the building rubbing south of his belly. “Oh yeah. I didn’t get that good of a look, but she looked fuckin’ young, bronus. A little light in the tit-tay department, but I don’t care.”

“Sure, whatever,” Dave replied.

“Whatever? Pfff. Okay, bro, fine. More for me.”

Dave sighed expansively and shook his head.

“What? What, dude, what? You’re actin’ like her showin’ up isn’t the greatest thing since Girls Gone Wild.”

“Of course it is, but Jesus, Eddie, you’re already thinking about nailing her and she just got here. Plus which, unless rape is your new thing, maybe you oughta test those waters before you go assuming she’ll have anything to do with you.”

“Y’know, I never noticed what a sad sack o’ shit you can be sometimes. And you better stow that shit about the rape. That’s our business and no one else’s, capisce? I get wind of you spreadin’ that around and…”

“And what? Oh that’s right. Murder’s on your résumé, too.”

Eddie got up off the futon and stomped over to Dave, who sat on the carpet, back to the wall. Eddie stood with his legs spread wide, a posture of unquestionable dominance. He kept making and unmaking fists as he stared down at Dave, who looked up with defiance.

“What? You gonna hit me?” he asked. “You gonna kill me?”

Eddie glared at Dave, looked away, looked around the room. After a minute his posture relaxed, the expression on his face uncertain. “Why you gotta push my buttons, bro?” he asked, his voice a soft whine. “This was a good night and you had to go bringing up that old business.”

“Old business? It was what, a week or so ago? If that?” Who kept a calendar any more?

“You know what I mean. Look, whatever, okay? The Wandering Jewess was a mistake, bro. I told you I didn’t mean to… The Comet just got a little out of… Anyway, truce. Okay, bro? I don’t wanna end the day on a note like this.”

“How about a note like this, then?” Dave pulled Eddie’s shorts down.

With his eyes closed, Eddie conjured what’s-her-name’s face in place of Dave’s.

“So who’s the boy who cried wolf now, huh, Mrs. Bigshot? Who’s the gantser macher around here?”

“It isn’t nice to gloat, Abe,” Ruth said, but she smiled in spite of herself. Abe had done well. Very well. She curled around him and in the dark allowed herself to imagine Abe as he’d been when they met. To her complete surprise, Abe put his arm around her shoulders instead of shrugging her away. “Okay, maybe you can gloat a little. Our hero.” She kissed his cheek and restrained herself from smacking her lips to ease the tickle from his beard. Let the goyim have visions of sugarplums dancing in their heads. As Ruth drifted off she dreamt of shaving cream and fresh razors for Abe.

And soap and paper towels and deodorant.

She seldom cleaned the house any more-just the occasional cursory run with the broom-but now a radiant vision of Lysol and Comet and Soft Scrub and refills for her Swiffer, both wet and dry, floated through her brain. Suddenly she was young again, dancing like Fred Astaire-to heck with Ginger; Ruth wanted to lead! Her partner was a mop and the setting a palatial kitchen. As she danced every surface she passed gleamed, shaming every commercial for every domestic cleaning product ever made. White surfaces shone bright as a thousand suns. Was that a speck of grease on the stove top? With the grace of a dozen Baryshnikovs, Ruth leapt through the air and obliterated the offending stain with a balletic stroke of her sponge. And not some off-brand sponge, but a good one! An O-Cel-O!

Joined by a spectacular rainbow, sunbeams flooded the immense chamber. Disney-esque forest animals capered about-small cartoon birds chirping, tiny white bunnies hoppity-hopping, deer sweet and charming as Bambi-and Ruth shooed them all away with her magical mop. “No filthy dirty animals in my spotless kitchen,” she scolded in tones dulcet as Beverly Sills’s.

As the last critter fled the room the kitchen began to shake and shimmy, cabinets opening, dishes spilling to the floor, smashing to bits, creating fissures in the immaculate ceramic tile. Shards of shattered glass and china littered her utopia and her ears were assailed by the cacophony of raining utensils. The sun faded and the sky turned an ominous gray. The booming stentorian voice of God rang out.

“Get off of me. Ruth, please. Get off.”

“What did I do?” Ruth said, voice quaking.

“You’re crushing my arm. My arm’s gone numb.”

Ruth awoke to Abe jostling her head and shoulders in an attempt to free his sleeping arm.

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” Ruth sneered. “For this you wake me?”

“I got pins and needles. You want me to get gangrene like your mother?”

“You have to bring my mother into this, may her soul rest in peace? Ucch, Abraham.”

Ruth turned away from Abe as he rubbed his arm. Please God, she thought. I don’t ask much. Just send me back to my happy kitchen. And while you’re at it, send Abe some more pins and needles.

Karl pressed his lips to the Polaroid of Dawn-Anne McCarthy spread-eagle, then with a gentle flick of his wrist sent it spiraling down into the crowd below. “Au revoir, mon amour,” he whispered. He’d spent the last fifteen minutes removing all the pinups and centerfolds from his wall, balling them up, tossing the crumpled wads of paper out the window, watching them bounce off the empty noggins of the horde. The repetitive motion reminded him of feeding the animals at the Cleveland Metroparks Zoo-one of the few enjoyable memories he could conjure from his childhood that involved the presence of his old man-and equally rare for its involving animals not being killed by Big Manny. Each wadded-up piece of pornography stood in for a bygone peanut or piece of bread, and for a change thinking of those edibles didn’t make his empty stomach lurch because it wasn’t empty. Praise be.

The cleansing had nothing to do with faith, though. Not faith in the Almighty, at any rate-faith in maybe making time with the new arrival. Though he’d only glimpsed her as he’d hoisted up bag after bag of groceries, she looked incredible. And the way she was all dressed up in black with that funky knapsack, oh baby. She was a hip chick. She’d probably be into the same tunes. She looked like a Korn fan. Metal. Maybe Goth, which wasn’t really Karl’s thing, but he could fake being conversant in matters Gothy. He knew from The Cure and Bauhaus. Wasn’t that enough?

This cleansing was an act of optimism, his first since everything hit the shitter running. Her arrival was miraculous. No, this was no time to be thinking about God. If he thought about God he’d inevitably think about Big Manfred and that was the mental equivalent of saltpeter. Why ruin the moment? He was still young enough to pursue a girl like that without feeling like a dirty old man. She looked to be “of age,” not that a thing like that matters when all the lawmakers and law upholders are dead, dead, dead. What’s the age of consent in New York? But he’d have to be shrewd and charming. As sure as he was that he wanted her, he was equally certain that Eddie would make a play for her, too. Not that a hip chick like her would ever fall for a knuckle-dragging throwback like him. Dave, on the other hand, seemed perfectly content in his “secret” love for Eddie. He reminded Karl of all those Republicans who’d hoisted themselves on their own petards, preaching intolerance while pursuing clandestine same-sex relations. In public toilets. With male prostitutes. With underage senate pages. Real guardians of virtue, they were. Big Manny had voted for them all, the hypocrites. Oh irony. And all it had taken to nudge Dave out of the closet-mostly-was the apocalypse.

Karl plucked the final Playmate off the wall, a sloe-eyed Hawaiian hottie, Lourdes Ann Kananimanu Estores-Miss June 1982. This was tough. He’d “gone steady” with this gatefold since finding her in a thrift shop back in Akron that didn’t care how old you were as long as you had cash. He’d secreted her into his childhood bedroom and made sweet imaginary love to her countless times, his eyes tracing every velvet inch of her soft tan body. He’d overlooked her taste in music-The Rolling Stones, Bette Midler, The Cars, Bob Seger, Jimmy Buffett, The Eagles-in light of her overwhelming beauty. And he knew if they ever met he could swing her around to the real deal. Bette Midler? Jimmy Buffett? Well, she was from Hawaii.

Was she dead, too? Most likely.

She was probably one of those shambling piles of flesh-hungry rot. Maybe she’d been torn apart. The thought was too awful to contemplate. He held her in his quaking hands, unable to cast her into the abyss.

“There’s such a thing as too much optimism,” he said, folding her up with care and stowing her in a drawer. “Always have a back-up plan,” he added, patting the closed dresser.

Just in case.

21

Dabney was in his usual spot, selecting a suitable chunk to lob. When he found one that felt right, conformed to the hollow of his palm, he inched closer to the edge and scoped out the scene below, looking for a target. In his day he’d been a fair hand at amateur pitching and darts, so even though nine times out of ten he’d pick a recipient and miss, he at least liked to make the effort. He spotted a likely candidate down below, a slightly rotund one, seemingly stuck in one spot. From Dabney’s vantage point he couldn’t see why, but the corpulent corpse’s spilt entrails had tethered it to the base of a nearby streetlamp, and it was further anchored by the feet of its companions. It stood perfectly still as its cohorts shambled aimlessly around it.

Dabney rotated his wrist a couple of times to loosen up, then chucked the brick, admiring its graceful arc as it plummeted down across the avenue, then delighting in the unexpected as it collapsed the head of its intended target. The fat zombie disappeared as it sank into the crowd, creating a lumpy speed bump for its confederates. Dabney chuckled as he opened a can of mandarin orange slices and took a swig of the tangy syrup, the small, soft wedges of citrus brushing against his lips. He swished the liquid around in his mouth, savoring the sweetness. He remembered when he’d been laid low with chicken pox and then later mumps as a boy and how his mother had given him dishes of mandarin orange slices as a treat. They’d perked him up then just as they perked him up now, but thinking of his momma added a touch of melancholy and he put down the can and let out a mournful noise. “Oh, momma,” he sighed, then took in a big mouthful of preserved fruit. “Oh momma.”

“Why’d you do that?”

Dabney nearly shat himself, unaware he had company. He spun around and saw the girl. He was the only one in the building who hadn’t met her yet.

“You startled me,” he said, smoothing his features.

“Sorry.” She didn’t sound or look sorry, but she didn’t seem sarcastic either. “Why’d you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Throw the brick.”

“The brick? Oh, it’s something to do. Gives ’em something to chew on besides us.”

The girl contemplated his answer, then stepped over to the ledge and peered down, the toes of her boots resting right on the lip. Dabney began to sweat. “You ain’t planning on doing anything rash, are you, miss?” he asked. “Uh, miss? What’s your name, again?” He said again, but he didn’t know in the first place. For the first time since he’d arrived he felt out of the loop and rude, to boot. He should have come down and introduced himself. Thanked her. These tasty citrus slivers had come courtesy of this spooky little white girl and he hadn’t the manners to let her know he felt much obliged. He was too taken with his self-appointed role as The Roof Man, like some powerless superhero, or enigmatic loner, or plain old antisocial oddball.

“Mona,” she replied.

“Mona,” he repeated. “Well, Mona, you’re not thinking of doing anything foolish are you?”

“Like what?” she asked.

The feeling of déjà vu struck Dabney, this scene less heightened than Karl’s would-be jumper scenario, but weirder. Karl had been in an agitated snit. This girl was quiescent as a newborn at her momma’s teat.

Stop thinking about momma, Dabney thought.

“Your standing right on the edge has me a little nervous is all,” he said. “Maybe you oughta come away from there and let’s get introduced. My name’s John Dabney. Most visitors to my roof just address me as Dabney, but either will do. And I guess technically it’s not my roof, per se, but I sort of think of it that way.” He felt foolish running his mouth but didn’t stop. “I guess I owe you an apology, Mona.” He paused, hoping he’d engaged her, waiting for the stock response that didn’t come. The buzzing of flies filled the pregnant pause with white noise. Why was it called white noise? Dabney wondered. White neighbors. White noise. He blinked back to the moment, looking at the girl who hadn’t moved an inch. She was stolid as a figurehead on the prow of a ship, expression serene, skin unblemished. “I owe you an apology,” he repeated, trying to anchor himself in the present.

Thoughts of his seafaring days assailed him. That fat zombie sank like a ship in the ocean of ambulatory corpses. Thoughts of his momma ricocheted around his upper story, too. Maybe those orange slices were spoiled. No. They tasted just fine. Delicious. He’d smoked hashish many moons ago, while in Tangiers. He’d sampled peyote and psilocybin mushrooms while out west. This was the way of the mind and Dabney didn’t pretend to know what he was all about, least of all on a neuron-by-neuron basis. It was the girl, maybe. Dabney was used to dilapidated specimens like Ellen and Ruth, even though they barely ever manifested in his domain. To see a healthy female so impalpable was putting the whim-whams on him. She turned to face him and sat down, crossing her ankles. Relief flooded Dabney. Even if it weren’t his fault, had the girl tumbled off his roof he’d have felt responsible-at least partially. Worse yet, the others might tar him with a grief-stricken guilty brush. The only thing worse than having no luck is to get some then lose it in a trice.

“What for?” she asked.

“Huh?”

“The apology?” Asked with unblinking eyes.

“Oh, oh. Oh, for not introducing myself earlier. For not showing my appreciation for the wonderful food you’ve brought us. I should’ve come down and said thank you. I would have. I don’t want to make excuses, it’s just…” Dabney trailed off and considered his next words with care. “I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, ’cause I mean no disrespect, but, uh, how come those things don’t attack you like everyone else?”

“I guess they don’t like me.” Dabney looked at her, waiting for the rest, but that’s all there was. No further embellishment. The statement lay there like roadkill. “I need sunglasses,” she said, then got up and walked back into the stairwell.

Dabney stared into the half empty can of orange slices.

Or was it half full?

“We need to send Mona out for more supplies,” Alan said. “Specifically toilet paper. I don’t mean to be disgusting or anything, but just as with great power comes great responsibility, so too does food come with an unfortunate byproduct. Not that responsibility is unfortunate but… All I’m saying is…” Alan moaned from behind the closed door, tossing the crap-smeared wad of newsprint out the bedroom window-there was no window in the bathroom. Only a couple of broadsheets remained of his last copy of the New York Press. “Who’d ever think you could be sentimental about something like toilet paper? Or those moist butt wipes? Oh, those were heavenly.”

“Agreed,” Ellen replied. She knew just how he felt. Unlike the rabbit pellets she was used to producing, all those victuals had gotten her innards producing waste again, and it wasn’t pretty.

“I mean, it’s bad enough hanging your ass out the window to relieve yourself, but to then sandpaper yourself is the icing on the cake,” Alan continued with an audible wince. “So to speak. It’s all so medieval.”

“Enough already,” Ellen said, marching away from the closed portal. “We need to have a building meeting and compile a list of necessities, provided of course that Mona’s zombie repelling wasn’t some fluke and that she’s even willing to go out there and do it again. So I’ll get some paper, and top of the list will be moistened butt wipes.”

“Huzzah,” Alan shouted. “Thank you!”

Alan vacated the window and looked around for anything else to tidy with. Maybe Mona would come through with the goods, but until then he needed to do something. As bad as the Press was to read, it was twice as bad to wipe with.

A year or two ago Alan had undergone a minor surgical procedure and had been given an overnight basket by the staff, mostly dull items like a cheapo toothbrush, no-name toothpaste, a packet of generic facial tissues. But the highlight was a pump-spray bottle of Personal Cleanser. Friends would come by and he’d amuse them with its label, which bluntly proclaimed it to be “No-rinse, one-step cleansing for the perineum or body” containing “Gentle surfactants [to] aid in the removal of urine and feces.” He’d brought it home for a goof, but it had made his life far more bearable over the last several weeks. When he’d moved in with Ellen, he gallantly shared the last few spritzes with her, and now he wished he hadn’t.

Oh, for those gentle surfactants.

Alan’s butt stung from the newspaper and felt distinctly unclean. He felt like some tormented Bible character, which was already easy to do given the state of the world. But this was more personal. A civilized adult man should not have to walk around with a poo-crusted tush. He rummaged through a nearby drawer and filched a pinkish baby-T and finished his hygiene ritual. The soft cotton-poly blend did a better job and was much kinder to his hinder. Why hadn’t he thought of this before? Satisfied he’d done the best he could, he lobbed it out the window to join the Press in the alley below. Hopefully Ellen wouldn’t mind or even notice that he’d used a garment of hers. Then it hit him.

Oh fuck me.

Oh double fuck me twice.

Not hers. This wasn’t some hipster baby-T, it was an actual T-shirt that had belonged to her baby, no doubt imbued with all manner of sentimental value. Perspiration began to pour off his forehead.

Oh Jesus.

As a child, Alan and his mother had been invited by a coworker of hers to spend a weekend at the workmate’s summer cabin in Upstate New York. The work chum was a charming man, but Alan disliked him because he figured the guy wanted to put the make on his divorcee mother. Little had unsophisticated seven-year-old Alan realized the guy was gay. After dinner Alan excused himself, then raced into the guest bathroom and spent a fitful several minutes vomiting through his ass, only to be confronted with an absence of toilet paper. Panicked, sweaty, ass raw from the torrential outburst and too humiliated to cry out for toilet paper, he searched the tiny rustic chamber in vain for anything to wipe with. He ended up using a flowery lavender hand towel, which he balled up and tossed out the window. In a private after-dinner moment Alan scooted outside and buried it in the adjacent woods. Weeks later the coworker asked his mother if she had accidentally packed the towel with her things.

Hopefully Ellen wouldn’t notice.

“I want batteries,” Karl said, clutching his exanimate boombox. “Lots of batteries.”

“Maybe some of those emergency lights, like for when there’s a blackout. It would be awesome to have light after dark again. To read without eyestrain? That would be amazing,” Alan chimed in, Ellen playing secretary and jotting down all the suggestions. All but Mona had gathered in Ellen’s apartment and were seated in the sweltering living room, made all the hotter by the group’s body heat.

“Hey, what about one of those camping generators?” Dave said.

“Good one,” Eddie said, slapping Dave’s back.

“I’d like some fresh razors. Oh, since we’re talking batteries, how’s about a couple of those electric razors?” Abe suggested, earning him appreciative oohs and ahhs from the hairy-faced men in the room.

“And a fuckin’ hair clipper,” Dave said, ruffling his scraggy hair. “ ’Scuse the language,” he added, looking at Ruth’s reproachful expression.

“Eventually, and I know it’s not a necessity, but maybe some art supplies,” Alan said.

“Yeah, like you said, ‘not a necessity,’ ” Eddie sneered. “So chill on that shit, Picasso.” Since Alan stopped furnishing him with custom whacking matter, Eddie had ceased to be an art lover.

“Slow down,” Ellen said, her pen skating across the sheet of notepaper. The list was pretty long. The basic necessities were more nonperishable foodstuffs, fresh water, Alan’s precious-although she must admit they were superior, especially in the absence of bathing-moist butt wipes as well as traditional toilet paper, soap, toothpaste, dental floss and dental rinses, more candles and flashlights, and deodorant. “I don’t know how many trips Mona is going to want to make.”

“Hey, if she’s immune to those things, what else has she got on her schedule?” Eddie snapped. “We makin’ her miss her soaps? Pfff.”

“Yes, the exercise will do her good,” agreed Ruth, earning her a rare smirk of approbation from Eddie.

“And who’s to say she wants to be our little errand girl?” Ellen countered. “Who’s to say she won’t look at this, go ‘the hell with these a-holes’ and hightail it out of here, list in hand, gone, gone, gone?”

“Why so pessimistic?” Alan asked.

“I just don’t want to overwhelm the girl by being too greedy,” Ellen said. “We have a potentially very good thing with Mona and I don’t want us to turn into a bunch of jackals who drive her off with our yard-long shopping list.”

“Girlies love to shop,” Eddie said.

Ellen ignored him and reviewed the list. “Okay, in terms of needs versus wants, this is a pretty reasonable list. But how’s she supposed to carry all this?”

“She could take my shopping cart,” Ruth suggested.

“Old ladies and their shopping carts,” Eddie scoffed.

“I don’t see you making any useful contributions to this discussion,” Ruth sniped.

“Maybe she could boost a car,” Eddie said. “I could tell her how.” No one was surprised that Eddie possessed this know-how.

“You think if she knew how to drive she’d be hoofing it?” Karl said. “How’s she supposed to get through all the forsaken cars down there?”

“Maybe she could just take the shopping cart from the market. It’s not like anyone will mind,” Alan threw in. Nods all around.

“One more thing,” Eddie ventured. “Guns.”

Karl looked askance at Eddie.

“Ooh, I don’t know,” said Ellen, with a slight frown.

“What don’t you know? Guns would come in mighty useful against those fuckers out there.”

“How? We’d be like hunters in a blind shooting at ducks. You can’t shoot them all. We’d still be stuck here.”

“We should have guns,” Eddie reiterated.

“It would be sport shooting, nothing more,” Ellen added.

“So?”

“So what’s the point? I don’t like the thought of guns in the building. You think if you shoot a bunch you’re going to win a prize? This isn’t Coney Island, Eddie.”

Typical patronizing Upper East Side Jewy liberal, Eddie thought. What Ellen thought was, I don’t like the thought of you having guns, Eddie Tommasi. Too dangerous for the rest of us chickens.

“Just ask her, okay?” Eddie said, smoothing his features. “Let her be the judge. She brings ’em back, great. She doesn’t, so be it.”

Having omitted Eddie’s request for firearms, Ellen handed over the list and asked, “Is that too much, Mona?” She’d decided to always address the girl by name when speaking to her. Her theory was that maybe she’d had her sense of identity eroded by walking amongst the undead for however long she’d been out there on her own. Ellen was as determined to reclaim this girl as she and the others were to having her run errands for them.

“Maybe more’n one trip,” Mona mumbled, folding the slip of paper and tucking it in her pocket.

“And you’re cool with going back out there? We don’t want to pressure you.”

“No big.”

And with that she wedged the earbuds in-her signature gesture, like Carson’s golf swing-and rappelled out the window via the ratty rope they’d used to haul her in. When she touched down on the roof of Dabney’s ruined van she looked up at Ellen and the others, all of whom wore the expectant look of latchkey kids afraid mommy would never return.

“I’m getting new rope, too,” she said, dangling the frayed end.

The others nodded yes and Mona climbed off the vehicle, the zombies spreading out with a sibilant anthem of reproach. As she headed north toward Eighty-sixth Street, her Hello Kitty knapsack looking back at them with its vapid beady black eyes, the throng opened and closed, a long, wide mouth that couldn’t devour this one small girl. When she turned the corner everyone but Abe, the self-appointed lookout, left 2B to resume the daily grind. Abe sat and watched as the zombies settled down, some still hissing and spitting like rabid bipedal cats. He pawed his scruffy chin, images of cranky and crotchety cowboy sidekicks floating in his mind. All he needed was to be stirring a pot o’ beans on an open fire to complete the picture, and now, with this Mona girl, the pot o’ beans was attainable.

That’s who I look like, Abe mused. A Jewish Gabby Hayes. Well, not after I shave off this soup strainer. Oh, I can’t wait. He leaned on the windowsill and his smile faded, his stomach soured. From this same vantage point he’d watched this apartment’s previous tenant, Paolo, get devoured down below.

Abe hoped Mona could remove that stigma from this empty dwelling.

22

The sun was setting and although there was plenty of food in the building, Ellen couldn’t stop herself from looking out the window every few minutes. This wasn’t about food, anyway. If anything, at this moment having a full stomach just stoked her agita.

“You’re gonna wear a groove into the floor,” Alan said, in a poor attempt to break the tension.

“I’m just worried, okay? Am I allowed to be worried? She left hours ago and it’s almost dark. Maybe something happened to her. Maybe she isn’t immune and it was some fluke and we sent her out there and now she’s dead. And if that’s the case then it’s all our fault and we’re responsible for sending a young girl to her death.”

Alan opened his mouth to say something and then shut it. He’d already paid lip service to Ellen’s anxiety and it had done no good. It was troubling that Mona had been gone for the better part of the day. He’d posited several plausible scenarios. It was possible that several items on the list had proven more difficult to procure than others and that Mona was traipsing all around town in an attempt to accommodate every request. It was also possible that she had forgotten how to find her way back, even though she had neatly printed the address of the building in big block letters on the list. Maybe she lost the list. It was imaginable that she had gotten to one of her destinations and gotten jammed up by the zombies-but that she was all right. She was just temporarily waylaid and would be back soon. For Ellen’s sake he had to keep the propositions upbeat.

But it was also quite reasonable to assume that Mona had been devoured.

Ellen’s eyes darted back and forth from the street below to the sky above, both growing darker and more ominous. She wound her hair around her fingers and chewed the ends. Alan again attempted levity by suggesting she’d get split ends doing that but Ellen just looked at him like he was an idiot. Alan sat there internally reciting the names of hair products and quoting lines from TV commercials. “If you don’t look good, we don’t look good.” Vidal Sassoon. Pantene Pro-V. Paul Mitchell. L’Oreal. What the hell was the one with those stupid commercials where girls would rub it into their scalps in public and semipublic places? And for all intents and purposes they’d be having noisy orgasms? Then they’d emerge, from like the toilet on an airplane, tousling their shimmering manes and everyone would look at them with lust and envy? What was that stuff? Some herbal something? Maybe Mona should pick up some of that. Ellen could do with some shiny locks. What kind of thinking is this? Yesterday there’s no food. All that matters is some clean, drinkable water and food that will sustain the organism for another twenty-four hours. Now it’s “Ellen could use a nice shampoo.” I must be out of my friggin’ gourd.

“Seriously, Ellen, I’m sure she’s fine.”

“Oh really? You can say that authoritatively? You know that for a fact do you? How interesting. Because, see, the way I see it, none of us knows a damned thing right now and for all we know chunks of her are being digested-if those things even digest. I mean, do they? Do they eat and shit and breathe? What do they do besides stumble around and eat us when they can? They sure made short work of Mike. They gobbled him down like no tomorrow. But are there piles of zombie scat out there composed of my husband? Are there? We don’t know. I don’t know. None of us knows anything!”

Should I get up and hug her? Alan wondered. When he’d gotten into fights in the past with women-various girlfriends and one ex-wife-after all the sour words and recriminations and accusations and you did this and you did that it always came down to something simple like she just needed a hug and a kiss. Then the situation would calm down and laughter would come and then maybe, in the best of times, they’d make love or at least have sex. Was this one of those occasions where a hug was the answer? Alan got up and gently placed his arms around Ellen’s shoulders.

“What? What? You want sex now? What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I don’t. I don’t want sex,” Alan stammered. “I just thought maybe a hug would…” Why bother finishing the thought? He withdrew his arms and turned to resume his place on the couch.

“Where are you going? I didn’t say I didn’t want to be hugged. I just… I’m just freaking out.” She shot another glance out the window. “Maybe you should fuck me right about now.”

“What?”

“Do I stutter? Maybe you should fuck me. Now.”

“But this wasn’t about sex, honest. I swear. I wasn’t being…” Was she toying with him?

“Just fuck me. I need to be penetrated. I need to have something tearing my mind from Mona. But don’t think about Mona while we’re doing it. I know she’s healthy and young and I’m not. Well, I’m young, but you know what I mean. Her body versus mine. Don’t fantasize about her. Or don’t think about her being torn limb from limb like chicken. You won’t get an erection from a thought like that. Maybe Eddie would, but Christ, I don’t want to think about what gets Eddie off.”

Ellen marched into the kitchen, shucked off her baggy army-surplus shorts and cotton undies, grabbed the counter and pushed her ass out at him. “Do it,” she commanded. Normally a take-charge woman was a turn-on, but this was a lot of pressure combined with deeply troubling extenuating circumstances. Alan dropped his pants and massaged into being a serviceable if slightly spongy erection. “Don’t be gentle. Don’t be slow,” Ellen ordered. Such hard words. Such hard angles. Though he didn’t want to think about Mona, he did think about the food. Food would soon inflate everything back to normal.

Alan followed Ellen’s edicts and pounded away. She gritted her teeth and bucked against his pelvis, meeting each thrust with equal force. Alan thought about stacking china and how delicate porcelain was. He thought about building model kits as a boy, then dropping rocks on them or blowing them up with firecrackers. He hoped their bones were up to this punishment. It had been a while since he’d run out of vitamins. How was his calcium? How was Ellen’s? They should have added a good multivitamin to the shopping list. And Jesus, lots of items from the pharmacy. What were they thinking? Just food and batteries? They’d been discussing keeping it to necessities. What could be more necessary than vitamins and headache remedies? Some pink bismuth. And not store-brand. Pepto Bismol. Or Pepcid AC! Some antidiarrheal. Oh yeah, that’s hot stuff. That’s the stuff of a Penthouse letter. Why not just start contemplating osteoporosis? Or scoliosis? Or any other bone-wrecking -osis?

“I want you to come inside me,” Ellen snarled, thrashing her head back and forth. This was very odd. This wasn’t a hate fuck. Alan had only experienced that phenomenon once or twice in his past, especially with his ex-wife. She’d stare up at him, eyes squinted in concentration, slowly and with great deliberation intoning, “Fuck my cunt,” over and over. This wasn’t like that exactly, but it was certainly angsty. And very aggressive. Ellen snapped her head back and her hair whipped across his face.

“Clairol,” he said, slapping his forehead. “Clairol Herbal Essence!”

“What?”

“Nothing,” he said, feeling lava pump into his face. He smacked her ass and pumped harder to throw her off the scent of his wandering mind. After several more minutes of violent hammering he obliged her request. His knees and thighs immediately turned to jelly and he sank to the floor. Ellen slumped beside him. She pressed her head against his chest and murmured, “Hold me.”

It always came down to a hug.

And as he ran his fingers through her oily hair he silently mouthed, Clairol Herbal Essence.

It had been two weeks earlier that Ellen had teased Alan as he trudged up the stairs, Bataan Death March-style, with case after case of Kirkland bottled water. Nothing had really happened yet-certainly not on the level into which it would blossom-but Alan’s girlfriend, Tammy, had convinced him that preparedness wasn’t anything to scoff at. So there he’d been, doing the lion’s share of lugging, wishing for an elevator.

“All you need are some camouflage fatigues and a headband,” Ellen said with a smirk as he approached her on the landing. Her infant daughter, Emily, was suckling a full, barely veiled breast. Though Alan found nothing sexy about nursing-lactation was not a kink he found appealing-he was enamored of Ellen Swenson’s boobs and any peek was welcome. Tammy, tart-tongued and efficient, was all nipple and no tit, her chest a smooth plane of milky white skin dotted with two pencil eraser-size pink protrusions. Though not in love with Tammy, Alan was fond of her, but he craved suppleness and Ellen had it. He blinked away his unchaste thoughts and refocused on Ellen’s eyes.

“Huh?” Despite the temperature outside, his face was awash in perspiration.

“You and the gal pal are really kicking into survivalist mode.”

Alan eased the case to the ground with a thud, panting. “Better safe than sorry. That’s Tammy’s philosophy.”

“It’s just some infected rats,” Ellen countered. “They’ll be dead in no time. You’ve seen all the open manholes everywhere.”

“Yeah, I know. Between the rats and the noxious fumes, driving back with the supplies was a bitch.”

“You keep a car in the city?” With all that was going on, that was what Ellen marveled at. It made Alan smile. These were the real concerns of full-blooded New Yorkers. Not rats biting and infecting commuters down in the subway and pedestrians on the street. Not crews in hazmat suits spelunking the city’s subterranean infrastructure for the last two weeks, pumping who knows what kind of toxic gas down there in hopes of obliterating the ferocious rodents. Not people either stumbling around hacking in each other’s faces looking like death warmed over or sporting surgical masks. Where you parked: that was a thing at which to marvel.

“Tammy keeps it in Brooklyn. It’s her car.”

“Ah,” Ellen said. “Brooklyn. Remember when Manhattan was the place to be? Now it’s Brooklyn.”

“Now it’s Brooklyn,” Alan agreed.

That exchange had been two weeks ago. Now, Alan was side by side with Mike, Ellen’s husband, hammering nails into planks of plywood to further buttress the closed-off entranceway to their building. Over the clatter of their work Mike shouted, “This doesn’t bode well!”

“What?” Alan stopped hammering, as did Mike.

“This. This doesn’t bode well. Us sealing ourselves in, FEMA barricading the only exit… this doesn’t look like it’s gonna be resolved anytime soon.”

“Soon?” Alan replied, taking a breath.

“Yeah, soon. I’ve got faith. This’ll blow over. Everything does. A monsoon hits, people die. Still, life goes on, normalcy resumes. Tsunamis. Collapsed levees. Earthquakes. This’ll blow over. New York’s a tough town.”

Alan nodded at Mike’s hopeful platitudes but wasn’t buying. And anyway, according to the news, New York wasn’t alone in this predicament. This was global.

“I tried to load up on reserves,” Mike continued, “but it was pretty picked over at D’ag’s and Food Emporium. I don’t get why Food City closed up so soon. What’s that all about?”

“Maybe ’cause it’s not a chain,” Alan posited. “The owners probably just took what they needed and booked.”

“Maybe,” Mike allowed. “Still, I think we’re pretty well stocked. I think if we pushed it we could go a month, but that’s not gonna happen.” Mike smiled without conviction and looked to Alan for reassurance. “We’ll be fine. London during the Blitz and so on. We’ll be okay,” Mike nattered.

Alan closed his eyes and drifted inward, Tammy’s face imprinted in the darkness behind his eyelids. Phone service had been spotty at best and it wounded him that she and he had parted badly. Right after the Costco trip they’d had a nasty public fight and after he’d finished hiking his half of the supplies up to his apartment she’d screeched, “Don’t thank me all at once you fuckin’ prick! Aw, your arms hurt, your poor, delicate, artist’s arms! Aw, you got a fuckin’ callous on your precious digits?! You’ll be fuckin’ glad I’m ‘an alarmist,’ you asshole! Mark my fuckin’ words!” She’d slammed into her Honda CR-V and sped off, and though they’d since made up via Instant Messenger, that was the last he’d heard from her. Land lines were tied up or nonoperational. Cell service? History. And now the Internet was iffy, too.

Even though Tammy had stocked up equally, Alan wished she’d stayed, not because of that but because she was on the ground floor of a private house in Bay Ridge. He thought of the Three Little Pigs, he residing in the brick house, she in the wood. At least it wasn’t straw. He suspected he’d never hear her voice again.

Tammy’s face rippled away, replaced by Ellen’s. Alan wasn’t sure why but he always went for tart women (as opposed to women who were tarts). Ellen, whose serial hallway flirtatiousness-especially since she’d had the baby-always seemed seasoned with a smidgen of sarcasm, was close to Alan’s ideal, at least physically. At the moment, convinced he’d never know the touch of a woman again, Alan resented Mike. He resumed hammering, then stopped, sighed, and gave Mike’s arm a gentle squeeze.

“I’m taking you into my confidence, Mike. I’m serious, no fucking around.”

“Okay.”

“Seriously, Mike. This is life or death stuff here.”

“I know, I know. This is super serious.”

“This isn’t just fortification, Mike. We’re sealing ourselves into our crypt. The cavalry isn’t coming for us.”

“Sure they are.”

Alan looked deep into Mike’s worried, wearied, eyes. People with kids had to think positive. “No, Mike, they’re not. This is it.”

“You artistic types are so gloom and doom,” Mike said without judgment. “I don’t roll like that. It’s a disaster, granted, but people rally. Maybe we batten down the hatches and wait, but-”

“Fine, Mike, cling to your illusion, but,” and here Alan lowered the volume to a barely audible whisper, “I’ve got plenty of supplies. Tammy and I bought a buttload.”

“Yeah, Ellen mentioned you were stocked up.”

“Not so loud,” Alan hissed. “I don’t want to become the Sally Struthers to 1620’s starving children. I’m offering-so long as we keep it on the QT-you and Ellen some of my stuff. Water, canned goods, whatever. You’ve got a kid to feed. But it’s between us. I don’t want the others to know. I can’t feed everyone.”

Conspiratorial, Mike nodded and then threw his arms around Alan, his voice cracking. “We’re fucked, aren’t we?” He began to sob and Alan, ensnared by the other man’s limbs, mourned the death of Mike’s optimism. He thought about his last exchange with his mother-and it was a last exchange, with her Luddite tendencies and shunning computers and the Internet even when Alan had offered both so she could be more connected. She of the landline and rotary kitchen phone. There’s one sound no child ever wants to hear and that’s the sound of a frightened parent. His mother’s final words to him, choked and perforated by little intakes of air, trying so hard not to cry, to be strong for her boy, were, “I’m all out of turkey. I’m almost out of food and I’m afraid.”

I’m afraid.

Those two words made it all real for Alan. Not the news. Not the panic on the street. Alan wanted to comfort her but it was impossible. He couldn’t get to her. A lifelong mama’s boy and he was trapped, travel between boroughs prohibited. In that moment his insides turned to liquid.

“Mom,” he’d begun.

The line went wild, wailed electronically, died.

He’d held the receiver like it was a totem imbued with the essence of his mother. It had held her voice, a voice he’d never hear again. Why hadn’t he gone to her at the onset? Or brought her here? Because he’d been dumb enough to think this would pass, too. He didn’t recradle the handset. He just held it and stared at it.

The thought of his mom, alone and terrified.

His mom, the rock. The tough lady.

Yeah, Alan thought now, eyes stinging and wet, we are so fucked.

Karl and Dabney lay on the tarp, the rock pile untouched. Both were admiring the crowd below, awaiting the return of Mona, both psyched to see her do her Moses thang. Between them were a couple of empty cans, one from cling peach slices in light syrup, and the other string beans. Both men were happy and felt a sort of father-and-son companionability. Dabney rolled onto his side and belched, the gassy reflux sweetened by the aftertaste of peaches. In direct response, Karl let out a melodious fart and both men laughed. Their spirits were fine and low comedy wasn’t beneath them.

“Did you like Blazing Saddles?” Karl asked.

“Why, ’cause it had a black sheriff?”

“No, because it had farting. That scene by the campfire, all those cowboys eating beans and letting off.”

“Oh, yeah. That.” Dabney chuckled, feeling foolish for having thought this was some well-intentioned attempt at ebony and ivory racial bonding. But this was nothing to do with the late, great, Cleavon Little. It just had to do with passing gas, something everyone could enjoy, race immaterial. Why was he feeling so stuck on race? The only races that mattered now were humans versus zombies. Skin color was passé.

But he still wondered how it would be if his van had made it home.

He lived in a project, a honeycomb of ten thirteen and fourteen story buildings. All manner of mayhem likely went down there. Even when things were normal it was no great pleasure. Project rats-the human kind, not the rodent kind-whose idea of fun was pissing and setting small fires in the elevators and stairwells. Graffiti. Litter. Noise on top of noise. Every time his wife went out after hours he was nervous that she might not come home or would get molested or what have you-no matter how many times she assured him that other men didn’t lust for her the way he did.

Dabney reached over and ruffled Karl’s hair.

“What’d you do that for?” Karl asked, his face suddenly confused.

“Never ruffled a white boy’s hair before.”

“You’re not getting all funny on me now, are you, Dabney?”

Dabney laughed. “Not if you and I were the last two folks on Earth, son. I’m just missing my own boys and they didn’t exactly have the kind of hair you could ruffle. I figured I’d see what a white daddy might feel. Greasy, but not so bad.”

“You had sons?”

“Two, plus a girl. Both boys grown, left home. I like to think maybe Johnny, my eldest, might be alive-he left the city. A while before my van crashed I spoke to my youngest, my girl, on my cell phone one last time before the signal went dead. Like everything else.” Silence hung between the two men, neither articulating the thought that Dabney’s offspring were likely dead, too. “Yeah, well. At any rate, I hope that Mona comes back soon.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“Is she back yet?”

At Ruth’s grating query Abe shuddered to wakefulness, slapping a fly off his nose. He’d dozed off, the constant ache of hunger no longer there to keep him vigilant. Just like the good old days, after a thick pastrami and tongue sandwich from Second Avenue Deli, he’d grown slumberous on a full belly.

“You were sleeping?” Ruth’s voice rose, her tone accusatory. “Ucch, Abraham, you’re given one simple task, to keep an eye out for our fairy goddaughter, and you botch it.”

“It’s not like I fell asleep on purpose!” He lifted himself off the chair, glissandi of pins and needles strafing his quaking legs, and hobbled off to pee in the bucket in defiance of his prostate. “If she came back she’d have said something. I would have heard. What, I’m the only one around here who can keep a lookout? If she came back she’d call up, wouldn’t she? Hah?”

“Who knows? She’s an odd girl. And don’t go putting the blame on everyone else. You volunteered to keep an eye out for her.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever.” Abe shook off the last few burning droplets and zipped up, wishing he’d asked Mona to pick up some Flomax; maybe next time, if there was one. He maintained his ornery posture but he knew he’d screwed up. He’d admit it to almost anyone but Ruth; she took too much pleasure in seeing him fail. How long had she been watching him slumber? It would be just like her to watch him rather than the street below, just to needle him for having blown his responsibility.

“No, not ‘whatever.’ You had an important task. Maybe a younger person should do it. I thought you were at least capable of doing a job that involved basically sitting around doing almost nothing, but apparently nothing is the only part of that you’re actually qualified for any more.” Her voice lanced through his ears, sharp, pointy, shrill.

Abe exited the bathroom with the sloshing bucket and fought the urge to empty its contents on his fishwife’s head. With all the dignity he could muster he padded by across the moth-eaten Oriental rug and tossed his amber-colored, slightly acid discharge out the front window. In his heart he hoped this act would elicit the stock slapstick cliché: that Mona would be down there, full shopping cart before her, wiping Abe’s piddle from her face. It’s not like he wanted to douse the poor girl, but his tossing the piss seemed the perfect setup for her return. But no mwah-wah-wah comedy trumpet trill moment was in the offing. The liquid splashed the mindless shufflers and that was that. The last vestiges of light faded, darkness returned, Mona didn’t.

“This is not good,” Abe muttered as he lit a candle. “This is not good at all.”

“So where is she?” Ruth said, her voice small.

“Like I know. Like suddenly I’m the Amazing Kreskin.” Abe looked at Ruth’s face. Even in the shadows it was obvious she was more than upset. She wasn’t hollering and screeching and fussing and nagging. She was silent. Abe shuffled over to her and held her, pressing her balding noggin against himself. It would be too cruel if Mona didn’t come back, but life was nothing if not immeasurably cruel. He patted his wife’s back gently and tried to make his assurances sound heartfelt. Even if Mona didn’t come back, the coffers were well stocked. They’d last a few more weeks. He kept petting Ruth, hoping the tears leaking out of his eyes wouldn’t drip on her. Then the jig would be up.

“I can’t believe that spooky little bitch ditched,” Eddie said to the top of Dave’s head. Dave was busy, so he didn’t reply one way or the other. But Eddie didn’t need confirmation. He could totally believe it. Why the fuck would anyone voluntarily stay with a bunch of losers like the ones in this building? Eddie yearned for being someplace else. There had to be other survivors, somewhere. Pockets of tough motherfuckers holed up, giving the zombies what for-real men with guns and weapons. That totally sucked about this bunch. No weapons. Sure, some kitchen knives, even a couple of professional-grade meat cleavers, but no guns. If Eddie’d stayed in Bensonhurst he’d have access to plenty of guns, but here on the Upper East Side? Please.

What had he been thinking moving up here?

Okay, so he’d enjoyed the bar scene on York Avenue. He’d nailed a lot of slim high-maintenance Jewesses on his innumerable pub crawls and contrary to stereotype, those women sure knew how to give head. Eddie had thought Italian chicks like the ones in his old neighborhood were proficient, but they were rank amateurs compared to the JAPs he’d scored with ’round these parts.

In Brooklyn, fellatio was merely a Catholic stalling act to keep the cherry intact until the wedding day. How many girls had kept Eddie out of their cootchies by offering up auxiliary inputs? That was a laugh. Eddie thought about all those girls lined up trying to get into Heaven now. Saint Peter would be all like, “What? You safeguarded the ’gina but let ’em do what in your what? Sin is sin, Sweetcakes. Scram!” In cars, attics and basements, in stairwells and on rooftops, in all the clandestine locales available to him in his youth he’d done everything but get in the front bottom. He’d lost his own cherry, so to speak, at fifteen to a twelve-year-old she-devil named Roxanne who sat in her bedroom window and smoked menthols and taunted and teased all the neighborhood boys. Eddie thought she’d singled him out for her affections, but it turned out she’d blown every kid on the block, and some from not on the block, and some from Borough Park, and some from Bath Beach, and some from as far as Bay Ridge. And some who weren’t even so young, like her uncles and cousins.

And so Eddie formed the opinion that maybe the fairer sex were all whores, like his pops implied in a not-so-subtle fashion when addressing Eddie’s mother as such. Eddie’s mother was such a flirt it was easy to see why his pops drank and on occasion showed her the back of his hand. She didn’t fight back much, maybe a little harsh language, but she knew she was guilty of whatever and besides, why screw up a good thing? She had a nice house and a nice car. Eddie’s sister Patty, though. She was a tramp, no doubt.

So anyway, here he was, in a faggy neighborhood, bereft of cunt, getting a blowjob from his former Ice Knights teammate. Go Rutgers. Eddie rolled his eyes impatiently. Dave was getting all fancy, licking it like a lollypop and fiddling with the balls. Eddie just wanted to bust a nut and go to sleep, but whatever. Dave had gone full-bore homo and there was nothing to do about it. The facts were the facts. Look at Dave’s lack of interest in the spooky little shorty who’d shown up and brought home the groceries. And Dave harshing on him for wanting to tap that ass? You’d think Dave would want to give his a break. Whatever. The little chick was probably never coming back anyway, so Eddie would make do.

But he wished Dave would just hurry the fuck up.

23

Three in the morning, give or take. Moans of brain-dead protest accompanied by regular knifelike squeaks of a trolley wheel in need of a spritz of WD-40. The squeaks increasing in pitch and loudness, and then silenced. The inhuman groaning continues, growing in fervor. The strike of a match, the smell of sulfur followed by paraffin, and then barely audible bare-footfalls creeping across bare floorboards.

Alan slid the front window open the whole way and looked down at York. Standing in the center of the aperture of the crowd of spread-out zombies stood Mona, looking up at the building, nodding her head in time with whatever tune she was mainlining. Alan just looked down at her for a moment, waiting for her to call out and announce her return. But she didn’t. She just stood there leaning her forearms on the push bar of the extra-large shopping cart she’d liberated from wherever, the cart overstuffed with swag.

The crowd was well illuminated, Mona having affixed a high intensity dual-beam LED flashlight to the front of her cart. In the shockingly bright, cool white light, the faces of the undead looked especially ghastly. Every deformity, every laceration, every cluster of rot underscored by deep dramatic shadows, like the ultimate campfire ghost-story teller. During the day the zombies kind of blended into an undifferentiated mass, but now, lit up in the dark, deep black shadows separating them like bold outlines in a woodcut, each one boasted a uniquely disturbing visage.

Alan fought the urge to grab a pencil and begin sketching, but he studied these specimens, making mental notes. One in particular caught his eye, a female with its head dangling backwards from some hideous past injury. Its deadened eyes stared up at him-or at least in his general direction-and Alan found himself craning his head upside down to make out the face.

Gerri!

“Holy shit,” Alan gasped. He’d wondered where she’d gotten off to and here was his answer. When did this happen? Before he could get dizzy he righted the angle of his head and looked again at Mona. Finally she glanced up and saw him in the window and gave a minimal wave. Alan gestured for her to stay put, then scampered into the bedroom and roused Ellen with an urgent whisper-hissed, “Mona’s back!”

Ellen lay there for a second or two, then sprang up like a jack-in-the-box.

“What?”

“Mona. She’s downstairs. We gotta help her unload the cart and get her back inside.”

Ellen bolted off the bed, stark naked, and made to get down to 2B.

“Uh, Ellen, honey?” Alan said, gesturing at his own nude body. Ellen took in her nakedness, then nodded and bolted back into the bedroom. Within seconds both had thrown on shorts and shirts and made for Mona’s dwelling. When they reached the front windows, Mona had changed position from last Alan saw her. She now sat Indian-style on the roof of Dabney’s van, another flashlight in her lap, the beam fanning across SERVING ALL FIVE BOROUGHS SINCE 1979. She also held a brand-new length of Day-Glo pink mountaineering rope, which she tossed up to Alan, who tied it securely to the nearby standpipe.

Later Mona, Ellen, and Alan shared a round of warm Pepsi around the dining table, Mona sitting on the edge of her chair, her Hello Kitty backpack mashed against the backrest.

“This used to be the super’s apartment,” Alan said as a conversational gambit.

Mona nodded.

“That’s how come there was a rope here in the first place. Although I’m not quite sure what Mr. Spiteri used rope for.”

Mona shrugged, indifferent.

“Shouldn’t we tell the others that Mona’s back, safe and sound?” Ellen asked.

“If no one came to help, clearly they’re all still asleep. Let ’em rest,” Alan said. “They can enjoy a nice start to the day tomorrow.” Alan surveyed the piles of stuff Mona had brought back. “You really did an amazing job out there, Mona. Just great. Thank you.”

“Uh-huh.”

“No, seriously. You shouldn’t be so modest.”

“I’m not.”

“We were getting pretty worried, I don’t mind telling you, since you were gone so long,” Ellen added, gently grasping Mona’s hand. “Not that I mean to imply that we thought you should have been quicker,” she added. “Far from. We just were concerned.”

“Uh-huh,” Mona said.

Uh-huh.

Alan got up from the table to inspect the loot.

Is it just me? Ellen wondered. She looked at Mona’s blank, pretty face and tried not to stare, not that Mona would notice anyway. Mona, as per, had the headphones blasting away. From the tiny speakers Mona’s music always sounded fast and metallic, like angry insects devouring her brains via the ear canals. Maybe that was it. Maybe all the conservative pundits had been right. Maybe heavy metal, or whatever Mona was listening to, did cause brain damage. Maybe Mona had numbed herself with aggressive music as a way to cope with the harsh reality of the world. Maybe, maybe, maybe. But she was among friends now. Needy friends, admittedly, but friends nonetheless. Maybe she could wean Mona off the tunes-not cold turkey, no need for anything that dramatic, but some nice music to set the tone. Oh my God, Ellen thought. I’m turning into my mother. What, some nice Barry Manilow? Some Ray Conniff? Some Yanni? Get a grip.

“Check this out!” Alan cried as he held up a cardboard box. In the murk Ellen couldn’t make it out, so he elaborated. “It’s a solar camping lantern. How cool is that? She brought back one, two, three, four, holy smokes, five of the suckers.”

Clutching the box, Alan hastened back to the table and planted a big kiss on top of Mona’s head. Mona sort of half smiled and Ellen felt a pang of jealousy. What the fuck? she admonished herself. Just stow that stupid shit, Ellen. Taking his seat, Alan fished the slim, silvery rectangular lamp out of the box and squinted as he read the instructions by candlelight. “ ‘Recharging the battery from a completely discharged state takes about sixteen to eighteen hours in full sun.’ This baby gives up to seven hours on high on a full charge. I can read at night. I can work at night! How awesome is that? Tomorrow this baby goes up on the roof.”

“What makes you think they’re for you?” Ellen asked.

“Wha’… Well, I, uh…”

“I’m just teasing, Al. Relax.”

“Oh. Oh, okay then.”

Ellen threw Alan a smile that was supposed to be reassuring but came off kind of askew. She was suddenly feeling a little mean. Please tell me this isn’t jealousy, she thought. Please. I can’t be that stupid. That insecure. That stereotypically weak and womany.

Alan was about to lavish more thanks on Mona, but he could see her eyes were closed and she was nodding in time to the music. It sounded like tuneful nu metal, and either the singer was female or male with a helluva falsetto. Alan looked over at Ellen whose own expression was cryptic at best. Before he blurted something he’d end up regretting, he sized up the situation as best he could. Two females, one hale and hearty, the other weak and wan. Ellen’s eyes were adrift and she was fidgeting, picking at her cuticles.

“Ellen?” Alan whispered. She looked over at him, her head turning in slow mo. “Ellen, you okay? What’s up? Aren’t you happy Mona’s back? And the haul? She rocked out. I mean, solar-powered lanterns? We didn’t even think of that. And check this out: walkie-talkies.” Alan tapped his temple with an index finger. “Smart cookie,” he said, bulging his eyes Eddie Cantor-style for comic effect. Mona opened her eyes and looked at Alan as he was making the gesture. She eased out an earbud. He felt his cheeks flush as he stammered out, “I was just remarking how savvy you were to get those solar lamps. Very cool, indeed. And I saw some freeze-dried grub, too. Outstanding.”

“Had ’em at the sporting goods place I got the rope from.”

Eyes heavy lidded and glassy with disinterest, Mona popped the buds back in and turned up the volume.

“Wow,” Alan said with a smirk, “I thought she’d never shut up.”

24

Eddie liked what he saw as he stood before the full-length mirror on the bedroom closet door. He liked it a lot. Nude, he turned to his left and assumed a bodybuilder’s pose, flexing his muscles, which were oiled with sweat, then turned to the right and did likewise. He’d taken the liberty of shaving his chest and stomach and he’d tweezed any stray hairs on his shoulders. He’d even shaved his pits and pubes. The sad excuses for men in the building had shaved their faces and Alan had gone so far as to have Ellen give him a haircut, but none of them, with the exception of Princess Dave, had physiques worthy of a full-body depilatory. Eddie knew he wasn’t quite there yet, but soon. In the last few weeks the surfeit of food the spooky chick had furnished filled him in nicely. He’d resumed a workout regimen and Zotz had resumed a respectful distance, his smart remarks all but disappeared. Sweet.

“Oh yeah,” Eddie grinned, rippling his abs. “Look at those pecs. Look at those delts.” He did a half pirouette and clenched and unclenched his buttocks. “And for the chef d’oeuvre, look at those glutes. Marone, what a sight to behold.” He gave them an appreciative slap and then, with great reluctance, closed the closet door and stepped away.

His hair, deep black and long enough to wear in a ponytail, he now wore loose about his shoulders, Tarzan-like. He slipped on a pair of tight black Calvin Klein boxer briefs and espadrilles, and then stepped into the common hall. Sunlight directly overhead poured down through the skylight in the stairwell housing and he gleamed. He liked the others to see his return as resident Adonis, even though he didn’t know who the fuck Adonis was-just that he was buff and handsome as shit. Well fed and in fine fettle, the only thing lacking was una bella fica. Ellen was beginning to look totally doable again, but she was glued to that douche, Zotz. It was real fuckin’ adorable the way she latched onto that pencil-pushin’ pencil neck. Made him wonder if maybe she and Zotz had been canoodling while she was still married to good ol’ what’s-hisname.

Wouldn’t that be fuckin’ perfect?

Oh, it totally made sense, too. Artsy-fartsy Alan worked at home, made his own hours. Who better to have a fling with? She was on maternity leave-what a con. Have a baby, get paid to stay home and watch soaps. What a racket. Then, when it gets boring, snag a nanny and back to the grind. You get to be a professional woman and an amateur mom. Having the cake and eating it, too. Fuckin’ women. Eddie’s mom, whore though she was, knew her place was in the home. Maybe she took some extra deliveries of protein paste from the odd mailman or milkman, but she was a housewife. That’s what a woman should do once she decides to drop a litter. Tell that to these Upper East Side broads. Well, now they’re all fuckin’ dead, so fuck ’em.

Oh, how Eddie wished he could.

The spooky little chick made him uncomfortable, though. He’d tried to engage her in some friendly chitchat, but she seemed bored. How rude was that? With those earbuds stuck in her jug ears. And yeah, her ears were fuckin’ big, too.

Eddie was beyond frustrated. That spooky little chick was always either nodding her head in tune with godawful noise-maybe he’d slip her a little Gino Vannelli-or out on errands. She was accommodating, he had to give her that. Any request and voom, off she went in search of. Yesterday Eddie had asked for one of those little travel DVD players and she’d brought back enough for everyone, which maybe made it seem a little less special to him, but so be it. How fuckin’ fun must that be? he wondered. Going into any store and boosting any shit you want? Shoplifting heaven! With the DVD player he now had a reason to return to his old digs to retrieve his impressive porno stash. If he couldn’t have the real thing he’d make do with some hot viddies.

He wanted to tap that ass, but you don’t shit where you eat.

Or fuck where you eat.

Something like that. The time would come. She was a weirdo but she wasn’t blind. Eddie remembered a TV special about this special kind of chimps called bonobos and how they had a pecking order. The top males had priority mating rights. The bonobos preferred fucking to fighting, but the males spent a lot of time intimidating their rivals for female affection. Eddie was an alpha all the way. She’d see that. Females always came around to the alpha. Soon enough he’d have the spooky chick and Ellen Swenson. He just had to play it smart.

As he mounted the steps, the old bitch in 5A stepped into the hall and let out a grizzled gasp as she took in his buffness. Though it creeped him out a little, he liked the thought that she’d have his physique scorched into her psyche. Imagine the horror she’d feel looking at herself by comparison. Or her shriveled, impotent husband. Hilarious.

“Can’t you have the decency to put on some clothes?” she scolded.

As he passed by he stooped over, jutting his noggin like he was going to give the old bag a head butt. She flinched in terror and he sniggered. “Just messin’ with ya, ma’am,” he said. “Chill. Why do I gotta put clothes on, anyway? It’s hot as hell and so am I.”

She clucked and retreated into her dwelling, locking the door behind her. It was so unfair that the females in this building were all so lame. Old and wrinkled. Brain-dead and spooky. Kinda hot but taken. Taken. Now that Ellen was looking kind of nice again it just ate away at Eddie that a little weasel like Zotz was keeping all that lovin’ to himself. Wasn’t it just like a Jew to hoard the precious? Zotz. That was Jewish, right? Of course it was. And in the meantime, here was Eddie, fitter than them all, plodding upstairs to cut across the roofs to get his porn. No justice.

Eddie pounded open the door to the roof with the flats of his palms, earning a startled yelp from Dabney. Good. Eddie liked spooking the spook. Reminded him of past glories. Eddie remembered one night in particular that gave him pleasure but also chafed his balls. Pleasure was the fact that he and some buddies had beaten the holy hell out of a couple of wayward niggers who’d strayed into Bensonhurst and were trying to make time with a couple of the local girls-nice Italian girls. Well, not nice, exactly, but Italian. Annoyance was because it never made the news. No use crying over spilled blood, especially when there wasn’t enough of it. At least he’d gotten away clean. Going to jail would have sucked, big time.

“The hell is wrong with you, son?” Dabney hollered. “Slamming up here like that. You wanna give me a heart attack?”

As a matter of fact, Eddie thought as he stalked by, ignoring Dabney’s upbraiding. And I’m not your son.

Eddie reached his old building and headed down the fire escape to his window, still open like Dave had left it. Eddie hadn’t returned since the Wandering Jewess incident. That was intense. Eddie thought about the way Dave had handled her and he felt pride swell in his chest. Dave was a finocchio, but still a man. That was some hardcore shit. The way he knocked her block off-or almost off. With an elephant’s foot? Just thinking about it made him chuckle. Reminded him of his childhood Rock ’Em Sock ’Em Robots. Two robots pounding the bolts out of each other, one red, one blue. Eddie was always blue because his dad said red was a commie color. Papa knew best. That was a cool toy.

Eddie recalled his time with Gerri. Sure she was a vegetable-at least until she became the meat course-and nothing to look at, but he’d almost forgotten how nice pussy felt.

“Gotta get the porn,” Eddie said. “Stay on point. Focus.”

He vaulted through the apartment to his old room and threw open the door. At the foot of his bed, under a pile of clothes, was his dad’s old army footlocker. He knelt down and undid the combination lock, which opened with a sturdy pop. Inside was his treasure trove. He felt like Indiana Jones scoring that shiny bauble at the beginning of Raiders. He’d forgotten to bring something to carry home the boodle, but nearby was his old gym bag, still overstuffed with dirty laundry. He unzipped it and dumped its contents on the floor.

“So that’s where these were. Duh,” he said, shaking his head as he put his Nike Air Mowabb cross trainers back in the bag. He then started loading DVDs into the sack.

As he struggled with the zipper, the bag now stuffed to bursting, he heard a sound from the living room. He ceased his activities and froze. There it was again, a soft shuffling. The Wandering Jewess had been evicted so what was this shit? Eddie gingerly placed the overstuffed bag on the bed and tiptoed into the hall. He held his breath and eyeballed the exit window. He was curious, but how curious? Wasn’t the cat killed by curiosity? Eddie hated cats, with their rough tongues, bad breath, and haughty attitude. Who was the first to call vagina pussy? Why insult such a sweet thing by naming it after a cat? Whatever. The sound happened again. There was somebody in the other room. That spooky chick? Nah. Why would she come here? Cursing himself for pursuing it, Eddie stepped into the hall and slunk toward the living room.

A plastic cup from 7-Eleven rolled toward him, settling at his right foot.

“Hey,” Eddie said, voice steely. “Who the fuck is there?”

Eddie poked his head into the room and several zombies stood there. The front door wide was open. As he turned to flee, two more stumbled from the bathroom, which was between him and the exit window.

“Fuck me,” Eddie growled, cursing himself for the stunod that he was.

From the living room, one loped toward him, then tripped and fell as its legs became entangled in its own leathery intestines, which dangled from a gaping cavity in its lower abdomen. Its jaw hit the linoleum floor and came loose, leaving it cocked to one side and toothless. Eddie would have enjoyed the zombie’s clumsiness were there not several others who shuffled his way, their paths free of stray innards. Eddie cursed the narrowness of the hall, a mere three feet wide, but long. Goddamn railroad apartments. The ones emerging from the john effectively blocked his exit, but he’d have to bull through. Hockey penalty time. Still, he wished he were less exposed. Maybe the Tarzan wardrobe isn’t the best idea.

Eddie gulped a few deep breaths, then ran forward. He caught a female zombie in the face with his fist, sending her careening backward, ass over tit. Her head hit the doorsill and split open, spilling coagulated gunk, dark and thick as molasses. Her bathroom buddy, a rangy male with graveyard halitosis, lunged for him and from behind, slung his gangly arms around Eddie’s waist. Eddie couldn’t turn around, so he did a backward head butt, ramming the back of his skull into the zombie’s face, praying all the while that the zombie wouldn’t bite him. Fuck that shit. The zombie’s grasp loosened and Eddie shrugged him off, spinning on his heel. Even though he knew he should flee, he was now pissed. He blundered back into his bedroom and slid open his closet door, the action so violent the door came off its tracks and fell against the inside wall. Eddie grappled with the door and flung it off to the side, groping for his hockey stick.

“High-sticking, huh? The Comet’ll show you motherfuckers some high-fuckin’-sticking!”

Like some po-mo Spartan warrior, Eddie turned back into the hall, stick in hand, helmet his only other garment besides his briefs and espadrilles. With a vicious upward slash he took the head off the one that bear hugged him in the hall. From his bedroom in the middle, Eddie still needed to get to the fire escape at the rear of the apartment. The headless body convulsed as Eddie stepped over it and a palsied, rotten hand shot up and grabbed the back of his briefs, tearing them.

“The fuck?” Eddie cried. “Oh, you wanna play fuckin’ games?”

He stomped on the thing’s solar plexus, its withered organs emitted muffled popping noises. The arm went limp but the rigor mortis grip on Eddie’s Calvins intensified, pulling them down like a macabre pastiche of the Coppertone pooch yanking down that little pigtailed girl’s bathing suit. Eddie tore free, now wearing just the waistband and pouch in the front, like some poorly constructed jockstrap.

Only one adversary left, an eyeless one-armed creep of indeterminate gender, face composed-or decomposed-solely of strands of muscle tissue barely masked by shredded, papery epidermis. Eddie jerked back the stick, then rammed it as hard as he could through the thing’s chest, impaling it. “Vlad don’t have shit on me!” Eddie wailed. He raked the stick back and forth, the zombie clawing at it, trying to free itself. Eddie jerked it upward, lifting his foe off the ground. The rib cage split open like a zipper, bits of desiccated bone and sinew raining down as Eddie worked the stick up and down until the thing split in half. As it twitched pitiably on the floor, Eddie swung down the stick and delivered the killing blow, shattering its skull.

Eddie grabbed the bag of porn and stepped onto the fire escape, slamming the window shut after him, hoping against hope that those zombie gavones were the only ones to breach the building. Still, he wouldn’t be coming back to the old roost. On the roof he checked the stairwell door to confirm its security status. It was sealed shut. Relieved, he slumped back against the warty black tar paper and caught his breath, quaking. So, they got in. That meant the half-assed fortification the Guardsmen had installed was wrecked. Great. He gulped air and punched his chest. Now that he was safe, the fear sluiced over him. Though it had to be ninety degrees he was shivering. Calm the fuck down, he admonished himself. Don’t be a fuckin’ girl. Calm the fuck down.

Even alone he won no prize for compassion.

25

“I’d forgotten how comforting banality can be,” Alan said as he shut off the little DVD player. He’d been watching back-to-back episodes of Three’s Company. “What a stupid show. Why did you have this in your library?”

“It was Mike’s. He loved John Ritter.”

Alan sat back, feeling a little bad about maligning the show. It was bad, though. Seriously bad. Maybe it had been nostalgic for Mike. A lot of boys watched it, along with Wonder Woman and of course Charlie’s Angels, all because of the jiggle factor. Alan never found women who seemed stupid sexy, though, and Suzanne Somers embodied that to a preternatural degree. Watching her and getting aroused would have carried the psychic baggage of getting a boner from a hot retarded girl.

Alan looked over at Ellen. She was doing a crossword puzzle. The scene seemed oddly peaceful. Comforting. It was hard to reconcile this image of domestic tranquility with the sea of undead meat puppets outside. Ellen had filled in a bit and looked more like her old self, which was to say she looked very attractive. But to what end? Mona’s arrival on the scene was a stay of execution, not a repeal. Okay, there were creature comforts. They had food again, and light at night. Alan was clean shaven and well groomed, so when the time came he’d now leave a good-looking corpse, or at least make an attractive main course. Moments ago he’d felt comforted by a moronic sitcom and now he felt like everything was utterly pointless. Seeing the predictable pandemonium that was the bygone world of Jack Tripper, Chrissy Snow, and Janet Wood just amplified the horror of reality. Alan pressed the eject button and replaced the disk in its case, vowing not to revisit their sunny vale of canned mirth. Enervated, he schlepped to the window to soak up a solid dose of actuality.

“That show was kind of funny,” Ellen said, looking up from the puzzle book.

“It was horrendous,” Alan said.

“I thought you just said it was comforting.”

“Yeah, well I misspoke. Sue me.”

“It’s funny.” When Alan didn’t ask what was, Ellen continued, “There’s a clue in this puzzle, ‘ThighMaster mistress from Three’s Company.’ Isn’t that a funny coincidence?”

“Hilarious.”

“Bad moods can be very contagious, especially in close quarters.”

“You saying you want me to leave?”

“No. Don’t put words in my mouth. I’m saying is there anything I can do to alleviate your funk?” Ellen rose from the table and began to undo her blouse, but Alan turned away.

“Not everything can be solved with sex,” he muttered.

“It used to be.”

“There are a lot of used-to-be’s. Used to be Manhattan wasn’t a massive graveyard full of corpses too stupid to stay still. Used to be we could go outside and walk around and not worry about being eaten. Used to be…”

“Okay, fine. I get the picture,” Ellen snapped, refastening her buttons. “Look, I really don’t want to get into a thing, okay? Why don’t you go to your apartment and do some drawing or something? Maybe take a walk.” Alan raised an eyebrow, but before he could say something snide Ellen added, “On the roof. Or the hall. Just go out for a while.”

“I thought this was my apartment now.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Ellen said, and instantly Alan regretted his snippiness.

“I’m sorry,” he said, but Ellen fanned him off, gesturing toward the front door. “Really, I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry.”

On the landing Alan stared at the outside of the closed door. A domestic squabble, he thought. How banal. But not in the least bit comforting. Could Jack maintain his pretense as a preening homosexual, keeping Mr. Roper ever at bay? Could Chrissy wear a top that was even lower cut, but not so low cut the network censors wouldn’t let it air? Could Janet utter some pithy platitude that neatly wrapped up their dilemma with a trite little bow? Could he and Ellen pretend to be a happy couple while all else was unimaginably bleak?

Stay tuned.

Karl sat on his bed in his bare-walled apartment.

Along with all the pinups, gone were the posters of heavy metal demigods. Thou shalt have no other gods before me. Since the arrival of Mona he’d reevaluated his secular values and desires and felt nothing but shame. That he’d intended to attempt to bed her was something he’d have to live with in private. Thank God he hadn’t articulated his impure desires to anyone, least of all her. In the passing weeks he’d born witness to her selflessness. And the way she moved unscathed by the ravenous masses outside.

Karl didn’t believe in the Rapture, but he didn’t not believe in it, either. The husks shuffling around outside weren’t “left behind.” At least that wasn’t how it was supposed to go. But maybe they were. The Bible and Bible prophecy were so open to interpretation. He thought if you didn’t get sucked up to Heaven you were to remain on the hellscape that was Earth and live out the remainder of your days, biding time until you went to hell. Where did those things outside fit into God’s plan? Karl remembered some lines from Corinthians. “Death has been swallowed up in victory.” And “Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?” Death’s sting and victory were pretty evident to Karl’s eyes.

If Karl remembered right, at the Battle of Armageddon everyone who wasn’t a believer would be slaughtered. Were those the zombies? That’s a whole lot of unbelievers. Maybe those things outside were the husks of the righteous who’d ascended to Heaven, sort of the ultimate in recycling. Their earthly bodies no longer needed, they now were used to punish the remaining infidels-like him and his neighbors. Supposedly, after the Battle of Armageddon, Satan would be defeated and Jesus would set up the Millennial Kingdom in Jerusalem. Karl’s posture slumped. It sounded so gaga, but then again, look out the window. People eating people-or at least things that used to be people eating people.

People. People who eat people,

Are the yuckiest people in the world.…

People used to whine about their bad luck or what a cruddy day they’d had. Sometimes people would try to equate a lousy day at work with the calamities of Job. A mean boss was hardly comparable. Your job sucked, but being Job sucked worse, yet he still loved God. So maybe this was the Tribulation. In which case, Karl hadn’t seen the light until it was too late. He wondered if it was too late. It definitely was for those brainless pods outside, but Karl could still fill his heart with love for God. God was supposed to be merciful, though the physical evidence seemed contradictory to that thesis.

Karl’s feelings about Big Manfred had altered, too.

Honor thy father and thy mother. Though Manfred Stempler had been a stern and brutish presence, perhaps Karl hadn’t understood that he’d been so to fashion his sons into better adults. Karl wished he had a Bible, but he didn’t and was too embarrassed to ask around. Besides, the others were likely heathens. Alan kept only escapist fiction and was an avowed atheist. Ellen, who could tell? Probably agnostic at best. The Fogelhuts, Jews, which was perfectly all right. Jews, Big Manfred had said, were merely unperfected Christians. Eddie and Dave? Sodomites. Maybe Dabney was different, but surely not the others. Perhaps he could ask Mona to obtain a Bible for him on one of her sojourns among the unclean. If it wouldn’t be too much of an imposition.

Karl was mighty confused. Mona could walk among the undead. Wasn’t that a Bible-style miracle? Was she an emissary of God? Her perpetual serenity seemed to denote some sublime characteristic. Was she imbued with the Holy Spirit? Karl heard her tunes, though. She listened to Evanescence; he heard it with his own ears. They were a Christian band, right? Or were they kind of wishy-washy about it? Maybe they were just spiritual. At any rate, he’d heard her listening to Black Sabbath, too, so what did that mean? What did any of it mean?

“Are you there, God? It’s me, Karl.” He made a face. Was it blasphemous to paraphrase Judy Blume in a time of spiritual crisis? “Anyway, forgive me for this inferior supplication, but I’m a little out of practice. Scratch that. I’m a lot out of practice. I’m so confused and everything. I’ve never stopped believing in You, but there’s so much I don’t understand, nor do I think I’ll ever understand it. Forsooth. I’m sorry. I’m trying to be fancy. That’s false. But my entreaty is for real. Sorry, I won’t try to talk all grandiose and whatnot. Ugh, this isn’t coming out right at all. Listen, I know I’ve thought many impure thoughts, but I cleansed my chambers, okay?” His mind flashed to Lourdes Ann Kananimanu Estores-Miss June 1982-secreted in his dresser drawer. His emergency stash. “I don’t want to cast out Lourdes Ann. Please. There has to be some beauty in my existence. I haven’t masturbated in weeks. Doesn’t chastity count for something? I don’t mean to wheedle. You wouldn’t have created perfection such as Lourdes Ann if it wasn’t to be admired, right?”

Karl stared up at his ceiling, noting a long crack that ran diagonally from one corner to the other, bisecting the expanse of whitewashed plaster. Just the mention of Miss June 1982 flooded impure thoughts into his head. No, no. Fight them. Fight the urge. But why bother? I’m doomed anyway, aren’t I?

Karl thought about those Left Behind books and the righ teous so-and-sos who’d created them, particularly the really creepy older one, Tim LaHaye, which sounded like LaVey, as in Anton LaVey-two sides of the same coin. When Karl had first come to New York he thought Anton LaVey seemed cool. He had the perfect look, that cue ball head and pointy beard. High Priest of the Church of Satan and the author of the Satanic Bible. Cool. But maybe not. But still, cooler than Tim LaHaye. That guy had helped Reagan into his governorship, then the presidency. He even looked like Reagan. Was that some kind of extroverted narcissism? Wasn’t that a sin? One reason Karl had turned his back on the church was that its loudest and most passionate proponents all seemed so corrupt, bullying, and insane. The clergy, the evangelists, the propagandists; none seemed all that holy.

Karl fingered his one tangible souvenir from Big Manfred, the one his old man had insisted he take before heading off to New Sodom: a Smith & Wesson Model 910S 9mm pistol. Karl had left it tucked away in its case since he’d arrived in New York, but now he held it in his hands. It felt alien, but it was the one thing he owned that his father had touched. Not a cross, a gun. Ellen was right. It would be pointless against those things outside. Karl ran his finger around the muzzle, sighed, then replaced the gun in its foam-lined case. Guns were not his bag.

If Eddie ever found out I had this… Karl let that thought die.

He got off the bed and returned the carry case to his underwear drawer, then stepped into the hall just as Mona was walking down the stairs from the roof, head bobbing as ever. Sunlight poured down the stairs through the open door and skylight, enshrouding her in a blinding white glow. He flushed and cast his head down.

“Need anything?” she asked, popping out an earbud.

“Uh, well jeez, I’m kinda embarrassed to say.”

“ ’Rhoid cream?”

“Huh?”

“Roof dude wants ’rhoid cream.”

Karl forced a laugh. “No, no. I want a Bible. Either the King James or the New Revised Standard Bible. Or anything, really, as long as it’s officially a Bible. I don’t want to put you out.” Mona jotted it down in her notepad but showed no reaction. “I want to brush up a little and see if I can make any sense of what’s going on out there.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I mean, maybe these are the End Times?” Karl inflected the statement as a question, hoping to engage Mona. “You know, like in the Bible? Like in the Book of Revelation?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Okay then,” Karl said, shrugging and smiling. “I guess that’s all for now.”

As Mona retreated down the steps Karl tried to make out Mona’s thumping music of the moment.

“Uh, Mona?” he shouted, to be heard over her tunes. She stopped at the foot of the stairs and looked up, removing the earpiece again. “Uh, Mona, I was just wondering what you’re listening to?”

“Ministry.”

“Oh. Uh, what song?”

“ ‘Jesus Built My Hotrod.’ ”

“Oh. Okay, thanks.”

She nodded and headed downstairs.

Karl was so confused.

“Are you still moping?” Ruth asked, incredulity marring any attempt on her part at a sympathetic tone. “My God, Abe, get over it.”

“ ‘Get over it,’ she says. Unbelievable. She accuses me of being derelict in my duty. She accuses me of being obsolete. Get over it. Maybe a younger man should take the crow’s nest. Maybe I’m not the one to watch for the lights in the tower window.”

“What tower window?”

“ ‘One, if by land, and two, if by sea; And I on the opposite shore will be…,’ ” Abe muttered.

“He’s rambling. I don’t know why I bother.”

Ruth shuffled out of the room, back to the bedroom. Good, Abe thought. Like I need a stoop-shouldered harridan eroding the last vestiges of my manhood. He sat by his post, a cup of coffee-neither hot nor iced, but room temperature-in his hand, staring out the window, awaiting Mona’s return, walkie-talkie tucked in his breast pocket. He’d be damned if he’d allow Ruth the satisfaction of catching him slacking off twice.

“ ‘Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,” Abe recited, in schoolboy cadence, “In their night-encampment on the hill, Wrapped in silence so deep and still, That he could hear, like a sentinel’s tread, The watchful night-wind, as it went, Creeping along from tent to tent, And seeming to whisper, ‘All is well!’ Yeah, right. All is well, my ass. Gottenyu, what the hell kind of poetry would Longfellow have wrought from this paskudne situation?” Abe settled back and wondered if anyone anywhere was writing poetry about the current condition. If they were it was probably awful, like everything else in the last quarter century.

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead.

Abe leaned forward and looked at the dead, or rather the undead. How long could they keep going? They ate when they could, but that was infrequent at best-happily. Were their reserves of energy infinite? That seemed so unlikely. Those things kept going and going, like that stupid battery bunny, none keeling over from depletion. You’d think, Abe thought, that eventually they’d just all collapse and the worst would be over. Sure there’d be a lot to clean up, but what a small price to pay. Then again, as Abe often mused, you’d think a lot of things in this life. You’d think death was the worst that could happen. You’d think the dead would stay dead. You’d think getting terribly ill or the cessation of your Social Security checks would be the worst that could happen in your dotage. You’d be wrong. But being wrong was the biggest part of life. Wrong choices and regrets; Abe was up to his tits in both.

“You cabbage heads have got it good, you know that?” Abe hollered out the window at the crowd below. “Not a care in the world, eh? You think anything any more? Probably not! How lucky is that, you lucky sons of bitches? You don’t even need TV any more! Look at this. It just hit me! This is the end of the evolutionary ladder, the perfect twenty-first century man! Not a thought in its head! Not a care in the world! Idle yet active, going no place, doing nothing, taking his sweet time, and vicious as hell if given the opportunity! Hey, Darwin, you cocksucker, congratulations!” Abe laughed, pounding his fist against the splintering slate windowsill, doing his old bones no favors at all.

At the other end of the apartment Ruth eased the bedroom door shut, muffling the splenetic ravings of her husband.

26

“You’re crazy,” Alan said, his voice rising in disbelief. “SNL was crap compared to SCTV.”

“It’s a matter of taste, not sanity, for God’s sake,” Ellen countered. This was stupid. How could Alan get so worked up over a TV show? A long-gone obscure sketch comedy show, at that.

“Or the lack thereof. Just because something’s more popular doesn’t mean it’s better. Often it’s just the opposite. Everyone says they like SNL better, but trust me, it wasn’t.”

“It was funnier to me, okay? Me. In my opinion. Opinion, Alan. O-P-I-N-I-O-N.”

“I just can’t see how an intelligent woman such as yourself could choose Saturday Night Live. Okay, it had some funny stuff, granted. I’m not saying it didn’t. But it was nowhere near the quality of SCTV. That show was inspired and brilliant. It never pandered. Because they were outside the mainstream they got to be so much more inventive and as a result of being unfettered by having to please sponsors and, worse yet, the lowest common denominator, they created some of the best sketch comedy ever to originate in North America.”

“Can’t we agree to disagree?”

Alan was about to opine his distaste for that expression but let it pass. Let Ellen keep her clichés, both conversational and comedic. He slipped the silvery disk back onto its spindle and put his prized SCTV box set back on the shelf. He was tearing through pack after pack of batteries, watching them over and over again, but the laughter justified the waste. Too bad Ellen couldn’t enjoy them. Sure, she thought they were sort of amusing, but that kind of faint praise just irritated him. He’d never met a woman who recognized that SCTV was infinitely superior to SNL. He’d never even met one that liked it all that much. Was this a gender thing, like The Three Stooges? Alan thought that kind of stereotypical men-versus-women stuff was bunk. He didn’t like The Three Stooges, either. Ellen wasn’t stupid, but she was a tad conventional. Maybe more than conventional. Pedestrian. More people liked SNL, it was as simple as that. It didn’t matter. He could enjoy the Second City episodes with headphones on.

“I said can’t we agree to disagree?” Ellen repeated, impatience straining her lovely features.

“Of course.” They hugged and retreated to their corners, he to watch another episode, she to do another crossword puzzle. As he plucked another disk from the case Ellen cleared her throat theatrically and gave him a hard stare. “What?” he asked, hoping to avoid further turpitude.

“You haven’t painted lately. Or done any drawing.”

“I’m taking a breather, okay? Maybe I haven’t been touched by the muse. Maybe I just want to chill and catch up with a little video. Am I allowed?”

“Of course you’re allowed,” Ellen said, attempting to keep her voice neutral. “It’s just you were such a dynamo before you got that DVD thingy. I’m not saying you’re not entitled to a little downtime, but…” Alan raised an eyebrow. “Never mind. Watch your shows. Enjoy.”

“Thank you.”

Ellen watched Alan slip on the headphones, the gesture eerily evocative of Mona and her ever-present earbuds. As he lapsed into a state of televisual bliss, Ellen felt a virulent wave of disconsolation. Alan’s posture seemed to mimic Mike’s, the way he slouched on the sofa, legs up on the ottoman, ankles crossed. The way his toes flexed when he laughed. Alan’s face relaxed as the vintage comedy soothed him, but Ellen’s expression began to collapse. This couldn’t be over an argument about their preferences in comedy. The wave of disconsolation turned into a wave of nausea. She got up from the dining table and bolted into the bedroom, reaching the window just as the rise in her gorge crested. A torrent of partially digested food spewed out, dousing the zombies below, none of whom seemed to mind.

How long had it been since she’d vomited? It almost seemed decadent. But maybe some of the food was tainted-lack of refrigeration and all. Ellen gagged up a few more blasts, then slumped down and let her head drop between her knees. For a few long unhappy months in high school Ellen had had a flirtation with bulimia. Alan reliving happier times in the living room; Ellen reliving unhappier times in the bedroom. Her puke splattered all over where Mike had been slaughtered, consumed, possibly digested by those filthy, hateful, unnatural things.

Mike.

Her husband.

Former.

Father of her child.

Former.

Former husband. Former child.

Former everything.

Her sobs drowned out by Alan’s headphones, Ellen’s body drew in on itself, convulsed in sorrow.

Eddie wiped spooge off his hand with a paper napkin, his right bicep burning from exertion. Ever since he’d liberated his cache of DVDs from his old boudoir he’d been Stroker Ace squared. Dave sat on the couch and thumbed through an old issue of Time, the cover story of which was rampant obesity in America. Ah, for the good old days. Dave wasn’t really reading, though. He feigned indifference to Eddie’s incessant onanism but inside he was seething. And hurting. How Eddie could prefer servicing himself over having actual sex with an actual human being was beyond Dave. It was like what they’d developed together was an accident, a phase. Dave kept offering to facilitate Eddie’s pleasure, even if it meant Eddie’s eyes being glued to the seven-inch monitor. But Eddie wasn’t having it. Now that he’d scored his porn, Dave was out of the loop.

“How many times can you watch the same scene?” Dave asked.

“You know what you sound like? You sound like a fuckin’ woman,” Eddie scowled. “Anyone ever tell you that?”

“Just you.”

“So maybe you should let it penetrate that thick skull of yours.”

Dave chose not to take the opportunity to return an obvious smutty riposte. Instead he slid off the futon and left the apartment, garnering nary a peep of protest from Mr. Tommasi. Fine. Let him indulge in his pathetic backslide. Then he’d come crawling back to Dave and maybe, just maybe Dave would have him back. Who was he kidding? Of course he’d allow him back in.

Out in the hall Dave pressed his face against the cool stucco and sighed. When had his life devolved into a same-sex soap opera? Were all the girls he’d banged throughout high school and college just a smoke screen? His attraction to them had felt real at the time, but then again, he never bonded emotionally with any of them. Real bonds had only been forged with male companions, especially Eddie. He let out a deep breath and walked up the flight of stairs to the roof. Dabney would be up there. Could he fake conviviality? It didn’t matter. Dabney wasn’t the type to natter on unless you expressly sought that kind of interaction. Let him sit with his pile of bricks and play “stone the zombie.” Dave took another deep breath and pushed open the door.

Though the sun was lost in a gauzy white haze, the light was intense to Dave, especially after having been indoors. He shielded his eyes and fished his Giants baseball cap out of his back pocket. Instead of lying belly down on his tarp, Dabney was seated at an aluminum folding card table doing something Dave couldn’t quite discern. A conversational opener presented itself-something to distract from his current romantic woe-so Dave, attempting to affect insouciance, strolled over and took it.

“Whatcha doing?” he asked as he approached. Dabney was hunched over and wearing thick magnifying glasses, something Dave had never witnessed before on the older man. He neared the table and saw many small parts, some loose, some still connected to plastic sprues. Dabney was building a model kit. How adorable. Wait a minute. Did Dave really think that? Was he being ironic or facetious or patronizing? No, it was adorable, this middle-aged man using a pair of eyebrow tweezers to delicately assemble parts from this, what was it, model airplane, maybe?

“Makin’ a North American P-51D Mustang. Good way to pass time, plus the glue gets you a little high.” Dabney looked up and smiled. “Just kidding. Takes more than a little glue for me. Speaking of which, you want a beer? You look like you could use one.”

“Uh, sure. Thanks.” Dave hadn’t even thought to ask Mona for suds. Stupid. Dabney handed him a bottle of Heineken and Dave held back the urge to weep with gratitude.

“All these little parts and pieces. Been a while since I put one of these together. My boys used to be wild for these things. They liked doing the hot rods and whatnot, but I prefer planes.” Dabney looked up at the sky, scanning for nothing. “I used to complain about the roar of jet planes, ’specially during TV shows. Used to have to turn the volume up to compete with them. Now I’d give my left nut for a plane to go zipping by up there. Even if it wasn’t meant for me, least it would be a sign of something going on out there. Some sign that maybe there were others. Before Mona showed, last sign we had of life was that crash, and that was snuffed out before it even made an impression. I asked Mona if she’s encountered any others on her errands and she said no. There’s gotta be others. Just maybe not around here.”

“How does she do it, is what I wonder.”

“Yeah, well that’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, ain’t it? How come those godless motherfuckers don’t eat her up like the rest of us mere mortals? Yeah.” Dabney finished off his beer, then tossed it over the edge of the roof, not even watching its trajectory. Out of sight it crashed, hopefully against the skull of one of the undead. Dabney snapped a tiny piece off the sprue and filed it smooth with a small wedge of sandpaper, his eyes on the instructions held in place by a small monophonic cassette player that warbled a well-worn tape of Ben Webster. “I’d like to see several squadrons of these strafing the bejeezus out of those assholes down there,” he said, holding the box art up for Dave to admire. “Imagine that? A bunch of these babies blasting the holy living hell out of those cannibal bastards? That’d be sweet.”

Dave nodded, sipping his beer. It was warm, so Dave pretended he was in Europe. He’d read somewhere that Europeans drank their beer warm. Sounded weird, if given the choice, but he’d never know firsthand. Dave looked out at the horizon to the north and wished he’d traveled, seen the world, broadened his vistas. Too late now. He then looked south and gasped.

“Look over there,” he said, pointing.

In the distance a thick, black cloud churned skyward from below, its origin blocked by buildings. But somewhere, looked like maybe in the east forties, a fire blazed. Was that a sign of life elsewhere? Or maybe a gas line blew all by itself.

“Hold on a sec,” Dabney said, reaching over to switch the dial on his radio-cassette player. He then stopped, midgesture, and let out a derisive snort. “Idiot. I was going to say, let’s turn on the news. Pavlovian response, I suppose. You’d think after several months of this shit I’d know not to try. Then again, I got some sweet notes serenading. I’m building a model kit. I’m drinking a beer. It feels almost normal, ’cept for me living up on a roof. But even that feels kind of normal. It is normal, now. Amazing how the definition of what passes for normal is always changing. If normal means what’s most common, those zombies are normal and we’re not.”

Dave nodded, taking another swig of Heineken. Normal didn’t used to entail a physical relationship with Eddie-or at least not a sexual one. It had always been pretty physical. The only time in their past that had been sexual was when they’d fucked a couple of coeds in their dorm room. Dave shook his head, trying to dislodge the memory. He didn’t want to think about Eddie now.

Both men’s attention drifted southwards again as a loud thud, dulled by distance, was heard, followed by a ball of fire which shot into the sky, only to be absorbed by the black smoke. A succession of muffled explosions followed, each punctuated by thick clouds of melanoid brume. Easterly winds bent the plumes of smoke into choky question marks in the sky.

“What do you suppose it is?” Dave asked.

“I dunno. Looks to be pretty far east. Could be the old Con Ed steam plant, near the UN. Or did they tear that down? I can’t remember now. Could be a lot of things, though. And unless we send our girl Friday down there to check it out, we’ll never know. And frankly I don’t think that would be a very good use of her time.”

“No, I suppose not. Jesus, you think it will get up to us?”

“Don’t be simpleminded, son. I wouldn’t want to be in that vicinity, but we got us a few miles between here and there. Don’t sweat it. And think on the bright side, maybe it’s frying up a mess of zombies. Wouldn’t that be something?” Dabney held up the half-finished Mustang and mimed a few swoops, adding appropriate rat-a-tat-tat sound effects. “Not quite as cathartic as a good strafing, but it’ll have to do.”

Whatever was going on downtown it was dramatic. Volleys of muted concussions recurred with some regularity and a significant portion of the southern sky was smudged, the undersides of the dark clouds tinged orange from the blaze that raged out of sight below. The cloud of smoke and soot blew north and soon the sky directly above began to sicken. The charcoal gray began to leech pigment away, the already anemic sky turning greenish gray. The air smelled bad, a combination of charred solid matter and burning petrol.

“Something always gotta come along and rain on your parade,” Dabney muttered. He eyeballed the symmetrical rows of the new Brita Ultramax water purifiers arranged by the low dividing wall. If it did begin to rain, as it now threatened to, even those filters might not be sufficient to fully cleanse the tainted water. A heavy drop fell on his nose and he frowned, adding, “literally,” as he restored the remaining parts of his model kit to the box. As more drops began to pelt the roof Dave bid him a quick adieu, and then fled into the stairwell. After a few moments Dabney took off his clothes and stowed them in his lean-to.

The water was cool and good enough for an impromptu shower. He stood in the center of the roof, head tilted back, letting the rain pummel his face, saturating his salt-and-pepper beard. He squeezed his facial hair, wringing out the excess wetness, letting the overflow cascade down his chest. Unlike the previous downpour, which had been so mirthful, such a communal affair, this time he stood alone. Maybe Dave had warned the others about the black cloud. Fine. Dabney didn’t mind a solitary soaking. Let them be afraid. Rain was nature’s way of purging poison from the clouds, putting out the fires below. Who was Dabney to question that? The rain seemed all right. It didn’t burn or even prickle his skin in any way that raised a red flag. He opened his eyes as a very unscientific litmus test. No, the water didn’t sting. Good enough for my eyes, he reasoned, good enough to drink. He removed the lids of the Brita dispensers.

What the hell, he figured. Put those filters to the test.

Karl had forgotten how reader unfriendly the Bible was, no matter which version-although he vaguely remembered the Good News Bible being dumbed down quite a bit. Awkward and often impenetrable phrasing. Contradictory accounts of the same events. Clearly it was the message and not the messenger. No wonder his mind had often wandered during church and Manfred’s sermonizing. The language was nearly impermeable. After browsing through the earlier sections, he skipped to Revelation, figuring this most germane.

Karl had forgotten-or maybe blocked-the particulars, but the imagery came flooding back: God and His four demon monsters covered with eyes sitting by His throne, the monsters incessantly repeating, “Holy, holy, holy, holy, holy, holy, holy, holy, holy is the Lord God, the Almighty, who was and who is and who is to come!” The first creature like a lion, the second like a calf, the third had a face like a man, and the fourth was like an eagle-four creatures, each of them with six wings and loads of watchful eyes. Surrounding God’s throne were twenty-four other thrones, occupied by twenty-four elders dressed in white garments, with crowns of gold on their heads. God’s throne emitted constant lightning and thunder. Like the ultimate booming system.

It sounded more like a rave than Heaven.

And God, evidently, had the appearance of jasper and sardius, a forgotten detail that sent Karl scurrying to his dictionary, which explained that jasper was, “an opaque form of quartz; red or yellow or brown or dark green in color; used for ornamentation or as a gemstone,” and that sardius was, “a deep orange-red variety of chalcedony,” which he also needed to look up, only to discover that chalcedony was, “a translucent to transparent milky or grayish quartz with distinctive microscopic crystals arranged in slender fibers in parallel bands,” which frankly didn’t help at all. It wasn’t very comforting to picture the Almighty made of stone, perched on His throne, with catchphrase-spewing monster lapdogs for company. How Jim Henson hadn’t adapted this was a mystery; it would have made a perfect vehicle for the Muppets.

Some of Revelation rang true, or at least true-ish. The things outside had been raised from the dead. But Karl couldn’t recall witnessing any procession before a large, white throne, nor did he see those not written in the Book of Life being cast down into a flaming lake of sulfur. And while the zombies were horrible-indeed biblical in their horror-Revelation was so specific about the plagues to befall mankind that omitting them didn’t jibe.

Angels with giant sickles killing thousands.

Marks on everyone’s foreheads, some put there by an angel, others put there by the beast.

Locusts flying out of Hell, each with a human face and wearing a miniature crown and breastplate, bearing the hair of women, the teeth of lions, and the stingers of scorpions.

Millions of angels riding horses with the heads of lions.

Hailstones and plagues.

Okay, so maybe there’d been a plague.

Reading this stuff was giving Karl the sweats. He felt like he’d submitted himself to regression therapy to recall repressed memories. When he got to the part about dogs not being allowed into Heaven he remembered Chessie, their retriever, and frowned that she wouldn’t be there. Dogs got lumped in with sorcerers, the sexually immoral, murderers, idolaters, and everyone “who loves and practices falsehood.” Was God afraid those doggies would pee on him because he looked like a statue? What good were those multi-eyed monstrosities if not to keep God’s throne free of visiting pooches? Karl didn’t like that.

Karl did like that the devil’s new army was called Gog and Magog. That was kind of cool, but a bit beside the point-although Karl considered referring to the things outside as Gog and Magog from now on, to spruce up conversation. It seemed better than “those fuckin’ zombies.” In Karl’s opinion, the apostle John, who’d penned this book, might not have been the most reliable witness. He might, in fact, have been a raving lunatic. This was just one man’s account, which by current standards seemed like fairly sloppy reportage. How about corroboration? How about three sources? But then again, who knew? What was supposed to be metaphor and what was literal? What was parable and what was prophecy? Karl’s head throbbed. As he popped a couple of Tylenols he noticed faint concussions in the distance.

Karl’s apartment was in the rear of the building so he didn’t bother looking out the window-his “view” solely that of the building across the alley. He hurried upstairs to find Dabney on the roof, nude in the rain, the sky above a miserable hue. Dabney didn’t seem to notice Karl’s presence; his head was thrown back, his eyes clenched shut. Was he humming or just mumbling to himself? Another dull thud erupted and Karl looked south, divining the direction of the noise. The sky there was blackened, flame licking up from below. As if in a trance, Karl made his way to the southernmost building. On the corner he stood on its fascia and stared at the distant conflagration, his stomach churning. He steadied himself, gripping a metal pipe.

“Oh my God,” he said in a hushed tone, remembering a passage from Chapter 9:

The fifth angel sounded, and I saw a star from the sky which had fallen to the earth. The key to the pit of the abyss was given to him. He opened the pit of the abyss, and smoke went up out of the pit, like the smoke from a burning furnace. The sun and the air were darkened because of the smoke from the pit.

Maybe the mutant locusts would be coming after all.

27

This is unusual, Alan thought, paintbrush in hand, midstroke on the full-size canvas. Across the room reclined Mona-fully dressed-on a vintage velvet chaise; yet here he was painting while being tormented by a very insistent erection.

Mona’s pose wasn’t particularly sexy and her expression was vapid and mildly sullen as usual, her eyes lightly closed. In her lap was the Hello Kitty backpack, which she held like a real kitty. She remained perfectly still, which was a great plus for a model, except for her head, which almost imperceptibly nodded in time with her bromidic tunes.

So why was he hard?

She wore her usual longish black cargo shorts, Doc Martens, tank top. Nothing racy. Was it her expanse of exposed belly flesh? Her stomach was a smooth, unblemished plane of slightly convex skin, her navel a delicate vertical pit. It was pleasing to the eye, no doubt.

Mona’s right leg dangled off the edge of the chaise and the left was bent at the knee, the foot resting on the cushion. And there it was: betwixt the top of her boots and the hem of her shorts. It was her calves. What a bizarre time to pick up a fetish, but there they were, round and firm and strong. Calves. Alan had noticed calves in the past, but usually in conjunction with high heels and the way calves really looked full and lush above a pair of pumps, but other than that they’d held no fascination for him before. Breasts, yes. Ass, definitely. But calves? And Mona wasn’t wearing pumps. But now that he’d noticed them-especially the left one, which bulged from the bend of her knee and the pressure from her foot resting on the cushion-he couldn’t take his eyes off them.

Alan took a swig from a can of lukewarm Fresca, burped, and got back to work. He’d blocked in the figure and was tightening up the areas of flesh, the clothing indicated as black negative space. He considered whether or not to add detail like the creases and folds in the material, but opted to keep the treatment more graphic. He focused on her face, drawing his eyes away from that luscious drumstick. Instead he studied her lips, always pursed in a slight moue. Highlights of early-afternoon sunlight coruscated on them and periodically her tongue would poke out to keep them moist. Focus on the work. Alan swirled his brush against the palette, mixing a pink subtle and sensuous enough for those lips.

As he daubed on small touches of roseate-hued pigment he felt a light touch on his shoulder and flinched, causing the brush to skate across the surface of the canvas, marring the work he’d done.

“Jesus!” he barked, spinning on his heel to see who’d caused this accident.

Ellen was there, looking guilty, her eyes cast down. She bit her lower lip, her expression conciliatory-until she noticed the bulge in Alan’s pants. Then her expression hardened almost as much as the business in Alan’s drawers.

“You asshole,” she hissed.

“What?” he asked. “What? I’m the one who should be mad. You just made me…” Once again his words trailed off as Ellen looked up and locked eyes with him. He feebly gestured at the canvas, a Francis Bacon-like diagonal streak across the painted Mona’s face. “I mean,” he sputtered, and then his face assumed Ellen’s previous expression of guilty conciliation.

“I should have known,” Ellen spat.

“I’m just painting her portrait,” Alan said, defensive.

“Yeah, with a fucking hard-on.”

“It happens,” Alan stammered. “It’s sometimes an involuntary action, like breathing and the beat of one’s heart. Autonomic. I wasn’t even thinking about sex. It just happened, honest.”

Mona, eyes shut and oblivious to this exchange, kept time with her tunes.

“Yeah, a pretty young thing comes to model for you.”

“With all her clothes on,” Alan added. “With. All. Her. Clothes. On.”

“Yeah, for now. This time.”

“Don’t be crazy. I’m just painting.”

“You get wood when you paint the zombies outside? If you do, then all is forgiven. But look me in the eye and tell me you get hard when you paint them. Go on, tell me that.”

“I can’t. I don’t. But that’s different.”

“Yeah. You don’t want to fuck them. Well, that’s fine. This is fine. Go ahead and fuck that little girl on the couch. Get her pregnant, too. See if I care.”

“You’re the one who wanted me to paint again,” Alan whined, his words chasing her out the door. “What, I’m only supposed to paint zombies and you?” Ellen stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her. The room shuddered and Mona’s eyes opened.

“What?” she asked, looking at Alan.

“Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

“Oh. Okay.” Mona closed her eyes and Alan began to correct the pink streak.

Wait a minute.

Get her pregnant, too?

“It just bugs me is all,” Eddie said. “She gets to go out and we’re cooped up in this dump forever. And I’m sick of her stock answer: ‘I guess they don’t like me.’ ” Eddie affected a nasally effeminate voice. “The fuck is that shit? No, she’s onto something and she’s too selfish to share the secret with us. This is some kinda bullshit power trip.”

“That’s crazy,” Dave said. “What could possibly motivate something like that? She doesn’t seem the type. That’s too, I dunno, devious.”

“Bitches are all devious, bro. All of ’em. I don’t buy the whole brain-damaged thing she’s putting over on us. The whole veggie thing. She knows what she’s doing and I don’t like it. Everyone in this lame building should be pumping her for how the fuck she does it.”

“She’s our savior, dude,” Dave said.

“Yeah. She’s our savior, dude. We’re her fuckin’ pets. She goes out and walks around and what? She’s touched by an angel or something? Yeah, right. She’s a person, same as us. She’s got some kinda secret and I wanna know what the fuck it is and I aim to find out.”

“And how do you propose doing that?”

“You know, sometimes you talk all fancy and I just wanna flatten you, Mallon. You pull that lawyery shit on me one more time-one more fuckin’ time-and I’ll lay you out. Count on it.”

“Jesus Christ, Eddie. What’s gotten up your ass?”

“Not you. Not ever. Look, just get the fuck outta here, okay? I wanna be alone for a while and sort some shit out.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

“And thus endeth the nagging,” Abe said, sitting on the edge of the bed, holding Ruth’s wrist. No pulse. No breath. Dead. Abe sighed and moved his grip from wrist to hand, his fingers meshing with hers, his posture defeated. He didn’t look at her face, just stared ahead at the floor between his feet, nudging ruts into the pile of the carpet with the toe of his slippers, then smoothing them with the flats of his soles. “Ai, yaaaaaaah,” he sighed again, stretching it out. He tightened his grip on her hand. It had been years since he last held her hand, just held it. They used to walk hand in hand all the time. They even had correct and incorrect sides. It never felt right when he held her left hand; something seemed unbalanced. With his free hand he stroked his freshly shaven chin, a small scrap of toilet paper stuck there by a dot of blood. He plucked it free and neatly placed it on the bedside table.

“Oy, Ruthie,” he said, then sighed again. In place of tears a lot of sighing was in the offing, Abe not being given to displays of emotion, even when there was no audience. No living audience, at any rate. With reluctance he turned to look at Ruth’s visage; her eyes were still open. He hesitantly placed his fingertips on her eyelids and attempted to press them closed, but unlike the movies they wouldn’t stay shut. Even in death Ruth was contrary. He pulled the sheet over her, debating what to do next. Tell the others? He supposed he’d have to. It seemed unlikely that Ruth would be springing back to life-or unlife, take your pick. She died the old-fashioned way, free of zombie molestation. She was clean. Well, sort of. Abe wrinkled his nose. Ruth had, as it was euphemized, “voided herself,” filling the air with yet another bad smell and the sheets with something worse. How very un-Ruthlike. “Oy, Ruthie, Ruthie, Ruthie.”

So much for the family plot, he mused. Ruth had made such a to-do over her desire to be buried alongside her parents and sister. She also figured he’d predecease her-so much for woman’s intuition, too. What was he supposed to do now? She’d want a eulogy, a service of some kind. She’d expect the Mourner’s Kaddish, in Hebrew, no less, and since his bar mitzvah he’d forgotten pretty much everything. Did she have a prayer book tucked away somewhere? Probably. He seemed to recall her filching one from her sister’s funeral. Hopefully it was phonetic. He’d look later. But if he was to respect her wishes, which seemed the right thing to do, silly though it may be-pointless, even-so be it. She wouldn’t be getting the whole megillah, but he’d do his best to accommodate her superstitions as best he could. He stared across the room at his reflection in the mirror of Ruthie’s dressing table.

“Avel, vhat can you do?” Abe said in comic Yinglish inflection. In Judaism the mourner was called an avel. It was a self-admittedly bad pun. It brought him no comfort. “There goes that second Social Security check.” Again the joke didn’t help. He was bombing to an audience of none. Miriam, Hannah, and David had never laughed at his jokes, nor did their kids. Ruth had seldom laughed at them. It had been ages since he’d even attempted mirth, except for the lame waiter joke at the celebratory dinner on the roof. Everyone else in the building was listening to music again, and watching TV. Those little screens hurt his eyes. Most of Abe’s music was on vinyl. And what he wouldn’t do to be able to listen to some of his comedy records right now. The best medicine there is.

On shaky legs, Abe trudged into the living room and dropped into his threadbare upholstered chair, parted the dingy chintz curtains, opened the dusty venetian blinds. Déjà vu on top of déjà vu on top of feeling beaten down and laden with wearied grief.

More déjà vu.

A little Myron Cohen would be nice.

The door to 2B remained open at all times, that apartment being Mona’s point of entrance and egress from the building. Since taking up residence in 2A, she’d taken to keeping the door locked, especially when she was out on errands. Everyone agreed she was entitled to her privacy and security; after all everyone else kept their doors locked, so why shouldn’t she?

Karl’s knuckles barely grazed the surface of Mona’s door, his rapping so feeble even he could barely hear it. His chin mashed into the pit of his collarbone, his lower lip twitched in self-disgust. He was having such a hard time getting up the nerve to approach her. Well, duh, you think maybe it’s because you see her as some kind of heavenly force? Like some kind of earthly angel or at the very least some kind of saint or whatnot? It was absurd. Not that Mona was possibly imbued with some holy powers, but that he was petrified. She was mellow, Karl told himself. Fact was, Mona was mellowness incarnate. Nothing seemed to bother her. Not even the things outside.

Karl’s hair stood up all over.

Not even the things outside.

There was an angle he’d never considered. Maybe the things outside stepped out of her way not because she was imbued with the Holy Spirit, but rather was an emissary of Lucifer and her minions knew better than to obstruct her path, let alone devour her. It made sense. Everyone in the building was on death’s door, starving, dehydrated, vulnerable, then along comes this pristine, beautiful young girl-temptation made flesh-offering every secular comfort. Maybe in their final moments the denizens of 1620 would have found their way back to God, and here was this serpentine interloper, sent to obscure their potential moment of spiritual clarity.

She dressed in black.

She even wore black nail polish. She listened mainly to heavy metal. Oh Jesus, he thought. Oh Jesus Christ. How could he have missed this? Everyone was so blinded by her gifts that they couldn’t see her for what and who she was: Lilith! Or if not capital L Lilith, then lowercase lilith, which was still not good. Even her last name was suspect: Luft. Luft was German for “air,” a tricky name. Mona’s personality seemed lighter than air. Air was a sustainer of life. She was keeping them all here, alive physically, but spiritually dead.

He was at last seeing through her deception. He’d seen The Light!

And now it was his job to let the others know.

28

Ruth’s naked body lay on their bed wrapped in a clean white sheet, as dictated by Jewish tradition-it was the least he could muster since she’d have to forgo the plain pine box. In the back of Abe’s mind he seemed to recall something about no coffin and the body being laid to rest, face up, and then concrete blocks being put on it, but the memory was sketchy. Sweltering in his mourning suit, tie cinched tight at his collar, Abe petted Ruth’s “earthly remains” and chewed his lower lip.

He’d disposed of the sheets and mattress pad she’d soiled and tidied as best he could, masking any residual odor with copious amounts of Glade air freshener. It was not a pleasant task and his estimation of those in the funeral trade became more sympathetic as he’d toiled to prepare the body. It wasn’t Ruth any more. Odd how once the life force had departed the body it ceased to resemble its former occupant. Sure, the face was the same, but the slackness removed the humanity. Her eyes were still open, damn them, and had caked over. Her jaw hung slack and cocked at an odd angle. Disturbing. Abe didn’t believe in the spirit, but Ruth’s death had transformed her, in spite of the homely details. It was the peacefulness. The body had relinquished her driving, vital force. In repose she didn’t look like the bitchy yenta she’d become over the years. It was simple as that.

He’d told the others. Ellen and Alan said they’d attend Abe’s ad hoc service, as did Dabney and Karl. It came as no surprise that the guinea bastard had shown nary a jot of sympathy or respect. At least his faygeleh friend had paid his respects, even if it was just lip service. What did come as a surprise was that the first to arrive was Mona, who’d made no sign of comprehension when Abe had mentioned news of his wife’s passing to the girl. On this occasion her customary black wardrobe seemed apt, as did the unheard-of absence of headphones.

“Mona,” Abe said, ushering her into his parlor. “Thank you for coming.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, but it didn’t sound unsympathetic. It was just her way.

“Can I, um, do you want a drink of something? Water? Juice? Seltzer?” Abe felt funny offering her provisions she’d furnished, but what else could he do?

“No, thanks.” Mona scratched an ear, no doubt feeling naked without her earphones. A few moments of silence passed, Abe standing there at a double loss, Mona looking at her feet.

“You know,” Abe said, “I was the only one in the building who had to fight his way home through the first-what would you call it-outbreak of the zombies? It’s true. The rest were home or nearby, but I was at work when it really began to hit the fan. Like you know, it spread like wildfire, but I managed to get home, all the way from the garment district to here. That’s three miles, give or take. I couldn’t leave Ruthie to deal with this alone. Oy, did she sound scared. Well, of course she did. She wasn’t an easy woman, but I loved her. Maybe I didn’t show it enough, especially lately, but I did.”

“Uh-huh.”

Mona sniffed loudly, and for a moment Abe thought this moment of human-scale tragedy had reached her, that she was moved. But no. It was just plain old congestion. She removed her backpack and opened a side pocket. “Uh, can I get that water?”

“Certainly, dear.” Dear? Abe blinked a few times as he walked into the kitchen to pour her a glass of water. Dear? Though she looked nothing like his daughters, save for the color of her hair, Mona put him in mind of them. Miriam and Hannah, his brunette beauties, having gotten his coloring, not Ruth’s. Abe returned to the parlor and handed Mona the glass, which she accepted with a simple nod. Into her mouth she dropped two caplets, washing them down with the room-temperature liquid.

“Allergies?” Abe prompted.

“No.”

“You, uh, ever encounter any other survivors out there in your travels? Any other enclaves like ours?”

“No.”

Her monosyllabic response hung in the air like a vague but disquieting smell until it was dispersed by the arrival of Ellen, Alan, and Karl, then Dabney and, shockingly, the faygeleh. Conventional condolences were expressed, handshakes exchanged as well as a couple of hugs and a peck on the cheek from Ellen. Considering he knew Ruth wasn’t exactly well loved-or even liked-it was an excellent turnout. She’d have been pleased. After pleasantries and so forth they adjourned to the bedroom and Abe fished out the little prayer pamphlet. Looking a trifle embarrassed, Abe put on his reading glasses and cleared his throat. He’d never liked orating before a group.

“Okay. Thank you all for coming. I know I said that already, but thank you again, anyway. It would have meant a lot to Ruth. Okay.” He cleared his throat again. “Okay, so I’m going to read this little prayer, even though I don’t go in for all this nonsense. Okay. I should skip the editorializing. Sorry. And to Ruthie I say sorry, too. I can’t do it in Hebrew. I don’t remember how.” Abe smoothed the codex and again cleared his throat. Sweat was pouring off him, his suit darkening further in the pits and back-like it mattered. “Okay…

“May His great name grow exalted and sanctified in the world that He created as He willed. May He give reign to His kingship and cause His salvation to sprout, and bring near His Messiah in your lifetimes and in your days, and in the lifetimes of the entire family of Israel, swiftly and soon. Amen.

“May His great name be blessed forever and ever. Blessed, praised, glorified, exalted, extolled, mighty, upraised, and lauded be the name of the holy one, Blessed is He beyond any blessing and song, praise and consolation that are uttered in the world. Amen.”

What a load of horseshit, Abe thought amid a chorus of hushed amens. So be it.

“Listen, there’s all kinds of nonsense you’re supposed to do for Jewish funerals, but let’s face it, we’re not equipped and I’ve done what I can. None of that malarkey means anything anymore anyway. I’d rather eulogize Ruth in my head than aloud. It’s too tough. You people never got to know Ruthie at her best. Quite the opposite, to be frank. But trust me, Ruthie was a sweet lady, way back when. She was a beauty, too, and a good mother. Maybe a little overbearing, but good. Anyway, there’s supposed to be a procession and all that rigmarole, but forget it. I don’t even remember which is supposed to come first. The tent of prayer. The rending ritual. Without a cemetery to orient me I’m at a loss.”

“So what do you want us to do, Abe?” Dabney asked. Maybe because he was the second oldest in the room he had some sense of the absurdity, as well as solemnity, of the situation.

“I just want Ruthie’s body removed from the premises. I know burial’s out. Same for cremation. So, all I ask is dispose of it in as dignified a manner as you can. But I don’t want to see. I’d rather lie to myself that she got what she deserved.”

“Okay, Abe. You got it.”

Abe sat on the upholstered bench before Ruth’s vanity and watched as Dabney and Alan lifted the enshrouded corpse of his wife of forty-eight years. Five minutes later, they cast her from the roof of the northernmost building like a perished sailor at sea. That roof dropped to another roof, rather than the street, so her body would remain unmolested, to decompose in peace.

Hunched over Ruth’s vanity Abe held his head in his hands, the grief beginning to hit him and take hold. All her powders and liniments, her tinctures and paraphernalia neatly arranged on the low table reminded him of the great pains she’d taken to look attractive for him before it all went south. His nose ran but his eyes remained dry. He sniffled and kneaded his scalp. Wife, children, grandkids-all gone. He snorted back the snot and clenched his eyes shut.

“Allergies?” came a soft, female voice.

Abe started, nearly toppling from the bench. He thought he was alone, but there stood Mona in the doorway, clutching her childish bag.

“What?” Abe said.

“Allergies? Your nose.”

“No, not allergies. Just plain old anguish,” Abe said, adding with a touch of sarcasm, “You got anything for that?”

Rather than look insulted or display any recognizable emotion, Mona opened her bag and rummaged through it. “Valium. Prozac. Paxil. Zoloft. Wellbutrin. Parnate. Nardil. Effexor.”

Not five words in a row from this girl in the last month and now this checklist of multisyllabic antidepressants. Abe wiped his nose with a tissue and stared at Mona as she crouched by the door, still foraging in her cartoon backpack. The backpack reminded Abe of the baby snowsuits. The more he looked at her the more she reminded Abe of his granddaughter. Danielle hadn’t been as phlegmatic, but she took her job as a teenager seriously and was as sullen and uncommunicative as possible. Abe missed her.

“You take much of that stuff?” Abe asked.

“Not much.”

“What constitutes ‘not much’?”

“Enough. You want?”

“Yeah, I guess I’ll try some of that Zoloft.”

“Takes awhile.”

“How long?”

“Couple weeks.”

“And the others?”

“Couple weeks. Maybe more.”

“Never mind, then. I’ll just deal with it.”

“Valium’s quick.”

“Okay, I’ll go with that.”

Two tabs later Abe slipped off into narcotized slumber, his body in the exact spot Ruth’s had been. He slept the untroubled sleep of a babe.

29

“You can’t be thinking of keeping it,” Alan said, trying to sound as reasonable and nonjudgmental as possible.

“And why not?”

“Why not?” Alan had so many reasons at the ready he was at a loss for words. How could she be seriously considering taking this baby to term? He was astonished she’d even been able to conceive. Maybe it wasn’t even his. That was possible. But what the hell did that matter? His, Mike’s, whoever’s. This was no time to be bringing new life into the world. He tapped the home pregnancy tester on his knee. “Why not? I really want to phrase this right. I don’t want to be patronizing or insulting or anything like that, because you’re an intelligent woman and…”

“And you’re already being patronizing. If you’re going to hammer me with a whole laundry list of how shitty it is out there, spare me. I’m not blind, I’m not stupid. I’m fully abreast of the state of the world.”

“Then how can you justify such a selfish act? How could you even remotely think having a baby is a good idea? Just explain it to me. I really want to hear your rationalization, because that’s all it will be. Fuck it, I’m sorry, but there is no good rationale for it. None. Forget telling me. I don’t want to hear it. It would be some irrational female desire to procreate. You need something that will love you unconditionally? That’s the apex of selfishness.”

“Who said anything about that? Don’t go putting words in my mouth!”

“Then explain it. I’m sorry. Maybe I’m totally wrong. Please. Enlighten me.”

Ellen smacked Alan across the face, hard. “You’re totally patronizing me, you asshole.”

“I don’t mean to be,” Alan said, rubbing his stinging cheek, suppressing the innate urge to retaliate. “This is a very emotional moment. Let’s calm down.”

Ellen sat and stewed, eyeing Alan with newfound scorn. Sure, she was good enough to fuck, but like most men it was only if the rutting was consequence free that it was desirable. Alan hadn’t seemed to object to boning her without the benefit of a condom. What, did he assume she was taking precautions? Didn’t most men put the burden of responsibility on the woman? Alan had seemed so atypical at first, but now? Since the reintroduction to creature comforts like video he’d been a lot less attentive to her needs. Sex, at times, seemed a chore that she’d cajoled him into performing. He’d rather watch movies and comedy shows.

And Mona. Presently she was posing with her clothes on, but how long would that last? First a little “innocent” modeling fully draped, as the artistes say. Then, when she’s gotten used to posing, comes the suggestion of undraped sessions. Then, the artist-and Alan had elaborated his theory on the inborn oversexedness of artists during one of their own postcoital bouts of pillow talk-puts the moves on his quarry, and bango, Alan’s boning Mona. What would she be like in the throes of passion? Could she even feel passion? Would she suddenly become a chatterbox? Wouldn’t that be hilarious? Or would she just lie there like a corpse? Maybe Alan would like that.

“You just don’t know what it’s like,” Ellen said, somewhat cryptically.

“You’re right, I don’t.”

“I lost a child! Do you have any idea what that’s like?”

That Alan had been through three abortions probably wouldn’t count, so he kept mum.

“No, of course you don’t.”

Even Mike, her daughter’s father, hadn’t been as psychically wounded by her death as Ellen had. Men just couldn’t feel that connection. With men the whole procreation equation came down to: SPURT! My work is done.

“Does the human race just call it quits?” Ellen shouted. “Like Peggy Lee said, is that all there is? I can’t believe that. Those things out there can’t run on empty forever. Someday they’ll start dropping and then it will be time for us to rebuild and repopulate. That’s the function of every organism, Alan. To perpetuate its kind. Is that so bad?”

“It’s not that it’s bad, exactly, but what kind of risk are you willing to take? What are you basing this optimism on? You see those things out there as being transitory? Maybe you’re right. I hope you’re right. But since their advent they’ve shown no sign of going away. Sure, they’re rotting. You can see it. You can smell it! But they don’t give up the ghost and fall down. Not unless you put them down by force. Maybe I could see what you’re doing as a positive thing if they were keeling over out there, but they’re not. They’re not. Can’t you wait? Wouldn’t that be a reasonable compromise? I could make peace with being a dad a lot easier if I didn’t think that giving birth was the ultimate form of child abuse at this point.”

“Who says you’re the father? Maybe this is Mike’s, in which case this is also my last piece of my husband. Plus, how can I get rid of it?”

Alan had no answer. It was pointless to argue. He leaned over and gave her knee a tender squeeze, mute capitulation, if not actual encouragement. Ellen sat back on the couch and softly began to sing, “Is that all there is, is that all there is…”

“They can’t last forever,” Abe said, his voice chemically softened.

Alan paced Abe’s floor, periodically looking out the window at the mob.

“Tell them that,” the younger man said, agitated by his exchange with Ellen. They don’t seem to have gotten that memo.”

“Eventually they’ll run out of steam. Maybe not in my lifetime, but-”

“I’ll repeat myself: tell them that. They don’t seem to be going anywhere. Who’s to say we outlast them? They’ve been running on empty for months. With the exception of Mike, none of us have gone and fed the flock, so what, they’ll just do us a kindness and drop?”

“I’ve seen some of them do just that,” Abe said. “Drop. They can’t keep going on and on and on, eternally. And if we can outlast them, that’ll mean we can get out of this building and move on.”

“To where?”

“Anywhere. That’s immaterial at this point. But you’ve gotta cling to some kind of hope. You have to be optimistic,” Abe said.

Alan looked at the old man with befuddlement. Though he wasn’t about to spill the beans about Ellen’s natal bombshell, Alan had come up here to commiserate with the resident curmudgeon, to buttress his negative worldview. Instead he was having a chat with Pollyanna. Abe sat in his armchair, shirt open and little round belly pooched out over his undone slacks. His face unnaturally beatific, he resembled a scrawny Jewish Buddha.

“You’re going to make me laugh,” Alan marveled, “and I’m not sure I’m up for that.”

“Why? Why laugh? Hope is the most vital asset we have. It’s all we as a species ever really ever had. Hope is the only reason to get up in the morning.”

“Who are you?”

“You’ve gotta have hope,” replied the old man.

“If you start to sing, I’m gonna scream.”

“The stuff I’m taking, I wouldn’t care.”

“Stuff?”

“Mona’s a heckuva pharmacist.” Abe closed his eyes, chuckling to himself. “A heckuva pharmacist.”

“So I sent her out for more of that rope and some other stuff,” Eddie said, his smile devious.

“Why?” Dave asked.

“I got me an idea for some leisure activities, but mainly I wanted her out of the way for a while. I wanna check out her digs, snoop around and see if I can figure out what her secret is.”

“You still on about that?” Dave whined, pondering the vagueness of Eddie’s unspecified “leisure activities.”

“Fuck yeah, I’m still on about it. She gets to go out, Einstein. She gets to leave the compound. She’s holding out, bro. I know it. I can feel it in my bones.”

Dave didn’t feel like arguing. Instead he slurped another wedge of syrupy peach out of the can, letting it roll against his tongue and lips, hoping the suggestive visuals would derail whatever scheme Eddie was hatching. Instead, Eddie just snapped at him for eating like a pig and then left the apartment. Dave gulped down the rest of the sweet liquid and followed Eddie into the hall, then downstairs. Two flights down Eddie placed a small flashlight between his lips and, aiming the focused beam on Mona’s top cylinder, began to pick the lock with some small, spidery tools.

“Where’d you get those?” Dave asked.

“Had ’em,” Eddie said, his hushed voice slightly slurred by the flashlight. “Keep your voice down. I don’t want the rest of the jerks in the hizzy to catch me in the act.” And with that the top lock opened. “Fuckin’ Yale,” Eddie smirked, removing the drippy flashlight from his mouth. “Never would’ve gotten it open if it was a Medeco.”

He opened the door and in they slipped. Dave didn’t feel like a groovy master criminal. He felt more like Dumber to Eddie’s Dumb. Or worse. The apartment was almost unchanged from when Mona had taken occupancy, the only difference being she’d moved Mr. Spiteri’s recliner next to the left front window. Also, various CDs littered that area, some in their jewel cases, others loose. Several were arranged haphazardly on the windowsill, some data-side up. Eddie scoffed and said, “Bitches never know how to take care of CDs.” He lifted one off the ledge and looked at its playing surface. “Look at this shit. Nicks and fingerprints all over it. Remember Gina Copaseti? She never treated shit right. I lent her my Bee Gees box set and it came back like she’d stuck it up an elephant’s asshole. I stuck somethin’ else up hers for good measure. Payback with interest.”

“So what are we looking for, Eddie?” Dave said, nerves and impatience straining his voice.

“Hey, you don’t have to be here,” Eddie snapped. “I’m perfectly happy to do this investigation on my own. You wanna help, great. But if you’re gonna honk like a woman, beat it, a’right? ’Cause I don’t need that shit.”

After a cursory couple of circuits around the apartment, Eddie began to prospect in earnest, opening drawers and riffling through them, closing them in disgust when nothing extraordinary was unearthed. Though he’d never been here before, he had the sneaking suspicion all was as it had been in Spiteri’s time, and he didn’t even know from Spiteri because his building had a different super. Drawer after drawer revealed nothing but tools of the custodial trade, Spiteri’s family’s clothes, and other plebeian junk.

“C’mon, Eddie, Mona will be back soon.”

“How the fuck you know that? Sometimes she doesn’t come back for hours or till the next day. She left less than an hour ago. One more complaint an’ The Comet’s kickin’ you to the curb, bro. For real. Help or vacate. Your choice.”

Eddie opened one of the hall closets and began rummaging, cursing softly as a small avalanche of shoeboxes pummeled his scalp. “Your mother’s ass!” he shouted, clapping a hand over his mouth and cursing himself for making noise. He lifted lid after lid, finding nothing. “These shoeboxes got nothin’ but shoes in ’em,” he griped, filing them back on the upper shelf. Board games for stupid foreigners, a scuffed soccer ball, a beat-to-shit toaster oven, two garbage bags full of ratty clothes-it was all rubbish. And clearly not one bit of it was Mona’s.

Eddie stepped into the bedroom and switched on the solar camping lantern within. The bed was immaculately made, with taut hospital corners. Either Mona was quite the skilled domestic-which seemed unlikely-or she didn’t sleep in the bed. Who knows, maybe the little freak didn’t sleep at all. With diminished enthusiasm Eddie opened dresser drawers and foraged, turning up nothing but the former occupant’s unmentionables and workaday clothes. There was a box of condoms well past their fuck-by date, but Eddie palmed them anyway. What a waste of-

“Hey, Eddie,” came Dave’s voice in a whisper-hiss. “Check this out.”

Eddie stepped into the kitchenette and found Dave standing on the kitchen counter holding a bumpy sheet of something shiny-it was a blister pack of pills. “Whuzzat?” Eddie said, snatching it from Dave.

“It’s drugs,” Dave said, sotto voce. “But check this out.” He opened the top cabinet. Inside were mounds of similar and identical blister packs, as well as prescription bottles of various sizes, all full. Eddie looked at the assemblage of pharmaceuticals and felt both vindication and annoyance that he hadn’t discovered the goods.

“See what I told you?” he said. “You see?”

“I see a lot of drugs, Eddie. But what does it tell us about Mona? That she’s a drug addict? That would explain her zonked out disposition, but…”

“But, but, but. You sound like a fuckin’ Vespa. Maybe it’s her whole everything, bro. It could…”

Both trespassers froze at the squawk of the home walkie-talkie, which heralded Mona’s return.

“That was fast,” Eddie seethed, stuffing the blister pack into his pants.

“Shouldn’t we put that back?”

“Fuck that shit. I wanna know what this shit is. Like she’s gonna miss one sheet of it, whatever it is.”

“But…”

“But me no buts. We gotta lay low while they help her in. How we gonna get out without being noticed?”

“We can’t be in here when she comes back,” Dave said, sweating.

“Tell me something I don’t know. What’d I just say?”

Dave pressed his ear to the door and when the clangor of footfalls subsided he looked through the peephole. He turned to face Eddie and gave the thumbs up. As he opened the door a crack, Dave felt like a burglar in an old-timey silent comedy. Everyone seemed to be in the neighboring apartment-he could hear Alan calling out to Mona. Dave and Eddie stepped into the hall.

“What’re you guys doing in Mona’s place?” Karl asked. He was standing on the landing out of the fisheye peephole’s range, clutching his Bible. Eddie’s first impulse was to snatch the Good Book, give the top of Karl’s pointy head a good hard swat and growl, “The fuck is it to you, midget?” but he thought the better of it. Instead he stalked over to Karl, allowing the full impact of their disparity in height and brawn to sink in-physical intimidation was often more effective than verbal, Eddie found-then he smirked and thug-purred, “For all intensive purposes we were never here, capisce?” Karl nodded. “Bene,” Eddie said as he and his compatriot ascended the steps. “Molto bene.”

30

Alan didn’t share Ellen’s optimism, if that’s what you could call it.

If anything, Alan took some comfort from the hypothesis that he and the others were the last of their kind. The reign of man-nature’s biggest mistake-was nearly at its end. What an honor, to be cognizant of the end of your own species, to be members of The Last Generation. The dinosaurs didn’t know that their number was up. Alan didn’t mourn mankind much. It was a shame that all of humanity’s finer contributions-art, literature, music, architecture, some science-would in time completely disintegrate, but the notion that the Earth would be free of man’s influence, that the planet could heal itself and be cleansed, was heartening. Certainly more so than giving birth to another stupid, miserable, pointless human being. Still, if he wanted to stay-or more to the point get back-in Ellen’s good favor-and he did-he’d have to quash that kind of thinking.

Or at least dilute it.

He swirled his brush in some linseed oil and studied his subject. Mona sat on a stool between the front windows, one leg perched on the footrest, the other dangling limply a few inches above the floor. Though fully dressed-Alan didn’t wish to invite further scorn from Ellen-Mona was barefoot and once again Alan was attempting to not be aroused by Mona’s sumptuous calves and now, of all things, her well-turned feet. Most feet he’d encountered, male or female, were functional but unattractive collections of jutting tendons, knots and joints, often rough and calloused. Mona’s were just the opposite, their tops smooth and doll-like, almost like adult baby’s feet. How could a girl who did so much walking have such pampered-looking tootsies?

An unbidden boner sprang to life and Alan’s posture involuntarily hunched. He wore another oversize shirt to mask any protrusions, but still. If her lowest extremities had this effect on him, what would total nudity do? He’d survived adolescence without ever having come in his pants or having had a wet dream. This was no time to regress. He concentrated on technique and execution, his strokes deft and provocative-but not too provocative. What a waste that no one of note would ever see these works. He’d always been modest about his art, having been raised to believe humility a virtue. All diffidence had ever gotten him was a whole lot of nothing. He’d never gotten any public accolades and never would. Not that doing art had anything to do with that, but, well, yeah, yeah it did. Art for art’s sake was pure, sure, but it was also masturbation with a fancier pedigree. Ellen thought he was a genius, even if that was an audience of one. That counted for something, even if she was sore at him.

His erection hurt.

Alan looked away from the canvas he was working on to the most cluttered wall. Amid the myriad zombie studies hung six sizable portraits of Mona. Unconsciously he’d spread the zombies away from the paintings of Mona, manifesting the old precept of art imitating life. Zombies. Mona. Sure, she was alive, but in spite of her fetching appearance she lacked vitality, her eyes communicating no more than those of the undead outside. Reptile eyes. Insect eyes. And yet still the hard-on persisted. Alan tried to will it away, thinking of disgusting things. But what was more disgusting than his waking life? In the old days if he wanted to suppress a boner he’d think about maggots and rotting cantaloupes and roadkill.

All of which seemed rather quaint now.

“Why not?” Eddie said, trying not to sound like a whiny little bitch. Mona stood before him, implacable. More infuriating than her unwillingness to comply with his simple, reasonable request was her refusal-or was it inability?-to elaborate. She’d gotten them every little goddamn thing, but now this sudden veto? It made no sense. Eddie mopped his forehead and stared in disbelief at this petite yet immovable object. He blinked as a stinging trickle of perspiration leaked into his eye.

“No guns,” she repeated.

“But come on, it’s a good idea. You know it.”

“It’s a bad idea.”

“But we could start takin’ ’em out. We could cut a path for you ahead of time.”

“Don’t need one.”

“Maybe we could even go out. You ever think about that?”

“No guns.”

“Fine, we’ll discuss this later. Maybe hold a vote. You believe in democracy or are you some kind of…” He stopped himself. What was he going to call her? A commie? That seemed a little out-of-date. “Maybe the others can convince you.”

“Nope.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.” Uninflected. It wasn’t even snotty. He hated that. Eddie turned his back on her and stomped upstairs, pausing for a second to pound on Dave’s door and bark, “Dave-o, grab your gear, we’re goin’ fishin’!”

On the roof, Dabney snored as he napped under his rickety lean-to. Eddie couldn’t understand why he chose to live outside like an animal. Fuckin’ moolie would probably be happier living up in a coconut tree. Eddie scowled as he waited for Dave. Fuckin’ Mallon might’ve gone homo, but at least he still knew how to be a man, have fun like a man, whatever. The whole gun thing had put Eddie in a foul mood. Why that stupid little cunt couldn’t see the advantage to scoring some firepower was beyond him. What, she was afraid of guns? Guns could do some serious damage to those rotten skinbags down on the street. That’s not a plus? Please. Eddie thought about his little encounter in his old digs. A piece would’ve been sweet. Pow! From ravenous zombie to dark, wet stain.

“What’s up?” Dave said as he barged onto the tarpaper.

“Shhh, I don’t wanna rouse the eggplant,” Eddie whispered. “You brought the gear bag?”

“Yeah, but what’s it for?”

“The Comet wants to go sport fishing, bro.”

“Huh?”

Eddie beckoned Dave to follow him across several rooftops until they reached the one furthest south. Eddie opened the bag and pulled out the two heavy-duty Penn reels. “You can reel in a fuckin’ three-hundred-pound marlin with these babies,” Eddie grinned.

“So?”

“So, we’re going hump angling, Davy. Gonna catch me a zombie, bro.”

Dave stood back and watched as Eddie put together the rod-and-reel assembly. For a change it wasn’t that hot, but sweat poured off Eddie’s brow like a mini-Niagara. His eyes were wild. “This’ll be just like angling for marlin or sailfish or shark or any of those big motherfuckers. You remember that fishing trip we took to Costa Rica, bro? Same as that, only better.”

“Eddie, dude. I dunno, man, this is a little weird, don’tcha think? I mean, what if you actually catch one? And what are you gonna use for bait?”

“You mean you don’t wanna get on the hook? I’m just fuckin’ with you. Okay. Okay, I don’t need to use a lure, okay? I can make a noose. Oh, dude, that is perfect. What an awesome combo: fishin’ and lynchin’. Call it flynchin’! Oh, dude, that’s genius. Genius!”

Scary is what it was, Dave thought. Eddie seemed more agitated lately, a little zippy. But not zippy as in zip-a-dee-doo-dah, zip-a-dee-ay. Zippy like that time he did three consecutive lines of blow in the men’s room during a company holiday party with one of the traders. Tweaked.

“Eddie, have you been taking those pills you filched from Mona?”

“Ix-nay on the ills-pay, bro. Keep your voice down. I don’t want the nigger to hear.”

“You have been, haven’t you? You even know what they are?”

“They’re her fuckin’ secret,” Eddie whispered, teeth clenched. “Why else does she got so many of them, huh? Dude, it’s so perfectly clear. I figured it out.”

Eddie stood up, rod and reel ready for action, and cast the line into the crowd below. Within seconds the line jerked, the tip of the rod dipping. Eddie positioned himself behind a sturdy metal steam pipe, bending at the knees for more leverage. “Grab my waist,” he commanded as he laughed in triumph. “This bitch ain’t gettin’ away!” Dave wrapped his arms around Eddie’s midriff and dug his heels in. Eddie dipped forward. The thing on the end of his line was putting up a struggle. His bronze biceps bulging with each crank of the reel, Eddie looked like a well-oiled part of the apparatus. It was about the most absurd image Dave could conjure: two men on a roof, aping the Heimlich maneuver, attempting to reel in a zombie

“Help me reel this cocksucker in!” Eddie roared, no longer caring about Dabney.

Dave added muscle and soon a rotted head appeared at the edge of the roof, monofilament cutting into its wrist, which was caught between the noose and its neck. Eddie yanked the rod vertical, cackling at the sight of the zombie’s stricken visage. For something brain-dead it looked plenty scared and more than a little pissed. Thick blackened blood oozed from where the line was scoring the epidermis and it groaned piteously. Eddie jerked the rod again, attempting to haul his quarry over the edge. Instead the line cut straight through the purulent flesh and dismembered the wretched thing. With the zombie’s weight no longer balancing them, the sportsmen toppled backward, Eddie’s coccyx crunching against Dave’s groin, eliciting a doglike yelp. Dave rolled out from under his laughing companion and cradled his injured batch.

“Almost got ’im,” Eddie guffawed. “The little fish that got away!”

“Who fuckin’ cares?”

“What’s your problem?”

“Never mind.” Dave lay there moaning, cupping his area.

“Wanna give it another go?”

“Do I look like I wanna?”

“Pfff. What a killjoy. S’matter with your nads, bro?”

“Forget it, okay? Just forget it.”

Eddie sauntered over to the roof wall and looked down, his prize absorbed by the crowd, no sign of it below.

“That sucks,” he said.

“Well, what would you have done with it, anyway? Hung it over the mantelpiece?”

Eddie slipped a hammer out of a loop in his shorts. “I wanted to smash all its teeth out and then basically torture it for a while. Cut on it and take it apart and shit.”

“Oh. Sorry that didn’t work out for you.”

Eddie smiled and said, “Thanks,” not catching the unconcealed sarcasm in Dave’s voice. Eddie clapped his bud on the shoulder and said, “We can try another time, right, amigo?” Dave nodded. “I’m goin’ back down, you coming?” Dave shook his head. “A’right, catch you later, bro.”

Eddie trotted across the rooftops, then disappeared into the stairwell. As Dave stepped onto their roof, Dabney sat up and said, “Your homeboy is a goddamn lunatic, you know that, don’t you?” Dave nodded again. He was temporarily out of words. Words just didn’t seem to cut it right about now. Even “inadequate” seemed inadequate.

From his bed, Karl lobbed the Good Book across the room. What was so good about it? It was riddled with riddles, chockablock with useless parables. No wonder people spent their whole lives reading the same tome over and over and over again. No one could make sense of this, at least not in a practical, how-to-apply-this-to-my-daily-grind kind of way. Karl had always noted people reading the Bible in public, especially on the subway. Mostly black and Hispanic people, predominantly women, their brows always creased in intense concentration, and highlighter pens poised to accentuate key passages for future rumination. Maybe it was racist, but Karl had been then, and was now even more, convinced that though they read the individual words, the sum made no sense to these devout ladies and occasional gent. Karl had gone to college and couldn’t fathom half of what he read and reread.

Karl knew there was a God, but His guidebook was the work of human beings, and humans could seldom be trusted. It was a book created by committee, too, which also didn’t bode well. Karl had a rule of thumb: any movie with more than three screenwriters was likely going to suck. The stories in the Bible had been circulated plenty before they were set down in ink. It was like the telephone game.

Big Manfred had an LP called, Satan is Real, by these gospelers, the Louvin Brothers. Big Manny had found nothing funny about it, however, especially not its title. Satan was real to the old man, and there was nothing even remotely amusing about that. Sure, the record cover displayed a hokey image-the lily-white brothers dressed in snappy white suits in the flaming pits of hell, a ridiculous cardboard-looking red devil on the horizon-but the album’s message was clear: don’t sin, obey the Bible, be a good Christian. Simple as that. The weirdest part was the brothers looked mighty cheery as they simultaneously preached and roasted.

Karl rolled over onto his stomach to ease the knot there, a combination of hunger and disquietude. He hadn’t eaten in three days in protest of the food procured by Mona, but what if he was wrong? Maybe she wasn’t in league with Lucifer, in which case this boycott was in vain. Plus, if she were an emissary of the Lord, wouldn’t his hunger strike be blasphemous? It wasn’t like he could just ask her, either. If she were a hellish minion, surely she would lie and say otherwise. But if she was sent by God, she’d likely lie or evade the question, too. It was not for him, a mere mortal, to question divine intervention. And as sure as he was that God existed, he wasn’t as certain about Beelzebub. Karl always figured the devil was the invention of man, kind of a scapegoat for rotten behavior. Why be burdened with personal accountability when you could blame Satan?

“This is unbearable,” Karl moaned into his pillow. He dropped off the bed and assumed a posture of supplication, interlacing his fingers and tilting his head heavenward. “Am I being tested? I mean, wasn’t I being tested before Mona arrived? Isn’t this whole stinking mess a test? If I starve myself, isn’t that protracted suicide, which is a mortal sin? So, I guess what I’m saying is, I should eat, right? If Mona is here on Satan’s behalf, I’ll need my strength to outwit her, right? Or if she’s one of Yours, I should…”

What was the point? He gave up. No answer was forthcoming, ever. Maybe on Judgment Day. Karl wondered if the line into Heaven was like the ones at Six Flags. Each depiction he’d ever seen of the line to the Pearly Gates was evocative of the ones at every theme park he’d ever attended. Did technology in the afterlife move forward as it did in life? Had Saint Peter upgraded from The Book of Life to a computerized database? Maybe he just had a BlackBerry or an iPhone.

This was madness. What the hell was he thinking? Karl punched his thighs and attempted to refocus. He was out of practice in the hunger racket. He’d become accustomed to eating regularly again, and now, three days empty, he was going mental.

He stood up and did some jumping jacks and toe touches; grade school calisthenics. He looked in the mirror. Five-and-a-half-feet of solid dork. He trotted into the kitchenette and tore open a Slim Jim, devouring it in three barely chewed bites. Then another. And another. He attempted to eradicate the pungent aftertaste with two cans of Mountain Dew, then felt buzzy as the double shot of caffeine coursed through his system, accompanied by a volley of violent vurps.

An image of Mona popped into his forebrain, tan and bare bellied, radiant as Botticelli’s “The Birth of Venus.” Karl snatched the Bible off the floor and contemplated swatting himself in the groin to subdue any impure thoughts. Sinners of yore were often self-flagellants. Did medieval times call for medieval measures of self-purification? The caffeine, the caffeine, the caffeine. And whatever dastardly additives there were in those Slim Jims. Oh mercy.

“Jesus H. Christ!” he groaned as he swatted himself in the ’nads.

31

“So what’s your story?” Ellen asked as Mona sat across from her. They were seated in Mona’s apartment, one by each window, Ellen slowly rocking in the Spiteri’s creaking old rocker, Mona motionless in her usual chair, feet propped on the windowsill.

“My story?”

“I don’t mean to sound confrontational. Or intrusive. I’m sorry. But yes, your story. Where are you from? Who were your parents, what is your background? Who are you, basically? How do you survive? How come the things don’t attack you?”

“I guess they don’t like me.”

Ellen frowned at Mona’s stock response. “No, I mean really. Okay, look, I don’t want you to feel like you’re on the spot. This isn’t an interrogation. Just two girls having a chin-wag, okay? Where are you from?”

“Here.”

“Here, where?”

“Around here.”

“Yorkville.”

“Uh-huh.”

“What street?” It’s like pulling teeth.

“Seventy-seventh. And Second.”

“Okay, now we’re getting somewhere. I grew up in Melville, Long Island. You know where that is? It’s near Huntington. I went to Walt Whitman High School. Where did you go to high school?”

“Didn’t finish.”

“I see. But before you didn’t finish, where did you go?”

“Talent Unlimited.”

“Really? That’s a performing arts school, isn’t it? You went there?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Okay,” Ellen said, stretching out the second vowel, and when that produced no elaboration, added, “And what did you take? What was your talent?” Did that come out sarcastic? This girl was unbelievable. She was the most unforthcoming individual Ellen had ever met and it was really trying her patience. But she’d break her, yes she would. What was her talent? Stonewalling?

“Singing.”

“Really? And yet you’re so quiet.” Again, was that sarcastic? Ellen couldn’t tell, but apparently neither could Mona, who sat there, unruffled as ever.

“Uh-huh.”

“What kind of singing? Jazz? Gospel? Pop?” Pop? Ellen felt like an old lady.

“Opera. Mezzo-soprano.”

Unbelievable. Ellen took a few to absorb this startling tidbit. Whether Mona had been any good or not-or for that matter was still any good-was immaterial. It was almost unimaginable that this introverted girl sang opera. And what about the din always pummeling her eardrums? That wasn’t opera. Had Mona dreamt of segueing from opera to heavy metal? Hadn’t Pat Benatar done something along those lines? Who could remember? Was it a lie? Was Mona fucking with her? Why would she?

She wouldn’t.

“Isn’t this nice? Getting to know each other?” Ellen smiled hopefully, Mona looked back at her noncommittally and then gazed out the window. Ellen wanted to get out of her seat, casually step over to Mona, gently lift Mona’s chin so that they were looking into each other’s eyes, and then slap the living shit out of her. Ellen had tried, but seriously, enough was enough.

What if the embryo taking form in her uterus turned out to be like Mona? Was it something in the air? Maybe Mona had been a vital, zesty, free spirit before all this-an opera-crooning voluptuary. Maybe the same contaminant that spawned the living dead had stunted her personality. Maybe this was some kind of autism. Certain mold could cause that in developing babies. Maybe she was just displaying the symptoms before the rest of them, a result of her youth. That was a possibility. Maybe she was the first, but in time they’d all follow. Nature was all about adaptation. Mona had forged invisible armor. The zombies didn’t attack her, but maybe the cost of survival was death of the self.

It makes sense. To survive one must adapt.

But what kind of life is that?

Though it was way too early for the agglomeration of cells in her uterus to do anything independent, Ellen felt a kick in the guts nonetheless.

“I’m jerking off to paintings of a fully clothed girl’s ankles. Wow, I’m so fucking great I can’t stand it. I am the man. I am the greatest living artist and this is what it comes down to. And I had issues about doing whacking material for Eddie? I’m pathetic. Path-et-ic.” Alan tossed the soggy wad of tissue out the window. “Fresh protein, kids!” he shouted to the crowd below. One looked up as the jizz-bomb bounced off his empty eye socket. Alan laughed. “S’matter, Gomez, you don’t like daddy milk?”

He stepped away from the window, no pants, just a sweat-sodden T-shirt. Not since junior high school had he masturbated to his own art, and it didn’t feel good. This was not how he’d envisioned his thirties. But then again, none of the current climate fit the vision of his future he’d had in his past. By thirty he was supposed to have had at least one solo show in Soho, Paris, and London. By thirty he was supposed to have at least one hardbound monograph of his works. By thirty he was supposed to have found true, everlasting love. By thirty a lot of things were supposed to have happened.

Alan sat down across from his most recent canvas, a half-finished portrait of the enigmatic Ms. Luft. The painting was perched on the easel. Behind it was the wall of Mona portraits surrounded by the halo of zombie studies. Across the room were the Ellen canvases and drawings. He couldn’t remember the last time they’d had sex. Had they done it since she’d announced her pregnancy? No. Here he was jerking off to the image of a person who was barely there when he had a real, live, fleshed-out, fully dimensional woman to love. Classic. “Fuck you, Erma Bombeck,” Alan sniped. “I gotta eat something. I gotta eat some peaches. I need a sugar fix. That’s what I’m gonna do. And I’m gonna announce it first and then do it. I’m going to speak in declarative statements announcing my imminent actions and then do them. I am going to get some canned peaches, open the can, eat the contents and then fling myself out the window. What? No. No I won’t.”

But why not?

“Mona’s right. We shouldn’t have guns. Because right about now, a 9 mm lead sandwich sounds very appetizing.”

Alan chugged the peaches, sputtering as he choked on the last couple of slices, a small, stinging upsurge of syrup leaking out his left nostril. His mother used to scold him for wolfing his food-another indication of his regression. Alan wiped the syrup off his nose and chin and then licked it off his hand, which he hadn’t washed off since he’d masturbated. Wonderful. Washed off. Bathed. There was a quaint custom gone dodo. Mona had at least scored cases of Purell, so Alan traipsed over and pumped a couple of squirts into his palm and cleaned up. He stroked some onto his wilted penis, too, which stung as the alcohol penetrated the sensitive skin. “There, all germ free,” he said, as if it mattered. “Cucumber Melon,” he mused aloud, looking at the label. “As if. Still, it smells nice.”

As Alan took a few whiffs from the bottle it hit him that the stench of the undead didn’t bother him any more, even when his sense of smell was rekindled by a pleasant odor. The renewed appreciation for scent made him hungrier, and he ate a can of peas. Then a can of baked beans, including the disgusting wad of pork. Staring at his work in progress, he sat down on his couch and noticed he’d only given Mona four toes on each foot, like some cartoon character.

“That’s stupid,” he muttered as he slipped into dreamless slumber.

“We should get a generator,” Eddie said as he toyed with the fishing reel. “I mean, it’s not gonna be summer forever. Nobody took my car-boosting idea serious, but if Mona can drive, she should take a car, you know, find a Hummer and snag us some gennies. I could teach her how to siphon gas. Maybe seeing that would plant some thoughts in her head.” He grinned smuttily, arching his eyebrows in case Dave didn’t pick up the innuendo. Dave frowned. “Anyway,” Eddie continued, “It’d be sweet to get some power going. Maybe some AC, for a change.”

Dave nodded. “Yeah, that’d be cool. But you couldn’t keep the whole building chilled.”

“So we get everyone in one apartment and crank it. A sleepover.”

“A sleepover. Because I know how much you love hanging with the others in here,” Dave scowled. “But, yeah, I see where you’re coming from.”

“For real, right? The people in this dump, they got no vision. Okay, I admit it; I’m not so book smart, but I got life smarts. These pampered Upper East Side homos would just shrivel up an’ die if Mona hadn’t come along.”

“So would you and me,” Dave interjected.

“Yeah, but not without a fight. They’d of gone out like babies, all curled up in a fetal position. If I knew for sure my number was up I’d of gone downstairs, outside, and taken a few of those fuckers out, mano à mano. If Mona doesn’t drive, I could teach ’er. Maybe she could snag a laptop and one of them driving simulators.”

“No such thing.”

“For real? But they’ve got flight simulator games.”

“No cars, though.”

“That’s retarded. Five zillion driving games, but none that teach actual driving?”

“None that I ever heard of.”

“Wow, that makes no sense.”

“Would you have played one?” Dave asked.

“Fuck no. I only like shooters.” Eddie dropped the fishing rig on the floor and got up. “I’m gonna go talk to Ms. Vegetable-matter.” On his way to the door he picked up a blister pack and popped a pink pill.

“You really shouldn’t do that,” Dave said.

“Fuck you, Mom. And anyway, these pills don’t do shit.”

“Maybe they’re placebos.”

“Maybe they’re female shit and I’m gonna sprout some tits. Time will tell, bro, but in the meantime I plan on testing the waters a bit longer.”

“Yeah, well when you start menstruating, drop the regimen.”

Eddie laughed as he sailed out the door, letting it slam as he tromped downstairs. When he arrived at Mona’s door he affected a more sedate demeanor and then knocked. After a few gentle raps he pounded the side of his fist on the door. Fuckin’ bitch was probably listening to her death metal or whatever it was. How could anyone listen to that noise? He tried the doorknob to no avail, rattling it in frustration. Oh come on, he thought. After several more thuds the door opened a crack, held that way by the chain, and Mona greeted him with a dull stare, her earbuds draped around her shoulders. If this chick had tits, Eddie started thinking, then stifled the notion. He was here on a different kind of business.

“Sup?” he said, flashing her his most winning smile.

“Nothing,” she replied.

“Can I talk to you about something?”

“Uh-huh.” She undid the chain and opened the door the whole way, ushering Eddie in. As he stepped past her he took in their disparity in size, he standing at least a foot taller than she.

“What are you,” he began, “like maybe five one or something?”

“Five two.”

“Wow. It’s so fuckin’ weird that a tiny chick like you-no offense-can just truck around town with all those zombies and a big guy like me can’t. I can’t figure it out.”

“Uh-huh.”

I’ll “uh-huh” you, you fuckin’… No, no. Stow that shit. Make nice. “So, okay, what I was thinking was this: you’re always going out on these errands, right? And the most you can carry is what you can pile in a shopping cart. So that limits what you can score. So maybe, I dunno if you can drive, but maybe you could make the most of your trips out there in the world, if you drove a truck or Hummer or something. Even a Mini Cooper. Anything.”

“Can’t.”

“I could teach you.”

“They have to sense me.”

“Huh?”

“In a car they can’t sense me so they don’t disperse.”

Eddie was doubly stunned. Not only had she answered his question but also it was a complete sentence and it made sense. Sense. The senses. Eddie didn’t even think about that before. The zombies still had senses, even if they were a bunch of rotting brain-dead skinbags.

“Sense,” he repeated. “Like maybe you give off a stink-no offense-that those pusbags can’t abide. Wicked. Like because maybe you…” Eddie cut himself off before he tipped his hand. He didn’t want her to know he’d filched those pills. But this was the lynchpin. This was it. He felt sure. The pills. The quantity. She’d been megadosing those pills and it made her immune to attack. Oh, this sly bitch. And she didn’t want to share. He’d tell the others and they’d flip. All those smarty-pants. Should he tell them? Yeah, because then they could decide what to do. He didn’t want to flat out accuse her, but if they were all on the same page, like a committee, then they could move as a unit. That was strategy. He felt like he did when he was playing hockey. Strategy was never his strong suit, at least not formulating it, but he had some dope-literally and figuratively-that the others didn’t. He’d present his findings and they’d take it from there.

“I tried driving once. They tipped the car over.” Her dull face actually betrayed a trace of anxiety. She didn’t like the memory. “Never again.”

“That’s really interesting,” Eddie said with unaccustomed sincerity. She was a waste case, all right, but she was human. “Listen, I didn’t mean to freak you out. I just thought maybe it was a good idea about the car and all. Sorry. I’ll leave you alone, a’right?” She nodded and Eddie let himself out, grinning as he turned his back on her, feeling smarter than everyone else in the joint. It was cool knowing something no one else did. And he got it out of her. He did.

Suck on that, you faggots.