Fish

The fish are hungry, but so are the people of Guadeloupe.

Every morning, I go down to the shore with my harpoon and kill the fish wriggling around on the beach. I don’t know why anyone was ever worried about overfishing, there are so many of them. It is as if the ocean itself were one large rotting body creeping up onto land. I wake up before the first light and there are already people fishing for the first pick. Most only have sharpened sticks or knives.  We all have families to support and protect and it’s too dangerous to go out fishing in the ocean. Sharks normally don’t attack humans, but zombie sharks have been known to jump aboard fishing vessels and take whole crews out that way. We stick to the beach, even though it’s not much safer. Zombie sharks, among other zombie sea creatures, have also been known to beach themselves in order to look for food. Great whites can catch a morning forager off guard if they’re not paying attention. They may not seem fast on land, but those beasts are pure muscle. One time, a marlin was found as far inland is Caraque, flopping around in someone’s backyard. And if they are not found twitching in the streets, some get into people’s swimming pools and into lakes and streams. Zombie fish are single-handedly destroying the wildlife on the island.

When the outbreak first began, we didn’t even think to eat zombie fish. Back then, we thought it might infect us somehow. Our fears were rational, but we did waste a lot of potential food. Now, zombie fish are part of working class survival. The morning foragers start the day by spearing all of the fish on the beach. They pick out the freshest ones and throw the most decayed back into the sea. The smell is horrendous. It saddens me to think that I used to fish off the shore here, that anyone did. Sailboats and schooners used to dot the horizon. I had my own boat, the Jolie Sirene. Used to catch mahi-mahi. I’d even take tourists on board sometimes when I was needing a little extra money. Now she’s tied at the docks, rotting away like everything else around here.

We do what we can to get by, but it’s not healthy eating half-rotten fish all the time. A lot of people have sworn off eating meat altogether. I can’t really blame them. The appetite of the dead is enough to make the living a little squeamish. I, for one, would eat them than have them eat me. It’s a constant battle at the shores, like we’re trying to stave off Death itself, like we’re trying to push back the clock just a little longer. Long enough to do what? To live, I guess.

A Story To Prepare Your Children for Adolescence

Billy always popped his zits.

Pop! Pop! Pop!

His parents always told him,

“No!”

But he  never listened.

Pop! Pop! Pop!

“You could get scars!” they cried. “One day a monster will eat your torso!”

Billy paused a moment. This was a strange thing for them to say…

But he shrugged and continued popping his zits.

Pop! Pop! Pop!

One day, Billy had some especially large zits. He decided to pop them.

And he did.

One pop. Two pops. Three…

And a monster came out of his third zit! It had horrible gnashing teeth and claws like needles. Its breaths smelled of dead babies and its laugh sounded like tortured cats blended with virgin maidens thrown into volcanos!

The monster swallowed Billy whole, right up to his hips. The greedy monster did not chew, so Billy was still alive to feel the blood leaving his squirming torso and feel his skull crush inside the monster’s jagged esophagus until his last frightened breath.

Billy’s parents walked into his room the next day and saw the crippled legs and the pool of blood. “Why doesn’t that boy ever listen?” his mother said, hands on hips.

“I don’t know, honey. I don’t know,” his father said. “I guess he’ll never learn!”

And they laughed and closed the door behind them.

Eight Stories about Ironing (Revision)

Iron

Iron (n.): a handheld device used to steam press clothing and eliminate wrinkles. Despite the name, modern irons are made with a stainless steel sole plate, so as to keep irons durable and rust-free. In modern usage, the term “iron” is often used as a metaphor to describe the process of leveling out an article or spirit using any tool regardless of whether one actually uses an iron to do so. The ultimate goal of an iron is to flatten.

Baba Yaga

In some versions of the folklore surrounding Baba Yaga, she irons out the path behind her so no one can tell where she’s been. I just made this up.

Janet

Janet hated doing laundry but she loved to iron. As soon as her husband threw off his shirt or tie upon returning home, she would snatch the bits of clothing and begin ironing. She never kissed him when he walked through the door. He never got so much as a “Welcome home, honey.” Janet’s husband hypothesized that she did this because she is a neurotic bitch with a withered vagina. Her therapist thought the same thing, though instead he told her that she was trying to gain control over her life by ironing clothes. She needed to get out of the house, maybe volunteer or take dance lessons. Janet wonders if this was all true, even the part about the withered vagina (though no one said a thing, Janet is actually very perceptive). She decides she’s going to take up the hobby of ironing more. You see, when Janet irons, all traces of her husband go away. Gone are the scent of his sweat and cologne; gone the cardboard dust aroma from the storage room in the office; gone the smells of his secretary’s unwithered vagina. Gone.

Inventors

The inventor

Iron Age

Philosophers and historians say that time is cyclical. Or it repeats itself. The Dark Age and the Iron Age repeat themselves in one form or another, as do the Inquisition, the witch trials, and the Red Scare. I don’t know about such things. I’m not a philosopher. Or a historian. But I do repeat myself.

Confession

I was taught to iron on an 8×8 inch square of fabric. This did not prepare me for ironing out oddly-shaped clothing with thick collars and obtrusive sleeves. It did not prepare me for bumpy buttons and embossed patterns. Nor was I prepared for burned clothes and burned hands. It also did not prepare me for heartbreaks and hangovers and sucker punches.  I remain unprepared for the fickle hearts of women and the affairs of men. My life is limited to this 8×8 inch of fabric and I still can’t quite get that last crease to go down.

Baba Yaga Again

I heard she kidnaps children, steals their bones and then irons out their skins to hang and dry outside of her chicken leg house. Okay. I made part of that up, too… don’t judge me. Look at yourself.

Paul & Susan

Paul always did it himself. Started his own company. Self-made millionaire. Business trips on his own coin. Ironed his own clothes at the end of each day. One day, they found him at the front of the hotel, smashed into pavement and surrounded by broken glass. His death was documented, photographed, and he was filed away in the morgue.

Susan didn’t want to be young or sexy. She just wanted her face to be perfect. She hated stubble and the texture of a burning log in the fireplace. She went online and looked for porn of people wearing masks. Her favorite was comedy and tragedy masks, but those are hard to find. She read about Paul in the newspaper and didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Susan got Botox and didn’t have to worry about choices anymore.

The Ghost of Iron

The ultimate goal of the iron is to flatten. There is a mass grave – a surplus of irons that have done their job and gone to rest. Their ghosts still haunt us, clinking on chains woven from Jacob Marley’s skin. Every year, they come to this very spot, bury their faces in the ground, and howl into pillows made of dirt.

Dishes

“When the stars threw down their spears  and watered heaven with their tears, did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the Lamb, make thee?”

“Hellboy.”

“What? God,  Theo! You scared me.” Vera hadn’t heard him over the clatter of washing dishes. The man was like a little ghost walking around the house.

“I’m sawry,” he said in that baby voice she hated. He pushed up against her. He was already hard.

“Please. I’m trying to do the dishes.” She was hoping that he would take a hint and help out.

“You can do them later,” he purred. Apparently, she would have to be more direct with him. But why did she think otherwise?

“This brewing company is messy and smelly and you and Josh don’t help by leaving your shit all over the place. Either help or get out of the kitchen! Comprenez vous?”

Theo shrank back. “But of course, ma petit tigre.” He rolled back his sleeves.

“So, what do your comic books have to do with Blake?”

“My comics? Oh. Right. That poem is in one of the Hellboy comics.”

“Do you know what it means?” They both stopped swapping dishes for a moment.

“I suppose… I figured it was that God created Hellboy. That he created devils alongside everything else.”

“Tres bon, ma petit agneau! At least, close enough. Blake wrote that poem about a tiger, kind of a musing on why God created this ferocious beast that kills God’s supposedly most precious creatures.”

She hands him a big bowl to dry. “And?”

“And what?”

“What’s your point? You always have a point.”

They stopped again as Vera thought. “I was just wondering if the Rapturists, crazy they may be…”

“Don’t even finish that sentence.”

“What? I’m not allowed to think now? Is that it?”

“No. You can think. I’m okay with thinking. It’s just…”

“Look. I’m not going to run off and join a cult. I was just thinking about… moving?”

“Moving what?” She could hear the increasing fear in his voice.

“I know you haven’t thought about it. You and Josh love this little world you’ve created, but I keep thinking about the rest of the world.”

“What about the rest of the world?”

“Think about it, Theo. We have enough alcohol to pay our way on a fishing boat, I’m sure of it! We could go to France! Or Monaco! Or Guadeloupe!”

“Why would you want to go to Monaco? Or Guadeloupe, for that matter? What’s even there?”

“Something! Something else! Why is everyone so sold that moving up north is the answer? We’ve walled hundreds of thousands of people in here who are afraid to step off their own front porches most days! You want to know what’s in Guadeloupe? Freedom! Freedom from our own damn fears!”

“Say you’re not crazy and you could get to Guadeloupe. Then what? We’ve set up a life here, Vera. We’ve got a steady income. We’ve got friends. We’ve even got a poutine stand down the street!”

“You think this is a joke?” Vera slams the plate she was scrubbing crashing into the others. “You know what’s a joke? You’ve got beer, a deadbeat business partner, a best friend who runs around the streets playing detective, and you can keep your damn poutine!” Having dried off her hands on a dish towel, Vera threw it in Theo’s face.

“She’ll get over it…” Theo mumbled to himself, but he couldn’t shake this feeling like he had air trapped in his lungs that he couldn’t expel. And all he was doing with his life was holding his breath.

Eight Stories about Ironing

Iron

Irons are handheld devices used to steam press clothing and eliminate wrinkles. Despite the name, modern irons are made with a stainless steel sole plate, so as to keep irons durable and rust-free. The term “iron” is often used now as a metaphor to describe the process of straightening/leveling out an article or spirit using any tool, spanning from tangible to emotional to metaphysical.

Baba Yaga

In some versions of the folklore surrounding Baba Yaga, she irons out the path behind her so no one can tell where she’s been. I just made this up.

Janet

Janet hated doing laundry but she loved to iron. Any chance she would get, she’d iron. Sometimes as soon as her husband threw off his shirt or tie, she would snatch it up and begin ironing. He hated this and thought it was because she was a frigid bitch with a withered vagina. Her therapist thought the same thing, though he told her that she was trying to gain control over her life by ironing clothes. Perhaps this is all true, even the part about the withered vagina. All Janet knows is that when she irons, all traces of her husband go away. Gone are the scent of his sweat and cologne; gone the cardboard dust aroma from the storage room in the office; gone forever the pine tree he brushes up against on the way to and from the driveway and the smells of his lover’s unwithered vagina.

Iron Age

Philosophers and historians say that time is cyclical. Or it repeats itself. The Dark Age and the Iron Age repeat themselves in one form or another, as do the Inquisition, the witch trials, and the Red Scare. I don’t know about such things. I’m not a philosopher. Or a historian.

Confession

I was taught to iron on an 8×8 inch square of fabric. This did not prepare me for ironing out oddly-shaped clothing with thick collars and obtrusive sleeves. It did not prepare me for bumpy buttons and embossed patterns. Nor was I prepared for burned clothes and burned hands. It also did not prepare me for heartbreaks and hangovers and sucker punches.  I remain unprepared for the fickle hearts of women and the affairs of men. My life is limited to this 8×8 inch of fabric and I still can’t quite get that last crease to go down.

Baba Yaga Again

I heard she kidnaps children, steals their bones and then irons out their skins to hang and dry outside of her chicken leg house. Okay. I made part of that up…

Paul

Paul always did it himself. Started his own company. Self-made millionaire. Business trips on his own coin. Ironed his own clothes at the end of each day. One day, they found him at the front of the hotel, smashed into pavement and surrounded by broken glass. His death was documented, photographed, and he was filed away in the morgue.

The Ghost of Iron

Nobody uses iron anymore. Everything is stainless steel or synthetic or both. Even irons are being replaced by steamers and lifestyles that can afford wrinkles in clothes. But their ghosts still haunt us, clinking on chains made of Jacob Marley. Every year, they come to this very spot, bury their faces in the ground, and howl at the earth.

Blockade (Revision)

“Wake up, shithead.” Jerm punched Micah in the shoulder.

“Ow! Fucker.”

“We’re in New Mexico.”

“So?”

“So, take the wheel. I’ma get sumthin’ to eat.”

“We almost there?”

“Prob’ly.”

“Jerm, you still mad?”

“I dunno, dipshit. Only happened a few hours ago. Don’t know how you get your beauty rest, Micah. She was human.”

Micah clenched his teeth. “Did what I had to. You remember Barbara?”

” ‘course I remember Barb. Nicest fuggin’ lady on the planet.”

“Bit by a fuggin’ little mosquito. Turned into a zombie.”

“You think I don’t remember that, Micah? We killed just about everyone in the God damned town! I don’t care if you’re the prodigal doctor, Mike, but Barbara was an old fuggin’ lady. Maybe Jaclyn–”

“I couldn’t take that risk! It’s done, Jerm! Drop it!”

Jerm bit down on his jerky stick and stared out the window. He wondered for a moment if he was dead and Hell was actually one big road trip with your older brother. Maybe they’d never get where they needed to go.

Micah cleared his throat. “We did what we had to… I think about what we did that day all the time.”

“I know, man. I know. Don’t worry ’bout it. Let’s just get to Albuquerque.”

Everything looks the same on this highway anyway. It’s all shrubs and dust. He and Micah tried turning on the radio but there’s pretty much no reception out here. Place is a shithole. Jerm always thought maybe he’d get into trouble and have to leave the state, but he never thought he’d be running from zombie skeeters.

“Shit!” Micah slammed on the brakes.

Jerm got thrown against the dashboard. He hadn’t buckled up.

“What the fuck, man!” He had been trying to take a nap.

“Blockade.”

“What? Run it.”

“They have guns!”

” ‘swhy we need to run it.”

“Jerm, I ain’t dying for you. I’m sorry. We can talk to these guys.”

“Yeah, and get our asses shot! Give me that!”

Jerm grabbed for the wheel and the car swerved off road. Micah pulled it back again. The car swerved back and forth until a shot rang out. Jerm smashed his head into the windshield. The busted tire made a few thuds before Micah slowed down to a full stop.

“Out of the car!” yelled a man with a rifle. “Let me see your hands!” Neither argued. The man signalled for some of his men to take apart the car. “What’s it look like?”

“Some food, sir! A lot of bottles back here. Looks like piss, sir!”

“Found a gun in the glove compartment,” another said.

“Good work. Confiscate that for now.” He turned to Jerm and Micah. “Mind tellin’ me who you boys are and where you’re going?”

“Dr. Micah Box. My brother, Jeremiah.” Jerm waved his hand. His head felt sticky and he was a little dizzy.

“You went to medical school?”

“Yes. I’m a physician.”

“I’ll be! Guess we lucked out!”

“If it’s not a problem, sir, we’d rather get going to Albuquerque.”

“Not a problem for me, son, if you want to become zombie chow. Albuquerque’s still getting cleaned out by our men. You’re in Moriarty now.”

“And you are?”

“Sergeant Baron Mash.”

“These are privates Richard Hatch and Arnold Ball. I like to call them ‘Dick’ and ‘Ball.’ Our sharpshooter over here is Corporal Mickey Taylor. We’re Border Guard. You stay with us, you’re Border Guard, too. We kill zombies. That’s it. We need more doctors, Micah. Someone gets bit, our policy is to shoot to kill, but people get sick and injured anyway. We’d be happy to have ya. Your brother handy with a gun?”

“Handy enough,” Micah says, looking over at Jerm. “Move your hand, dipshit.” Jerm takes his hand off his head. It’s bloody but his head’s not gushing. “You’ll be fine. There’s disinfectant in that bag your men took.”

Mash signalled for Ball to look through the bag and bring it over. Micah rummaged through it and took out some cottonballs and ethanol.

“See. We’re fine,” Micah whispered into Jerm’s ear.

“Yeah. Just keep your mouth shut and we’ll keep bein’ fine.”

“Hold still, you idjit!” Micah said aloud.

“Gentlemen, if you don’t mind, let’s get to camp. I’ll brief you on what’s been happening of late.”

“Guess we’re Border Guard now,” Micah shrugged.

“Yee-ha,” Jerm said without a hint of enthusiasm.

“Keep puttin’ pressure on that cotton ball.”

“Shut yer face!”

Army

“Heard through the grapevine that you were in Iraq,” Hatch said, trying to sound discrete.

“What’s wrong, Hatch?” Jerm asked “Worried I might outrank you and call you by your first name?” Richard Hatch. Everyone around Moriarty called him “Dick”, made funnier because his best friend was Private Arnold Ball. “What should I call you, then?” Jerm had asked him. “Ball. That’s my fuckin’ name, rookie.” Ball was a sensitive guy.

“Naw, man. Ball and I weren’t soldiers before the outbreak. I was just wonderin’ about the war and all.”

“You don’t think this is exciting enough? Bet you got war stories o’ your own.”

“Well…”

“Relax, Hatch. I was a civilian in the United States Army Corps of Engineers. Sent out into Iraq to build some schools is all.”

“Schools, huh?”

“Yeah. So, what’s up? You relieving me?”

“No. Ball. You seen him?”

“Shit break. Been a while now. Check the latrine if you want.” Jerm patted Hatch on the back and went back to his watch.

“Oh shit!” Hatch cried. “Oh Christ! Fuck!”

“What?” Jerm yelled. No answer. He went over to check on them, rifle pointed in the dark. “Hatch! What’s up?”

“He’s dead! Zeds got ‘im!”

“Zombies? Why the fuck?”

“I don’t know! I don’t know!”

“Hatch, move over. Move! Hatch… that looks like a stab wound.”

“I don’t know!”

“Hatch! Calm the fuck down! I’ll watch here. Go tell Sarge.”

“But…”

“Fuckin’ go, man!” Jerm watched him go, sighed deep and turned back to his post. “Fuck!” he cried, not sure what he was looking at. It was a black bag over a man’s head. Before he could raise his rifle, he got popped in the jaw. The man wrestled his gun away and pointed it at Jerm.

“If I wanted to kill you, I could have. Yes?”

“Yes! Yeah!”

“I know who you are, Jeremiah. Dishonorably discharged from the army. That kind of thing follows you, you know?”

“Who..?”

“I’m a messenger. You’ve piqued the interest of a higher power, Jeremiah. You should be proud.”

“Fuckin’ feelin’ great.”

“You have leave in three days. Leave at 0600. Keep walking west of your barracks and we’ll find you. Don’t show and we kill you and your brother. Tell anyone, and we’ll kill you and your brother. Understand?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

He walked away and tossed the gun. Aside. The man was gone before he could retrieve his rifle.

“Shit!”

We were Werewolves

We headed home. And although one thought raced through our minds, we barely spoke. “We were werewolves,” the air seemed to say, quivering as it did. “We were motherfucking werewolves.” We’d only been gone three nights, but somehow the town’s population seemed much smaller than it was.

Time went on and we saw less and less of Roger and Fish, until eventually they became just two more meatbags waiting for death. It happens sometimes. Werewolves just quit being werewolves like part-timers in department stores that don’t give two-weeks’ notice before leaving. I heard that Fish got married, had four kids, and is now working at a company that makes bathtoys for children.

Roger, who would always snack on squirrels and rabbits, saying “Dog can’t live off man alone!” now works at a pet store selling pet food. Some of the gerbils go missing sometimes but I have a hard time believing he’s eating them.

Darwin stayed a werewolf. He terrorized the county with me, and although it was deeply disturbing, he continued his habit of gutting his victims and hanging up the remains. Last week, he was on an almost-empty train and got hungry. Just ahead of him, two men were sleeping. Darwin, who had always done his best to make sure his victims didn’t die until he let them, didn’t see that the other

passenger had a silver-cast knife. He was stabbed in the throat. He died almost instantly.

Although I hadn’t seen him in more than ten years, I know I’ll miss getting high and listening to “Teenage Wasteland” while eating campers and howling  at the moon.

I don’t know anyone who has friends like we did when we were werewolves. Does anyone?

Cherry Pie (Revision)

“Back for more pie, eh?” Curtis whistled through his teeth.

“No,” Judy said, holding her fresh-baked pie. “I thought I’d bring a pie as thanks for last time.”

“What is it?” he licked his lips, though that could have just been to get moisture to his mouth.

“Cherry.”

“Mmmm,” Curtis slid his dry tongue over his lips again. “I’d take a taste of your cherry any day, little girl! HAAaaa~!” His laugh turned into a wheeze and then a wet cough. Judy had a lovely grandfather who was always a gentleman in the presence of women. She had thought that it was just the era, that all men raised then learned to treat women the same way, but this man was dispelling all her illusions.

“Are you all right?” she finally asked.

“Fine,” he coughed. “Fine. Just get me some water with that pie.”

Judy looked for some bottles of water around the kitchen, distilled water in the fridge, anything she thought an old man should have to keep healthy. She eventually decided that there were none and decided to use the tap. “Here. It’s from the tap. I don’t know if you had anything else, ” she said, offering the drink to him. She waited for some kind of response, but he merely nodded his head as he took the glass. “I’ll go cut up the pie.”

Judy had an easier time finding the pie slicer. It was old, silver, with a flower design. Perhaps it belonged to his wife. Given the abruptness of their first conversation, she hadn’t asked Curtis much about his family or personal life. She hadn’t seen her sitting out with him, so she and the neighbors all assumed he was a widower.

When Judy cut into her pie, red cherries oozed out. The crust was golden and resisted a little against the slicer before flaking apart. Curtis’s pumpkin pie was good, but Judy’s pie could win awards! She took two plates out and gave him the second slice that hadn’t fallen apart.

Curtis’s hand shook as he blew on the forkful of pastry. He chewed, slowly, swallowed, then put his fork down on the plate. Judy waited eagerly for a reaction as the man licked his lips.

“You know, my wife was a terrible cook.”

This was not the response Judy was hoping for. Judy smiled, taking a few deep breaths. She reminded herself that he probably didn’t have long to live and strangling him wouldn’t be worth it.

“Oh? I didn’t know you had a wife.”

“Sixty-two years. Loony as a cuckoo bird, that one. Couldn’t read anything without her glasses and she’s dyslexic to boot. ‘Curtis,’ she’d say to me. ‘Why do we have something called “bear slices” in the pantry?’ An’ I’d tell her, “Nonsense! Those are pear slices, you old bat!’ We’d argue like that for fifteen minutes and then hobble to the bedroom and make love. I’d be her papa bear and she’d be my little Goldie Locks.”

Judy tried to erase that image from her head. She put some cherry pie in her mouth. The cherries were delicious, just a little overripe, but the texture tasted bad today, like loose skin. The thought of old people sex was affecting her palate. “What happened to her – your wife?”

“She died,” he took another bite of the pie and made a face. Judy bit her lip, trying to be civil.

“I mean, how did she pass?”

“Pass? Oh. Ovarian cancer. Doctors gave her a year. She lived five months.”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?” bits of crust flew from his mouth. He pointed his fork at her. “Did you give my wife cancer?”

“No. I just… I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Maaah! I didn’t lose nothin’! She’s dead!” He didn’t seem at all worried about his wife dying. All manners and protocol told Judy that she should be horrified by this, but she also felt a bit of admiration for him. Curtis didn’t tip-toe around death. Her family used to mourn every little thing. When her grandfather died, she wasn’t even sure whether anyone was genuinely sad for his passing or they just felt like they had to act sad. It was a horrible thing to think about them, but…

“Gad damn it!” Curtis cried. His pie fell to the ground.

“Don’t worry. I’ll get you some more pie.”

“No. Sit down.” She did as she was told and folded her hands in her lap, just as she’d always been taught. Curtis, cherry filling on his shirt, sat with legs spread out wide and his hands tucked under his belly.

“You know, if my wife heard me say the Lord’s name in vain like that, she would have flayed my hide. Got in the habit of sayin’ it like that fucking Dan Aykroyd guy.”

“Blues Brothers.”

“Huh?”

“That was the movie. ‘W’ere on a mission from God.’ You know?”

He sat for a minute, smacking his gums and staring into space. Just as Judy was about to say something to break the silence, Curtis opened his mouth. “Gad, I miss that crazy bitch.” He sighed, coughed, then closed his eyes. He looked like exhaustion had come and scooped everything out of him in an instant.

“Are you all right?”

Curtis bowed his head. She thought it was a nod.

“Well, perhaps I should be going, let you get your rest. I hope you enjoy the rest of your pie.”

“Goodbye. Don’t bring pie anymore. I’ll bake.”

“Bye, Curtis. Have a good evening. It was wonderful seeing you again.”

When Judy got home, she screamed into her pillow.

Gum

Some of us were prepared for this. Well, we liked to pretend we were. Before the outbreak, we used to get together, talk about comics and drink. We’d plan out zombie escape plans, brew our own beer so we’d have fuel to light zombies on fire. Of course, that was all a joke, but at least Josh, Theo, and Vera make a good mint off of brewing their own stuff now. The only guy who really took it seriously was Raj, and he’s dead now. The man was certain that the zombie apocalypse was coming. We knew he was a little off, but we all thought he was joking. Now, none of us are certain. Of anything anymore.

I try not to think about it too much. At least, I tried not to. It’s hard to forget. Talking about zombies is like talking about the weather now. And then there’s that doc’s been asking around. Dr. Shulz, though most people call him “Dr. Z” as kind of a joke and a sign of respect (depends on how you say it, I guess. Kinda like a cuss word). Dr. Z’s known to have been asking everyone about the zombies, as if they were some kind of animal that needs studying instead of brainless corpses. It unnerves a man to hear that these things could have an agenda, or even a mind. Some of the guys like talking to him, but I think he’s a bit of a fear-mongerer. Still, I can’t see the man as the kind to kidnap a young woman. Seemed to me to be a bit of a fruitcake, to be honest.

But that’s my job. Let others merchant off beer. I decided I wanted to hunt those fuckers down. I joined the militias when we first cleaned out Juneau. Mapped out the residential areas, went door to door, checking every room and every closet. We’d find zombies, but we’d find other weird shit too. People didn’t want us to see their sex dens or their meth labs or whatever they were doing. We’d force our way in, one way or another. One man had a fridge full of someone’s body parts, said it was an offering if the zombies came. My partner capped him on the basis that he could have been turning, but we both knew he wasn’t. Just another psychopath. I quit soon after that. We were finding less and less zombies anyway. Since I knew every shadow of the city at that point, I decided to become a detective. Still just as goddamn depressing, though usually not as dangerous. Mostly, I take care of missing person reports. Sometimes I find them, usually not alive, but sometimes still walking around. I put one in the brain of a dead little girl. Toddler in little romping shoes and overalls. Not my best moment, but at least she’s at peace now.

I light a cig to help me think: if I were Dr. Z, where would I be? I don’t know why I ask myself that. Seems like the thing to ask, but it never gets me anywhere. The cigarette tastes awful, like ash and urine. I used to chew gum. An addict, pretty much. On my last pack, I saved it for over a month by tucking the gum behind my ear. Body soil flavor. Delicious. Never run out of things to roll up and burn, though, and I needed something to replace the gum. At least nowadays, nobody tells you smoking’s gonna kill you. We all know what’s going to kill us.

If I were me, where would I look for Dr. Z? I roll the cig around in my mouth and bit down. Bad habit. Leftovers from better days.

I spoke with the husband who hired me. Calls himself Jesse. Real name, Travis Scarborough. I do my homework, take notes in case there’s a test. Guess what? There’s always a test. I also spoke with the Rapturists, last place Dr. Z was seen before the disappearance of Jesse’s wife. They didn’t give me much to go on and those people give me the creeps anyway. Zombies were made by God to destroy us. Maybe that’s true but who wants to think that way? There’s no point to it. His apartment was pretty sparse, too, though I don’t know what the cops did to it before I got there. I’m just lucky I got a look at all. Know a few cops from my militia days, so I can pull a few strings.

“Hey, man. Can I bum a smoke?” the voice comes from behind me. It bothers me, having people sneak up on me like that. I reach into my coat where I keep my gun. Guy looks like he’s been through Hell and back, has a deranged look in his eye. I offer him my smoke, never taking my eye off him or my hand off my piece.

“You like to eat your smokes?” he laughs. At first I’m confused, then I remember that I bit down on that one.

“Sorry. Bad habit. I can get you another.”

“Naw! Naw, man. Beggars can’t be chooser, ‘my right?”

“Yeah.”

He takes a puff and passes it back. “You looking for Dr. Z, right?”

“Who wants to know?”

“My bad!” He puts his hand out for me to shake. It’s bony and ice cold. “Name’s Micah.”

“Micah. I’m Tobias. So, what do you know about Dr. Z?”

“Not much about the man. I may know where he’s staying. Need some info from you.”

“What kind?” I don’t trust this guy. Rubs me the wrong way.

“Can I get another hit o’ that cig? Thank ya.” He takes a big hit, blows smoke everywhere. “Well, y’see, organization I’m a part ‘a is interested in the Rapturists. Been casing the place for a while. Seen your man go in and out and back in. Never came out again.”

“He’s still inside the Rapturist building? That doesn’t make any sense. Why would they be keeping them in there? One of their own hired me.”

“Jesse? He’s just as much in the dark as you are.” He hands  me the cigarette back. I flick it away.

“Well, excuse me if I find all this hard to believe. Thanks for the information, though.” I turn away and he grabs my shoulder, shoves something hard into my back. Should have know this guy was packing. I let my guard down.

“Listen, Tobias. This is important. The people I work for are very influential. I lost a brother because of those Rapturist fuckers and I’ll be damned if I care if you live or die.”

“Sorry for your loss,” I start to raise my hands in the air in hopes that someone will see the suspicious action.

“Put your hands down!”

No dice. “What does your organization want?”

“Information on the Rapturists.”

“What kind?”

“The incriminatin’ kind. We wanna drag these fuckers’ names through the mud. They’re the scum o’ the earth. Worse than the corpses walkin’ out there. You have an in with these guys. Tell ’em you’re investigating. Whatever. We just need info.”

“Fair enough. How do you know I’ll do it, though?”

He puts his gun away. “I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t want to live thinkin’ some bastard was gonna pop me or my friends in the head. Now, I wouldn’t do anything like that. I like you, man. But I’m afraid there’s some people I work with who wouldn’t think twice ’bout endin’ you.”

“You’ll leave us alone if I do this?” Bastard.

“Sure. We’re only concerned with the Rapturists and the brains behind that outfit.” He speaks like a military man sometimes. All I can figure is Border Guard, but this seems to run deeper than that. “You find us information and you can look for your man at once. This is win-win.”

“Fair enough. We done?”

“Almost.” He hands me a playing card, six of spades. “Leave this in your mailbox when you’ve got what we need. We’ll find you.” With that, he walks off down the street, looking every bit like a bum.

“Christ, what a day!” I say, pulling out another cig. I’d kill for a stick of gum right now.