Breathers (29 page)

Jerry turns to me and says, “Dude, that was awesome.”

Except for a couple of large rocks that are knocked out of place, you'd never know a car had driven over the edge of the cliff.

Rita pulls up in the Lumina. “Come on, you two. Show's over. Let's get out of here.”

Jerry climbs into the backseat while I join Rita up front. After checking once more to verify the highway is clear in both directions, Rita turns around and drives back the way we came.

“Any problems?” asks Rita.

I shake my head.

My parents’ bags are packed and in the BMW's trunk. Rita and I both wore gloves so we wouldn't leave any fingerprints. The block of ice will melt away. And by the time someone ever finds the car, hopefully the fact that there aren't any bodies in it will be chalked up to tides and undercurrents and scavengers.

At least that's what I'm hoping. Eventually, someone's going to realize my parents aren't home and even if I've managed to get rid of the physical evidence, I'm going to be suspected in their disappearance. But once you eat part of your mother during a candlelight dinner with your undead girlfriend, you pretty much know that you've chosen a path most people just aren't going to understand.

We only see one other car on the highway between Big Sur and Carmel, and only light traffic through Monterey as the dawn comes and goes. We exit the highway and find a Dumpster behind a closed grocery store where we dispose of my parents’ bloodstained linens and the clothes Rita and I wore. We brought a change of clothes in my backpack and Jerry gawks as Rita strips down to her underwear before slipping into her own clothes. For some reason, he's not as interested in watching me get undressed.

As Jerry drives us out of Monterey, it occurs to me that Annie is less than five minutes away. I think about how easy it would be for us to drive over to where she lives so I can tell her that I'm still here and that I still love her. I can almost imagine myself walking up to the front door and seeing the look on her face when she opens it. But that would create all kinds of problems, not only for Annie but for me and my current predicament. The last thing I want to do is let my former sister-in-law and her husband know that I was in the neighborhood. That would pretty much kill my cover.

But in addition to personal prudence, going to see Annie just doesn't seem like a good idea.

First of all, I'm not really her father anymore. I understand that now. Killing and eating your parents has a kind of illuminating effect on one's true nature. Better for Annie to remember me the way I used to be. As a human. As a loving father and a good son. Second, I just don't think it's a good idea to expose her to what I've become, for me or for her. I don't know what I would say or how I should act or what kind of role I could play in her life.

Plus I'd hate to think that I'd look at my daughter and wonder how she'd taste in an asparagus and cheese casserole.

ne good way to use leftover Breather is to mix together ½ pound cooked macaroni, 1½ pints canned tomato sauce, 2-3 cups diced cooked Breather, ¼ pound sautéed sliced mushrooms, some minced garlic, salt and pepper. Spoon mixture into a greased 2½-quart casserole dish, top with grated cheese, and bake, uncovered, about 30 minutes at 375 degrees F until bubbly. Makes about six servings.

In addition to my initial late-night snack with Rita last Saturday, I've had three square meals of fresh Breather for the past three days. Breather bacon, Breather burritos, Breather and cheese sandwiches, roast Breather, Breather burgers, Breather hash, Breather stroganoff, teriyaki Breather, spaghetti with Breather balls, and old-fashioned Breather stew.

And it shows.

My left ankle is a little unstable and there's still a hitch in my step, but other than that, I don't notice any structural difference between my left and right ankles. The tibia, fibula, and talus seem to have reconnected completely, while all of the ligaments have reattached.

In addition to my ankle, my left arm is functional and regenerating muscle and bone on a daily basis and my stitches
have completely fallen out. The makeup my mot her bought for me sits unused and forgotten at the bottom of a wastebasket.

Although my pallor is still pasty, all shades of gray have vanished. My heart beats twelve times a minute now, which is a 100 percent increase since it first started beating. At that rate, it'll be beating over sixty times per minute by Christmas.

I'm sweating. I'm talking. I'm respirating and pumping fluid through my veins and engaging half a dozen other physiological functions that I never thought I'd be capable of again. But I've moved beyond wonder at the changes taking place within me. Now, it's a matter of acceptance, of understanding what I'm becoming. What we're all becoming.

We're healing. Evolving into a subspecies of humans. Neo-Breathers. The self-healing, walking undead. And if Rita and I are any indication of what can happen when we eat fresh Breather on a regular basis, then I can't wait to share Mom and Dad with the rest of the gang.

But even though we're redeveloping definite human physiological functions, I wonder—are we still able to reanimate if fatally injured? Will the genetic abnormality that turned us into zombies in the first place prevent us from being killed? Will the healing effects of Breather prevent us from having to worry about Band-Aids and Neosporin and health insurance?

Last night, while preparing a Momloaf with mashed potatoes and fresh spinach, I sliced open the index finger on my left hand. A Breather would have been gushing blood, applying gauze, probably getting a ride to the hospital for stitches. But since my body hasn't replenished my full ten pints of red cells, white cells, platelets, and plasma, the blood barely trickled out. This morning when I woke up, the wound had nearly closed up.

Somehow I doubt the USDA is going to rush out and add Breather to the food pyramid, but a diet that includes fresh or recently prepared Breather has nutritional qualities that make the recommended daily servings of fruits and vegetables seem like five to eight bowls of Cocoa Puffs.

After having leftover Momloaf, I decide to take a leisurely stroll through town to clear my head and to take care of some unfinished business. The weekend rain has moved on but the clouds are still thick, blocking out the moon. Save for the occasional illumination from a street lamp, the road is completely dark before six o'clock. But even if it wasn't, I wouldn't need to disguise what I am. No one can tell. Not at first glance. Or even second glance. Not unless you get right up in my face would you be able to see that there's something not quite human about me.

With my parents out of the picture, I don't have to keep up the daily pretense of being the consummate zombie, which makes taking walks much less arduous. And with my improved physical appearance, no one throws tomatoes or Big Gulps at me out of car windows.

It's the simple things that make undeath pleasant.

Rita thinks excessive public exposure is risky. If anyone suspects I'm a zombie and calls Animal Control, then I'll end up at the SPCA without any next of kin to bail me out. She has a point. But other than a handful of unchaperoned excursions and the weekly UA meetings, I've been more or less imprisoned in the wine cellar for nearly five months. With Mom and Dad gone in almost every sense of the word, I feel like I've been paroled. And honestly, when your wounds heal overnight and you start to feel a bit like an immortal, playing it safe just seems so Clark Kent.

I pass by the granary and consider stopping by to see if Ray
and the twins are dining on another homeless person, but I'll have to pay a social call another time. Besides the fact that it would be bad form to drop in unannounced for dinner, I have something I need to take care of. And I already ate.

As usual after sundown, the Soquel Cemetery is deserted. Other than teenagers on a dare or out for some thrills, Breathers pretty much stay away from cemeteries at night. I don't blame them. Even in my new and improved condition, I wouldn't want to run into me walking out from the shadow of my wife's tombstone.

I didn't bring any flowers this time, but then I'm not here to pay my respects or to seek solace. I'm here to say good-bye.

I still miss my wife. I still miss the life we shared. But she's dead and I'm a zombie. I have to let go. I have to move on.

“Hi, Rachel,” I say out loud. It's the first time I've spoken her name since the summer heat of late July. In the cold bite of December, her name explodes from my mouth in an ephemeral cloud that vanishes before it reaches her headstone.

I tell Rachel how much I love her. How I'm sorry she died. How I wish things wouldn't have ended like this. I tell her about Rita and Ray and the venison that wasn't really venison. Then I tell her about my parents. Well, not everything. I leave out the part about the chocolate fondue.

They say confession is good for the soul. But then, I don't know if I have a soul. If I had one, it probably departed my body when I died. Or maybe it never left. Maybe it's just trapped in a dead vessel, a purgatory of decomposing flesh, waiting for a second chance. But whatever sins I may have committed as a Breather to deserve being sentenced to zombie prison, I don't think I'm exactly making a good impression on the parole board. My guess is, I won't be getting an early release for good behavior.

I finish with my confession and realize this is it. This is the last time I'll ever come out to visit Rachel's grave, to touch the memory of the life we once shared. And even though it's necessary, even though I know I have to move on, it's harder than I imagined it would be. Harder than saying good-bye to my parents. Harder than saying good-bye to Annie.

For the first and last time, I cry for my lost wife.

Just as I'm wrapping up my good-byes to Rachel, something comes crashing through the brush at the south end of the cemetery. I don't know who or what it is, but more than one set of feet are running my way.

I duck behind Rachel's tombstone, which isn't big enough for me to hide behind. My ex-in-laws never lavished much attention on their daughter in life, so it's no surprise they stayed true to form in death. I make a mental note to eat them if at all possible, then hunker down and hope whoever I heard doesn't see me.

Two figures run behind the main building, then reappear on the other side and race past me among the headstones and trees. Even in the darkness I recognize Zack and Luke. They never look my way but keep running until they arrive at the far north corner, near the back of the cemetery, where an old, shingle-covered wooden storage shed sits bordered on two sides by ivy-covered oaks. Moments later, they crawl through an opening and vanish from sight.

I get the impression they're not playing hide-and-seek.

I stay where I am, not wanting to move and give myself away to anyone who might be following the twins. But after several minutes, I decide that whatever Zack and Luck were running from didn't pursue them this far. Maybe they weren't pursued at all. Maybe they were just trying to get away from a bad scene.

I suddenly wonder where Ray is.

I'd ask the twins but they've never done more than grunt, purr, or giggle, so I figure I have to find out for myself.

Staying back from the road as far as possible, I work my way through the brush and along the edge of Soquel Creek until I reach the granary. Even before I arrive I hear voices and see the flashing lights. And Breathers. Lots of them. When I finally get a glimpse, I understand what sent Zack and Luke running.

Several police cars and an Animal Control van are parked around the rear entrance to the granary with two spotlights illuminating the scene. From my vantage point behind a thicket of manzanita, I can see into the granary through the open doorway, out of which stumbles a police officer who staggers over to one of the cars and throws up.

Nearly everyone is wearing some kind of particle mask or covering their mouths and noses. Although I can't make out everything being said, I hear words and phrases like “carnage” and “mutilated bodies” and “spit-roasted.” Even from where I'm hiding more than a hundred feet away, I can smell the aroma of barbecued Breather.