Zombies: The Recent Dead (57 page)

How do you like the new refrigerator? I got it a couple of weeks ago. Moved it all by myself. Damn thing can hold a ton of food. Do you like it, Mom?

Hey, why do you suppose doctors never use the word consumption anymore? No, now it’s TB. I think consumption’s a fine word, you know?

I found the old photo albums. They’re right there on the coffee table. Maybe you want to look through them later? That might be fun, don’t you think? All of us flipping through the images, the years, the memories. Been a while since I took a trip down Amnesia Lane. Sound good?

Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.

That’s okay, you can tell me later.

You turn around and damn near drop the salad bowl because your little sister is standing right there in front of you, just . . . staring.

Jenny?

Jenny, is there something you want?

What is it, Sis?

Please say . . . 
something
. Grunt. Sigh, snort,
anything
.

You close your eyes and swallow back the feelings that are trying to come to the surface. You knew this year would be no different. Christ only knows what Jen wants in here, what she remembers. You just know it’s got nothing to do with you. You step around her and put the salad bowl on the table. Jen does not move. The oven timer sounds: the turducken is ready to go.

Dinner’s ready!

You sit. They sit. You eat. They don’t. On the disc, Greg Lake is singing about how he believed in Father Christmas. This is your favorite Christmas song, even though if you think about it, it’s a damned depressing one—but then so is Elvis’s “Blue Christmas,” so why overthink it?

The turducken is delicious. The mashed potatoes are just right. The rolls are great. And the homemade pecan pie is the perfect way to end the meal.

You go to your usual place on the far right-hand side of the sofa and watch the tree lights blink, watch the banked fire blaze, watch Jimmy Stewart run through dark streets. You pick up one of the photo albums and open to a random page. That was you, once. That was your family, once.

The pain is getting pretty bad. You’ve been sticking with the Demerol for the last couple of days because you wanted to be lucid enough in case something happened—a word, a gesture, a touch, something, anything.

The rest of the family take their traditional places. You look out the window and see that it’s begun to snow. Good God, could there ever be a more perfect Norman Rockwell-type of Christmas scene?

You make yourself an eggnog and Pepsi. Everyone used to say how disgusting that sounded, so when you’d make the drink for your friends and family when all were still alive, you’d never tell them what it was until after they’d tasted it. Once tasted, everyone loved it. Your legacy. Could do worse.

Afraid I’m not feeling too well, folks. Haven’t been taking my meds like I should.

Isn’t anyone going to scold me for that?

You stare at the unopened Christmas presents under the tree. It’s been so long since you’ve wrapped them you’ve forgotten what’s in any of the boxes, only that they were gifts you gave a lot of thought to, hoping that they’d make everyone smile.

You go into the kitchen and remove several 4 mg vials of Dilauded from the refrigerator, make yourself another eggnog and Pepsi, and grab the bottles of Percocet and Demerol.

Back in the living room, in your traditional place, you lay out everything, then discard the Percocet and Demerol because they seem like overkill. Overkill. Funny-sounding word, that. Considering.

You draw the vials of Dilauded into the syringe until it is full. You almost tap it to clear any air bubbles, then realize what a silly thing that would be.

This has been a nice Christmas, hasn’t it?

It really means a lot to me, that you still come here and help with all the decorating.

You look at the television. Jimmy Stewart is now back in the real world, and everyone in town is dumping money on his table. Donna Reed smiles that incredibly gorgeous smile that no other actress has ever managed to match.

Bach’s “Sheep May Safely Graze” begins to play. The perfect song to end the day. To end on. To end. You slip the needle into your arm but do not yet sink the plunger. There is a passing moment of brief regret that you threw out the gun, because you know what that’s going to mean. But maybe you won’t remember, and, in not remembering, there will be no caring, no hurt, no regret or loneliness.

You look at each of your family members one more time. None return your gaze. They look either at the tree or the fire or at the snow outside.

Merry Christmas, everyone, you say.

You slowly sink the plunger. If your research has been correct, once the syringe has been emptied, you will have at best ninety seconds of consciousness remaining, but you can already feel yourself slipping down toward darkness before the plunger has hit bottom. But that’s all right.

You have enough time to pull the needle from your arm and lay back your head.

Bach fades away, and is followed by “Let There Be Peace on Earth.” You’re surprised to feel a single tear forming in your right eye.

Do you like . . . like the music, Dad?

Shadows cross your face, obscuring the lights of the tree. You blink, still slipping downward, and see that your family is surrounding you. Looking at you. At
you
.

You reach out one of your hands. It takes everything that remains of you to do this.

. . . , you say.

. . . , they reply.

And your family, with the light of recognition in their eyes, as if they have missed their son and brother for all of these years, takes hold of you, enfolding you in their arms, and the best Christmas you’ve ever known is completed.

About the Author

Gary A. Braunbeck
is the author of the acclaimed Cedar Hill series of stories and novels, which includes
In Silent Graves, Coffin County, Far Dark Fields,
and the forthcoming
A Cracked and Broken Path.
His work had garnered five Bram Stoker Awards, as well as an International Horror Guild Award. He lives in Worthington, Ohio with his wife, author Lucy A. Snyder, and five cats that don’t hesitate to draw blood if he fails to feed them in time. He has been rumored to sing along with Broadway show tunes, but no recorded evidence of this exists or has yet to be found.

Story Notes

Although Braunbeck hints there are dangers to humans from zombies—his protagonist’s disease makes him immune to the “awakening” and unpalatable to zombies—it appears “offstage.” And, despite the zombie family’s apparent lack of recognition of their still-human relation,
something
draws them back, year after year, to their home. He leaves it to the reader to decide what.

Francesca Lia Block

They call a male P.I. a private Dick. So what would they call me? Not the C word or the V word, that would be much too offensive. There are plenty of Dicks but no Vaginas walking around. That just wouldn’t be right, now would it? Maybe my title would be Jane. Private Jane. Dick and Jane. Makes you wonder why Jane hasn’t been used as a nickname for female genitalia before. Better than a lot of them. Men have a nicer selection.

It was one of those warm L.A. autumn days when you felt guilty if you were at the beach while other people were working or freezing their asses off somewhere, and even more guilty if you were sitting in an office letting your life slip away. That’s what I was doing. Sitting in my office with my black-booted feet up on the table (even though it was too hot for boots), staring at the window, wondering why I wasn’t at the beach. But I knew why. The beach made me think of Max.

I tried to distract myself by poking around some paranormal activity Web sites on the iMac. There was an extended family in the Midwest who ghost hunted together. They had a disclaimer on their site that they could turn down any job that felt too dangerous. The woman kept spelling the word “were” like “where” and “You’re” like “your.” That happened so much online I wondered if someone had officially changed it and not told me.

That was when I got the call.

“Merritt,” I said.

“Jane Merritt?” the caller asked.

“Speaking.”

“Sorry, I . . . I need some help.”

“That’s what we’re here for. You’ll just need to come in and fill out some forms.”

There was a silence on the line and for a second I thought the call had dropped.

“Hello?”

“Uh, yeah. Thanks. Sorry”

“So when would you like to come in? Everything perfectly confidential, of course.”

“Thanks. Sorry. It’s about my father.”

“I see. Yes.”

“He’s a monster.”

I waited for the giggling on the other end. She was obviously very young. I got calls like this all the time. Curious teens with too much time on their hands.

No giggling.

“I mean really,” she said. “A real monster.”

Then she hung up.

No one else called that day. Business had been slow. I left the office early and stopped at the West L.A. Trader Joe’s for a few groceries. Bagels, cream cheese, apples, celery, the cheapest Pinot Noir I could find, and a tub of cat cookies, plus a can of food for David. I wanted to buy myself flowers because that’s what all the women’s magazines tell you to do when you haven’t been fucked in too long, but I decided not to waste the money.

There was big bouquet of fourteen white roses with a pink cast. They looked pretty good but I knew they’d blow up in a few days in this weather, petals loosening from their cluster and drifting to the floor. Besides, roses were another thing that reminded me of Max.

I went home and watched CNN while David and I ate dinner. Bad news as usual. The economy, disasters, war. Not to mention global warming and assorted acts of violence. It was like a horror movie, really. I drank the whole bottle of wine. Then I took a bath and went to bed. I had really weird dreams about letting Max go by himself on a train at night and then realizing what I had done and not being able to get anyone to understand why I was so upset when he didn’t come home. Dreams are cruel; they won’t let you forget.

Coco Hart came to see me about a week later. She was a beautiful girl in a private school uniform skirt and blouse and a ratty sweatshirt that was too hot for the weather. Her long hair up in a ponytail and makeup so lightly and carefully applied that only the most discerning eyes would notice it. She looked perfectly well adjusted but her fingernails were bitten down so far that it hurt to look at them.

“I called you,” she said after she’d introduced herself. Her eyes darted around the room trying to find clues. I don’t have any in this tiny, dingy office. Not even a photo of Max. I had to hide it in a drawer.

“About your father?”

She nodded.

“Is he hurting you?”

“No,” she said. “Sorry. It’s not that.”

“You can tell me. I’m here to help.”

“Thank you. You were the only woman I could find. Well except that one who tries to entrap the guys by wearing wigs in their favorite color.”

People always mention her when they come to see me. I’m nothing like that Amazon. Just cause we are both Janes.

“So why not her?”

“I heard that interview with you.”

There’s only been one. It was in conjunction with the new
X-Files
movie. The local news compared me to Fox Mulder because of my interest in the paranormal. I expected business to boom after that but it didn’t. In L.A. you have to look like a movie star with big tits or be a guy to make it big in this business. I’m neither.

In the interview I talked a little about some weird, dark stuff, the kind of thing teenagers and
X-Files
fans eat up. But most teens aren’t going around hiring a P.I. and the
X-Files
fans would rather watch David Duchovny reruns. Like the famous female P.I. who wears the wigs he has a lot more sex appeal than I do.