I've Been Deader Part 1

I've Been Deader.

by Adam Sifre.

Chapter I.

Commute.

Fred's ruined face stared back at him from a fractured, mold-spotted mirror. The remains of breakfast pooled around his feet and a pair of lace panties clung to his shoe, glued there by G.o.d knew what. Bits of flesh were stuck between his yellow teeth, along with the sodden remains of a hand-wash-only label. There was no denying that he'd seen better days.

Being a zombie is no picnic.

Compelled to pause and take stock of himself, he wiped his gore-stained hands on a filthy s.h.i.+rt, unsure if he was cleaning the hands or the s.h.i.+rt. His right eye looked like a crushed egg yolk and his left leg was broken in two places. A large splinter of bone poked through the skin above his thigh, fine dark lines etched across the surface like a bad piece of scrimshaw. The open wound on his neck had started leaking again, but at least the fluid was mostly clear now.

No use dwelling on negatives. Time to get to work. He turned away from his reflection, and limped out of the men's room of the Vince Lombardi rest area.

An overly bright morning sun a.s.saulted him as he stepped outside. Fred gave a mental wince, wis.h.i.+ng yet again that he could blink. Sunlight had no adverse effect on the undead, but he had never been a morning person. Rain or s.h.i.+ne, today he had to shamble over to Terminal C of Newark Airport, where eight breathers were making their last stand. Zombies were lone hunters and rarely worked together. Every so often, however, a kind of collective broadcast signal went out over the undead grapevine, announcing the newest brain buffet - in a shopping mall, a church, or an airport - with predictable and satisfying results.

Dozens were already making their way down the New Jersey turnpike. By their mindless, movie-slow pace, he knew they hadn't fed. Zombies weren't Jesse Owens on the best of days, but they tended to move a lot faster with a little brain in the old furnace.

If Fred could breathe, he would have sighed. There'd be hundreds of zombies, all ready to fight over eight brains and a.s.sorted bits. The breathers would probably take out ten to twenty percent of the attacking h.o.a.rd before being overwhelmed. That left about ten zombies per breather. With luck, by the time he got there he would still be the brainiac of the pack.

Having his wits about him gave a zombie an edge in the hunt. The effects of the virus or whatever it was that put the mojo in their mortified flesh varied from corpse to corpse. Most became textbook droolie ghoulies, but some could reason and even remember who they were as breathers. So far Fred hadn't come across any other thinkers, but he doubted he was the only one.

By mid-afternoon he found himself enjoying his walk down the turnpike. Most of the fires had burned themselves out and although the air still reeked of burning gasoline, the skies were more or less smoke-free. He might be a walking corpse, but he appreciated a warm spring day like this one. He pulled his lips up in what should have been a grin.

Death, ruin and destruction improved the New Jersey Turnpike.

Not that there wasn't a black lining to be found around Fred's own little rainbow of a life. Most of the zombies were a few hundred yards down the road, but two lesser undead doggedly tagged alongside of him, putting a bit of a damper on things. The virus left them as nothing more than ... well, nothing more than zombies. They were about as interesting as slugs and moaned so much that, were Fred alive, he'd be sporting a h.e.l.l of a migraine.

All in all, however, the day was turning out quite well. He almost convinced himself being undead wasn't so bad. Sure, it was bad luck that he was forty-five years old with a rather large potbelly when he had been bitten by that d.a.m.ned clerk. Being cursed to wander the earth in search of brains was bad enough, but why couldn't it have happened when he was twenty years younger and thirty pounds lighter?

He was imagining wandering the earth in search of fresh brains as a slimmer, sleeker and younger Fred, when the head of the zombie on his left exploded.

s.h.i.+t!

He limped over to an abandoned Ford Explorer and crouched down, scanning the area for the source of the ambush. The other walking corpse stopped and stared at the ground, a low "Braaaaiiiinnnnsss?" emitting from its drooling mouth. Fred felt a sense of relief when a bullet took the second one through its right eye. Those two had just about gotten on his last dead nerve.

A glint of light in the tall gra.s.s by a pond off the side of the road revealed the breather's position. It looked like he was alone.

The lone gunman on the gra.s.sy shoal, Fred thought with a mental smile.

He stood up from behind the Explorer, pointed at the area where the gunman was hidden, made the undead scream of discovery then ducked back down behind the SUV and waited. Several zombies with lesser survival instincts turned off the road and converged on the field. A bullet dropped another one and Fred saw a figure pop up from the tall gra.s.s and start running. A collective moan escaped from the zombies and they began to shuffle a little faster. But unless the breather tripped, broke both legs and fell asleep, he'd be fine - for now.

Fred got up and started limping toward Exit 14. It would be another hour or so before he reached the airport. Most of the zombies were still on the road. After taking into account the ones that had left to chase the gunman and Fred's two undead groupies - now just dead - he figured there would be plenty of brains for everyone when they got there.

Fred was ... well, he was - I'm happy. As he shambled down the turnpike he began humming a song that was popular before he turned. In his mind it was a happy, catchy tune. But when he hummed it, it sounded a lot like "Braaiinnss ..."

Chapter 2.

Airport.

Fred ignored the abandoned cars, corpses and piles of trash littering the tarmac in front of Terminal C. The carca.s.s of a burned out pa.s.senger jet smoldered on the closest runway, black smoke coloring everything, turning a beautiful summer morning into a bruise. Several gypsy cabs were parked in front of the loading zone, their owners gone.

Not interested in negotiating fares with Newark's newest cla.s.s of immigrants.

His earlier good mood had evaporated. Something wasn't right. He couldn't put his finger on it, but the place felt ... creepy. For starters, his chances of getting an easy meal were slim. A baker's dozen of undead gathered a few hundred yards away, before the terminal's nearest entrance. They flung themselves against the gla.s.s doors, ignoring the other two entrances a few yards away. Another dozen or so wandered aimlessly in the parking lot. He'd kept back from the shambling crowd, in case the breathers inside had prepared any nasty surprises.

Zombies were strong, terrifying and relentless, but unlike rent controlled tenants, they didn't live forever. On the trek down the turnpike he'd seen one stop and fall to the ground. One moment happily moaning with the rest of them and the next - kaput. Fred's first thought had been 'sniper', but there weren't any bullet wounds. Of course, looking for fresh wounds on a walking corpse was harder than finding Waldo in a candy-cane hat factory. Still, what sniper would kill just one zombie? Like eating a single potato chip ...

No, death was too short to take unnecessary chances. He'd play it safe and leave the storming of Castle Newark to braver zombies, even if that meant giving up the choicest cuts.

No gunfire so far, always a good sign. In the movies his son Timmy watched, the breathers were armed to the teeth and dead shots. Apparently the Apocalypse always fell on NRA double coupon day, because machine guns, a.s.sault rifles and rocket launchers seemed to fall from the sky like manna from heaven. But the reality was different. Most people who didn't have guns before, didn't have them now. Not surprising when you thought about it. When facing a plague of flesh-eating zombies, your chances of survival significantly increase if they don't see you. So staying home with the blinds down instead of heading to Wal-Mart for iPods and ammo meant you stayed hidden and kept livin'. The shooter at the rest stop had been a bit of a surprise for just that reason. Why take pot shots at a bunch of zombies who didn't know you were there?

Takes all kinds.

Still, better safe than sorry. There didn't appear to be any gunmen on the roof. All was quiet, apart from the repeated thudding of undead throwing themselves against the gla.s.s doors. More zombies joined the throng. Fred started shambling forward for a better look when two zombies slammed into each other and fell to the ground, giving him a clear view of the door.

A baby. Well, a toddler, sitting a few feet behind the door. He looked to be about two years old, and tasty. Plenty of baby fat and a nice big head, covered with light blond hair. The kid sat, legs splayed, pus.h.i.+ng down on a bright orange and green cloth ball. No wonder the zombies were whipping themselves into a frenzy.

An unprotected child - no parents, no guns. Like winning the undead lottery. It made him uneasy. It shouldn't make any difference to a zombie, but the thought of eating a child didn't sit well with him. What kind of breather leaves a baby all alone in Newark Airport? Again, he couldn't help but think of Timmy. He'd be eleven now. Ten? Well, older than a toddler, that's for sure. If he's still breathing.

Fred's gla.s.sy eye caught movement on the roof and he looked up in time to see two breathers, a man and a woman, manhandling one of those fifty-gallon drums. They tipped it over and light amber liquid rained down on the crowd of zombies.

Gasoline.

A few paused in their mindless attack, but most paid it no mind. Fred, however, was very attentive. A collective moan from the undead drew his attention back to the door. The toddler was gone.

Bait.

On the roof, the woman was on her stomach, leaning over the ledge, her legs wrapped around the man's waist. He sat a few feet back, his hands gripping her thighs. Her hair was tied back in a small pony tail. She wore a dirty white T-s.h.i.+rt and gray shorts. Without thinking Fred took a few more steps toward the building for a better look.

She's beautiful.

Then he saw the Molotov c.o.c.ktail in her hand. With the skill of a Korean ma.s.seuse, she lit the c.o.c.ktail while hanging upside down. One zombie took notice of her. It pointed up at the sky, moaning in agitation. Its fellow corpses did what corpses do best, and ignored it. Fred saw the woman smile as she dropped the bottle.

At that moment Fred realized two things. He had to see this woman again; and he had to get the h.e.l.l out of there. Then the bottle hit the ground and things started heating up.

There was a whumph, like the sound an explosion of flames makes, followed by an explosion of flames. The next instant the crowd of zombies turned into walking Duraflames.

Fred turned and started to limp away. There were few things more flammable then a zombie. That woman - that beautiful, amazing woman - could have poured grape juice on those rotters and they still would have gone up like dry kindling at the mere sight of a Zippo lighter.

While zombies burned easier than toast, they had a tendency to keep walking while they did it. Burning dead began lurching to and fro, and a few were lurching too close to Fred.

An overweight zombie with a flaming beard blindly shuffled toward him. Fred took a few steps back and moved to the left. He could feel the heat as the corpse walked past before falling to its knees. The fire kept burning as it started crawling across the parking lot, seeking G.o.d knew what.

Two others were also heading his way. He couldn't tell for sure because the flames were too - zombie, zombie, burning - bright but it looked as if they had somehow fused together. The smaller one may have been a woman back in the day, but now she was bubbling a bit around the chest and neck and her eyes were empty sockets. She kept pulling the larger one to the left, and the flaming pair made their way in Fred's general direction via a series of sloppy half circles.

He didn't stick around to see if they made it. Most of the undead hadn't moved much from the door, but a few impersonated walking candles, sending black greasy ash and smoke into the fresh Newark air.

He managed to put some distance between himself and the ZBQ when he heard the car. A black Escalade tore down the parking lot, avoiding the undead more by chance than intent. The driver, head hanging out the window and drunk on adrenaline, screamed in defiance and terror. The winds.h.i.+eld was spider-webbed and smeared with ash, hair and gore. The pa.s.senger window was also open and Fred could see the woman, the beautiful woman, in the pa.s.senger seat. She seemed remarkably calm, all things considered. She kept firing a gun without aiming. A garbage can and Coca-Cola vending machine each took one for the team. It's shock, not calm.

As the car sped by, he glimpsed two girls in the back seat and just the smallest wisp of blonde hair peeking above the back window.

That woman ... those eyes. Fred watched his meals on wheels make good their escape, but food was the last thing on his mind.

Chapter 3.

Crush 'Lord, I was made a shamblin' man.

Trying to keep unliving the best I can.'

-The Almost Breathers Fred stood in the rubble-strewn alley, dead flowers clutched in his hands, staring vacantly at the gated brownstone across the street. Like all undead he had two types of looks - vacant and insanely hungry.

He would have stared with longing if he could. Not at the brownstone, although it was a rather nice building with the bedrooms exposed to the morning light, but at the breather inside - the woman from the airport.

She and the others had been living in the building for the last several weeks - along with a white toy Poodle they called Niki. Fred hated Niki. If there was anything more annoying than the incessant moaning of the undead, it was Niki's never-ending yipping. Even now he could hear it barking from somewhere inside the brownstone. He didn't know how the breathers could stand it. On the other hand, if it hadn't been for the mutt, Fred may never have found them again.

Ahh, but none of those petty annoyances seemed to bother Aleta. The wonderful, beautiful, clean Aleta. Like a living work of art - yum - she sat in front of the upstairs window with a sketch pad in hand, studying the sunset. Sketchpad. Can you imagine?

She had short blonde hair and brown eyes. Two brown eyes. He absently raised a mangled hand to his ruined right eye. She had the whitest smile he had ever seen. Every day at this time she sat at her window and every day he stood in the rubble across the street.

Fred's eye was empty but his dead heart was filled with fire.

You are beautiful, like an angel, he thought.

"Braaaiiinss," he moaned.

He'd been watching her for days now, growing more anxious with each pa.s.sing hour. She couldn't stay there forever. Bad things happened to breathers who stayed in one place too long. Yesterday, for example, one of the lesser dead tried to make its way into the building. He'd seen it attack the iron gate with a single-mindlessness one always finds in zombies and certain radio talk show hosts. It wasn't a Thinker and would never have breached the gate. Still, just knowing it was after Aleta's brains threw Fred into a rage. He picked up a broken c.o.ke bottle and before he knew what he was doing, fell upon the zombie, sawing the jagged piece of gla.s.s into its throat. He didn't stop until its entire head flipped back ninety degrees, reminding Fred of a Pez candy dispenser. The deader zombie now lay outside the fence.

If any of this bothered the breathers they didn't show it. The man left earlier that morning, taking the rifle and entrusting Aleta's safety to the spiked fence. Just a matter of time before others find her - maybe it'll be a Thinker next time. If that happens ...

He knew that he was not like the other zombies. Sure, he ate the brains of breathers and his mortified flesh was in a constant state of decay; but inside, underneath all the gangrene and rot, Fred was different. He didn't know why. He just knew that he was. But how could he show her that? How could he get her to see beyond the open neck wound and the shambling gait? To make her see the real Fred and not just another drooling corpse?

He needed a plan.

Earlier Fred had found a box of crayons and a pad of paper in a little girl's bedroom - don't ask - and tried to write Aleta a love letter. But hours later his entire work product consisted of a large purple smudge that under certain lighting conditions might pa.s.s as a heart. Frustrated, he had shoved the note in his pocket and went on a blind rampage, smas.h.i.+ng and thras.h.i.+ng for long minutes. When his frustration abated, he noticed a black plastic ball lying in the corner of the room.

A magic 8-ball. He picked up the ball and stared at the small plastic window. The words 'Yes, definitely' floated up to him.

Later he stumbled upon the burned out florist shop.

Now here he stood - dead flowers in one hand, Magic 8-ball in the other. His plan was to wait until she left the building. Then he'd slip inside and wait. When she came back and saw he wasn't interested in eating her, he would declare his love and then ... well, then everything would fall into place. Fred was a zombie, not Einstein.

He was in the middle of a beautiful daydream featuring the both of them walking in the park, when Aleta got up from her chair and disappeared from view.

Fred went into action.

Mumbling "braaiins" into the night air, he shambled over to the iron gate. Both the gate and fence stood almost eight feet high. It looked like several giant spears, spikes pointing up at the sky, enough to discourage any zombie and most Jehovah's Witnesses.

But Fred was not discouraged. Putting the dead bouquet in his mouth, he grabbed the corpse's feet with his free hand and started dragging it around the side of the building, the head bopping and flopping against the pavement. One solid whack and the broken c.o.ke bottle popped out of its neck like a nasty piece of Pez candy.

Taking one last vacant glance down the street to make sure nothing was watching, Fred swung the corpse by its legs in a great arc. It made a whistling sound as it traveled through the air, followed by a satisfying meaty thud when a fence spike pierced through the upper chest and back. The head snapped off, bouncing and rolling across the protected side of the building's grounds.

Got some distance on that. A few vertebrae peeked through the neck, like some grisly periscope. He pulled on the legs until the corpse was wedged good and tight between two of the spikes. He pushed the 8-ball through the gap in the fence and dug his fingers into the corpse's flesh, puncturing three holes on each side of its waist. Fred hoisted himself up, sliding his fingers out of the corpse and then making new hand holds right under its arms. Cold fluid washed over his fingers and down his forearms.

This is pretty sick, even for a zombie. He pulled himself up and over the fence. It was one thing to eat the living, but mutilating a corpse just seemed ... wrong Safe on the other side, Fred picked up the Magic 8-ball and shook it. Will she like me? The words floated up: Future uncertain, ask again later.

Could be worse.

Now he just had to wait and - The sharp gasp wasn't quite a scream, but it was the loudest thing Fred had heard since breakfast. He turned around, the flowers still clutched in his mouth, and saw her standing there, hands covering her mouth. Behind his dead, vacant eyes Fred was embarra.s.sed and horrified. This was going all wrong. He opened his mouth intending to say something rea.s.suring and the dead flowers spilled onto the ground.

Aleta hadn't expected to have to deal with zombies on this side of the fence. Before he left, Erik had promised the grounds were safe. Even so, she wouldn't have risked going outside if little Niki's barking hadn't triggered a migraine. She didn't know how her daughter could stand that dog. Better to risk being eaten than spend another minute listening to that d.a.m.n dog. It seemed like a reasonable thought at the time.

Fred was desperate. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out the crumpled note and held it out toward Aleta, hoping it would calm her down some.

Aleta stepped back as the zombie, with arms outstretched and black-red ichor dripping from its fingers, moved toward her.

Fred shuffled over, waving the note and the Magic 8-ball in the air. No. Please. I don't want to hurt you, he thought.

"Braaiinsss," he moaned.

If only she'd have just turned around and sprinted for the door, she would have been fine. Instead she stepped backward on the decapitated head, turned her ankle and fell to the ground.

Fred shambled closer. This can still work. She had to see that he wouldn't hurt her. He tried to smile, his broken lips revealing blackened and missing teeth. Aleta screamed.

Fred didn't know what to do. He stood over her in a panic, yellowish drool spilling from the corner of his mouth. He raised a finger to his lips in the universal sign of "Shh."

Aleta screamed louder.

Fred bent down, reaching for her.