Hungry for Your Love: An Anthology of Zombie Romance (25 page)

Behind

the

bokor
, there was movement at the window that faced down the hill.

I took an instinctive step back, pushing Marie-Celeste toward the window behind us. "You don't want to see this," I whispered.

She refused to budge. "Oh, yes, I do."

The

window

shattered.

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We all crouched instinctively as the glass went flying, and the first zombie was halfway over the sill before Jean-Yves turned and saw his danger. With a horrified cry he sprang for the door, rattling the handle uselessly and trying to undo the locking spell.

More of the zombies were pouring through the window, tearing at the frame, silent except for a low rumbling growl that made my skin crawl. The
bokor
dodged past the reaching hands of the first zombie and hurled himself at me.

I braced myself, ready to defend the only other exit, hardly aware of Marie-Celeste's shudders until she abruptly darted past me, leaning down to scoop up a shard of glass. With a harsh cry of "
ke ke ke!
" she drove the shard into the
bokor's
belly.

Jean-Yves staggered, and Erzulie Dantor left Marie-Celeste just as suddenly as she had seized her. Marie-Celeste convulsed, stumbling into me as I rushed to pull her back. Jean-Yves stared at us, eyes wide with shock and disbelief, until the mob of dead men grabbed him. Panic blazed across his face and then, as hands and teeth began to tear into flesh, the shrieking began.

I stood there with Marie-Celeste wrapped in my arms, until she finally turned and buried her face against my chest. The zombies ignored us completely as we opened the window and slipped out into the night.

The screams continued for quite some time. We made a wide circle of the house, and by the time we found the road, the noise had ceased.

We started down the road, more concerned about getting away from there than deciding on a destination. I'd worry about that once I found out where we were. I had my arm around Marie-Celeste's shoulders, and she snuggled close.

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"As soon as we find a place to stop, we need to have a long talk," she said, already sounding tired. "I don't even know anything about you."

"I'm training to be a
houngan
," I offered.

She gave me an approving glance, and I smiled.

Anything, so long as she kept looking at me like that.

232

Inhuman Resources

by Jeanine McAdam

“You really have got to stop looking for adventure and find a job,” my mother told me in a not-very-nice tone of voice. My mother never gave me attitude. I wasn’t sure what was up with her.

“I don’t want any old job,” I groaned. I could feel my fingers tightening around the milk carton I was holding. “And I can’t work a desk job,” I explained while pouring the milk onto my Frosted Flakes. “I’ll lose my mind.”

“Claire, you are twenty-one years old,” she said as she added sugar to her second cup of coffee. “I won’t support you any longer. I’ve given you plenty of time to find yourself. College wasn’t your thing and I understand, but if you want to live here you’re going to have to start paying rent.”

I sighed big time. As my shoulders went up and down, I could feel a muscle twitch in my neck. I decided to fight back.

“I can’t believe my own mother is kicking me out,” I countered. Maybe a good healthy guilt trip would get her to back down.

“Don’t you even try that on me—” she warned.

“I’m going to apply again to the police force,” I interrupted.

“They’re not going to take you,” she said bluntly. “You can’t say things like you enjoy reenacting
Star Wars
if you want to be considered.” She looked me up and down.

“You should have told them you watch
Law and Order
.”

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I rolled my eyes. She could be annoying. Maybe she had a point. I shouldn’t have said anything about playing Princess Leia but I thought it’d make me interesting.

After all, their advertisement at the bus stop said they were looking for diversity.

“What do you have in mind?” I asked her grudgingly. My mother always had a plan.

She smiled. I hated when she smiled like that. All the creases in her face folded up to her eyes and her chin wobbled. “There’s a new insurance agency a few miles off Route Seven.” She pointed at me. “My friend Irene tells me they need a receptionist.”

Office work. It was always nine to five, health insurance, retirement, and a life of stability. That was my mother’s mantra. Be more like your sister, she’s got a nice job at the bank. Susan was also deadly boring with her loan officer job, white picket fence, and two well-behaved children.

My mother continued speaking, not even noticing my face contorting into a painful expression. “I think this is right for you,” she said with a definitive nod of her head. Then she stood, coffee cup in hand. “I’ve been tolerant through the mountain ranger, ski patrol, lifeguard, and police officer phases.” In the doorway she added, “My patience has run out, Claire Defoe. I know you want to live boldly but you’ve got to pay the bills.”

* * * *

“I’m here to inquire about the job,” I said to the pale woman sitting behind the reception desk the next day. When she didn’t return my half smile, I decided it was the florescent lights sucking the life out of her. I vowed that if I got the job, as soon as I started resembling her, I’d quit.

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Without looking up from the computer screen she moaned, “Ake a sea.” She sounded like she had about a dozen marbles in her mouth and that neck brace she wore held her chin firmly in place. After she shifted her eyes towards one of two tweed chairs, I got her meaning. I sat.

About ten minutes later a hunched-over man with skin even paler than the receptionist came out of the back office. He nodded. I nodded back as I watched him ease himself into the chair next to me. It seemed he had low back pain.

“Can you answer the phone?” he asked. His voice was just as hard to understand as the blonde with the ooze running out of her nose.

“Yes,”

I

said.

“Say Sibboleth Insurance,” he challenged. It sounded like his tongue was either missing or not working properly. It seemed he couldn’t press it against his front teeth to make the shhhh sound.

“Shibboleth,” I replied with a particular emphasis on the sh. My mother told me they were really picky about the pronunciation of the agency’s name.

Most of my job interviewers checked my references, ensured I had a high school diploma and enough stamina for the work. Nobody quizzed me on pronunciation. If this was office work, I didn’t like it. As soon as I got my paperwork in order, I planned to reapply to the police department.

On my third day at Shibboleth Insurance a man around my age came through the double doors. My co-workers had gone to lunch and not invited me. Well, what did I care? The best way to describe those two was pathetic. Besides the coughing and 235

wheezing, they both had carpal tunnel syndrome, bad backs, and red eyes. Mr. Nil was now wearing a neck brace and wrist bands like Eliza’s.

“How can I help you?” I asked the man with a mop of black curly hair and three different cell phones attached to his belt. He wore his jeans a little short and his eyes were hidden behind thick black glasses. He shifted from heel to heel. “Is Mr. Nil here?”

he demanded.

“No, he is not,” I said, trying to sound like a receptive receptionist. My mother told me I needed to be bright and cheery to hold onto my job.

“What about Eliza?” he challenged.

I couldn’t understand why anyone would want to see my drooling co-worker.

Instead of questioning his intent, I shook my head and leaned over the desk. “They’re out to lunch and nobody invited me,” I added as I let my lower lip fold down. “I’m sure you know what it’s like to not be invited to lunch.”

Since this stranger was nerdy looking to the max, I figured he could recognize the feeling. Not that I cared much about lunch. I was just trying to bond with the customer.

After I said that he looked at me more carefully. I couldn’t blame him for getting on his high horse. After all, I’d just insulted him. “You’re not pale,” he said stiffly.

“And you’ve got a sharp tongue.” He didn’t sound offended by my words—more interested.

“I do not,” I defended myself. Well, maybe I did but this was the first time I’d wagged it since joining the Shibboleth Agency. Plus what I said to this stranger wasn’t that bad. Exclusion was a universal feeling. At least to me.

236

Then he reached over and touched my thumb. “Firm skin,” he said mostly to himself as I pulled my hands away and folded them in my lap.

“I’m twenty-one,” I clarified, slightly offended. Not that a nerd could get under my skin.

“Okay,” he said mostly to himself as he took a step back. “They’ve hired a human.”

Then he took another step back and seemed to realize he needed to explain all this to me. But he didn’t. Instead he said in a cryptic way, “I’ll be back.”

He turned and pushed at the door. It was actually a pull door so it took him a minute. As his head bounced against the glass, I couldn’t help but notice his butt. It was firm and those black jeans he wore accented him in an athletic way. Not what I expected on a guy who pushed his glasses up his nose at least fifteen times while he stood in front of my desk.

After the nerd left, Mr. Nil came back. “Could you come into my office?” he requested politely. Then he moaned, which was a little weird but I was getting used to it.

If I spent my entire adult life at Shibboleth Insurance, I think I’d moan a few times too.

“Have a seaaaa,” he said unable to emphasize the sound of the t. I wondered what had happened to his tongue. Maybe he bit it or someone cut it. I couldn’t imagine and decided not to ask because now he had a Band-Aid on his chin.

“Did you get into a fight during lunch?” I asked as I curled my fingers around my palm.

“What?” he replied, trying to lift his eyebrows.

237

I explained quickly. “The bandage on your chin.” I pointed at him. “Did someone hit you?”

“No.” He shook his head. “It’s shingles.” It took a lot for him to get his mouth around the word.

“Oh,” I replied. My mother would have wanted me to say something like “I’m sorry” or “too bad” but I didn’t. It sounded disgusting and I couldn’t muster the sympathy. After he asked me a few questions about the phone messages, he told me to go to lunch. He didn’t inquire about my visitor and I didn’t volunteer the information.

Later, when I was in the café, a familiar voice said, “Hey.”

I looked up from my ham sandwich. It was nerd boy.

“Hey,” I responded, wondering why he was still hanging around.

“How long have you worked for Shibboleth?” he asked as he sat down across from me and planted his elbow on the table.

Hadn’t nerd boy’s mother taught him any manners? “Get your elbow off my table.”

“Sorry,” he replied. The left corner of his mouth lifted as he folded his hands neatly in front of his chest and squared his shoulders.

“Three days.” I frowned. Then I took another bite of my sandwich. “You followed me.” I accused.

He nodded. “I think you’re in danger,” he said in a low voice.

Since it was nice being around someone who could pronounce his vowels, I decided to hear him out. Plus I was still feeling a little freaked out by that thing on Mr.

Nil’s jaw. I leaned forward. “What kind of danger?”

238

“Do you know anything about the undead?”

As he spoke the door opened and a cool breeze flooded the cafe. My hair blew across my face. I pushed a few wisps off my nose and shook my head. When I first sat down that little bell above the door sounded quaint; now it was creepy.

“What do you mean, the undead?” I asked warily.

“Corpses that rise from the grave?” His blue eyes never left mine. Then he shook his head. “But that’s not the case with these two. I think they were bitten because they still have human qualities.” He had the tone of someone who knew what he was talking about. “They could be paper pushers counting their days until retirement or flesh-eating monsters looking for their next meal.”

This was ridiculous. Besides being a geek with bad hair, this guy was missing a few screws. I rewrapped my sandwich and threw it in the bag. “If they’re hungry,” I said dryly. “I’ll bring them the leftovers.”

“Okay,” he replied as he stood. He was trying to act casual but he was too much of a type A person to pull it off. “Sounds like you know what you’re doing.” Then he awkwardly dug into his pocket and threw his business card on the table. His momentum was off and it skidded to the floor. “Call me if anything happens,” he suggested, picking it up and putting it under the salt shaker. Then he headed for the door. Again he couldn’t figure out it was a push. After a few pulls he finally got himself outside.

The card said, “Rafe Thayer, Zombie Hunter.” Included was his e-mail address, Facebook page, Twitter account, and cell phone number.

That night I looked him up on Facebook. His wall discussed the best way to kill a zombie. One-Eyed William recommended a head shot. Clever Carrie liked a clean cut 239

with a machete, and Dainty Dan used acid. The fight continued until Rafe posted. He agreed with Dan that in the right situation acid could work, but William’s and Carrie’s weapons were the most effective in disposing Satan’s army quickly. His opinion seemed to be final and the thread moved on to determining the difference between a zombie and an office worker.

The group established pale skin, rounded shoulders, and red eyes were common symptoms of a typical office worker, plus coughing and sneezing due to poor air quality.

The difference between those punching the clock and the undead was the skin. If it was peeling or falling off in chunks, most definitely a zombie. Plus they moaned more often than office workers and Carrie posted a chart to aid the zombie hunter in determining the difference.

I thought of Mr. Nil and Eliza. No, it couldn’t be. I told myself Rafe was a crazy person who found others like him on the Web. I couldn’t associate with these people.