The Urban Fantasy Anthology (39 page)

I said, “Sorry, but I have to ask you something. What makes you think he’s one of the undead though? I mean, how do you think this could have happened?”

Coco’s father was a car salesman in Van Nuys. He’d done pretty well for himself selling SUVs until people stopped being able to afford gas at almost five dollars a gallon. The stress was too much for him. While waiting for the electric car to return he’d had a stroke and almost died. Well, according to Coco there was no almost involved.

“When he came back from the hospital,” Coco said. “He just wasn’t the same.”

“What was he like before?” I asked.

“Well, kind of like now. Except I recognized the meat he ate and he had better skin tone and a pulse. And…sorry, but… he didn’t smell so bad.”

I tried not to say, “Ouch. Harsh.” I was trying to behave with some decorum.

“You sound very angry at your father,” I said, recalling a psych class I’d taken in junior college.

“Sorry. My father is all right. Well, he was. Before he turned into a monster. I mean, he’s a Republican. He voted for George W. And he’s against women’s right to choose. He still supports the war. But he’d never lay a hand on me, you know. But I’m worried about what he’s doing to other people. Where he like, gets his dinner and that kind of thing.”

“Why didn’t you go to the police?” I asked.”

“Um, I think you know why. Sorry…”

“So you came to me.”

“Well,” she said, “Not everyone’s kid gets stolen by zombies. I mean, I saw it on YouTube.”

Okay, sorry, it’s true. The thing I’m known for is about Max and the Zombies.

I wasn’t really interviewed by the local news. I made a video for YouTube and posted it, talking about what happened. That’s how Coco had found me. Not the guy whose fiancée was cheating on him; he got my name out of the phone book.

See, people think my kid got sick and died but I know better. No one wants to talk about it because they’re afraid everyone will think they are crazy. Or maybe because they’re afraid of even worse consequences.

“What do you want me to do?” I asked Coco.

“Would you please pretend you’re a customer and check him out?” she asked. “They have really good deals on Escalades now,” she added.

“I ride a bike.”

I borrowed Daniel’s car and went to the car dealership where Coco’s dad worked. They hired him back part time after the stroke. It was night and the cars glowed surreally in the fluorescent lights. The air smelled obscenely of flowers and motor oil.

Mr. Hart lumbered out toward me, tucking his shirt into his pants. He had a large belly and stiff legs and arms. His skin did have an unhealthy sheen to it.

“How can I help you, young lady?” he groaned. A foul, sulfur smell emitted itself from his body. “We have some great deals on SUVs tonight. What are you driving?”

“A bike,” I said.

He looked at me dully. “Thinking of upgrading then?”

“You don’t sell any electric cars?” I asked.

“No. Why? You do a lot of driving?”

“Not so much. I’m concerned about the environment.”

“Global warming? Sweetheart, that’s a myth they created to scare you, believe me. No such thing. God knows what He’s doing.”

I smoothed back my hair. It was unnaturally hot for an October evening. There was something hellish about that kind of heat this time of year. I thought of the ice floes melting at the North Pole and the polar bears dying. I was sweating uncomfortably and I was afraid I might be staining my white blouse. I used deodorant but I had stopped wearing antiperspirant because of the link between aluminum and Alzheimer’s. Not that I cared. Alzheimer’s might actually be all right. You stagger around in a state of detachment and forgetting.

There are certain things I can’t forget, no matter how hard I try. No matter how many photographs I hide or how much zombie research I do, they pop into my mind when I least expect them.

Max used to ask me, “Mommy, when is the Earth going to explode? When is the sun going to burn us up?” Once he said, “Mommy, will you hold me from the time the Earth was made until it ends?”

“Yes, honey,” I said. “I will hold you forever.”

He curled up into my arms, his delicately-boned, dusty-brown feet tucked up on my lap. His eyes were big and brown with eyelashes that all the nurses in the hospital said they wanted.

“It’s not fair,” they cooed.

Of course, it was more than fair. The other stuff was what wasn’t fair.

“How about a Prius?” I asked Mr. Hart.

“How about a Hummer? Owned by a little old lady from Pasadena. Almost no mileage.”

“I’ll think about it,” I said. “Sorry,” I said. And left.

There is a proliferation of zombies around lately, let me tell you.

My ex Daniel’s girlfriend Kimmy is not behaving at all normally, even for a stressed-out, middle-aged, hyperactive kickboxing instructor dame. She drones on and on about herself and is unable to ask anyone questions about how they are doing. She wears the same rapacious grin frozen on her face at all times, even when she is angry. She talks loudly and proudly at all social gatherings about how she had tumors in her uterus and can no longer have any more children. (I know Daniel finds this perversely comforting; no chance of any more children means no chance of any more tragedies for him.) She never lets anyone see her eat, not even Daniel. (He told me this; I think even he is worried.) While she cooks his dinner she tells him she caught a bite at the gym and that she doesn’t digest food well after four p.m. She walks with jerky movements and snaps her gum spastically and calls everyone dude. Do you see?

In addition there is that presidential candidate and his running mate. I believe they have been bitten. Look at their glassy eyes. Listen to their hollow voices—hers more shrill, but hollow still. Read about their policies to destroy nature and take away women’s rights, gay rights. I can just imagine them hunting people out of helicopters and gnawing on someone’s thighbone with gristle between their teeth.

I remember that doctor at the hospital where Max was. He strolled out into the waiting room and tried to take my hand but I wouldn’t let him touch me. His skin was greenish white under the fluorescence and his legs and arms were stiff.

When I saw him I knew. I thought it was going to be like on TV where they say, “I’m sorry.”

I didn’t want to hear those words from him. So I said them first.

“I’m sorry!” I screamed. I fell to my knees. “I’m so so sorry.”

Zombies are reanimated corpses. I looked it up online. It said that if there is an invasion find a shopping mall or grocery store and barricade yourself inside. Then you will have plenty of supplies until you can come up with a plan.

I called Coco.

“Yes, I think you’re right.”

“What?”

“He seems to be what you say he is.”

“Thanks for…Sorry… Um. What should we do about it?”

“Come meet me,” I said. “But try not to say sorry so much.”

“Sorry. I mean…”

“It’s okay. I do it too. You’re very polite. Most people in L.A. don’t say thank you so much either.”

“Oh. Sorry. We’re from Florida?”

I should be the one saying sorry.

Okay, so I’m not a legitimate P.I. My ex, Daniel, rented this office for me. It’s on Washington next to a store that sells knives and other exotic weaponry. The rent was so cheap. Daniel thought it might help me after what happened with Max. He thought it would be good for me to have some place to go to every day, something to get dressed for. Kind of like playing office when you’re a kid.

Okay, so I hadn’t really had any clients except for Coco, but hell, at least I had her. The guy with the cheating fiancée—I made him up. But not Coco. Not the zombie father. I would never lie to you about zombies.

Coco came in wearing a pair of skinny jeans, black-and-white-checked Vans slip-on sneakers and the same oversized sweatshirt with the sleeves pulled down over her hands. She looked like a typical teenager except that her face had a very serious expression. She kept the sleeves of her sweatshirt bunched in her hand while she gnawed on her fingers. She wasn’t even pretending that she didn’t bite her nails this time.

“Thank you for looking into this.”

“You’re welcome.”

“What are we going to do?” she asked me. “What did you do before?”

“You can’t panic,” I said. “But at the same time you must be vigilant not to get bitten.”

She nodded. “He hasn’t tried that.”

“What precautionary actions are you taking?” I asked her.

“I have a secret hideaway stashed with water and food supplies,” she told me.

“That’s good.”

“And I sleep with my door locked.”

“Good.”

Then she said, “Can I ask you something?”

I knew what was coming.

“Would you write on my arm?” She shoved up her sweatshirt sleeve and stuck out her bare forearm. There were raised white scars running horizontally just above her wrists.

I was wrong. I hadn’t expected that question nor had I expected the scars. It took me a moment to talk. “What do you mean? I asked.

“With a Sharpie. I think it will help me to be brave. If you write a message.”

I had no idea what to write but I took the Sharpie she handed me and opened it. It smelled like chemicals. It smelled like back-to-school and summer sport’s camp when I had to write Max’s name on his baseball hat and backpack and lunch box. A bunch of lunchboxes were recalled because of lead content. I wondered what other dangerous substances lurked in products for children.

There were carcinogens in things that seemed perfectly innocuous, like bubble bath and hot dogs.

“I don’t think Sharpie is good for your skin,” I told Coco. “It doesn’t say nontoxic. It’s permanent.”

“Exactly.”

She was still holding her arm out so I wrote, “Farewell my Zombie,” She smiled with satisfaction and pulled her sleeve down over it.

“Don’t let your father see,” I said.

She nodded.

“What happened? To your wrist.”

“When I was a baby I got really sick,” she said. “I’m better now. But I had to take all this medication and get all these treatments that really fucked me up. Sorry. Messed me up. I’d survived all that but my life at home sucked and I didn’t want to live anymore.”

I suddenly wished I’d insisted on using non-toxic marker on her arm. “I understand,” I said. “But you can’t give up now. I mean, really. You can’t.”

She looked at me blankly.

“Okay?”

“Okay,” she said. Then: “Can I ask you something else?”

Here it was.

“What really happened with your son?” she said, just as I thought she would.

I hadn’t talked about it in so long.

“Everyone thought he had a brain tumor,” I said. “But it wasn’t like that. It wasn’t like that at all. They wanted him and they got him. So that’s why I’m here. In case I can help anyone else.”

Coco reached out and gently touched my hand. “Sorry but…do you think, maybe, you just might not want to look at what really happened?”

I jumped as if she’d slapped me. “Get out please,” I said.

“Oh! Sorry! I’m so sorry, Miss Merritt. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

The thing is, maybe Coco’s right. Maybe Max really did have cancer. Maybe Coco had cancer and recovered and then wished she hadn’t. Maybe her father isn’t a zombie but maybe he did lay a hand on her. Maybe there’s no such thing as global warming and it’s okay to drive an Escalade but I don’t think so. Maybe people are just out there trying to scare us. Hmmm. Maybe the presidential candidate and his running mate are not trying to eat us up. Maybe I’m crazy; maybe I’m perfectly sane. Who knows?

Well, baby, I know this. Today I am going to shut the office and ride my bike (because who wants to take a chance on making that hole in the ozone bigger, just in case) down Washington to the beach. I am going to take off my shoes and walk on the wet sand. I am going to eat my cheese sandwich and watch the sun set like a beautiful apocalypse. Maybe I’ll even build a sandcastle. Those are the things you and I used to do. That is why I haven’t been to the beach in all these years. But today at sunset I am going to close my eyes and I am going to remember every little thing I can about you. From your eyelashes clumped with salt water, to the sand under your fingernails, to the little curled shells of your toes. I am going to remember all our days at the beach and the way you used to burrow into my arms when you were cold and the way, when you were a little older, you used to pick roses from the garden for me, in spite of the thorns.

I am going to apologize to Coco when she comes back but I am not going to apologize to any more zombies. I am going to find out some more details and if a zombie or cancer or whatever you want to call it threatens Coco Hart or any kids I know I am going to kick that motherfucker zombie’s ass.

I miss you, baby. But it’s better than forgetting.

We Are Not a Club, But We Sometimes Share a Room

Joe R. Lansdale

Nothing is new under the sun.

Urban Fantasy is not new, but the recognition of it as a commercial genre is. Actually, it hasn’t been that long ago that horror fiction of any kind, though it existed of course, was not a commercial genre.