Warts and All

"I can't believe we have to live in this rat trap," Florence complained once again to her long-suffering sister as they sat at the kitchen table having their morning coffee. "Nobody is ever going to buy it. It's a what-do-they-call-it... a teardown."

"It's not a teardown," Eleanor said. The ruffled sleeve on her flowered robe fluttered as she swept her hand around the room. "It just has... character. We're not as young as we used to be either, you know." She gave Florence a rueful, and surprisingly girlish, grin but got only a glare in return.

"Nothing in this house works. And the water's getting worse. First it was freezing, then it about scalded my skin off in the shower this morning." Florence's scowl accentuated the deep crevasses that ran from the side of her nose to her chin, puppet-like.

"Really? That never happens in my bathroom. Certainly, the pressure's a little low..."

"I'm telling you, it's dangerous! Look!" Florence held out a flaccid arm that was indeed red, shiny, and scaly, as if it had been repeatedly burned. "I'm like that all over!" To punctuate the point, she scratched a particularly irritated-looking patch under her chin where the folds of loose skin had scabbed over and turned a deep brown. She stood up to pace the floor. "This horrible place is giving me hives." She stopped at the nearest wall, used a hand to steady herself, and kicked it, leaving a black smudge against pale-yellow, beadboard paneling that seemed to shudder under the blow.

"Florence! Don’t do that!" Eleanor snatched her napkin from her lap and cautiously knelt down, noticing with surprise that her knees didn't creak like they had for the past decade or so. She spit in the napkin and carefully wiped the smudge away, polishing until the wall was spotless. Then, giving the wall a loving pat, she stood smoothly back up and gave Florence her best glare, the one she'd perfected in four decades of teaching music to fifth graders. Or rather, she glared at the top of Florence's head. When did she get so short? Eleanor wondered to herself.

"What?" Florence demanded.

"You shouldn't be so spiteful about the house. Old houses like this have personality, that's all. If you would take the time to appreciate its finer– "

"There's nothing about this horror to apprecia..." Florence's voice gave out, and she cleared her throat then waved her hand in a "wait a minute" gesture and went to get a drink from the sink. She swallowed half a glass full in audible gulps and grimaced as if the water tasted bad. But when she spoke again her words still came out rasping and not very clear. "I detest this house. If one more thing goes wrong I'm going to call a salvage company and have them pull it apart!"

"Don't you dare! This house is mine, too!" But Eleanor found herself talking to Florence's disappearing back, which, now that she noticed it, seemed to have gotten very stooped lately. Well, they were both past sixty, and the years had to start showing sometime. But, unlike Florence, she'd actually been feeling – and, if she did say so herself, looking – much better lately. She'd noticed her skin had gotten smoother, her joints more limber, her hair still-dark hair thicker, since they'd moved into this beautiful house.

Everything about the old house was beautiful to Eleanor. She loved the carved woodwork and the stained parquet floors, the ancient chandelier that shimmered like dusty diamonds and the cracked attic windows that made the front of the house seem to be looking at you. She didn't mind that the paint was peeling or that the roof leaked, that mice lived in the baseboards or that the water taps were temperamental. But Florence minded. Florence minded a very great deal.

They'd been living in separate apartments – tiny apartments in "adult communities" – until their 106-year-old great-aunt died and left them her house: 60 percent to Florence, the elder sister, and 40 percent to Eleanor. Even pooling their limited retirement resources, Eleanor's from teaching and Florence's from the postal service, they hadn't been able to afford rent on their apartments plus taxes on the house. So they'd decided to live in it together until they could sell it. With five bedrooms plus maid's quarters in the attic, there was plenty of room for two single sisters, sisters who in a less-enlightened age might have been called "spinsters".

Now, Eleanor spent her days alternately being flabbergasted that she was lucky enough to live in such an incredible house and worrying that someone really would buy it, snatch it away from her. She tried not to look at the "For Sale" sign by the curb and silently willed the house-lookers to keep driving when they slowed for a closer inspection. But it hadn't always worked. Three potential buyers had been interested enough to make appointments and come to see the inside of the house, and each time Eleanor and Florence had temporarily switched roles. Eleanor, who adored the house, spent the tour pointing out all the drawbacks of an old home and how much work it needed; Florence, who loathed it, turned into a fast-talking saleswoman and made the house sound like a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

If only she really loved you as much as she pretends she does when she's trying to get rid of you, Eleanor thought, gently wiping down the stained tile countertop. Then we could just stay here and everything would be fine...

Her thoughts were interrupted by a resounding crash from the front of the house, a crash punctuated by Florence's shrieks. She followed the noise at a run – a part of her mind musing on when had been the last time she actually ran anywhere – and came to a sudden halt in the front hall. Her sister cowered with her back to the wall, the remains of the crystal chandelier spread at her feet.

Eleanor took in the scene and dismissed Florence when she didn't see any blood. Her sister was standing statue-still as if afraid to stir. Eleanor's eyes moved from her to the carnage of shattered crystal and bent brass, and her skin tightened with horror. Your beautiful chandelier! Through tear-blurred eyes, she spied a sparkling diamond-shaped crystal that looked miraculously whole and took several careful steps into the room, trying not to crush any potentially savable shards, until she could reach it. At least she didn't ruin all of it, she thought, aiming a deadly glare at her sister and cradling the precious crystal in her hand.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Florence demanded, anger making her voice crack. "This isn't my fault. I could have been killed!"

"What were you doing in here?" Eleanor narrowed her eyes, trying to see the truth in her sister's face.

"The mail came. I was just looking through it when the damn chandelier started shaking. Next thing I knew there was this ripping sound, then that." She gestured toward the crystal remains as she crept along the wall, unsuccessfully trying to keep something hidden behind her back.

"What do you have there?" Eleanor had caught hundreds of students passing notes, and she hadn't lost the skill.

"It's my personal mail; it's none of your business."

Eleanor was suddenly glad her sister seemed to have shrunk since they moved in. She towered over Florence and grabbed the large manila envelope out of her hand with newfound strength. The return address said: "Martinez Demolition and Salvage". She ripped the end of the envelope open, wondering for a moment where her glasses were before realizing she could read the small type of the enclosed contract without them. A contract already signed by her sister and by a Robert Martinez. A contract stating that the company would begin salvaging "all reclaimable building materials and hardware" from the house on the first of the following month.

"You... you can't do this!" Eleanor was backing away from Florence as if she were something repulsive. "I won't let you."

"I own the majority of this house; it's my decision. Don't you worry, I'll give you your part of the profits. Now give me my contract." Florence held out a hand that wasn't quite steady.

Eleanor dropped the contract among the destruction on the floor and fled from the room, wanting only to get away from Florence before the gathering storm of sobs broke.

*****

Over the next ten days, Eleanor spoke to Florence only when it couldn't be avoided, and at first, she was rewarded with barely recognizable croaks in return. But soon even those disappeared, and her sister replied only with baleful looks and curt, sharp gestures: jerky head shakes, yanked-up shoulders, sullen nods, and glares from newly bugged-out eyes. Eleanor wasn’t sure if her sister's voice had finally given out completely or if she was just being even more unpleasant than usual, and she didn't care. She wasn't worried about her sister; she was worried about saving the house.

The house itself, on the other hand, seemed to be taking Florence's plans personally and was doing everything in its power to make her life miserable.

Eleanor was the house's silent cheering section. She couldn't resist a small, secret smile when she heard high-pitched wails coming from the shower. She reveled silently when Florence's repeated tripping over thresholds, rugs, and stairs resulted in her walking with a permanent hopping lurch. And she walked away with a bounce in her own step when a bookshelf spewed its contents at her sister, raining heavy leather-bound volumes down upon her bent shoulders.

And every act of rebellion by the house resulted in another retribution by Florence. It seemed she'd decided not to wait for Martinez Demolition and Salvage; she was starting the job herself. She unscrewed glass doorknobs, she took down light fixtures, she even tried to pry up the ancient oak floorboards in the hall.

It was war.

*****

When the first of the month arrived, both the house and Florence were bruised and battered, and Eleanor's hopes had been beaten as well. She'd consulted a lawyer and been told that the disposition of the house was in the hands of its majority owner. Period. She had no say in whether the house was torn apart piece by piece, and her love for the house carried no weight at all.

As Eleanor sat drowning her despair in coffee at the kitchen table, stroking the diamond-shaped crystal from the chandelier that she'd strung on a satin ribbon around her neck, she heard her sister thump-sliding down the hall. She watched her struggle past the door dragging a laundry bag on her way to the washing machine in the basement. Eleanor decided to make one final appeal.

"Florence, can't we talk about this. Please?"

Her sister didn't acknowledge her.

"What if I buy your interest in the house?" she pleaded at her sister's tiny, curved back. "It would take me some time, but eventually, somehow, I could pay you what it's worth, and you wouldn't have to live here, and I could just send you some money every month, and..."

The basement door squeaked open, and Florence turned her head and forced out a rasping croak that sounded a little like, "Forget it," before starting down the stairs step by careful step with the laundry bag bumping behind her.

Eleanor, one hand gripping the molding beside the door, watched her sister recede into the dimness until she disappeared.

That's when she heard it.

She heard the scrape of grasping fingers and the bang of thinly fleshed bones against wooden stair risers. The wordless animal screech of fear and pain. And she heard all the other sounds end with a split-melon noise when her sister reached the hard-packed basement floor.

"Florence?" Eleanor called, softly at first, then louder. "Florence?!"

Nothing.

She was just starting to take a step toward the stairs, screwing up her resolve to investigate, when the door started moving. Slowly, carefully, it swung toward her, giving her plenty of time to step back out of the way before it closed and latched with a solid snick. She tried to turn the doorknob, but it wouldn't budge.

Eleanor stared at the door silently, then whispered, "Florence..." She lay her hand flat upon the door, rested her forehead beside it. She was still there, standing in silence, ears straining for any sound from below, when the front doorbell rang. She yelped and jerked around so her back was to the basement door, hands pressed protectively against it. The doorbell rang again.

Straightening her hair, then smoothing her hands down her dress, she made her way to the entryway, looking back over her shoulder several times to make sure the basement door was still closed. At the front door, she peeked through the leaded glass panel and saw a man of about her own age – or at least the age she now looked. He was medium height and ruddy, in jeans and denim shirt and with a clipboard in his hand.

She took a deep breath, blew it out, and opened the door.

"May I help you?"

"Ms. Johnson? I'm Robert Martinez. It's nice to meet you in person." He held out a well-calloused hand, and – after a short pause – she shook it. Her hand only quivered a little.

"Actually, Mr. Martinez, I'm Eleanor Johnson, my sister is... indisposed." She couldn't keep her eyes from darting toward the basement, but he didn't seem to notice.

"Please, call me Robert. That's no problem. I just need to take a look around and get a plan together for my crew. They'll show up in about an hour." His eyes, and then his hand, strayed to the decorative carving surrounding the front door, and he stroked it appreciatively. "Man, they really don't make 'em like this anymore, do they?" He rapped the wood with his knuckles. "And it seems to be solid." He inclined his head toward the entry. "Mind if I come in?"

"Oh, well, the thing is..." Eleanor stepped back in automatic response to his stepping forward, and Robert walked in, stopping after a few paces to turn in a complete circle, head moving up and down, side to side, as he took in the house with a professional's eye.

He whistled. "This place is gorgeous. Really." He looked at Eleanor speculatively and pinched his lips together, seeming to be struggling with whether or not to speak. After a moment, his need to say what was on his mind clearly won out over propriety. "Ma'am, I gotta be frank with you. I can make a fortune for both of us salvaging this place." He paused, looked around again. "But are you sure you want me to? I mean," he gestured at the woodwork, the pocket doors, the leaded glass, "this isn't the kind of place we usually get. It's still livable, you know? Heck, with just a little work, it would be a showplace. Seems a shame to rip apart a grand old lady like this and sell her for scrap." He looked down at the floor, obviously embarrassed. "'Course, it's up to you, but if it were my house...."

Eleanor beamed. "Really? You really think so? I mean, I love this house, warts and all. And I never wanted it torn apart, but my sister..."

Behind her, a thump sounded against the basement door, and they both turned to look in that direction. It thumped again, louder this time.

Robert smiled. "You got a cat or a dog in there, you can let 'em out. I love animals."

"No, it's not... it's just..."

The door thumped.

"Really, I'd love to meet 'em. Here, I'll get it for you."

And before Eleanor could force words of protest through her fear-tightened throat, Robert had walked to the door and had his hand on the knob. It opened easily under his touch and swung outward. Seeing what was on the other side, he jumped backward with a gasp.

"Whoa!" He laughed nervously. "That's your pet?" His face clearly expressed his disbelief, and more than a little repulsion.

The huge toad that had been throwing itself against the basement door hopped over the threshold.

Eleanor could feel her jaw drop as she watched the toad make awkward jumps across the parquet floor toward her. She finally managed to respond, "Pet? Um, no... no. That's... well... you see, I've been having problems with her... I mean that, or those. Toads, I mean. In the basement." She couldn't look away from the toad's patchy, brown, lumpy skin, its protuberant eyes.

And then it croaked out something that could have been, "Eleanor!" and made a mighty leap toward her, landing with a fleshy "plop" at her feet. She yelped and jumped backward.

Robert came to her rescue, striding forward and grabbing the toad up while making a snarl of distaste. He clasped it behind the front legs, and its dangling hind limbs hung down almost a foot. "Out you go!" he said then opened the front door and tossed the toad into the yard.

He held his hands out in front of him as if they were contaminated. "Yuck," he said. "I've never liked toads. Mind if I wash my hands?"

Eleanor's own hands had strayed to the crystal at her neck, and she nodded. "In the kitchen."

She started walking and looked back at him over her shoulder with just the tiniest smile. "I'll make some fresh coffee, and we can talk about the house."

Terrible Twos

“Hungee!” The little boy stretched his thin arms out at full length through the bars of his playpen, hands splayed and fingers wiggling like starfish. It might have sounded like nothing but moaning to others, but the word was clear enough to his mother.

“I know darling. Mama will feed you in just a minute. Hold on.” She hovered at the doorway to her son’s room, gazing at him with wistful eyes. Not so long ago, when he’d begged for food, she’d been able to nourish him from her own body. All it had taken then was her breast to satisfy him. She sighed. Those days were gone.

“Hungee! Hungee! HUNGEE!!” The words repeated in Karen’s mind as the moans echoes around the room.

“Steve, where are you? Hurry up!” she called, eyeing Tommy. Two-year-olds weren’t known for their patience.

“I’m coming as fast as I can. This one’s heavy!” Her husband sounded breathless.

She heard bumps and thumps coming toward her down the hallway, along with muffled groans. Damn. She hated it when they woke up. But that would explain why it was taking so long. They were harder to move when they were struggling.

“Here, I’ll help you.” She moved into the hall to ease her husband’s burden. “I’ll take the feet.”

“HunGEE Mama! Mama!” Tommy’s cries intensified when his mother left the room. She cocked her head, listening from the hall.

“Jesus, can’t you make him shut up?” Steve asked, for the hundredth time. “Those moans...”

“How? It’s not like he wants a pacifier. Let’s just hurry up and feed him. And they’re not moans. I understand him just fine.”

When they reached the bedroom door, the bundle that was stretched between them intensified its struggles, thrashing like a worm on a hook. It had seen what waited inside, and its eyes flew wide, flashing from the child to the parents and back again. It moaned louder from behind the gag and shook its head wildly in denial.

“HUNGEE!” Karen flinched at the wail. Tommy had seen the bundle, too, and he was in a hunger-driven frenzy, grayish hands wrenching at the playpen’s glossy white bars, trying to pull them apart. Behind a child-sized catcher’s mask, cracked, flaking lips stretched in a rictus of anticipation; murky eyes bulged.

“OK, sweetie, OK,” Karen said. “Here’s dinner right now.” She went to Tommy and strained to pick him up while her husband dragged the bundle to the center of the room. Once the meal was in position, husband, wife and child met at the door. Steve took the struggling toddler from Karen and held him safely at arm’s length, hands pinning the boy’s arms tight to his sides. Karen stood behind Tommy and used a key to unlock the padlock they’d rigged to hold the mask closed. Throwing his head over his shoulder, the little boy snapped his teeth at Karen, but he was harmless behind the mask. She stroked his head and hummed “Hush little baby...” under her breath, then choked down a sob when a strand of hair and bits of flesh came away in her hand. Shaking herself to regain her composure, she held the buckle on the mask and prepared to release it.

“Ready?” she gasped out, her eyes meeting Steve’s.

“Ready.”

She pulled the end of the strap through the buckle and yanked off the mask. Steve thrust the child away from him, scrambling through the doorway after Karen and slamming the door behind them. He forced down the bar that blocked the door and secured it. The boy seemed to have no interest in them as long as other fresh food was available, but it never hurt to be careful. They’d go in and put the mask back on once the child had finished eating and was quieter. Their own protective suits – pieced together from sports gear and heavy moving quilts – would keep them from being bitten.

From the other side of the door, they heard ripping, tearing sounds and screams, but the screams stopped after a few minutes. The eating sounds continued. Karen, back against the door, slid down to a sitting position. Her head drooped, and her shoulders shook with sobs. Steve leaned forward and rested his head against the door.

#

A little over four months ago – 172 days, to be exact – meal time had been different. Karen and Steve had fed Tommy cereal for breakfast before taking advantage of an early freeze to go foraging at the Safeway in Rutherford, one town over. Since gas was a distant memory – it had run out mere months after the plague hit their town – they’d ridden their bikes. Steve pulled the child bike trailer with their happy, healthy toddler safely tucked inside, and Karen pulled an empty one to carry their booty.

Both carried guns. The zombies froze when the temperature dropped, but you never knew when one would thaw in a patch of direct sunlight. But they’d started to relax. It was 22 miles across flat country, and they’d made the ride cautiously but without a mishap, save one encounter with a feral dog. Steve had had to threaten to shoot it to keep Karen from trying to catch the dog and bring it home. She hadn’t spoken to him for the rest of the ride.

At the store, they’d found the frozen and fresh foods either gone or decomposed beyond recognition, of course. The virus had started hitting this part of the country almost a year ago, and fresh food was impossible to come by unless you grew it yourself. Both Steve and Karen were city people; they had been unsuccessful growing anything more challenging than potted ivy, so they’d been living out of cans for months. But even cans were getting hard to find. The grocery store shelves were long empty, but sometimes the storerooms in the back still held a few unopened cases.

Steve hitched the toddler-carrier higher up on his shoulders. At almost two and a half, Tommy was getting too big to be carried around everywhere, but they couldn’t very well let him walk loose among the broken glass and mangled store fixtures. Steve ripped into another cardboard box.

“I have more freakin’ stewed tomatoes,” he called across the storeroom to Karen. They’d had tomatoes at almost every meal for weeks. “You finding anything good?”

“Ooh! Fruit cocktail!” she squealed, excited as a little girl unwrapping a Barbie doll on Christmas morning.

“Really? That’s awesome!” Steve called back then shook his head. Under his breath, he said, “Jeez. Fruit cocktail. I’m practically wetting my pants over fruit cocktail. What has the world come to?” Tommy had caught his parents’ mood and giggled happily, drooling half-chewed crackers onto his father’s head.

“Foo! Foo!” Fruit in any form was one of Tommy’s favorites, and he’d snagged the operative word from the conversation.

“Yeah, buddy, I hear you. You’ll get your share.”

“Is he getting too heavy?” Karen asked. She’d crossed back to them, her own backpack now bulging with fruit cocktail cans, the dog incident forgotten in the excitement of her find. Steve hitched his son up again.

“He ain’t heavy, he’s my buddy,” Steve sang, snapping his fingers. Karen giggled and swatted him affectionately on the arm. Steve turned his head to smile at Tommy over his shoulder. “We’re fine, aren’t we, buddy?”

“Bud-dee!” Tommy replied. Not mama, not papa, but “buddy” had been Tommy’s first word. The only thing he said more frequently was “no”.

“Here, give me that.” Steve reached out and eased the backpack off his wife’s shoulders. “Us men’ll go dump it in the trailer and come back for more. See if you can’t find some chili, stew, some kind of protein. Hell, I’d settle for freakin’ sardines at this point.” He leaned forward, groaning a little under the double burden of Tommy and the can-filled backpack slung over his arm, and kissed Karen quickly on the lips. “My little forager,” he whispered, grinning.

“Be careful,” Karen called as they headed out the storeroom door toward the front of the store.

Steve patted the .40-caliber semi-automatic at his hip. “Careful is my middle name,” he said in his best Clint Eastwood imitation.

#

Karen’s heart stopped when she heard the screaming, followed almost immediately by a gunshot. But the screaming continued, and it was the high-pitched, terrified wail of her baby in pain. She dropped the cans in a clatter around her and ran to the front door, skidding around corners and bouncing off shelves. “Tommy! Oh my god! Tommy!”

“Goddamnsonofabitchingmotherf...” Steve burst back through the front door, tearing at the buckle to the toddler carrier with one hand and gripping the gun with the other. “Help me get him down!” he shouted, straining to be heard above his son’s ear-shattering screams.

“What happened?! Oh my god, he’s bleeding! What happened?!”

“One of the bastards came out of nowhere while I was leaning over. I didn’t even know it was there until I felt Tommy jerk and then he started screaming and I got the son of a bitch right in the head but – shit! – is he bit?”

Karen had gotten Tommy free from the carrier and was cradling the terrified child against her shoulder. Blood streamed down the back of his head, soaking his shirt collar. “Shh... shh... I don’t know. I can’t see if it’s a bite. You look.” She was sobbing, her own tears matching Tommy’s. She nestled her head against his and came away with blood smeared on her cheek. Tears cut a path through the red.

“Hold him still! I can’t see...” Steve gingerly dug through his son’s curly, brown hair, trying to discern where the blood was coming from. “It’s bleeding like a son of a bitch.” He pulled off his shirt and gently dabbed in the area where the blood was welling. Karen watched his face, eyes round. “Shit!” Steve exclaimed. He pulled back, meeting his wife’s eyes, and curved his hand around his son’s head as if he could force the wound to heal by sheer willpower. “Yeah... shit... he’s bit. Dammit!” He suddenly whirled and slammed his open hand into the wall two, three, four times. A series of bloody handprints remained when he took his hand away. Still vibrating with fear and anger, he started back toward Karen and Tommy.

“Don’t touch him!” Karen screamed, backing away and swiveling to keep Tommy out of his reach. “You bastard! How could you let this happen?”

Steve slumped, then, unthinking, ran his bloody hands through his hair. “Jesus, Karen, I’m sorry. It’s not like I did it on purpose! He’s my kid, too, you know! I just... I just didn’t see it...”

Karen stayed turned away from him, hunched over Tommy, whose screams and sobs had subsided to snuffled whimpers. “Just go outside and make sure there aren’t any more. We have to get him home.” Then, whispering, to Tommy: “It’s OK, hush baby, Mama’s gonna make it OK.”

#

Since then, they had become not just gatherers but hunters.

Karen had absolutely refused any discussion of killing Tommy, and Steve was too wracked by guilt to force the issue. They’d both killed enough zombies in the past year to know the drill: a clean head shot would do it. And then Tommy would be dead. Really dead.

Instead, their lives revolved around accommodating their son. Tommy had died – a slow, ugly death from raging infection – two days after the attack, and he’d risen as a zombie within minutes.

They’d been ready for him. His room, with windows already blockaded to keep zombies out, served just as well to keep one pint-sized zombie in. All they’d had to do was bar the door from the outside. The modified t-ball catcher’s mask protected Steve and Karen from being bitten themselves, and they’d filed Tommy’s nails down to nubs so he couldn’t do too much damage if he found gaps in their homemade, quilted body suits when he clawed at them.

For a while, they’d hunted the streets and sidewalks close to home. Thanks to the coming of winter, the zombies couldn’t roam outdoors, but people could. Steve used the gun to shoot their prey in the knee or other non-vital but crippling location, then the two of them trussed the meal up in duct tape and rope and carried it home tied to the bike trailer. At first finding prey was easy, allowing them to stockpile food for their son in the basement. Unfortunately, there were only so many uninfected humans left.

As game grew scarce, they expanded their range as far as they could by leaving at dawn and riding the bikes to neighboring towns. Karen wouldn’t leave Tommy overnight; they always had to start the return trip in time to get home by dusk. Still, they’d been able to provide their son with two or three live meals – the only kind he’d eat, they had to bury the “leftovers” – every week and even keep one or two extra on hand. Until now. They’d tried to go hunting for six days in a row, but they’d found nothing but zombies. The spring thaw had brought them out by the thousands.

“So, what do we do now?” Steve raised his head from the kitchen table where he’d been resting it on his arms, eyes closed, and focused on his wife. “We’re out of people. There aren’t any more. Done. Finished. Gone.”

“I get it, OK?” Karen swiped her hands viciously across her eyes and nose, clearing away tears and mucus. She’d been crying almost constantly since they’d fed Tommy his last meal five days ago. For the first three days, and nights, his screams had gotten louder, more pitiful. Then they started to waver, taper down into weakening whines. Now they heard only the barest whimper through the door.

“No, I don’t think you do get it. We have a son who is a zombie, he eats living, human flesh, and the pantry is bare!” His voice had been rising until he was almost shouting. He took several steps away from her, rolled his head around on his shoulders to release the tension, then walked back. He took both her hands in his. “Karen, look at me.” She tried to avoid his eyes, so he cupped her face in his hands. “Look at me,” he said, his voice soft but intense. She finally met his brown eyes, eyes exactly like Tommy’s had been before they turned milky. “Honey, it’s time. We have to let him go.”

“No. No. No!” She jerked away from him and stalked to the doorway. Tommy’s room was down the hall, and she stared toward it. “I won’t let you kill my son. I can’t believe you’re even suggesting it.”

“Kill him? He’s dead! He’s been dead! We’d just be putting him out of his misery.”

“And how do you know he’s miserable? Maybe... maybe he’s not. He’s still in there. He’s still Tommy. He still calls me Mama...”

“Jesus, Karen, he does not! He just moans. And of course he’s miserable. He’s decomposing! He eats people. You think that’s a good life? You think that’s life at all?”

“It’s not death! It’s... something...” A manic gleam shone in Karen’s eyes. “We can keep him going. There are still people out there. We just need to find them.”

“We can’t find them. You know that. The damn zombies have us surrounded. We can’t avoid them.”

“So we don’t avoid them.”

He stared at her, shook his head in disbelief. “And how do we keep from being eaten by the zombies?”

Karen had been edging toward the counter, to a drawer next to the refrigerator. She opened the drawer, pulled out the gun, pointed it at him.

“You don’t.”

“What the hell are you doing? Put the freakin’ gun down. What are you going to do? Kill me? Because this is all my fault?”

“No. Because Tommy needs you.”

Steve stared at her, eyes slowly widening in comprehension. He started to rise, but he heard the gunshot and sat back down hard, stunned. A moment passed before he looked down at the blood blossoming on his shoulder. He stared at it, confused, then raised his head to Karen.

“You shot me.” It wasn’t an accusation, just a statement. Calm. Detached. Shocked.

“I’m sorry, Steve. Tommy needs you.”

She shot him in the other shoulder, and this time he fell out of his chair, screaming. When he opened his eyes, Karen was standing over him, a cast-iron skillet in her hand.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

#

Steve woke up in his son’s room, the little boy standing in his playpen and grasping through the bars. Tommy was moaning.

“Shit!” Steve said under his breath. He tried to roll over, sit up, anything, but he was trussed with duct tape and rope just as all Tommy’s meals had been. “Karen!” he screamed.

“I’m right here,” she replied, calmly. Her feet entered his field of vision, then she knelt down so he could see her. “I wish you hadn’t woken up.” Her eyes moved from Tommy to Steve and back again. “It’s OK, sweetie,” she said to the frantic child. “You can eat in just a minute.” Steve renewed his struggles, but he could barely move, much less get free.

“Don’t do this!” Steve gasped, winded from fighting his bindings. “Dammit! What happens after this, Karen? You’re back where you started! You going to let him eat you next?”

“Not exactly.” She stood up. Steve couldn’t see what she was doing, but he heard her sharp intake of breath. Tommy’s moans quieted for a moment, then resumed even louder and angrier than before.

She knelt down again, but she was weaving, and she held one hand clutched to her chest. Blood was dripping down her arm. “See, Steve?” She held her hand out to him. The index finger was ragged bone, the flesh gnawed off down to the second knuckle. “In a few days, it’ll be different. I’ll be like Tommy, and we’ll be able to travel without the zombies bothering us. I’ll be able to get out, find food for him. But he needs to eat before then. He needs his daddy.”

She picked Tommy up and walked to the door with him, struggling to hold him with her injured hand. Finally, she resorted to pinning him down on the floor with her knee while she unlocked his mask. He wriggled under her but couldn’t get away. With a final glance at Steve, she removed the little boy’s mask, stood up, and went out the door.

Steve fought to turn himself over on the floor and finally managed to roll so he was facing Tommy. He saw the child rise up on unsteady feet, waver for a long moment, then start running toward him, arms outstretched. Outside, Karen leaned against the door, sobbing. She heard one word in her son’s voice: “Bud-dee!” then screams, ripping, slurping noises. She listened until there was silence, and her own sobs subsided until she was quiet, too. She sat down outside the bedroom door and made herself as comfortable as she could, knowing it would be a few days before she died, before she became a zombie like Tommy. Through the door, she heard, “Mama...”

“Yes, baby,” Karen replied. “Mama’s right here.”

One for Sorrow

**Note**  This is an unpublished story-in-progress.  In order to keep its "unpublished" status (I'm still tweaking it and trying to sell it), it is password protected and available only to select readers.  To access the story, contact me via e-mail for the password, then  click here Password Protected Stories.

The Fish

 I hate the damn fish.

The fish have been a sore spot since the beginning. They’re brainless, eating, pooping things. The tank stinks, even though he cleans it, and don’t get me started on that disgusting process of sucking up fish poop. I try not to be in the house.

The fish aren’t even pretty. I’ve seen aquariums; god knows, after being dragged to dozens of fish stores, I’ve seen aquariums. Some fish boast lovely colors and flowing fins. But not his fish. Out of some perverse desire to annoy me, or possibly just out of bad taste, he picked mud-colored fish. Not a flowing fin in sight.

The fish have names – both technical names and “here fishy, fishy” names – but I haven’t paid attention. Calling a fish Sam or Bob or Precious seems to me indicative of brain damage. It’s even worse than naming a cat. The cat probably won’t come when you call it, but at least it might give you a dirty look. Fish aren’t even capable of giving dirty looks. If they were, I’d know it.

The fish aren’t totally useless, though. For years, when he pissed me off, I poured the dregs of my morning coffee into the tank. Once caffeinated, the fish are still brown and ugly, but at least they flounder around entertainingly. Sometimes they even bounce off the little bridge in their tank. After about an hour, though, they get particularly lethargic, even for fish. He’s tried in vain to diagnose this mysterious fish illness, even calling a fish pharmaceutical company to discuss “hole in the head” disease.

The fish caused the final fight this morning. He told me they’ve outgrown their tank, so he’s getting another one – a bigger one. But instead of replacing the current tank, he plans to split the fish so we’ll have not one but two stinking eyesores. At first, I was incensed. If he thought I would put up with two of the damn things, the fish weren’t the only ones with holes in their heads. We argued about it, and I threw a few things, but it was a losing battle. Since I couldn’t win, I pretended to go along with his plan, only grumbling enough for him not to get suspicious. I had a plan of my own.

The fish had to die. After he left for work, I got out an old clock radio, plugged it in next to the fish tank then held it in front of them. That’s how I know fish can’t give dirty looks. After giving them a moment to prepare, I ceremoniously dropped the radio into the tank. I even hummed taps, for atmosphere. When the radio hit the water, I was hoping for sparks, but nothing seemed to happen. Nothing, that is, until one by one the fish started to float. I almost felt bad, seeing all the floating, scaly bodies with their still mouths and cloudy eyes. Then I remembered...

I hate the damn fish.

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**Note - This story is fiction.  No actual fish were hurt in the writing of this story.