Darlings of Decay Read online

“Means we’ll be sorted out in about a day or two.”

  “Huh?”

  “We’ll be taking another dirt nap again real soon.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I broke a tooth trying to bite into someone’s skull…. This isn’t the movies. We’re starving back to death.”

  “Shit.”

  “Indeed.”

  ****

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  Tara Maya

  The One in the Basement

  Except for the banging on the basement door, it’s the kind of Sunday mornings Marlie likes best. Never mind the noise, it’s no bother. Best she was up anyway, it’s almost half past seven. The kitchen smells like coffee and formaldehyde.

  Outside, it’s not too hot, yet still sunny. Beams of light illuminate the plants in her kitchen window. The plants are plastic, which are easier to care for than real plants. One only need keep them dust-free, and they’re just as pretty as real flowers. The ceramic planters are adorable: a cotton-candy pink bunny, a lemon-meringue-pie colored ducky, an adorable elephant the exact same shade as a blueberry lollipop her mother gave her for her sixth birthday. There’s a picture of pig-tailed Marlie with that lollipop in one of the photo albums, which are all lovingly enclosed in hand-sewn denim-and-lace covers.

  Mama made those. Like Marlie, mama knew that keepsakes are important. Mama’s memory isn’t so good anymore, but Marlie keeps the memories for the sake of them both. Frank always complains about the clutter, and once he dared suggest she throw away the shelf of photo albums. Frank has never got along well with mama. But then, what man likes his mother-in-law? Marlie knows better than to heed to his grumbling about her mother. It’s better to focus on the positive.

  Marlie has just popped the toast, when Frank shuffles into the kitchen, still wearing his dingy gray robe and slippers. The toast is perfect golden brown. Marlie slathers the crusty bread with butter, which melts right and proper as you like.

  “Gonna set fire to that woman one day,” Frank says. He glowers at the basement door.

  Although mama can’t hear him and couldn’t understand if she did, the banging stops. As if she knows Frank wants to destroy her and some instinct for self-preservation has kicked in. Not possible, sadly. Mama’s mind is gone. Marlie considers it a blessing, really; she can no longer be offended by Frank’s constant hostility.

  Frank and Marlie are eating breakfast when the banging starts up again.

  He starts to rise from his chair, scowling.

  “Ignore it,” says Marlie.

  He harrumphs, but settles down again, without ever having stood completely. At his size, lugging his middle around is not done on a whim.

  The door to their basement shudders from the pounding.

  It used to be such a nice room, their basement. They insulated it and finished it off over three decades ago, back when Frank liked to DIY around the house; now he’s too old and fat. Speaking of his weight, Marlie frowns to see that he has ignored the toast and coffee she’s set out for him, and pillaged the fridge for donuts and soda instead.

  “That’ll be the death of you,” she says.

  “Maybe it will,” says Frank. “There are worse ways to go.”

  “Did you take your heart medication? You always forget.”

  “Don’t harp. You know the one thing I can’t stand is a woman who harps.”

  What Frank doesn’t tell her is that he is out of his medication. He thinks Marlie doesn’t know, even though she keeps track of these things on her Kittens Calendar right next to the fridge. He never looks. He has been out for more than a week. She’s worried, and wonders if she should pick them up herself. But going out to get more is getting harder and harder these days.

  “When my time comes,” he says, even grimmer than usual, “Don’t let me become one of them.”

  The banging stops and the silence is startling. Almost worse.

  “How about a cup of coffee instead of that dreadful soda?” Marlie asks.

  “Promise me, Marlie.”

  “Don’t be morbid. You know I can’t abide that sort of talk.”

  Frank grunts. He turns on the TV, a small black and white, almost as old as their marriage but still able to get one channel. The only thing on is news, droning about the situation in Europe.

  “I hate how these journalist fellows always exaggerate.” Marlie. “They just want to sell newspapers.”

  “No one buys newspapers anymore, Marlie. It’s all PooTube and Twatter.”

  “…more zombies in twenty European countries now than people…” says the TV. “You can vote on your favorite zombie attack video….”

  “Damn PooTube,” says Frank. “Another sure sign everything’s gone to hell.”

  True, she thinks, feeling old. Everything has changed. We never had zombies before. People died and stayed dead.

  Renewed banging on the door makes her jump.

  Don’t dwell on it, she reminds herself. Happy thoughts.

  Now the TV shows some story about how people are using social media to report zombie sightings real time. “Here’s the hashtag you can use…”

  What’s a hashtag? wonders Marlie. Is it a kind of hashbrown?

  “Damn Twatter,” says Frank.

  “The zombie problem is even worse in Asia,” says a TV anchor wearing an expression of studied concern. “China, Japan and Vietnam have two zombies out of every three animate persons. Will America suffer the same zombie meltdown as Europe and Asia?”

  “Damn zombies,” says Frank.

  Marlie pities them. They can’t see, can’t hear, can’t understand and can’t die. They stagger around, seeking, always seeking, never finding. They destroy the lives of the ones they once loved the most, unfeelingly, unknowingly. There are days when Marlie feels she is no more useful than the zombies.

  But she mustn’t be negative about it. She hates negativity. Frank has enough for them both.

  The banging is background noise to her thoughts, so much taken for granted that it takes Marlie a moment to realize the timbre has changed.

  It’s not coming from the basement, it’s coming from outside.

  Suddenly terrified, Marlie clutches the edges of the table until her knuckles whiten. “Frank! Do something!”

  “Why me?” he says “You know who it is!”

  “Please Frank!”

  Going outside isn’t so easy these days. He puts on the needed things: Long sleeved shirt, tough jeans, leather jacket, heavy boots. Thick leather gloves and a fencing mask. He also takes an ax, which he doesn’t let Marlie see, though she hears the closet creak open and knows he’s taken it. He borrowed one from Mr. Tucker (the son) last month, and why would he have borrowed it if he didn’t intend to use it?

  But he won’t need it, surely, she tells herself. Just to be sure, she edges toward the window to watch through the miniature forest of plastic plants and ceramic planters.

  At first, Frank is out of sight, around the corner behind the garage, not in the front yard. All she can hear is shuffling, moaning and banging. She props open the window to hear better.

  Then she sees Frank backing away from two zombies who are rushing him, in their pitiful but inexorable way. Their stink is overwhelming. She shouldn’t have opened the window. She can smell it despite the formaldehyde used to keep their dead flesh firm. It’s not formaldehyde, Frank says, but Marlie can’t remember what it’s called. Nano-plasma-something. The immortality serum. The thing that started the zombie craze in the first place. It didn’t preserve the higher functions. Just re-animated corpses with a pseudo-life that is, on the face of it, she has to admit, though she doesn’t like to speak ill of the undead, rather ghastly.

  Where
will end? She wonders and briefly panics. Will we all become zombies? In a world of zombies, who will pour the coffee and butter the toast?

  Marlie pushes that unpleasant smudge of thought into a corner and dabs it with a napkin. No sense being negative.

  The front lawn, boarded by rose bushes near the house and by ceramic gnomes near the white picket fence, is now the arena for an indecorous battle between Frank and the zombies. One of the zombies—surely that’s Mr. Tucker (the father) from two doors down? – tries hard to bite Frank. He chops off Mr. Tucker’s arm. Pus oozes from the gray, bloodless arm. The zombie and the arm both continue to flop toward Frank.

  Marlie shakes her head. Was that really necessary? Why must Frank be so hostile?

  Frank has an unreasoning fear of becoming a zombie.

  The young Tuckers, a middle age couple named Laura and Will, run onto the lawn. They apologize to Frank for the deprecations of old zombie Tucker – Will’s father, Marlie thinks, but she can’t remember—though they look annoyed that Frank cut off the arm. They pick up the arm and guide old Mr. Tucker back toward their house. They also have a basement.

  The other zombie is distracted and now attacking a telephone pole. Frank walks up behind her. He lifts the ax.

  He really intends to do it!

  Then he notices Marlie watching from the window.

  Frank sags and lowers the ax. He guides the zombie back inside, holding her at arms length because she tries to bite him. As they pass, Marlie pastes on a smile.

  “Did you have a nice morning jaunt, mama?”

  “Oh, mama zombie had a wonderful morning,” mutters Frank as he locks mama back in the basement.

  He always hated her mother even before mama died and was infected.

  When he comes back, he’s flushed and furious. “Did you see that? That old bat almost bit me! We can’t keep taking care of her! We need to put her in a home!”

  “You know how those places are, and anyway there’s not enough to keep up with the demand.”

  “That’s because fools like you keep the zombies around rather than burning them to ash! Every time an old person croaks, we zombify them until the undead are outnumbering the living, as in Europe and Asia! No one can afford to take care of children anymore, we spend all our money on the undead! It’s not immortality! It’s a curse! It’s a nightmare!”

  “What do you want me to do? Kill my own mother?”

  “She’s already dead!”

  “But not completely, so how can I abandon her?”

  His face purples, his veins throb. He opens his mouth to rant more, but his bark comes out like a strange cough. He clutches his chest.

  Marlie rushes to him, but she can see it is too late. He’s having a heart attack. She could call 911, but these days they are so busy dealing with zombie escapes that they take an hour to answer a call.

  “Mama! Mama!” she rushes to the basement door. Opens it.

  Mama staggers out and without being told what to do, bites Frank vigorously on the shoulder.

  At first, the bite seems to have no effect. The body emits odd noises, and an unpleasant smell fills the air. The bowels have voided their contents for the last time. But otherwise, Frank doesn’t stir, even when Marlie returns with towels and fresh pants.

  Nearly an half hour has passed before Frank stirs again. Marlie hears gurgling from the back of his throat. He staggers to his feet. He throws up blood. He won’t need it anymore. What good luck she already has the towels and disinfectant out.

  Frank has a blank look on his face as he tries to bite her.

  But she’s already put on the leather gloves and fencing mask. She guides him back to the basement. Then does the same for mama, who has escaped while Marlie was dealing with Frank. She kisses mama on the cheek. Mama tries to bite her ear.

  She now has two of them to watch and tend and above all keep safely locked away from biting any young person. Washing is a must to combat the smell, but no need to feed them. Zombies don’t eat. Not even brains, despite the jokes by late night comedians. They gnaw anything, but just from some misfiring in their nano-plasma filled brains. They aren’t exactly alive, just kept animate by the nano-mush, however that works. Neither living nor dead, they just…subsist. Forever. Or as long as their living relatives, or government welfare programs, care for them.

  At least the bill for donuts and soda will go down.

  Must focus on the positive.

  ***

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  Shannon Mayer

  Sundered

  Love is something eternal; the aspect may change, but not the essence.

  —Vincent Van Gogh

  1

  I walked slowly, my hands above my head to keep from touching the scotch broom. My eyes watered, my throat and nose itched, and the patches of bare skin the plant leaned in to kiss were bright red and swelling. Fanny Bay was famous for a lot of things, but when we moved here three months ago I didn’t realize it was a breeding ground for my most hated nemesis.

  “You coming, babe? I really am sorry. I didn’t know the trail was full of broom,” Sebastian, my sweet and usually thoughtful husband, yelled back to me. He wasn’t allergic to the brilliant yellow plant, so he didn’t have to worry about the branches that hung on all sides, and he made good time on the trail. I could just make out his broad back and dark brown hair over the tops of the broom ahead of me. At 6’4” he towered over most people and living things, noxious weeds included.

  I grunted a reply, not wanting to take in any more air than I had to. The walk through the tunnel of broom wouldn’t kill me—it wasn’t that bad an allergy—but hell, it wasn’t something I enjoyed, either. Breaking out in a rash and blowing my nose continually for the next few hours would be what I had to look forward to after this little excursion. But the bottom line was, and even I could admit it, I needed to get out of the house and get some fresh air. I’d been holed up for far too long grieving, and this little hike and visit with the neighbours would get me moving. God love the man, Sebastian knew me better than I knew myself sometimes, and this excursion had been his idea.

  “Mara?”

  “I’m coming, Bastian. Don’t expect me to run through this crap,” I said, shifting sideways to slip between two overhanging branches.

  A stick jabbed me in the belly and I snapped it off with a quick twist. “Stupid plant,” I muttered, thinking of all the things that had been jabbed into me of late; it was the least painful, both to my body and my heart.

  I blinked away tears that threatened, and wiped my hands across my eyes to my immediate regret: they were covered in pollen from pushing the broom out of my way.

  “Son of a bitch, I’m an idiot.” I blinked furiously, trying to keep the tears flowing to rinse my eyes out.

  The doctors didn’t know why we were having such a hard time getting pregnant, and the miscarriage only confirmed that it was something wrong with me. I sneezed and rubbed my nose with the back of my hand, the minor explosion jarring me out of my depressing thoughts.

  “Hurry up, woman. I told Dan we’d be there ten minutes ago. Last thing I want to do is upset the new neighbours.” Sebastian’s voice was even further ahead of me now.

  “Yeah, I’m coming, O white knight of mine, who considers a walk in the broom a nice time out for his highly allergic wife!” I wasn’t angry with him; this was part of the way he dealt with his grief. It was the same when his father and brother died in the boating accident; at least, that was what his mother had shared with me. His motto was 'buckle down and move on; push forward and don’t look back'. Althoug
h even with that attitude, he sweated the whole way across the Georgia Strait, despite the fact that the ferry we were on was the size of a cruise liner.

  A rustle in the bush stopped my feet before I thought about what I was doing. “Sebastian?” He had a nasty habit of scaring me; jumping out from the place I least expected him. The rustling drew closer and I pulled away, pressing my back against a wall of yellow and green, my heart picking up speed. I didn’t think it was Sebastian. A musky odour floated past my nose, and whatever was making the noise, it was an animal. A flash of black in the bush across from me and I nearly wet my pants. Bears were more than common on this part of Vancouver Island; they were considered pretty much part of the neighbourhood and one of the few things I was truly terrified of.

  Crap. Mouth dry, I tried again, whispering as loud as I dared. “Sebastian!”

  The black thing in the bush that I was sure was a bear, grunted and shuffled closer and I slid my way toward the spot where I’d last seen my husband. Maybe the bear wouldn’t attack us if we were together? Sweat popped out on my forehead and I no longer cared how much the broom brushed against me; I just didn’t want to be eaten. I pushed my back against the wall of plants, not caring that they scratched across my bare skin as I slid sideways up the trail, keeping my eyes trained on the rustling behind me.

  One step forward and something grabbed me from behind sending me into a flailing mass of arms, legs, and grunts as my heart threatened to burst out of my throat.

  “Whoa, whoa, babe, settle down,” Sebastian said, laughing at me, his blue eyes dancing, his hands resting on my shoulders.

  I didn’t care he’d scared me. Not this time.

  I gulped in a breath. “Bear,” I said, pointing down the trail, my hand shaking.

  “Really?”

  I nodded. Then the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen that man do happened right in front of my disbelieving eyes. Sebastian started back the way we’d come, toward the bear.

  “What are you doing?” My fear turned to anger as I thought of myself widowed before I’d even turned thirty.