Chapter 21.

Pinch Me Sunlight shone through the shark tank, bathing Fred in soft greens and blues, making him appear more ghoulish than usual. The residents of the tank were all dead, their bodies littering the bottom.

He sat on a bench, staring vacantly at a pack of Winchester Lights lying on the tiled floor at his feet. He'd give a good six feet of intestine for the ability to enjoy just one smoke - even a Winchester Light. But smoking, while hazardous to a breather's health, was suicide for a zombie. The undead had a tendency to combust even around warm thoughts.

Most of the undead that survived the journey were milling about in the Camden Aquarium's main lobby, but the burned man and d.i.c.kless were keeping Fred company - and Aleta and Karen, of course.

The good news was that the zombies were winning again. According to ZNN reports the breathers were in a panic. Stories of ma.s.s desertions from the National Guard were broadcast almost daily. Some deserted to be with their loved ones, some left to try their hand at looting, or for other reasons. No surprise that all it took to bring society crashing down was panic, greed, self-interest and a few hundred thousand hungry zombies.

The important thing was that the breathers were becoming disorganized just as Fred and his undead were getting their s.h.i.t together. Their President was threatening to declare victory in Afghanistan and bring the troops home, but Fred didn't think that would matter much. If outright civil war didn't break out among the breathers, he was confident there'd be anarchy in the streets - and anarchy was like Disneyland for zombies.

The bad news? Well, the bad news was a zombie's shuffle-time on earth was as fleeting as a Robin Williams comeback. True, the numbers of undead continued to increase. Even the deadest of undead could manage to bite two or three people - a whole family more often than not. But between the armed breathers, the unusual flammability of the undead, and the unexplainable fact that many were just up and dying again, the average zombie was not long for this earth. Fred understood that in the end this spelled victory for the undead. But f.u.c.k victory. He wanted to live.

He didn't worry about burning up or being shot. He was smart enough to avoid both. If zombies had a Mensa chapter, he'd be president. But knowing when to kill and when to hide meant dodging only two out of three bullets. Even Fred had to worry about just - well, just dying.

He'd decided to relocate his office to Camden. Camden had once been the murder capital of the U.S.A., and it had a fantastic aquarium.

But it wasn't just the view of dead fish that had attracted Fred. His minions had been too successful. After overrunning Wayne and packing the Paradise Buffet with fresh, undead recruits, it was just a matter of time before they caught the attention of whatever pa.s.sed for the 'Authorities' these days. Like most people from Florida, Fred's gang had overstayed their welcome and it was time to move on. He hadn't been crazy about relocating to Camden, and there weren't many - alive or dead - that could blame him. But he figured Camden wouldn't be one of those places the army was chomping at the bit to control. That Timmy loved aquariums had nothing to do with it. Most of the undead had followed Fred from Paradise, but even on the short commute, quite a few simply stopped unliving. None that would be missed, but it was only a matter of time before he started losing real a.s.sets.

With no small effort he picked up the pack of Winchester's, intending to just hold a cigarette for old time's sake. But this proved impossible, and in a matter of moments the crushed box fell to the floor, leaking fresh tobacco. He looked up to the shark tank and its dead inhabitants. He didn't know if it was lack of food or lack of oxygen that had killed them. He a.s.sumed the latter, as there was no evidence that the sharks had attacked each other. He supposed that when the electricity went out, the oxygen pumps failed and all the fish suffocated. Here and there the filtered sunlight came through in liquid patches. It was depressing, and made seeing difficult.

He was staring at the soft light in the tank when the waking dream hit him. Not the typical waking nightmare he occasionally experienced: being unable to blink, let alone shut one's eyes, did strange things to a zombie. This was different, and somehow he knew it was coming from the same Broadcaster he'd tuned in to back in Paradise. He'd a.s.sumed there were other Broadcasters out there, but now he wondered. Perhaps, like him, the Broadcaster was unique. All the more reason he needed to get his lifeless hands on him.

This dream felt much clearer than the others. At first he'd only a vague sense of the Broadcaster's surroundings. Now he could see everything clear as day. In the vision Fred saw the undead postal worker staring at him. It took a moment for him to realize he was looking at his own reflection in a bathroom mirror. His initial reaction was to try to take over the body. But his trick didn't work like that. He could see as though he was in the postman's head, but that was all he could do. The zombie was behaving like a civil servant and just standing there, apparently ignoring his surroundings and definitely ignoring his personal hygiene. Zombies didn't sleep but they could unplug, and this guy was unplugged.

That this guy was standing, undead or not, was unusual in itself. It took a lot to keep a zombie dead: Decapitation, fire, and severe head trauma - stuff like that. The Broadcaster still had his head, and he wasn't a hunk-a burning love, but his noggin had seen better days. A postal cap sat skewed on its head, pushed back by what looked like a large rock that was lodged squarely in its skull. Fred had no idea how this thing - Potts, according to the name tag on its uniform - was still standing, but he guessed that the neon blue glow that surrounded the rock and much of it's head, might have something to do with it.

A nice fat rat scurried across the countertop, paused and keeled over, dead as vaudeville. Fred noticed a few unopened letters scattered over the sink. He could make out Comfort Co. on the address line of two or three pieces. Before he could make out anything else, some internal alarm clock woke Mr. Potts and he started to turn away from the mirror.

Just as he turned Fred saw the rat move. It crawled drunkenly across the counter, its tail jerking back and forth. It reached the end of the counter and kept going, then fell to the floor.

Now that, Fred thought, is interesting.

Chapter 22.

Dead Divas Sunshine screamed louder than a girl scout at a Justin Bieber concert, and frantically kicked out at Liza. The kick missed the head but connected with her wig, sending it flying across the room. It landed on one of the Chinese lanterns, dangling like some kind of bizarre black spider.

Undead Liza, even more hideous than the original, hissed and leaned in for a bite. He kicked out again and connected with a satisfying crunch. Liza loosened her grip and with another girlish scream he pulled free. Eyes on the zombie he scrambled backwards, all thoughts of finding drugs forgotten. King Solomon's lost cocaine mine might be behind the bar, but it could stay lost and forgotten as far as Sunshine was concerned. If there were worse things than undead Liza Minnelli transvest.i.tes in this world, he couldn't think of any.

Still crab-walking backwards, he fell against the dead bikers' table. Gla.s.ses rattled, flies buzzed, and through the grace of good fortune the bikers stayed dead. He bounced off the table like a pinball and headed for the exit.

"No, no, no. No fair!"

Seventies Cher swayed between Sunshine and the front door, all rhinestones, beads, long hair and heels. Her lips were smeared with bright red lipstick - that's lipstick, I'm sure of it - and her dead eyes hid behind eyelashes so long that if she ever blinked, Sunshine was sure he'd feel a breeze. The six-foot-two pop icon moaned something that was definitely not "Sonny" and began walking toward him, her vest jingling and jangling.

I GOT you, Babe.

Without thinking, Sunshine turned and made his way to the back room, praying for a rear exit. He had no trouble avoiding Liza, who kept turning round and round on hands and knees, like a dog getting ready for a lie down. There was a doorway behind the bar, sans door. Whatever lay beyond was swallowed in darkness.

Exit or backroom?

A noise on his left. He turned and saw another door. Even in the dim light he could make out the 'Men's' sign.

Are you friggin' kidding me?

A burly Barbara Streisand stumbled out of the bathroom. Another six footer with dead eyes and a mean mouth. At first he thought she was supposed to be Ann Coulter, but even with the cheap brown wig askew, the zombie transvest.i.te looked too feminine. It was the ski ramp nose, Dr. Lowenstein gla.s.ses and five o'clock shadow that sealed the deal.

People who eat people are the luckiest people of all.

He stood frozen in horror as the dead divas made their way to their latest fan.

The icing on the cupcake followed Babs out of the bathroom. Dressed in a blue and white polka dot dress and wearing pigtails, she clutched a small wicker basket against her chest. A black ball of fur peaked out from the wicker lip. I'll miss you most of all. Judy looked like she'd spent the night sicking up two quarts of creamed corn. But her size twelve ruby slippers still sparkled with promise.

Sunshine remembered the gun. Backing up a few steps he took it from his waistband and pointed it in the Dead Divas' general direction.

"Stay where you are."

They didn't. Deciding flight trumped fight, he turned and ran to the room behind the bar. The dead divas followed. As soon as he ran into the back room he knew he'd made a mistake. Maybe his last one. It was a small office with one desk, one couch, one door and no freedom.

He spun around, certain the zombies were about to pounce on him. He was right. Liza was still on hands and knees, leading the pack with the others right behind her. It looked like Cher would be second runner-up in the Sunshine buffet.

Without thinking, he pointed and fired. Liza's head didn't exactly explode but it would never look the same again. A nice size hole appeared in the back of her - his? - head and Liza went still, the days of living on her knees behind her.

Sunshine let out a manly screech and fired again and again, hitting Cher in the chest and family jewels. Judy and Babs immediately turned on their two girlfriends. Babs fell upon the still twitching Cher and started biting. Judy, perhaps due to unresolved family issues, started in on Liza's body.

Catfight.

Sunshine screamed even louder and ran, slamming into Cher and sending her sprawling across the floor. Then he was past them, free and clear. When he made it to the front door he shot a glance over his shoulder, half expecting to see them giving chase. But the Divas were still feeding. Cher was back on Babs, Judy was busy eating Liza and Liza was busy staying dead.

"Now THAT'S ENTERTAINMENT!"

Chapter 23.

West Should I go west?

The Magic 8-ball lay at his feet, the words 'Ask again later' visible through the small plastic window.

Fred chewed absently on a small strip of meat, trying to make sense out of the last 'dream'. He gave the 8-ball a soft kick, sending it rolling across the carpeted floor, where the world's most well known and dependable oracle came to a stop against the lovely Aleta's foot. It was an unseasonably warm day - not that he tended to notice such things any more. Bright sunlight streamed through the office window, bathing Aleta in a gentle cloud of dust motes. During the night she had been facing the wall, but she had turned to face the morning sun. She stood before the window, a long string of drool swinging to and fro from her mouth. For a change, Karen wasn't around at the moment.

I'm in love with a ficus.

In the two weeks they'd been at the Camden Aquarium, three more zombies had re-expired. Two dropped where they stood, like unwound clocks. The third was a bit more dramatic. It was the cute blonde with the golf club who had entertained him at the breather's house. She simply exploded, destroying an elaborate seahorse exhibit in the process. If he ever needed a nudge to get him moving again, that was it. But go where?

Since dying, Fred didn't do much sleeping or dreaming. He was always tired and cranky, but he couldn't sleep. He'd begun to suspect that the zombie virus was the brainchild of an infomercial production company. He supposed he was experiencing 'visions'. Visions of the glowing mailman. An undead civil servant wasn't exactly news before the zombie plague, but the mailman in Fred's vision was special - more particularly the small rock nestled in the mailman's head. That beautiful, glowing marble held his attention in every vision. It pulled at him like a lodestone.

The last vision showed the undead mailman standing in the middle of a parking lot of what appeared to be a deserted diner. It was dark and Fred couldn't make out too many details. Or can't remember them. The plate gla.s.s windows were all broken and he remembered some sort of graffiti spray-painted across what he a.s.sumed was the front entrance: some bulls.h.i.t verse from Revelations or a Beatle song or something. These days the breathers were as likely to be armed with spray paint as guns.

Another corpse stood with the mailman. A woman. She was filthy, even for a zombie. She would shamble forward a few steps, stop, and shamble back a step. If Fred didn't know any better he'd have sworn she looked scared. There was someone else there - just a shadow - a smudge of a figure hidden in the dark. Despite barely being able to make out the third person, a sense of familiarity washed over him. Familiarity and ... unease. Almost as soon as he became aware of the stranger, he or she disappeared. As the vision ended the graffiti grew brighter and larger, until the words 'WELCOME TO COMFORT, COLORADO!' blotted out everything else.

Fred sat staring at nothing, as only zombies can. He'd already forgotten about the stranger. There was something about that rock. It radiated power. And somehow it promised survival.

Still, a long way to go for a vision.

And there was Timmy to think about. Fred didn't know where he was yet, but he was pretty sure it wasn't Comfort, Colorado. Was his son alive? Dead? Undead? A father liked to know these things.

He commanded Aleta to retrieve the Magic 8-ball and bring it over to the desk. When she was alive, she reminded him of his ex. Not so much in looks but in spirit. She brimmed with life. In the short time he had followed her when she was breathing, he'd become enamored with her. He could feel her presence. It was a physical force and he couldn't get enough of her. As a zombie she left a lot to be desired. Who would have thought that the novelty of absolute control of a woman, even a dead one, would wear thin so fast?

Aleta dropped the Magic-8 ball on the desk and waited. The rest of the undead were in the shark wing of the aquarium. For some reason they all faced the main tank, staring up at the four lemon sharks floating lazily on the surface. He didn't much care why, as long as everyone gathered in one place. He didn't want to waste time chasing down strays.

So, should we go west?

The oracle stopped rolling, its window facing up. Yes, definitely.

Chapter 24.

Timmy Turns Twelve Cold wood met bare feet on another post-apocalyptic morning. Timmy stood still, listening for anything unusual - groans, thuds, etcetera - but only heard his mom's soft snoring from down the hall.

All clear.

Happy birthday to me ... happy birthday to me ...

Twelve years old today and still breathing.

I'll go have some breakfast, right after I pee.

He glanced at his digital watch, his pee arc jumping wildly and hitting the back of the toilet seat. 7:45 a.m. ...

Five second rule.

The house they lived in was much bigger than their 'pre-zombie' place; one of the perks of surviving an apocalypse. It was one of those overly large colonials with a huge entranceway, big bedrooms and bigger bathrooms. It still had running water - hot.

"The force is strong in you, young Palawan." He jumped high in the air, avoiding an imaginary slash at his feet, and landed with a not very catlike thump on the floor.

"Timmy!" Annie's half-shout, half-groan came from upstairs. "PLEASE keep it down."

Properly chastised, the young Jedi warrior softly padded into the kitchen. It was a s.p.a.cious, modern monstrosity. All white cabinetry and gray fossil marble countertops. The fossil marble was pretty cool, with imprints of leaves, small fish skeletons and sh.e.l.ls scattered over the surface. But the whiteness was a bit much for him. He opened one of the cabinets and took out a large white bowl. A box of KABOOM cereal was already on the counter, left there from yesterday's meal. A cartoon clown, slightly less menacing than a zombie, hovered over a bowl of sparkling KABOOM cereal, which was ninety percent faux marshmallows and ninety percent corn syrup. His mother always said it contained more sugar than sugar. It wasn't his favorite but it didn't suck either.

He poured the bright colored goodies into the bowl. The refrigerator didn't work - no electricity. But it was cold enough outside, and he'd suggested putting milk, b.u.t.ter and some eggs out by the back door in one of those big green trash bags. His mom reluctantly agreed but made him promise not to go out unless she was with him.

Timmy looked out the kitchen window. He could see the bag sitting right there on the back deck. He'd hardly have to leave the house. Just open the sliding gla.s.s door, lean out and grab it. He thought about waking Annie.

It's just right out the door. She's not even my mother, not really.

The thought made him ashamed. Annie loved him, and she did the best she could.

He stood before the gla.s.s door. The yard was zombie free, almost. Just one little zombie. She stood at the far end of the yard, whipcord thin with long black hair that reached all the way down to her waist. The dress looked like it was held together with mud and s.h.i.t. Her bare arms were covered in dark smudges. Timmy figured she was a grave baby, one that had clawed her way up from the ground. She wasn't moving, just swaying a little, looking up at the sky.

"Holding pattern. No way can she get close to me," he whispered.

He licked his lips, wishing for something cold to drink. Hah! The gla.s.s door opened onto a large, wooden deck. The bag of groceries was on top of the round gla.s.s table.

Okay. So maybe I have to take one step outside.

He shot another quick look at the yard. The zombie remained at one with the universe.

This is stupid ...

Timmy slid the gla.s.s door open and quickly stepped outside. He grabbed the garbage and scanned the yard again. The zombie started moving, nice and slow; slow as mola.s.ses. He didn't think she even noticed him. Just bad timing, that's all. I could probably sit out here and eat my birthday KABOOM and be finished before she makes it halfway across the yard.

Probably.

He hefted the bag and turned back toward the door, just before the world went gray.

Chapter 25.

Dreamer Timmy stood in the middle of an empty street, a cold wind buffeting his face. It was a bright sunny day, but the place had emptiness to it, making everything feel dark. Small, neat colonials flanked both sides of the street. Timmy was sure they were empty. Tombs. They're just tombs now.

A large green sign off to the right of the road proclaimed: Welcome To Comfort, Colorado!