The Making of Zombie Wars Read online

  It was time to say goodbye, even if stealthily. Feeling weightless, closing his eyes—come what may!—he leaned over her to kiss her fragrant shadow. But instead of her silky, thick hair, his lips touched a bag of lavender she kept on her pillow.

  She was gone, gone for good.

  Tears fogged up his eyes, but he still stumbled through the fog to rummage around her drawer to seek the cock ring and the handcuffs. The cock ring was nowhere to be found; the handcuffs he pocketed like a seasoned burglar.

  * * *

  Joshua spent the ride to the Ambassador imagining all the possible consequences of the break-in, the most probable one featuring Kimmy calling the police and having them arrested for aggravated burglary; and if any of her neighbors had seen Stagger prancing along her lawn half-naked, attempted rape might be added to it. But all that was to be dealt with in the future, in the unlikely case it wasn’t already foreclosed. If there is never any reason to believe there will be a future, there is only one way to find out if it’s coming.

  Stagger stood impatiently behind Ana, clutching his sword awkwardly in his unbroken left hand, waiting for her to unlock the Ambassador’s door. If ever a man was entitled to a cape and light saber, it was Stagger. Joshua leaned in to read the backlit names next to the buzzers, but they were nothing if not secret words made of consonants. For all he knew, a coded message about the Messiah’s coming was inscribed there: the Bosnian Kabbalah. By the end of time, there will have been no future.

  Ana presented no plan of action; she somehow trusted them; she took them as they came. Bosnians, Bega had said, take things as they come, they surf the wave of catastrophe. And here was where Stagger and Joshua’s mission brought them now, before a wall of unpronounceable names. If there’s one thing the Hebrews should be blamed for it is starting all that unpronounceability madness. Hephzibah, for God’s sake, the wife of Hezekiah.

  Ana walked up the stairs ahead of them, wearing Joshua’s shirt and tight leggings, her thighs rather admirably shaped. Not so long ago, Joshua had thrust himself forth between those thighs, but it all now seemed like a wet dream, yet another inconclusive one. Stagger ascended before him, grunting with effort, using his sword as a walking stick, his teeth clenched, tendrils of his ponytail lingering around his ears in disarray.

  “I’m good,” Stagger said without being asked. How old was he, anyway? If he’d been in his twenties for Desert Storm, he would be in his forties now. It seemed probable, but he was somehow older than that, much older. His body was fit and still young, but the rest of him was, shall we say, excessively mature. Or maybe he was just crashing down from his high. “Proceed,” Stagger said, his face ghostly pale. With all the wrinkles and grimaces and madness now bleached from it, Joshua could suddenly perceive the young man Stagger used to be way back before the big party in the desert, before his landlording career and ensuing madness, before all this. Joshua obediently proceeded, but he needed to pee. The body never quits working. The mind goes out, but the body always hums along, proceeding until it stops. The beauty of life is that eventually everybody turns into a zombie, whereupon they die.

  Before Ana’s door, two large thick-soled shoes with dirty tips stood at an angle, as if turning away in disgust. Ana straightened them with a careful toe poke, out of habit, no doubt. It seemed like a meaningless gesture; yet, Joshua understood, she cared about the way things ought to be; she didn’t quite succumb and surf. He, on the other hand, was exhausted as the rococo hopelessness of everything set in. Also, terribly hungry still and in need of urination.

  She fumbled for the right key in the batch, and there were a lot of them. What property did she own to have all those keys? The door was unlocked, it turned out, so she walked in. Stagger shuffled sideways in her wake, half squatting like a Jedi, his sword high above his head ready to strike, even if he couldn’t fully grip the handle with his cast. Joshua could see the cicatrice stretching between the ridges of Stagger’s shoulder blades to reach the base of his neck, where Semper Fi was inscribed in blue ink. Joshua had no idea what Semper Fi actually meant. How many marines could read Latin anyway? They could’ve made it more American and vernacular, say: No quittin’ or Thrills and Kills or Appetite for Destruction. Everything should be simpler and more American, particularly at this point in time when we must all stand united because we’re all falling apart.

  Ana switched on the light in the hallway, exposing its emptiness. “Esko!” she called, turning on more lights as she moved deeper in. The vacant sadness of the apartment: they had little, Ana and her family. No pictures on the wall; no carpets on the floor; no heirloom furniture; no framed diplomas; no useless VHS players; no books on the coffee table; no coffee table. They were thrown out of their own past, the you people, carrying only their mystical consonants and a weathered catastrophe surfboard. It made Joshua even more queasy, as if he’d just driven over roadkill.

  The last light Ana switched on revealed Esko, his left hand under his cheek, lying on the sofa, which was much smaller than him, so his feet hung over its end. One of his tube socks had a huge hole, the ball of his foot bulging out like a peeled potato. He was facing the TV, on which two women, richly oiled and glowing with the soft-core ochre, wrestled in slow motion. Only when Ana moved in front of the TV did his gaze acknowledge her. He glanced over to Stagger in his broken-arm combat posture, and then on to Joshua, who picked that particular moment to gasp for air. Ana said something in Bosnian, something that sounded angry and confrontational, but Esko just shrugged and scratched his nose listlessly. The floor before him was covered with plates and food leftovers and bottles of Corona; it seemed he hadn’t left the sofa for a long time. Ana kept talking, the edge in her voice getting sharper. What was she saying to him? Joshua wished he knew, not only because it pertained to the solution of the missing-girl mystery, but also because he really had to relieve the pressure on his prostate and he couldn’t leave in the middle of a showdown. Ana pressed her hand against her chest and kept shaking her head dramatically as she spoke, making a poignant point, then offered something to Esko in the cupped palms of her hands. Whatever it was, Esko didn’t care much about it. Wincing, as if his nose kept itching, he looked past her at the screen, where one of the women was now arching in what was supposed to be extreme pleasure as the other woman was rimming her navel. Ana stepped forward, excavated the remote from the debris on the floor, and turned off the TV. Her jaw clenched in some form of Balkan fury, as she slapped first her left then her right cheek and then pointed her finger at herself, then at Esko, who finally sat up and nodded resignedly, as if everything had just come together for him, to congeal into an incontestable defeat. Stagger, still as a statue in his samurai pose, stared at Esko with a delirious focus.

  “Excuse me,” Joshua said. “I don’t mean to interrupt your conversation, but could I use the bathroom?”

  Ana turned to look at him in what could be adequately described as stupefaction; Esko chuckled as if pleasantly reminded of Joshua’s pathetic existence. “You okay?” Stagger asked, not taking his eyes off Esko.

  “I really have to pee,” Joshua said.

  “Go pee,” Ana said.

  “I got it here, Jonjo,” Stagger said. “You go and pee.”

  As Joshua made his first step toward the bathroom, Esko leapt off the sofa, over the chaos on the floor, and rushed at Joshua, who froze in place. He would’ve surely been crushed in a merciless tackle had Stagger not managed to swing the sword and slice Esko with its tip across the curve of his thigh. Ana screamed. Blood gushed instantly out of a gaping crevice, diverting Esko’s acceleration. Stagger was about to inflict another cut as Esko put all of his force into the fist whose trajectory terminated at Stagger’s nose, which, blinding him, exploded. With another punch to the chin Esko felled Stagger, who crumpled to the floor, on top of the beer bottles, announcing his landing with a painful groan. Ana screamed again and grabbed her head as if to throw it at the men. Esko pried the sword from Stagger’s limp hand and turned to point i
ts tip at Joshua, whose bladder miraculously held, even if the air left his lungs rapidly, along with all the words he’d ever learned to utter. Esko said something in Bosnian to him, pressing the tip against his chest. There was already blood at Esko’s feet joining with what was coming from Stagger’s blown-up nose, but Esko couldn’t have cared less. He repeated whatever it was he’d said and now offered the sword handle to Joshua. Stagger looked pretty dead, except for the blood steadily flowing from his nose.

  “I don’t know,” Joshua mumbled with effort. “I don’t know what you’re saying to me.”

  “He wants you to kill him,” Ana said. “With that thing.”

  “Oh, no, thank you,” Joshua said. “I’m okay. Really.”

  Esko paid no attention to what Ana was saying to him and pressed the tip of the sword against his own throat. Joshua could see the deep indentation, and the vein it was pushing into. “Please,” Joshua said. The tip of the sword now opening the skin on Esko’s neck, a trickle of blood emerging; he was glaring at Joshua, but looking into something beyond his face, beyond him. I don’t want you to die, so I may live and recount the deeds of God. Ana was talking in Bosnian, sounding calmingly reasonable. Esko was a hairbreadth away from cutting his own throat and Joshua closed his eyes, resigned to a shower of blood. Lord, please save us! Or at least, Lord, save me! But then Esko grabbed the handle again, Joshua flinching, and smacked the sword against the floor; it snapped like a bread stick. The blade fell in the blood puddle as Esko tossed the handle away, and fell on his knee, bowing his head like a knight before the king.

  It took Joshua an instant to realize that Esko was crying, pressing fingers against his eyeballs as if trying to gouge them out. Ana moved to put her hand on Esko’s shoulder, reluctantly, carefully, lest it be interpreted as reconciliation. Esko sobbed louder and louder, forcing Joshua to stumble in retreat, as if his tears were acid that could burn him. Ana knelt down next to Esko and put her arm across his shoulder. “It will be okay,” she must’ve said to him. His wound was agape now that he was kneeling, but Esko in no way showed he was aware of it. The velvet blood bubbled out of the wedge in his denim, darkening instantly. Joshua’s knees gave out and he floundered farther backward and dropped onto the sofa. His prostate was painful. Was this how survival was supposed to feel? There was a light hook right above the TV, available for hanging. He needed to pee really bad.

  Stagger grunted and sat up. He grabbed a filthy napkin from the floor and pressed it against his nose. Ana kept repeating some Bosnian word, something, Joshua knew, she would never say to him. He wanted her to reconcile with Esko, thereby restoring some semblance of order, thereby allowing him to return from this exile to the land of the before, where there was no humiliation, no blood, no frogs, no lice, no locusts, no clotted darkness or pain, no chaos, let alone the possibility of urine-soaked underwear. Script Idea #1: Two or more people. Love, life, betrayal, hurt. Title: God Help Us All.

  EXT. OUTSIDE THE PRISON — DAY

  Jack is on Major K’s back, holding on to his shoulders with some effort. Major K slouches forth under the burden. Ruth stumbles through the mud, occasionally falling down, but still getting up. They’re followed by Alicia and a large herd of refugees, a few of them nursing gunshot wounds. Children BAWL. The prison fort is visible on the horizon, its high walls with watchtowers. The people are exhausted, but they know they’ve almost made it. GUNFIRE in the distance, zombies LOWING.

  LATER

  Major K BANGS at the steel door, exhausted, intermittently gasping for air. There is no response. He anxiously looks at the crowd behind him, huddled together in hope. Jack and Ruth are fixated on the door, desperate for it to open. Major K bangs again. The peephole slides open. A pair of anxious eyes.

  MAJOR K

  We’re all human.

  In her demolished living room, her wounded husband in her care, Ana took charge of the entire catastrophe. She extinguished the drama in a most unequivocal way, its meaninglessness now perfectly self-evident. Even Stagger was compelled to comply, although that required his getting the hell out on the stairs to calm down. She then interrogated Esko, who was bleeding soundlessly on the sofa, pressing a towel against his thigh to stop the blood: Alma, she translated for Joshua, was at Bega’s. Joshua stood, confused, waiting for further instructions, but all she said was: “Thank you. You can go away now.” She pulled her bra straps up, no smile or dimples on her face, no love for Joshua; she had crossed back into the before. He received his order unquestionably, not least because he simply didn’t know what else to do.

  But there was one last thing he needed before he embarked upon returning to his previous life: a moment to urinate. Releasing the stream, he stared at the water stain on the wall above the toilet: it resembled a werewolf version of a Hasid. Script Idea #300: Jerusalem is besieged by rapacious vampires … No! Fuck it! Enough of that, he decided.

  * * *

  He had to roll up the bottoms of his pants because they were bloody, which somehow resulted in their being too big at the waist. They hung on him like clown pants; to get into the car he had to pull them up, not unlike Bernie, well past his navel. Swordless, Stagger slid into the driver’s seat, failing to buckle up. Dried blood coated his neck and the tattoos on his chest, his jaw tightened into a painful grin of anger. He would’ve looked like a commercial for a pitiless warrior if it wasn’t for the two red-splattered Kleenex pluming out of his nostrils. He had to be in his mid-fifties, at least. The Lord supports me through my allies and so I face my enemies, and my enemies are just ecstatic to see us guys together. The sun emerged from the lake, as if from hiding; finger-fucked dawn crept over the building tops and bare tree crowns and the city in which some kind of violence was always afoot.

  Devon Avenue was vacant, as before a zombie assault, except for a sole, inexplicable Lubavitcher, grim under his black fedora, vast as a fucking sombrero, walking speedily toward something, only to make a sudden turn and step onto the pedestrian crossing, just in time to be barely missed by Stagger. Joshua envied the comfort that comes with the Messianic promise, the life of someone whose story had always already been told, the ending the same through eternity, the future vouchsafed.

  “Have you ever seen The Searchers?” Joshua asked.

  “What’s that?”

  “The Searchers, the John Wayne movie.”

  “No,” Stagger said. “I can’t stand John Wayne.”

  “So what’s your favorite movie?”

  Stagger ripped the bloody tissue plumes out of his nostrils while considering the question, rolled down the window, and threw them out.

  “Star Wars. Attack of the Clones,” he said. “But I don’t want to discuss stupid movies.”

  “Let’s go and get the girl,” Joshua said without thinking. Stagger turned to look at him: first, in disbelief, and then, fist-pumping in the air. “Fuckin’ A!” he shouted and made a U-turn in front of a bus.

  Few words were exchanged between them as they drove on. There was no quittin’ now. The realization provided joy and relief for Joshua—there was going to be an end to all this. He decided that, come Monday, he was going to write a long e-mail to Kimmy, lay down the whole story honestly and unflinchingly, detail all the undeserved humiliation, explain the exonerating circumstances, accept the responsibility, suggest that he’d been more than sufficiently punished, foreground the fact that he responsibly returned the girl to her mother, and promise he’d change his ways, having learned so much from his recent experiences. She will take him back in; or maybe she won’t. Either way all this will have been just a (heroic?) nightmare remembered; and selectively, God willing.

  “Buckle up,” Joshua said. Stagger was gripping the steering wheel with his unbroken hand, the knuckles white with excitement.

  “I don’t think so,” Stagger said. “I don’t think buckling up is something I can stand to do right now.”

  They soon passed the Ambassador, turned a corner to behold Bega’s Honda, complete with the plush dice an
d a dent in the front right door, sitting in the driveway of a house with a porch—a very small house with a very small porch, but still. An immigrant with so much property? An asshole who constantly berates and complains about this country owns a fancy Japanese car and a cozy little house? Fuck that! They parked on the street, blocking the Honda with the STAGmobile. The street was asleep, except for a couple of sparrows chirping apoplectically at a half-empty birdbath on Bega’s lawn.

  “I’ve got to pee again,” Joshua said. He didn’t, really, but he chased the sparrows away, undug his dick, and urinated into the birdbath. The arbitrary meanness of his act was gratifying: it was a form of freedom. “Fuck you!” he said to no one in particular. The sparrows landed on the skinny tree branches above the bath and watched, fidgeting as dark-yellow urine spread through the clear water like an oil spill.

  Stagger rang the doorbell, and it buzzed like a laser in a James Bond movie. On the porch, there were a few cracked, empty pots, and a mound of coupon sheets so sodden they clearly predated the deprivations of the previous winter. Joshua thumbed the buzzer too, but this time there was no sound at all. Stagger pressed his face against the window in the parenthesis of his hands, even if the blinds prevented him from seeing anything. His nose was still bleeding, however; he left a bloody smudge on the pane.

  “Probably not home,” Joshua said. “We should go.”

  “I don’t think so,” Stagger said and banged at the door so vehemently Joshua feared the entire neighborhood would be in no time flattening their noses against their windows. It was fortunate that Esko had broken Stagger’s sword; otherwise heads and limbs would be flying.