Zombies! (Episode 3): Love Bites Page 5

  "Hello?" he said into the phone and then paused. Patrick watched the changes in his expression. He cracked a smile once, and then got very serious. "I can't tonight. It's none of your business, why, I just can't." There was more of a pause. "Then go. Go without me. Have fun and tell me about it tomorrow." More waiting. "Yes. We're still on for tomorrow night. Do you have the address? Good, I'll see you there at nine."

  Patrick's father nudged him. He looked back to see that the order was ready to be boxed and bagged so he got to it. The timing was perfect. Another second and Marcus would have looked up and seen Patrick watching him, eavesdropping. As it was, he smiled wide when Patrick handed him the food, offered up a very sincere thank you, and left the restaurant.

  ***

  JOHN Arrick had spent three hours meticulously cleaning his apartment. Late that night, bone weary and with a sore back, he'd gone to bed very glad that he didn't have to get up for work in the morning. Of course, that didn't preclude the early morning visitor. In fact, when he opened his eyes to someone pounding on his door and looked at the clock, he couldn't believe what he was seeing.

  Rolling out of bed, he made his way to the front room and called out, "Who is it?"

  "John? Oh, God, John, you have to help me!"

  "Suzanna?" He was puzzled. It was definitely her but her tone of voice had utterly changed. He reached for the door and then hesitated. "Suzanna, what's wrong?"

  "Please, John!" she sounded desperate and weak. "I'm so sick."

  That last but came out as a strangled shriek and he recoiled from the door. "You need to go to the hospital," he said to her through the door. "Please, Suzanna, go get real help."

  "I'm scared," she called back, rattling the knob. "I'm so scared. I need you, John. Please let me in."

  "I…can't. I'm sorry, Suzanna, but…"

  Then his blood froze as he heard a key in the lock and he remembered. There had been that time, a month ago, not too long before all of this zombie nonsense. They'd gone their separate ways after a day out and he'd given her the key so she could get back in later. In case he was out. He'd never gotten that key back.

  And he didn't want it back now.

  Rushing forward, he grabbed hold of the knob but he was too late. Suzanna pushed her way in and he went sprawling, partly out of surprise and partly out of a desperate need to get away. Stepping over the threshold, she closed the door behind her and looked up at the chain, shaking her head. He noticed that she was still wearing his sweats. She didn't look sick.

  "You don't…" he stammered. "You're not…"

  "Of course I'm not sick, you idiot. I have a cold." She was laughing at him, as if she'd just pulled off the greatest prank of the century. Some prank! Then she stopped suddenly and sniffed the air. Instantly, her whole demeanor changed. "Did you clean up in here, John? Did you disinfect?"

  Now he shrunk back because he knew that she was going to blow her top. And she did. She railed on him about how he thought she was a plague victim and he couldn't get rid of her quickly enough so that he could sterilize the apartment.

  "Were you glad when I left?" she spat at him. "Were you relieved?"

  He didn't say anything. He couldn't think of anything to say.

  But surprisingly a smile spread across Suzanna's face. "This is great, just great!"

  "I think you should go," he managed.

  "I'll bet you do," she replied. "But I think I'll stay the night."

  "Suzanna…"

  Her hands came to her face in mock hurt. "You don't want me to stay, John? Why ever not?"

  "Please…"

  "Shut up. If you want me to leave you're going to have to make me leave."

  So he stood and for a moment, he saw her shrink away from him. For just a moment, she actually thought there was something he could do to make her leave. But in the end he did nothing. He wouldn't touch her, certainly wouldn't ever have hit her even if he wasn't afraid of her cold. It was a little silly to call the police. If he didn't tell them why he wanted her out, she would. What would they do then? Would they help him or would they run away?

  "I can't make you leave. You know that as well as I." But a wicked smile crept across his face anyway. "But I suppose I can find a room for the night."

  And with that hanging in the air, he grabbed up his wallet and his keys and left the apartment in the shorts and T-shirt in which he'd been sleeping. Suzanna stood there, flabbergasted, for ten minutes waiting for him to reappear. But he didn't. He was either being very stubborn or he was really afraid. Either way, she decided that she couldn't stand there forever. She locked the door and hooked on the chain. Then she stripped to her underwear and crawled into his still warm bed to sleep.

  ***

  SATURDAY morning came and went. Shawn Rudd spent the night with Marcus. Suzanna DeForest spent the night in John Arrick's bed while John Arrick slept in a hotel. The day passed as most Saturdays do. The streets were empty while the malls were crowded. People took their kids and themselves places. The businesses thrived.

  When Arrick awoke late Saturday morning, he was still angry. In fact, he was more angry. After a poor night's interrupted sleep he was displaced from his home and left with the choice of allowing it or endangering himself by confronting Suzanna. The more he thought about it, the less likely it seemed that Suzanna was, in fact, infected with the zombie plague. She was right that people wouldn't stop getting just head colds even though there was something far more dangerous out there. But that rationalization didn't make it any easier for him to go home.

  The day was chilly and he had nothing but the same shorts and T-shirt he'd worn out the door. He showered, put them back on, and went to a store to buy himself some clothing. That was the benefit of a credit card. It was easy to become a whole person from nothing just as long as you could pay the minimum at the end of the month. He also bought a tooth brush and tooth paste because a person wasn't truly whole without a clean mouth. Returning to his hotel room, he dressed and brushed his teeth. He put his night clothes into a plastic bag, checked out, and went for breakfast. Arrick found himself unusually hungry that morning and put his credit card to good use.

  He also took his time. It was pushing noon by the time he emerged from the coffee shop onto the streets of Brooklyn. He considered several options but decided not to go home right away. Instead, he spent the afternoon in Manhattan. He went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, took a walk through Central Park, and had an early dinner downtown in the Village. All in all it was a nice day, just nice enough to prepare him for what he would have to face at home.

  When he arrived at his building, he said a silent prayer in the hope that she had left. That was a good possibility. Suzanna was spiteful but spite was pretty poor company. Without him around as the victim, he could imagine her becoming easily bored.

  No such luck.

  The door was locked so he unlocked it, but when he pushed it open he found that the chain was on. Swearing a silent Scottish curse, he called out, "Suzanna, open the bloody door!"

  He waited several seconds before calling out again. The longer he waited, the more frustrated his became. "I swear to God, I will rip the chain out of the wall if you do not open it."

  "Shut up!" she called from inside. He couldn't see her but he heard the footsteps as they came forward. Then she nudged the door against him and he yielded so that she could close it. There was a rattle as she fussed with the chain and then nothing. Arrick thought she would open the door, but she didn't so he did.

  Suzanna was sprawled out on the couch. She'd put on a different sweat shirt and pants but she also had a blanket wrapped around her. In her hand was a tissue. There was blood on the tissue. Arrick stopped up short when he saw her. He didn't know what to do. Suddenly he was so panicked that all rational thought fled.

  She looked up at him. There was little left of the callous veneer. The infection had stripped her of just about every last ounce of her strength. "Please, John," she said to him in a very weak voice. "Help me.
"

  Swallowing the ball of mucus that had built in his throat, he went to her. For all of his worth, he could never imagine what made him do it, but he sat next to her on the sofa and took her into his arms.

  "I want to go home." There were tears in her eyes. "Can you take me home, John?"

  He stood up and called a cab. He cleaned off her nose and made her wash her face. In her condition it took several minutes and the cab was outside, the driver honking the horn, by the time they were finished. Before they left, he grabbed a wad of cash for the poor slob whose cab they were about to infect.

  Downstairs, a black car waited with a nondescript little man in the driver's seat. Arrick hurried Suzanna to the car, opened the back door, and slid inside. The driver asked where they were going and Arrick told him. Suzanna huddled close to him, her head cradled in his side. He had instructed her to keep her arm by her nose in case she started bleeding again. So far she was obeying. But if she weakened, she might just drift off.

  The car pulled away from the curb and went two blocks before the cabby looked in the rearview mirror.

  "What's wrong with the lady?" he asked warily.

  Arrick stroked her head. "A wee bit too much to drink."

  "Early night?"

  Arrick found his best fake smile, something knowing and malicious. "The night's not over, lad."

  They shared a laugh.

  When the cabbie pulled up in front of Suzanna's apartment building, Arrick had a sudden attack of guilt. "Listen," he said the driver, handing him some money. "She's not drunk. She's sick. Don't take any more passengers tonight and get your car cleaned."

  He stayed just long enough to see the color drain from the driver's face. Then he turned and fled with Suzanna in tow. For a moment, he thought the driver was going to get out and pursue. Only when he heard the car pull away, did he finally begin to relax. He only hoped the driver was too scared to call the police. The last thing they needed was a visit from the Zombie Nazis.

  At the door, he reached for the buzzer before remembering that Suzanna was there with him. Taking her purse from her, he riffled through the contents until he came up with her keys. He let them both into the building and made straight for the elevator. Suzanna shuffled beside him, not protesting, not even speaking. After he had rung for the elevator he checked to make sure that she was breathing. She was.

  The three minutes between hitting the elevator button and arriving inside her apartment seemed to take hours. That three minutes was filled with anticipation. When the doors opened and revealed an empty car, there was momentary relief replaced by more anticipation. They had to ride up seven floors up without taking on more passengers. A lifetime later, they finally reached her floor and the door opened up on an empty hallway. It seemed that everything was going right for them.

  Arrick pushed Suzanna inside and closed the door behind them. He maneuvered her into the bedroom and dropped her on the bed. As he turned to leave, she reached out and grabbed his hand.

  "John," she whispered to him.

  He took a breath and then turned back. She didn't just look sick. She looked haunted.

  "Don't leave me, John. Please?"

  He hesitated, knowing that he had made that decision without even thinking about it. Moving her hand away from his arm, he told her he was just going to lock the door. And when he got to the door, he did just that. He locked it and slid the deadbolt into place. Then he got himself a glass of water and went back to the bedroom.

  Suzanna had managed to curl up under the covers. When he stepped into the room, she looked up at him through her tangled hair and smiled. "You stayed. You really stayed."

  He held out the water. "Would you like this?"

  She nodded and he helped her drink it.

  "Do you think I'll get better?" she asked him with tears in her eyes. "Maybe…do you think I can just beat it?"

  "Sure, love," he lied, this time with no hesitation.

  "I'm sorry, John. I'm really sorry."

  "Nonsense. Get some rest."

  "I mean it." She was sobbing now. "You're a good man, John. I don't deserve you. Not after Larry."

  He tensed but didn't ask any questions. And she didn't provide and answers. Swallowing hard, he stood up from the bed, went to the other room and got a chair. He brought it back and sat by her bedside, holding her hand until she and he both drifted off to sleep.

  ***

  DENISE Luco reached for the box of donut minis, her eyes never leaving the lens of the microscope. Her hand found only air, which was a remarkable failure for someone who could write in a straight line without ever looking at the paper. When she looked up, she saw Captain Lance Naughton eating her minis.

  "That's my dinner," she told him.

  He looked down at them and then at her. "How do you maintain your figure?"

  "Give them back," she said through gritted teeth.

  He tossed them onto the bench but she didn't reach for them. There was silence between them for a moment and then she asked, "What brings you here on a Saturday night?"

  He smiled a charming Lance Naughton smile. "I could ask you that same question."

  Letting out a protracted snort of laughter, she answered. "When you're saving the world you don't get weekends off."

  "Is that a fact?" he muttered, picking up a pen off of the bench and fiddling with it. "We ID'd the pet zombie."

  "Is that the one Culph called in last night?"

  Naughton nodded. "His wife called in the missing person's report three days ago. The guy's a plumber from Oklahoma. He was here for a convention. Forty four years old with four kids."

  She scowled. "Their life stories aren't helping me beat this infection."

  He shrugged. "Did you see the video from the basement?"

  "Culph again," she said with disgust. "I passed it over to Beckham. Does he think I care about their social behavior?"

  "He has a crush on you."

  She shuddered. "That's all I need."

  Naughton shrugged. "You could do worse."

  "Captain Naughton, I don't think you're really in a position to make those kinds of comments. Besides which, Culph is a baby and…" She trailed off.

  Naughton looked up from his pen, suddenly interested. "And?"

  "Never mind."

  Now he put the pen down. "Uh uh, Denise. You were about to say something insightful."

  Luco had long since learned that her personal observations, even if correct, were better kept to herself. "There's something wrong with him."

  Now Naughton laughed. "Of course there is. There has to be something wrong with you if you become a cop."

  "It's not that. He likes his job too much. He's got the mentality of a big game hunter but only if that big game is really dangerous. I wouldn't be surprised to find out he beats his wife and children."

  "He doesn't have a wife or children. He's just a kid himself."

  "Whatever." She turned back to her work. "Can you show yourself out?"

  "I suppose. I showed myself in. What time are you leaving?"

  She laughed again, just one short burst, and motioned off to the side. Naughton looked and saw a door, slightly ajar, that led to what appeared to be an office. From the angle, he couldn't see much but he could see that the desk was pushed up against the wall and a cot had been set up.