“Fuck that shit. I wanna know what this shit is. Like she’s gonna miss one sheet of it, whatever it is.”
“But…”
“But me no buts. We gotta lay low while they help her in. How we gonna get out without being noticed?”
“We can’t be in here when she comes back,” Dave said, sweating.
“Tell me something I don’t know. What’d I just say?”
Dave pressed his ear to the door and when the clangor of footfalls subsided he looked through the peephole. He turned to face Eddie and gave the thumbs up. As he opened the door a crack, Dave felt like a burglar in an old-timey silent comedy. Everyone seemed to be in the neighboring apartment-he could hear Alan calling out to Mona. Dave and Eddie stepped into the hall.
“What’re you guys doing in Mona’s place?” Karl asked. He was standing on the landing out of the fisheye peephole’s range, clutching his Bible. Eddie’s first impulse was to snatch the Good Book, give the top of Karl’s pointy head a good hard swat and growl, “The fuck is it to you, midget?” but he thought the better of it. Instead he stalked over to Karl, allowing the full impact of their disparity in height and brawn to sink in-physical intimidation was often more effective than verbal, Eddie found-then he smirked and thug-purred, “For all intensive purposes we were never here, capisce?” Karl nodded. “Bene,” Eddie said as he and his compatriot ascended the steps. “Molto bene.”
30
Alan didn’t share Ellen’s optimism, if that’s what you could call it.
If anything, Alan took some comfort from the hypothesis that he and the others were the last of their kind. The reign of man-nature’s biggest mistake-was nearly at its end. What an honor, to be cognizant of the end of your own species, to be members of The Last Generation. The dinosaurs didn’t know that their number was up. Alan didn’t mourn mankind much. It was a shame that all of humanity’s finer contributions-art, literature, music, architecture, some science-would in time completely disintegrate, but the notion that the Earth would be free of man’s influence, that the planet could heal itself and be cleansed, was heartening. Certainly more so than giving birth to another stupid, miserable, pointless human being. Still, if he wanted to stay-or more to the point get back-in Ellen’s good favor-and he did-he’d have to quash that kind of thinking.
Or at least dilute it.
He swirled his brush in some linseed oil and studied his subject. Mona sat on a stool between the front windows, one leg perched on the footrest, the other dangling limply a few inches above the floor. Though fully dressed-Alan didn’t wish to invite further scorn from Ellen-Mona was barefoot and once again Alan was attempting to not be aroused by Mona’s sumptuous calves and now, of all things, her well-turned feet. Most feet he’d encountered, male or female, were functional but unattractive collections of jutting tendons, knots and joints, often rough and calloused. Mona’s were just the opposite, their tops smooth and doll-like, almost like adult baby’s feet. How could a girl who did so much walking have such pampered-looking tootsies?
An unbidden boner sprang to life and Alan’s posture involuntarily hunched. He wore another oversize shirt to mask any protrusions, but still. If her lowest extremities had this effect on him, what would total nudity do? He’d survived adolescence without ever having come in his pants or having had a wet dream. This was no time to regress. He concentrated on technique and execution, his strokes deft and provocative-but not too provocative. What a waste that no one of note would ever see these works. He’d always been modest about his art, having been raised to believe humility a virtue. All diffidence had ever gotten him was a whole lot of nothing. He’d never gotten any public accolades and never would. Not that doing art had anything to do with that, but, well, yeah, yeah it did. Art for art’s sake was pure, sure, but it was also masturbation with a fancier pedigree. Ellen thought he was a genius, even if that was an audience of one. That counted for something, even if she was sore at him.
His erection hurt.
Alan looked away from the canvas he was working on to the most cluttered wall. Amid the myriad zombie studies hung six sizable portraits of Mona. Unconsciously he’d spread the zombies away from the paintings of Mona, manifesting the old precept of art imitating life. Zombies. Mona. Sure, she was alive, but in spite of her fetching appearance she lacked vitality, her eyes communicating no more than those of the undead outside. Reptile eyes. Insect eyes. And yet still the hard-on persisted. Alan tried to will it away, thinking of disgusting things. But what was more disgusting than his waking life? In the old days if he wanted to suppress a boner he’d think about maggots and rotting cantaloupes and roadkill.
All of which seemed rather quaint now.
“Why not?” Eddie said, trying not to sound like a whiny little bitch. Mona stood before him, implacable. More infuriating than her unwillingness to comply with his simple, reasonable request was her refusal-or was it inability?-to elaborate. She’d gotten them every little goddamn thing, but now this sudden veto? It made no sense. Eddie mopped his forehead and stared in disbelief at this petite yet immovable object. He blinked as a stinging trickle of perspiration leaked into his eye.
“No guns,” she repeated.
“But come on, it’s a good idea. You know it.”
“It’s a bad idea.”
“But we could start takin’ ’em out. We could cut a path for you ahead of time.”
“Don’t need one.”
“Maybe we could even go out. You ever think about that?”
“No guns.”
“Fine, we’ll discuss this later. Maybe hold a vote. You believe in democracy or are you some kind of…” He stopped himself. What was he going to call her? A commie? That seemed a little out-of-date. “Maybe the others can convince you.”
“Nope.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.” Uninflected. It wasn’t even snotty. He hated that. Eddie turned his back on her and stomped upstairs, pausing for a second to pound on Dave’s door and bark, “Dave-o, grab your gear, we’re goin’ fishin’!”
On the roof, Dabney snored as he napped under his rickety lean-to. Eddie couldn’t understand why he chose to live outside like an animal. Fuckin’ moolie would probably be happier living up in a coconut tree. Eddie scowled as he waited for Dave. Fuckin’ Mallon might’ve gone homo, but at least he still knew how to be a man, have fun like a man, whatever. The whole gun thing had put Eddie in a foul mood. Why that stupid little cunt couldn’t see the advantage to scoring some firepower was beyond him. What, she was afraid of guns? Guns could do some serious damage to those rotten skinbags down on the street. That’s not a plus? Please. Eddie thought about his little encounter in his old digs. A piece would’ve been sweet. Pow! From ravenous zombie to dark, wet stain.
“What’s up?” Dave said as he barged onto the tarpaper.
“Shhh, I don’t wanna rouse the eggplant,” Eddie whispered. “You brought the gear bag?”
“Yeah, but what’s it for?”
“The Comet wants to go sport fishing, bro.”
“Huh?”
Eddie beckoned Dave to follow him across several rooftops until they reached the one furthest south. Eddie opened the bag and pulled out the two heavy-duty Penn reels. “You can reel in a fuckin’ three-hundred-pound marlin with these babies,” Eddie grinned.
“So?”
“So, we’re going hump angling, Davy. Gonna catch me a zombie, bro.”
Dave stood back and watched as Eddie put together the rod-and-reel assembly. For a change it wasn’t that hot, but sweat poured off Eddie’s brow like a mini-Niagara. His eyes were wild. “This’ll be just like angling for marlin or sailfish or shark or any of those big motherfuckers. You remember that fishing trip we took to Costa Rica, bro? Same as that, only better.”