“Yeah, maybe,” Eddie sulked.
“Or the beginning of a brave new era,” Karl added. “Really. If she isn’t sharing knowledge of how to walk among the unclean then she’s done nothing to engender our loyalty.”
“Unclean? Engender?” Alan echoed.
“What? I’m not entitled to be articulate?”
“Um, of course you are, it just sounds a little unnatural, you know? You never spoke in such a grandiloquent manner before.”
“Oh, and so what’s ‘grandiloquent,’ then?” Karl bristled.
“It’s mockery.” Alan pushed back his chair and crossed his legs with a smirk.
“Shut up, both of you,” Ellen snapped. “This is serious. Eddie’s proposed betraying Mona’s trust, and moreover turned it into a conspiracy of us against her, which, frankly, is pretty fucked.”
“Hey, I didn’t put it like that,” Eddie said.
“No, but that’s the gist. And listen, I wasn’t going to share this little tidbit with the rest of you, but I’m pregnant and I’m not about to risk poisoning my baby in some experiment with mystery drugs.” Ellen looked at her watch to confirm how long Mona had been away on an errand. She felt tired and irritable, some of which was hormonal, but mostly it was disgust. The others offered no comment on her gravidity. Whether that was in deference or indifference was anyone’s guess, though Dabney did look away.
“Well, I’m in,” Karl said. “I need to know whether she’s divinely imbued or just a druggie with a heckuva side effect.”
“I guess I’m in, too,” Dave said, winning a clap on the back from Eddie.
“Include me out,” Abe said, softly. “That little girl has been good to us and I don’t plan on returning the favor with treachery.”
“Yeah, me neither,” said Alan.
“Same here,” said Dabney. “ ’Less we keep it honest and talk to her about it, I don’t want no part of it.”
Outside heavy rain pelted the windows, but no one was rushing upstairs to frolic and strip. The sky was an oppressive, ever-darkening gray and the climate inside wasn’t conducive to abrupt shifts in mood. Even though this meeting was taking place in Ellen’s dining area, four floors above pavement, a bunker mentality prevailed. Ellen wondered if this was how Hitler’s staff felt as it plotted his demise. Was that an apt comparison? She hoped not. How about Kennedy’s people plotting his? Ellen believed the conspiracy theories. Not all of them, but some.
She got up from the table and stretched, then stepped over to the front windows. Below, the horde shambled, aimless, ugly as ever, pockets of unrest visible from this elevation. Some pushed and shoved, others stumbled, fell from view, trampled underfoot. It always looked like the least festive New Year’s Eve gathering ever down there; Times Square, apocalypse-style.
Behind her the others continued to dicker about whether or not to raid Mona’s pharmaceutical stash. Abe had no interest. Since Ruth’s death Mona had gotten him hooked on Valium and now he almost matched his supplier in imperturbability. He was like the pod-people version of his former self. It didn’t seem possible that a chemical cocktail was what kept Mona safe out there, though pounding drugs certainly went a long way toward explaining her personality, or lack of one.
“Pregnant, huh?” Dabney sidled up to Ellen and took a spot beside her at the window, rain spatter stippling them both with dark spots. Lightning flashed, followed by booming thunder. Ellen just nodded. Karl looked over at the windows and considered the constant thunder and lightning emanating from God’s throne in Revelation.
“Is this a joyous kind of thing or an unexpected problem?” Dabney continued. “I don’t mean to pry, but it’s a big development.”
“Yeah, I know.”
As he looked over at Alan, Dabney suppressed his urge to ask who was the father. Mike hadn’t been dead that long. Maybe she didn’t know. If so, they’d never know, not even when-or if-the baby was born. Mike and Alan fit the same basic description, brunette, pale but with a slightly olive complexion. Did it even matter? Not like junior would be headed for college someday. Or even kindergarten.
Ellen smelled alcohol on Dabney’s breath. It wasn’t beer breath, either. It was distillery-strong, whiskey breath, complemented by cigarettes. His eyes were red-rimmed and hooded. It seemed to Ellen that almost everyone was in a mad rush to be medicated. Or anesthetized. Dabney gave her bicep a soft, paternal squeeze and left the apartment. From the table, Eddie pounded his fist like a gavel and declared the meeting adjourned. He and his confederates would break into Mona’s apartment and steal drugs from the kitty. Ellen took a deep breath, the air wet and redolent of death and ozone. Sheet lightning whitewashed the sky, leeching the remaining pigment from an already colorless vista. If the world weren’t already over, she’d find this a whole lot more portentous.
Psychosomatic or not, her insides churned, and she wondered if taking this baby to term was a good idea. The zombies weren’t going anywhere. It had been over five months since they’d supplanted mankind. For all Ellen knew, the occupants of 1620 were the only people left, at least in New York. What hope did her baby have? Alan was probably right.
To hell with him and his rationality.
To hell with Mona and her lack of charm.
To hell with ’em all.
As the last of her “guests” left, she slumped against the wall, wanting nothing more than to cry, but no tears came. She just sat there, hunched over and desolate. A baby. New life for a dead planet. Was that hopeful and wise, or just selfish and stupid? Perhaps later, in keeping with the narcotics theme of the day, she’d ask Mona to venture out and fill a prescription of her own: Mifepristone, aka RU 486, aka “the abortion pill.”
An ounce of prevention, retroactive-style. Better safe than sorry.
Abe lay on the bed on the spot in which Ruth had succumbed. Alan and Karl had flipped the mattress for Abe, since her seepage had done a number on the other side, even with the mattress pad in place. The air in the bedroom was stale but Abe didn’t mind. He was comfortably numb. Where had he heard that phrase before? Maybe he just made it up. The room was dark and Abe stared at the ceiling. After a short while he wasn’t sure if his eyes were even open, so he blinked a few times to clear that up. Open, closed. It made no difference. The Valium made Abe aggressively apathetic, which he supposed was oxymoronic, but who cared?
For a man as formerly opinionated as he, indifference was unnatural, and drug induced or not, becalmed or not, he felt the unnaturalness deep in his id. It wasn’t Abraham Fogelhut’s role in the universe to be its calm center. It conflicted with his essential Abeness. Was this what the hippies and yippies experienced, he wondered? When they were all dosing themselves to the gills back in the sixties, when all that nonstop navel gazing was happening, when everything was a happening, when happening became a noun, was this that? If so, Abe, in soft focus, needed to revise his opinion of the sixties drug subculture; it was even dumber and more self-centered than he’d suspected.
Happening as a noun.
Party as a verb.
Vacation as a verb.
Summer as a verb.
Summer as a verb?
Jesus H. Christ.
Between the hippies and the yuppies, English was in its death throes. And forget the coloreds and their hip-hop lingo. Ebonics, was it? If the plague hadn’t come along when it did, given the trajectory on which English was headed-at least as spoken by Americans-pretty soon the younger generation would be reduced to tribal clicking languages. Maybe the zombies did everyone a favor.