Alan whipped his head back at her, flashing the say-no-more look.
“Oh give me a break, Alan,” Ellen said, not having it. “Karl’s out there snapped like a rotten branch and you want to protect the pact of betrayal? Fuck that. You’re not going out there. Let Eddie go. Or Dave. They were so fucking eager to invade Mona’s stash, let ’em put it to the test.” Ellen paused and looked over at Mona, a slightly patronizing tone creeping into her voice. “Mona, sweetie, those guys-Karl included-have been filching your pills to-”
“I know,” Mona said.
“You know?”
“Yeah. I can count.”
“You knew and you let it happen? But they invaded your space. They violated your trust. I didn’t want to keep it secret, but frankly the gorillas in our midst spook me.”
“I know.”
“She knows.” Ellen felt almost as annoyed at Mona for knowing and keeping mum as she felt about the conspirators’ theft in the first place. “So why didn’t you say something?”
“Like what?”
“Like, ‘stop stealing my drugs,’ for starters. What is wrong with you? What are they even taking? These clowns have convinced themselves the pills are your secret weapon, you know, against the zombies. And you knew? I can’t believe it.”
“Hard not to.”
Alan stepped away from the window, Karl’s plight temporarily cast aside. He was probably dead, anyway. “Hard not to what? Notice the theft?”
“Side effects.”
“Ooooh,” the couple said in unison. Eddie and Dave’s rooftop activities. Karl’s schizo religiosity. Side effects. They seemed like natural progressions. Or regressions. But not unexpected. Still. Ellen and Alan felt pretty stupid.
“Severe contraindications,” Mona said, carefully pronouncing the words with a hint of a smile.
“So why do you take them?”
“Gotta,” Mona said, sounding not the least bit defensive.
“What are they?”
“Brain chemistry.”
“I just can’t believe you knew and let it happen,” Ellen said, shaking her head.
“I can get more.”
“So, if we’re putting our cards on the table,” Alan said, hesitating, “are they your secret? Could Karl have just gone out there on his own? Could Eddie?”
“Doubt it.”
“Why? If they’re taking what you’re taking.”
“Maybe after a few years.”
“Why? Why years? Why maybe?”
“They weren’t born addicted.”
“Born addicted.”
“Sort of.”
It was like pulling teeth from a toothless baby, but slowly a picture emerged of Mona’s mother. Not a harried housewife taking part in a clinical prescription-drug trial-just a plain old, garden-variety addict. Mona was chemically altered in the womb and chemically dependent out of it. Alan smiled as he mused, four toes on each foot. He remembered documentaries on PBS about thalidomide and crack babies. Four toes and a blunted persona were a lot better than flippers or no limbs at all. So this was the key to Mona’s immunity? As birth defects went, this one was as Darwinian as they came. Defect or evolution? Better living through chemistry, as the maxim went.
And when the drugs ran out, whither Mona?
Did she even need them any more?
Did she ever?
As Karl lay on the table contemplating his imminent demise, he failed to notice he’d shifted his weight off his hips and crossed his legs. From his upside down perspective he stared vacantly across the verge, to the street choked with undead. He glanced up at the hole through which he’d fallen, hoping to catch a glimpse of Jesus or some angel beckoning him forth, home, but no such luck. He wiped his forehead and started counting off the moments left.
“What a moron!”
Karl sat upright, feeling pins and needles where before he felt nothing.
“What an idiot!”
He looked at his hands, flexing the fingers and rotating the wrists.
“What a stupid ass! Thank you God! Thank you Jesus! Thank… Oops.”
Not being paralyzed equaled glee equaled lack of judgment equaled shouting. He turned toward the street and saw zombies staring back. “Oh, balls,” Karl peeped. The mob amassed by the window frames hadn’t quite figured out how to vault the two-and-a-half-foot wall that separated them from their appetizing quarry, but it was only a matter of time. Even if they didn’t have the smarts to lift one leg over, repeat, the shoving from the peanut gallery would deliver the first wave over the hump in a trice. Karl massaged his legs, trying to rid himself of the paraesthesia in his thighs and calves. They prickled under his palms, which did likewise. From no sensation to an overabundance in scant moments. Karl would feel blessed were he not on the verge of soiling himself in terror. He dropped to the floor, feeling wobbly, but feeling.
For a nanosecond he felt angry with Mona for leaving him, but she was no medico. She was just a girl. A spooky chick. But she’d gone for help. He couldn’t wait for her to return. She’d be pleased that she’d been wrong.
The floor felt solid. Then again, it had felt solid upstairs, too. The zombies’ ingress was looming. So much for Mona’s miracle drug. Fucking Eddie. How could he have been stupid enough to believe Eddie was right about anything? He was about as immune to zombies as an ice cube was to a hot plate. He tried the walkie-talkie again, to let Mona know he was up. Nothing but static. Karl did a little spastic two-step, a sort of silent comedian windup, but he didn’t know where to run. The divider between them and him was still doing the trick, but once they got in, it was going to be a big ol’ feeding frenzy. The first few zombies plopped over the partition and fell in heaps on the sooty ground, attempting to right themselves as more dropped on top of them. And then more. Karl aimed the beam from his headlamp up the escalator. What would the odds be of falling through the floor twice? Tempt fate by fleeing upwards or fulfill the obvious by sticking around down below? Caught between Scylla and Charybdis. Maybe he could make it to the roof. Then what? Jump? One thing at a time. On spongy legs Karl made for the escalator and gripped the rubbery handrails in a half pull, half run to the landing.
“Idiot!” he barked at the top, realizing he still bore the heavy knapsack.
As it dropped to the roasted floor Karl fled to the second-floor restrooms in the back. Maybe, like in the movies, there would be some air duct he could climb into that would lead to safety. He slammed into the men’s room-noting for a nanosecond how funny it was that even now he consciously chose it as opposed to the ladies’ room-and scanned the dark chamber, aiming the beam this way and that. Drop ceiling, but no grating, no duct. Typical, typical, typical. Don’t have faith in Eddie and never believe what you see in the movies. Idiot!
No lock on the entrance door, of course. He opened it and peeked out. The zombies still hadn’t made the mezzanine. There’s got to be a way out of here. Think. But without a floor plan it was just guesswork. The first wave of zombies had made it to the landing. Karl couldn’t see them yet, but he heard them shuffling, moaning, exuding pure need. Did they scent him, like hounds at the hunt? Maybe his odor was masked by the stink of char. His only option was the stall with the bolt lock. If he perched on the toilet and was very quiet, maybe they wouldn’t find him. Cripes. The moans were hungry. Purposeful. Oh Jesus. It sounded like there were a lot of them.
Tons.
Tons.
With a thunderous crash a large portion of the charred floor gave way.
It’s raining zombies. Hallelujah.