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“It was a good viewing but not great,” Grandma said. “It would have been better if the zombie had taken Harold Kucher’s brain. Harold’s the exalted ruler of the Benevolent and Protective Order of Elks. There would have been a big ceremony for him. All the Elks would have been here wearing their sashes and hats and medals. As it was, we just had some fainters.”
Grandma and I followed the crowd to the door, where the funeral director was wishing everyone a good night.
“It was pretty good work, considering the problem you must have had fixing the head back on,” Grandma told the funeral director.
The funeral director nodded in agreement. “We try our best.”
“I couldn’t help notice it was screwed on a little crooked,” Grandma said.
The funeral director squelched a grimace, and I moved Grandma through the door and down the stairs.
“You must have had a hard time finding a place to park,” Grandma said. “There’s cars all up and down the street.”
“I cheated and parked in the driveway for the funeral home garages. We can take a shortcut through the parking lot.”
The parking lot ran the length of one side of the funeral home. The garages were to the rear, shielded from view by a hedge and some chunky shrubs. We walked through the lot and skirted around the hedge. The funeral director’s car was parked by the building’s rear exit. The hearses and flower cars were out of sight in the garage. The area was lit by an overhead flood. The Lexus was discreetly parked in a shaded area on the edge of the drive.
We approached the car and something rustled in the bushes. My first thought was animal. My second thought was funeral director.
Grandma hauled her gun out of her purse and two-handed it in front of her. “Who’s there?” she said. “I’ve got a gun so you better be careful.”
There was more rustling. Something gave a guttural grunt, and for a split second I thought I saw the outline of a man. He was in dark shadow. He was there, and then he was gone.
“Do you smell that?” Grandma asked. “That’s the stink of a zombie.”
“Are you sure it’s not the dumpster?”
“Two entirely different stinks,” Grandma said. “There was a zombie prowling around out here. No doubt he was looking for a brain to eat, and I scared him away.”
“No doubt.”
“We should tell the funeral director,” Grandma said.
“That might not be a good idea,” I said, opening the car door for Grandma. “We’re not supposed to be parked back here.” Not to mention, most sane people don’t entirely believe in zombies.
“I forgot about that. I guess we should keep quiet, but I’m going to feel real bad if he comes back and eats someone’s brain.”
• • •
I turned Grandma over to my mom and went home to a quiet apartment. Rex was running on his wheel. Diesel was off, doing his Diesel thing. No zombies lurking in my kitchen. Ranger’s car was safely parked in the lot behind my building. It was all good.
I poured myself a glass of wine, tucked a box of Froot Loops under my arm, and settled in front of the television. I watched three recorded episodes of The Mind of a Chef and one episode of Barnwood Builders. I don’t cook and I don’t have any plans to build a barn, but I’m hooked on the shows.
Before heading to bed, I threw the deadbolt and put the security chain in place on my apartment door. I knew it wouldn’t stop Diesel from getting in, but it might make it more of a challenge.
I was dragged out of sleep by a warm body moving next to me. I looked at my bedside clock. Four in the morning. An arm curled around me and drew me closer to the body. Diesel was back.
“Are you asleep?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“Any chance you’ll wake up?”
“Not any time soon.”
His hand strayed toward my breast. “Let me know if you change your mind.”
I rolled over onto my stomach. “You’ll be the first to know. And don’t even think about what you’re thinking about.”
