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“I’ll think about it,” I said. “Sorry,” I said. And left.
&n
bsp; There is a proliferation of zombies around lately, let me tell you.
My ex Daniel’s girlfriend Kimmy is not behaving at all normally, even for a stressed-out, middle-aged, hyperactive kickboxing instructor dame. She drones on and on about herself and is unable to ask anyone questions about how they are doing. She wears the same rapacious grin frozen on her face at all times, even when she is angry. She talks loudly and proudly at all social gatherings about how she had tumors in her uterus and can no longer have any more children. (I know Daniel finds this perversely comforting; no chance of any more children means no chance of any more tragedies for him.) She never lets anyone see her eat, not even Daniel. (He told me this; I think even he is worried.) While she cooks his dinner she tells him she caught a bite at the gym and that she doesn’t digest food well after four p.m. She walks with jerky movements and snaps her gum spastically and calls everyone dude. Do you see?
In addition there is that presidential candidate and his running mate. I believe they have been bitten. Look at their glassy eyes. Listen to their hollow voices—hers more shrill, but hollow still. Read about their policies to destroy nature and take away women’s rights, gay rights. I can just imagine them hunting people out of helicopters and gnawing on someone’s thighbone with gristle between their teeth.
I remember that doctor at the hospital where Max was. He strolled out into the waiting room and tried to take my hand but I wouldn’t let him touch me. His skin was greenish white under the fluorescence and his legs and arms were stiff.
When I saw him I knew. I thought it was going to be like on TV where they say, “I’m sorry.”
I didn’t want to hear those words from him. So I said them first.
“I’m sorry!” I screamed. I fell to my knees. “I’m so so sorry.”
Zombies are reanimated corpses. I looked it up online. It said that if there is an invasion find a shopping mall or grocery store and barricade yourself inside. Then you will have plenty of supplies until you can come up with a plan.
I called Coco.
“Yes, I think you’re right.”
“What?”
“He seems to be what you say he is.”
“Thanks for…Sorry… Um. What should we do about it?”
“Come meet me,” I said. “But try not to say sorry so much.”
“Sorry. I mean…”
“It’s okay. I do it too. You’re very polite. Most people in L.A. don’t say thank you so much either.”
“Oh. Sorry. We’re from Florida?”
I should be the one saying sorry.
Okay, so I’m not a legitimate P.I. My ex, Daniel, rented this office for me. It’s on Washington next to a store that sells knives and other exotic weaponry. The rent was so cheap. Daniel thought it might help me after what happened with Max. He thought it would be good for me to have some place to go to every day, something to get dressed for. Kind of like playing office when you’re a kid.
Okay, so I hadn’t really had any clients except for Coco, but hell, at least I had her. The guy with the cheating fiancée—I made him up. But not Coco. Not the zombie father. I would never lie to you about zombies.
Coco came in wearing a pair of skinny jeans, black-and-white-checked Vans slip-on sneakers and the same oversized sweatshirt with the sleeves pulled down over her hands. She looked like a typical teenager except that her face had a very serious expression. She kept the sleeves of her sweatshirt bunched in her hand while she gnawed on her fingers. She wasn’t even pretending that she didn’t bite her nails this time.
“Thank you for looking into this.”
“You’re welcome.”
“What are we going to do?” she asked me. “What did you do before?”
“You can’t panic,” I said. “But at the same time you must be vigilant not to get bitten.”
She nodded. “He hasn’t tried that.”
“What precautionary actions are you taking?” I asked her.
“I have a secret hideaway stashed with water and food supplies,” she told me.
