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And for the very first time since the first pandemic, I was actually worried about my appearance.
I mean, when it was just brainless zombies looking at you, you didn’t really give a damn what you looked like.
Insecurity, familiar but long-buried, resurfaced, and I worried about how I looked in my zombie-hunting gear, with my make-up-free face, and my hair pulled away from my face that I’d always thought of as too angular, full of sharp edges—a pointy jaw, razor-edged cheekbones, slashes of brows.
Shaking my head to knock those useless thoughts loose, I frowned at him.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Having a silent rave,” he said, waving at his headphones and the ridiculous necklace I’d missed before.
I remembered them from when I was a kid. The kind you had to crack and then they glowed. Red, green, yellow, and blue.
His was faded like he’d cracked it a long time ago, but it wasn’t dead yet.
“I wouldn’t say it was silent,” I told him, shaking my head. “I thought a zombie was snacking on you,” I added, waving out with my machete.
“And you came to save me? Am I the damsel in distress in this scenario?” he asked. A smile tugged at his lips before breaking free. “I kind of dig it. So tell me, Post-Apocalyptic Barbie, do you often save excruciatingly handsome dudes in distress? Or am I special?” he asked.
“I, ah, I don’t normally save anyone,” I admitted.
“Me either. It’s all me, myself, and I these days. Oh, and Toddy.”
“Toddy?” I asked.
“Yeah, Toddy,” he said, waving out toward a grave a yard or so back where a bright white cat was lounging casually on top of the gravestone, not a care in the world.
Because the zombies didn’t eat them.
In fact, the animals were quickly reclaiming the hellscape that was the human world.
I had to admit, it was pretty neat to see deer and bears and all the little critters walking down the street out front of my apartment that used to be crowded with cars.
“You have a pet in the apocalypse?”
“Yeah. Don’t you?” he asked, making it sound like I was the crazy one.
“I don’t think they’d survive well on pasta and wine,” I said, shrugging.
“No shit. You have pasta still? The shelves have been empty for months.”
“I, ah, I live above an old Italian restaurant,” I admitted, not sure why I was doing so. Sharing that kind of information was stupid. It threatened my survival.
I guess it just felt good to speak to someone for a change.
It had been so long.
“Living the fucking dream,” he said, nodding. “Right on. If you ever want to have us over for dinner, we’d bring the tinned meat and veg. We got that in abundance. Hit up the bulk store when the first zombie case was reported.”
“You bought enough canned meat and veg that you’ve been eating it for over a year?”
“I mean, I knew money would be no good once the virus went nuts. So I burned it all up that day. Double-digit grands. I mean, we ate the fresher shit first. Then the kind of shelf-stable shit. I lived on mac & cheese for a couple months. Then, well, things dwindled down.”
I would kind of kill for some veg and meat. It had been months since I’d had any.
I was almost tempted to actually do the unthinkable.
Make a friend in the apocalypse.
