I move to the third level of a parking garage after someone shoots a bullet through my cheeks. I can still taste the metallic tang of the bullet; my tongue tracing the holes it left behind. My life’s not so bad in the garage; at least, I don’t think it is. I don’t remember my life before the craving for brains set in. I’ve got it under control now.
Not like before, when visitors were common. People would stop by my garage all the time and break things that weren’t theirs. The things, technically, weren’t mine either, but I worked hard to make this garage a home. Then here come the people, with their bats and crowbars, breaking windows and leaving glass on my floors. Stepping on shattered glass—barefoot—really hurts, undead or not. I think that’s what they call me, undead, though I don’t feel all that dead.
I know they call me ohno whenever they see me. The people are always screaming “ohno” and yes, hello, hi, but also, I have sensitive ears and you’re leaving glass everywhere, so could you please just leave me alone? At least I’d like to say all of this, but words just don’t come easy for me. One moment you think you’re having a conversation with a home invader and the next, you’re snacking on their brains.
Not that you mean to, I never mean to, but brains smell like burning leaves and lemon. I don’t know how I remember those smells, but when I bite into a person’s head, that scent just seeps out and the voices screaming ohno get just a little quieter.
But that was before I got control of the cravings. Now, the people don’t come around as often, and when they do, they travel in packs. I hear them talk about the hordes of the undead, about shelter, about their lives before. I like to pretend I’m part of these conversations. That I’m sitting around their fire barrels, telling them who I am and where I’m from.
I would tell them my name is Verdean. I wouldn’t hesitate because that would be suspicious. I wouldn’t tell them about my cravings or the snacking on brains because everyone has a past, and that past doesn’t always need to be shared. I would say I’ve killed five people, a family, that I had no choice in the matter. When observing the people, I’ve noticed that five seems to be a safe number. One, and you’re inexperienced, often pushed forward to be devoured (I won’t tell them that I’ve participated in the devouring). Fifteen, and you’re marked as dangerous. Exiled because, clearly, you are capable of taking care of yourself and have no use for a pack. If asked how many of the undead I’ve killed, I’d say I lost count a long time ago.
No one seems to care about the lives of the undead.
I would tell the people I’m heading to Philadelphia in search of Billy Penn. I heard a woman say this once to a man playing beneath one of the cars on my floor. She talked about Rocky and a cracked bell and a safe haven beneath it all, originally built by Billy Penn. She said if they could make it there, maybe they could start over. Maybe, if I could make it there, Billy Penn would help me start over too.
I won’t tell the people this next part. I’m not proud of what I did. I just wanted to talk to her, to ask her more about Billy Penn. As I approached them, she sneezed, and the man said, “Bless you.” I liked how that sounded, so I tried to say “bless you” too.
But even the nicest things get mangled when I try to say them. The woman screamed ohno, and the man hit his head on the underbelly of the car. I raised my hands, but somehow that made everything worse. Trying to explain made everything worse, so much worse, because the man threatened me with a crowbar.
I’ve lost so many friends to crowbars.
I won’t tell the people that I tried to explain that my name is Verdean. That I just wanted to reach Billy Penn in Philadelphia. That when the man kept swinging the crowbar at me, and the woman kept saying ohno, ohno, ohno, I forgot the point of it all. I didn’t give into my craving, but I did shatter a car window and pressed hard on its horn.
I watched the man see me for the first time. Acknowledge that I knew what I was doing, that I wouldn’t stop, that it was too late for the both of us. He grabbed the woman’s arm, she was still crying ohno, and they ran, but that didn’t matter. I took my hand off the horn, but that didn’t matter either.
I’ll ask the people how to get to Philadelphia, and say that I wish I could’ve saved the family of five, which was actually a family of two. I’ll tell the people about Billy Penn, how the mother spoke so highly of him. How the father did the best he could to protect us all when the horde came. How there was nothing more I could do.
And I’ll wish for things like I’ve heard the people do. I’ll wish to hear their voices one last time, wish that things could’ve been different, wish that I could’ve done more to protect them, wish that it had been me instead of them—even though I know, just like I know these people would call me ohno instead of Verdean, that there was nothing more I could do.
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