Love in an Undead Age by A.M. Geever (good non fiction books to read .TXT) 📕

girlfriend Karen were having lunch at the Ethiopian Place. That wasn’t the restaurant’s name, just what everyone called it. If pressed, most Valley residents could not have supplied Star of Ethiopia’s actual name if it would save them from a pack of snarling zombies, but everyone knew The Ethiopian Place at San Pedro Square.

They were seated outdoors at a café table on a gorgeous October day, marred only by the abject misery of Miranda’s lunch companion. Karen sat sniffling, salty tear tracks crusting her copper skin as she poked aimlessly at the Doro Tibs and Azifa with her injera. When they’d made their lunch date, Miranda had not considered that injera—the soft, porous bread that served as an edible fork—might also be used as a tissue as Karen went through the motions of eating. She had not actually dabbed her eyes or blown her nose on her injera—yet—but the sight of it passing so close to Karen’s sniffly nose only to be poked back into the food they were ostensibly sharing was starting to put Miranda off her lunch.

“Why the hell did he lead me on for two months and make me think this was going somewhere if he wasn’t really interested?”

Karen’s righteous indignation was followed by a fresh burst of tears. Miranda passed her a napkin. If she could get Karen to use the napkin, maybe she’d quit almost using her injera.

Miranda could think of several reasons why this latest creep was not interested in anything more than fucking around, but the short answer was Karen dated jerks. For as long as Miranda had known her, there was something about handsome, cocky, macho jocks who thought the world revolved around them that attracted Karen like a magnet.

“I’m just so tired of dating,” Karen whimpered. She wiped her puffy eyes on her sleeve. Her corkscrew curls stuck forlornly to her head. Her mouth compressed into a scowl. With her coppery skin, she looked like a too-old buckeye robbed of its satiny shine.

“How is it that you always date such nice guys, Miri?”

Miranda choked on her drink. The absurdity of Karen’s statement caused her to suck water down her windpipe.

“You’re kidding me, right?” she sputtered between coughing fits. “The most action I’ve gotten lately was when you couldn’t find your seat belt in What’s-His-Face’s car and were fumbling under my ass for it.”

“You know what I mean,” Karen replied. “Maybe it’s been a while, but Sam was—oh shit, Miri, I’m sorry.”

Miranda waved her friend’s unease away. Talking about Sam didn’t sting like it used to. It wasn’t Karen who had gotten him killed.

“And so was—” Karen stopped again, wincing before continuing gamely. “Well, and Connor, of course.”

“You’re going back to college, Karen, eleven years easy. That’s a bit of a stretch,” Miranda replied, digging into the food. Karen’s embarrassment had distracted her so much that she had finally quit waving her contaminated injera everywhere.

“Well, I don’t know what to do,” Karen sighed. “I’m thirty, single, and date assholes. I feel doomed.”

Miranda was about to say something encouraging when a woman walked past their table, distracting her.

“What is it?” Karen asked as she watched Miranda’s attention drift.

“It’s that woman. Do I know her?”

Karen turned in her seat to look. “The one in blue?” she asked. “She doesn’t look familiar to me.”

Miranda’s brow furrowed. “Something’s not right about her, but I can’t put my finger on it.”

The woman had stopped to look in a shop window. On further inspection, Miranda decided that she didn’t know her and she looked normal enough: a tall woman in a nice dress and expensive sunglasses. Her dog stood beside her.

“I don’t know what it is you’re seeing, Miri. She looks like a regular person to me.”

“I dunno, maybe my imagination is getting the better of me,” Miranda said, setting the matter aside. “That zombie on the Expressway got my day off to a strange start.”

Miranda turned her attention back to her lunch when it hit her: the woman was wearing heels. Very high heels. She had not seen anyone in a pair in years.

“It’s her shoes!” she hissed. “She’s wearing heels!”

Karen regarded Miranda with a puzzled expression. “Why is that weird? Lots of women have started wearing them again. I just got a pair myself. I forgot how much they pinch your toes.”

“Lots of women are wearing them?” Miranda squeaked, her voice getting higher with each word. “Since when?”

“Not everyone plays in the dirt for a living and considers sneakers snazzy footwear, Miri.”

“How do you outrun a zombie in high heels?”

“Oh, Miri, honestly! You make it sound like there are zombies around every corner,” Karen said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Things are so much better now. Why not live a little?” Karen mustered a faint grin, no doubt at the prospect of having footwear fashion trends to follow.

“Well, of course things are better,” Miranda replied. “But with all the people coming to San Jose for the vaccine and then finding out they can’t afford it, we have a pretty bad zombie problem just outside the walls. There’s still the occasional dasher. Zombie on the Expressway this morning.”

Karen rolled her eyes in an aggrieved manner that always got under Miranda’s skin.

“Dashers? Really? When’s the last time you saw someone fat enough to turn into a dasher?”

“That’s not the point.”

“I can’t remember the last time I saw a dasher. And they end up slowing down and becoming shamblers once the fat is gone.” Karen paused. “Have they ever figured out how that works?”

“If they figured out how something dead can metabolize anything, let alone how fat, fast zombies turn into gaunt, slow ones, I think we’d have heard about it. I know what you’re doing, Karen. You’re trying to change the subject.”

“I’m not saying that people don’t have to be cautious,” Karen allowed. “But there are places where there haven’t been zombies in what…seven, eight years? Like right here. What’s wrong with wanting to try and be a little normal?”

Miranda felt her brain begin to swell. One more ridiculous word out of Karen’s mouth and it would explode.

“Anything that doesn’t take what I affectionately refer to as reality into account isn’t just stupid, it’s dangerous. Next, you’re going to tell me you’re moving to one of the gated La-La Lands.”

“Sweetie, if I had the money I’d have moved there yesterday. And so would you, if you were honest with yourself.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” Miranda snapped.

“Yes you would, Miranda Tucci, and you know it! Why are we even arguing about this? You’re supposed to be cheering me up, not biting my head off.”

Miranda wanted to tell Karen how wrong she was but swallowed her retort. “Maybe we should get some dessert?” Dessert was always a good olive branch. Karen had a sweet tooth.

“Are you kidding? I have to get back to my dating weight, and I have to get back to work. I’ll take care of the check.”

Karen was out of her seat and through the restaurant door before Miranda could say anything more. Miranda couldn’t believe Karen did not see the sheer insanity of wearing shoes that were not made for walking, let alone running or fighting. Was she being more irrational than usual because of the breakup, or were people really getting back to “normal” and she had somehow missed it?

The waiter came up to the table. “Would you like your check, Miss, or will you be getting a coffee?”

“Uh, no, thanks,” Miranda said. “My friend went in to pay. She’s in a hurry to get back to work.”

The waiter paled. “I— She shouldn’t need to do that,” he stammered. “I’ll pay your bill myself, I, let me get these dishes out of your way.”

The waiter continued to apologize. His hands shook so much that the dishes he picked up rattled. Miranda opened her mouth to assure him it was no big deal when she saw the tattoo on his neck: an orange triangle overlapped by a thin black circle with three black pointy-ended semi-circles intersecting it—the universal symbol for a biohazard. Her hand touched the green triangle tattoo on her own neck, just under her right jaw, before reaching for his arm.

She only succeeded in startling the poor man. He jerked his arm away so abruptly that a glass tumbled off his tray. Heads turned at the hollow crash of the breaking glass. As he stooped to pick up the pieces, the waiter began to weep.

Miranda crouched beside the distraught man. She picked up a piece of the shattered glass and set it on his tray.

“It’s okay. Please don’t worry. We would never complain.”

Pathetic, gratuitous apologies or wretched, abject gratitude—she wasn’t sure which was worse.