Nineteen
The dead man walked
out the front door, stood on the walk for a moment, then slowly
ambled toward the street.
Edward, who had been
daydreaming about Rachael, specifically Rachael’s awesome boobs and
wicked smile, was at first startled, then curious.
He’d come for another
stakeout, but more out of guilt than any sense of urgency or duty.
He hadn’t been near the Manse O’ the Undead in two
days.
Oh, but what a two
days!
She’s perfect. She’s a goddess. So smart, and so hot! And
Jesus, her mouth. Sharp and sweet and urgent and ah, God, this is
no time for another damn boner!
So he’d walked the
neighborhood yet again, this time dressed like a tourist in black
cotton shorts, a bright yellow polo shirt, and a black fanny pack,
which, he was surprised to see in the mirror, made him look like a
giant deranged bee. He tended to choose clothing the way he chose
snacks: whatever was closest at hand is what he grabbed. Thus: the
return of . . . Bee Man!
Look! Up in the sky! It’s a bird, it’s a plane, it’s . . .
gross. A giant bug.
He did look like a
tourist, at least—he ought to know how to pull that off, given
where he lived. Which was good, because if he was challenged, he’d
ask for directions to the St. Paul Cathedral, which (per Google)
was a few blocks from here.
Rachael really is astounding in every way, he
thought, feeling a sappy smile spread across his face. And a goddamned hurricane in bed. Best of my life. No
question; absolute best. And not because of what she did with her
hands and mouth. Because of the things she told me. Because she
cried and didn’t mind that I tried to help her. Because she
admitted to being bitchy and homesick and could laugh at herself.
Because she apologized to a waitress she’d never seen before and
might never see again.
And let’s not forget the things she asked me to do to her.
The naked things and the—
And here came the
dead man. Not that Edward knew it then; he recognized the man as
the same one who’d escorted the pregnant lady out . . . the scrubs
helped. House call, maybe? Cigarette break? He wasn’t doing much,
just sort of wandering in the yard.
I’ll get close. I’ll get as good a look at him as I can.
Maybe he’s not an evil OB. Maybe he’s a regular OB, hold the evil.
Maybe . . . he’s a prisoner. Maybe he needs help. I won’t know if I
don’t get close. If he’s a good guy, this might be his one chance
at safety. I’m not gonna blow it for him because I don’t want to
get spotted.
Summit Avenue was
utterly quiet as twilight deepened. Edward decided getting closer
was worth the risk. So he swallowed his nervousness as best he
could and, as casually as he could, started walking across the
street. When he got close to the fence, he waved.
Nothing wrong here, just another dumb tourist who didn’t
bother with MapQuest . . . Nothing to worry about . . . certainly
not someone spying on you or possibly someone you live with . .
.
“Hey! Excuse me . . .
I’m sorry to bother you, but I think I’m lost.”
“I think you are,
too.”
The friendly
hey-I’m-a-hapless-tourist smile fell off his face. Edward had
gotten close enough to realize he was talking to a dead
man.
Not a prisoner on
death row.
Not a
vampire.
A dead man.
He was so startled he
tripped on the curb and fell, flailing, to the sidewalk. He caught
himself by the hands, but not quite fast enough.
What a stupid way to meet my first-ever zombie, he
thought, clutching his skinned knees and trying not to groan with
humiliation and pain.