Undead and Unsatisfied

I’m tired of brains.

Seriously, they tasted fine at the start—firm with enough texture to satisfy an infinite hunger. Lately, though, I’ve been craving steak.

For me, that means the rarest beef I can find. Frankly, it’s better if the bovine is still mooing at mealtime.

My friends think I’m crazy. Okay, they don’t think much, being undead and all. Still, I can swear I hear their gurgling chuckles when I lovingly gaze at a farmer’s field filled with beautiful heifers.

Man, zombie shows and movies had it wrong. We’re not lemmings who run wildly into a crowd of axe-wielding humans. We undead crave independence, however minute it may be.

For instance, I like to dress better than the others with their torn schmattas. They all look like moody teenagers who got out of the ground a few minutes before they meandered into the city looking for a fresh body.

While I’m certainly not a fashion maven, I try to keep my clothes clean, mended, and free of brains and blood. Sure, the living still run from me. Yet, I sometimes see a few briefly admire my form of dress before escaping.

The thing is, they don’t have to be worried. While I’ll chomp into live Angus without a care, I’m not a fan of taking the lives of others. After all, there are plenty of corpses around to snack on from time to time if a cow isn’t around.

I’m also not into night-walking. Leave that to the werewolves and vampires for all I care. I’ll take a little sunshine once in a while.

Come on, it’s not like I’m going to get skin cancer or a sunburn. I’m already dead, so I think I’m okay. On a positive note, look at how much I’m saving the healthcare industry.

Also, why walk around so much? Why can’t an undead person like me sit at an outdoor café table and read? My eyes still work.

All right, one eye. I lost the left one while crossing the Brown’s cow pasture. Haven’t found it yet.

My zombie friends, at least those with working voice boxes, think I’m nuttier than a human.

“You’re not living up to your potential, Sam,” my pal Antonio said not long ago over a brain and some fries. “The Universe made you a zombie for a reason.”

“I thought I was one because a coven of witches messed up a spell,” I said.

He grabbed a fry and shook it at me, nearly loosening his index finger from the knuckle joint in the process. “Same thing. Fate found you, transforming your sorry existence into an exciting adventure. It was your destiny to join the undead.”

“How do you know about my pre-undead life?”

“I was your friend, remember?”

“No, I really don’t.”

He poked his head with a finger, nearly pushing the digit through his skull. “Well, being undead messes with your memory.”

I sighed. “I preferred humanity. I could walk around without people fleeing into traffic because of my aroma or because they were afraid I’d eat them.” I felt some tendons pop as I waved my arm across the empty café patio where we sat. “I could sit here with a date without stares or whispers.”

“Feh. Being alive wasn’t worth the work.”

“You may have thought so, but I enjoyed the hard work. It’s what being human is about.”

An idea snapped into my brain, causing it to slide slightly to the left. “I wonder if those witches are still around.”

Antonio cut off a portion of frontal lobe and dipped it in sriracha. “I heard they went into hiding years ago. Probably didn’t want to be strung up by zombies or humans.”

I nodded, shifting my brain back into position. “I bet some of them are out there, working to restore what they messed up. Were they based out of Salem? Maybe New Orleans?”

My friend swallowed his snack. “I think it was Hoboken.”

*

Fortunately, NJ Transit allows zombies on their trains as long as they have a ticket. So, I took one to Newark Penn Station and transitioned to a PATH train headed toward Hoboken. I had a car to myself both times.

Once there, I stopped supernaturals or weaponless humans who looked like they would talk to a zombie. Had they seen the witches? Did they know where they had lived? Did they think I could be helped?

No one had an answer, either because they didn’t care, know, or, in the case of some undead, they lacked a tongue.

My luck seemed to change one afternoon when a young man said he knew where the witches were.

“Yeah, one of them is my sister. She was there when the coven cast the spell.”

“Why weren’t you affected?”

He paused for the briefest moment, then shrugged. “I guess she likes me more than I thought, so she spared me from becoming, well, you.”

“How heartwarming.” I tried to inject sarcasm into the sentence. Sadly, I lost some of my prefrontal cortex in the Smith’s cow pasture. I think one of them ate it.

“Can I meet her?”

He scratched his head. “Well, come to Pier C tonight. I think she’d help you.” After explaining the directions, he left in a hurry. Although my hearing isn’t up to what it was, I swore I heard him say to someone, “Yeah, it’s on.”

He didn’t specify what time to meet, so I entered Pier C Park around sundown. My mind raced—well, raced like an 85-year-old was at the wheel—at the possibilities of the meeting.

Maybe this witch could cure me with one spell. Or, perhaps she would gather the coven together to find a solution, transforming us supernatural creatures into life-fulfilling humans once again.

“There he is!”

The shout jolted me to the present. I looked to the left and saw the young man coming toward me with a dozen others his age. They carried implements of decapitation.

I swore. It was a setup.

Rather than carrying torches, most of them had flashlights enabled on their mobile devices. This gave me a chance to shuffle into the dark.

Although not a sprinter by any means, my legs were still stable enough to carry me toward an open space in the boardwalk railings that separated people from the brackish Hudson River. Making sure the gang’s device flashlights didn’t reach me, I stepped down and made a swinging motion to hide under the walkway.

I looked for a decent-sized pebble or rock. When they got closer, I did my best to throw it into the river. It made a reasonable splash.

“Hey, he jumped in,” said the man who tricked me there.

“Maybe he’s hiding,” said another person, clearly the smart one.

“Nah,” said a third. “Why hide when he knows we’d look for him?”

“He’s probably fish food now,” said the trickster. “Let’s call it a win and get some pizza.”

I listened for them to leave, then sat there for hours. The cold, damp columns didn’t affect me. I had plenty of time to berate myself for thinking the guy was telling the truth.

I would’ve kicked myself if I didn’t think my leg would fall off in the process.

*

I hid out for another day, then headed toward a riverside park closer to the Lincoln Tunnel. I wasn’t sure what drew me there. Maybe the river’s quiet flow calmed me.

I was dirty, hungry, and disappointed. I snarled at anyone who tried to come near. They probably thought better of an encounter to avoid getting their appendages removed in my anger.

I found a sunny spot and leaned against a railing. I watched the activity of a typical Manhattan workday mingle with sirens and occasional plumes of smoke from fires used to keep supernatural beings away.

For some reason, we’re all afraid of flames. Why? We can’t burn to death.

Okay, maybe vampires.

I craved a bloody steak and raw chicken. I wanted to breathe again. I wanted to feel my heart beat out of my chest in excitement.

“I hear you’re looking for one of us.”

I turned so quickly I felt my hips crack.

“Fool me once,” I said.

She stared languidly at me.

“Never mind. Are you one of the coven?” I pictured someone with a pointed hat and warts on their nose. The woman who came up to me barely looked 21.

She nodded, looking in multiple directions as she did. “It’s not safe for me out here.” She grabbed a small amount of gold powder from a purse. “Take my hand.”

“Wait. Did you send me here?”

She nodded again. “Hand.”

I didn’t hesitate to grab on, even though I felt a few finger ligaments pop. She threw the powder on the ground, creating a brilliant flash and harsh bang. I felt momentarily light, like I had left my feet somewhere.

I instinctively closed my eye, hoping I still had my feet. When I reopened it, I was in a modestly furnished basement apartment.

She headed to the small kitchenette. “Sit down.”

“Do you have something to eat or drink?”

“No,” she said.

“Gracious, aren’t you?”

Again with the unenthusiastic stare.

“I’ve been working on a reanimation spell. Do you want help or not?”

“Just you?” I winced a second after I asked the question.

She flattened her lips in what, I guess, was an estimation of a smile for her. “Those girls are hacks. I’m the one who makes it happen.”

“And you are?”

“Never mind,” she said.

“Not surprising.”

I found a chair near the window and watched the feet of numerous creatures pass by. Some were human. Those who shambled or dragged their feet (or stumps) were clearly zombies. Or, maybe drunk kids from the nearby college.

My unnamed witch threw several unrecognizable ingredients into a large saucepan, stirring and mumbling as she did so.

“Aren’t you supposed to do that in a cauldron?”

“Haven’t lost your vocal cords, I see.” She added a few twigs, making the mixture crackle.

I turned back to the window, trying to figure out if I needed to be offended or not.

The sun had begun to set by the time she came over with a syringe. “Let me have your good arm.”

“Don’t I get to drink a smelly liquid with smoke coming from it?”

She glared at me. “Your arm.”

“Why are you doing this?”

She paused, her features softening for just a moment. “I—we screwed things up. Hell, we were barely adults, messing around because we had nothing to do on a Saturday night.”

“Why only you now?” I asked out of genuine curiosity.

“The others don’t care. They’re proud of what they did. Me,” she sniffed, “if I can help at least one person, I know I at least tried.”

I tried to show sympathy in my features. I think I emoted something closer to constipation instead.

Her features hardened again. “Now, your arm.”

Sighing, I presented my right arm to her as my left was a shriveled mess. “Will this hurt?”

“Yes.” She plunged the needle into my arm, and I screamed.

*

I’m not a zombie anymore. I can eat a rare steak if I want to. I can walk around without my skin flaking off.

I found a place to live and have more than one change of clothes. I’d love to see how they look, but my reflection doesn’t show up in a mirror.

I don’t get to be myself on the train. I kind of miss that. Now, young girls flock to me. Their pupils are huge, like they’re in a trance or something.

I keep digging my fangs into my deeply red lips. Plus, I can’t go outside during the day unless it’s completely cloudy.

Also, I’m getting tired of drinking blood.

I wonder if that witch can turn me back. Third time’s the curse, right?