Eat Your Heart Out: a novella

from Chapter 1: All’s Dead That Ends Dead


My first real-life zombie encounter is a pretty low-key affair, considering I don’t even realize at the time what I’m dealing with. I’m under a lot of pressure from all sides this morning: I have to be in early at Ashbee’s Furniture Outlet to shadow the assistant manager so he can teach me how to open; I’ve actually been shadowing Biff for a week now and think I’ve got it down but the manual says every new shift leader needs two weeks of opening training and two weeks of closing training, and there is no wriggle room with Biff Tipping. So I’m already in a hurry when my girlfriend asks me to stop by the coffee shop and get her usual breakfast—a double-mocha Frappuccino thing that I’m pretty sure can’t legally be called coffee. I can’t say no to her because, as she reminds me, she did go down on me the previous night for the first time in two months. I owe her. She has to get to work too, so I am really under a time crunch. The coffee shop is of course packed so early in the morning, and while in line I watch the minute hand of my wristwatch tick past the one, and Biff calls.

“Ten minutes late and you won’t get paid for the hour,” he says.

“Okay, I’ll see you at nine then.”

“Don’t be a smartass, Devin. Just get here.”

When it is my turn up at the counter I decide to go ahead and get a treat for Biff and the others who’ll be opening today, Cherry and Brad. I don’t know what they like so I just get three extra coffees and some sugar and powdered cream on the side. I’m trying to shuffle all of this out the door when my phone starts buzzing. I can’t maneuver my hand into my pocket very smoothly while carrying the tray of coffees and holding the door open. I’m a graceless swan, fumbling around and apologizing to the line I’m holding up in front of and behind me. Finally I get the phone out and flip it to my ear, and that’s when it happens. The real-life zombie.

Only I don’t see him as a zombie, just an old drunk dude. He’s walking like he has a limp in both legs, keeping his eyes to the ground so all I can see is the skin along the part in his stringy brown hair, scabbed over like his scalp has rejected hair plugs. He’s moaning kind of low, the way you do when you just wake up and can’t quite face the day even though you know you gotta, and everyone in line just kind of moves out of his way without even needing to be touched. By the time he reaches me I can tell why everyone is backing off: he reeks, like cottage cheese in the underwear of a two-dollar hooker left out in the sun (the underwear, not the hooker, but probably the same odor would result).

“Excuse me,” I say, trying to lean up against the door to allow him access. For a brief second he looks up at me and I can see the nothing in his eyes that I mistake for a drunken stupor. He stops abruptly and then kind of slowly bends toward me, but someone elbows me in the back and I stumble past him, out the door and into the waiting line of people.

“Watch it!” someone yells.

“Devin? Are you there? Devin!” my girlfriend squawks into my ear.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m here. Sorry.” I push away from the coffee-shop entrance, distantly registering a surprised yelp behind me and a gruff response, which I assume signals the start of some sort of altercation between one patron and another, perhaps the old drunk guy.

“Devin, where the hell are you? I’m going to be late.” My girlfriend’s name is Carmelle Soufflé, like the dessert. She’s never forgiven her parents for this but still hasn’t legally changed it, so I can’t feel too bad for her. We met during college, before I dropped out, when she was working at a strip club and going by the stage name Caramel Apple. Sometimes I slip up and accidentally call her Caramel instead of Carmelle and she stops speaking to me until I make some grand gesture of apology, which usually involves a significant portion of my meager paycheck.

“I’ll be there in two minutes, honey,” I tell her. Our apartment is just on the other side of the block. This coffee shop is literally our backyard, but we’re separated by a fence so I have to walk around the whole block. We live above a small independently owned pet shop that only sells supplies for reptiles and fish, but still has kittens and puppies painted on their windows. I’ve only been inside once and there weren’t any customers and everything smelled like week-old marijuana. I think the whole store’s a front for a mild drug cartel, but no one wants to hear my theories.

Carmelle almost knocks into me as she’s rushing out the door. “Jesus, you startled me!”

She doesn’t strip anymore, but she does work at a sex shop so she still wears kind of revealing clothes. I don’t mind because I trust her but it’s late September and she’s still not wearing sleeves or pants so sometimes I get concerned for her health.

“You’re not gonna wear the jacket I bought you?” I ask her. It’s barely a jacket; it’s very light fabric that only goes to her midriff and purposely doesn’t button so her cleavage is still visible.

“Ah, baby, come on, don’t start with me.” She plucks her frozen mocha drink from the tray and presses her chest against mine to lean in and kiss me on the nose. “Don’t wait up.”

I watch her bound down the outer staircase to the sidewalk, taking a little leap off the final step, sipping at her drink as she saunters down the block. We haven’t said “I love you” yet, even though we’ve been living together for four months and dating for over a year. She’s the only girl I’ve ever been with and I’ve been kind of following her lead, so I’m not sure if I should be the one to say it first. I don’t know how she’d take it.

Since I’m at the apartment already I figure I might as well take a piss before heading on. Ashbee’s is only six blocks down the way, across from the freeway entrance, and it really doesn’t take that long to walk there. I’m sitting on the can when Biff calls again. Normally I wouldn’t answer while on the toilet, but I know it’ll just piss him off more if I don’t answer.

“You weren’t kidding about nine o’clock, huh?”

“I’m on my way, Biff.”

“If you’re over an hour late, it’s a no-call no-show. I could write you up for this.”

“I’m practically there,” I say, and flush the toilet. I can hear Biff laughing on the other end but he won’t give me the satisfaction of knowing I’ve broken his Boss Man exterior.

“Save it,” he growls. “Ten minutes.”

I’m there in twenty.

Biff isn’t waiting at the side door like usual to let me in because it’s after nine and we’re already open. I go right through the automatic glass doors and walk across the sales floor. “Hey, Devin,” Cherry calls to me from one of the bedroom displays where she’s fluffing pillows.

“Hey, Cherry. I brought coffee!”

She follows me into the back room and snags a cup. “Thanks, kiddo.” Cherry’s only three years older than me which is why I guess she thinks calling me “kiddo” is funny. She goes back out onto the sales floor.

Biff comes out of his office into the break room. I hold the Styrofoam cup out to him like a shield. His big hand wraps around it and lifts it to his lips. He eyes me as he gulps down about half the cup.

“It’s cold,” he grunts, and sets the cup back on the table.