The Loving Dead Read online

  The Loving Dead

  The Loving Dead © 2010 by Amelia Beamer

  This edition of The Loving Dead © 2010 by Night Shade Books

  Jacket art © 2010 by David Palumbo

  Jacket design by Claudia Noble (www.claudianobledesign.com)

  Interior layout and design by Michael Lee

  All rights reserved

  First Edition

  ISBN 978-1-59780-194-2

  Printed in Canada

  Night Shade Books

  Please visit us on the web at

  http://www.nightshadebooks.com

  For Charles N. Brown,

  whether or not he would have appreciated it.

  I owe my gratitude for advice and support to Mars Jokela, Gary K. Wolfe, Tim Pratt, Liza Groen Trombi, AAron Buchanan, Francesca Myman, Jeremy Lassen, Cecelia Holland, Nalo Hopkinson, Joe Monti, Alan Beatts, Michelle Boussie, Zachary Smith, Joel Brandt, David Findlay, a number of Beamers and Jokelas, and the Second Draft writers group.

  “Everyone was gray and speaking in monosyllabic tones. There was no class, no race… We’ve been beaten up. I mean, it’s so much easier to forgive a zombie.”

  —Alaina Hoffman, in the Chicago Tribune, May 4, 2009

  chapter one

  The sun had set by the time Kate left the belly dance class. Jamie, the instructor, had stayed late showing Kate a move called “the sprinkler,” where you swing your hips in a smooth figure eight, then four sharp ticks back to center. It looked like a lawn sprinkler when Jamie did it. Kate, watching herself in the mirror, thought that her attempts looked more like a dog with a hose. But after a few minutes, after all of the other girls had left, she got it.

  They walked out together from the converted warehouse. This part of Berkeley was mostly artist studios.

  “See ya next week,” Jamie called. She turned, away from the streetlight.

  “See ya,” Kate called. “Thanks again.” Despite her best intentions, she didn’t attend every week. She walked towards her car, pleasantly tired. The party Michael was throwing would be in full swing soon, but she would have a few minutes of quiet between now and then.

  “Hey,” a woman’s voice called. It sounded like Jamie. Kate looked back. Some guy had pushed Jamie up against a van. His face was dangerously close to Jamie’s. She was pushing him away. “Fuck you,” she shouted. She kicked at him. “Hey, anyone, help?”

  Kate felt a rush of panic. She dropped her finger cymbals, which made a clatter on the sidewalk like a tiny, demented marching band. She ran towards Jamie, her shoulder bag bouncing against her thigh, wishing she had a weapon. There was the little Swiss Army knife on her keychain. As if that would scare anyone.

  Kate found her voice. “Hey! Jamie?”

  Jamie turned to look at Kate. So did the guy. It was enough of a distraction for Jamie to wiggle away from him. Kate, at full speed, ran into the guy anyway. He fell. The back of his head made a wet crack on the curb. Kate stumbled, finding her balance against the van.

  “You OK?” She turned to Jamie. They both moved away from the guy.

  “Shit, honey.” Jamie spat to the side, then wiped her mouth on her bare arm. She let out a long breath. “Fucking drunk, thinking with his dick and leading with his chin,” she said. “Yeah, I’m all right.” She didn’t sound all right. She spat again.

  “What happened?” Kate asked, brushing hair behind her ears. “I heard you call out. He attack you?”

  “Something like that,” Jamie said. “You just don’t expect that, not in Berkeley. Panhandling, maybe, but not this. He just came up on me before I knew what was happening. I was looking in my purse, for my keys, you know? And before I even hardly see him he’s pushing me up against my van and trying to stick his tongue down my throat.”

  Both women looked down at the sidewalk. The guy’s eyes were closed. He was in a bad way: obviously homeless, judging by the layers of clothing he wore against the still-warm summer night. Never mind the smell. His hair looked dirty in the yellow light from the street lamp, and his face was smudged. A liquid seeped from near his groin. It bubbled on the sidewalk. Malt liquor.

  “Man.” Kate nudged the guy’s leg with her foot. He didn’t move. “Um,” she said. He could be bleeding to death from a head injury. “Hey,” she called softly. “You all right, man? Anybody in there?” Kate knelt. If he died, it’d be her fault.

  “Don’t touch him, honey. You’ll wake him up. Fucking drunk,” Jamie said. “Thinking he could rumble me for a few bucks so he can go get a Chore Boy and a rock.”

  Kate didn’t question Jamie’s interpretation. It had looked to Kate like the guy had been trying to rape Jamie. “Um,” Kate said. “Don’t you think we should call the cops or something? Report that he attacked you? Get him help?” She didn’t like police any more than the next twentysomething, but it felt wrong to just leave the guy. He didn’t seem to be bleeding, though she couldn’t tell in the low light, and she didn’t want to touch him. She thought of spending all night trying to explain to the so-called peace officers what had happened, again and again, under migraine-inducing fluorescent lights. Who would she call to bail her out if they put her in jail? Michael would be drunk already.

  Jamie gave Kate a look. She’d thought the same things, about cops and trouble.

  The guy stirred, letting out a low moan. So he wasn’t dead. That was a relief. Kate backed away from him. She glanced around. The street was dead. No one had seen what they’d done.

  “You’re right,” Kate said. “Let’s just go. My housemate’s throwing this party tonight,” she found herself saying. “There’ll be people, and food, and we’ll be safe.” The idea of being indoors, surrounded by doors that locked and people she mostly knew and trusted, sounded very appealing.

  Jamie shook her head. “I need a cigarette,” she said. She pulled a pack from her purse, and lit one. She smoked Kools, which Kate found odd. Belly dancers were supposed to smoke American Spirits, or roll their own. Jamie lit it, then fished a set of keys from her purse. The metal gleamed in the low light.

  “I don’t want you going off alone. Not after this. Just come for a little while, check it out,” Kate said. She didn’t normally invite people over to Michael’s parties, but she didn’t normally attack dudes on the street, either. “Come on, let’s go.”

  “All right,” Jamie said. “Should I follow you, or…?” She used two fingers from the hand that was holding the cigarette to smooth a strand of her long hair.

  “Sure,” Kate said. She looked around again. It was unnatural, how quiet the street was. “I just want to go before someone else happens along. My house is up in the hills, and it’s easy to get lost, so yeah, you should follow me. I’m just down the block, I’ll go get my car.”

  “And leave me alone here?” Jamie glanced around the street. The end of her cigarette glowed.

  “Well, how about you drive me to my car—” Kate said. She saw movement. The guy was sitting up, bracing himself against the curb. His mouth was bleeding. He blinked, touched the pocket that now held the shards of his beer bottle. He moaned in dismay.

  “Come on. I’m getting spooked,” Kate said. “He’s going to be able to describe us. Pick us out of a lineup,” she whispered. She was ready to run; ready to shove Jamie into a car if that was what it would take. She took Jamie’s hand, pulling her to the other side of the van, so the guy couldn’t see them.

  Jamie unlocked her door, moving fast. “You get in on my side.” Her tone had changed: she sounded scared. She was starting to get it.

  Kate obeyed. She barely knew Jamie, had been going to Jamie’s class off and on for a year or so. They hadn’t spoken outside of that context before tonight.

  The guy struggled to his feet. Kate saw him through the window.
She covered her mouth with her hand. Jamie started the engine. The guy touched his jaw, then put his hand to the side window. The van lurched forward. The guy followed, but they soon lost him. His handprint remained.

  chapter two

  Hardly had Michael brought in Audrey and Cameron and showed them to the drinks than there was another knock on the door.

  “Let someone else get it,” Audrey said. “Check this out; I want you to admire my getup.” She wore a black vinyl dress that showed off her legs. “And the nails,” she said, offering her hand as if to be kissed. She had applied long black acrylics. “I already knocked off one of them on the way here,” she said. In her other hand she held a small single-tail whip. The cutest girl at Trader Joe’s and a redhead to boot: Michael still had a bit of a crush on her.

  “If I had a hat, I would tip it,” Michael said. “And your partner here, also a very fine job of costuming.”

  “We didn’t really come together,” Cameron said. “I mean, we came here together, but we’re not together.”

  “We’ve come together before, baby,” Audrey said, interrupting.

  “Which is by way of saying,” Cameron continued, “that if there’s any particularly nice girls that I don’t know who are coming to this party, you should point them out.” Cameron wore a white T-shirt with a pair of handcuffs around one wrist, which he promptly applied to the cap of a beer bottle.

  “Dude, it’s a twist-off,” Michael said.

  “So can you tell who I am?” Cameron asked. He held the open beer as if it were a microphone. “Beyoncé had one of the best videos of all time!”

  Audrey turned to Michael, holding a plastic cup she’d filled with wine. “Would you please introduce Kanye here to some other girl? He’s going to think that we’re back together.”

  Cameron shrugged. “George Bush hates black people?”

  Michael wasn’t sure if Audrey was joking. It was always hard to tell with her. “Chick on the couch there was in my AP English class senior year.” He pointed. “Natalie. Top hat, holding the golden gun? She did a dramatic reading from Hunter S. Thompson’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, the speech about the hippie zeitgeist that would roll over the nation with the unassailable force of nature. You’d like her. I’d introduce you but I’m afraid of her myself. Excuse me. I hear the door. Again.” Derek and Amy were standing in the foyer; Derek must have let Amy in, and now that she was there, Derek would see no reason to open the door ever again.

  Michael opened the door. It was already nine o’clock and Kate wasn’t back from her dance thing. He’d thought of texting her but had decided against it. Henry stood there, holding an IV pole. “Hey man, come on in.” Michael shook Henry’s hand. “Nice digs.”

  “Thanks.” A few drops of Henry’s costume dribbled onto his chin, and he wiped at it with the back of his hand. He was wearing a hospital gown. His IV pole held a clear bag filled with red fluid, with a tube leading to his mouth. “It’s Merlot. I’ve been wanting to do this ever since they stopped making the metallic space bags and started making them clear. You know, box wine? Transfusion bags, I call them. I stole all of the medical gear from work, in between cleaning up people’s vomit.”

  “You sure you won’t come back to TJ’s?” Michael asked.

  “What, and leave show business? Naw, dude, I’m going to go to nursing school. Nurses work four ten-hour shifts every week, or three twelves, and I can arrange them so that I get a week or more off at a time.”

  “You’d have time for a second job! What about the generous employee discount?”

  Another knock sounded on the door. “Drinks over there,” Michael said. “Go ingratiate yourself with all of the people you left behind.” He opened the front door and studied the young man holding the pizza boxes. The costume was impeccable, down to the baseball cap emblazoned with the Cybelle’s logo. But the guy didn’t look familiar. He must have heard about the party from someone. “Friend of the bride or the groom?” Michael asked. Then he remembered. “Shit, the pizza’s here.”

  “Um, it’ll be sixty-three forty-five. You said you had a coupon?”

  “Just a second.” He went and found the coupons, and tore off the applicable ones. He felt dumb. How many beers had he had already? Only three or so. He counted out cash, and paid the driver, giving him five bucks extra.

  “Soup’s up.” Michael put the pizzas on the ancient electric range, making sure that he didn’t accidentally press any of the buttons that turned on the burners. He set plates on the table.

  There was a fumbling at the door. Michael went to check that it was unlocked. He turned the lock, then the knob. Finally he managed to pull the door open. Kate was standing there, holding the doorknob, her keys in the lock. She looked worried.

  “Hey, roomie. You OK? Your timing’s perfect: pizza just got here,” Michael said. “Oh, hi,” he said, seeing the woman Kate had brought. “C’mon in. I’m Michael.”

  Kate pushed her way in and shut the door behind them. She took something from the woman and hung it up on the key rack by the door. Keys.

  “What are you supposed to be?” Michael asked.

  “I told you I was coming as a belly dancer,” Kate said. “This is what they wear to practice in. Also this is Jamie. She’s a belly dancer, too.”

  “That’s cool. So, you sure you’re all right?”

  “No shit. You won’t believe what just happened,” Kate said. “Seriously. Well, maybe you’d believe me. We’re leaving class, and—oh, man. I just remembered that I left my finger cymbals on the sidewalk. Anyway, this guy straight up attacks Jamie. And then,” she glanced at her friend, who had found her way to a couch and sat down.

  “It’s a good thing you were there, no shit,” the woman said. She picked up a magazine from the low table. She was gorgeous, no two ways about it. Michael made a mental note to hang out with more belly dancers. Kate could introduce him. He could take up playing drums or something. Start dreading his hair.

  “You’re kidding,” Michael said. “No, you’re not kidding.” He turned to the woman. “Are you OK? Would you like some pizza? Or a drink? Or should I call the cops or something?”

  Jamie nodded and then shook her head no, then smiled. “I’ll check it out. Thanks.” She went towards the kitchen.

  “So what did you do?” Michael asked.

  “I shoved him down, and he conked his head on the sidewalk.”

  “Shit. No kidding.” This wasn’t the Kate he knew.

  “I thought he might have been dead, but he was breathing,” she said, lowering her voice. “He scared the daylights out of me. I thought I might have killed him. There was beer everywhere; it must have broken when he fell. I wanted to call the cops, but I didn’t. We just left.”

  “Sounds like he was just a drunk. He’ll walk it off,” Michael said. He wasn’t sure whether it was true, but he didn’t want to make Kate feel bad. “You OK, though? Want a Xanax?” he asked quietly.

  Kate ran a hand through her hair, which smelled of cigarette smoke. “Yeah. I think so. At least until the cops show up and arrest me for leaving the scene of a crime, anyway.” She lowered her voice. “And yes, on the Xanax. Also, my car’s still on the street in Berkeley. Maybe you can take me there in the morning to get it? We ended up driving back here together. To tell the truth, I didn’t want her to go off alone. Not that I don’t trust her, I just didn’t want her driving any distance by herself. She lives in the city, I think in the Sunset, by the ocean.” They both looked at Jamie, deep in conversation with Natalie.

  Michael put his arm around Kate’s shoulders. She didn’t shrug him off. He suspected that Kate didn’t trust Jamie. That they barely knew one another. Jamie was a witness to whatever it was that happened, whether or not it was a crime. “I could make an anonymous tip, you know. If you were concerned about this guy. Have the cops go check on him. It wouldn’t come back to you.”

  “And what would you say? No, don’t worry about it. It’s nothing. He’s fine. I’m just overrea
cting.”

  “I believe you,” Michael said. He didn’t, not entirely, but he didn’t want to make an issue of it. His arm was still around her. He had an urge to lean in, kiss her ear. Instead he took a tiny pill from his pocket and handed it to her. She smiled her thanks. He knew that she knew that there wasn’t enough Xanax for everyone, and he appreciated her being quiet about it.

  “You got one more?” she asked, her mouth near his ear again. He could feel the tickle of her words on his skin. “You know. For Jamie.”

  “My last one. For you, baby.” He liked her. She had to know that. She must enjoy it, knowing that she had his attention. He could play this game as long as she could. He handed another of the tiny pills to her.

  They went into the kitchen. Kate poured herself a glass of wine, surreptitiously put a pill in her mouth, and drank.

  “So I was studying, like every afternoon, at Cato’s,” Sam was saying. He was holding court, leaning against the kitchen counter and gesturing with a slice of pizza. He was dressed as a hooker from the early 1980s, with teal leggings and black tube top. His long hair was curled into a Farrah Fawcett, and he wore fake eyelashes. “I look up, and there’s this lady zombie looking at me through the window. Less than a foot away, through the big glass windows, you know? And I scream and spill my beer, because she caught me by surprise, and I see that the whole street is full of zombies. Walking slowly, with their arms out. Limping and staggering. Groaning and rolling their eyes.”

  “Dude, you study in a bar?” Michael asked. “You’re going to paramedic school; don’t you have to be smart for that?” He helped himself to a slice of pepperoni and mushroom, not bothering with a plate.

  Sam didn’t stop. “Zombies!” he was saying. “Walking down Piedmont Avenue! And everyone in Cato’s is laughing. That lady zombie gives me a big grin, and she’s got most of her teeth blacked out, and then, only then, do I see that it’s makeup. There isn’t even any on her neck, although her face was gray. Like a B movie. She blows me a kiss and then walks away.” Sam heaved a theatrical sigh. “I chased after her, trying to get her number, but I lost her in the crowd.”