R.M. Cooper

Neighborly

Winner of the 2024 American Literary Review fiction contest, Judged by SJ Sindu

The zombie couple across the street is fucking again.

Second story, right in front of the windows for the whole neighborhood to see. Some of the skin is a bit more flappy due to rot, and most of the dirty talk is sophomoric (almost unintelligible), but it’s otherwise the same principles as non-zombie sex. There’s gyrating. Thrusting. Commentary on body fluids, size, etc. All the usual stuff—until they pause. On a position change, the left side of Patrick’s jaw falls off. Just breaks clean away and tumbles across Rachel’s breast. A long line of still-connected muscle and tendon pendulums from Patrick’s newly-formed mouth cavity.

Mouth cavity. Jesus. That’s a word I never thought I’d say.  

This is so disgusting. Repulsive. I mean, my college boyfriend once sneezed on me during sex, and I didn’t call him for a week. But a jaw falling off? It’s grounds for divorce. Yet without hesitation, Rachel dips her hip so her husband’s jaw can slip off her and out of sight. Then the zombies are back to screwing like nothing happened. I know this is gross, so I won’t keep going on. Besides to say she’s obviously faking. Not that he seems to notice. But then, part of his face is missing, so emotion is hard to read.

I start dialing the police, then shake my head. Put my phone away. It’d be my fifth call this month, and nothing has come of it. I mean, the average drunk driver drives impaired 80 times before being caught. What are the chances of my neighbors being arrested?

“You think they still feel anything?” Donna asks. She nods across the street from her couch/bed. Eyes wide. “I mean, they’re falling apart.”

I know what she means. Across the street, Patrick nibbles on Rachel’s ear, and I’m grateful when it doesn’t come clean off. The truth is, I don’t know much about them. Zombies, I mean. I suppose I could learn. There are books. Understanding Z. You Are Not Your Rot. Undead Isn’t Unamerican. But I don’t want to learn about my neighbors in some abstract, academic way. Their names are Rachel and Patrick, and I haven’t slept well for five months because of their sex life. It’s simple as that.

While I don’t know about undead neurobiology, I know statistics. Like: 72% of zombies lose their sex drives within the first year of diagnosis. Most (non-zombie) Americans have sex once a week. So this? Zombies screwing five times a week? It’s statistically impossible. An outlier. Like getting struck by lightning. Twice. Or dying in a submarine fire. It’s a joke. It’s cruel. It’s just goddamn unfair.

But I don’t want to discuss the zombies with Donna. Because I don’t want to discuss anything with Donna. I just want her off my couch.

Donna aims her phone across the street. Taps her thumb against the screen. Takes a picture.

“Stop doing that,” I say. “It’s disgusting.”

“Don’t be such a prude,” Donna says. “Some people are into it.”

“Is that what you do all day? Zombie porn after Twitter?”

“Yes, Carrie. I’m addicted to zombie porn. You can add it to my list of indiscretions along with not washing the cereal spoons.”

I roll my eyes. Because that’s the end of the conversation. Just another of the dozen arguments we’ve been not-having for weeks, including: When is she moving out? When will she get a job or at least go to an AA meeting (I heard they’re open to opioid addicts too)? Which is always a way of asking: When will she get her life together and leave mine?

Did you know 91% of opioid addicts experience relapse? That’s a fact. I just don’t want Donna to still be on my couch when it happens. Then “temporary place to crash” doesn’t become so temporary.

But before I can start in, Teddy Fredrick drives past on his riding mower. Teddy became a zombie a few months back and spends most of his days riding up and down the street, a red MAGA hat faded to pink from the years of afternoon sun. Hat aside, Teddy and I used to get along okay. We avoided talking politics. We waved from the mailbox. But then Teddy became undead shortly after his wife (actually) died. Now? Teddy spends most of waking hours on the riding mower, chewing at this patch of skin above his wrist. He’s doing it now as he drives past. Pulls with his teeth, stretching the skin long and pink like a kid toying with a stick of Bubblicious.

“Should be impossible,” Donna says. She points her phone at Rachel and Patrick again. “I mean, do you think he even gets bloodflow? Or do you think he’s using one of those pumps so he can… Oh. Never mind.”

Donna zooms. Snaps another photo.

“That’s it,” I say. “I’m sending a letter to the HOA.”

There’s a trail behind the zombie house. On nights the zombie sex keeps me up, I walk it.

The path is part of this larger trail system which opens to all the cafes and shops downtown. I used to walk the whole length at nights, not get back until midnight or later sometimes. Now I stick to the section behind the zombies. Behind Rachel and Patrick’s. Pace the same block again and again. I don’t know why. But I’ve wondered.

Possibilities include:

1. Voyeurism: I like watching zombie sex. No different than Donna, or the other 35% of Americans who dabble in the pleasure of others.
   The truth: Doubtful. From behind the house, you can’t see any of the bedroom action. I have a better view of the corpse sex from my living room.
2. I’m looking for a fight: Because I hate my neighbors.
   Again, unlikely. I carry one of those personal pepper spray bottles with me, but I’ve done that since college. And after witnessing a threesome with the FedEx guy last month, I’m not sure how effective the spray would be. Rachel sucked Patrick’s eye out of the socket like a goddamn melon baller, and Patrick didn’t even flinch. So I don’t think they feel much anymore. And I mean, you never see Tom Cruise mowing down the undead with an aerosol can in the movies.
3. It’s political: I don’t want conspiracy theory, flat-earthers on my street.
   Did you know zombies are 65% more likely to vote for fringe candidates? Those are facts. Same as only 4% of marriages are outside their political party or that only 20% of the global population wash their hands after the bathroom. I take no pleasure in knowing these things. In fact, I wish I could un-know some them (especially the bathroom thing). But knowing what I do, it’s possible I’m looking for another (statistically-likely) reason to hate my neighbors. For example, should I learn Rachel and Patrick are also neo-Nazis or super racist or into chemtrails or something, I won’t mind calling the cops all the time.

But I’m probably overthinking this. Because the only statistic that matters: Before zombies, 75% of Americans disliked their neighbors. In that five years since, that number is up to 82%.

So I’m not alone here. Zombies are assholes.

I’m thinking about all this as I walk the path and spot Rachel on the back deck. And maybe it’s just my imagination, but I feel like Rachel’s watching me.

I try not to notice. Which is easy to do. Most of her eyebrows are gone, which makes the whole “suburbs stare” hard for her to pull off. Besides, she might not be looking at me at all. Might just be staring at nothing, and my thinking otherwise is some sort of zombie anthropomorphism no different than wondering what’s in a cat/hamster/baby’s head. Half of Rachel’s brain is probably gone. I mean, 36 million Americans can’t read at a third-grade level. Add zombie into the mix? If I could read Rachel’s mind, I’d probably be disappointed.

I glance back. Rachel’s still watching.

Another fact: 28% of suburban homeowners also own guns. Among zombies, that number is 42%.

I quicken my pace.

“Can I see those pictures you took of Rachel and Patrick?”

That brightens Donna’s face. She elbows herself up from the couch.

“I knew it,” she says. “You’re such a perv-hypocrite.”

“It’s not like that,” I say.

“I bet,” Donna says. “You want pics of your neighbors screwing for educational purposes.”

I go to the dining room table, pick up the HOA letter, and hand it to Donna. Skim the half-page over her shoulder:

It is the policy of Sapphire Point Village to protect home values in our community through a fair and unbiased review process.

We understand your concern about your neighbors in 2210 Landlark Circle. We ask that you please follow the standard review process:

1. Please document any behavior which is in breach of HOA bylaws.
2.  Review state and city ordinances regarding the videotaping and audio recording of neighbors.
3. Photographic evidence (political signage, lawn neglect, home disrepair) is effective in the event of a hearing…

Donna hands back the letter, doesn’t say anything.

When she doesn’t offer her phone, I sigh. Remind myself opioids have short- and long-term effects. I shouldn’t hold my friend accountable for what the drugs did to her body (even if she did the drugs). I mean, more people die each year from prescription drugs than illegal ones. So I should have some sympathy.

(But then, exponentially more people use prescriptions than illegal drugs. So that statistic is a little misleading.)

“They want photos,” I say. “You have hundreds on your phone. Send me a few, and I’ll finally get a good night’s sleep.”

“I wasn’t taking pictures so you could blackmail your neighbors.”

“This isn’t blackmail,” I say. “They’re breaking the law.”

“HOA laws aren’t real laws.”

“You can’t be serious.”

I make a point of eyeing the bottle of Benadryl beside her bed—which isn’t fooling anyone. I peeked inside once. The two remaining pills were orange, not pink. But that’s the start of another dozen conversations Donna and I have been avoiding. I mean, Donna lost her job early in her addiction, so where is she getting the money for drugs? Why does she think she can still take them right in front of me? As much as she complains about me being a rules Nazi, Donna is living on my couch rent free. Rent fee. Doing drugs. Just what the fuck is she thinking?

I decide to push her a little.

“And I suppose that’s strictly legal? A sleep aid?”

Donna stiffens. Then she gets defensive.

Donna says I wouldn’t care if Rachel and Patrick weren’t zombies. Which is to say, if they were regular—non-dead—people. That I wouldn’t be sending letters to the HOA or looking into fifty-year-old city ordinances. That I need to get out of my echo chamber. That I should take part in city council meetings instead of just complaining. That if I were a zombie, if I were in their place, I might do the exact same thing.

“I know it’s bad timing for you,” Donna says. “After Ben left…” she trails off, seems to choose her next words carefully. “That was his decision, Carrie. It took all of us by surprise.”

I wait for her to finish. Then I ask the question.

“You really aren’t going to help me?”

Donna shakes her head. “It’s reprehensible.”

I laugh. Actually laugh at that.

“You’re going to lecture me on ethics? Do you know where drug money goes, Don? It isn’t exactly saving forests in the Amazon.”

Donna frowns.

“Try to think about it from their perspective,” she says.

I blink. I try to imagine my husband’s jaw falling off during sex.

“I can’t,” I say.

From 1993 to 2008, only 24% of violent crimes were between strangers. Which means 76% of violence occurs between acquaintances. 76%. Combine that with the fact that 82% of Americans dislike their neighbors, and the math doesn’t add up favorably.

That’s what I think about when Patrick wakes me, roaring in orgasm the next week. I climb out of bed, cross the street, and walk the path behind the zombie house. Pace twice, thinking about those statistics before I do anything. Consider the pros and cons. What the police might think. Then I stop thinking.

Their back gate is open.

I enter my neighbors’ backyard.

I stand there. Slip off one of my sandals, feel my neighbor’s lawn on my bare feet. And I’m ashamed to say I get a little thrill from it. Get this childish rush of energy. I flex my toes. Smile. It’s a Thursday, and according to the HOA watering schedule, the grass should be wet from the sprinklers. I bend down, run my hands through the blades. It’s soaked. And there’s something hilarious about that. Something really fucking funny about zombies following a watering schedule.

I look towards the house. I can still hear them, screeching around front. Rachel’s going on about Patrick’s… I’ll spare you. Her half-rotted vocal cords can barely manage the word anyways. It sounds like, Cccck. Cccck.

When I turn to leave, I close the gate behind me a little harder than necessary. The latch catches, makes a loud SNAP so the whole fence rattles as I walk away. I take a deep breath. Look back again. Picture the zombies inside. Mid-climax when they hear the latch and pause. I hope they look to the back of the house, and then each other. And for a moment, I want them to feel the way I have. Uncomfortable in their own home.

But Rachel just keeps screaming.

The thing with recovering addicts is everything could be a warning sign. Sleeping too much/not enough. Over/under eating. Watching too much/little TV. Becoming consumed with current events/ignoring the world. Overly positive/negative. Anything/everything. I mean, 46% of adults report having a family member with an addiction, but the NIH report only 10% of Americans suffer from addiction. So either the NIH is wrong, or none of us know what constitutes a “warning sign.”

But when I see this tall, too-pale guy pull a rundown Buick out of my driveway, there’s no second-guessing intent. The term “warning sign” doesn’t cut it. I mean, Donna’s a recovering addict, and the guy was literally counting a wad of cash as he drove away from my home.

I’m standing down the street by the mailbox cluster when the Buick drives by. I start for home, resolute to confront Donna. Then I round the street and nearly run into Rachel.

I try not to look at her. Try. The same way you try not to look at anyone with a handicap or a burn scar. You become self-aware of looking too much/not enough. But zombie is hard to ignore. There’s a long line of drool running down her chin. Her eyes are brown-yellow, bulging and a little lopsided. Her neck twitches, which sets off a long series of spasms down to her left wrist. She sees me watching and glances down at her arm, almost accusatorily, as if the nerves had a mind of their own. When she looks back, there’s no expression on her face. Just a blank stare which decades of zombie movies has taught me means one thing: Hunger.

Those violent crime stats flash to mind.

I take a step backwards.

I say something like, “Excuse me,” or “Nice day,” and try to step into the street and around her. But the zombie matches my movement. I try again, and Rachel mirrors me. Her feet make this sharp, clicking sound on the sidewalk. Click-click. Click-click. I look down. She’s wearing these cheap-looking heels. (The sort of thing you’d get from Amazon or Wish.com to wear one night, feel sexy in a disposable way.) Her skin is paper-thin, and I can actually see some of her thigh bone before it disappears beneath this too-short skirt. And that’s when I realize Rachel is out of breath. Chest heaving. Staring me down.

Rachel came outside for a reason. Ran. In a skirt. In heels. Which means this was probably unplanned. Something brought her out here unexpectedly. And it seems that something is me.

Rachel takes a jerking step towards me. Her neck convulses at an all-wrong angle. I take a step back. My heart racing.

Rachel mouths a word which sounds like, “Lmmm…”

She rolls her jaw. Stares at me. And I force myself to calm down. My neighbor isn’t rushing me. Isn’t ringing my neck or sinking her teeth into my throat. She’s trying to speak.

“Lmmm, niiii…”

Rachel’s lips purse. And I sense a very human frustration when she tries again.

“Lmmm, niiii yooo…”

And it clicks. Instantly. Last night. The backyard. The grass. I’m so sleep deprived, I’d nearly forgotten. Passed the memory off as a dream. But then reality floods in, and my heart skips a beat. She knows. My neighbor knows I was in her yard and has come to confront me. Rachel. All the stats about violent crimes and neighbors disappear.

A zombie is pissed at me. A zombie within biting distance.

You don’t need statistics to appreciate that.

I wait a minute. Rachel’s tongue falls half-limp over her chin. She points at me.

“Lmmm, niiii, yoooo…”

When she fails again, I begin to understand what’s happening. My neighbor is confronting me, but her vocal cords won’t cooperate. She’s furious, but can’t say the words.

I have to fight back a smile.

“I’m sorry,” I say. Plainly. Curtly. “I don’t understand.”

Rachel frowns. Pointed at me. “Lmmm, niiii—”

I hold up the mail. Speak slowly. Confidently. Enunciate the words for her benefit like a child lording knowledge of colors over a toddler.

“Got my mail,” I say. “I really should get going. Bye.”

I step into the street. Move around her. And for all the tropes about zombies catching the living, Rachel’s reaction is slow. Glacial. Her eyes barely track as I move around her. Her legs wobble in the high-heels.

And then, I decide to push my luck.

“By the way, is that you and Patrick I keep hearing in the evening?”

Rachel blinks. She turns her head as if she doesn’t understand or can’t hear, and I wonder if she can. If her eardrums have been lost to rot. So I speak louder.

“Last night?” I say. “You were loud. Let’s keep the fucking PG-13, okay?”

If her cheek wasn’t missing, I swear Rachel’s would be red.

I walk away. Because I can. Because there’s nothing the zombie can do. I’m halfway down the block when I hear a sudden rush of heels.

Click-click-click. Click-click-click.

The zombie is chasing after me.

I ready myself to flight, tense my legs to run, when the clicking stops, replaced by a thick snapping. And a groan of pain.

I turn. Rachel is a dozen yards behind me, crumpled on the sidewalk. She’s looking at the place her foot lays beside her, still in the heel, severed at the ankle. A disembodied piece of corpse lays on the sidewalk.

I look from the heel to Rachel. And Rachel does the same. Shoots a glare at me. There’s so much rage. So much hate. No mistaking it. Nothing lost, nothing undead in the expression. If she could reach me, the woman would kill me. Right here in broad daylight, as if I’d broken her leg myself. Pure hatred. Nothing zombie about it.

And I’m not sure what to do. What to think. Whether to help. And then Teddy Fredrick drives by on his mower. Teddy sees Rachel and U-turns towards her. I wave, Teddy puffs a bit of loose lip in acknowledgment. And that’s when I do the neighborly thing. Rachel is pissed at me. Furious. I doubt she wants my help. It’s probably like in movies where a character in a wheelchair refuses help when they fall. Zombies are probably like that. A detached limb? Probably happens all the time. Haven’t I seen zombies in movies stick missing limbs back on like it’s nothing? Regardless, they don’t want anyone feeling sorry for them. Especially someone they hate.

So I do the neighborly thing. Feign interest in something down the street. Turn back to my house. Walk away.

“You won’t believe…” I began once inside. Then, “Donna?”

Donna is asleep on the couch. Her chest rising and falling in a steady one-two. On the side table is the bottle of Benadryl.

I cross the room, open the bottle. Last I checked, there were two, maybe three pills inside. Now there are a few dozen. Bright orange. Thick. Medical-grade.

I guess that 91% likely relapse just happened on my couch.

I go to the bathroom. Flush the pills and return the empty bottle to the table with a note beside it.

NOT OKAY, I write.

Then add, SEND ME ZOMBIE PICS.

That night, the sex is the worst yet. The roaring. The screeching. It’s like the zombies are rehearsing parts in a porno. No emotional development. No character arc. He just roars and she moans back. Animal sounds. It’s been going on for hours. Must be that weird, all-night sex that sounds horrific to ordinary people, but for some reason appeals to the undead and Sting. Tantric sex. That’s what it’s called. I Google it on my phone and then roll my eyes. It’s so obscure, there aren’t any statistics on how many people practice it, which is saying something.

It’s 3 AM when I go out into the street. I don’t bother with the path. Don’t act like I’m wandering into their backyard by mistake. I cross into their driveway, pause, jostle the wine bottle against my hip. The bottle is from Christmas, something I won in a raffle from the office party. I want to be clear: I’m not drunk. I haven’t even broken the seal. What’s about to happen has nothing to do with alcohol, just the bottle.

I rear back, aim for the second story window, and throw the bottle. But it’s heavy, so the bottle misses the house, lands on their front porch. Shatters like burgundy shrapnel. Glass and red everywhere.

Rachel screams. Not a scream of pleasure. A scream of fright which cuts short. Abrupt. Unnaturally so. And part of me hopes her vocal cords finally gave away to rot, and I won’t have to hear her screaming every night. I pray it’s true.

I break into a sprint after throwing the bottle. Don’t think. Open the garage, get in the car, and just start driving.

The only destination I can think of is this twenty-four hour coffee shop in town. I order an espresso, find a seat. There’s one old man at the table behind me, but otherwise the place is empty. He’s wearing an old army jacket. Looks like he’s bought the coffee for somewhere to sleep. I get up, take a table a little further away. I know how that looks, to be judgmental of the homeless. But violence is 35% higher amongst the homeless population. 35%. I’m not reporting the guy to the police for existing, but I’m not going to feign ignorance either. Statistics are a reflection of reality, and the probability of what reality will become. Ignoring that is a fantasy. Pure fantasy.

But then, maybe I’m overthinking. The man is asleep. Seems passed out, maybe. I know I won’t be so lucky. It’s five in the morning. Too late/early for me to bother with sleep. I’m still too energized from throwing the bottle to relax, so I might as well stay up until morning. I take out my phone and start to scroll the internet. Instagram and TikTok and the rest. Then Twitter. I haven’t been on in weeks, and when I thumb my profile, I see Donna’s as an option from the drop menu. I’d completely forgotten. She borrowed my phone weeks back. She said she had some time-sensitive, business meeting. I thought she was making a joke, but then she just stared at me. I handed her my phone and tried not to make a big deal about it.

I have hours to kill, so I log in. Start scrolling through Donna’s feed. Her follows. Her saved messages.

Scroll.

See the money.

Scroll. Scroll.

When I stand, I’m so angry I knock my chair over backwards. The elderly man wakes at the next table, sees me and blinks. That crime statistic flashes to mind, but the man just looks around, slowly remembers where he is, and falls soundly asleep.

“You’ve been selling pictures of them?”

I show Donna my phone, as if she’d need proof. There are hundreds of money orders followed by messages back with attachments. The setup is simple. Obvious, even. I mean, 30% of the internet’s traffic is porn, but I never thought a central-porn-node would be my house. On my couch. It’s basically what you think: Donna photographs our zombie neighbors’ sex, and strangers from the internet fetish community pay her. Pay her well. A few hundred dollars for a photo. More for a video. Lots more.

Donna looks up at me. She shakes her head. She doesn’t know what to say.

“I flushed your pills,” I say.

“I know,” she says.

There’s a lot I don’t bother saying then. That this is why she didn’t want to turn our neighbors in to the HOA. Not for some altruistic reason, but for easy money. To buy more drugs. To never leave my couch. 21 million Americans suffer from addiction. 21 million. But only 10% receive treatment. This isn’t about the HOA or zombies or any of that. It’s about Donna. About which part of the statistic she wants to become. About who she’s becoming.

And she dared try and make this about Ben. Dared say I was being unfair, treating zombies differently. I want to ask how much money Donna would’ve made if she was photographing non-zombies screwing across the street. I want to ask if she ever planned to tell them. To tell me. I want to say so much.

I shake my head. Then my fists. I can’t stop doing it. Just shaking. I’m so furious.

Donna looks up at me. “Are you mad that I used, or that I never sent you the pictures?”

I ignore that.

“This is seriously fucked up, Donna,” I say. “Even for you.”

Donna shakes her head. There are tears in her eyes.

Eventually she offers, “Today was the first time. The pills. I’ve been clean.”

“Bullshit,” I say. “I saw, Donna. You’ve made thousands off those pictures.”

Donna shakes her head again. “It’s true. I’ve been trying to save enough to get my own place. To get out of here. To just…” Donna shudders. The movement sends tears down her cheeks. “I know you hate me.”

The words are a whisper. Barely a breath. Again. My friend says it again.

“I know you hate me so much.”

When Donna says it, the anger inside me dissipates. Because I hear how much she means it. My friend thinks I hate her.

Knows I do.

“That isn’t true,” I say. “I hate what you’ve become, not—”

Donna looks up at me, and I don’t dare another word. There’s nothing to say when someone looks at you like that. They know the truth. They’ve known for a long time. And the truth is hurting them. Hurting them so horribly.

Eventually Donna leaves the room. She runs the upstairs shower for a long time. Outside, the sky has grayed with the approaching day. I leave for work before Donna ever turns off the water.

The following night, the street is quiet. And the night after that. And the night after that.

I don’t know what Donna did, but I can guess.

And that’s the problem. The guessing. It’s why I haven’t slept in weeks.

That day after the fight, Donna left. Was gone by the time I got home from work. She left a note and a USB drive on the kitchen counter. The note was basic. Said she was grateful for everything I’d done. She said I was right. She apologized, though she didn’t say what for. Signed her name. Then, the PS:

Check the USB. I hope it makes up for everything.

I plugged in the drive to my laptop and pulled it out immediately. It’s exactly what you expect. What I hoped. The drive was filled with hundreds of pictures of Rachel and Patrick mid-fuck. Some really disgusting stuff. Leather. Missing limbs as props. All the while an intensity in their eyes. That hunger you hear about, right there, saved to digital. It was more than enough for the HOA. More than enough to get my home back. To get my life back.

Not that I ever needed to.

That same night, the street was quiet. Silent.  

No more sex.

No more screaming.

No more reason to throw wine bottles at my neighbors’ home.

No explanation. No reason. Just quiet. Unsettlingly so.

I know Donna did something. Sent a copy to Rachel and Patrick or the HOA or otherwise greased the blackmail gears. That much seems obvious. It’s too much of a coincidence otherwise. And that’s why I can’t sleep at night. I never heard anything from the HOA or police. Which leaves one obvious answer. Donna must’ve contacted Rachel and Patrick. And from the angle of the photos, it wouldn’t be hard for the zombies to guess where they came from.

And I mean, scary part? Every night for months, those two screwed. I never saw the TV on. Never saw them read a book. Nothing. Just sex.

There was once an experiment where researchers gave chimps toys and treats for months, and then took them away. Within two weeks, the chimps turned violent. A month later, one of the researchers was attacked during feeding, and they had to stop the experiment.

It’s been a month of quiet. And every night, I watch the house across the street from the couch where Donna slept. Wondering how much they know. How much their minds can process. How much they can hate. How long I have.

After four nights of sleeplessness, people start to hallucinate. 11% of the population gets critically little sleep.

I am now part of that statistic.

Another week passes. The sleeplessness continues. It’s reached the level of exhaustion where time moves in strange leaps. That long, all-encompassing exhaustion where your brain starts playing tricks on you. Wakes you up in the night to the phantom-sounds of zombie sex. Makes you think someone is at your window. In your kitchen. With each night, it takes longer to remember the difference between dream and reality. At night in that empty house, it seems anything is possible except that I’m alone.

And that’s what makes me do it. The sleeplessness. The paranoia. I do something unthinkable.

I walk upstairs, grab the USB off the counter, stuff it in an envelope, and start across the street. I hope the zombies will see it as a peace offering. Some sort of resolution. I plan to leave it on their front step. Wrote FROM A NEIGHBOR in big block letters across the envelope. I don’t care anymore if they know it’s me. I’ve long since assumed they do. I just want this to be over. I just want to sleep.

I climb the front steps. Stand there for a moment. Look at the stain from the wine bottle. It spider-webs across the concrete. No red, just a dark shadow in the night. I’m still standing there looking at it when Patrick opens the door.

And then anything I’ve planned is gone.

I haven’t seen him in weeks, and in that time the man’s lost most of his face. His left cheekbone breaks skin. His nose sags at the end, hangs crooked, loose at the edges like he tried to sew it back on. But that’s all I can make out. The door is only cracked open, the chain still holding to the doorframe. Patrick watches me cautiously with his good eye like he’s afraid I’m going to break into his home. Rob him. Hurt him.

I don’t ask him to open up. I just slip him the envelope and begin the lie.

“I found out my friend was, um… recording your, um…” I don’t know how to say it. Recording your sex life. It isn’t exactly polite conversation. “I um… I just… I’m really sorry. For what she did.”

Patrick takes the envelope. Looks me up and down like he doesn’t understand a word I’ve said. His eye is yellowed to near-brown like fetid water, his expression as impossible to read as ever. But if I didn’t know better, I’d think the man looks at me like I’m crazy.

Something spills out of me, and suddenly I can’t stop talking. It’s like I’m a little kid again in church. In that confession booth. I can’t stop admitting to things. About the backyard. About the wine bottle. All of it. I’ve come this far. I need this to be done.

All though it, Patrick just stares at me. Watching my mouth instead of reacting to the words.

“Can I talk to Rachel?” I ask. “I want to tell her I’m sorry.”

Patrick looks down at the envelope. Back to me like he doesn’t understand.

“For the wine. And at the mailbox?” I shake my head. “She’ll understand.”

Patrick’s eye drifts down my neck. To my collarbone. Lower. I clutch my pajamas at my chest, and Patrick’s eye returns to mine. Maybe he’s just seeing his neighbor at 3 AM in her pajamas. Maybe there’s no hunger in his eyes. I tell myself that’s the truth. Tell myself anything to keep from sprinting back across the street. I need to see this through. I need this to end.

Patrick closes the door. And I think this is over. That I can say I tried. That I can rest easy, knowing that. Then the chain slides against the doorframe, and the door opens.

I walk past Patrick, trying not to stare. To count the teeth missing. To notice the way his ear looks partially chewed. I begin to ask where Rachel is, then I see her in the next room. All that’s left of her.

She’s lying on a bed. An oxygen mask covers her face. An IV in her one remaining arm. Her chest rises and falls, rhythmical. Mechanical.

“Is she…?” I begin.

Patrick is still standing at the door. Doesn’t say a word. Just watches his wife. Rachel doesn’t stir. Doesn’t seem aware anyone is in the room with her.

“Is she sick?” I ask. “I didn’t think it was possible for you to… God.”

I step away. From the room. The smell. From the sight. From my catatonic neighbor.

“I don’t know what I’m doing here,” I say. “I shouldn’t have come.”

I start for the door. Start for my house. Start to run when Patrick grabs my wrist. And suddenly, the fog of sleep lifts. And I see what I’ve done. What I’m doing. Where I am. In my zombie neighbor’s home. The home of people who hate me. No one knows I’m here. 65% of zombies are into conspiracies. Lunatic, fringe politics. Those are people who don’t use reason. Who don’t plan for the future.

A violent crime happens every 26 seconds in America.

Most crimes occur in the home, involving someone you know.

I wonder how many people know they’ll become a statistic before it happens.

I try to pull away, but Patrick holds tight. Vicelike. And I stop. Try to seem agreeable. It’s something you do in these situations. Tell your attacker your name. Make yourself a person to them. A human. I struggle to hold a breath. Another. Whisper.

“Carrie.”

But Patrick doesn’t seem to hear. Seems frustrated by something. I say it again. Say my name.

“Carrie.”

Then it begins to happen. The muscles tense along his face. Lips curl. Beneath paper-thin flesh, a nerve twitches blue and ropy along his neck, then goes still before reaching his throat. A dry, creaking noise passes over his remaining lips.

All that comes is air. Whatever the man’s doing, it just sounds like breathing.

“Please,” I whisper. “Please let me go.”

Patrick blinks. Seems to recognize the fear in my eyes. His movements are slow. Languid. He looks down at his hand gripping mine and seems confused by something. In the next room, Rachel makes this horrific coughing sound. I look back. Some of the machines blink, lights dance across monitors. But the room is to Patrick’s back, and he doesn’t seem to notice any of it. Doesn’t seem to hear anything.

I point. “She needs you.”

He turns. Lets me go. Simple as that.

The last thing I see before I run for home is the man looking back at his wife, that same dry sound passing over his lips. It sounds like a name.

The night the ambulances come, I’m late getting home from work. They were already there when I pull into the driveway. Parked in the street along with a police car. A firetruck. After a few minutes, a second ambulance arrives, parks across the street. The lights flashing, but the sirens off.

They weren’t in a hurry.

The whole neighborhood stands on their doorsteps, their faces flickering red and blue. After an hour, the paramedics roll a stretcher outside with a sheet over it. A body beneath. Short. A woman’s. The ambulances drive away. No sirens. No lights. And the street slowly empties, the neighbors return to their homes, and I drift to sleep on the couch in the living room. Waiting to see when Patrick will reappear.

I start scrolling statistics while I wait. A nervous habit I’ve had since Ben.

28% of Americans live alone. One-third of adults still sleep with a comfort object. I wonder if that number goes up if they’re alone, but Google doesn’t know the answer.

Where the hell is Patrick? He’s probably trying to keep himself together. To keep some dignity the way men do. 38% of men don’t talk about their feelings. 30% never show emotions to anyone. That’s all. He probably doesn’t want anyone to see him like this.

More scrolling:

The average age of a widower is 59. Life expectancy is 77 years. 44% of marriages end in divorce (leaving the rest to widows). 15% of divorces/separations get back together. The numbers are divided further by political affiliation, race, wealth. I wonder if zombies have their own data set, and then I wonder if they’re technically widowers twice: Once when their partner turns undead, and again if/when they die. But in statistics, that sort of thinking is an impossibility. An outlier. A three in a binary system. Something which shouldn’t be accounted for. Something you ignore.

I don’t know why that makes me call Donna, but I do without thinking. Probably she’s the only one who knows about Patrick and Rachel. The only one who would care.  

The line rings five times. I’m about to hang up when she answers.

“Hey,” she says.

I suddenly regret calling.

“Hey,” I say. And, “How are you?”

We talk about nothing. About her job. About where she’s living. When she asks why I called, I tell her, and Donna’s quiet for awhile.

“Are you okay, Carrie?” Donna asks.

“Fine,” I say. “What about you? What step are you on?”

“They don’t really do recovery steps anymore.”

“Why?”

“They think it ostracizes addicts more. Makes people only see them as that. As just addicts, you know?”

A long pause. I shift my weight on the couch, and my knee falls into the indent Donna left while living here. I shift my weight back.

“So Rachel died?” Donna asks.

“I don’t know,” I say. I try to lighten the mood. “You might be out of luck. Is there any money for single-zombie sex?”

“That isn’t funny,” Donna says. Then, “What else could’ve happened to her?”

“I don’t know.”

I can hear her breathing. And part of me wants to hang up, but just before I can say goodbye, the front door across the street opens. The second set of paramedics help Patrick down the front steps.

“Oh. Here he is,” I say.

I haven’t seen Patrick in a while. A month, maybe more. And in that time, most of his face has vanished. The rot taken hold, my neighbor clutches the place his jaw once was, probably trying to keep the rest from falling off.

“What’s he doing?” Donna asks.

He’s moving so slow. One paramedic on each side, holding him upright despite his legs looking fine.

“Nothing,” I say. “Walking. Hold on.”

Behind the glass, Patrick looks like something from an aquarium. Like he’s moving through water. Silent. Distant. Impossibly slow. Trembling. His whole body shaking as if from great effort.

I tell Donna as much, and she says, “Could be how his body’s going. I read that not all undead decay the same. Some lose their sense of smell. Others taste. Hearing. One woman in Texas has lived with it for seven years. Others—”

“Wait. Wait he’s coming to the streetlamps,” I say.

Patrick pauses in the street while the paramedics get the door.

“What’s happening?” Donna asks.

Free from their help, Patrick looks back at his house, then towards the neighborhood, the streetlamps. His face glows yellow. His eye shining.

“Carrie? Are you there?”

 It isn’t until he’s fully illuminated that I see the man’s crying. Or at least, he’s trying to will his body to.

“Nothing,” I say. “He looks like you’d expect.”

Dozens of R.M. Cooper‘s short stories have received recognition from American Short Fiction, Best American Experimental Writing, The Best Small Fictions, Gulf Coast, Normal School, Prairie Schooner, Redivider, and many state and city reviews. Cooper is the managing editor of Sequestrum and represented by Yona Levin at United Talent Agency. He is at work on a novel.