to the veterinarian's office were met with a busy signal, just like the calls to Mark's dorm. By the time Don decided to look for her, the police were ordering people to stay in their homes, and the National Guard was patrolling the streets. The electricity and the phone lines went out soon after that. He wondered about Mark, and hoped the situation was better in California-but even then, he knew in his heart that it wasn't.
He checked on his next-door neighbors, Rick and Tammy and their son Danny, and made sure they were safe. The neighbors on the other side, the Bouchers, were on vacation in Florida. After checking in with Rick, Tammy and Danny, Don went back to his home, weeping for his wife while praying for her return, and locked himself inside the panic room.
After the fourth terrorist attack on New York City, Don had hired a security company to convert the closet in Mark's now empty bedroom into a panic room, using frame materials that were resistant to forced entry, high
51
winds, and even bullets. He'd spared no expense. The walls, floors and ceilings were all lined with thick plywood for extra strength, and an alarm system, Modem, and phone were installed as well. The electromagnetic lock insured "top security with an ability to withstand tremendous forces" (as per the brochure), and could not be picked or pried open. An electronic keypad with a key code allowed entry only by those who knew the combination-Myrna and himself. A solar powered backup battery was installed on the roof, in case the electricity was suddenly cut off. It operated the alarms, the phone, and the keypad.
He had plenty of bottled water and dried food, batteries, matches, candles, a handgun, knife, and fire axe. He could wait out whatever was happening outside.
He'd been asleep when Myrna returned.
The keypad's beeping woke him. Somebody was on the other side, entering the code. There was a mechanical click and then a rush of air as the door slid open. The bedroom beyond was dark, but he could see her silhouette in the doorway.
"Myrna! Oh my God, honey, where have you been? Are you okay?"
"I'm fine, Don."
Don paused. Her speech seemed oddly muffled. Distorted.
"Well, I'm just glad you're home. I've been worried sick. I thought that maybe you were-"
"Dead?"
"Yes." He got up, his joints stiff from sleeping on the floor.
Myrna stepped into the room, into the soft glow of the candlelight.
"I'm afraid she is dead, Don. Just like Rocky and
52
Mark. It's just me in here now. But you can join them, if you'd like. In fact, I insist!"
"W-who?"
She lurched toward him, the thing that wore his wife's body. One broken leg trailed behind her, and there was a gaping, pink hole where her nose had been.
"Myrna?"
"She was cheating on you. Spreading her legs for Mr. Pabon, the guy who owns the Mexican restaurant. Twice a week and overnight when you were away on business. His dick was bigger. Much bigger."
It looked like his wife, spewed obscenities with her mouth-her voice. It knew about their son and neighbors-but Don realized that the creature wasn't Myrna.
"You lie."
"No, I don't. It's in here." The zombie tapped Myrna's head with one broken fingernail. "It's all in here. She wrapped her legs around him when she came. You could never make her do that."
"I don't know who you are, but you're not my wife!"
"You want to know who I really am? Come here and let me show you."
Don swallowed and then ran for the pistol on the card table. The handgun was a family heirloom. His grandfather had been one of the first Hispanic soldiers to serve in the Philippines during World War Two, and had passed the government-issued Colt .45 with the eight-shot clip down to him. Next to it lay an open box of Cor-Bon ammo.
The zombie lunged for him.
He didn't bother to aim. He didn't have to. Myrna was right on top of him, clawing at his shirt. She pinched his left nipple between her fingers, trying to tear it off
53
with her bare hands. He shoved the gun
He checked on his next-door neighbors, Rick and Tammy and their son Danny, and made sure they were safe. The neighbors on the other side, the Bouchers, were on vacation in Florida. After checking in with Rick, Tammy and Danny, Don went back to his home, weeping for his wife while praying for her return, and locked himself inside the panic room.
After the fourth terrorist attack on New York City, Don had hired a security company to convert the closet in Mark's now empty bedroom into a panic room, using frame materials that were resistant to forced entry, high
51
winds, and even bullets. He'd spared no expense. The walls, floors and ceilings were all lined with thick plywood for extra strength, and an alarm system, Modem, and phone were installed as well. The electromagnetic lock insured "top security with an ability to withstand tremendous forces" (as per the brochure), and could not be picked or pried open. An electronic keypad with a key code allowed entry only by those who knew the combination-Myrna and himself. A solar powered backup battery was installed on the roof, in case the electricity was suddenly cut off. It operated the alarms, the phone, and the keypad.
He had plenty of bottled water and dried food, batteries, matches, candles, a handgun, knife, and fire axe. He could wait out whatever was happening outside.
He'd been asleep when Myrna returned.
The keypad's beeping woke him. Somebody was on the other side, entering the code. There was a mechanical click and then a rush of air as the door slid open. The bedroom beyond was dark, but he could see her silhouette in the doorway.
"Myrna! Oh my God, honey, where have you been? Are you okay?"
"I'm fine, Don."
Don paused. Her speech seemed oddly muffled. Distorted.
"Well, I'm just glad you're home. I've been worried sick. I thought that maybe you were-"
"Dead?"
"Yes." He got up, his joints stiff from sleeping on the floor.
Myrna stepped into the room, into the soft glow of the candlelight.
"I'm afraid she is dead, Don. Just like Rocky and
52
Mark. It's just me in here now. But you can join them, if you'd like. In fact, I insist!"
"W-who?"
She lurched toward him, the thing that wore his wife's body. One broken leg trailed behind her, and there was a gaping, pink hole where her nose had been.
"Myrna?"
"She was cheating on you. Spreading her legs for Mr. Pabon, the guy who owns the Mexican restaurant. Twice a week and overnight when you were away on business. His dick was bigger. Much bigger."
It looked like his wife, spewed obscenities with her mouth-her voice. It knew about their son and neighbors-but Don realized that the creature wasn't Myrna.
"You lie."
"No, I don't. It's in here." The zombie tapped Myrna's head with one broken fingernail. "It's all in here. She wrapped her legs around him when she came. You could never make her do that."
"I don't know who you are, but you're not my wife!"
"You want to know who I really am? Come here and let me show you."
Don swallowed and then ran for the pistol on the card table. The handgun was a family heirloom. His grandfather had been one of the first Hispanic soldiers to serve in the Philippines during World War Two, and had passed the government-issued Colt .45 with the eight-shot clip down to him. Next to it lay an open box of Cor-Bon ammo.
The zombie lunged for him.
He didn't bother to aim. He didn't have to. Myrna was right on top of him, clawing at his shirt. She pinched his left nipple between her fingers, trying to tear it off
53
with her bare hands. He shoved the gun
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