Laurels Literary Magazine Spring 2014 | Page 71

It was pretty easy to get away from them, the zombies. They always seemed like they were in a lull, like they had had their fill and for the petty handful of us that remained they had no hunger, only dissidence and the low swell of their company, coming off the pavement like the heated scent of rain in the summer. "Terry," I had said one night after a long pause. "What," she said and her voice was small and mouse-like in the dark and I could feel her breathing from so many blocks away. "Do you like the sunrise," "Yeah." "What part about it do you like best." "I would say the colors, but that's what everyone says." "There's no everyone anymore. So you can say it." "It still wouldn't be true though." "Okay. Then what is it." "The feeling you get like an egg ready to hatch but it hasn't quite hatched yet." "Okay." "And you don't notice it actually hatching but when you do it's the most wonderful feeling on earth. The day new and broken open around you, its juices spilling everywhere." "That was pretty poetic, Terry." "Shut up." And then we were silent again. This was how we passed the time and how we came up with the idea we had one night. "Terry, this is the craziest stupidest thing in the world." "In the whole wide world, yep." "Terry are we really going to do this?" She paused. "Are you kidding?" It's true she was the one with a sense of adventure. So late that night we waited until they crowded in and we dressed in bright colors so we would be able to see each other if anything happened. We didn't bring guns because the noises draw more. But we brought flashlights and a couple of knives apiece. We slipped inside and huddled together in the long hallway that opened into the main part of the theater with the seats which had been burned for firewood by Bigs Hoffman. God the smell of them. Like a stray dog had gotten sick all over some roadkill. We wanted to watch them watching, to see what brought them there and if it really was anything besides the moving lights behind the projector screen that drew them like decrepit wingless moths. Terry and I, we watched them stand there looking up at the screen and the few neurons left in them that fizzed and popped at the bright lights did they dance also, mimicking the rhythm of life? That was what we wanted to know. Terry had her white sweater on and it glowed a little. She started. Then she said: "Jaimie, look, it's Bigs. It's Mr. Hoffman up there," she said pointing. And there he was in the projection room, and not just watching. He was standing like a white bulb, fat in his underpants, moving his hands in little loops and whirlydoos. 71