Keep Busy

13.

"We've got to find some food," Frank said taking another sip of water as he steered with one hand, watching the headlights slice through the trees as they continued south through winding roads. While cigarettes were a terrific appetite suppressant, he could only overlook the incessant grumbling in his stomach for so long.

"How can you even think about food after seeing that fucking thing back there? I'm still reeling. I mean, even I lost my appetite."

"I was trying to forget about him."

"Was it even a 'him?'"

"I don't know. I just assume anything that completely disgusting has got to be a guy. Things that horrible just naturally take on a vague masculine quality for me."

"Well... that's not a very positive way to think about your gender."

"It is what it is. Men are gross."

"Can't argue," Jane said.

They'd been driving for a little while, Frank at the wheel, putting enough distance between them and that charred thing to feel semi-comfortable enough to joke about it. Jane looked out the window blindly, clearly snared in her own thoughts.

That zombie had painted a pretty grim picture of what she had to look forward to.

Frank had been thinking the same thing but didn't want to say anything.

After a brief silence during which Jane looked intensely contemplative as she chewed on her lip staples, she turned to Frank.

"You know, zombies don't always look the way they do in the movies. I mean, look at me for example. I'm not some oozing, limping monster. I feel great in fact. I think I do, at least. I guess I do. But still, even that guy back there, he looked like he could barely move. It must have taken all his effort to attack us. I mean, he didn't even have the strength to pull himself out of the fire."

"Well, as far as I can tell, they're all just... dying. I mean—they died and now they're just getting around to rotting. Once they ran out of food they started falling apart." Frank shrugged.

"In the movies they make the change look instantaneous. One second you're a normal guy in Oxfords then you get bitten and suddenly you're in tattered rags, sunken cheeks, bloodshot eyes, moaning and stumbling around—the whole thing." She crossed her arms. "It's a little misleading."

"Well..."

"What? I don't look like that." Jane swiveled in her seat, defensively.

"No."

"Then what?"

"It's just the... you know, feasting on the flesh of the living thing."

"That's not the point." She crossed her arms. "And I haven't even done that yet."

"I'm just saying the movies aren't entirely misleading."

"Okay fine. But I'm talking about the way they look. They don't have to look all puss-y and disgusting."

"Did you say pussy?" Frank sputtered.

"Puss-ee. Like dripping puss. Secreting."

"Ugh, stop." Frank shuddered as he recalled all the puss-y pussies he'd seen back in Cheney.

"I'm just saying zombies don't have to look like that—all bloated and gross."

Frank felt the words, not at first, clang against his teeth. He swallowed them back. "No. They don't." Frank looked for the pack of Chesterfields. "Have you seen the-"