ZombiePalooza - Anthology

#TeamInsidesAndEntrails Pt. VII - @amberkbryant's "A Delicate Palate"

A Delicate Palate

By amberkbryant

I found Camelia's message written on a three-by-five recipe card propped up against a vase of wilting tulips:

Lower intestines are best with a hint of cinnamon. Not too much, mind you. We aren't eating oatmeal. If you can stomach it (see what I did there?), add a peach or two to your roasting pan with a yard of intestine and bake at 375 for an hour. Do NOT use canned peaches. These are disgusting, and so are you if you use them. High fructose corn syrup isn't good for anyone, alive or undead.

Remember: one bite of brain and the last coherent thought you'll have will be regretting that you didn't take my advice.

Flicking the card finger-football style, it flipped onto the floor, where it breezed under the table.

Gone... just like Camelia.

I'd been abandoned, left with nothing more than a main course recipe and untested, unwanted advice.

The fridge was a gelatinous playground of all things innards. Bowels, kidneys, colons. All the lower parts of humans Camelia insisted were good for me. I didn't want "good for me" though, I wanted what I wanted. What I craved.

Slamming the fridge, I sank to my knees, pressing my back against the stainless steel. "Frickin-A, man."

Not a single brain in sight.

#

I'd been a zombie for five months, one week and four days, and it was all Camelia's fault.

Okay, ninety percent her fault and ten percent mine for being stupid. My friend Trevor told me it was obvious she was a zombie. I should have realized it right from the beginning, but all I saw was a rich girl wearing designer skinny jeans and perfume that made me lose my damn mind. I thought her blood-shot eyes were from the nips she snuck out of her engraved flask, and I wasn't about to judge that. We all have our vices.

Trevor informed me later (after it was too late, so thanks, asshole) that her flask smelled like dead people, not peppermint schnapps. All I could smell was her perfume and it said, "get over here, Darrin," not "stay away, I'm an undead human flesh-eater."

If a woman like that wanted to slum it with me, who was I to complain about veiny eyes and the surprisingly strong grip on my arm as she led me into my VW Camper?

Living like a nomad on the beaches of California had its perks, but not all women were as big a fan of Buffy's bff, Willow, as I was. In fact, some of them didn't like that I named my ride/home after a TV lesbian witch. Camelia didn't seem to mind. The van must have been a cheap thrill for someone used to five-star hotels and mansions with koi ponds and live-in maids.

Everything was going fine until she spotted my kitchen, which basically consisted of a hotplate and ice-filled cooler.

"What the hell's that?"

She pointed to a shelf with a couple bags of chips, an unopened jar of pickles, and a packet of beef jerky.

"Um... food?"

This was a crucial moment in which I should have realized things were not going as well as I'd thought. Camelia scowled then sighed. "I thought for sure I'd found an organic meal. Do you know how many nitrates are in beef jerky? There's no way I can eat you now."