Breathers by S. G. Browne Read Free Book Online

“Recipe for the Undead”:
    reanimate flesh
    simmer organs in decay
    formaldehyde stew
    When we're done, Helen gives us each a bag of Halloween candy and reminds us all about bringing another survivor to the meeting next month, then she casts a fairy godmother spell over us before getting a ride home from her sister, leaving the rest of us to walk home together in the rain.
    I never cared much for the rain when I was alive. Didn't like driving in it and hated getting wet. Kind of like a cat. Or the Wicked Witch of the West. Now, the rain provides a protection that even a heavy police presence doesn't. As a general rule, Breathers are less likely to cause themselves physical discomfort in order to give the undead any grief. On a rainy Halloween, they're more likely to be at a party or in a bar than out hunting a Playboy Bunny, the devil, and Frankenstein's monster.
    At least that's what you tell yourself.
    “Hey,” says Jerry, after we part with Naomi and Tom and are walking along the back streets to avoid the traffic. “Do either of you have someone to bring to the meeting next month?”
    “No,” says Rita, adjusting her bunny ears.
    I shake my head and grunt.
    “You wanna see if we can find someone tonight?” he asks.
    “Sure,” says Rita, pulling out her lipstick and applying another coat. “Why not?”
    Jerry puts one arm around me. “How about you, Andy old pal?”
    After what happened to Walter, I should probably play it safe and go home. But if I do that, then I'm just giving up. Plus I can't really go out and find someone on my own, and other than
Halloween, Halloween II
, and
Halloween III
, there's not much on TV tonight, so I give Jerry the thumbs up. Or in my case, the thumb up.
    There's not a lot of traffic and once you get out of the Soquel Village there aren't any storefronts, but we still have to be careful, even with the rain and our costumes, so we keep to the shadows and hide whenever a car comes by.
    Jerry seems to find the idea of ducking into shadows to hide from Breathers entertaining. It's like a game. Even when there aren't any cars around, he hides behind garbage cans or trees or telephone poles, darting from one to the other, then pressing himself against a wall or a fence before diving for cover behind some hedges. He's like a demon with ADD.
    The most likely place to find other zombies at night is a cemetery and the closest haunt is the Soquel Cemetery, about a mile up Old San Jose Road. That's where Rachel is buried. I used to visit her grave several times a week but I haven't stopped by in a while. Almost two weeks. I think I should feel guilty, but for some reason I don't. Maybe it's a natural progression of the grieving process. Maybe I'm learning how to move on with my undeath. Or maybe I've been distracted by a certain twenty-three-year-old zombie.
    “Hey, Andy,” says Rita, slowing down to keep pace with me as Jerry races from one side of the road to the other ahead of us in the rain. “Do you ever think about God?”
    This is the first time in the three weeks we've known each other that Rita has asked me a question directly. Even if I could talk, I would probably stumble over my own words trying to come up with a reply.
    Instead, I just shake my head. I was a borderline atheist before I came back from the dead, so I can't blame God for what happened to me and I'm not about to thank him because as far as I'm concerned, this isn't exactly a divine miracle.
    “I think about him,” says Rita. “I think about him sitting in his La-Z-Boy recliner, drinking ambrosia or mead or a pintof Guinness, watching us on his widescreen television, waiting to see what happens next. Like an experiment.”
    As if in response, thunder rumbles across the black sky. I glance at Rita. Her hair is drenched and her bunny ears are drooping, but she doesn't seem to mind.
    “Sometimes I wonder if this whole planet isn't one big experiment, one big maze, and we're the mice trying to find the