Thank You

BY DR. AGONSON

“There’s a zombie outside; wants to know if you’re joining the horde tonight,” I tell my friend.

He groans, pulling at his chains.

“Not tonight? I’ll tell them.” Moving toward the door, I press my eye against the peephole. “Oh!” I whisper to him. “Looks like he already moved on. Still, I guess it’s best we have a night in. You’ve been looking pale since . . . well, since you died.” I smile, adding under my breath, “You haven’t smelt too good either.”

I hear the timer and make my way toward the kitchen. Coming back to the living room, I find him just where I left him, manacled to his chair.

“Hot pockets,” I say, showing him the plate. “Want some?” I throw one into his open mouth. On instinct, he quickly swallows it. I set the plate down beside him and wait. His befogged eyes slowly quit their desperate, animal roaming, and I watch as his corpse begins to relax a little. The chains tinkle as he sits back down in his chair.

His hand reaches for another, and after he swallows it down, he says, “What day?”

“Tomorrow,” I say.

“I can’t remember—”

“No surprise,” I interrupt. “Your brain’s starting to rot away with the rest of you. Gonna have to throw out the chair. Doubt no one will buy it. Never get the smell out.”

He rolls his eyes.

“How do they taste?” I ask.

“Like nothing,” he says.

“Nothing?”

“Can’t taste nothing.”

“Had I known!” I say. “Why am I hiding the stuff in hot pockets then? Can’t I just—”

It was his turn to interrupt. “How would you get it in my mouth?”

“Anyway,” I say after a pause, “Tomorrow. Doctor will get here.”

“And that’s the end,” he says.

“Something like.”

He looks away from me. “I’m scared.”

“Me too.”

“Why you?”

“Well, it ends for me too. I don’t know what I do once they put you down. They send me food to watch you, record things. Maybe they’ll keep me on as a janitor up at their labs. Be nice to get out of the city. Let’s face it, bringing you back is a dead end. You always go all zombie all over again, and it’s costing them what, I don’t know, every time. You’ve probably eaten billions of dollars’ worth of hot pockets by now.”

“They promised.”

“Hey, they’ll be good to it. I don’t think they’re the best sort, but they’ll get here. They’ll probably ask you a few questions—”

“But they’ll let me die,” he cuts in again.

“Yes,” I say.

“Die as a man,” he insists. “While I am me. Not as a . . . ” he holds up his rotten fingers.

“I’ll make sure of it,” I promise.

“Thank you. I want to die as myself.”

“What’s it like?” I ask.

“Horrible, like a nightmare. I see you walking around, but there’s no humanity in me. You’re just meat, and I’m hunger.” I shiver. “I’m not really conscious of what’s happening. No thought of the future, no real distinct past, only the present, the horrible, starving present.”

“It will be a good day tomorrow,” I say. “I got a hole dug for you. Some wildflowers grow there. Not much of a mason myself, but I’ll put some marker down, say something of you and this experiment. I doubt no one will bury me in the end.”

“Thank you,” he says.