Since my van was stashed at Camelia's, Trevor and I hung out at Mikey's Tiki Shack, the dive bar he managed. One side of the Shack had garage doors leading to the beach; its tables were crafted from colorful old surf boards.

Trevor took one look at my yellow eyes and rolled his own. "I told you that chick was a zombie. Are you going to eat my brains now?"

I wondered if he was a zombie hunter, or just really perceptive. 

"I'm on a brain-free diet, unfortunately." I tapped the flask Camelia gave me so Trevor would notice it peeking out of my inner coat pocket. "Marrow broth. Takes the edge off."

"Gross. Keep it away from me. I saw your girl with that swill. That's how I knew what she was." He paused, hand over his mouth like he was about to hurl. A moment later, he'd composed himself. "So, what's zombie life like?"

I shrugged. "Not as different as you would think." I twirled my bottle of Bud around on its coaster. "Except beer doesn't really do it for me anymore."

"Shit, man." He looked unsure of what to say, then offered, "I'm so sorry."

"And also—I'm not gonna do it so don't freak out but—I sort of really wanna eat you."

That's when Trevor's sympathy for my "condition" came to a grinding halt. Camelia texted with dinner plans, I said my goodbyes soon after, and Trevor went back to ordering around his bartenders.

~ * ~

The next two kills went much like vegan girl's. I stayed until they passed out and then left, not wanting to see their innards stolen, along with their lives.

Once, I asked what Camelia did with the leftover parts. She told me she had "cleaners" on her payroll. Lo and behold, I wasn't the only one who did what she commanded so human entrails remained on our menu.

Zombies craved food, but the truth was, we didn't require much nourishment to maintain our existence. One human could feed Camelia and her entourage for several weeks. She portioned out our food, and her housekeeper Moira, a zombie in her mid-fifties and fellow Camelia
underling, packaged them for us in freezer-safe Ziplocs. 

Soon, I figured, I shouldn't be able to look prey in their eyes anymore. Surely, shame would lower my gaze. But it didn't. That was one "gift" zombiesm had given me. I could peer into the eyes of someone about to die and ask them if they preferred tofu or pasture- raised hormone-free chicken and not feel a lick of remorse. Not since that first time, anyway.

My third victim was a college boy passing out PETA flyers in front of a deli near the highrise. He was as easy to lure as the other two. While he was using Camelia's bathroom, I asked her if she ever experienced guilt.

"We're hunters who must eat. Do hunters feel bad for what they do?"

"Sometimes. Maybe."

She took a nip from her flask. "Well then, there's your answer."

I didn't even have hunter's remorse—that's what I hated most—knowing that I should feel more. Maybe this was what being a sociopath was like. Did sociopaths care that they didn't care? I mentioned my dilemma to Camelia.

"You want to feel more? What the hell's the matter with you? I've been at this longer and trust me, lack of emotion is not the problem."

"Well, what is, then?"

PETA boy reemerged, cutting our conversation short. "Go play hacky sack, Darrin. Jack and I have to discuss animal cruelty now."

"It's Jake, actually."

Smiling, she handed Jake a drink.

~ * ~

Around the five-month mark, brain-lust started to take its toll. I was like a starving cartoon character hallucinating that everyone around him was a barbecued drumstick. Each human I passed might as well have been wearing their brains on the outside of their skulls. The thought turned me on as much as it drove me to hunger.

I read once that you should give a baby whatever it wants to eat because what it craves is what its body needs. I craved brains, so maybe Camelia was just being a control freak.

My complaints about our restricted diet didn't go over well. "Look at all you have, idiot. What we have." Camelia motioned towards the sweeping cityscape outside her windows. "We're rich. We live well. We only kill what we must. It's brain-eaters who're the problem. They kill and kill and kill until we're forced to kill them to avoid a PR disaster. And their entrails aren't even any use to us. Rotten little shits. You want to be like that?"

Having never met a brain-eater, but sort of jealous of their diet, I wished I could disbelieve her.
"No but I don't want to be like this either. And who's fault is that?"

Her face froze. "You were living in a van when I found you."

I did something then that I had never done as a human: engaged in confrontation. "I liked my van. I liked my life. I liked my nitrate-filled beef jerky. What I don't like..." I did my own motioning, my hand flittering over the apartment until it stopped, two fingers pointed at her
face like a gun. "...is this."

Her eyes locked on mine. "That makes two of us."

~ * ~

Under layers of couture, a troubled person dwelled. That underside of Camelia bobbed to the surface more and more often after our argument. She demanded less, commanded less, stared out at LA's dark landscape more.

Moira had trouble keeping enough marrow on hand. "She drinks it like it's the air she breathes," the woman said to me, taking a mouthful herself.

"She's just off her game."

"You haven't known her long, Darrin. Her moods are back and forth... been that way for ages." She clucked her tongue. "But it's bad this time."

"Moira, did Camelia... was she the one who made you a zombie?"

"Camelia? No, no... I was bitten by a brain-eater. Camelia found me. Saved me. If she hadn't, I'd be dead by now. I mean, dead-dead."

"What about the rest of her staff?"

"There's you and Emmett, her driver. Everyone else was a zombie when Camelia took us in. She runs the whole building, you know. Keeps us safe. And as for her employees, she does all the killing so none of us have to."

Dammit. I didn't want to hear anything that might make me sympathetic. "Yeah, but she still zombified me. I can't just get past that because she's our designated serial killer."

"Sucks that people have to be so complicated, doesn't it? Even murderous zombie people." Moira lifted the lid off a kettle, sniffing her newest batch of broth. "Needs another half hour."

~ * ~

A few nights later, I came home after an outing with Trevor to find Camelia sitting in the dark in her perpetual skyline-watching position. She shielded her eyes when I flipped on the light.

"Holy shit, Camelia, are you not wearing makeup?"

I'd never seen her being anything less than perfectly coiffed. Now, her bland face and blank eyes made my insides twist. The lines at the sides of her mouth deepened as she frowned. I wondered for the first time how old she was—not how old she appeared, but how many years she'd been unliving living.

"Turn off the light, Darrin."

She probably wanted to be alone, but there was something so inviting about the empty seat next to her. I did as she asked and joined her in the darkness. She sighed but said nothing as my sudden weight on the couch shifted her close to me. We sat there not speaking for longer than I usually don't speak to women pressed against me.

Right when I thought we might fall asleep like that, she broke the silence. "You're right. It wasn't fair what I did to you." She slid her hand into mine, then stood, pulling me up with her. "I should have just killed your jerky-eating ass."

I've never declined a woman's advances and this time was no different, even if said woman had turned me into an undead creature.

"I thought I disgusted you," I said as she led me into her bedroom.

"I've been living with your enhanced trait hammering away at me for over five months now. Congratulations, Darrin. You've charmed the pants off me."

~ * ~

The next morning, she was gone, leaving me with a snarky note scribbled on a recipe card. I tried not to take it personally.

When Moira arrived, we discussed the situation over cups of steaming marrow. "She's given you the penthouse. Guess she wants you to be in charge now."

"What? No way! Do you want to be in charge instead?"

Moira shook her head. "Not my thing."

"Mine neither. I just want her to return."

We searched, all of us did: Camelia's maids, the cleaners, even the mother and creeptastic kid I'd met in the elevator my first day. We were aimless, though, without our leader telling us where to look, what to expect, how to feel about her sudden absence.

Orion the doorman finally located her two weeks after she'd left. "My cousin and I spotted Camelia down by the wharf." He whistled through the gap in his teeth. "Doesn't look good, Darrin."

I knew what he meant, knew unliving living had taken its toll on Camelia. Still, I couldn't accept it. "She wouldn't do that—become one of them. She has high standards."

Orion snorted. "To be completely honest, I've thought about giving it all up and eating brains myself a time or two. No more thinking about anything. No more job. No more guilt or regret. Just pure desire."

"Yeah, well, Buddhists say desire leads to suffering."

"Guess the guy whose brains Camelia's eating would agree."

I took Orion's alarming revelation up to the penthouse, where Moira had assembled Emmett and ten more of Camelia's staff. "We heard," she told me.

I scanned their expectant, sallow faces, thinking about Camelia's last message to me: One bite of brain and the last coherent thought you'll have will be regretting that you didn't take my advice.

In other words, do as I say, not as I do.

"Right. We know what needs to happen—what Camelia would want. Where's her muscle?"

Two burly guys and one burly woman raised their hands.

"Follow Orion's lead. Find Camelia." I had to force the next words out. "Put her out of her misery before she kills half of LA. Moira, how much food do we have left?"
"Ten days worth, if we stretch it."

"Good. That gives me enough time."

Emmett scratched his head. "Time for what?"

I thought of Trevor's level-headedness. What I wouldn't give to have his advice right now. Of course, having his advice wasn't totally out of the question.

"Time for me to recruit us a new manager."

END

Thanks for reading! Turns out zombies can be fun, and also have emotional depth. Who would have thought? Please check out Red_Harvey and they other stories in THE DEAD SHOW!