Zombs

He comes around the same time every night, scratching at the windows and doors like he's trying to get in. I always wonder why he keeps coming back here to this house. Almost like he knows. Sometimes when I hear him moaning outside, I think he might be saying my name. Maia...Maia...

But then I remember: the dead can't talk.

You'd think, what with the miracle of the reanimation of a corpse, they'd be able to talk, tell us what they want.

"Brains," Cory says. "All they want is brains. Their minds are stuck in hungry beast mode." Cory's always saying things like that.

I remember the first time they came out at night, dragging their rotted limbs through the street and across the lawn, a whole slew of them--and all I could think was, where did they call come from? Why this house? Of all the houses on this block, why this one?

But back to him. I can hear him now, shuffling up the porch steps and I turn over my wrist to check the time. 2:15. Like clockwork.

I sit up and see Cory standing by the window. He's pulled back one of the blankets we use to cover the windows and is peering out through a crack in the boards. His face is hard, which makes me sad because it means he's beginning to lose hope. When the dead come out, he's usually the first to make a joke. Now his face is all thin lips and furrowed brows. 

"Cory," I whisper. "Go back to sleep."

He doesn't move or look at me. The doorknob jiggles and Cory's face creases more.

"Do you think he knows?" he says. I shiver and pull the blankets up around me. Cory must be cold, and I think about getting up to put a blanket around him, but I don't want to risk seeing what he's seeing right now.

"I don't know, Cory," I say. "I don't think so. I don't think they can know anything." He sighs and his breath fogs up the sliver of window glass.

After a moment he says, "You'd shoot me right? If I ever..."

"You won't. It won't happen."

"Maia." He turns to me, his face still hard and creased. "It can happen," he says, gesturing to the window. The door handle stopped jiggling a minute ago, but I can hear him pawing at the door now. He moans and again my mind tricks me into thinking he's still in there, still human underneath everything.

"That won't happen to you," I say. "We're smarter now. We're stronger."

Cory looks out the window again and mutters, "Dad was strong." I can't look at him. His face already feels so different. 

"Cory, if I can't even put a bullet in him, how am I going to put a bullet in you?"

He sighs and I can feel the worry in him stretch across the room. I look up and see him nodding. 

"Go back to sleep," I say. He nods again and touches his fingers to the small gap between the boards covering the window.

"Goodnight, Dad," he says, and he wanders back over to the couch to sleep.

Within a few minutes, I can hear his breathing deepen and I know he's asleep. When I hear the front porch steps creak, I whisper, "Goodnight, Dad," and I kick myself for thinking he says it back.