Page 5 of Fruitbat

Nothing.

I skid through an open door frame, into a small office. My eyes dart around the cramped space, before noticing the tattered messenger bag, left on the single chair.This must belong to him?I tear it open and reach inside, searching for a familiar shape, parting an old laptop from a bundle of file-folders holding thick stacks of papers. Several pens clink against a chapstick tube and I feel the recognizable shape of an inhaler for asthmatics.Damien keeps one on him at all times.

I tuck the little life-saving device in my pocket, thinking he might need it when he wakes up.

There is however, no phone in the bag, or its front pocket.

Dammit!

I rush back out and kneel next to the conked stranger. His chest is rising and falling under a faded t-shirt—Well, that’s good—and his soft belly is peeking out from under the hem. —Cute. His thick arms are sprawled out, with one still reaching up, toward a shelf, hanging by his fingertips. His shaggy brown hair is clipped tight at the sides, then cut into a choppy mullet, that’s soaking up mop water from beneath him.

I twist back, spotting rolls of paper towels, lining a shelf across the way. Crawling over the soapy residue, I grab one off the shelf, tearing the plastic wrap off it, and wrap sheets around my hand, tucking the roll under my arm. Then I shimmy back to the fallen man, on my knees, and sop up some of the mess around his body.

I need a second roll, to clean myself up.Ammoniated citrus is definitely not my signature scent.

I don’t know what else to do, so I curl my knees to my chest, lean against the wall of refrigerators, and wait.

I watch him lie there and monitor his breathing, ready to squirt the inhaler between his pouty bowed lips when needed.

“Mmm…” he moans, stirring after several minutes.

I roll onto my knees and shuffle to his side, sweeping a wavy strand of hair off his forehead, as his warm-maple eyes pry open. He squints under the harsh fluorescent lights.

I hover over him to shade his sight.

“Hey.” I say with a smile.

4

Danny

11:27 pm

“What the fuck?”

Blinding nothingness dims and I focus on the ghoulish blonde grinning over me. His buttery curls are mangled and poking in all directions. Smoky rings frame hazel eyes, and his skin is the color of spoiled chicken. He glows from a fluorescent halo of the buzzing ceiling lights overhead.

“Don’t get up,” he says.

I’m not about to listen to a zombie, huddled over my vulnerable body.What the fuck just happened?I grip a shelf and pry my sore back off the floor, shimmying a reasonable distance away from the mind munching stranger.

“You’re hurt. Sit still, do you need some water?” He flings a fridge door open, gathers a plastic bottle, and shoves it in my face.

I bracket my temples with my palms, to squash the pulsing throbs, and guard my precious brain from the hungry ghoul.

He scurries around the corner on all fours, and returns the same way, rattling a bottle of Tylenol at me.

“Take some,” he commands.

I accept the water and the pills, but glare at the suspicious stranger, now gnawing his lower lip with thick buttery brows, caved in concern. He sits back on his heels, places both hands on his knees, and tilts his head. Like a good boy.

Prettiest zombie I’ve ever seen.

The zombie’s mouth stretches, in a half smile, that pulls at the stone-pale skin across his face.

The pain subsides in my head and back, disappearing as if it was never there, and I move to pull myself up.

He rushes to his feet and grabs my arm, offering to hoist me.

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