And you

You knew the hand of the devil

And you

Kept us awake with wolves' teeth

Sharing different heartbeats in one night

-The Knife

"So you ate people." Emma says it in a funny sort of way, emphasizing the 'you' rather than 'ate' as though I am no position to judge the terrible acts of others.

But I am in a position to judge. I have to judge. Because otherwise, how do I maintain a line between the person I am now—living—and the undead menace I used to be?

"I used to be a different person." I reply with an exhausted sigh. "A non-person." I add with a shrug. Emma frowns. She's adorable when she frowns but I wish I could make her smile more often.

Dead, undead, dead. Hard to tell the difference as I sits in a hospital bed, in a highly secure glassed-in box, while zombies wander around in glass boxes of their own.

My gown itches and the incisions on my newly repaired ankle also itch. With all of the pins and stitches in the ankle, I feel I more like Frankenstein's monster than anything else. Some of the others can be reformed as well. Their hearts can spark to life and their mangled minds can stop craving the brains of the living.

I am struggling to adjust to all of this.

Another thing I'm struggling with is Emma herself. It's hard getting to know someone when you think you might already be in love with them. She says that she's still grieving, but Emma still sleeps close to me at night. I let her have her space. It isn't hard, since the hospital bed I inhabit is narrow and the cot she sleeps on is even narrower. Emma comes from a military family. Her father travelled a lot when she was young and when he retired, he moved them all to the country so that they could immerse themselves in various survival skills. Now her family runs this compound with three other families. There have been countless battles fought and won, but I hear rumors that one of Emma's siblings is out there somewhere, a member of the zombie army instead.

Sometimes, she makes sounds in her sleep and I'm able to roll onto my stomach and reach out to touch her. My fingertips brush against her hair or over her arm and she is quiet again.

On nights like these, my heart aches and I wish I could run away.

"What did I do last night?" She asks sometimes as we poke through the odd assortment of 'breakfast' foods I'm given each morning.

"Nothing much," I lie when she thrashes around and sleeps poorly.

There comes a day when I'm allowed to wander off beyond the compound. I need to get away so I make up some excuse.

"Do you want a ride-along?" The nurse means to ask if I want assigned guards. I shake my head for the umpteenth time as I button my silk shirt and sink into a uniform like the kind I used to wear. I tell the nurse another curt 'no' and she finally leaves me alone.

Walking outside into the sunshine hurts every cell in my body. I try to act as though I'm not tearing up and stinging and searing from the outside in. In my desperation to appear normal, I refuse to recognize the signs that indicate my status as anything but…

When I come to, Emma is there. Her hair is golden in sunlight that seems to light her from within. She laughs at me when I mutter the words aloud. Her hand is warm and solid in mine when I am hauled to my feet, still shaky.

Friendship is not enough, not where Emma is concerned, and I don't want to push. I still can't look at her—those cheekbones, those blue-green eyes, that long, golden hair—without hearing a ridiculous array of love songs from my youth.

Emma liked the sound of my voice even though I'd lose my breath a little just talking to her. She seemed happy to see me, to spend time with me, but still, Emma frowned a great deal…her eyes seemed haunted so much of the time…

"I'm sorry," she says, and then holds my hand and hides her tears against my shoulder. "I'm sorry…"

The skirt I'd chosen is grey and the fabric is cheaper than I would have preferred. I'm still pleased. I feel as though I'm back to something of a comfort zone.

"You're different." Emma says. I nod because I certainly am quite improved but perhaps not quite what Emma had expected. But Emma just smiles nervously and walks by my side. Her fingers brush against mine from time to time, sending a tingle up my arm. I long to hold her hand but somehow it seems to be too soon.

I am not attached to many of my memories. I am, however, attached to the person whose death I'd witnessed just before my own.

My father…I couldn't forget that look in his eyes as he died. I couldn't stop dreaming about him when dreaming came and I could sleep again.

Life is most complicated for the living.

"I have to check on relatives." I lie. Well, it's a half lie. I am worried about a particular aunt, someone who had once been kind to me when I was a teen. So I've decided to take a few days from the anguish of new, nearly unrequited love, and I rush off to see a relative who is likely either a rotten corpse or a walking rotting corpse.

There is nothing like the moment when a loved one leaves. Nothing quite like loss sharpens the edges of a room, heightens its dimensionality, and sinks your stomach to the floor, the crown of your head to the heights of the sky.

I check my weapons over carefully. In the middle of it all, I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror and spend a ridiculous amount of time watching for signs of any remaining marks of my previous state.

And then, Emma is behind me.

I wish I could touch her…all of her…I wish I could do for her what she'd done for me, when her hands had brought me so close to life…

We end up hugging goodbye beside my getaway car.

"I used to make out with this friend…ummm…she was…" She licks her lips nervously and I stare at the act, wishing she'd repeat it.

"She?" I choke out.

Emma doesn't continue with that story though. Her hands hang loosely against my shoulders as I grip her waist in what I hope isn't a constraining way. "Will you come back?" Emma looks as sad as I feel. I smile tensely, uncertain if I will return.

And then she lets me go and I learn yet again that if a heart can beat then it can break and break and break again.

I use one of the army jeeps to travel to my aunt's house. This particular aunt had been a role model—self-sufficient to a fault, my father used to say. She'd likely waited out the coming apocalypse behind her barred windows and heavily locked doors.

When I arrive, I see just how accurate my predictions were. It would have been impossible to get into the place, had I not remembered the well-hidden combination lock near the back door.

My chest still aches, but at least I have a task or two—or a dozen—ahead of me.

The rooms are empty, which seems strange. The whole house seems strange in fact. I walk through more than once, with a pistol in one hand and a machete in the other. Of course I check under beds, in closets. Who knows, perhaps she's paranoid, worried I'm one of the undead? Then again, perhaps she'd just left in a rush and had simply failed to return.

I find an entire pantry stocked with dried grains, canned beans, fruit and vegetables, and an area in the eerily quiet backyard, where someone had obviously been cooking on open fires.

There is a record player on the first floor, shoved up against a dusty pile of crates holding an impressive vinyl collection. I play that same John Waite album that I'd once had on repeat in my airplane. History repeats itself.

…and there's a storm that's raging, through my frozen heart tonite…

I play the song again and again, while I cook in the backyard. It's a simple stew of beans and rice and I eat it quickly, feeling watched the whole time.

…stop this heartbreak overload…

I sniffle with tears that sting but don't fall. There is sound behind me and I turn quickly but see nothing. The fire dies in front of me and I retreat inside again.

It's too early for sleep, but I curl up in a guest room bed, wearing loose cotton pants and a tank top I'd worn beneath my sweater earlier. I'm thirsty and lonely and can't sleep so before long, I shuffle out of bed.

As it turns out, my last living relative is not living at all. And she's been waiting for me in the last guest room on the left.

The Real Dead are voracious, yes, but they are also clever. And when I'd checked the house, she'd used the fact that people rarely look up when they are searching for someone.

The fight starts quietly. A hand grips my ankle and I feel its dead flesh over jagged bone, a split second before I fall.

As I fall to the ground and my nails scrabble against the flooring, I think about Emma's face, and I wish against hope to see her before I'm dragged back over to the other side.

I kick, hard, with the ankle that aches and this time I get away. But then there are others. I can hear them, moaning and screaming, and coming for me.

Running hurts. Not just because of my ankle, either, but because I'm dreadfully out of shape. There is gun fire down the street and I run toward it like my life depends on it (which it does) I run and I shout for help. The humans (I have to keep reminding myself that I'm a part of them again) are fighting with knives and machetes and they look furious at their prey, at the Real Dead who screech in their final throes…

Beyond any hope, she is there. There, amid the chaos, is Emma—she is covered in gore and she carries an actual sword, like some White Knight.

Her scream when she sees me is part joyous, part terrified, and part furious and it only takes one vicious swing for her to decapitate my chaser…

"Emma, I'm sorry I left," I try to say out loud but she knocks the breath out of me in a flying hug.

We go to my aunt's home to wash everybody off before the group decides what they'll do next.

"How did you find me?" I ask politely, sponging more and more dead gore from her hairline.

She hesitates so I squeeze her shoulder gently. It's really ok, whatever she'd been thinking. "I stalked you," she mutters. "I followed you because I didn't want you to go."

My heart leaps and I intensify my efforts to clean her because I so desperately want to do so much more.

A few of the others are angry that Emma had led them on this crusade in the first place, so they're happy to let us stay behind. But I don't want to be in the house any longer, because as safe as it may seem it also feels like a place where one goes to end their days.

The ride back is slow, agonizingly so, because Emma drives while I sit at the back of the jeep, next to an odd woman named Angelique who seems overly fascinated by my relationship with our driver.

"When did you meet?" She asks slyly, casting an admiring look at my chest, where three buttons are undone on the white silk shirt I'd thrown hastily on.

"When I was dead." I reply and she is stunned into silence.

And then, the realization hits me. I am alone, without any more family. My last known relative is gone.

I long for home.

"Please, can we try my old house again?" I call to Emma who smiles sadly at me in the rearview mirror.

In the end, we wait a few days, staying with the larger group in the compound, while Emma decides for us.

"There are supplies," I insist. "And we can install bars and security gates and ummm…" I think about all of the windows that let so much sunlight in. I think about the animals that must be in the yard, populating the street.

But Emma isn't sure—about a lot of things—and we stay put.

Weeks later, there is another battle and this one is enormous. The Real Dead had congregated at the gates, lying on their bellies in wait for one of the messengers to return from their visits to neighboring communities. When Emma returns, she is sickly pale and terrified looking, her skin stretched taught over her cheekbones. Her entire left side of covered in fine droplets of blood and gore. Then she throws up, right at my feet, and I pat her back and say "there, there…now can we leave?" I earn a grunt of dissention but she stands up again and I win the argument.

Emma's father is part of a 'resettlement' project, in which members of the living are encouraged to find prosperity in their old homes again. It's a pragmatic as well as philosophical decision on his part—they are running out of room after all—and a plan is in place for those stupid enough to agree to it.

A small entourage follows Emma and I out of the compound. This time, I feel much freer and a whole lot less sad about my departure. My arm slings casually against the side of the Jeep, the window is down, and I let the wind blow my hair back. The air tastes clean again somehow and I am optimistic.

Iron bars are installed over every window in my home, moments after we arrive. The fence would take longer but a temporary structure of barbed wire and motion detecting lighting is a start. Emma and I are left with plenty of ammo and guns and we move them inside. The group takes a good hour to thoroughly check through the house while I cheerfully pluck at some of the foliage that the deer had mangled. My tulips are gone, but I ask one of the less dour looking members of our guard if she might consider delivering bulbs when she has a free day. She blushes and smiles and I touch her arm, lingering there so that Emma—who already looks beautifully flustered—turns red with jealousy.

I've already decided not to worry about my friendship with Emma. If she doesn't want to move things to another level, that's her decision—I won't pine forever.

"A woman like me doesn't stay single long," I'd once spewed the cliché to an ex-girlfriend, who had responded with the instruction that I grow the hell up.

No pining. Instead, I clean. I cook. I organize my life again. I make a home for us.

"Hey, we need firewood." Emma reminds me one morning, padding into the kitchen in her pajamas. I've always been of the opinion that grownups dress by the time they leave their bedroom, but she's too cute to reprimand.

I'm wearing a vintage Dior dress and my best pearls but I go to work as soon as Emma says the word. It's dangerous, spending time in the backyard, with mainly hedges protecting us. I rush outside and survey the yard, bringing two axes and a chainsaw. The chainsaw stays plugged in, in case of Dead visitors, and the second axe stays close for the same reasons. I get to work, swinging my axe through the air on an already propped up log. The wood piles quickly as I throw it behind me in a heap near the door.

There is a flash of movement to my left. A foot juts through the bushes and a face—pale grey and rotting—pushes tentatively out.

I turn the chainsaw on and he retreats immediately.

"This is a horrible plan." I fume and curse as Emma helps me with the firewood an hour later. "We need a better system, a better fence." She is still in her pajamas as she takes armloads of wood to the living room. I've locked the back door and watch as three Real Dead wander into the yard.

"Don't be so stressed," Emma's voice is soft but a little hoarse. She'd been up in her room the night before, reading late again. I can tell from the dark circles under her eyes.

"What's going on with you?" The wood can wait. I put a hand tentatively on her arm and pull her toward the kitchen table. She hasn't even finished her cereal, from what I see. And when she looks down at the bowl, her cheeks turn pale. "Ok," I say, "I'll get rid of it." There is a sinking feeling in my stomach and it isn't just because one of the jerks outside has thrown a damn pebble at our kitchen window.

The rest of the day passes in a blur. Emma keeps asking, "how can I bring anybody into this world?" and I spend my time trying to find a particular book on pregnancy while she gets rid of the pregnancy tests she'd smuggled out from the compound's medical wing.

Before the zombie outbreak killed the recording industry, a movie was made about The Secret Life of Walter Mitty. I liked that film a great deal and bought the soundtrack. Emma, apparently, also loves it and plays the record again and again throughout the day.

Dawn is coming open your eyes.

Hours and hours later, our woodpile is still haphazard in the living room, and I've had too much wine.

"Please don't go. Just promise me that." I plead.

We lay on the couch together, after debating the pros and cons of allowing Emma to just run outside and let herself be eaten by the monsters. As far as I'm concerned, it's a really terrible idea. But Emma is despondent.

"Absurd," I say again and again. My eyes sting with tears and my skin itches. It's 1am when I fall asleep with a hand clamped over Emma's wrist. It's 3am when I wake to the feeling of hair tickling my nose and a heavy head weighing me down. Her cheek rests over my heartbeat and I hold on tight.

The next day is busy because we'd neglected our chores. There are the stragglers at our front door. I'd given them a chance to leave, but the ones left behind are picked off from my balcony. I shoot each one with vigor, as though the world might be safer with every bullet. Then I move on to the dead that linger on other lawns. This goes on for some time. It isn't until Emma approaches from behind, shouting my name, over the noise I'm making, that I take a break. Her arms wrap around my shoulder and she leans on me. It takes me a long time to hug her back, because my hands are shaking and my arms are sore and I seem to actually be weeping.

"Are you laughing, or crying?" She asks politely. Her lips brush against my ear and I shiver.

"Both." I decide.

There are other errands to be completed but I let the hugging go on awhile longer. But my anxieties take over. I have to make something for Emma to eat and that requires well water, so I pull back with a smile and get on with my business. I try not to act overly interested in the look of disappointment on Emma's face.

The hugs and small touches and general expressions of affection continue throughout the week. At night, Emma asks to sleep in my room. She's in need of extra security or something, which makes sense I suppose, since there is another life on the way to take care of. At first, we sleep apart, talking quietly before we drift off. In the morning, Emma gets up first, throwing on her robe and making breakfast downstairs for me. The distance between us is protective, both of her and of I.

"Shouldn't I be doing this for you?" I ask politely, sipping the smoothie we'd collaborated on with actual homemade yogurt. There had been a jar still unopened in the cold cellar and we had milk from the compound. "We should get a cow." I decide.

"A cow? That's weird. Anyway. I like doing things for you too." Emma smiles sweetly and touches my hand.

That night, I hold out my arm and she scoots closer.

"So." I blink at the wall. "Um…congratulations. I don't think I said that before."

"Thanks." She's quiet for a long time, her hands loose on my hips. Her grip tightens momentarily and I fight the urge to push toward her like a ridiculous teenager or something. My breath quickens though. I can't hide that. She clears her throat. "So, remember that day," her voice shakes, "remember that day when you were chopping wood?"

"Yeah." I try not to stutter.

"I watched you. It was…you were really strong. And like, alive and…ummm…strong." She tapers weakly off.

"Hmmmm?" I'm genuinely curious now and push away so that I can see her eyes despite the dim room. "You sound surprised." It hits me, harder than it should have, because it's so damned obvious. "You thought I'd regress?"

Emma nods and smiles sheepishly. "Also," she adds then stops talking.

"Also...what?" God—I'm a second from ripping her ridiculous baby blue pajama top off of her if she doesn't just talk to me. My hormones are pulsating through me.

"Also," Emma leans as she speaks. And then her lips are against my clavicle and her tongue darts out before she pulls away and adds, "you look really sexy when you're doing physical labor in couture."

I bark with unexpected laughter which is cut off when her mouth reaches upward in the darkness and our lips meet.

It is a really great kiss. Her lips are fuller than they look and her tongue is against my teeth sends tingles down my spine. She smiles against my own questing lips and tongue and buries her hands in my hair and then the feeling of those fingers massaging my scalp makes me melt all over again.

We have time and I'm suddenly happier than I've been in months to take things slowly. My mouth slides over her jawline and I nuzzle her throat as her body covers me.

"Let's slow down." I say with some effort. But we're both sleepy and warm and it doesn't seem like an awful idea in the end. Emma just smiles against my lips, kisses me again, and borrows against me.