Love in the Time of Zombies Read Online Free Page A

It’s almost as if I’m looking at a mannequin. He has skin that stretches smoothly from ear to ear. He can’t be real. In addition to having all his skin, this human male specimen has a close-cropped beard, blue eyes, a square jaw, and a rangy build. His hair is brown with a liberal sprinkling of gray, but it’s all there, attached to his scalp, which is still attached to his skull, which is still protecting his brain, which isn’t sliding greasily down his forehead.
    Mankind is amazing.
    As soon as the human male spots us in the doorway, he jumps. Then he holds the menu in front of his face and slides down in his chair.
    Gio’s Trattoria is small, with a dozen tables in the center and the same number of booths lining the walls. The décor is old school—wood paneling, white linoleum, red-checked tablecloths, incandescent chandeliers. Duckbill Platypussies’ cover of “Wannabe” by the Spice Girls plays softly over the speakers while a waitress in a pristine white apron pours Pellegrino for the human male, who doesn’t acknowledge her.
    Off to the side, sitting at a booth rather than a table like their charge, are the two guards who escorted him in. According to the white stitching on their uniforms, they are Officers Ritchie and Cantor. The former has smooth blond hair pulled into a utilitarian ponytail; the latter, pixie-red hair held back with colorful clips.
    Neither one bothers to look up when we enter.
    â€œWell, there’s your dreamboat,” Cammie says softly, as she gives me a gentle shove. “Go get him, tiger.”
    I appreciate the push because I’m too shocked by this turn of events to react. I can’t believe that my madcap scheme to meet a man to get into Whirligig has actually resulted in me meeting a man to get into Whirligig. A plan that insane never works out.
    With a darting glance at the officers, who are too busy chatting about their weekend plans (skiing, couch shopping) to notice me, I stride purposefully to the human male and hold out my hand. “Hi,” I say, with my brightest smile. “I’m Hattie Cross.”
    The unzombified human male shrieks and cowers in his seat; the menu falls to the floor. “Help, I’m being attacked. Help! Help!”
    At the word attack, my heart kicks up, my muscles tense and I turn quickly to fend off the assailant he’s so terrified of. She isn’t on my right. She isn’t on my left. I look back and forth again and again. No one is there.
    Nobody else reacts. The guards continue their discussion without pause (“I don’t know. I mean, red? It’s so bold. Maybe you should go more brownish. Like a burnt sienna”), as the server places a basket of bread on their table.
    I look at Cammie in the doorway. She waves.
    The man cries out again for help and curls up in his chair, his shoulders hunched over as if expecting a blow. With dawning horror, I realize that he’s afraid of me. I’m the assailant. I’m the one who’s attacking him.
    â€œOmigod, no, no, no,” I say, stepping forward to offer reassurance. “I’m not going to hurt you. I was just introducing myself. I’m Hattie Cross.”
    My perfectly reasonable explanation unsettles the human male even more, and he knocks over his chair and takes shelter behind it. “Don’t touch it. Please don’t touch it.”
    Now the guards stop talking and look over to us. “She doesn’t want to touch it, Larry,” Ritchie says matter-of-factly.
    â€œShe does. She does, I just know it,” Larry insists. “Please help me. You’re supposed to protect me from danger.”
    Cantor breaks off a piece of bread. “You’re not in danger, Larry, so chill. Have the minestrone. You know you love the minestrone.”
    Larry peeks over the edge of the chair, looking far from comforted by his guards’ blasé attitude, but he doesn’t argue when the