One Foot in the Grave: An Almost Zombie Tale Read Online Free

weirder parting words were ever said, I sure don’t know them. “Thanks,” I say as the doors slide shut again. I’d like to say the idea of continuing on to the basement is out, but the amounts of laundry I have to do are truly staggering. I stare at my wrist, shrug, and toss the hand onto the pile of dirty clothes and wait while the elevator continues its journey down. Laundry’ll be so fun to do one-handed. I can’t wait. The door slides open and I’m there; the machines staring at me through the doorway; lined up in two neat rows with the dryers pushed back against the far wall.
    Luckily for me, the basement is completely empty, so I don’t have to explain the hand. I reach into the basket and put it on the edge of the washing machine for safe keeping. It’s not until after I start the load of laundry, though, that I hear the telltale thump thump thump . My eyes flick up to the top of the machine and yup. The hand’s gone. I close my eyes and sigh. Well, that’s one way of washing myself, though not the one I would have picked. Call me super lazy, but I’m not going to fish around searching for it. I’ll call it a tennis shoe if anyone comes in and wait until they do their laundry before I transfer mine to the dryer.
    The washer stops its spin cycle. I hope my hand’s in one piece. I mean, regardless of what I said to Mrs. Castemar, it’s kind of irreplaceable. I reach in and start pulling the laundry out and back into the basket. My left hand is sitting at the bottom of the washer, intact. I fish it out and put it on top of the wet clothing, then transfer the whole mess into the dryer. I figure as long as the dryer’s on the lowest setting, my hand should be fine.
    The thump of the hand kind of lulls me to sleep. I wake with a start when the dryer buzzes. Hoisting everything back into the basket, I haul it back to the elevator, ride it upstairs and, finally, close the apartment door behind me. Then I slide to the floor and cry. Or rather, I try to. My shoulders heave, my throat tightens up, I start to sob, but that’s it. I have no tears. My eyes are bone dry. I wasn’t a biology geek in school, but I’m beginning to suspect that Andrew has a lot more to answer for than I originally thought. And yeah, while the idea of a doctor flits across my mind, I discard it almost as quickly. I’m pretty sure whatever is going on, a doctor isn’t going to be able to fix it. I’d rather not be turned into a research paper for some medical journal. And telling Mom is pretty much out of the question. I love her and she’s awesome, but I don’t think even her open mind is open enough for a daughter who eats brains. As much as I don’t really want to, I think it’s time to go to church and talk to Lydia and the flying rock.

Four:
    Is This Really a Church?
    I don’t want to go back to the church but here I am, debating whether or not to go inside. Of course, I will. I have to. My blood is congealing and my freakin’ hand fell off. Rewrapping it was an exercise in patience, and something I never, ever want to have to do again. So that means I need answers. Badly. I hope Lydia is inside. No sooner does the thought cross my mind when the doors open and the red-haired woman pokes her head out.
    “Isis! It’s so good to see you. Come in. Please. I have a quick errand to run, but I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
    I bite my lip, not particularly interested in going in without her, but really. What else am I going to do? I edge my way inside, peering up at the ceiling just in case the ‘priest’ decides to drop on my head.
    “What are you doing?” The voice reminds me of rocks tumbling down a mountain; something I experienced first-hand once when I visited the Southern California coastline. It’s unnerving, to say the least.
    A sound like two large pieces of granite moving shivers its way up my spine. Something is in here with me and it sure as heck doesn’t qualify as human. I look around, but don’t see