Read Online A Living Dead Love Story Series by Rusty Fischer - Free Book Online Page A

screen goes blank. At first I figure,
Great, no heartbeat, no breathing …now no electricity. What next? A sinkhole’s going to swallow up the entire house?
But every light in my bedroom is still on, the air-conditioning is still blowing, and my computer is still humming, so
that’s
not it.
    Then red spills across the monitor and the following message pops up:

7
Brains on Aisle 9

    Y OU KNOW, SURPRISINGLY , they don’t sell a lot of brains in the local 24-hour grocery store around the corner from my house. And, believe it or not, they don’t really like it when you ask about them. At least, not the sleepy college kid working the only open cash register the night I become a zombie.
    Standing at the counter in my high ponytail, freshly laundered yoga pants, hoodie, and flip-flops, I try to look him in the eye. “Hi, yeah, listen, uh …Tad? Tad, I’m looking for, well, see, my, uhhm …grandfather …is coming into town this weekend, and he really likes, well, believe it or not, he
loves
brains. Don’t look at me like that. I guess they ate them on the farm when he was growing up or something, but …do you know where I could find any?”
    â€œTad,” or so says the name tag on his chest, looks past me, around me, out into the parking lot, and everywhere
but
at me before finally saying, “Very funny.” Then he stares at me, as if to say, without words, “I’m too smart to be punk’d. Even if it is two in the morning and there’s not another soul around for miles.”
    â€œIt’s not a prank, Tad. Seriously. I looked all over the meat department, found tubs of chicken livers, something called ‘chitterlings’—not sure I want to go there—even a big, gray cow’s tongue, but …no brains. So …do you know where I could find them? I mean, I’m asking as a customer”—here I hold up the insanely fat roll of $20 bills Dad keeps in a cookie jar in the kitchen in case of an emergency (which, I think you’ll agree, this is)—”so I’m really
not
trying to prank you.”
    He sighs, reaches for a curvy microphone next to his cash register, pushes a button at the base, and says, “Harvey, I’m sending a live one back to the butcher for a few pounds of, get this …
brains
. Try to meet her there? We don’t want her wandering around the store scaring off all the other customers.” He snickers, but I don’t care.
    Visions of conking out halfway up the grocery store aisle make me brave enough to storm back to the butcher’s section and demand. My. Brains.
    Harvey is waiting for me, a quizzical look on his sleepy face and a hairy wrist extended, his big silver watch showing past his bloody butcher’s coat. “You know what time it is, missy?”
    â€œIt’s 2:27 a.m.,” I say, eyeing the old-school black-and-white clock above his head.
    Harvey looks up and scratches at his hairnet. “Oh yeah, well, I shouldn’t be on shift yet, but we’ve got a big shipment of rump roasts coming in a few hours, and who’s gonna turn down a little overtime these days, right?”
    â€œSure,” I say uneasily, having never worked a day in my life, let alone qualified for overtime. “Why not?”
    He looks me up and down, frowning. “Brains? You sure? Lot of fat in brains.”
    Right when I’m about to tell him I’m a size 2, thank you very much, he holds up his hands and explains.
    â€œNot that I’m saying you need to count calories or anything. Far from it. I know how you girls are these days. Well, here’s the thing: I can’t give you brains.” Harvey must see my face fall to the dirty linoleum floor because he promptly adds, “Not
cow’s
brains, anyway, on account of mad cow disease and all. And I can’t give you pork brains, on account of swine flu. But …it just so happens the lamb hasn’t been