2013: The Zombies Take Manhattan

of time to consider my plight. I felt the time was rapidly drawing near when I’d need to take Erik down before he overpowered me. Thus I took comfort in the newly discovered crossbow that was mounted on the wall of the curator’s office. The weapon was certainly from a somewhat later period than the rest of the museum’s exhibits and, perhaps, something in which the curator had a personal interest.

  Happily, by noon the following day, the rain abated. Kitty and I waited until night fell and we hoped Erik had, by then, ventured outside to scratch up some gasoline. Then we crept out. I toted out the garbage and set about stockpiling more supplies for my hidden place.

  That night Katmandu and I stood on the ramparts and watched the large number of burnings. Where on Earth had he found so many undead at this late date? And I idly wondered if zombies from other areas, despite our precautions, had sensed human activity and were being drawn here. Clinging to the last semblance of comfort, I hugged cat close.

  After so many days of self-imposed fast, Erik showed up bright and early for breakfast. "Almost hungry enough to eat a zombie," he snarled, tearing into a pile of buttered, cinnamon toast. Oddly, during these reunions, he never asked where I’d been during his dangerous periods. It was as if he didn’t remember, as if the demon’s memories were separate from his own.

  Since he’d calmed down and again appeared rational, I queried, "Any luck with the egg hunt?"

  "Yes," he replied. "Present for you on the kitchen counter."

  I hurried to look and found four large, perfect, brown eggs perched there. They were so unexpected and so beautiful that I stood still for a moment, in a state of worship. Then I begged, "Oh, Erik, could I have one?"

  He looked surprised. "They’re for you," he insisted. A man of few words.

  "No, no," I told him. "We can share them. Would you like an omelet?" Without waiting for an answer, I proceeded to chop up vegetables and beat these in with the eggs.

  Erik took his seat and while the omelet was sizzling in the pan, I refilled his mug with coffee. When his tiny treat was set before him, accompanied by more toast, he muttered, "Found the hens. Hard to catch. But I can get eggs from the nests."

  "That’s splendid," I told him and he appeared embarrassed by my praise.

  Gee, I mused, it was almost like having an extremely huge, totally insane, big brother.

  By the time a couple of months had passed, it was obvious Erik was getting worse. Even whipping up a birthday cake every other day failed to pacify him for long. Hell! We’d consumed 17 cakes last month and these gifts held little promise of appeasing him. His needs were just too strong to be denied.

  And this meant he spent more time in the Pontaut room, fantasizing about beautiful, young girls screaming as they burned alive. During these episodes, I, of course, spent more time ensconced in the curator’s office. Although by now, I was well within my rights to refer to it as my office.

  Seeking some way to pass the evening, I prowled the curator’s book shelves. To my amazement, there on a lower shelf was every novel I’d ever written. Could the curator have been drawn to my works because they were all historically based? Thumbing through them, one by one, brought back memories.

  As I cuddled up with Katmandu that night, a tear ran down my cheek. "I miss my old life so much," I confided to kitty. The book-launch parties, the designer gowns, the royalty checks ... Giving my precious cat a special hug, I whispered, "Let’s play at having a book signing tomorrow night. We can stack the books up as if we’re in a book store and you can pretend you’re buying one of my novels. Then I’ll thank you for coming and inscribe it for you."

  Katmandu gently patted one paw on my damp cheek and purred, assuring me that he liked that plan. And I drifted off to sleep with my cat and memories of past glories.

  AN INTRUDER BREECHES THE WALLS

  The office housed a bank of monitors hooked up to the many security cameras mounted within the museum. Perhaps, I mused, while the guards had been watching the visitors, the curator had been observing the guards.

  And it was during one of my enforced incarcerations, as I was idly amusing myself by watching the screens, that the creature came into view. It strolled atop the Mediterranean gabled roof on the lower level and jumped down into the Bonnefont Cloister garden. I sat up straight, mouth agape, staring in horror as it prowled about, powerful muscles rippling, thick tail swishing.

  Due to the summer heat and the need to preserve the artifacts, all the outer doors were kept closed; but for a creature that could scale castle walls and traverse rooftops, this was a small deterrent.

  Only Erik was formidable enough to handle this unthinkable emergency. Leaving Katmandu safely tucked inside, I slipped into the corridor and made my way to the Pontaut room. And there he sat, huge, unmoving, except for the hand that held the lit match. I gasped as the tiny flame burned down, freshly singing his already scorched fingers, but he didn’t react to the pain.

  "Erik! You must come! Come and kill it before it gets inside and hunts us."

  But it was the Fireman who looked up, whose strange, dead eyes saw me, his ears uncomprehending of my message.

  Boldly, stupidly, I moved to his side and tugged at his sleeve. "Quickly! I tried to drag the giant to his feet, to make him follow me. "If you don’t kill it now," I hissed, "it will hunt us inside the castle. It can come from above. Or it can get into the tunnels and stalk you there."

  The Fireman grabbed my wrist, forcing me to the ground. His other huge paw took up the matches.

  "At least come and see!" I shrieked. He stared at me without understanding. I might as well have been speaking a foreign tongue. "In the Bonnefont garden. Please come," I pleaded, twisting with pain.

  Then the Fireman’s eyes registered some connection with reality. He stood, still gripping my wrist, and started off with huge strides, dragging me as he went. As his boots stamped along, I whimpered, "No! Don’t go down to the garden or it will get you. Just view it from above."

  Thankfully, he did as I asked and we were soon standing in the Cuxa Cloister, looking down over the outer wall. It was still there! Moving in that odd way panthers and leopards have of appearing to flow along like water.

  "It’s an Asian snow leopard," I babbled on. "From mountainous terrain. It can scale almost anything. Jump high. That’s how it must have gotten in." I tugged him back from the wall, cautioning, "Don’t let it know you’re here. It can clear the rampart with just one leap."

  Appearing more like Erik now, he released my wrist, and demanded, "How?"

  "Maybe from the Bronx Zoo," I stammered, "or the zoo at Central Park. I know they had snow leopard exhibits there."

  "How do you expect me to kill it?" he snarled. And the crossbow came to mind.

  "I’ll get the crossbow," I told him breathlessly. "It fires off with much more power than a long bow." And I scampered off, leaving him to contemplate the situation.

  By the time I returned, the big, spotted cat had disappeared under cover of the arcade and was now emitting banshee howls that chilled the blood. "Behold," I told Erik, pointing down, "something more terrible than yourself." His piqued expression told me he found no humor in my remark.

  Placing the crossbow on the wall, I demonstrated how to crank up the tension to fire off the bolt. "These bolts take the place of arrows. Much more deadly. But we only have four." He took the device from me and positioned the missile. "Aim carefully," I cautioned. "The bolts are reusable, but if you miss, someone will have to go to the garden below to retrieve them."

  At that moment, the cat’s jade-green eyes fell upon us and it bounded forward, about to leap to the upper level. Well, damn Erik anyway! The leopard was so close that I could smell its stink, imagine its fetid breath. And still, Erik seemed to be waiting for the leopard to get right in his face before firing.

  "No!" I screamed. "It’s faster than you! Deadlier!" And still Erik did not release the bolt. By now, I was backin
g away, trying to get to the safety of the inner hall, screaming, "Do it now!"

  And just as I thought we were dead, Erik let the bolt fly. The missile entered the beast’s gaping mouth, and the cat fell dying at his feet. Erik prodded the twitching body with the toe of his boot.

  "Maybe I’ll skin it. Make a rug," he said. "Or maybe just set it ablaze."

  Traumatized by his coldness when taking down the leopard, I stumbled off to the office and locked myself in. Cuddled up with my kitty for comfort, I didn’t emerge until dinnertime. By then, I’d lost track of the crossbow with its remaining bolts.

  That evening we convened in the Cuxa Cloister as usual and ate our supper in silence. After he’d cleaned his plate, Erik looked about with his reptilian green eyes, and rumbled with great disappointment, "No birthday cake?"

  "No, Erik," I told him flatly, "no more cakes. You make my life such a living hell that I can no longer wrap my head around baking cakes. You’re a constant threat, hunting me through the halls day and night." Tears sprang to my eyes and my words choked off as I recalled the missing crossbow. This will only end badly!

  Erik rose to his full height and came to tower over me. He muttered, "My mother used to stalk me through the house before finally beating me. Tortured me for hours that way." He touched his chest. "Sorry, it’s the pain in here. I need to make it stop."

  Fearing