had!
As days passed, I carefully marked time on a calendar taken from the gift shop. If the 10-year theory turned out to be true, I wanted to be aware when it happened. Erik had taken to strolling around the grounds, drifting farther and farther toward the open lawns at the southern end of the property.
"It’s a bad idea to do that," I warned. "If any of those dead guys catch sight of you, they’ll come for you. And their wails will attract even more of their kind."
"So what," he protested. "We’re surrounded by iron gates."
"If every zombie in the area becomes attracted to the same spot," I insisted, "their combined weight will push that section of the fence over. They’ll pile inside. I don’t care how big and bad you are. That many of them are sure to overpower you. And it only takes one little nip to turn you. Then they’ll flood onto the grounds and break into the castle." My voice trailed off. "Besides I’ve become accustomed to having you around."
Erik seemed stunned at this and actually grabbed my hand in his large one. "All right," he finally said, "If it means that much to you, I’ll be more careful." Then he added, "But with all the zombies I’ve torched, there can’t be that many left in the neighborhood."
I shook my head warily, recovering my hand as soon as the situation permitted. "They’re like roaches," I insisted. "No matter how many you kill, there’s always more to take their place." As I cleared away the remains of our meal, I added, "And don’t be counting on that 10-year theory."
"Ten years from the time the first person became a zombie?" he snarled.
"No," I corrected him. "Thousands of zombies were being turned every minute of every day. Even if the theory proves correct, before we’re home free, it would mean 10 years from the time the last zombie turned."
Erik seemed to be in a rare mood for conversation and it was hard to break away gracefully. "Sometimes," he muttered, "they almost seem human. From a distance."
"Good God!" I blurted out. "I hope you’re not torching surviving humans by mistake!"
He appeared surprised at that. "If I’m not sure, I tell them to say something. Easy to tell then. Zombies can’t talk."
"Yeah," I added sadly, "not well coordinated. And they’re rotting before your eyes."
He went on to say something about how he’d seen some of the zombies now being able to perform some of the more difficult tasks they’d probably done while alive. But I’d already turned and made for the employees’ kitchen. Anything to escape his presence.
WHEN EVEN BIRTHDAYS AREN’T ENOUGH
Erik had certainly proved to be a scary roommate. When stormy weather didn’t allow for his zombie-burning hobby, he would become strangely withdrawn, tap dancing on the edge of what passed for his sanity. And when the inclement weather lasted for days, I strongly felt he was considering attacking me.
It was times like this that I secretly locked myself and Katmandu into the curator’s office, which had its own small bath and kitchenette that I’d stocked earlier with supplies. Its walls were lined with hand-tooled, leather-bound books on shelves, mostly relating to the Middle Ages, and I found these fascinating. And just in case humans began digging through the years of the zombies’ reign at some future date, I’d used the computer to chronicle our time in the castle.
The office also had an intricately carved door leading out to a charming, private garden, which was surrounded on all sides by the castle’s stone walls, with sunlight streaming down from on high. Not easily accessed by intruders, I noted.
The office contained a bank of video screens that monitored most of the museum. If I needed to sneak out to replenish my supplies, one peek always told me where the big guy was prowling. This is how I learn that Erik sneaks into my bed chamber in the Unicorn room, from time to time, hoping to catch me off guard. And this is why I’ve moved my belongings and Katmandu to these new quarters.
Meanwhile, at the height of his madness, Erik would seek the Pontaut Chapter room, with its gothic architecture and austere atmosphere. Early on, he had dragged a huge chair there and set it against the back wall, where the abbot had once sat during the old monastery’s daily meetings. And here he remained like a statue, grim, silent, and withdrawn; a giant hulk that seemingly housed a demon.
When the rain lasted overlong, he would take to lighting matches and staring until they burned out, never noticing his fingers were scorching as well. It was only when the night skies were clear again and the neighborhood zombies were dry enough to flame that it was safe for me to approach him.
Whenever possible, on clear nights, Erik made it his nightly mission to hunt down and torch as many dead creatures as could be found. And each time, he returned safely to me, remembering to lock and relock the gates. It was when he was thumbing through a magazine one of the staff had left behind, that he came upon a picture of a birthday cake with lit candles.
"It’s chocolate," he noted in a guttural voice. "Always wanted a chocolate one. Dreamed about it."
That was when I made up my mind to bake that first cake, praying the gift might somehow appease him. And that was the night I found the recipe that had originated in Medieval France. Bûche de Noël was a rolled-up sponge cake, with both whipped cream and chocolate buttercream within and without.
The very next day, while Erik was prowling through the upper levels of the castle, the ones not open to the public, I set about making that cake. All the ingredients were in the kitchen, except the chocolate, so I grabbed some bars from the gift shop.
Erik had been good at getting into the local shops and bringing back cat food and litter. He also got into the freezers of surrounding homes and restaurants, and toted frozen packages of meat back to the castle. Steak, stew, chicken, pork, and salmon; the list was endless. Or at least, I hoped, the supply would last the proposed 10 years. Or that Erik would finally rid the immediate neighborhood of zombies and be able to branch out into the next neighborhood for supplies. And the next.
As a special favor, I’d begged him to obtain some heavy cream on his next foray. That evening, I asked him to beat it into peaks. He did so grudgingly, annoyed that he was being asked to do more than keep zombies at bay.
"Oh, please," I chirped, "as our dessert is to be something special." And as soon as the cream stood in stiff peaks, I whisked the bowl into the kitchen.
By now the cake had been baked and cooled. I spread one layer of chocolate filling on top, followed by a layer of whipped cream, then rolled the cake up into a log. The remaining filling was then used to frost the outside. After using a fork’s tines to give the frosting a tree bark appearance, I then sprinkled powdered sugar through one of the paper doilies, and added the candles.
Once we’d finished a meal of chicken teriyaki, rice, and salad, I pretended to tidy up, while Erik again stretched out in his favorite precarious position atop the stone wall. A minute later, I called to him to come to the kitchen. He arrived with annoyance at being asked again to help me with "woman’s work," and caught sight of the cake. There on the counter was the beautiful confection with its glowing candles, surrounded by mounds of whipped cream.
"Surprise!" I called out. For once, he was speechless. "Sorry that lit candles couldn’t be served on the terrace," I told him, "but the zombies might have come out for the party." I placed the Yule log before him and handed him a knife. "I melted down some chocolate bars from the gift shop and found the rum in the curator’s desk."
Erik took a tentative taste. "Rum! Yum! And chocolate," he growled, "just the way I dreamed it. Except in my dream, the cake had layers."
"Sorry," I told him. "Had to go by what was on hand. The next time you go shopping, keep an eye out for cake and icing mixes."
He cut a generous slice for me, then proceeded to wolf down the rest
"The recipe is from medieval France," I confided. "Very popular at Christmas. It’s supposed to look like a tree."
I furtively considered him from the corner of my ey
e. He’d just finished a tasty Asian dinner with crunchy vegetables and cashews, and an incredible confection for dessert. I decided that as much as he had enjoyed this, if I happened to be standing too close to him when the madness struck, he’d just as soon torch me as not. My continued existence here was tenuous at best.
"Whadda you dream about?" he suddenly demanded, giving me a long stare. "I mean, like something you no longer have."
Taken off guard, it took me a bit to gather my thoughts, then I stammered, "I mostly lust after a damn good cappuccino."
He muttered, "Huh." And that was all he said.
It was a week later, when Erik returned from foraging, that he presented me with an expensive cappuccino maker. When I saw the brass eagle mounted on top, I figured he’d probably liberated it from an Italian restaurant. "It’s no good without the cappuccino coffee to brew," I observed mournfully.
He placed the bag of coffee on the table and, for the first time, I noticed his hands were bleeding. Oh, my God, I thought. He’s been bitten! And he’s already locked inside the castle with me!
He saw my face and shook his head. "Not bitten," he insisted gruffly. "One of the gates has sharp edges." He prowled through the cabinets. "Do we have any disinfectant? Any bandages?" I steered him to our first-aid supplies.
"What do you see outside?" I begged. "Anything new to