Free Breathers by S. G. Browne Page B

instead of covering stories that show the undead holding meetings or toy drives or bake sales, the media focuses on a minority of our population and spreads fear with their misleading reports. After all, just because some Asians don't know how to drivedoesn't mean they're all bad drivers. Okay. Bad example. But you get my point. Breathers are going to believe what they want to believe, regardless of the facts.
    Other media-induced zombie myths:
    We are slow-moving.
    We have almost zero intelligence.
    We can see electromagnetic pulses.
    We have superhuman strength.
    We are related to vampires.
    We go deaf within a few weeks of reanimation.
    And, although our olfactory nerves are still functioning, contrary to popular belief, we are not able to smell Breathers from several miles away.
    One of the few characteristics the media got right about zombies is that we are insensitive to physical pain. However, we can still get our feelings hurt.
    “Here we are,” says Tom, once we reach the burial plot for his sister, who was mauled to death by a pit bull. I guess it runs in the family.
    We all gather around in a circle.
    “This is Donna,” says Tom. “Donna, this is everyone.”
    A murmuring of “Hi, Donna” from everyone and a “What up?” from Jerry. I just wave.
    “How old was your sister when she died?” asks Naomi as she lights up a cigarette.
    “She was only fourteen,” says Tom, the torn, exposed flesh beneath his left eye a black, consuming birthmark in the flicker of Naomi's lighter. “She's actually the reason I became a dog trainer. Thought I could help prevent the same thing from happening to someone else.”
    “Whoops,” says Carl.
    Jerry snickers and Rita giggles, her laugh infectious. I can't help but smile.
    Tonight, Rita is wearing an ankle-length black skirt with a black wool cardigan and a white turtleneck that's just a shade lighter than her skin. In the darkness, she almost appears to be naked beneath her cardigan.
    This is the first time I've seen Rita since our Sunday stroll and good-bye kiss at the SPCA and I'm feeling a little awkward. I'm not sure how to act or what to grunt. That and there's the guilt factor. Being in a cemetery reminds me of Rachel. Not exactly the way I want to be reminded of my wife, but there you have it. But when Rita glances my way and smiles, the guilt just sort of dissolves.
    Once we've finished paying our respects to Tom's sister, we follow Helen to her mother's grave. Tom stumbles again and falls into another headstone, tearing the stitches in his right shoulder and knocking his arm loose. Jerry and Rita can't stop laughing and have to fight to stifle their giggles through the moment of silence Helen asks we observe for her mother, who died of a heart attack while sitting on the toilet at Macy's.
    After we finish up with Helen's mother, we spend the next forty-five minutes visiting the recently deceased, not to pay our respects, but to make sure they're still dead.
    It stands to reason that there are undead who reanimate after they're buried or entombed, so one of our purposes on the World Death Tour is to find those newly laid to rest and listen for any indications that they might not be resting so peacefully. Telltale signs include pounding, screaming, crying, and hysterical laughter.
    It's not always easy to hear them, considering we're dealing with six-foot barriers of earth and twelve-inch layers of marble and concrete, not to mention a hardwood casket. Butwe undead are on the same spiritual wavelength, which allows us to hear what the living choose to ignore.
    Breathers typically aren't as attuned to the undead, so they don't hear their cries for help. Even if they could, it's doubtful they'd do anything. It costs a lot of money to disinter a corpse. Not to mention the social embarrassment and the stigma of bringing the undead back into your life.
    Tonight we don't find any buried or entombed undead, which isn't surprising. On average, only one out of every two