Zombie Waltz (Book 2) Read online

  Zombie Waltz

  Lynn E. Main

  II

  Copyright © 2017 Lynn E. Main

  Cover art copyright © 2017 Demifaux All Rights Reserved

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any actual places, events, or people, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Create Space Independent Publishing Platform

  Charleston, South Carolina

  ISBN-13 :978-154207895

  ISBN-10 :1545207895 I have found that it is always better to ask for forgiveness…rather than permission…

  Zombie Waltz

  Chapter 1: Fatima Marie Antoinette Du Beauxmonté-Claire FRENCH RED

  “Fatima, it is time to come inside!” Henri Claire shouts from his back door. He pushes his fingers through his blond hair to smooth it. His chin stubble has grown to nearly a beard during his ‘temporary’ work hiatus. He’s taken to drinking earlier in the day…and in larger quantities.

  Scratching at his face, Henri rubs his bloodshot eyes with his fingers. He has the brightest of blue eyes; darkened with red electric veins swimming through the whites and deep bruised blue and purple crevices beneath. Fatima looks like him, only in the fairness of her hair and eyes. His daughter is the image of her mother. Younger and fresher, but Marie as Marie was, and as beautiful already as Marie ever hoped to be.

  Fatima sits under a maple tree playing with her back to the house. Her blonde hair swings, shining like spun gold as her head whips around. She smiles at him and then sticks her lower lip out to pout. A sunny smile with blushed cheeks in the summer heat brings out her bright blue eyes as she beams at her papa. Even the pout is nothing but adorable on the enchanting girl.

  “Si vous plait, papa, laissez-moi jouer plus.”

  “Come in now, Fatima.” Henri demands with a stern foreboding expression.

  “Oui, papa.” Fatima jumps up from the ground wiping at her blue jeans, the knees of which are stained green with grass. She lifts her loose tails from her button up checker-patterned redshirt to wipe the sweat from her face, trotting up the yard to the rented house where her father waits.

  As Fatima runs past, Henri Claire reaches down and gives her bottom a swift smack. It does not sting terribly. The budding twelve-yearold triesto ignore it. Fatima’swell accustomed to her father’s harsh hands. Henri walks into the kitchen behind her and shuts the door. Fatima stands statuesque on the yellowed linoleum, uncertain.

  Three places are sat at the table. Three chairs with three: plates, salad bowls, bread plates, forks, knives and spoons. A large salad bowl with a bread basket beside it decorates the center. A bottle of wine leers from in front of Henri’s plate. Three tall sparkling wine glasses complete the small table. It looks the same as the kitchen did in France. It’s not the same table and all the furniture, dishes and lighting are different…but the way it is sat is exactly the same.

  “Fatima, we live in America now. We have to learn to speak like Americans or they will not understand us. Speak English please.” Henri Claire says to his daughter in a deep and harsh voice as he walks from the doorway to the table. “Now come over here and sit down for dinner.”

  “Oui oui, papa.”

  “English Fatima!” Henri roars at the little girl.

  “Oui, Père.” Fatima says, her eyes starting to feel heavyand itchy. Her hands worrying together in a tight knot in front of her stomach. She looks up into her father’s eyes and attempts a small smile. His face, which had already been stern, has grown graver.

  ` “Fatima Marie Antoinette, you will speak English.” He says and takes hold of his belt buckle and unclasps it. The first tear starts to roll down Fatima’s cheek.

  “Yes…father.” She says, wiping the tear away and hanging her head in shame.

  “Good.” He says. When she looks up, he smiles at her but it is frightening. To her his teeth are too big; his lips pulled back to far. His smile is too wide. “Now come to the table and eat.”

  Fatima only nods as she runs to the table and pulls out her chair. Henri sits across the table, still grinning at his daughter. Their family had beenbroken for manyyears, but with the recent disappearance of Fatima’s mother and the move to the States, Henri planned on making life good again. This had been his promise when they were walking down the jet way to get on the plane.

  Fatima pulls her chair in and takes the salad bowl from the center of the table and places it in front of her. She starts to pile spinach greens and shaved carrots and radishes onto her plate. “Fatima, serve your papa first. Show me respect, child.” He chides the girl. The grin dissolves from his face, leaving a scowl.

  “Yes, papa.” Fatima replies rising from her chair. She circles the table still holding the salad bowl and tongs, though both shake visibly. She stands by her father’s chair with her lips and knees pressed tight and awkwardly together. Fatima can easily reach her father’s plate, but he pushes back from the table so Fatima can stand right in front of his place setting. Fatima does not move closer, instead holding the salad bowl out and fishing forthe spinach-greens, fresh sliced radish, grape-tomatoes and onion rings with the tongs.

  “Closer, Fatima. You must not slop the greens upon the plate.” Henri snaps and with that, he reaches forward and places the palm of his hand on the nape of Fatima’s neck. He curls his digits around one side and his thumb around the other and squeezes.

  Fatima winces, “Oww…Oww papa...”

  “Shush, Fatima.” Henri Claire growls and then without loosening his grip maneuvers her in front of him and pushes her up to the table. Tall already, nearly as tall as her father, Fatima’s thighs press against the edge of the table and she is bent forward so that she can almost reach her own plate. “Now serve me, woman!” Henri roars from behind her and she starts to scoop salad out of the bowl onto his plate in generous portions.

  Henri would tell the girl that she is serving him too much, but he is preoccupiedstaringat his daughter’s backside.She sobs quietly, putting more salad than she can possibly eat on her own plate. Before Henri released her neck, he stands and pushes her forward –too far- and leans over the girl, his crotch pressed against her.

  As he steps back from her, Henri slides his hand down her back and cups her buttocks and squeezes. Fatima winces and gags silently, horrified that she might vomit on the table. Finally, Henri releases his daughter and backs away. Fatima drops the salad bowl in the center of the table where it topples for a moment and nearly spills. She retreats as fast as she dares around the table to her place.

  “You’re going to be a good woman someday, Fatima. Sadly, your mother is gone. Now it is up to me to teach you how to be a woman. Quit fidgeting in your chair and pour the wine.” Henri sits back and doesn’t bother to scoot up to the table.

  A tall glass waits in front of and to the left of each plate. The bottle in front of her father is brown with the words FRENCH RED in big bold letters on a burgundy label. Fatima stands again. Her knees feel so liquid, she is amazed she can remain upright. She takes the bottle and reaches across the table for Henri’s glass, but he jumps forward suddenly and grabs her hand.

  “Fatima, where are your manners? Ladies first.” He nods toward Fatima’s glass, knowingly. She reluctantly retracts her hand when he lets it loose. She lifts her glass and tilts the top towards the bottle. She then expertlypours the wine into her glass until it is full. She sits it byher plate and self-consciouslytilts herheadup to look at her father. He’s still leaned forward but now sits slowly back in his chair. When he leaned over her and grabbed her butt she could smell his breath. It was already fuming with the bitter smell of cheap wine.

  After delicately placing her glass by her plate, she again starts to reach for her father’s glass. This time she checks his gaze f
irst and pulls her hand back too fast. “Fatima. You must pour the wine for all the ladies first.” He had purposely set the table for three.

  “But papa, we are the only ones here.”

  “I know, Fatima. Alas, my sweet Marie is gone. Now, you must be, I’m afraid, both mother and daughter in this family.” She looks at him with her face screwed up in confusion and he points at the third tall wine glass sitting by the empty plate that should have been her mother’s.

  Fatima reluctantly picks up the glass, pours the wine into it and places it back. She grabs Henri’s glass so fast that if it had been used already, the dregs would have whippedtheman across the face.Hefrowns at her, but Fatima is no longer looking at her father. She is frightened of him; has always been frightened when he drinks.

  As soon as she reseats herself, Henri pulls his chair in to the table. Both silently eat their salads. When finished, Henri rises to retrieve the soup and cheese. While in the kitchen, he drinks several swigs of cheap bourbon. He returns to the table with another bottle of wine; this one has an orange sticker on the label that reads $3.99. Fatima sips the bitter drink while she eats.

  Finally, Henri serves the duck that roasted in the oven. Dinner is almost over.

  Fatima eats her duck heartily, not wanting the wine to upset her belly. When finished, she looks long at the last sip of wine in her glass. Her belly already swims and her head feels fuzzy. She picks up the glass, tilts her head back, and drains the last drops from it.

  She stands abruptly, “Excusé moi, papa.” She turns to bolt from the table to her room. She has math problems to finish before class, but now only desires to take a hot shower and brush her hair and teeth. So, she can go to sleep. She just wants to forget her father’s family dinner.

  “Fatima!” Henri shouts.

  She stops and turns after nearlymakingit to the door.“Oui, papa?” Herknees feel weakagain and her stomach is alreadystarting to knot. She wrings her hands together.

  “Fatima, come back here.” Henri commands. The young girl dutifully obeys, walking quickly up to the side of his chair. She stares at her father’s face but he is not looking at her. He is staring at the full glass of wine in front of Marie’s vacant plate. Fatima slowly turns her head and looks at the glass as well. She gulps. “You haven’t finished your wine, mon chéri.”

  Fatima picks up the glass and can see the dark red liquid inside vibrating as her hand shakes. She gulps again and the stress of wishing to be away from here nearlydrives her to scream. She tilts her head back and pours the hot liquid down her throat. She drinks it as fast as she can but still a line of the purplish sour juice rolls down from the corner of her mouth to her chin. She sits the glass back down and considers her father’s icy eyes.

  He leans forward and reaches out for her. She flinches away and closes her eyes but doesn’t dare run. As she squeezes her eyes shut she can feel him grab her face. He holds her chin and squeezes both cheeks with his strong fingers and pulls her face forward. She can feel his hot breath and smell its toxicity, but is too afraid to open her eyes. She then feels his warm and wet slimy tongue lick her chin and then slide grossly up to the corner of her mouth. There it lingers as her knees start to shake evenmoreviolentlyand then she feels the pressure of it come off herface. His hand does not release her though, so she stands there awkwardly bent forward quaking until she can gather the courage to face him.

  Reluctantly, she opens her eyes.

  “That’s good. We can’t waste the wine, can we?” Fatima shakes her head slowly and Henri shakes his along with her. “You will be a good woman. Your papa will see to that chéri.” He smiles before releasing her, leans forward and with big puckered lips kisses her mouth. Her lips feel cold and numb but she can’t pull away or even tighten her mouth. The fear has frozen her completely.

  Mrs. Langston’s Brass Buttons

  At school the next day, Fatima wears a blue plaid skirt. Her thighs hurt too much to wear jeans. In her morning classes, she can’t stop her hands from shaking. But a test in pre-algebra and a spirited game of tag at P.E. with some new friends and she is almost able to forget her previous night’s horror. Fatima has grown accustomed to her papa’s unwelcome touchingover the last several years, but it has never goneas terriblywrong as it had last night.

  After dinner, Fatima had been too frightened and exhausted to shower.

  She changed into a long white sleep shirt with a purple Care Bear on it. She layin her bed too scaredand wired to sleep, listeningto thedark. Through the walls, she occasionally heard her father moving around. She heard him go into the living room and turn on the TV and then into the bathroom to urinate loudly and for longer than Fatima can imagine is possible. She listened for him again after that but only hears the loud TV program.

  Fatima was almost asleep when she heard her door creak open. She squeezes her eyes shut, willing herself to sleep…but there’s no hope of it coming. As the man approaches, her heart races faster and faster until he slides into bed with her.

  In French and in English, Fatima begged her father to stop, but he ignored her. He hurt her. When he’s finished, Henri leaves her bed and stumbles away looking for his own in the dark. Eventually Fatima cries herself to sleep.

  Suzy and Linda and three boys run, chase and scream with Fatima for 30 minutes straight. When the whistle blows to call the children in, Fatima’s laughing so hard she doesn’t hear. Linda shakes her shoulder. Fatima calms herself, then frowns when Linda turns away to follow the other kids in. Only one hour of school remains until she must go home. Seeing his dreaded face, Fatima is certain will kill her. Uncertain if she caneven look in thoseicyeyes, she steps with one foot, and then theother. Even though she wants to run and hide, she follows her class inside.

  Fatima sits through the last hour of school numb, in a blur. She seems to only take her seat and open her history textbook and the bell sounds ending the school day. Fatima rides the bus to a stop about a quarter of a mile from her father’s rented house. She considers walking the other way, and running when she gets to the stop. She wants to run away; like her mother. She thinks about it the entire bus ride. When she steps rigidly off the bus, she turns automatically and starts walking towards her street anyway. She wants to make herself run. Turn and flee and never come back. But her stubborn body betrays her. Without her consent, it keeps moving toward that place.

  Henri had not stirred yet when Fatima left for school to her utter relief. She would normally have woken him to tell that she was leaving but not when he was hung-over; never when he had been drinking the night before. When he drinks heavily he would be in a particularly foul and cruel mood in the morning. So, she silently let herself out. Certain he would scold her later. There is no wayshe could have done it this morning. She could not have faced him then. She has no idea how to face him now, but still she walks forward one foot and then the other.

  She turns on Scrimshaw Ln. and can see her father’s rented house immediately. It does not look how she had expected it. The house is normal but there is a blackand white police carsittingacrossthe driveway and another dark blue car directly behind that one. Down the street, two more police cars sit next to each other with officers leaning idly on their hoods talking. Fatima allows herself to hope that he is dead. She turns on the sidewalk that leads to her porch.

  As she turns toward the house, one of the chatting officers’ notices and points her out to the other. Both immediately follow her. She looks back, terrified. She wonders if his death looks strange and somehow, they think she might have caused it. He only drank too much. Maybe he fell and hit his head She knows she is innocent but the way the men in the black uniforms look at her makes her feel guilty. When she looks forward again a woman in a dark blue business suit with shiny brass buttons on the jacket has appeared on her porch. Two more cops stand behind her and in front of the open door of her house.

  Fatima’s heart pounds in her chest but she continues forward. Her schoolbooks pressed to her small breasts with one arm across
them; one hand grippingtheir edgestightly. Her otherhand cinchedaround her waist under the stack of books, she quakes.

  The business-woman turns and whispers something to the cops behind her. She takes a slow measured step down off the porch, and approaches Fatima. Fatima freezes. All the officers stop moving as the woman walks up to her. The older woman moves slowly and Fatima cannot be certain if it is because she doesn’t know how to approach the girl or if it is her age slowing her. She wonders if they are worried that she will be terribly sad that he is dead. Maybe she should cry, she thinks it would look better, but a frighteningimage of laughinghystericallywhen given the news enters her mind and won’t leave. As the woman approaches, Fatima decides she needs to focus her attention and pretend she has no idea that he will be dead.

  Fatima had been taught to look adults in the face when they speak to her. But she is looking at the woman’s outfit as she approaches. The brass buttons are so bright and shinyagainst the stark darkness of the suit. It is an ugly feature. It makes the outfit not pretty. She wonders if she should tell the lady to cut the horrible buttons off her jacket.

  The woman in the blue suit stops two paces in front of her and speaks, “Fatima…err Du Beauxmonté-Claire? Is that you, young lady?”

  Fatima looks up at her face. The woman has dark chocolate skin with little black freckles on her cheeks and a sweet smile on her face. Fatima wants it to mean she doesn’t have to be frightened to come home anymore. Angela Langston is stocky built and heavy but carries it well. Her silver hair curling into a tight puff on her head. The smile itself deepens the laugh-lines on her face, and her big eyes close slightly and seemto smile alongwith her mouth, “Oui madamoiselle….um yes ma’am. I am Fatima.”

  “Fatima dear…” The lady starts losing her smile, but her face is still endearing. “My name is Mrs. Angela Langston. I am a court appointed special advocate. Do you know what that is?”

  Fatima nods her head. It is starting to grow heavy. Her heart only pounds faster. She wishes this sweet old lady would talk to her faster. She has to know that he is dead. She needs to know.