November, 10 1998 [20]

"Jackka Billwen uppa hillta patcha whala wha-ta..." Serafina sang as she lay on the homemade changing table.

Martha pulled back the diaper and flinched from the smell. It was more than simply human waste. This was human waste squared – like something that was already dead and rotting had defecated in front of her. You took away alcohol's effect on me, but not my gag reflex... Thanks a lot, Universe.

Serafina continued, unconcerned with the stench, "Jack'll downa brokie crowna Billcay tumbie aff-ta."

"Oh my goodness, what a beautiful singer you are!" Martha said with a voice so buoyant and saccharin, first-life-teenage Martha's eyes would have rolled out of their sockets. But though her delivery was dancing-purple-dinosaur level cheeseball, her words were entirely sincere. Against all reason, everything that came out of this tiny human was beautiful to Martha – from adorable nursery rhymes to noxious demon feces.

She finished cleaning and dressing her daughter, then walked her and the dirty diaper to the bathroom. "What do you think, Sera? Do zombie's poop? They must, considering all the brains they eat." Such were the deep thoughts that Martha – the girl once tasked with saving the human race – was having lately. She held the diaper over the toilet and shook out the loose contents, then dropped it into its designated hamper.

Martha felt something wet on her thumb. She held it up and, sure enough, there was a sizable greenish-brown chunk on her knuckle.

Serafina giggled then said, "Poop."

A normal person would have panicked, screamed, ran in circles, dunked, and re-dunked her hand in a tub of rubbing alcohol. But Martha wasn't a normal person anymore. She was a mother. So she just sighed and calmly washed her hand with soap – beautiful...

"Okay, Stinky Princess. We could use some air. Let's go see what Daddy's up to."

Serafina toddled out of the bathroom and to the front door, singing, "Da-dee! Da-dee!" Martha hovered behind as they walked out of the cabin and into the lush green of their forest home.

To the right, their Jeep sat parked at the end of the single lane, dirt road that eventually wound them back to civilization. Directly in front of them, a forest trail led to a creek a quarter mile in, where they could fish for smallmouth bass. Serafina maneuvered down the porch steps one leg at a time, then toddled around Martha's rainbow beds of indigenous wildflowers to take the trail leading to the left.

"Slow down, sweetie. Careful..." Martha pleaded on impulse as Serafina waddled over uneven ground.

Her chubby legs converged on one another and she stumbled to her hands. Martha gasped, fearing the worst, but Serefina hopped up as if the fall were by design, still singing, "Da-dee! Da-dee!"

About fifty yards in, the trail opened to a sunlit clearing, roughly the size of a football field. Its proximity to the road and creek was part of what drew them to the property. Once the brush was cleared away, the field would be a blank canvas on which to paint their life.

So far, Martha and James – mostly James – had filled about a tenth of it. There were a pair of obstacle courses – one full, the other Stinky Princess sized; a miniature replica of their cabin for a playhouse; a zen garden, currently fighting a losing battle for peace and serenity with an nineteen month old intent on chaos and destruction; a vegetable garden including turnips – in case Grandpa makes a visit; and snaking throughout, a flattened dirt race track for Serafina's homemade tricycle – but we both know James ordered those tire treads pre-made... the slacker! They had plans for more, but also hoped to incorporate Serafina's creative input as soon as possible.

Presently, James was hammering square foot, stone tiles in rows and columns over a dirt patch next to the playhouse. He looked up at the sound of Serafina's voice, set down his hammer, and held out his arms.

"Da-dee! Da-dee!" she continued until she reached him.

He lifted her in the air, crying, "SuperSera!" and she shrieked in ecstasy as they spun.

Martha's heart skipped. Nineteen months in, and she still choked up seeing them together. It was true love born of true love, the polar opposite of zombie poop.

He brought her back to Earth as Martha caught up to them. She leaned in and they kissed. He was sweaty and needed a shower, but considering the bog of eternal stench from which she'd just emerged, he may as well have smelled of freshly baked cookies.

"Plan on playing some checkers?" she asked, pointing down at the alternating tan and gray stone squares.

"Yep. Or chess... Othello... Hopefully lots of games. But I'm done cutting stone for a while. Talk about tedious... And I still couldn't get them perfectly square." He knelt and ran his fingers over a slightly bowed side of one of the tiles.

"Hey," Martha said. "None of us are perfect, remember?"

"I remember," he said, then poked Serafina in her stomach. "Except for maybe this one." She giggled and squirmed away. It was something that had troubled both of them as they prepared for and then began their life with Serafina: what would it be like to have Martha Beckett and James Quinn as parents? What would it be like knowing she'd never live up to the unnatural standards of her immortal and quasi-omnipotent parents?

Because one day they would have to tell her. They had no choice. This life together would be hollow if they based it on a lie – and I'd be about the biggest hypocrite on the planet. But most importantly, Serafina deserved the truth. We all do...

"Anyways," James said. "I'm down to carve some chess pieces out of fallen logs. I'll do that all day. Wood cuts like butter after stone!"

"Oooh, I might just embroider that on a throw pillow-"

"Bunny!" Serafina interrupted, bored of the banter, and ran to the vegetable garden.

"Really?" James said, following her. "I haven't seen one all day."

"Bunny? Bunneeeee!" She circled the garden, but found none of the black-tailed hares that had plagued their vegetables up until recently.

Originally, Martha had decided to plant the garden at the edge of the clearing next to a sprawling canyon live oak tree. There was more than enough sun for the vegetables to grow in the clearing – too much, in fact, if left in the open. So the tree's thick, horizontal branches and glossy, flat leaves were meant to provide shade for enough of the day to keep the garden from losing its moisture and withering away. Her horticultural instincts had paid off and the garden flourished, much to the delight of the aforementioned hares.

"No bunnies. Sorry Ser-Bear. No bunnies today," James consoled. Then, to Martha, "It's working like a charm."

"My hero," she said, taking his hand.

A week prior, James had constructed a simple enclosure for the garden, made from chicken wire over a rebar frame. It was only as tall as it needed to be – around two and a half feet – and deep enough in the ground to keep them from tunneling under – a little over a foot – with a gate at the end enabling anything with opposable thumbs easy access.

"Bunny!?!" Serafina cried, her patience draining rapidly. She stopped at a corner of the garden then bent over to get a better look through the wire, her head coming inches from impaling itself on the rebar.

"Holy shit!" Martha gasped, even as the danger had passed. "You couldn't have made it even a little childproof?!"

"It's okay," James said as he walked to pick Serafina up. "Besides, we gave up childproofing when we decided to raise our daughter in the middle of a forest."

"You're right. You're right." Martha said, then took a deep breath to settle her nerves.

It was a problem – a compulsion of which she had no control. Since her daughter had become mobile, Martha's imagination had watched Serafina stab herself in the eye with a stick, go up in flames after walking too close to the stove, be carried off by a bear – or bobcat or eagle or whatever – and be maimed or killed in countless other horrific and painful ways.

In reality, there had only been one minor scare. She'd slipped and fallen on a sharp rock, splitting open her chin. James used his experience as a surgeon, many lives over, to stitch the wound up on the spot. And Martha, twice a surgeon herself, had to admit his work was tight and clean. It probably wouldn't even leave a scar. Plenty of time left for those, Sera...

"Bunnny!!" Serafina squirmed frantically in James' arms.

"Okay, gee-wiz Ser-Bear," he said, setting her down.

"Bunny like 'matoes! Bunny like 'matoes!!" she screamed, her face steadily turning the color of one.

Martha squatted to her level. "You're right, Sera. The bunnies really do like our tomatoes. But the tomatoes are for us to eat. The bunnies have all sort of food out in the-"

"No! Nooo! I want... I want..." And then she simply screamed. Martha turned away, half expecting the glass windows of the playhouse to shatter. The scream ended, but Serafina continued to seeth, her teeth clenched and chest heaving.

"Wow Sera, you sound really mad," Martha said earnestly.

"I so mad!" Serafina proclaimed, stomping her foot.

"Because you love the bunnies?"

"I so mad!"

"And you miss the bunnies?"

"I love... I miss bunnies," Serafina said as she began to cry.

"Oh, I know. It's okay. Come here." Serafina collapsed into Martha's open arms. "Maybe we can go on a hike later and-"

"Da-deeeeeeeee!!" she wailed suddenly, turning away from Martha and desperately reaching for James.

He picked her up then asked, "Do you miss the bunnies?"

"I... I miss bunneeeeees!" she sobbed.

"That's okay," he comforted, rocking her side to side and patting her on the back as she nestled her head on his shoulder. "Daddy's here. Daddy's got you."

Martha sighed to herself. Oh sure. I only grew you in my body then let you rip me open to get out, but he's the hero...

Author's note:

Thank you so much for reading!

If you had an giant empty field, unlimited funding, and any skill you could wish for, what would you build?

Also.  Seriously.  A zombie eats someone's brains, swallows it, and then what?  Where does it go?  Does it just land in their stomach and sit there forever?  Is it broken down?  Metabolized?  And then what's left?  Huh?  Sorry if I'm grossing you out.  But this conversation absolutely kills with two year olds.  :)