Again, Frank awoke to the rattling pangs of a severe headache.

Sound crept, jagged and rippling into his ringing ears.

The sound of a car, road noise.

He opened his eyes but was confronted with darkness—a different kind of darkness—completely opaque, not like the darkened shadows and swirling color one sees on the backs of one's eyelids.

This was just black.

He moved to reach his hands to his face but found he couldn't. They were tied at the wrists. His ankles, too, were bound. Next came a tense moment of realization followed by the mind getting angry again.

"What the fuck?" Frank attempted to say, however, the gag in his mouth only allowed for muffled grunts. His tongue accidentally found the fabric stuffed in its home and sent a message to the angry brain. I think it's a sock, it said.

A bitter breath of stale cotton filled Frank's lungs. Then a panic attack provoked by the possibility of a horrible hygienic outcome wracked his body, sending convulsions and icy electricity through his veins. He began to heave and closed his eyes hard, seeing those shadowy twists of color. He heaved, feeling deep, acidic gouges tearing his throat. Of course, there was no open route for the rejected contents of his stomach, just the detour.

His nose burned horribly as the spray jettisoned.

He jumped and writhed in his seat trying to find a breath somewhere in the gummy liquid. There was none.

"Goddamnit," a female voice said.

A second later the gag was yanked from his erupting mouth, the duct tape taking chunks of his beard with it.

"Don't you fuckin' die on me," the voice said.

Frank was able to swallow a hasty gulp of air before he returned to vomiting. He heard the window rolling down to the right of his head and felt the cool air wash over him. He leaned out, spitting squishy chunks and bile. His breaths were still damp and choppy but coming a bit easier.

A cold fist was gripping his insides, pulling at them ruthlessly but he managed to stop the deluge of grossness. His pants grew heavier as the vomit soaked in. This was the second time he'd thrown up in as many days—he never really took himself for a guy with a weak stomach, but the evidence was pointing to the contrary.

"You sure puke a lot," the voice said.

"What?" Frank groaned.

"You puke a lot."

"Yeah, I was just thinking that." Frank shifted in his seat. "You got a towel or something?"

"Uh... no."

"So what? I'm supposed to just sit here covered in vomit?"

"Well... yeah. It looks that way," the voice said matter-of-factly.

A few moments passed accented by the humming of tires on asphalt as Frank collected his thoughts and regulated his breathing.

"You okay?" the female voice asked.

Frank was still focusing on his breath.

The question was casual and delivered with a hint of genuine concern. For a second he was almost compelled to respond with the programmed, "yeah," but remembered his hands and feet were bound, he was blindfolded and being driven somewhere by his abductor.

"No, I'm not fucking okay! I'm tied up, my head hurts, I just puked all over myself and I'm being held captive by... by... what the fuck is going on? Who the fuck are you? Where are we going?" He paused, waiting for answers. "Shall I continue?"

"No, no. Just calm down," said the female voice, again, a bit too smooth for Frank's tastes.

"Calm... calm down?"

"Just shut-up a second. Look, this isn't easy for me either but right now I'm just kinda freaking out hearing your voice. A human voice, ya know?" Again, her words seemed too cool. Perhaps he was mistaking pensive for calm. She was right, after all. This was the first time he too had heard another human—an actual human, not some canned, prerecorded voice coming from speakers—in close to three months.

Her voice, this person who'd driven a car into his house and then stolen him like so much antique jewelry, was real. It was normal. It was ordinary.

"Who are you," he asked.

"What? Oh. I'm... Jane."

"Well, Jane, would you like to explain why you destroyed my house and kidnapped me?"

"You make it sound so sinister. So criminal."

"Well, it is!" His blood was beginning to rise again. "You... you fucking drive through my house... you... I can feel the knot on my forehead throbbing... you... who fucking throws rock? What are you, like ten years-old?"

"Quiet. Quiet down. Don't get so upset." He heard her sigh—ramping up for the spiel. "The rocks were... well, I needed to get your attention. They were what was available. I just needed to get you out, but I couldn't just knock on the door or you might've shot me. There was probably a better way but, whatever. Besides, what were you really doing there anyway—at your house? I've seen you. You'd spend all day driving around listening to heavy metal, piling dead bodies into your trunk... why? Cause you're some kinda neat freak. Then you'd go home, eat junk food, jerk off then drink yourself into a coma. What kinda life is that? You needed to get out. You need a vacation."

He pictured a childish scowl on a nondescript face.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" The vehemence in his voice had died a bit after hearing the jerk off bit. "You've been spying on me?"

"Spying, kidnapped... you're so dramatic."

"Well, this... this is a dramatic situation here. First off... I don't even know 'first off.' Jane. Jane! I... you... what the fuck?"

"You've got a way with words, cowboy."

Frank began to struggle against his binds, grunting and cursing. Finding his efforts futile, he felt making unwarranted demands was the way to go. "Stop the car. Stop this fucking car right now."

Then Frank's head bounced off the dashboard as the car came to a screeching halt. Now there were popping stars in the darkness. He sat back up, not wanting to ask the stupid question, Why'd you do that? but gathered as much calm as he could and said, "thank you."

"Now what?" she asked.

He cleared his throat and tried to squelch the incredible pain coursing through his skull. "Well, for starters you could take this blindfold off and tell me what the hell is going on. Where are you taking me, for instance?"

"Well..." he could hear her throw the gear shift in park and readjust in her seat. "We're going to get food."

"Food. Okay. Where?"

"I don't know. South."

"Alright, we're going south to get food."

"Yeah," the voices said, sounding unsure.

"Anywhere in particular?"

"I don't know. All I know is there was no food left in Cheney, so we've got to go find some."

"What do you mean? I had plenty of food in my house. The basement, the attic... if you'd been watching me, you'd know that," Frank said.

"I've only watched you for a few days."

"A few days?"

"Three or four."

"How'd you know... forget it." He slumped his shoulders like a scolded child and attempted to put things together. "But... I had food. Plenty of food. Enough for both of us for a long time."

"Not my kind of food."

"Not..." Frank stopped and instinctively pushed himself back against the door. He heard her seat squeak as she moved toward him. He started to protest and kick but then felt the blindfold pulled away from his eyes. He blinked repeatedly, trying to adjust to the changing light.

Her outline came into focus slowly, then highlights were drawn on the contours of her face, illuminated by the green glow of the gauge cluster.

It was night. Jesus, how long was I out?

She looked young, mid-twenties maybe, with long, heavy dirty-blond hair and a thin neck. Her clothing looked oversized and awkward—a kid playing dress up.

She might have been beautiful. It was hard to tell in the limited light.

"What are you?" he asked, surprised at the fear he heard in his voice.

"Don't worry. I'm not what you think."

"You're a goddamn zombie!"

She tilted her head. "Okay, I am what you think. But I'm not going to hurt you."

"Turn on the dome light."

"No. I look terrible," she turned back to the road, letting her hair obscure her face.

"You're dead."

"Technically, yes. But I don't feel dead."

"How come you're... how can you talk? Have a conversation?"

"I don't know."

"You said you..."

"Look—what's your name?" she interrupted, looking at him again.

He waited a second but couldn't think of any reason to lie. "Frank."

"Look Frank, I'm not going to eat your brains, okay? I do need to eat though and if I start to get sick like the others, I'm gonna need you to drive. I'm not sure how any of this works—being a zombie. All I know is it would be stupid of me to kill you now. I need you." She absently wiped some of the sprayed vomit off the dash with the blindfold which turned out to be one of Frank's old tee-shirts then straightened herself in her seat, put the car, Frank's 4 Runner, into gear and started driving down the moon lit road again.

They continued on in silence for a while.

Out the window, Frank saw abandoned cars and luggage littering the side of the rural road. It would probably get a lot more congested once they made the freeway. He remembered seeing early news reports in the beginning of people stuck in endless gridlock, attempting to make four lanes into ten. Many died there on the freeways then reanimated, leaving their cars to rust after feasting on their families.

Frank inhaled on an overload of questions tumbling around in his mouth.

"No more questions for a while," she cut him off. "Look, I brought your phone so we can listen to some of your metal shit." She pulled the phone from the cup holder in the center console and plugged it in. "I'll just put it on shuffle," she said.

The music was loud and jolting but Frank found himself oddly soothed. However, he wished he could change out of his pukey clothes. His skin was cool where it had soaked through.

After a few more minutes, he decided that none of this was really happening. This was just another one of his fucked-up dreams. It was certainly no less strange than the airplane dream.

Yep. It had to be a dream.

He adjusted himself against the door and closed his eyes. He couldn't wait to wake up with a hangover.