Fandom/Claim: Numb3rs, Amita.
Summary: Zombie Amita tries to help as best she can.
Author's Note: You know how, if a train rushes by or a cannon is fired in an area you're standing, you hear it through your feet and your gut just as much as - if not even more than - through your ears...that is referred to in this fic as footsense and gutsense.
With an incircling breath of relief, I note that the optic centers of my brain haven't been over-analogizing things for a week now, which means among other examples that nobody's fingers looked like hot dogs.
Which is a good thing, here inside the undercover van we're gathered together within.
"They still think I'm who I've told them I was," Don says. "They've only IDed agents Warner and Lake," Don says, "so Granger, you're going to be posing as my bodyguard."
Colby nods. "I didn't show earlier because you met them in public places, right?"
Don nods. Then he looks at me, concern marring his face like curry on baked beans. "You don't have to come, Amita."
"I'm doing this for Priya and the others," I say resolutely - though my condition makes it sound identical in pitch and tone to anything else I might say. "You promised them a zombie."
He doesn't look pleased, angry at himself, but not as much as he hates the men we're taking down today - Traditionalists with a taste for zombie flesh.
After the incident which triggered the beforethen genes, and I started exhibiting features of zombiehood...well, Charlie's not exactly practicing, but even he hesitated. The Old Testament instructs men to favor Jewesses above all others, and foreigners above zombies.
"Okay," Don says. "But if you start to feel uncomfortable, you let me know, okay? No questions asked."
I nod as much as I can - I've got reduced joint flexibility because of how we zombies have more grey matter.
"Here we go, then," Liz tells me as she helps slip me into one of those harnesses that you put on small children, so they can literally run to the end of their leash. This harness, however, has straps to strap around my wrists. "If you need to, one good yank will undo it," Liz says.
"Thank you," I say to her, then follow Don and Colby out of the van; we walk the block and a half to the office building where we were asked to meet the scum. The receptionist spent most of the time it took us to cross to the stairs (not the elevator!) staring at Colby in the wifebeater shirt I swear he wore deliberately for this mission; the receptionist barely even spared me a glance - being Tamil, even if my skin tones differently, I still don't look like the classic WASP zombie.
Up the stairs and down the corridor, where we arrive at the right door and are let inside. "Mr. Eps, welcome. My name is Mr. Marks," the guy in charge of them says.
"Hey," Don says, undercover as 'Mr Eps'. "My bodyguard, and -"
"An Asian zombie," Marks says, looking at me. If he asks to see my teeth... "Exquisite. No doubt tastes as good as she looks." If all the fearmongering movies hadn't ruined a perfectly good expression, Marks would definately have spoiled the phrase 'you look good enough to eat.'
Don and Marks talk some, too quietly for me to hear - though not whispering, not by the look of it.
It's harder for me to hear now than it was when I started going to SoCal...two of my earbones fused together; but to counter my then-newfound auditory deafness, my footsense and my gutsense improved...but then, that's the downside of being a zombie: those senses can short-circuit our conscious minds, leaving us prone to snapping at anyone who gets too close... of course, the same problem arises if there are any problems with the growth of the extra brain matter throughout our bodies.
Cities aren't safe for us - there's a higher incidence of brief (and not-so-brief) lapses from sanity among our number... but then, that's because there's so much traffic, subsonic noise, and manmade tremors to disrupt us.
"You guys sure about this?" Don asks them, audible to me, still with Eps' strong Queens accent. "I mean, growing up, my rabbi never said anything about them being kosher."
"Re-read Leviticus," Marks says. "There are approved ways of making kosher the flesh of kosher animals that've become zombies."
"Yeah, but humans aren't kosher."
"True, but zombie humans are - think about it... when the field of bones were given flesh to be an army, when they were done with their task, what did they do?"
Don's gone to Temple enough to know this...hell, I've gone to Temple enough to know this: "The army marched into the nearest city."
Marks nodded. "And ceased to exist. Why did He send them into a populated area, if not to be the new manna?"
Don shrugs. "Whatever, man. So you think you want her?" gesturing to me.
"Definately. She'll fit nicely with the others."
"Others?" Colby asks.
"Your bodyguard's talkative," Marks says to Don.
I hisss a little, since I could never whistle. The sound is just gas from my stomach - internal processes tend to turn off and on in all zombies, functioning erratically, but making us tougher. I wink.
Don nods. "Mr. Marks, you're under arrest for the sale of US citizens and illegal aliens, for violating the Health Safety Code of the FDA, and," smiling, "even if it won't hold up in secular court, for abusing the Mosaic Laws."
Today, I don't know if I was just eye candy, but I like to think my presence helped...even if it was just to lull the shit into false security.
note: during the writing of this, my Colby muse mentioned that, after being fired, his father zombified; but I didn't know where to put it, so I didn't.