Vitamins for the Living Dead

Gary swallowed the vitamin C tablet with lukewarm tap water, staring at his reflection in the breakroom mirror. Thirty-seven years old and already dead inside. A corporate zombie in a button-down, haunting the cubicles of a company that would replace him before his coffee got cold.

Outside, the baseball field across the street sat empty. He and Sarah used to sit there on summer evenings, sharing sandwiches she'd packed. She'd always worn that ridiculous oversized fedora, claiming it made her look like a noir detective. Last week, she'd left without her hat. It still sat on their bedroom shelf, gathering dust alongside his abandoned dreams of writing a novel.

"Gary? You coming to the meeting?" It was Karen from HR, hovering in the doorway. "We're discussing the new wellness initiative."

Wellness initiative. More like survival strategy for the walking dead.

"Be there in a minute," he said.

She lingered. "You look tired."

"I'm fine."

"Gary, we're all worried about you. You haven't been yourself since—"

"Since my wife walked out? Since I spend every night wondering if I'll ever feel anything besides this constant, gray static?" The words escaped before he could stop them.

Karen's face softened. "Oh. I didn't know you were—"

"Separated. Yeah. It's been three months." Gary looked at the fluorescent lights, suddenly overwhelmed by their artificial brightness. "I keep thinking maybe if I take enough vitamins, drink enough water, meditate enough, I'll somehow come back to life. But I think the person I was is just gone."

Karen hesitated, then stepped closer. "My brother died two years ago. Overdose. And for a long time, I thought I'd never feel real again. But you don't come back, Gary. You grow forward."

The fluorescent lights hummed. Somewhere, a phone rang.

"Do you still have the hat?" she asked unexpectedly.

Gary blinked. "What?"

"The fedora. The one she left behind."

"Yes. Why?"

"Go get it. Put it on. Go to the baseball field. Sit there until you remember something that makes you laugh. Then call her. Not to fix anything. Just to tell her the thing you remembered."

Gary looked at his water glass. At the vitamin bottle. At the zombie staring back from the mirror.

"The meeting can wait," he said.

He grabbed his keys. For the first time in months, he felt something besides numbness. It wasn't happiness. But it was movement. And movement, he realized, was the only way the living dead ever came back to life.