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The priest smiled a sad smile.“Denial. I see this all the time. You, my son, have an affliction, and that affliction is an addiction. Not to booze or drugs, no, but something even more pernicious and vile. You, my son, are addicted to sex. And as you can clearly see, it’s only getting worse,” he said, raising his voice asAlec tried to get a word in edgeways. “Admit you have a problem. Only then can the healing finally begin.”

“But father—the zombies—”

“Shush, my son. I’ve decided to take you under my wing. I see now that I’ve been neglecting you for far too long. We’re going to pray together, and this requires you to come to church for the liturgy of the hours. We will pray eight times daily, and you will attend mass every day as well. You will soak up your religion, son, and ask for forgiveness for the sins you have committed. Is that understood?”

“Um…”

“Is that understood?” said the priest, suddenly adopting a stentorian tone.

“Yes, father,” said Alec meekly.

“You will also join my Monday evening AA group.”

“But I don’t drink—well, not all that much, anyway.”

“If I had a nickel for every alcoholic who told me they don’t drink, I’d be as rich as Jeff Bezos. So are you going to accept help and be healed?”

“Yes, father,” said Alec, feeling like he didn’t have much of a choice here.

“Good. With the Lord’s help, I know we can beat this demon. Now let’s go inside and pray.”

“What, now?”

“Matins, Alec. Our two o’clock prayer. We’ll also pray together for Lauds, Prime, Terce, Sext, None, Vespers and Compline. Do you own a Bible, Alec?”

“Um…”

“You can have mine,” said the priest as he spirited a Bible out of thin air. “Read it, cover to cover, and then read it again. And again.” Father Reilly now glanced up and read the message spray-painted across the garage door, then shook his head sadly. “See what we’re dealing with here? This is the work of the devil.”

“The work of Flint Dibbert and that no-good scummy little friend of his Bart Stupes, you mean,” Alec muttered, but the priest was already walking up to the front door.

So Alec let himself in with his key, and led the holy man into the living room, where Father Reilly proceeded to balance a large cross on the living room table, then knelt down and told Alec to follow suit.

Five minutes later, Alec was praying alongside the priest, mainly for this whole ordeal to soon be over.

Whatever in hell had he done to deserve this?

Chapter 17

That night when we came home, we were met with a fascinating sight: in Marge and Tex’s backyard Gran was… dancing.

At first I have to admit I thought she was a zombie, but upon closer inspection I discovered it was actually our very own human, doing some variety of rain dance. She had her eyes closed and was dressed in a white flannel nightgown which was flapping around her bony ankles, while engaged in a frantic jig in place.

When I asked,“Gran, are you feeling all right?” she opened her eyes and stared at me, as if seeing me for the very first time.

Then, finally, she said,“Oh, hey, Max. I’m doing a fertility dance.”

I stared at her.“Fertility dance?”

Dooley, who’d come up behind me, asked, “What is a fertility dance, Max?”

“I guess it’s a dance to boost one’s fertility,” I said, though to be honest I was a little stumped myself.

“Doctor Clam told me to perform this ritual every night. He says that the ancient tribes living in the Amazon Rainforest perform this ritual in the weeks and months before their anticipated mating date, and it never fails to work wonders.”

“So… when is your… mating date?” I asked, though I wasn’t entirely sure I even wanted to know.

“No date scheduled yet,” she said, scratching her nose. “Doctor Clam has promised me the scouting process is going ahead as planned.”

“Scouting process?” asked Dooley.

Harriet and Brutus had now also joined us, and the four of us stood watching the spectacle with no small amount of bewilderment, for Gran had resumed her jig.

“If I tell you, you have to promise me not to breathe a word about this to the others, you hear?”

“Our lips are sealed, Gran,” I said.

“Okay, well, as you can imagine Doctor Clam has a lot of contacts in Hollywood, seeing as how he’s the world’s greatest fertility expert. So he’s promised me the best male specimen to father my child. We’re thinking George or Brad, or even one of the Chrises. But this is all strictly hush-hush, you hear? We feel that a specimen of the highest quality is necessary, plus, they’ll get a lot of free publicity out of this. I mean, who doesn’t want to be the father of the oldest woman in the world’s baby? Huh? Right?”

I could have told her no one would want that dubious honor, but figured I’d better keep my mouth shut, as she had suggested. Besides, what did I know? Humans are weird, as I think we’ve established by now, and this was simply another case in point.

“That’s great, Gran,” I said therefore. “And I hope you get the best baby daddy in the world.”