Get Zombie: 8-Book Set (67 page)

I
look around and, stepping over a diaper, walk to the door.

It’s
unlocked.

I
look around again…and open it.

The
first thing that hits me is the stench of lemon – some kind of
thick air freshener. You can still smell out the alcohol underneath
it, though. I cough, hand over mouth.

Lint
floats in the air. I wave it all away and walk deeper. I remember
their policy: You can’t bring water, but you can bring beer.

It’s
so stupid.

Things
were on the floor: Batteries, a few empty bottles of Zima, paper
balls that people with weak ears put in their…ears.

The
deeper I go, the darker it gets. I swing my backpack around and zip
it open, taking out my tiny, red flashlight that you can attach to a
set of keys.

This
is exciting. I’ve always wanted to be an explorer. As a wee one
I had dreams of being an archaeologist – unlocking the
mysteries of the pyramids and digging up talking, still-rotting and
still-screaming Mayan skeleton heads. Better to go to the Pyramids of
Giza, though, surely.

But
we all know that Aliens built them, right? That they came down and
created us out of an all-female species to make slaves that dug up
their ever so precious gold – gold to save their dying planet.
This is all true. Hands down. It’s in the bible – just
disfigured after centuries of translations. The bible is a freak baby
of a thousand fathers.

The
bible is Freddy Krueger realized.

My
heart races.

Ah!
The thrill of discovery.

Now
I know how Harrison Ford feels.

I
see that I’ve come to the bathroom and gently squeak open the
door.

My
tiny beam of light bounces off the white urinals. Splash. There’s
a flopping sound, coming from the...

...bathroom
stall.

I
freeze.

Someone’s
here besides me.

Time
to leave.

Or
is it?

Might
not even be a person. I mean, who makes a flopping sound, anywho?

I
bend over and look under the closed stall.

No
feet.

Feeling
a bit more secure, I walk to the stall and open the door, slowly,
with my foot, the red light shaking in my wet, cold hand. The door
knocks against the wall with a soft thud.

The
flopping sound ceases.

The
toilet is a mess. Whoever used it last was surely going to hell. I
aim the light at it. The lid is down, of course. Using my favorite
tool (my foot), I lift it open – ready for any HEAVY stench of
the Devil.

The
flopping starts up again – in a mad FRENZY. Whatever’s in
there is psychotic. I look in, and see something that’s not a
goldfish (which is what I thought it would be). It’s the state
fish, a Humuhumunukunuku Apua'a. I look in closer. It freezes. My
light brings its eyes to a glow. Poor thing. At least the water looks
“clean”. Should I call the humane society, or something?
Can’t just leave it here like this. What if it’s
claustrophobic? What if it’s a lover from a past life? Oh, God.
That’s it! Must be.

Should
I put it out of its misery and, oh I don’t know…flush??

There
is a moaning sound.

A
woman.

Ok.
Time to go – seriously!

I
run out from the bathroom on hushed tippy-toes.

The
moaning is louder. But it sounds wrong: Fake, electronic.

Then
I hear a goat “Bleep”.

I
stop in my tracks.

Interested,
I follow the sounds.

As
I turn a corner and walk down a dark hallway, the sounds of the
moaning lady and goat come together and form a picture that makes me
gag. Wind creeps in and my light cuts through so much floating lint.
The closer I get, the more electronic the voice becomes. I turn
another corner and come to a doorless room, painted black. Glowing
stars are pasted everywhere. What’s lighting them? They must be
battery operated. I search the room with my tiny light. There is no
furniture. In the middle of the room stands a goat. It jumps back,
belly jiggling. It stares at me, wild-eyed.

I’m
born in the year of the Sheep, which means that I’m pessimistic
and lazy, yet imaginative and lucky. I will live forever, happily,
with a Rabbit or Pig.

We’ll
see about that.

I
walk closer to the goat. It doesn’t move. Something is strapped
around its body: A fat, leather belt with a tape recorder. The goat
smells good, like fresh, massacred lemons.

The
voice on the tape moans and moans. I reach over and turn it off.

But
the moaning is still here.

It’s
coming from behind me. I shine the light into a gloomy corner…to
find a mannequin sitting on a stool, straight-backed, hands on its
lap, under a dripping pipe. My light is dying. It pops in & out
on the dummy’s face.

“Just
like in the movies,” I say to myself.

The
dummy has large holes for its eyes, nose, and mouth. I walk over to
it and can tell immediately that the sound is coming from inside. The
moans come out shaky and wavy, like a tape that has been recorded on
one too many times. The moans are in reverse I notice, each moan
ending on a high note, like a whine when someone gets pinched. I
shine my dimming light down its throat. There’s the strong
smell of burning hair. To hell with it, I think. Why even bother?
There’s nothing for me here. Time to get a Chilly Cheeseburger!

The
goat cries out.

It
moves forward a little and stops.

There’s
a rattling sound.

Someone
tied a chain around the poor beast’s leg. I go over to it and
fiddle with the chain, my light in my mouth.

“Poor
beast.”

There
is no lock – whoever did this simply made a thick (and sore)
knot. It takes me a minute to untie the beast, but once I do, it
kicks at me and runs out the room, weeping. I run after it for some
reason. I can hear it trotting through the dark and hitting the
walls.

I
jump out the front entrance and into the BLAZING sun. The goat runs
onto the sidewalk and scares some Russian tourists who start chasing
after it. The animal makes the rookie mistake of rushing onto the
street.

A
#2 bus headed for Waikiki HONKS and screeches its heavy brakes, but
it’s too late. The goat is hit and amazingly explodes. I jump
back and yell, “EXPLOSION!”

Its
insides are run over by cars and trucks and jeeps and bicyclists –
all swerve past the three, scary, large skin bags of meat that were
once the goat. I run up to the bus to get a better view of the
remains (why do I do this, when I know I’ll be disgusted?).

I
look at the remains and I am sick.

The
bus driver, a young woman with tanned skin, jumps out and hurries to
the front of the bus. The passengers all walk out from the bus and
stand around in a group: Old Chinese and Filipino people, a doctor in
blue O.R. scrubs, 5 Canadian girls just out from private school, and
a British muscleman in a tight yellow shirt.

The
bus driver turns to me in a panic.

“What
happened! What happened! What happened! What happened! What happened!
What happened! What happened! What happened! What happened!”

I
struggle not to stutter.

“It
was a ga-ga-ga-goat!”

“Where
did it come from? Sweet Jesus! Oh Jesus, you’re so sweet! It
came out from nowhere! I believe it!”

I
point to the black building.

“From
there!”

“That
place is nothing but trouble! I hate it so much right now!”

The
driver then stares at the stew of hair and blackish goop that’s
painted on her bus. Cars race by angrily. I make eye contact with a
passing weener dog in a pink Beatle. The bus driver walks away –
takes three wobbly steps and stands still.

She
pulls at her hair in a crazy way.

“Oh,
NO! It’s so horrible! Dear God, why do you do this to me?? God,
I need this job! Goddamn you!”

I
want to say something to help, but I’m afraid she’ll tell
me to shut up and mind my own business. She hangs her head and cries,
loudly.

The
group of passengers – one by one – walk away. All except
for the British muscleman. He stands there, crying and nodding his
head. He then flexes his arms to tourists as if in a competition.
They go “Ohhh” and snap pictures of his muscular bits.

The
bus driver falls to her knees, puts her hands to her face.

Without
thinking, I walk over and pet her head.

The
dark mess slides from the front of the bus and plops to the ground. I
get close to her. She puts her head against my shoulder, and sighs.

Cars
fly by and honk.

We
embrace.

“I
am the Boa constrictor”

WE’RE
DRIVING in her car. I’m in the passenger’s seat, sneaking
quick glances at her. After the accident, the police wagon soon
arrived and we both told the story about the goat. Later, the mental
wagon arrived and chased after the British muscleman.

As
we sat in the ambulance, wrapped in orange blankets with oxygen masks
over our mouths, she says she would like me to keep her company
throughout this ordeal: She just moved from Utah and had no
friends/she wanted a drinking partner/she wanted someone to watch her
car as she went into the bus station and spoke with her manager.

I
agreed to help, and then we were let go.

The
bus station is noisy. As I sit in the car, waiting for her, I start
to picture in my mind a little movie: Us standing before that damaged
bus and mangled goat. The animal is singing to us with its bloody
face, staring at us as we kiss, passionately. It winks at us in
approval. Aww, cute!

I
open my eyes and exhale.

Ants
are on the dashboard – marching down into the glove
compartment. I open it and fifty used tampons SPRING out. I panic to
catch them, and I have to force each one back in the glove
compartment like some kind of odd puzzle. I think nothing of it, for
I’ll never understand women and their barbaric rituals. On the
floor, just under my seat, is the holy bible. I pick it up and notice
that there’s another copy right behind it – and behind
that, yet another copy.

It
begins to rain outside. The palm trees circling the station begin to
sway. The cotton clouds in the blue sky snail toward the ocean. My
window is rolled down just a tad: The wind whistles into the car a
merry tune.

Natalie
is her name, and as she walks toward the car, I can see her breasts
jiggle a bit. I bite my tongue and extinguish all perverted thoughts
because I don’t want to go to hell. Humans think of sex every
15 seconds, and yet my Catholic upbringing and respect for others
makes me feel guilty.

Damn
to be human.

She
opens her door and sits behind the wheel, crying. She says…

“I
have been fired!”

…and
SLAMS the door shut.

I
jump back in my seat. She gives out a quick GROAN and throws her back
against the seat over and over in an insane temper tantrum. I want to
say something comforting. Should I put my arm around her? What if she
yells out in disgust and bites my hand? Will I vomit?

She
starts the car and we take off onto the freeway.

She
drives down at such an amazing speed, that I fear we might go back to
the future. Cars blur by in loud, short bursts of air: PHIT! PHIT!

We
say nothing to each other.

Her
eyes are watery – tears leaving wet marks on her blue jeans.

Fifteen
minutes later we’re in Tantalus – a mountain decorated
with white spots of rich houses. The kind of houses you find leaning
on stilts. They’re frightening to look at. I fear that if there
were ever an earthquake, the houses would tumble down.

Natalie
rented out one of these houses.

Yay
for me.

We
drive up to it and my heart drops: I see my own gruesome death as I
fall fall fall into a giant coffin that busts into flames because of
my damned luck. She says that the house belongs to a doctor friend,
and that she could stay until he comes back in, oh, five months from
Peru. The rent was cheap and she got free cable.

She
tells me to make myself at home, so I lay down on the couch, watching
as she makes her way into the bedroom. A shower is turned on.

I
close my eyes, and fall asleep.

When
I wake up, I find the fattest white cat in the world sitting on my
lap. It looks at me and opens its mouth.

“Meow.”

I
pet behind its ears and open my mouth.

“Meow.”

It’s
nighttime already. I hear that the shower is still on. How long have
I been out? I stand up and walk to the refrigerator. It’s a
fancy place – very clean. I want a place like this. Except not
one on stilts. There’s nothing in the refrigerator but five
bottles of Budlight and a large frying pan of noodles and a paint
brush covered in white paint. I lift up the cover and finger a
noodle. Mmm…not bad. I wonder what else there is to eat. Maybe
I’ll find those little marshmallows with apple-flavored goo
inside! Mmmm, those things give my mouth an orgasm. The Japanese make
them. They used to sell them at Shirokiya, but I can’t find
them there anymore. I could ask the people who work there, but I’m
shy, and I’m afraid that if I ask they’ll tell me to
Scram!

I
go looking around for a plate & fork, opening cabinet after
cabinet, and in each one finding piles and piles of magazines called
Surgical World. The covers make me sick: Men and women sitting in the
nude on cold shiny tables with medical instruments dangling from
stretching wounds, kissing and fondling each other. One cover shows a
Japanese woman squatting on a surgical table and urinating. Forceps
swing from her monster box. She blows the cameraman a kiss.

I
make a glass of water and take a breather.
Oh my God oh my
God…forceps forceps monster box oh my good God.

I
don’t ever want to meet the man who owns this house. Gag!