Authors: Adam Sifre
That this guy was standing, undead or not, was unusual in itself. It took a lot to keep a zombie dead: Decapitation, fire, and severe head trauma - stuff like that. The Broadcaster still had his head, and he wasn't a hunk-a burning love, but his noggin had seen better days. A postal cap sat skewed on its head, pushed back by what looked like a large rock that was lodged squarely in its skull. Fred had no idea how this thing - Potts, according to the name tag on its uniform - was still standing, but he guessed that the neon blue glow that surrounded the rock and much of it’s head, might have something to do with it.
A nice fat rat scurried across the countertop, paused and keeled over, dead as vaudeville. Fred noticed a few unopened letters scattered over the sink. He could make out Comfort Co. on the address line of two or three pieces. Before he could make out anything else, some internal alarm clock woke Mr. Potts and he started to turn away from the mirror.
Just as he turned Fred saw the rat move. It crawled drunkenly across the counter, its tail jerking back and forth. It reached the end of the counter and kept going, then fell to the floor.
Now that
, Fred thought,
is interesting.
Chapter 22
Dead Divas
Sunshine screamed louder than a girl scout at a Justin Bieber concert, and frantically kicked out at Liza. The kick missed the head but connected with her wig, sending it flying across the room. It landed on one of the Chinese lanterns, dangling like some kind of bizarre black spider.
Undead Liza, even more hideous than the original, hissed and leaned in for a bite. He kicked out again and connected with a satisfying crunch. Liza loosened her grip and with another girlish scream he pulled free. Eyes on the zombie he scrambled backwards, all thoughts of finding drugs forgotten. King Solomon's lost cocaine mine might be behind the bar, but it could stay lost and forgotten as far as Sunshine was concerned. If there were worse things than undead Liza Minnelli transvestites in this world, he couldn't think of any.
Still crab-walking backwards, he fell against the dead bikers' table. Glasses rattled, flies buzzed, and through the grace of good fortune the bikers stayed dead. He bounced off the table like a pinball and headed for the exit.
"No, no, no. No fair!"
Seventies Cher swayed between Sunshine and the front door, all rhinestones, beads, long hair and heels. Her lips were smeared with bright red lipstick -
that's lipstick, I'm sure of it
- and her dead eyes hid behind eyelashes so long that if she ever blinked, Sunshine was sure he'd feel a breeze. The six-foot-two pop icon moaned something that was definitely not "Sonny" and began walking toward him, her vest jingling and jangling.
I GOT you, Babe.
Without thinking, Sunshine turned and made his way to the back room, praying for a rear exit. He had no trouble avoiding Liza, who kept turning round and round on hands and knees, like a dog getting ready for a lie down. There was a doorway behind the bar, sans door. Whatever lay beyond was swallowed in darkness.
Exit or backroom?
A noise on his left. He turned and saw another door. Even in the dim light he could make out the 'Men's' sign.
Are you friggin' kidding me?
A burly Barbara Streisand stumbled out of the bathroom. Another six footer with dead eyes and a mean mouth. At first he thought she was supposed to be Ann Coulter, but even with the cheap brown wig askew, the zombie transvestite looked too feminine. It was the ski ramp nose, Dr. Lowenstein glasses and five o'clock shadow that sealed the deal.
People who eat people are the luckiest people of all.
He stood frozen in horror as the dead divas made their way to their latest fan.
The icing on the cupcake followed Babs out of the bathroom. Dressed in a blue and white polka dot dress and wearing pigtails, she clutched a small wicker basket against her chest. A black ball of fur peaked out from the wicker lip.
I'll miss you most of all.
Judy looked like she'd spent the night sicking up two quarts of creamed corn. But her size twelve ruby slippers still sparkled with promise.
Sunshine remembered the gun. Backing up a few steps he took it from his waistband and pointed it in the Dead Divas' general direction.
"Stay where you are."
They didn't. Deciding flight trumped fight, he turned and ran to the room behind the bar. The dead divas followed. As soon as he ran into the back room he knew he'd made a mistake. Maybe his last one. It was a small office with one desk, one couch, one door and no freedom.
He spun around, certain the zombies were about to pounce on him. He was right. Liza was still on hands and knees, leading the pack with the others right behind her. It looked like Cher would be second runner-up in the Sunshine buffet.
Without thinking, he pointed and fired. Liza's head didn't exactly explode but it would never look the same again. A nice size hole appeared in the back of her -
his?
- head and Liza went still, the days of living on her knees behind her.
Sunshine let out a manly screech and fired again and again, hitting Cher in the chest and family jewels. Judy and Babs immediately turned on their two girlfriends. Babs fell upon the still twitching Cher and started biting. Judy, perhaps due to unresolved family issues, started in on Liza's body.
Catfight.
Sunshine screamed even louder and ran, slamming into Cher and sending her sprawling across the floor. Then he was past them, free and clear. When he made it to the front door he shot a glance over his shoulder, half expecting to see them giving chase. But the Divas were still feeding. Cher was back on Babs, Judy was busy eating Liza and Liza was busy staying dead.
"Now THAT'S ENTERTAINMENT!"
Chapter 23
West
Should I go west?
The Magic 8-ball lay at his feet, the words 'Ask again later' visible through the small plastic window.
Fred chewed absently on a small strip of meat, trying to make sense out of the last 'dream'. He gave the 8-ball a soft kick, sending it rolling across the carpeted floor, where the world's most well known and dependable oracle came to a stop against the lovely Aleta's foot. It was an unseasonably warm day - not that he tended to notice such things any more. Bright sunlight streamed through the office window, bathing Aleta in a gentle cloud of dust motes. During the night she had been facing the wall, but she had turned to face the morning sun. She stood before the window, a long string of drool swinging to and fro from her mouth. For a change, Karen wasn't around at the moment.
I'm in love with a ficus
.
In the two weeks they'd been at the Camden Aquarium, three more zombies had re-expired. Two dropped where they stood, like unwound clocks. The third was a bit more dramatic. It was the cute blonde with the golf club who had entertained him at the breather's house. She simply exploded, destroying an elaborate seahorse exhibit in the process. If he ever needed a nudge to get him moving again, that was it. But go where?
Since dying, Fred didn't do much sleeping or dreaming. He was always tired and cranky, but he couldn't sleep. He'd begun to suspect that the zombie virus was the brainchild of an infomercial production company. He supposed he was experiencing 'visions'. Visions of the glowing mailman. An undead civil servant wasn't exactly news before the zombie plague, but the mailman in Fred's vision was special - more particularly the small rock nestled in the mailman's head. That beautiful, glowing marble held his attention in every vision. It pulled at him like a lodestone.
The last vision showed the undead mailman standing in the middle of a parking lot of what appeared to be a deserted diner. It was dark and Fred couldn't make out too many details.
Or can't remember them
. The plate glass windows were all broken and he remembered some sort of graffiti spray-painted across what he assumed was the front entrance: some bullshit verse from
Revelations
or a Beatle song or something. These days the breathers were as likely to be armed with spray paint as guns.
Another corpse stood with the mailman. A woman. She was filthy, even for a zombie. She would shamble forward a few steps, stop, and shamble back a step. If Fred didn't know any better he'd have sworn she looked scared. There was someone else there - just a shadow - a smudge of a figure hidden in the dark. Despite barely being able to make out the third person, a sense of familiarity washed over him. Familiarity and ... unease. Almost as soon as he became aware of the stranger, he or she disappeared. As the vision ended the graffiti grew brighter and larger, until the words 'WELCOME TO COMFORT, COLORADO!' blotted out everything else.
Fred sat staring at nothing, as only zombies can. He'd already forgotten about the stranger. There was something about that rock. It radiated power. And somehow it promised survival.
Still, a long way to go for a vision.
And there was Timmy to think about. Fred didn't know where he was yet, but he was pretty sure it wasn't Comfort, Colorado. Was his son alive? Dead? Undead? A father liked to know these things.
He commanded Aleta to retrieve the Magic 8-ball and bring it over to the desk. When she was alive, she reminded him of his ex. Not so much in looks but in spirit. She brimmed with life. In the short time he had followed her when she was breathing, he'd become enamored with her. He could feel her presence. It was a physical force and he couldn't get enough of her. As a zombie she left a lot to be desired. Who would have thought that the novelty of absolute control of a woman, even a dead one, would wear thin so fast?
Aleta dropped the Magic-8 ball on the desk and waited. The rest of the undead were in the shark wing of the aquarium. For some reason they all faced the main tank, staring up at the four lemon sharks floating lazily on the surface. He didn't much care why, as long as everyone gathered in one place. He didn't want to waste time chasing down strays.
So, should we go west?
The oracle stopped rolling, its window facing up.
Yes, definitely
.
Chapter 24
Timmy Turns Twelve
Cold wood met bare feet on another post-apocalyptic morning. Timmy stood still, listening for anything unusual - groans, thuds, etcetera - but only heard his mom's soft snoring from down the hall.
All clear.
Happy birthday to me … happy birthday to me …
Twelve years old today and still breathing.
I'll go have some breakfast, right after I pee.
He glanced at his digital watch, his pee arc jumping wildly and hitting the back of the toilet seat. 7:45 a.m. ...
Five second rule.
The house they lived in was much bigger than their 'pre-zombie' place; one of the perks of surviving an apocalypse. It was one of those overly large colonials with a huge entranceway, big bedrooms and bigger bathrooms. It still had running water - hot.
"The force is strong in you, young Palawan." He jumped high in the air, avoiding an imaginary slash at his feet, and landed with a not very catlike thump on the floor.
"Timmy!" Annie’s half-shout, half-groan came from upstairs. "PLEASE keep it down."
Properly chastised, the young Jedi warrior softly padded into the kitchen. It was a spacious, modern monstrosity. All white cabinetry and gray fossil marble countertops. The fossil marble was pretty cool, with imprints of leaves, small fish skeletons and shells scattered over the surface. But the whiteness was a bit much for him. He opened one of the cabinets and took out a large white bowl. A box of KABOOM cereal was already on the counter, left there from yesterday's meal. A cartoon clown, slightly less menacing than a zombie, hovered over a bowl of sparkling KABOOM cereal, which was ninety percent faux marshmallows and ninety percent corn syrup. His mother always said it contained more sugar than sugar. It wasn't his favorite but it didn't suck either.
He poured the bright colored goodies into the bowl. The refrigerator didn't work - no electricity. But it was cold enough outside, and he'd suggested putting milk, butter and some eggs out by the back door in one of those big green trash bags. His mom reluctantly agreed but made him promise not to go out unless she was with him.
Timmy looked out the kitchen window. He could see the bag sitting right there on the back deck. He'd hardly have to leave the house. Just open the sliding glass door, lean out and grab it. He thought about waking Annie.
It's just right out the door. She's not even my mother, not really.
The thought made him ashamed. Annie loved him, and she did the best she could.
He stood before the glass door. The yard was zombie free, almost. Just one little zombie. She stood at the far end of the yard, whipcord thin with long black hair that reached all the way down to her waist. The dress looked like it was held together with mud and shit. Her bare arms were covered in dark smudges. Timmy figured she was a grave baby, one that had clawed her way up from the ground. She wasn't moving, just swaying a little, looking up at the sky.
"Holding pattern. No way can she get close to me," he whispered.
He licked his lips, wishing for something cold to drink.
Hah!
The glass door opened onto a large, wooden deck. The bag of groceries was on top of the round glass table.
Okay. So maybe I have to take one step outside
.
He shot another quick look at the yard. The zombie remained at one with the universe.
This is stupid
...
Timmy slid the glass door open and quickly stepped outside. He grabbed the garbage and scanned the yard again. The zombie started moving, nice and slow; slow as molasses. He didn't think she even noticed him.
Just bad timing, that's all. I could probably sit out here and eat my birthday KABOOM and be finished before she makes it halfway across the yard
.