Authors: Adam Sifre
He gently smashed his head against the willow trunk.
Stupid, stupid, stupid
, he thought.
"Braaaainnnsss ..." he moaned.
I am without a doubt the sorriest excuse for a zombie anyone's ever seen. Mooning over a woman like some high-school Romeo.
He looked at the note in his hand and immediately felt like an even bigger idiot. It was written in crayon because he found it easier to hold than a pen. His hand-eye coordination wasn't what it used to be. Even so, it took him half the day to finish and it looked like the work of an eight-year-old suffering Ritalin withdrawal.
He doubted anyone other than himself would even be able to make out the words. Not that he was planning on publishing. Like all poets, however, in his dead heart of hearts, Fred wrote for an audience.
What was I thinking? I'm a monster. I eat living flesh and brains. And I've got no prospects
. He knew he wasn't exactly Brad Pitt when he was alive, and shambling around in mortified flesh for the past few months hadn't scored him any points in the romance department.
He stopped battering the tree. Bits of bark had embedded themselves into his forehead, but he was too depressed to care.
I had to be an idiot to think she'd ever be interested in me. Zombies do not fall in love, asshole
.
He looked at the note in his hands, still readable in the fading light.
A bird can't swim, and a fish won't fly
, he thought.
And a zombie's gotta do what a zombie's gotta do
.
Fred crushed the paper in his hands and let it fall to the ground. Parting the curtain of willow fronds, he made his way to the back of the breather's house just as the sun set.
Eating Aleta
By Fred - last name forgotten
Unlife is funny.
In my mind, we sit together
on a quiet bench,
in an abandoned street,
in the dead of night.
I do not drag you, broken and bleeding
heart still beating,
to the seclusion of the alley
in the shadow of a dumpster.
In my mind, I spoke the same confession
made by countless lovers;
only wanting to drink you in,
hungry for your touch.
I do not ignore the screams
I've heard countless times before,
or hunger for your flesh.
I do not feast on you as you push against me.
In my mind, you warm to me,
you really get me,
appreciate the little things about me
unable to keep me out of your thoughts
and pleasant daydreams.
I do not tear into you, my sweet Aleta,
taking from you little things, here and there.
I do not shamble from the dumpster
with the thought of you on my lips,
and a bit of you in my teeth.
In my mind ...
Chapter 10
Jenny's Journal
Stapled to the forehead of a male, approximately thirty-five years of age, Asian descent. Both hands severed and found near body.
Jenny's Journal, Sept 4
Timothy Foxwood, the self-righteous prick and president of the Shadyfarms Condo Association, was over yesterday afternoon with a petition signed by almost every owner, stating that Mom was not permitted to have any pets henceforth. Can you believe it actually said 'henceforth'? Poor Sparky's barely stopped smoking and now this. I can't prove anything of course, but I'm certain this was in retaliation for the hamster incident of '97 which, aside from a ruined table shot at the Johnson wedding, resulted in almost no property damage or injury. I'm sure it was Mom's refusal to pay the dry cleaning bill or replacement cost of the wedding cake that stuck in Sarah Johnson's craw. She's the bride's mother and everyone knows she's been knocking boots with Foxwood these last several months.
So, a new pet is out and Mom is still beside herself. She just lies in bed all day and watches that stupid Fox News. Stories about people attacking each other, graves turning up empty, blah, blah, blah. What's next, a two-hour special on how Kazoo and his invisible aliens built the pyramids? Poor Mom won't even let me leave to get groceries. Looks like another meal of 'strange meat' sandwiches. I'm going crazy here.
Okay, that's it for now, Journal. I'll try to write more tomorrow, although if this keeps up my next entry may be in crayon and written on a rubber wall.
Ttyl
Chapter 11
Visiting Day
Car Ride
Jon glared at the rearview mirror. He was in no mood today for this bullshit. His neck was killing him. Whenever he turned his head he was rewarded with sharp pains down his left shoulder and arm. On top of that he was sporting a thumping bad headache, and the cause of it slouched in the Toyota's back seat.
In the world of headaches, Jeffrey was what was known as a
carrier
.
The little stinker was multi-tasking by managing to look angry, bored and focused at the same time, all while keeping his eyes glued to his Nintendo DS. After a few seconds of blessed silence he sensed it was time to repeat his mantra.
"Why do I have to go?" he whined. "We just went last week."
Jon gripped the steering wheel a little harder and squeezed his eyes shut for just a moment, causing another small agony of pain to travel down his arm. He winced and relaxed his grip.
Please let it be a heart attack
.
It was a two hour drive without traffic to Mother Mary's Nursing Home, God willing, and he did not want to spend it arguing with an eleven-year-old brat.
Jon shot a glance at Lori. She remained oblivious to the outside world, her face buried in a
People
magazine. Jon grimaced.
Like mother, like son.
She wasn't bad looking for forty-something. She had beautiful thick black hair, and he didn't give a shit if it was natural or dyed. She had a nice rack, although without the help of Wonderbra they sagged a bit. She thought her skin was her best feature, but his vote went to her ass. He had to admit she had nice skin, though. It was pale and vampire-smooth.
Between the pain in his neck and the pain in the ass, he felt extra raw today. They'd been on the road for less than twenty minutes and he already sported a coffee-stain on his new dress shirt, white of course - a result of bashing the damned Tom-Tom against the dashboard. It seemed every place Jon Tanner wanted to go in life was outside of satellite coverage.
He rolled his shoulders trying to appease his neck, and turned on the radio hoping to drown out Jeffrey's relentless bitching. Neither his neck nor his
stepson
was having any of it.
The hot story on the radio was the massacre in Corksville, a pissant little town somewhere in western Pennsylvania. Dozens murdered ... senseless violence similar to the incident in Comfort, Colorado ... blah, blah, blah. Jon switched to an Oldies R&R station. He didn't need some airwave dipshit telling him there were fucked up people in the world. On WRTH Freddie Mercury had come back from the dead, hallelujah! "
All dead, all dead, but I should not grieve. In time it comes to everyone.
.."
"... Why do I have to go every week? I hate it there. Everyone smells like pee."
Lori didn't bother looking up from her magazine.
"It was almost two months ago, and you're going again because it's her birthday. She's eighty today and she wants to see her favorite grandson."
Jon stole another glance at Lori and for just a second he had the strongest urge to lean over and smack her a good one on the back of the head. That would get her to look up from her goddamned rag. Instead he took a deep breath and stared daggers at the road.
Ahead, a hitchhiker shambled down the road. Even from a distance Jon could tell he was high or drunk or something. He kept wandering into the street and then serpentining back and forth. Without thinking Jon gave the car a little more gas.
"I'm her only grandson and she never remembers my name or who I am. Last time she even forgot to put her teeth in. She was gumming an apple the whole time we were there. She's gross."
Jon couldn't help smiling at that. Penny did smell like pee and she
was
gross. Truth be told, that whole place gave him the willies. He knew that if Jeffrey wasn't here, he'd be saying much the same thing about now. God knows he could think of better ways to spend a Sunday afternoon.
What really burned his tacos was that Lori felt the same way. She loved her mother, sure. But the primary motivators for today's visit were Guilt, Shame and Obligation. Love was a distant fourth.
The hitchhiker took a step into the road and Jon swerved around and past him, tires squealing in protest. He caught a glimpse of the slack-jawed hippie as he sped past. He had a cardboard sign hanging around his neck with the words ‘NEW JERSEY’ written in bold black marker.
"Probably stoned out of his mind," Jon murmured. Lori gave an "ummm" of agreement without looking up. Jeffrey, proving he was indeed his mother's son, never looked up from his game.
Engrossed in his game, Jeffrey was taking a rare break from his bitching. Jon sent a prayer of thanks to the makers of Nintendo.
God bless extended battery life.
With luck the kid would spend the rest of the trip trying to catch some friggin' Pokémon or guiding Tony Hawk through the world's most dangerous skating park or some other brain-rotting bullshit.
* * *
Stop 'N Go
A short while later, Jon pulled into an Exxon station. Lori's car was a little too small for him and after being crammed behind the wheel for two hours he had to stretch his legs and back.
He got out of the car and rolled his head from shoulder to shoulder in the small hope of relieving his neck pain. Disappointed with the lack of bone-cracking relief, he walked over to the pump and swiped his credit card. Theirs was the only car on either of the two islands. The Stop 'n Go, although lit and sporting a neon Open sign, was empty.
Inside the car Jeffrey rolled down the window.
"Can I get a soda?"
Jon frowned. "Ask your mother."
"I did. She said to ask you."
"Jesus H. Christ," Jon muttered. He fished a buck out of his pocket and handed it to Jeff. "Use the vending machine in front there. I don't think the store's open."
Jeffrey took the bill and shot out of the car. And did he say 'thanks, Jon'? He did not. He sprinted over to the machine and looked up and down the short list of choices.
Half-watching the kid at the machine, Jon caught movement from the corner of his eye. One of the food displays in the Stop 'N Go shook, as if someone had bumped into it.
Somebody's home after all
, he thought, although the display still blocked whoever was inside from his sight.
He could hear Jeffrey humming the Pokémon theme song. He was still standing before the machine, agonizing over which drink to purchase.
Trying to decide between Coke and root beer, I bet
. Jeffrey was a root beer junkie but he couldn't stand birch beer. The machine probably carried a brand he had never heard of and he was weighing the risks of the purchase.
Inside the store he saw a man wearing the signature Stop 'n Go shit-brown blazer and striped bill cap, limping toward the store's front door. He looked like death warmed over from where Jon was standing. His skin looked grey, and even from this distance Jon could see the man's eyes were white and filmy. He figured it must have been the lighting. Those cheap fluorescents made everything look washed-out and wrong.
He finished pumping the gas and got back in the car. Glancing over at Jeffrey, he watched the kid finally make his choice and try to feed the machine the wrinkled bill.