4 Hardcore Zombie Novellas (13 page)

“Yes, my asshole owes you a helmet.”

“You guys seem to forget your roles,” I interrupt. “Mags didn’t give you two those shirts to represent the Army and Navy football teams for no reason …”

“Fuck off,” they tell me in stereo. Then the weight goes out of their arms, and they get into character. Just in time, too, as the second couple comes bounding up the driveway, laughing and zigzagging past the Bobbys as they make half-ass swipes at their shoulders. I’m closest to the house and the only one that sees what the Camel drops near the front door.

It’s a paper towel. My heart would have jumped if it still pumped. As the brother of a child with OCD, I suddenly suspect this might change some things. A guest like this might not be ready for prime time, not ready for the trials and tribulations of our particular game, not ready to fiddle while Rome burns. This might be one of those guys who doesn’t want to get dirty enough to convince himself it’s really happening. Well, then he shouldn’t have signed up, should he? This should make me angry, even angrier than the Bobbys’ constant nonsense, but for the first time since I started shuffling up the driveway tonight, this Truck Zombie is scared.

“
I Bite,
” someone says.

“Nice work. Hold on. Bite what?” someone asks.

“No, I’m just saying that would be the perfect name for a zombie movie. It’s even better than
I, Zombie
because it’s like the shortest sentence in the history of the English language.”

“Actually, ‘I bite’ is not the shortest possible sentence. ‘I am’ will always hold that title.”

“
I Bite Therefore I Am!
”

“Sounds like Dr. Seuss.”

Turning back to our mob, I see her keeping to the rear, head down farther than anyone’s. At some point tonight, I will have to tell her how I feel. It is expected, of course, end of the world confessions are almost required. But this is only half the reason. The other half is the perfect advice I’d heard her giving to another zombie about something entirely different. Whether or not to eat some expired eggs was the original subject of the debate, I believe, but the answer was universal.

“If not now, when?” she said.

The smoke break was probably her idea, our Cigarette Zombie (a.k.a. Coffee and Cigarettes Zombie, a.k.a. Term-Paper-Grading Zombie), whose one character trait was, once she broke into the house, trying to smoke every cigarette and drink as much coffee as she could. But doing it really, really slow. This was all a result of trying to relive her previous existence as a grad student, according to Mags. I never thought it was fair that she was the only one claiming to be a Grad Student Zombie as we were all, without exception, University of Pittsburgh drop-outs, kicked-outs, and failed-outs, every cursed one of us.

We usually took the smoke break behind The Joshua Bush, the squat and lonely shrub in the middle of the field near the fake gas pump. This was where most of our debates occurred. It was
not
named after the U2 album. You’ll see.

The break was usually scheduled for the reveal of the Plants in the basement, since that should occupy all the Camels’ for a good half hour. But the timing was off tonight, and the second couple had just arrived, so we decided to eat our lunch fast. We were always tired of barbecue chicken and entrails by the end of the night (the best meat to simulate zombie feasting), so most of us usually stuck to fruit or vegetables to balance our diets. Ever see a zombie with rickets? It’s not pretty. Looks just like me.

Since we’re out of earshot, we don’t have to whisper or moan. Passing around a box of fig bars, our discussion turns to the word “zombie” and how hard it is to not acknowledge exactly what we are every time we play the game, how the existence of zombies has to be a new discovery every single time. I agree, but don’t say so. Just like my small-brained cat used to think every day was her first day on Earth, it’s taboo to ever say the word “zombie” out loud, a strict rule that the British comedy
Shaun of the Dead
mocked quite effectively. Contrary to popular belief, the much revered 1978
Dawn of the Dead
was actually the first movie to break this law. But the worst infraction was, of course, in the more recent
Land of the Dead
where a visibly bored Dennis Hopper seems to be speaking not just directly to the audience, but directly to the movie’s goddamn
trailer
, “Zombies, man, they creep me out.” I still cringe thinking about it. You’d think he would have been thankful to have a script written for his complete comfort and indifference. He has to be the only villain, zombie movie or otherwise, ever to spend 90% of his screen time in a luxury hotel sipping whiskey. He probably thought he was doing a buddy-cop flick the whole time.

Waiting for the fig bars to come back around, it’s just a matter of time before someone’s stirring the pot of discord, as usual.

“Then why are you, say, ‘Lumberjack Zombie?’” Baseball Zombie asks, pointing over the bush and talking through a mouthful of masticated mush. “We’re always encouraging the word, too, you know?”

“We don’t count, asshole,” he scoffs. “And I’m Seattle Zombie now. Don’t forget it.”

“And don’t let them see you guys kissing this time, Jack.”

“I ain’t Jack. Seattle Zombie, damn it! Recognize!”

“Who was kissing?” I ask, heart pounding, way too interested in the answer.

“Cigarette Zombie and one of the Bobbys,” someone mutters.

“Why not?” Cigarette Zombie laughs. “Zombies should want to do that just as much as they’d want to find a catcher’s mitt. Hell, they’re actually fucking in
Dead Alive.”

“You mean
Braindead?”
someone corrects her.

“Whatever.”

“No. Not
whatever.
That’s the original title.”

“Whatever.”

“Ha! I schooled your ass.”

“Yes,” admits Cigarette Zombie. “You have indeed taken me to Ass School.”

Cigarette Zombie turns away, but Josh, the instigator, a kid who was technically supposed to be Sushi Chef Zombie but we liked to call “Sour Towel” Zombie because he smelled like a ripe bath towel at all times (as if he never heard of a dryer even
before
the Apocalypse) plopped down next to me and kept inching closer and closer to my shoulder. He was always way too into these debates. And surprisingly unfunny for a kid named “Josh.”

“That’s right, baby,” he laughs. “You have definitely been taken where asses are regularly schooled.”

“Dude, take a step back,” I hiss. “They don’t make toothpaste strong enough for the undead.”

I elbow him toward Cigarette Zombie, and she elbows him right back.

“You know what Sour Towel Zombie reminds me of?” asks Cigarette Zombie, looking up from the rotting parts of the apple she was eating around, “He’s like
Night of the Living Bread
.”

“How’s that?” Sour Towel Zombie sneers, ready to jump on any inaccuracies of an obscure parody.

“Like the bread on the lawn, dude! Every time we look away, you get a little closer.”

“Yeah, seriously,” I agree, then cough. “Back up, man. You’re in my bubble.”

Somewhere, the conversation takes an inevitable turn.

“Okay, sure, they may hope it’ll be like trying to deep-throat an old splintered baseball bat. But that’s just wishful thinking. It’s more like trying to inflate a decade-old New Year’s noisemaker by sucking instead of blowing.”

“Hold up. Does it even count as a ‘deep throat’ if there’s a convenient exit wound?”

“Those days are over. As we dry up, don’t tell me I’m the only one who noticed his balls are on the wrong side of things lately.”

“What do you mean?”

“You ever smack one of your Hot Wheels too hard and the wheels ended up near the windows?”

“Que?”

“The wheels on the cock go ’round and ’round …”

“Quiet!” snaps the other Bobby, and we hunch lower around the bush instinctively as Cigarette Zombie lights up, signaling the break is almost over. I look around the circle.

Besides the Plants, Jeff, Amy, and their dog or daughter (and, of course, Mags and Davey Jones, who were supposed to burst into the house later tonight) there are about, what, a dozen of us these days? Yeah, that’s got to be right. I remember the number because of a carton of rotten eggs where Mags drew every one of our faces on the yellow shells to remind us not to eat them.

First there’s Jerry, a.k.a. Baseball Zombie, a.k.a. somebody’s little brother. Then there’s the kid with the unlikely name of We Ma, a.k.a. Cowboy Zombie, a.k.a. We “None” Ma, the result of filling out a driver’s license application, putting “none” in the space for a middle name, and the clerk mistaking it for just another crazy Asian moniker. (To show her own cultural sensitivity, Mags once vetoed Davey Jones’ attempt to make him the cleaver-wielding Sushi Chef Zombie.) Then there’s Lumberjack Zombie, a.k.a. Seattle Zombie, a.k.a. Steve? I don’t think I ever met that guy, actually, and probably couldn’t “recognize!” no matter how many times he said it. He’s been known to wear two shirts to try to look bigger, I’m told. At least that’s the only possible explanation for a nickname like “Zombie Two-Shirts.” He was also Sensible Shoes Zombie for awhile, and he shuffled ever so comfortably. Then there’s Matt, a.k.a. Security Guard Zombie, a.k.a. Rent-A-Cop Zombie. His title doesn’t really fit as he sports a huge beard like a surfboard hanging off his face that he could hide half a chicken in. We’re still petitioning to make him Shoplifter Zombie instead (would have been Sticky Fingers Zombie if we didn’t all have sticky fingers) and fire Glen, a.k.a Midlife Crisis Zombie, who’s balls-deep in exactly that.

Then there are Michael and Rachel, a.k.a. Indian Zombie and Indian Zombie, one Native American with the feather behind his ear, one European with the dot on her forehead that sometimes doubles as a bullet hole. Michael loves his one characteristic, never showing emotion, and says it suits him perfect as, supposedly, he has never shed a tear in his entire life. “And now, of course,” he likes to tell us, “it’s way too late.” And Rachel, she doesn’t just stick to citing various Eastern religions. She’s also been known to ironically quote the Bible to us when the Camels aren’t in earshot (Matt, too, of course, in honor of his namesake, both always in a deep, movie narrator voice). And Mark, a.k.a. Fast-Talking ’50s Newspaper Man Zombie (who never really fit at all), he walked off the set one day and never came back. Said our plots were predictable, our jokes stale, our lifestyles unhealthy, and he just didn’t have the stomach for it anymore.

And then there’s Nate, a.k.a. Third Stage Zombie, the slippery, oily, decaying ghoul you’d see toward the end of the film that’s having an even tougher time putting one foot in front of the other. He’s one of those zombies who’s swimming in that limbo right before his muscles stop working entirely. Nate actually walked awkwardly on the tips of his toes back when he was alive, back when we used to call him Obsessive Compulsive Zombie, a.k.a. The O.C.Z., so his adopted role here is a no-brainer.

We try not to look at him. He reminds us the game can end.

And then there are the wild cards, sitting directly across from each other, as always, the two Bobbys, Bobby Zelienople and Bobby Balldinger, a.k.a. Bobby Z and Bobby B. They aren’t zombies, not yet. At this point during the game, we aren’t even supposed to see them. They are supposed to represent the military that always show up in the third act to screw everything up and dash any hopes of rescue or civilization. But they can never get this right. They like to pretend they already got bit, got turned, always way too early. They want to be both, neither, apparently. A tradition in most zombie films is that the military is never to be trusted under any circumstances, and they do relish these roles. Too bad they can never wait for their cue. Sometimes, they play Army, sometimes Navy, sometimes Air Force. But their rivalry started when, after we started making the big bucks, Mags brought them Armed Forces football jerseys instead of just T-shirts so they’d be more visible at night. Then someone brought a Steelers helmet. Big mistake. Now their competition regularly comes to blows.

Tonight, however, neither Bobby wears a jersey. They claim they’re playing the roles of National Guard volunteers and are sick of the uniforms. Nobody bothers to argue. Rumor has it among the two higher-ups this is gonna be their last season if there are any more problems. And defecating in the football helmet probably sealed the deal, even though they tried to pin their behavior on some shocking news from the real world, the untimely motorcycle, train, Segway, hot-air balloon collision (and subsequent final decapitation) of their favorite Fantasy Football father figure, beloved number 7 but number 1 in their hearts, cereal endorser and serial rapist, Big Ben “Has Been” Roethlisberger, a.k.a. Hand-off Burger, a.k.a. Rapist Burger, a.k.a. Roethlisraper. But now and forever Headless Road Burger Zombie. Some say you can still see him lurking around bathrooms.

They glare at each other, arms crossed, pinched mouths and smirks crawling like caterpillars around their faces. We all know it will be a long night for us, but they won’t disappoint anybody just tuning in.

Cigarette Zombie? I never got her name. And I can’t remember when I first noticed she was stumbling alongside of me as I sighed and pounded the house embarrassingly limp-wristed.

And, finally, there is the “live” staff inside the house. Mags and Davey Jones, long-suffering proprietors, our secret bosses, both buried so deep in the plot that they rarely come out at all. And Jeff and Amy, our Plants in the basement. I don’t know who is playing Jeff and Amy’s daughter this time, whether it’s the scarecrow, the tackling dummy we borrow from the 6th graders practice field on occasion, or the cowboy silhouette we took off the neighbor’s barn and cut down to toddler size. But I am hoping Amy doesn’t bring another dog. This is always a concern.

One of the Bobbys is mocking me by clearing his throat, so I try to distract him with a question that’s been on my mind.

“Did either of you notice anything weird about that guy?”

“Which guy?” asks Bobby B, never looking up from Bobby Z. We used to call Bobby B “Cloverfield” because of his freakish height and tendency to destroy any beer can or small village he’s squeezing. But he was less effective attacking a house that you might guess, so the “Cloverfield” thing was dropped. No one could have anticipated his rivalry with Bobby Z, who carried at least a foot and 50 pounds less than him.