Authors: Jaime Johnesee
Bob The Zombie
By Jaime Johnesee
Copyright 2012 Jaime Johnesee
All rights reserved.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent. No part or parts of this publication may be copied, recorded or otherwise reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This book is dedicated to my all my friends. A special thank you goes out to Nate, Face, Ren Martin, Bill Dittmar, Christine Sutton, Leslie Whitaker, Vix Kirkpatrick, and David H Church. Without you guys I wouldn't be able to do what I love so dearly. I can not thank you enough for everything you've done for me.
Author's Note: Bob the Zombie is an homage to my friend Nate,
Griffin has his roots in Ren Martin, and Face is...well, he's based on Face. Bill Dittmar is the spark that I used to bring Wilhelm VonKarolinas to life. To all of these folks I can't thank you enough for giving me the opportunity to bring a bit of you into my world.
I'd like to thank my family for putting up with my reclusive tendencies. I love you all.
A novella. Some FBI agents find hunting serial killers to be hard work, Sam Reece isn't one of them. Hunting comes easy for her, then again she's not like other agents.
A short story. Things aren't always what they seem. Sometimes it's hard to tell what's real.
I lead a very Griswoldian life. If you've ever seen those 'National Lampoon's Vacation' movies, you know what I mean. Even my death was hysterically funny. I was a twenty five year old college dropout and was living at home with my parents. In fact I had been hanging out, relaxing in their garden, when I decided to prune my mom's roses. I was cutting a stem near the house and turned to respond to a neighbor who hollered a hello. It's at that point the stepstool I was using tipped and I impaled myself, jugular first, on the pruning shears when I fell to the ground. Sure, at the time it was horrifying, but now I can look back, see the vague similarity to a Chevy Chase character, and laugh.
My mom was distraught at my demise and she hired a witch who specialized in necromancy to bring me back. The spell went a little funny and instead of being brought forth from the ground in a geyser of dirt, I awoke in my casket and had to dig my way out. Luckily, Mom waited for me and gave me a nice mug of hot chocolate after I dug myself out of the fetid earth. Unluckily, my body was dead and the hot chocolate really messed with my stomach and I threw up all over mom's shoes. She forgave me. It took some time to learn how to eat food again. Not to mention having to learn which foods I could tolerate better than others. Chicken nuggets are fine, but beets lead to Exorcist style vomit.
It wasn't long before I had to leave home. The rotting began and it creeped my family out when large chunks of me fell off. The necromancer had told my mom it would happen, and had suggested I invest in a ton of cheap staples and a good stapler. The iron in the staples bonds with the magic that animates me and voila; whatever has been reattached looks just like it did before it sloughed off. Not that it makes me good as new, what with the constant greenish hue and festering wounds, but it's nice to know that I won't have to worry about leaving pieces of myself behind.
The clouding of my eyes bothered my mom (and me, really) the most. I have the eyes of a corpse now, mostly because...hello, Undead American over here! Now, don't get me confused with the ghouls. No, we zombies are sentient, and able to talk. We're the same people we were before our death and raising, it's just that now we need a steady diet of meat. Sometimes, we can tolerate other foods...and nonfood items.
As for me, I like cake.
Sadly,
I don't get cake often. There's oddly not a lot of supernatural bakeries around, and it's not as if I can go into the town bakery up the road and ask for a quarter sheet cake without setting off warning bells. Most of the world has no clue supernatural creatures exist. The humans that need to know about it, already do, but everyone else is kept in the dark. I imagine if I did hike on up to the bakery the conversation would go something like this:
"Hello Ma'am I'd like a..."
"ZOMBIE!!!!" Then out comes the shotgun and off goes my head. Nope, I think I'll stick around with the other supernatural critters and stay away from humans. Even though these days when people do spot me they tend to think I'm just some special effects genius with a hard on for zombie fiction. I'm a much more complicated guy than that, really.
Take for example how much it hurt when my family rejected me. I didn't ask to be brought back from the dead. Oh, and before you ask; no, I don't have a gaping wound on my throat where the shears pierced me, the funeral directors sewed that up and it healed when I was raised. I came out of the grou
nd whole, my only flaws were scars marking the place that wound was and where there was a shaving nick I received the morning of my death. I stayed looking mostly human for awhile, it took about two weeks for the decomp to actually start. I am told the woman who raised me was a very powerful necromancer as the rotting usually starts by sundown on the day of the raising. The greater the magic of the witch, the longer putrefaction is staved off. The best witch can raise and keep a zombie for up to six months before it starts decomposing. I was glad to have had those two weeks but the ending of them broke my heart into a million pieces, being asked to leave by your own mother is deeply painful. That she was the one who brought me back made it even worse.
So there I was, off by my little old lonesome, when I ran across another zombie named Face. I won't get into why he is nicknamed Face, but let's just say it's not because he's pretty. Face and his crew were hanging at the cemetery, messing with the stoner kids. I soon found it was one of his favorite pastimes and that he visited every cemetery i
n town looking to mess with people. The kids would smoke a little pot (or drop acid) and Face would wait about ten minutes and start clawing his way out of a grave. We'd sit back and watch as the drug addled victims started pointing and screaming. Sometimes they ran, sometimes they soiled themselves, once a kid had a gun with him and I was almost shot in the shoulder.
The first time I saw them though, I was hanging back in the
tree line. I watched, and chuckled when the kids spotted Face and began shrieking and running. After the humans hightailed it out of there, I came down and introduced myself. We became great friends and I became a member of their horde. Before you even ask, no, hordes aren't like gangs or mob branches. Hordes are...well, they're families. We might scare a few humans from time to time, but we don't harm anyone. We mostly just stick together and have fun.
Well, we did. Then I got a sort of mental memo from the Goddess. She told me that some woman needed my help in the course of her becoming the go between for God and Go
ddess and the world. The first time I met this chick she was asleep in the woods and a bunch of supernatural creatures had gathered around to help her. All of them had received a similar psychic email from Goddess. My first impression was that she was a nice lady, but for the biggest hope the human race has ever had, she was a bit dim. I mean honestly, who falls asleep in a forest? (Although it give the phrase sawing logs a whole new meaning) After getting to know Holly Andrews a bit, I realized she wasn't dense, just overwhelmed. I can relate to her, and that. I'm overwhelmed on a daily basis, however, I try to make jokes and keep things light. Life is enough to beat you down all by itself. Keep a smile and a sarcastic comment close and it can make things just a bit better.
I hate not being able to get out much, but I understand the rules of our society. For the most part, humans don't want to know that we various supernatural critters exist, and we hide from them to keep it that way. My friend Holly will change all of that. I can't tell you more about it now, but one day
, you'll see. She is going to create a whole new world for us all, human and other. I have my own part in this new world and I am really proud of it. That's not what this story is about, no, that's a tale for another time. Instead I'm going to tell you more about my pals and me.
So, one of our favorite pastimes (other than scaring people at the cemeteries) is clubbing. We hit every zombie friendly club in town. I love to dance. Mostly, I love watching people smile and laugh when they see me dancing. I'm no Fred Astaire, or MC Hammer, but my dancing brings joy to most everyone who watches. Well, until a piece of myself flies off and hits someone. It happens more often than
you'd think, and definitely more than I care to admit, but I've been reanimated for almost a decade now. Hardly anything on me is fresh these days, except my sarcasm. Don't wrinkle your nose up at me, I take daily showers and use a special deodorant. I don't reek. I may drop chunks of rotting flesh now and then, but I smell damn good doing it.
So, one day the Horde and I were at this club called Coyotes just dancing and having fun when my finger flew off me and into this icy blonde bitch's drink. Hey, it was AC/DC playing. One must dance 'Balls to the Wall' for Angus and his crew. Anyway, she was repulsed. Understandably so, decomposing fingers and strawberry daiquiris don't exactly go together. I must ask you though, who the hell orders a daiquiri at a night club? A restraunt/bar, sure, but a nightclub? Tacky! She turned out to be the owner's girlfriend. We were banned for life, or until he "switched broads." His words, not mine. I had a feeling our banning would be lifted soon, if the look she had shot him meant anything.
We went looking for a new place to hang, and I heard from a guy, who heard from a werewolf, that this place called Martin's was a cool bar to chill at. The horde and I shambled on over there and were surprised when a wave of calm rolled over us as we entered. I whistled in surprise, "Hey, how about that?"
"What?" Face asked, confused.
"Someone here is an expath. That calm you feel is coming from them. Must keep bar fights to a minimum. Smart move on the owner's part."
"Thank you." A tall man with green hair, eyebrows, lashes, goatee, and even a slight greenish hue to his skin grinned at me.
"I take it you're the owner."
"
Griffin Martin. Nice to meet you."
"Bob."
"Pleasure. Feel free to check out the jukebox, and the menu." He gave me a wink and headed back behind the bar.
"He seems like a nice fella." Face said as he scanned a menu he'd lifted from one of the many booths lining the walls.
"Yeah. I think I'm going to...oh, my Goddess!"
"What? What's wrong, man?"
"Absolutely nothing, Face. Everything is right. Do you see what he has over by the jukebox?"
"The videogame?"
"Videogame? Nay, my friend, that's not just any game. That, my dearest zombie brother, is an original Donkey Kong in mint condition."
"Bob, you're drooling." Face handed me a napkin and I swiped the corner of my mouth. Sure enough, there was a string of drool cascading down my face. Hey, don't judge me, it was an original Donkey Kong and it was cherry! I mean, come on! What can I say, I wasn't exactly
Mr. Popularity before I was impaled on a pair of gardening shears. Videogames, and the conventions associated with them, made up the bulk of my social life.
"She's a beaut, isn't she?" This from
Griffin.
"
She's out of this world amazing. Where did you get one in such great condition?"
"I have a friend who gets first dibs after all the gamer cons."
"Keep that friend! May I?" I felt a bit odd asking, I mean it was in a public area. Pretty obvious it was there to be played, but she was so mint I was nervous to set putrefied fingers on her without his ok.
"Go ahead." His smile widened to a grin and he chuckled as I approached the game.
After giving her a few loving strokes and whispering to her how pretty she was, I drew a couple quarters from my jeans pocket and instinctively smiled at the clink of each coin entering the machine. When the sinister music blared to life and the princess was captured and dragged up the ladder, I readied myself for battle against the barrel tossing simian. After some time, I realized I had gathered quite a crowd around me. People were hanging out and cheering when I would rescue the princess, just to have her carried away to the next level. They'd boo when the large pixilated ape would snatch her from my grasp and I found myself having more fun than I had in a long time. Until a skag of ghouls came in.
Skag is the term they use for themselves when they're in a group, we prefer horde as skag just sounds sleazy. Ghouls are people who have died and were also raised through magic, the difference
s being zombies have free will while ghouls are chained to the witch who raised them. Zombies retain their full soul while ghouls only retain the memories of being human, their link to their necromancer is what keeps them from becoming a mindless machine of destruction. Most of the time, the one who brought them back allows them to run willy nilly, calling them occasionally, just to keep them in line. They really aren't that much different to us. However, if their witch calls, the ghoul must answer. Failure to do so results in their immediate forever death.
Ghouls are also a bit more flesh hungry than we are. A nice serving of calf's brains can last us zombies for a few days. Ghouls need to eat at least half their weight in flesh every day. They'd prefer eating living human flesh, but they've adapted to raw animal meat in order to survive. If you come upon a filthy alley and see no signs of rats, it's a good bet a ghoul lives nearby.
So, there I was playing an epic game of Donkey Kong when these damned ghouls came in and started taunting me. Griffin upped the calm, I could feel it, but I didn't think the ghouls could. They were near snarling when they approached me. Face and the guys got closer to me in case I needed them.
"Boys! Play nice."
Griffin cautioned.
"I've no beef with the ghouls." I said and turned back to my game. One of the ghouls dropped his gigantic, rotting hand on my jump button and sneered at me.
"Whoopsie. Sorry little zombie. Time to run away home." It took every fiber of my being not to toss out the first punch. I gave myself big points for that.
"Whoopsie? Seriously? You're going with that? Should I push you down on the playground, or just pull your pigtails in response?" Ok, so I lose punch-free points for the sarcasm, but seriously, whoopsie?
"Bitch, you have no clue who you just messed with."
"A cheap manner-less ghoul who really ought to run home to his witchy mistress before he meets his true death at my hands?" I knew I was verbally beating my chest in the same manner Donkey Kong had been beating his, but I wa
s pissed the guy ruined my game. I had been close to the kill screen when that damned ghoul cost me my last life. Also, I was out of quarters. I picked up and removed his hand from the console and in retaliation he smashed it with his fist, effectively ruining the game forever. I gasped and turned to Griffin. He looked like someone had shot his dog.
