Brains for the Zombie Soul (a parody) (12 page)

She pulled up her sleeve. Whereas the rest of
her looked healthy, here the skin was dark and greenish. A long,
slim wound slashed up the length of her forearm. It still seeped
blood and puss. She had obviously tried to take her own life. A
gasp escaped my lips before I could stop myself.

“It looks pretty gruesome, sorry. Usually I
cover it up, but I leave it open on Sundays to remind myself.” She
looked down at the ground, obviously ashamed. “I succeeded. But
Pastor Brown saved me, in multiple ways. He gave me a chance at
another life. He gave me faith.”

We walked in silence for a couple minutes. “Many
days, it’s still hard. It’s very lonely. Most of the congregation
is averse to talking to me. It was nice to see a new, friendly
face, especially when it’s as lovely as yours.” She stopped, and we
stood face to face. Her eyes were so entrancing. I wondered if they
were as beautiful a blue before she died. “Will you come back next
week?”

“That depends,” I said. “Can I sit with
you?”

“Of course!” she said with a delighted laugh in
her voice.

“Perhaps we could go out to dinner sometime
before then?” I heard the words come out of my mouth before I
thought them. That was good, because otherwise I would have been
too intimidated to have said them.

“You mean as a date?” she asked. I blushed
again, but before I could reply, she said, “Because that’s the only
way I’ll accept.”

Then she kissed me, and her kiss was so soft and
sweet. It was a quick kiss, but I was dazed by it. “I should get
back to my family,” I stuttered. “Tomorrow night?”

“Sounds wonderful,” she said. “I’ll come pick
you up.”

(back to
TOC)

****

Switching Sides

Jennifer was the most accomplished zombie
killer in the force. She had never lost a teammate, and her kills
were quick and clean. Therefore, she was sent in on the most
dangerous missions, since the captain knew she would get the job
done.

That night was supposed to be an easy one. “It’s
just a small group of zombies living in this foreclosed property on
the edge of town. The bank is trying to resell the house, but they
won’t leave.”

She took a couple rookies that needed the
experience, and they loaded up in the Hummer. They pulled up to the
house just as the sun started to set.

As usual, they gave no warning and swarmed out
of the car as soon as it was in park. One hunter went to the front
door to stand guard, while the other circled the outside watching
the windows. Jennifer went to the back door and kicked it in.

She was used to the zombies waiting to pounce on
her as soon as she entered, but the house seemed calm. Her mind
screamed, “Trap!” and she was on alert.

Instead, an unseen voice called from the other
room, “Wait! Let’s talk.”

“Who are you? This place is infected with
zombies, you need to get out while you can,” Jennifer called
back.

“Not possible,” the voice said reasonably. “I am
a zombie.”

“Bullshit,” she said. “Zombies can’t talk.”

“How do you know? Have you ever tried talking to
one?”

“No need.”

“Just listen,” he pleaded. “We’ve done no harm.
We’ve hurt no one. We just want to be left alone.”

“This isn’t your house.” Jennifer caught herself
starting to relax, and pulled her gun back upright.

“Yes it is. I’ve never missed a single payment,
not even after I died. The bank takes my money, but doesn’t apply
it to my account. There’s no reason for them to kick me out of my
house.”

“Sure there is. Zombies aren’t citizens, they
can’t own property.”

“I was a citizen when I died. Why should that be
different now? Listen, Jennifer-”

“How do you know my name?” she demanded.

A man stepped out into the middle of the living
room with his arms raised in surrender. “It’s me, Kent, your
fiancé.”

How had she not noticed the address, not
recognized the house? She was in the zone and wasn’t even aware of
her surroundings. Now she saw. Her picture sat on the coffee table.
She had bought the tablecloth sitting on the kitchen table. An
unused bread maker, an early wedding present, sat unused on the
counter.

“Not possible. You died. You were killed by a
zombie.”

“No,” he said. “I was killed by a zombie hunter.
Frank. His stray bullet hit me when he was firing at my friend
Jake. Jake bit me so that I could live on.”

Ugh, Frank. He was the most reckless of the
group and had lost the most team members to both zombies and
accidents.

“Why did you leave me?” she asked.

“I didn’t,” he said. “I’ve been here all along,
waiting for you to come back. You got so caught up in your
vengeance that you forgot about me.”

“I’m so sorry,” she said, lowering her gun.

He held his arms out for an embrace, and she ran
to him. “I’m so sorry,” she said again. “I won’t ever leave you
again.”

(back to
TOC)

****

Slave

His steel blue
eyes were full of tears, but his face remained composed. As much as
he tried to hide it, I could tell he was touched.

I hate to brag, but if it wasn’t for me, he
wouldn’t even be alive. Or still undead, I guess that would be a
better way to put it.

It all started when I moved into this
godforsaken city. When my job was looking for volunteers to
relocate, I was excited to get away from the town I had grown up
in. It was time for a new start.

My girlfriend of three years had just broken up
with me for the guy who used to be the captain of the football
team. She said she was looking for someone more manly. I can’t say
I blame her. I tried too hard to be the man she wanted me to be:
going to the gym every morning, following football, all the things
I was supposed to do. But every time my eyes lingered a little too
long over the nice ass of our waiter when I took her out on a date,
or any time I “accidentally” bumped into the tall, lean clerk who I
bought all my Dockers from at Macy’s, she knew.

Leaving me was probably the best thing she had
done for me. Alas, in this town where so many people had known me
since I played Little League baseball, finding a man was going to
be near impossible.

I was an office lackey in the accounting
department of a security firm that had done well for itself. They
were opening up locations all over the United States, including a
new office in Milwaukee. Since I’d never been good with money, I
got the cheapest apartment I could in West Allis.

That was just the start of my naive, poorly
thought out decisions. I wasn’t used to a big city that might have
a bad part of town. I didn’t realize the dangers of cutting costs.
And I didn’t realize the type of people that were also renting the
cheapest apartments in town.

The trouble started mere hours after I had moved
in. As my microwave dinner was cooking, raised voices started to
creep through my floorboards and shag carpet. A male and female’s
voice drifted up from the apartment below me. At first I thought it
was a couple having an argument. I had been in enough of those with
my girlfriend, I could handle listening to someone else do it for
once.

Then I heard banging against the walls. Oh god,
are they fighting? I wondered. Should I call the cops? I decided to
listen to determine for sure.

“What do you do all day?” shouted the male
voice.

“I ask you to do one simple thing,” screamed the
female, “and you can’t even get that right!”

“You should be grateful,” the male chimed in,
“if it weren’t for us, the best you could hope for is to be in one
of those homes!”

At that point, I realized it wasn’t a fight
between a couple. Who were they talking to? Was it a child? At what
point should I intervene? They quieted down not long after that,
but not before I had heard enough to make me wonder if I had done
the right thing by doing nothing.

The next day, I looked at their door as I walked
down the stairs. I don’t know what I had expected to see. It was
just a door, I could tell nothing about the inhabitants behind it.
I went to work, which was just a half day orientation for all the
new employees.

When I got home at noon, I walked up the stairs
behind a wonderfully sexy man. He was tall and thin with a thick
head of messy stark white hair, and I thoroughly enjoyed the view
from the rear.

My heart dropped when he stopped at the door a
floor directly below mine. Please don’t tell me this is the asshole
I heard shouting last night, I thought.

I swallowed hard and said, “Oh hi. I’m Mark,
you’re new neighbor.” I pointed up.

“Nice to meet you,” he said in a quiet but
lovely voice. Then before I could ask his name, he disappeared
behind the door. There was no way that voice matched the one I had
heard through these thin walls. I felt a little better about
that.

I spent the rest of the afternoon considering
what his situation could be. Perhaps he was a college student whose
parents visited when he asked for money. That would explain the
argument. I settled myself with that, content that the apartment
below me would be silent that evening.

In fact, I didn’t hear anything that evening,
but then again, I wasn’t home. I went out in search of furnishings
and a gym. The next night, I hit the gym after work, then checked
out the seedy neighborhood bar. The night after that, I visited a
nightclub in another part of town instead.

The next day was a Saturday, and I was out of
microwave dinners. I nearly jumped out of my skin from excitement
when I spotted a tall man with bright white hair down the cereal
aisle. “Hey neighbor,” I said with a smile.

When he turned to me, I finally got to look at
his face. He had an exotic look to him, with high cheekbones and
those gorgeous steel blue eyes. I thought that’s what the elves of
fantasy novels must look like. “Hello,” he said back with a nervous
smile.

That was when I noticed he didn’t look well. He
was young, but the circles around his eyes were dark, like he had
permanent black eyes. His cheekbones were so pronounced because his
cheeks were sunken. He looked dead.

And then it hit me. He was a zombie.

The most gorgeous zombie I had ever seen. I was
taken by his beauty before, but in that realization, I fell in
love. “What’s your name?” I asked.

“Samson,” he replied.

I followed him around the store, and we did our
shopping together. His cart was full of wholesome foods, like
fruits, vegetables, and meats. Mine was full of soda, ramen
noodles, and pot pies. “Wow, you must cook a great meal,” I
said.

“I’d like to think so,” he replied, “but my
roommates think my cooking... could use some improvement.”

After I checked out, I waited for him so we
could walk out to our cars together. Instead, he filled a backpack
with his purchases and left the cart behind. When he started to
walk down the street, I offered him a ride.

I walked with him up the stairs and stopped at
his door. “Let me know the next time you need groceries,” I said.
“I can give you a ride.”

“Samson, get your ass in here!” shouted a woman
loud enough to make him drop his backpack. I heard a jar break as
it landed.

I picked up the bag, but he snatched it from me
and whispered, “I’ve got to go,” before slamming the door shut
behind him.

Soon, the yelling started again. “What the fuck
is this shit? How am I supposed to eat this?” the man shouted. A
crash sounded somewhere around the kitchen area, like a plate
hitting a wall. Then another crash, like another plate was thrown
but hit something softer.

“What happened to the spaghetti we were supposed
to have tonight?” demanded the woman.

I didn’t hear the response.

“You clumsy ass! Then you’ll walk to the store
right now to get more sauce to replace the jar you broke.” I heard
banging and something large hit the wall.

“I don’t care if it’s closed, you can just go to
another!” Something hit the door, then I heard the door open. I
grabbed my keys and rushed out my door just in time to see the
white head of hair descend down the stairs.

Samson was limping down the street, and I
quickly caught up to him. “Wait, I’ll give you a ride.”

I was prepared for the sight of him. There was a
cut on his head, staining his hair pink and dripping down his face.
His hand clutched at his neck, which was also covered with blood,
streaming over his fingers and down his shirt.

“Oh my god, we’ve got to get you to a doctor,” I
said.

“It’s no use,” he replied. “There’s nothing they
can do. I just hope that next time they make it all the way through
and put me out of my misery.”

“No,” I said. “Come with me. We’ll go somewhere.
I’ll take you away from them. Don’t go back there.”

“I don’t even know you,” he said.

“So. What are you afraid of? No one could offer
you a worse life than they have.” He opened his mouth, but he had
no answer. “Stay in the car,” I said. “Let me get a few things from
my apartment, and I’ll be right back.”

I ran upstairs to get my clothes and laptop.
Luckily, I was still packed, so they were easy to grab. I lugged
the suitcases down the stairs.

“Get the fuck out,” a large, overweight man
demanded through the passenger’s side window of my car.

I dropped my bags. “Leave him the fuck
alone.”

As I intended, the man left the car to come up
to me. “Who the hell are you?”

“None of your damned business. Go back to your
apartment before I drag you up there.”

“Oh yeah, make me.”

So I did. He was heavy, but I managed to drag
him struggling up the stairs, opened his door, threw him inside. I
easily broke off one of the remaining rungs in the stairs and
shoved it up under the door handle. It wouldn’t take him long to
dislodge it, but it would be enough time to get back out to my
car.