Get Zombie: 8-Book Set (11 page)

I
begged Mom to listen to me. I told her that home – her real
home – was with me. She just shook her head. “Like you
care,” she said. “Go
home
. Leave. And tell Fred
thanks for dumping me here.”

I
remember driving away, and saying, “She's lost it. Her mind is
gone.
Mom
is gone. Her brain has gone to mush.”

There
was nothing I could've done. If I tried anything, that bat would've
found the side of my skull. It was all Fred's fault. That idiot. He
screwed us both. There was no getting my mom back now. Not in any way
I could think of. But she seemed happy, didn't she? And wasn't that
all that mattered? But what about MY happiness? Don't I matter, too?
How about what I wanted? Each mile I got closer to home, the stronger
the loneliness got. I was sick of that house. Too empty. Too alone. I
missed my mom. Needed my mom.

I
loved
my mom.

Halfway
home and halfway up the mountain, I hit the brakes.

“NO.”

I
reversed.

I
was going back and getting Mom. I was going to do it, and NO ONE was
going to stop me. Power of positive thinking, right? I turned around
and drove down the hill. I could feel – really FEEL – all
that loneliness in my house whine. Those shadows.... They were
expecting to torture me – had their sights on it –
couldn't wait! They fed on my pain, my bad memories, my evil,
depressing thoughts.

Something
ran in front of my car.

I
turned the wheel too far and hit a tree.

The
airbag didn't go off.

Blood
over my eyes, I looked up and saw, through the cracked windshield, an
old man on the hood of the car. He was grinning with these wiiiide
eyes. It was almost like he wanted to say something. I knew that old
man. It was Mr. Berverty that lived a little ways down from me. Now
there he was, squatting on the hood of my car and as nude as the Lord
made him, his thing covered by a gray bush, his man-boobs sagging
long and draped over his knees. My eyes didn't want to stay open. I
wanted sleep. Mr. Berverty wouldn't have that. He rammed his head at
the windshield, then punched it, then kicked it. I tried to open the
door, but my hand died and fell off the handle. I was moaning. I felt
retarded.

I
need sleep. I'll deal with this later. I'm so tired. Wake me in the
morning.

Car
lights got Mr. Berverty's attention. He hissed at me and jumped a BIG
jump into the trees.

I
blacked out.

FRED

I
was making love to my lady when the doctor called and told me about
Clair's accident. I tried my best to sound concerned. It's hard to
talk when you have a hard-on. I remember saying, “Oh, dear,”
and, “Oh, my,” a lot.

I
said, “Yes, doctor, I'll be right down,” and hung up and
went back to my lovemaking.

“Who
was that?” my lady asked.

“Nothing.
My sister's in the hospital.”

“Shouldn't
you go see her?”

“Do
you see what she did to my face?”

“She
did that? I thought you said you feel down some stairs.”

“I
lied. I was too embarrassed. Forgive me?”

I
tried to go on with the show, but she pushed me back some.

“I
don't feel right about this. Your sister's on my brain. I can see her
all bandaged up and looking all sad-eyed at me.”

I
exhaled depressingly and rolled off her.

“Do
you see what she did to my damn face? Let her suffer a bit. It's the
only way she'll learn. She doesn't care about me anyway, so I don't
care about her. All of them. My whole family is messed up in the
head. They're so selfish. They never consider what I want.”

I
really didn't mean any of what I was saying. I mean, I DID...but I
was just doing it at the time to get some sympathy from my lady
friend. I was still feeling frisky, you understand. And it worked!
She hugged me and told me that she'd take care of me and would do
anything for me because she loved me.

We
made babies that night. I didn't care. It felt good. Yes, abortions
were expensive, but I had money. I was a damn good athlete, remember?
I could handle it. And what if she (whatever her name was) didn't
want the abortion? Well...I'd figure something out later. I was
living in the moment. And that exact moment felt reeeeal good. Every
minute or so Clair would jump into my mind mid-sex and try to ruin it
for me. No big deal. I kicked her away and locked her in a giant
vault. Problem solved. What worked on my mom, worked on her. I was
the master of my mind. I had it all figured out. I was unstoppable. I
could get whatever I wanted...do whatever I wanted...
whoever
I
wanted, haha.

This
was life. This was
freedom
.

It
was good to be young.

This
was
living
.

JANICE

When
the sun rose, the home was almost empty. I walked down the hallways,
hearing nothing but my slippers slapping on the floor. Some of the
old people I saw from time to time sat on the ground with their legs
crossed and their eyes closed and their hands held up in what I
thought was prayer. These people were scattered about the place –
but very few of them; just 5 or 6. That damn clown still came by.
After he did his act and left, Jackson told me that I had better come
over to where he was and watch the news. Jackson was glued to the
screen. He was pale...shocked. I held his hand and looked up at the
TV.

A
wave of exhilaration had taken over Oahu. Something big had
happened...something amazing...jaw-dropping. The news anchor called
it “The age of the new-old people,” and another called
it, jokingly, “Attack of The Old People”. Much laughter
in the news room followed.

Then
they were all serious again. The anchorwoman, a Kesha Tuyioy, spoke
to the camera.

“We
now go to field reporter Camel Stroja who has come face-to-face with
one of these energetic, quote unquote “old” people.
Camel?”

The
scene changed to a football field. Old people ran around – the
men shirtless, the woman wearing bras. Men in their 20's and 30's
played with the elderly. Camel Stroja had her finger in her ear and a
microphone in hand. She looked to the camera, nodded, then smiled
real big-like.

“Yes!
Hello, Kesha, I'm here at Farrington football field where many of
these youthful – full of life – quote unquote “old”
people are playing the dangerous sport of rugby. So dangerous, in
fact, that their kids are at the sidelines, begging them to stop this
foolishness. I have with me one of the rugby players, Mr. Botrew.”

“Hello!”
the old man said.

Camel
was taken back by his booming, baritone voice.

“Mr.
Botrew...”

“Please,
call me Electric. Mister Botrew sounds so old.”

“Alright,
Electric
,” Camel said. “Are you at all exhausted,
Electric, from playing this dangerous sport?”

The
old man rolled his eyes.

“We
don't know what the big deal is,” he said. “It doesn't
hurt! We hit so soft.”

Behind
them, two old rugby players collided. One of them cartwheeled through
the air and landed on his head. The old man got up and did a little
dance for the camera, signaling that all was fine and dandy. Camel
nodded.

“Well,
as you can plainly see, Kesha, all is fine and dandy.”

A
young man ran up beside her. He was husky, breathless, beaten up, and
bleeding from the face.

“Help!”
he said.

Camel
shoved the mic into his face.

“What
happened to you?”

The
man had trouble breathing.

“They're
maniacs!” he said. “They won't stop playing! They're
trying to kill us! Help! They won't let us leave!”

The
old man rolled his eyes.

“Blah
blah blah. A grown-ass man like you can't take a little hit? How
embarrassing. And you call yourself a man? Gadzooks.”

A
fight between young and old breaks out on the field.

The
young people were beaten and smashed and bloodied and destroyed –
bodies flung all over the place – tossed around like rag dolls
– right into the stands. Much screaming; much begging. Total
confusion. An old lady dressed like a referee blew a whistle.

“I
didn't say you old geezers could stop playing! Game on! Hahahawww!”

The
elderly put their hands on their hips and laughed and laughed and
continued playing, kicking bodies – BODIES – around as if
they were footballs. They never stopped smiling. It was eerie. One
boy was hit so hard in a tackle, his head flew off and WALLOPED Camel
upside her head.

She
ran off.

“Jezus!”
she cried. “Jeeeeeezzzzuussssss!”

The
camera man ran around, not knowing what to do next. Kesha demanded he
stand his ground and film the scene if he wanted to keep his job. So
he did.

Police
cars and an ambulance arrived.

One
man, Rammer Koblor, got internal bleeding and was whisked off on a
gurney. The old people shrugged, and said, “When in Rome!”
They giggled, hi-fived each other, and ran back to their rugby game.
The police officers were too scared (and confused) to do anything.
All twenty of them radioed headquarters for advisement on the weird
situation.

Jackson's
mouth was wide open.

“What
in God's name...”

He
changed the channel.

An
old man pulled a bus with his teeth. His hands were tied behind his
back, and he was foaming at the mouth. Dogs were following him
around.

On
another channel, old people ran out of a hospital, cheering and
spitting on people. Some of the elderly did cartwheels all the way
down the street, disappearing into the sunset.

On
another channel, a family was on a talk show with their great
grandmother.

“All
they do is sit around going to work and school all the time,”
she said. “They're boring.”

The
audience booed her. She gave them the finger and got up and ran
through a wall.

People
cheered.

On
another channel, old people ran into traffic and dodged vehicles with
great skill – just for the fun of it. Another channel found
some of the energetic elderly on Ala Moana beach, standing around
with blindfolds on and getting, willingly, kicked in the face by
youthful soccer players. An old man was behind a donkey and leaning
forward. His friend slapped the donkey's ass and the beast
back-kicked the old man in the face. I shrieked and looked away.

The
old man laughed, and yelled, “Is that all you got? I feel
nothiiiiiiiiiiing!” Two more donkeys surrounded him and all
three back-kicked him all over his body. I imagined he enjoyed it.
Beachcombers watched, mortified. Many asked, “Why? Why are they
doing that? WHY?” Kids wept. Babies refused to look. Japanese
tourists snapped pictures. Some said, “Nani? Nani?” Which
translates to “What? What?”

On
Tunes TV, a rock band made of old people played a live performance
outside Hawaii's State Capital. They jumped in the mosh pit and
punched and kicked the hell out of the kids AND security guards.
Parents were outraged. The elderly gave the Rock & Roll Devil
sign and flicked their tongues. TTV apologized and went off the air.

Jackson
went back to the news channel focusing on the rugby situation. The
cops were chasing after the old people. One of them, an elderly woman
named Shanesa Tamahawa, was hauled off into a police car for the
death of rugby player Rammer Koblor. She was heard screaming, “He
ain't no rugger! If you can't take the heat, make like a tree and get
the hell out! Stupid weakling!”

Kesha
shook her head.

“These
people are out of control! The elderly have now gone super,”
she said. “They are super, and they are elderly. They are the
supelderly
. God, help us all.”

Jackson
clicked by every channel, but it was all the same: The supelderly on
every station popped pills constantly. All white and red pills. All
Kilt. What disturbed me most were their chests. I could see their
hearts beating under their shirts.

That
wasn't normal, I don't care how crazy your ass is.

What
was happening?

SUPELDERLY #824

I
wanna run. I love this. I'm so alive! I can't stop thinking. My heart
hurts. I want to do jumping jacks. Is that a bird? It is! I wonder
what it tastes like. I'm eating this bird and I must say, not bad,
not bad. Now what? Now what do I feel like doing? I can do anything?
Now what to do? Ah, I know. I'll pick a fight with those gangsters in
that dark ally. I'm running to them. These fine fellows should
provide some excellent, stimulating play time. They're looking at me
in a weird way. Some of them are digging into my pockets. Let's PLAY!
I just ripped off some arms. Some of these gents are crying. Aww, how
pathetic. How weak. How
boring
.
I wonder what this arm tastes like. Mmm! Filling! AND I feel
sooo...invigorated! Yaaaa-hooooo! Oh, lookie...a bus full of nuns.

I'm so happy I could shit.

JANICE

We
were in the middle of french-kissing and talking about somehow having
kids when the tire crashed through the window. Pepper literally dove
into the room, rolled, and jumped up with her hands on her hips. She
was dressed like Tarzan. Jackson held me. His eyes locked on
Pepper's. She jumped on him and grabbed at him. I yelled out and
punched her on the head, repeatedly, but to no desired effect. She
elbowed me in the chest, and I rolled off the bed, landing hard on my
back. When I got up, they struggled with each other into the hallway.
Pepper looked like she was trying to kiss him. She smiled and
puckered her lips, blowing him kisses. Jackson's face was always
turned away, his hand keeping her face back.

Pepper
kicked him in the knees, and he fell forward – to my horror, my
disgust – onto her lips. Pepper grabbed his head and gave him
tongue. She made slobbering sounds, and she looked at me as she
kissed Jackson. When she pulled away, a thick, glistening thread of
spit connected their mouths. A white hot rage blew up in my chest,
and I imagined, in that split second, ripping her heart out and
burning it and shitting on it and covering it in salt and shoving it
down her throat. I'd laugh the whole time.