Get Zombie: 8-Book Set (79 page)

Nothing
is broken.

What
did they take?

My
copy of “Aloha Mannequins”.

I
don’t call the cops because I don’t want the attention.

Yessm,
I work at *** now, in Ala Moana.

I
soon find myself going back into the same, depressing routine.

I
work…

I
play darts…

I
drink…

I
smoke (though not as much, seeing how smoke nowadays reminds me of
burning flesh)…

Not
knowing where I’m going.

That’s
not the way to go. An adult knows who they are. With that revelation
they know what their strengths and weaknesses are and what they need
to do to succeed.

With
that being said…I guess I’m not an adult.

An
adult that craves money, that is serious, that is narrow-minded, an
adult that is power hungry, that needs a fancy car, a fancy house,
that doesn’t play, that’s responsible for this and that
and the other, an adult that stresses over bills, baby food,
insurance, debt, back pains, anal pains. Blah, blah.

On
second thought, to hell with being an adult.

Growing
up sounds painful.

Thank You.

BOOK PREVIEW:
Transdolphin
(aka The Weredolphin)

Noah's Ark has never been found...until now. Inside the
colossal boat, an archaeologist discovers the power of an ancient
creature that could finally rid Oahu of law-breaking werewolves. A
horror comedy novel.

DANGEROUS HISTORY

I always felt like a dolphin trapped in a human's body.

My stay in Hawaii was going to fix that problem....

Walking up that mountain was
exhilarating. We were getting close. Each step was leading me toward
success.
Just a little more time. Just a few more breaths.
Keep walking. Don't stop.

I yelled over my shoulder to Lars.

“My dad was the one that found the ancient scripture, under the
Great Sphinx of Giza...under its right paw. Dad said that one day he
heard the Sphinx whispering to him, telling him where to dig. Took
him a week to find the scripture describing Noah's three arks.”

Lars was lagging behind. I turned to look at him, and he hid his hand
behind his back. He smiled.

“Ehhh? I thought Noah just made one ark. A really BIG one.
Right?”

“
Wrong,” I said, walking
again. “Noah had
three
arks. He made one for typical animals, one for unicorns, and one for
transdolphins. This mountain – Round Top Drive – IS the
ark holding the transdolphins...and I'm going to open it. What could
go wrong?”

“
This is amazing!” Lars
said. “I can't believe it ended up
here
in Hawaii.”

“
The great flood scattered the
arks. The biggest one – the one with standard animals –
is sitting on top an icy mountain somewhere. I'm not sure where the
Unicorn Ark is. My theory is that it's under the ocean. The
Transdolphin Ark is the smallest – its front door hidden
somewhere in the mountain, under all that dirt and grass. I'm screwed
if to get in I gotta go digging under some tree or house. But let's
stay positive. We're getting close. I can
smell
it. Can't you? Bah! Of course you can't. You're no archaeologist.
You're just a zombie hunter for hire. All you smell is money.”

I paused. Did I insult him? I had to control myself. Control the
excitement.

“
I smell discovery,” I
said, sniffing the air. “I smell history. Sacred history.
Dangerous
history.”

I looked up the mountain.

Dad,
I thought,
this
is for you.

PART ONE

The Transdolphin

LARS GACK

I had a friend that used to hunt
zombies while jacked up on cocaine. He's dead now. But I liked the
idea of
not
being totally “there” while on the job. So I started
drinking. It worked. I was more confident. Zombies were easy. I could
decapitate with comfort. The fear was gone. No more disgust. No more
shame. During that time, I experienced a major explosion in zombie
gigs.

Then, I started getting
too
drunk, and some months jobs wouldn't come at all. I was a mess. I
made mistakes. People died. All accidents, of course. Didn't stop the
inevitable. Word travels fast on a small island like Oahu. My
reputation as a drunkard was spreading. Less people called for help.
I started to feel the fear of poverty again. Would I end up living on
the streets?
No, no, no. That can't happen. Don't think
about it. Too depressing
. I
needed more work to pay my damn bills. I needed help. Life wasn't
working out. I was hitting my head against a brick wall. Concerned
about major blood loss, I stopped doing that and called up my hunting
friends for advice. Jerome – he said that I needed to get
wasted with him at some sleaze-bar and calm myself with terrible
beer. My other pal – Doktor Boss – advised that I camp
out in the hilltops with him and meditate on life, really get my
senses together. Long story short, I got hammered drunk with Jerome.
I went home that night to find my dad standing in the middle of my
living room with his belt in his hands. Now what?

He started hitting me. Chased me all over my apartment. Coffee mugs
and dinner plates shattered on the ground. The downstairs neighbor
hit her ceiling with a broom, begging us to shut up. Dad trapped me
in the bathroom, my back against the shower wall.

“
You need to stop this crazy
business!” he said, waving his belt at me, that gold buckle
reflecting the bathroom light. “No more zombie hunting. What if
you get bit? You need a real job. A normal job! I can't take it
anymore. You don't know what it's like. People at the firm look at me
all funny. They laugh behind my back.
My son hunts zombies.
Sometimes I'm so ashamed, I don't even go to work. I just stay in bed
and eat ice cream and watch women's wrestling. See what
you're
doing to me? How can
you
do this to your father?” He was crying. “It's time for a
change, boy. You're getting a job, and you're paying your way to law
school. I have a friend that needs help with his gas station. You're
going there tomorrow to see him. I wrote the address down and stuck
it to your fridge. I suggest you read it,
boy
.”

The very idea of working at some stink, uninspiring gas station made
my heart implode. Sure, zombie hunting was dangerous and weird and
sometimes money was tight. At least it was interesting. But gas
stations? I shook my head and said, “No. I ain't gonna do it.
This is my life. I live how I wanna.”

Dad's face contorted. “Your mouth is running like a chicken
with its head cut off,” he said. “I'm tired of it!”

He charged at me, belt in the air,
and he did his
work
.
When I was 99% covered in black bruises, he put his belt back on.
“Time for a change, boy. Time to grow up. Time to be a real
man. My friend will be expecting you at his gas station,” he
said...and sauntered away.

When I heard the front door slam, I walked into the kitchen and
drank, and drank, and drank.

At some point, I found myself gazing at the Moon. Lost. In a daze.

Time for a change, boy. Time to be a man.

Wait. What just happened?

Was it all a dream?

I was hungover like a horse. In the nude, I stumbled around my
bedroom, knocking over vases and books...went into the living room.
The lady on the news was complaining about werewolves again. A woman
carrying a baby was being interviewed in a mall somewhere, looked
like Pearlridge. She was livid.

“I was leaving the mall last night when a werewolf took my
purse and ran off! I've had it up to HERE with those monsters. The
other day, my cousin, Rew, was attacked by a gang of werewolves. They
beat him up and stole his money and new shoes. Damn werewolves. All
they do is commit crimes. They're worthless. I want them off the
island!”

Shoppers behind her cheered.

I wobbled to the bathroom and got on
my knees and threw up in the toilet, each retch sending shock waves
of pain to my brain. I made my everyday breakfast of cereal with beer
(I was too poor for milk) and took an hour-long, hot shower,
meditating on life. The phone rang. I ran out with shampoo stinging
my eyes.
Finally – a call! This might be important!
I thought.
It might be a job! Praise Jesus!

I answered my cell.

“Lars Gack – zombie hunting expert. How may I help you?”

The old man on the other end grunted.

“Mr. Gack, my name is Loyd Brunegan. I saw your ad on the back
of a milk carton. I need your help...if you can spare the time.”

“I'm free this month. Spill the beans.”

“You do remedy the walking dead, don't you? And by remedy, I
mean kill, murder, terminate, destroy, put down, annihilate, END.
This is what you can do?”

“And do I shall.”

“How much do you go for?”

“$3,000 per night of hot action.”

“Weeeellllll....”

“Well what?”

“I was thinking more like...two hundred dollars.”

“Sorry. That's not enough. I have rent due. Terribly sorry.”

He sighed.

“No need to feel sour about it. I understand. The economy is
dreadful. We're all in need of work. But if you can't do the job,
there are other hunters in Hawaii. I recall my wife saying she heard
great things about a Mr. Boss?”

Dammit. I was losing my client. I
got a vision of my landlord kicking me out on the street. My voice
came out high –
desperate
.

“No!” I said. “I'll do it. Two hundred is fine.”

“I thought you said you can't help me.”

“Never mind that. I was just testing you.”

“Testing me?”

“Yes – and you passed. See, I'm very picky about who I
work for. I only do business with good people. People with heart.
People with class. That, good sir, is you.”

He laughed.

“I'm blushing! So you'll take the job?”

“Sign me up.”

“Ma'velous!” the old man said. “Now listen to me
very carefully....”

He gave me directions on where to go.

And so I went.

Welcome to Waianae.

As I drove through town in my dying, yellow car, I saw a group of
local thugs beating up a white man with canoe paddles. They yelled at
the guy to give them back their land. Ludicrous demands. Didn't make
any sense. Locals just walked by. No one cared. The thugs were deaf
to the man's screams for mercy. I hit the gas and drove into the mob
and sent them flying. Locals just strolled by. No one cared. I gave
the white man a knife, told him to be careful, and zoomed toward
Loyd's pig farm.

It was night when I got there. I sat and thought things over.

Good Lord, what are you doing here? Your life isn't worth a
pathetic two hundred dollars. You shouldn't be
doing
this.

“Shut up,” I told myself. “It's money. I'll take
what I can get.”

I got out and opened the trunk, looking around at my various weapons:
Small knives, nunchucks, a hammer, holy water, and a gun with some
silver bullets. I put some knives and the gun in my pants and slammed
the trunk. I usually didn't use guns, but with the rise in werewolf
activity, it seemed like a smart move. No way was I gonna run up and
wave a goddamn blade in a werewolf's face. The gun was over ten years
old – something I found on a zombie years ago. You find a bunch
of things on them: Candy, spoons, money, pills, dolls, tax forms,
small cameras, and other odd things family members leave on them at
funerals for unknown reasons. Whenever something falls out of a
zombie, I take it and pawn it or try to make use of it. Usually pawn
it. Why waste?

The farm spooked the heck out of me. I always had a problem being in
the middle of wide, open spaces – especially at night. Pigs
were all over the place, making all sorts of unsettling noises. Loyd,
carrying a bucket of slop, walked up to me and shook my hand.

“Glad you could make it.” He looked at my arms. “A
little skinny to be murdering zombies, eh? How old are you? 21?”

“I'm 33, sir.” I frowned and yanked my hand away. “You
ain't gonna find no one cheaper – or better – than me, I
can promise you that much.”

The rich man smiled. “My apologies. I'm depressed.”

He reached into his bucket and threw some slop at his pigs. The
animals went crazy for their meal. So much noise. Sounded like kids
being slowly run over by cars.

“Come get some!” Loyd told his pigs. “Come get some
wonderful slop.”

Whatever was in that bucket smelt like dead things.

“
Lovely
creatures...these buzzing beasts,” I said with my hands over my
ears. I was being sarcastic.

“
So true!” he said. “And
they're so smart. So beautiful – so full of
life
.
Which brings me to why you're here.” He put an arm around my
waist and walked me to the farmhouse. His touch was delicate. “I
need you to watch my pigs while me and the wife attend a fancy
party.”

“Me? Out here with these filthy, giant rodents?”

“
I can't have those zombies
killing my babies – not one.” He stopped walking. “We
are scientists – me and the wife – and we've genetically
modified these pigs to 'house', if you will, human internal organs.
I've transformed these pigs into horizontal angels, and they will
revolutionize how we do transplants. I'm a genius.” He motioned
with his chin over to some pigs nearby. “That one there is
carrying around human intestines, that one a liver, that one a
kidney, that one a heart, and this one....” He reached down and
picked up a pig that squirmed in his arms. “This one here is
called Sandy. She's got
human
eyes.”