by Nick Pawluk
* * * * *
“Go already,” I hiss, standing on top of a sink and staring out a thin, grimy window at the still deserted gravesite of Grinder and Stain. “It’s not like you’ve got anything I haven’t seen before.”
“Yeah but…” Percy wavers, one foot in the nearest stall, one foot out. “It’s the ladies room.”
I roll my eyes and turn back away as he finally relieves his bladder in a symphony of disgusting male noises that don’t end until he flushes some two minutes later.
(God, how I so do NOT miss dating!)
When he’s through, and I’m thoroughly grossed out, he joins me, feet in the other sink.
He opens his mouth to say something when I shush him.
I hear crinkling, in the woods surrounding the perviest playground on earth.
Suddenly Percy hears it, too, and leans in close to his own grimy window for a better look.
From the brush emerge five Zannibals, two on lookout, three with shovels hoisted over their bony shoulders.
“Told you,” Percy whispers, but then says no more.
We watch as the Zannibals spread out, looking high and low for me, or Percy, or perhaps just some random homeless kid too strung out or hungry to run.
When they’ve sniffed around long enough – thank god this bathroom smells like the bowels of hell to begin with and they can’t get a good whiff of Percy’s pumping blood – the three Zannibals begin digging up their long lost friends.
“How can we not have killed this witch by now?” asks one of the lookouts, pacing restlessly in his black cargo pants and matching hoodie.
Several of them grunt, and if I still had hackles they’d be raised by now.
“She still blames us for killing her stupid mother,” cackles another, tossing a spade full of dirt over his black-clad shoulder.
“One of us should tell Frost,” grunts one more, shovel resting in the dark, loamy soil. “He’s gonna be ticked when he hears what happened to Grinder and Stain.”
“You tell him if you’re so brave. You want him to think some chick’s been wiping us out one by one all year?”
Percy snickers quietly, shifting his big green eyes my way. “That’s you they’re talking about,” he says so quietly even I can barely hear him.
At last the Zannibals have dug up their friends, bagged them in giant canvas sacks and begin carting them away.
I tap Percy on the shoulder and have him follow me back down onto the tiled bathroom floor.
“You go back to Stained and spend the night with my Dad if you’re not feeling great about the shelter,” I say urgently, inching toward the door.
“What about you?” he asks, face concerned and gaunt.
“I want to see where they’re going. See what my old friend Frost is up to. Now; go, I don’t have time to argue.”
He scuffs his feet on the damp bathroom floor but I’m already off and away, clutching Bliss in my left hand and grateful I’d worn my sneakers for my “rounds” visiting the Orphans today.
The Zannibals make a lot of noise disappearing through the underbrush, and are slow enough for me to catch up without much trouble.
I hang back far enough to make sure that all five are clustered together, weighed down by their canvas bags, and that none have slipped behind me for a tidy ambush.
They tramp through the brush, the sound of traffic on distant Hollywood Boulevard a steady and constant rush below us.
They emerge in a dusty culvert with no trees for cover, but cross it quickly and inch into the Hollywood Hills, disappearing into another tree line that begins to ascend even more steeply.
I dart across the dry scrub land and follow them once more as they skirt some of the finest houses in Hollywood.
I inch forward, careful to avoid potholes or rocks to give myself away.
Bliss is eager and ready but it’s not the Zannibals I’m after this time; it’s Frost himself.
I follow them to another abandoned mansion, this one in slightly better repair than the first but still clearly on the downswing.
I wonder how long they’ve been at this one and, more importantly, how long before they move on again.
It is cavernous and crawling with Zannibals, at least two dozen of them, with no Frost in sight.
They are large and hulking, dressed all in black, making their pale, deadly faces stand out all the more as they cluster, slack-jawed.
They gather in the courtyard, sliding a decrepit fountain to one side and digging beneath it to reinter their fallen comrades.
I roll my eyes and lean against a crooked tree trunk, glowering as at last the man himself strides from two French doors that open onto the main courtyard.
The entire affair is walled for privacy, but the hills around afford me an eagle’s eye view as I peer down past the nearest wall and into the tiled courtyard.
Frost is tall and angular, old but not elderly; his silver mane is long and flowing, as if he has it done at a beauty parlor twice a day.
It was short when he killed my mother; short and neat, and he didn’t look quite so… eccentric.
Of course, back then, neither did I.
He wears all black, natch, save for a midnight blue silk shirt under his flowing black top coat.
In his hand is a long, black cane with a silver tip; beneath his hand is more silver, this in the shape of a large, round snowflake.
Seeing him would make my heart race, if it still could.
Instead I fondle Bliss’s handle and prepare for the moment I can slice his hamstrings and watch him beg for forgiveness.
Not yet, though; right now, I am hungry for more than vengeance.
I feel drained and slightly weak from another long week of watching over the homeless kids of Hollywood.
But after scrounging for sugar in my backpack I find only breath mints and gum.
I down them all quickly and then sniff out the nearest squirrel.
I sit quietly, two gumballs in the crook of a branch and wait until it’s within striking distance; Bliss severs its head cleanly, quickly, so the poor bugger feels no pain.
Like an egg cracked in half, I suck its brain through the base of its skull.
It’s not much, but the night is young and the forest is full of squirrels.
I feel bad; I usually don’t eat brains on the half skull like this, but when you’re stuck and need some power to save a human life, better to off a few squirrels – or whatever little forest animal is around – in order to do so.
I’ve had four squirrel brains and two blue jay’s cerebellums by the time most of the Zannibals have left for their nightly rounds of picking on the weak and powerless of LA.
Usually I would follow a group of them and try to stop them, or warn their victims, but tonight I force myself to stay behind and keep my eyes on the bigger prize.
Frost paces as several of his remaining goons return the fountain over their now buried comrades, and I’m about to reach for a fifth squirrel and continue fueling up when movement in a distant window catches my eye.
There is no electricity at the mansion, but dozens of candelabras flicker inside the vast room into which I peer.
There is something recognizable about the shadow limping to and fro just behind frilly white curtains that billow in the evening breeze.
I inch along the top of the courtyard wall, careful to keep low and out of sight while vying for a closer look inside the dramatically lit room.
Frost is behind me now, barking orders in his bass voice and scraping in the courtyard with his fine leather soles.
The window is just out of reach now, the curtains flickering as the shape paces across the floor once more.
It’s a woman, clad in black as if from a different era; the 60s, maybe… or the 70s.
She limps to and fro, her jet black hair tied back away from her face; away from her shoulders.
The curtain flaps again, she turns and… I gasp,
barely able to contain my arched perch atop the courtyard wall.
“Mom?” I whisper, so low I can barely hear myself.
She pauses, just for a moment, and peers out the window.
I flinch, tempted to flee, but don’t.
She stops, inches forward and throws back the curtains; it’s her.
It.
IS.
Her.
Frost’s had her all this time!
How many years now?
25?
30?
And she’s been here, in LA, right under my nose?
“Lydia?” calls Frost, clamoring forward in his high leather boots as if he can read my mind; or perhaps even Mom’s. “Something wrong?”
She lets loose the curtains as they billow once more.
Frost advances, cane in hand, the silver tip tap-tap-tapping across the tile with every step.
There are French doors that face the courtyard and by the time he’s whipped them open he holds the cane aloft, heavy handle up over his head as he slams it into Mom’s skull with a vengeance.
I crouch, Bliss in hand, but by now the rest of the Zannibals have followed, quietly urging Frost away.
He turns, and in a flash of freedom Mom looks my way, tired, sad, black eyes begging me to leave, to save myself once again.
(Been there, Mom; done that – not doing it again!)
I leap from the wall instead, landing on the nearest two Zannibals with a vengeance, slicing through the tendons of one’s arm, rendering it useless as he flails at me impotently while I efficiently behead the second.
His head lands, face first, at Frost’s feet.
Frost sees me, not recognizing me with all the new ink.
There’s not much time to get reacquainted anyway, since his Zannibal reinforcements come hard and heavy.
They flank me, two by two, and Bliss gets a workout.
In minutes there are fingers and toes, arms and legs surrounding me; it’s like a fort of dead limbs, gradually rising to my knees.
Zannibals stagger or crawl, limping off in the wrong direction or groping for me with two fingers attached to a severed arm.
I’m not saying it’s easy, but I have Bliss on my side; and vengeance.
And still they come, one by one, as I crouch and juke and jive and flit about.
I can feel Bliss growing dull from all the slicing of bone and tendons and thick Zannibal hide; it’s like an eight-hour shift at a slaughterhouse.
When I have a few moments to look at anything but another rushing Zannibal coming my way with froth on his lips and rage in his dead, black eyes, I see Frost staying true to his name; observing everything coolly, watching me, wondering who I am and what I’m doing here.
I don’t see Mom, but then I’ve got my eyes – and hands – full at the moment.
At last there are only a few Zannibals left, giant men in all black who’ve been watching carefully from the sides.
They advance, not two by two where they’re manageable, but four at a time.
I’m good, but not that good.
I crawl and I clamor, using limbs and headless bodies to scale the courtyard wall.
The remaining Zannibals try to follow but they’re huge, and it’s a challenge.
While they’re trying I pick them off, one by one, Bliss slicing through shoulders and knee caps until more Zannibals stack like cordwood at my feet.
Then I see Frost smile, at something; not me.
I turn to follow his eye and hear him before I see him, “I’m sorry, Holly! I’m sorry!”
Four more Zannibals surround Percy, who looks like they’ve already tried to pull him limb from limb.
He is limping between them, one eye black, nose bloody and bent, lips puffy, shirt torn.
“Holly, is it?” asks Frost as the Zannibals bring Percy straight to him. “So that’s who’s been turning my soldiers into cordwood? Always nice to put a face with a name.”
Percy is feisty and yanks himself free of one of the Zannibals.
Frost silences him with a swift slap across the jaw from the snowflake end of his cane.
Percy yelps but remains defiant.
“It’s him, isn’t it?” he shouts up to me as I crouch on the wall, willing his tongue to be still. “The Casting Director who killed your—”
Another swift slap of the silver Snowflake silences Percy once and for all; I hear the crack all the way on the courtyard wall.
Percy slumps to the courtyard tile as Frost eyes me scrupulously.
“So it’s you I’ve been hearing about for the last few years. Stopping my boys from their nightly dinner?”
“They’re feeding on my friends, Frost,” I spit, still angling atop the courtyard wall and slightly out of the reach of his giant minions.
“Who else should they feed one, Holly? You have such delicious, anonymous friends.”
“They shouldn’t be feeding on anyone; they should be feeding on things, like other good monsters do.”
Frost waves a gloved hand and seems distracted, until two more Zannibals emerge from the mansion, each bearing one of Mom’s arms.
I gasp as she shakes her head, teeth gnashing as she tries to yank herself free.
But there’s something… off… about Mom’s arms; and legs.
I peer closer as they drag her into the pale moonlight and see why; they’ve been patched together, hand sewn almost, like Franken-Mom.
And not in a good way; it’s like Frost did a rush job, on purpose, to keep Mom in her place.
To make sure she never saw the light of day or walked in public again.
Right then and there, I pledge to kill him; even if he takes me down with him.
“Holly!” Mom gasps now that the cat is out of the bag, thanks to Percy. “Thank God you’re alive!”
“You too,” I whimper, but I’m not sure if she hears me.
It wouldn’t matter anyway; Frost drags her close, she stumbles to her knees and he leans down and says, “Get her down here, Lydia, or I’ll have to kill you all over again.”
I slip Bliss behind my back and drop, effortlessly, to the floor.
Within moments several Zannibals surround me; then several more.
They rip off my hoodie, tear apart my black yoga pants and find Bliss; leaving me half-naked and defenseless.
“My, my,” says Frost, admiring the blade as he circles me. “I don’t know which to be more impressed with; this switchblade or your… artwork.”
He touches the tip of the blade to each tattoo, peering closely with his intense black eyes as I hear Percy grunt back to life behind me.
“Holly!” he gurgles before I hear the slap of skin on skin as a Zannibal quickly silences him.
I turn but Frost uses Bliss to yank my face back to his; he’s within reach now, dark eyes alive as he leans forward and hisses, “I’m all you need to worry about tonight, dear.”
I smile and open my mouth to say something, whispering so lightly he has to peer in just a little closer.
The minute he does I head butt him, the sound of his nose cracking against my forehead as Bliss clatters to the floor; I slip from the Zannibals and snatch it just as Frost brings his cane down, hard.
I slice the ancient wood in half with Bliss, both pieces clattering to the courtyard floor.
The Zannibals rush me but I have Bliss back now, cutting them down to size one by one.
Then I hear a whimper, a reluctant groan of pain and turn to find Frost, sticking the shattered end of his beloved cane in Mom’s ear.
One strong thrust from Frost and the jagged, wooden edge will pierce her brain; and no amount of sewing will bring her back from something like that.
“Leave my men alone,” Frost hisses, “or this will be the last time you see your mother alive again.”
“Leave my wife alone!” shouts a surly voice from the darkness.
I smell gasoline and hear the faint flicker
of something being ignited; suddenly an arc of flame shoots from the top of the courtyard wall and engulfs the three Zannibals to my side.
Their tough hide sizzles like dry firewood, engulfing them instantly in their own sizzling, bubbling skin.
I roll away from the heat, from the flame and stumble into the room where Mom was pacing.
As the Zannibals run from the flames Dad leaps to the ground, his Army surplus flame thrower strapped to his back and a fountain of flame shooting from the nozzle in his old, trembling hands.
Frost crouches, literally shoving Mom and the other Zannibals in front of him as he flees.
I follow instinctively, despite the fact that Frost could be setting a trap.
Still, from the look on his face, he seems too panicked to be planning ahead.
Then again, I’ve been wrong before.
Turns out, I’m wrong this time, too.
Frost runs, just slow enough for me to keep up.
He is not like the other Zannibals; he is loose and limber and more like me.
I wonder about that, but not for too long.
Too soon we are in a clearing surrounded by dense brush; another lonely and desolate outcropping amidst some of the city’s finest homes.
Even with millions of dollars of prime real estate all around, I know I’m too far away for anyone to hear me scream.
Not that I’d give Frost the satisfaction, of course.
Just at the edge of the clearing he pauses, looking left, then right; then stops.
I stop, too, because suddenly I realize… this is too easy.
He turns and smiles, leaning against a towering oak now that I’ve snapped his iconic cane in half.
I open my mouth to confront him when, out of nowhere, a giant hand slaps me to the ground.
I land in dirt and dust and grab two hands full, turning around and tossing it in a giant Zannibal’s face.
He sputters and spits and spins wildly, but he’s not alone; three more inch from the trees, each one bigger than the last.
Like Frost, these move more quickly than the rest; they seem smarter, too.
I’m barely able to scramble to a crouching position before one knees from the left and another pile drives me from above; I land in a crunching pile of bone and dirt and scamper, reaching for Bliss.
I find her, but too late; one of the Zannibals kicks her into a nearby tree where she lands, her butterfly case quivering as it bobs up and down like something out of a cartoon.
One of the Zannibals tries stepping on my fingers but I yank them out from under his steel-toed boots at the last minute, grabbing his ankle from behind and literally ripping his Achilles tendon from the back of his leg.
He stumbles in the dirt and I leap onto his neck, snapping it as I duck low to avoid another blow from the next Zannibal.
I roll away, reaching for my Bliss but stopping just a few inches too short; I grab a small branch and snap it in half, holding it like Bliss and waiting for the next Zannibal to lunge.
When he does I jab it into one ear; it sticks in halfway and, leaning up on one foot, I kick it all the way in with the other.
Even I hear his brain “pop” from two feet away as he falls onto his side, spasming as the remaining two watch him in awe.
I don’t wait for the applause; I grab Bliss and grip her tight, the feel of her handle comfortable in my palm as I slice off the fingers of one Zannibal and the forearm of another.
And still they come, with no Frost in sight.
He has disappeared, and left me to deal with his henchmen.
By the time I’ve left them lying in pieces next to their comrades, I can only hear Frost crunching away in the dry underbrush.
I follow in the general direction of his branch braking, but feel like I’m still too far behind.
Then I hear a rustle, a snap, a crack and someone – or something – gurgling.
“Mom!” I gasp, but it’s not her that’s gurgling.
She’s smiling as Frost turns, a branch about wrist thick sticking out of his Adam’s apple.
“Hurry, Holly!” she urges as Frost reaches out and grabs her long, graying hair.
She gasps but doesn’t give up as Frost yanks her to the ground, still dangerous until his brain is destroyed.
I lunge for him but miss by an inch, slicing only his fancy blue silk shirt as he tries to stamp Mom out like a campfire.
I forget Bliss for a moment and reach for the end of the branch sticking out just to the left of his spine; I yank it, turning him like a rudder and forcing him away from Mom.
He lashes out with his closed fist and I hear something click in my ear; by the time I look away I’m on the ground, Bliss nowhere to be found and Frost leering over me, pulling the branch from his throat.
When he’s done he holds it aloft, ready to bring it down over my head when I hear a slice of steel on skin and watch when his neck disintegrates as the weight of his head drags it clean off his body.
When his torso follows, I see Mom standing cockeyed behind him, Bliss in hand!
“Mom!” I grunt, standing from the forest floor and embracing her tightly.
“Holly!” she snuffles, unable to cry.
We embrace as the sound of more breaking branches and cracking timber signal another round of Zannibals to deal with.
But flames flicker at the end of a flame thrower and Dad stands, staring down at Frost… and then Frost’s head.
“Dad?” I question, but I know that look in his eyes.
With a simple flick of his wrist Dad lights Frost on fire, then his head, then the rest of the Zannibals and their body parts.
Soon we’re standing around a pile of smoking, flickering Zannibals as Percy emerges from the forest, wheezing as only a human can and dabbing his eyes from the smoke.
“Is that… is that… her?” he asks, wiping his broken nose on one long black sleeve.
“It is,” I say, keeping her close. “Can you believe it, Percy? After all these years, I’ve finally found her.”
Mom clings close but offers a hand to Percy.
He takes it, smiling when her dry palm is cool to the touch.
“Just like Holly’s,” he says, and finally Mom smiles.
“Come on, Dad,” I urge, yanking him away from the crackling pile of cannibal zombies. “Let’s get out of here before the fire department comes!”
He shrugs but turns, looking at Mom shyly out of the corner of his eye.
We walk out of the clearing until we find the nearest street, Dad’s flame thrower still flickering in case anyone follows.
Mom limps next to me, our arms linked just as they were that fateful day she led me into the hills and never came back.
“How did you find us, Dad?” I ask as he smiles, proudly, at last dousing the flame and dumping the thrower in the woods as we climb, carefully, back down to the constant sounds of Hollywood Boulevard.
“All I had to do was follow Percy here, Holly. He’s not exactly a stealth ninja, if you know what I mean.”
“But why, Dad? Why follow Percy at all?”
He winks at me and says, “I had a feeling tonight might be special, Holly.”
“How have you been, Herbert?” Mom interrupts, linking arms with him as well.
“Herbert?” snorts Percy as the old man shoots him the evil eye.
Turning to Mom he winks and says, “As you can see, darlin’, Holly and I have had a rough time without you. But now that you’re back, my dear; things look a whole lot better!”
I smile, and walk with my family toward our home.
The home where tattoos are mandatory and family is so important if you’re going to survive.
Now that mine is back together, the grimy street looks a whole lot prettier, the smoggy air a lot more peaceful.
And just try to let anyone mess with that…
About the Authors:
Nick Pawluk & Rusty Fisc
her
Nick Pawluk is a Southern California native, born in East Los Angeles and working in television production. He is an entrepreneur who has had many successful businesses.
Nick is currently developing fun and exciting new iPhone and iPad game applications through his company, Zombie Active Games. The first app released by his company is Hollyweird Zombies.
Rusty Fischer is the author of several YA supernatural novels, including Zombies Don’t Cry: A Living Dead Love Story (Medallion Press, 2011), Ushers, Inc. (Decadent Publishing, 2011), Detention of the Living Dead (Quake Books, 2012) and Vamplayers (Medallion Press, 2012).
Visit his blog, www.zombiesdontblog.blogspot.com, for news, reviews, cover leaks, writing and publishing advice, book excerpts and more!