One day, shortly after the group had set up their new camp, Murphy found a pair of leather boots. Granted, they still had the feet in them, but Murphy spent the morning digging them out. Once he was done tidying up his prize, he went to hang them from a tree to dry in the sun. It was in the tall grass that he spied a legless zombie creeping about.
The zombie opened its mouth and let out a moan that sounded like “Mwyarrboo.” Of course, to crazy Murphy, it sounded exactly like “My boots.”
“Bless me,” he said to himself. “The poor creature doesn’t know what it’s talking about. Poor thing doesn’t even have legs. It certainly couldn’t claim such a fine pair of boots.” When he walked over to where the creature was struggling in the thick brambles, he poked it with a stick. “What stupid things zombies are! Don’t you even know that you are missing your legs?”
The zombie craned its head and moaned again, “Mwyarrboo.”
“Is that right?” Murphy challenged. “Well then, let’s see you put them on.” And he set the boots beside the legless corpse. Of course, the zombie completely ignored them and continued crawling towards the crazy old man. As it crawled, it managed to get its hands caught inside the boots.
“Oh, I see. That’s how it is, eh?” Murphy scowled. “Well if that’s the way you want to be, then you can keep the ratty old things.”
Murphy stomped back to the encampment in a foul mood. He was certain he could still hear the legless zombie groaning about his boots.
As the days passed, the survivors erected fences, created gardens, and tried to do their best to survive. They allowed Murphy to come and go. Sometimes he would bring back useful trinkets like a hand trowel, a hammer, or a Garden Weasel. Other times, he would bring back useless garbage like an empty bleach bottle—although nobody ever thought to call him Clorox when he began wearing it around his neck in place of the old Murphy’s Soap bottle.
One afternoon, Murphy returned with a pair of leather gloves. As usual, he wandered about alone and, as he was making his way through some wild blackberry bushes, he came across a zombie with no arms. It had once been a child of perhaps seven years of age. Murphy had a tenuous grip on reality at best and didn’t actually see zombies for what they are. Therefore, all he saw was a child.
“Gmmwaree,” the armless child-zombie moaned.
Murphy heard “For me?” and considered his newfound gloves. “You’re asking if I found these gloves for you? Well I really want them, I’ll give them to you, but,” Murphy studied the child all tangled in the thorny bush, “I don’t think I should just give them away and get nothing in return. Perhaps your family can have me over for dinner in a few nights. I think I know who your parents are,” he said as he stuffed the gloves into the raggedy jeans barely clinging to the zombie-child’s hips.
As he walked away, he heard more moans and such coming from the thick brush, but he dismissed it as children being children. Will you listen to that, he thought as he walked back to the encampment, now they all want new gloves. But I got a dinner out of it.
Three days passed and Murphy figured it would be a good time to cash in on his free dinner. He wandered about the compound looking for the child he’d given the gloves to. Finally, he saw a youngster playing in front of a dark green tent who was similar in age and therefore…the child he sought.
Murphy walked up to the man sitting in front of the tent skinning a pair of squirrels for the night meal and asked when he should come for dinner. The man looked at Murphy like he’d lost his fool mind and told him he must be crazy. (Which in fact, he was.)
“Why would you think I’m crazy?” Murphy asked. “I only want my dinner. Didn’t your child show you the gloves I traded to him a few days ago out by the blackberry bushes?”
That made the man angry. Everybody knew that children weren’t allowed outside the safety of the encampment. He picked up a nearby baseball bat and chased the crazy man away.
“Just you wait,” Murphy called over his shoulder. “There’s still some justice left in the world.”
He went to the big camper that sat in the middle of the community. The survivors had a leader, and as befitting his place in the community, he lived just a little better than everybody else. Whenever they were forced to change locations, it took ten people to pull the wheeled construct. The man who resided within was a former soldier, back when there used to be an army. His name was Jacob King. Colonel Jacob King to everybody in the small community of survivors.
Murphy knocked on the door and asked for an audience with King. He was escorted in and allowed to sit at the small formica table across from King and his daughter who asked him what the trouble might be.
“First, a legless man stole a pair of boots from me, then an armless child took my gloves. And after I found his dad and asked when I should come to dinner, he pulled out a baseball bat,” Murphy rambled and ranted. He explained in detail what he found, where he found it and just how he’d been duped.
King’s daughter was a big fan of Seinfeld before the apocalypse and Murphy reminded her of a cute version of Kramer. She laughed loudly and her dad said, “I can’t say you’re right, but I will tell ya what…how ‘bout you have dinner with my daughter, Sheila. Never since the apocalypse have I heard her laugh like this, and I always told myself that if somebody could make her laugh after all she’s seen…all the misery we’ve endured, I’d keep them around. Thank God for the simple things.”
“Never mind,” said Murphy. “I hear enough voices in my head laughing like fiends. Sometimes it feels like the braying will split my head open.”
At this, King became angry. “You’re nothing but an ill-mannered old lunatic.”
“Well, Colonel Jacob King,” Murphy said in a brief moment of lucidity, “what can you expect from a pig but pork?”
“Look,” said King, “you shall have your reward. Go now, but come back in three days and you shall have your just desserts.”
When Murphy left, one of the colonel’s men was standing outside the trailer. “You made King’s daughter laugh. I’ll bet you’ve been nicely rewarded.”
“I should say so,” Murphy said. “I’m getting just dessert in three days.”
“Kick me down some, man,” the guard said. “You don’t want to overdo it on sweets.”
“Because it’s you, I’ll let you have a share,” Murphy said with a nod. “Meet me here in three days and I’ll tell Colonel Jacob King to give you a share.”
Arnie Goldberg was pushing his cart past when he overheard the whold conversation. He ran up to Murphy and tapped him on the shoulder. “God’s wonders! What a lucky man you are, Murph. Tell ya what, I’ve got a freshly-skinned rabbit. You don’t want some empty dessert. Trade me the rest of your dessert and I’ll give you the rabbit.”
“All right,” Murphy agreed. “But I want it now. I’ve been swindled lately. Go see Colonel Jacob King in three days and you’ll be given your dessert.”
Arnie was thrilled. He had two more rabbits back at his tent. But sweets were hard to come by and if anybody had some…it would be the colonel.
When the three days passed, Murphy came to see Colonel Jacob King just as he’d been told. “Strip off his shirt and bind him to the whipping post so Murphy can have his just desserts,” King barked to a pair of his henchmen.
“Oh no.” Murphy waved the pair of goons away. “I gave a share to the man who stands at your door by day and the rest to Arnie Goldberg. You don’t owe me a thing.”
Just then, the door guard and Arnie jogged up. They demanded what they’d made their deal with Murphy for. With a smirk, the colonel agreed. The door guard knew better than to protest. He’d been okee-doked before and bore his lashing bravely, but Arnie wailed and carried on like it was the Second Apocalypse.
Colonel Jacob King thought it was hilarious. In fact, he was so impressed with how Murphy had snookered people with their own greed that all his previous anger disapated. He had a good laugh at the situation.
“You lost your rew
ard before you even got it,” King said. “So I’m gonna give you the hook-up. In the big cabinet in my trailer are what you might consider my treasures. Take what you want, Murph.”
The man didn’t need to be told twice. (He’s crazy, not stupid.) He stuffed his pockets with hard candy, a can without a label, and a variety of trinkets and knick-knacks. Then he went to the tent with the whiskey still and found a folding table that was out of the way to look at his treasures. Arnie slunk in a little later and heard Murphy muttering to himself.
“…Colonel Jacob King is quite the rascal. He got me good this time. Why couldn’t he pay me himself, then I’d know the value of what I got. How can I know if I got fair value when I just stuffed my pockets without really looking or knowing what I took?”
“God help us,” Arnie whispered. “The crazy man is disrespecting Colonel Jacob King. I’ll go and tell, then I will be rewarded and he’ll be the one feeling the lash.”
When King heard what Murphy had said, he flew into a rage and told Arnie to fetch the offender and bring him to the trailer. Arnie took off, actually running to bring back Murphy.
“You must come see the colonel this minute,” Arnie panted.
“Don’t tell me,” Murphy said. “I know what’s right. I’m gonna trade up for this fine field jacket I saw. Do you think a man who’s done so well for himself of late can go before our illustrious leader dressed in raggedy old clothes?”
Arnie saw that Murphy wouldn’t budge without a new coat to cover his rags and he was afraid that Colonel Jacob King’s anger might once again blow over and he would again be out his reward. Not to mention Murphy would escape any punishment.
“Tell you what, Murph,” Arnie whispered, “I’ll lend you a fine coat for a while just to do you a solid. What won’t one man do for his brother-in-survival!”
Murphy accepted, slipped into Arnie’s jacket and went to see the colonel. Colonel Jacob King reproached Murphy for the wicked words Arnie had reported.
“Nonsense,” Murphy said. “Anything Arnie says is a lie; you’ll never hear a word of truth coming out of his mouth. Why, I’d bet you he will claim I’m wearing his jacket.”
“Say what?” Arnie cried. “Are you saying that is not my coat? Didn’t I lend it to you to do you a solid, so you could come and see the colonel?”
When Colonel Jacob King heard that, he said, “Arnie is trying to dupe somebody, either me or Murphy.” He went to his cabinet and filled a bag with a few more things, handed it to Murphy, and sent him on his way. Murphy went to his tent with a new coat and his pockets as well as a bag full of goods.
“I got it right this time,” he said as he plopped down on his foam mattress.
8
The New Minstrel
Based on:
Der wunderliche Spielmann
Billy Sprint. That’s what he took to calling himself after the zombies wiped out most of humanity. Billy was a helluva fiddler…and he knew it. He liked the new world. He could walk around from place to place, spend a day or two in some walled compound or secure area, play his fiddle, bump nasties with a local, and move on. He was the Post-Apocalypse version of a rock star.
Billy had the whole of the country open to him now. For a boy from Goose Hollow, South Carolina, this was quite a change. He’d stopped making tally notches in his walking stick when it had been nicked to the point of needing to be replaced; and if he’d left any little Billys or Betties in his wake…it wasn’t his problem. It wasn’t like Support Enforcement was gonna come demand that he pay up. Yep, Billy Sprint liked the way of things fine.
Only…sometimes…with survivors spread out so thin…Billy got lonely. He found that, when left alone with his own thoughts for too long, he grew melancholy. It was one such time, when he was good and sick of thinking about things, that he said, “Time is dragging out here in the wilds, what I need is a companion.”
He set down his pack, pulled out his fiddle and played a tune. It wasn’t long before a zombie wandered out from the brush. It had been a beast of a man in life. Just the sort who’d teased Billy back when he was William Spriknicki taking violin lessons. This zombie had been in the woods for quite a while, and every stitch of clothing had been torn away. The zombie had the usual array of bites, rips, and gaping holes. But what set him apart was that he was so freakishly hairy.
“You like my fiddle playin’, Wolfie?” Billy asked as he drew his bow across the strings.
The zombie didn’t answer with anything more than a wheezing moan as it lumbered after its potential prey. Billy kept walking backwards as he played, careful not to trip, until he came to an old oak tree that was hollow inside and split down the middle.
“Here we are,” Billy said, ducking behind the tree and poking his head through the vee.
Zombies are stupid as we all know, and this one was no exception. It reached through the split in the oak in an attempt to grab the mobile feast it had pursued, oblivious to the lovely music being played.
Billy Sprint set down his fiddle, picked up a big rock, and with one blow, wedged the zombie’s arms in so tight that it was held fast like a prisoner. “See ya…wouldn’t wanna be ya,” Billy said as he gathered his things and resumed his journey.
A little while later he was feeling lonely and bored once again. “Time is draggin’ all alone out here in the woods. Maybe I’ll try to find myself another companion.” Once more he set down his gear, pulled out his fiddle, and began to play. It wasn’t long before another zombie crawled through the brush. This one had been a teenage boy. His death had been gruesome. Both legs were chewed off just above the knee.
“That’s not what I was hoping for,” Billy sighed. Feeling ambitious, he backed away, continuing to play until he found a pair of young saplings just a few feet apart.
Setting down his fiddle, he pulled out two lengths of clothesline and secured them to the saplings. As the zombie crawled up to Billy, he tossed one noose around the first hand, then the other. Afterwards, he let the trees spring back up. This hoisted the legless zombie off the ground, suspended in the air between the two saplings.
“Why don’t you just hang out here for a while,” Billy said as he gathered up his things and went on his way.
Before long, he again said to himself, “The time hangs heavily on my hands out here in the woods; I’ll get myself another companion.”
Once more he set down his pack, produced his fiddle, and began to play. The music rang through the woods and brought out yet another zombie. This time it was a young child of five or six stumbling through the trees.
“Ah, here comes a zombie child,” Billy said. “That’s not what I want.”
The small zombie hissed and groaned as it came after Billy Sprint, who continued to play as he backed away. Eventually, he came to a clearing with a lone tree in the center. Setting his fiddle aside, he tied a long line around the trunk and made a noose at the end which he tossed around the child-zombie’s neck once it drew near. He scooped up his fiddle and led the monster around and around the tree. Twenty times they made the circle until the zombie was finally caught fast. It struggled and tugged, but it only drove the line deeper into the decaying flesh of its throat.
“Stick around here for a while,” Billy said as he went on his way.
In the meantime the hairy zombie had yanked and jerked so hard that its hands broke off and it was free. It staggered towards the sound of fiddle playing, thick drool cascading down its chin. It staggered right into the legless zombie hanging between the saplings, snapping the tops of the tiny trees off and, in effect, freeing its brethren. The zombie child was chewing through the line after having managed to walk in the opposite direction a few circuits and fell in behind the other two. Billy had found himself a rock to rest on, and was once more playing his fiddle. This time, he was luckier. His music reached the ears of a smokin’ hot babe carrying an axe. She came through the trees and was obviously into what she was hearing.
“Here comes the right companion at last,” Bil
ly said. “I wanted a nice warm body for the night, not a bunch of stinkin’ zombies.”
And he played so sweetly and beautifully that the young woman stood as though spellbound, and her heart leaped for joy. As she stood there, the three zombies crashed through the brush, intent on eating Billy Sprint. She lifted her axe and went at the walking dead with efficient fury.
Out of gratitude, Billy played her another song. He went back to her camp for the night. Then he went his way.
9
Weird Science
Based on:
Die zwölf Brüder
There was once a pair of scientists in a laboratory run by the government. It doesn’t really matter which one, does it? But so you’ll quit wigging out and fixating on it, we’ll say Italy. There, do you feel better now that when this story is done you’ll have somebody to blame?
Anyways, back to the pair of scientists. They had twelve vials of a new hybrid virus. Each was tested on lab rats, then bunnies, then…eventually…monkeys. Still, they weren’t getting the exact results that they sought. Thus, batch thirteen was brought into existence.
“If we can get this batch to work,” one scientist said to the other, “we can toss the others. If we can only get this stuff to work, then all the time and money will be worth it and we will retire wealthy, all thanks to a little bio-chemistry.”
One of the scientists started to get a conscience. He sat in the breakroom, feeling sad and guilty. As he sipped his espresso, a dozen of his assistants came in to raid the vending machine.
“Hey, boss.” One of the younger interns plopped down across from his supervisor, aware something was bothering the man. “Why so blue?”
Gruesomely Grimm Zombie Tale Page 5