Gruesomely Grimm Zombie Tale

by Wilhelm Grimm

  He stitched away, whistling happily. Rennard White was an excellent tailor, but known to be a bit off. However, his delusions were considered quite harm-less, and his work more than made up for it.

  Meanwhile, flies that were being drawn in droves by all the putrifying flesh had been enticed into the window of Rennard’s shop by the sweet aroma of fresh spread jam. Their buzz eventually drew notice of the little tailor.

  “Hey, who invited you?” Rennard cried as he shoed the pests away. But flies don’t speak proper English and ignored the protests. In fact, it seemed now that even more had joined the party. Finally, at the end of his patience, the tailor took a rag from the scrap bin under his table.

  “Just wait!” he muttered. “I’ll show you!”

  With that, he snapped the coiled rag at the swarm. He looked down and counted no less than seven of the buggers laying dead with their legs in the air. He couldn’t help but admire his handiwork.

  “What a man I am!” he cried. “The whole street, nay, the burgh must hear of this!” You see, it’d been two weeks since Rennard had taken his pills. In all the excitement, he’d neglected to refill his script with the chemist.

  “This is a feat that should be known by all,” Rennard crowed. Lickety-split he cut a belt for himself, stitched it up, and embroided on it in big letters:

  Seven at one blow!

  By the time he finished, he had worked himself up to the point where he felt like he needed to share his victory with the world. Strapping on his belt, Rennard decided to go out into town. Before leaving, he ransacked the house for something to take with him, but all he could find was an old cheese, so he put that in his pocket.

  Just outside the door, he caught sight of a bird that had got itself caught in the bushes, and the bird joined the cheese in his pocket. Then, throwing back his shoulders, he headed out. He cast a curious glance at the cart the jam lady seemed to have left behind.

  As he walked, he was oblivious to the problems around him. Things like people hunched over a pair of legs in an alley, an abandoned car with something unpleasant squirming in the car-seat in the back. He wandered out into the rolling hills of the countryside whistling happily, never noticing the occasional lone figures staggering and stumbling in the fields.

  Up into the hills he went, and when he reached the highest peak, he found the biggest man he’d ever seen sitting on a flat rock, staring out over the valley below. The man was still wearing his work attire; a black singlet. As a professional wrestler, this man had used his abnormal size to entertain the masses. The tailor never watched such things, and had no idea who this man was. He simply walked up to him with an easy smile on his face.

  “Greetings, friend,” Rennard said. “Looking out at the great, wide world, are you? I myself am on my way out there to try my luck. Perhaps you’d like to accompany me.”

  The big man glared down at the tailor, incredulous that anybody could be so clueless. “You little pipsqueak. Are you that stupid?”

  “Is that right?” the little tailor said, unbuttoning his coat and showing his belt. “Well read this! It’ll show you just what sort of man you are dealing with.”

  The big man read the stitched words—Seven at one blow!—and tried to decipher what this lunatic was trying to say. Being an American, he was certain that it was some sort of British thing. He’d tried to watch some of their television shows and just didn’t get these people. All the same, he decided to put this guy to the test, so he picked up a stone and squeezed it until drops of water appeared. Besides, he needed the distraction after what he’d seen.

  “Do that,” he said, “if you’ve got the strength.”

  “That?” Rannard asked. “Why, that’s child’s play for a man like me.” Whereupon he reached into his pocket, took out the soft cheese, and squeezed it until the whey ran out. “What do you think of that?” he said with a grimace. “Not such a pipsqueak now, eh?”

  The giant man didn’t know what to say; he couldn’t believe the little man was that strong. So he picked up a stone and threw it so high that the eye could hardly keep up with it. “All right, you little runt, let’s see you do that.”

  “Nice throw,” Rennard said, “but it fell to the ground in the end. Watch me toss one that won’t ever come back.”

  He reached into his pocket, took out the bird, and hurled it skyward. Glad to be out of that stuffy pocket, the little bird flew away as soon as it broke clear of the branches.

  “Well,” Rennard said. “What do you think of that?”

  “I’ve got to admit you can throw,” the giant said, “but let’s see what you can carry.” Pointing to a big oak that lay felled on the ground, he said, “If you’re strong enough, help me carry this tree out of the forest. I need to use it to break into this warehouse I passed on the way. Food is gonna be important in the coming days.”

  Of course Rennard still had no idea what the big man was talking about. “I’ll gladly help,” he said. “You put the trunk over your shoulder, and I’ll carry the branches; they’re the heaviest part.”

  The giant took the trunk over his shoulder, and the tailor sat down on the branch, so the giant, who couldn’t look around, had to carry the whole tree and the tailor to boot. The tailor felt so chipper on his comfortable perch that he resumed whistling, “Three tailors rode forth from the gate” as if carrying the tree was no big deal.

  After carrying the heavy load for quite some time, the big man was exhausted. “Hey!” he grunted. “I’ve got to drop it.”

  Rennard bounded free and slung the end of the tree onto his shoulder as if he’d been carrying it all the while.

  “I wouldn’t have thought that a tiny tree such as this would be too much trouble for a big man like you,” Rennard said with a smile.

  The two continued until they reached a cherry tree. The giant of a man reached up towards the crown where the cherries ripen soonest, pulled it down, handed it to the little tailor and invited him to eat. When the giant let go, the tree snapped back into place sending the little man flying. When he had fallen to the ground without hurting himself, the big man chuckled.

  “What’s the matter?” the giant asked. “You mean you’re not strong enough to hold a skinny little sapling?”

  “Not strong enough?” Rennard scoffed. “How can you say such rubbish about a man who did seven at one blow? I leaped over that tree because the hunters down there were shooting into the thicket. Now you try. See if you can do it.”

  The giant tried, but he couldn’t clear the tree and got snagged in the branches. Once more the little tailor had won out.

  “Alright,” the giant sulked. “If you’re so brave, then we’ll see how you do spending the night out here in the hills. Those things could come at any time.”

  Of course the little man still had no clue. He continued to remain unaware that the dead were walking and feasting on the living. He agreed to join the big man and search for a cave where they could bed down for the night. When they found one, the two went inside and made sure it was clear. In no time they had a fire going and were ready to turn in for the night.

  “This place is roomier than both my shops combined,” Rennard said as he snuggled in.

  The big man shrugged and laid down some branches for himself. He didn’t much care for the little tailor. There was just something that rubbed him the wrong way.

  As the night brought its blanket of darkness and the fire burned out, Rennard found he could not get comfortable. There was just too much room. That night, a group of zombies stumbled in, brought by the snores of the big man. Just before they arrived, the little tailor had wedged himself into a crevice. He slept soundly as the big man was torn open and feasted on.

  By morning, the zombies had left. The big man had risen and wandered out into the woods. At the crack of dawn, Rennard woke. He was quite agitated that the big man had chosen to just abandon him. He climbed up a rocky slope, and when he reached the top his foot dislodged a huge boulder that happened to fall right
on the big man, crushing his head.

  For days, the little tailor travelled. He came across open and empty homes and helped himself to food and drink. He always left a note informing residents who would likely never return that they had hosted a hero. Each day without his pills, Rennard’s grasp of reality became more tenuous.

  One day, he came to a high fence. It was late and he was quite weary. He climbed it and curled up in his coat, falling fast asleep. While he slept, a few of the people that had retreated to this country school and secured it as a commune—safer from the dead than those closer to the city—examined the little man.

  They were fascinated by his belt. Seven at one blow! That was indeed quite a claim.

  “Goodness!” one of them whispered.

  “What can a great hero like this be doing out here so far from the horror?” asked another.

  “He must be some SAS man,” offered one.

  “Or a Black-Ops Merc,” said another.

  They ran to the man who served as their leader. An elder professor known only as Moz. He had led the whole bunch out to this quaint school nestled in the hills.

  “If the zombies ever find us,” one of the women spoke up, “he could come in very handy.”

  “We need his type here and shouldn’t let him leave for any reason,” said a young man.

  Moz thought this to be a very good idea. He sent a couple of people out to offer the stranger a position as defender of the compound. They went out and sat beside the sleeping man, waiting paitently for him to wake. When the little man opened his eyes they made the offer.

  “That’s just the sort of thing I’ve been looking for,” Rennard said. “I’d be thrilled to enter into such a service.”

  He was brought in and introduced. Moz made certain that he was shown to a cozy trailer. It’s no surprise that a few citizens of the compound were more than a little jealous.

  Several of the secure complex’s armed patrol got together after Rennard had been shown to his new home. The arrival of such a skilled warrior weighed heavy on their souls.

  “What will become of us?” they asked.

  “And if we should get in a disagreement and mix it up with him, causing him to lash out, seven of us will fall with one blow!”

  “We won’t last very long at that rate.”

  So they decided it was in their best interest to go see Moz. With somebody so capable, they were no longer needed for patrol or perimeter security. When they resigned their positions, they all made it clear that with somebody in their midst that could take down “seven at one blow,” they were useless.

  Moz was sad to see everybody so down. He began to wish that this Rennard had never shown up. He would be happier if the little guy just up and left, but he didn’t dare dismiss him for fear that this possible SAS warrior might take everybody out and claim the whole compound for himself.

  He pondered endlessly, and at last he came up with a plan. He sent word to the little tailor that, since he was such a great hero, he wanted to make him an offer. There were some zombies in the tiny town at the bottom of the hill, and they were biting, eating, and turning other people into zombies. No one dared go near them for fear of their life. If a hero should conquer and kill these terrible monsters, Moz would give him his only daughter to marry, with the position of co-administrator of the compound to boot. And moreover, Moz would send ten of his best fighters in support.

  “Sounds like just the thing for me,” Rennard agreed. “The days of fathers offereing their daughters is a custom that could use reviving. It’s a deal!” He shook Moz’s hand. “But I’ve no need for backup. You can’t expect a man who’s done seven at one blow to be afraid of a small group.”

  The little tailor set out, the ten fighters from Moz’s security detail on his heels. When they reached the edge of the forest, he turned to them. “Stay here. I’ll attend to the slow-moving, witless fiends by myself.”

  Then he bounded between a pair of darkened buildings, his head on a swivel. In fact, his over-exaggerated antics reminded those who witnessed it more of John Belushi’s raid on the dean’s office in Animal House than of a trained SAS soldier.

  After a while, he discovered a cluster of the horrid things. Many of them were missing pieces or had their insides trailing along on the outside. Quick as a flash the little tailor picked up stones, filled both pockets with them, and climbed up on top of an abandoned panel truck.

  He picked out one of the zombies and lobbed a rock at its head. Sure enough, the witless creature turned. It began plodding his way. Once it passed underneath where he lay sprawled on his belly, he used the long bladed machete. For some reason, Moz insisted that the only way to kill these buggers was to scramble their brains. He jabbed down mightily and the skull cracked open. Sure enough, the zombie collapsed to the ground.

  Rennard was struck with an idea. He spied a three-foot section of pipe and quickly scurried down to retrieve it. He lashed his machete to it then threw another pebble. One by one he lured over a zombie, and one by one he drove his weapon into its skull. Pretty soon, he had a cluster of corpses around the little panel truck.

  “Lucky those things aren’t coordinated enough to climb!” Rennard admired his handiwork. “Things could’ve gotten nasty.”

  Whistling a merry tune, Rennard returned to where he’d left the others. “I’ve done them in good and proper. They tried to mob me, but how could creatures so stupid hope to stand against a man who’s killed seven in one blow!”

  “Not so much as a scratch?” asked one.

  “I should say not!” harrumphed Rennard.

  The ten fighters couldn’t believe that this little man had done for the whole mob. They insisted upon going down and seeing for themselves. They ventured into the small village, and sure enough, not a zombie was still mobile. They saw the mound of corpses piled about the panel truck.

  The little tailor returned to Moz and demanded the promised reward, but Moz hadn’t actually expected the tit of a man to return. He seriously regretted his promise and devised another way to be rid of the hero.

  “Before I give you my daughter, Elise, and the position of co-administrator,” Moz said, “you will have to perform one more task. There’s a wild bull loose in the forest. If he plows through our fence, we could be done for. I need you to deal with that.”

  “If a village full of zombies didn’t bother me, why would I worry about a piddly old bull? Seven at one blow is my slogan.”

  Taking a rope and an ax, he went into the forest and again told the folks that had been sent with him to wait behind. He didn’t have long to search before the horned beast came snorting through some brush. It saw the little man, lowered its head, and charged.

  “Not so fast!” the tailor said. “You’ll not be besting this matador.”

  He edged in front of a broad tree and waited until the bull was almost upon him, then nimbly jumped behind it. The bull charged full force and rammed into the tree. Its horns actually became stuck so fast that the bull couldn’t pull free.

  “I’ve got him,” Rennard cried.

  He came out and swung the ax with all his might. When he was done, the beast was dead and Moz’s ten agents were lugging slabs of beef back to the compound.

  Still Moz was not willing to grant the promised reward and made a third demand. Before the wedding he wanted the tailor to capture a wild boar which had proved elusive up to this point. He left out that it had killed two of his men. Moz offered up a dozen skilled huntsmen, but Rennard declined.

  “This is child’s play,” he boasted.

  Rennard ventured out into the woods alone, much to the relief of the others. This boar had a bad reputation and everybody was far more frightened of it than the old bull.

  When the boar caught sight of the little man, it gnashed its teeth and charged. It would’ve laid the little man out flat if he hadn’t been standing in the doorway of the abandoned chapel. Rennard ducked inside and behind the solid oak doors. The boar skittered across the hardwood
floor, losing its footing. This gave the tailor time to secure the door and climb out a window to safety.

  The infuriated beast was far too heavy or clumsy to follow, and so it was caught. The little tailor jogged back and told the huntsmen to go and see for themselves. He then went to find Moz, who had to keep his promise this time, like it or not, and give him Elise as well as the title of co-administrator. If Moz had known that this little man was no merc, wasn’t SAS, but merely a tailor with a diagnosed psychosis, he would have been even unhappier than he already was. And so the wedding was celebrated with much ceremony, but little happiness…except for Rennard.

  One night, Elise heard her little husband talking in his sleep. “Boy,” he said, “hurry up with that vest you’re making, then get those tuxedo pants hemmed or I’ll break my yardstick over your head.”

  That was all it took for Elise to figure out the mystery behind this strange little man. The next morning she ran to her father, told him her tale of woe, and begged him to help her get rid of a husband that was nothing more than a common tailor.

  “Don’t fret, poppet,” Moz said. “Leave your trailor unlocked tonight when you go to bed. A few of my boys will be waiting outside. Once he’s asleep, they’ll go in, tie him up, and take him down to the nearest road. One of those zombies will come along and—gobble-gobble—problem solved.”

  Elise was very pleased, but one of the men who overheard actually had a soft spot for the crazy little bastard. Also, he got a kick out of the idea that that little bitch Elise was getting run up in by such a scraggly runt of a man. He dashed over and told Rennard the entire plot.

  “They won’t get away with that!” said the little tailor.

  That night he went to bed with his wife at the usual hour. When she thought he was asleep, she got up, unlocked the door, and lay down again.

  Rennard, who was only pretending to be asleep, cried out in a loud voice, “Boy, hurry up with that vest you’re making, then get those tuxedo pants hemmed or I’ll break my yardstick over your head. I’ve done seven with one blow, killed a town full of zombies and a bull, along with capturing a wild boar. And now I’m expected to be afraid of scoundrels at my door.”