by Greg Krojac
Out in his police car, he picked up the mic and, even though he knew he would sound crazy, he requested an APB be issued for the man that had been described to him.
“You should be sitting down for this one, Sarge. We need to be on the lookout for a cross between a smelly zombie, the Grinch, and Wally from Where’s Wally.”
8
To say that Arnold’s family reunion hadn’t gone well would be a gross understatement. In fact, gross was the perfect word, as that is exactly how Keira had described him to the police officer.
His daughter had screamed when she saw him and his wife had tried to kill him. They didn’t even recognize him. It had only been six weeks or so since they’d last spent time together watching TV – surely he couldn’t have changed much in such a short space of time? He thought about going back to the cottage and trying to talk to them, maybe calm them down and reason with them, but he knew in his heart that it would be a waste of time.
So, where should he go? What should he do? Clearly, he couldn’t go home. He had friends in the village but, if his own wife and daughter didn’t recognize him, how could he expect anyone else to? He had nowhere to go.
Maybe Keira was right – maybe he was a zombie. But zombies were hungry for human flesh, weren’t they? And – although he hadn’t eaten for weeks – he wasn’t hungry. If he were a zombie, he’d have ripped his family apart to satiate his hunger but all he’d wanted was a cuddle. No, zombies don’t want cuddles. Ergo, he couldn’t be a zombie. He wasn’t hungry and had no desire to eat people.
He’d have to move away, far away. To stay in his village would be too painful for him. Every day he’d run the risk of seeing Gillian or Keira, maybe both. And he wouldn’t be able to communicate with them – he’d probably scare the shit out of them if he tried. No, the best thing to do would be to start afresh, a long way away. That’s what he would do.
But first, I want to see my grave. The proper one. Not the one in the woods.
Gillian had allowed the doctors to turn off his life-support machine, so she must have thought he was dead – that would explain her horror when he turned up at their house unannounced. If people thought he was dead, then they must have buried him, properly, though, in a coffin, in the village cemetery.
It didn’t take him long to get to the graveyard. After his family’s reaction, he decided to keep out of people’s sight so a ten-minute walk turned into a twenty-minute walk, ducking and diving behind bins and fences sporadically so that he wouldn’t frighten anyone else. It wasn’t a large cemetery and it wasn’t hard to find the plot where he was supposed to have been buried.
He looked at the tombstone and read the epitaph to himself.
Arnold Leadbetter, loving husband and father. Gone but not forgotten.
He had to admit that he was a little disappointed at the inscription; it wasn’t very original. Very boring and matter of fact, actually.
Is that the sum of my life? I was born, I got married, I had a child, I loved my family, and then I died?
He felt saddened and disillusioned. He thought his life meant more than just that. It did to him, anyway.
It suddenly occurred to him that if he was above ground, visiting his own grave, then somebody else – a stranger – must have been buried in his place. He didn’t know why, but he felt violated. He pointed at the mound of earth.
Who are you and what are you doing in my grave?
Of course, there was no response. The usurper – an unidentified vagrant – was well and truly dead.
Arnold looked up at a nearby tree where a song thrush was singing loudly, trying to attract a mate. A butterfly – a Red Admiral – fluttered in front of his nose before flitting off in the opposite direction. The graveyard was busy with small woodland animals and insects. Arnold thought it ironic that a resting place for the dead was so full of life. He made a decision. He would let nature take its course. If the Universe wanted him dead, then who was he to argue? But, at least, he would be in his own grave this time.
Suddenly he felt a stabbing pain in his neck. He spun round and uttered the first words he had spoken in over five weeks.
“WHAT THE FUCK?”
9
Arnold wasn’t sure what had shocked him most – hearing his own voice outside his head for the first time in weeks or the fact that there was a man standing in front of him, with brown viscous liquid dripping from a pair of previously gleaming white fangs.
The man stared at him, saying nothing for a good ten seconds before finally uttering his own response to what he was seeing.
“What the fuck?”
Arnold put his fingers to his neck.
“You bit me!”
The man shook his head.
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did. You bloody bit me. Hard.”
The man looked sheepish.
“I slipped. The ground’s pretty slippery here. Haven’t you noticed? It’s been snowing.”
Arnold felt violated.
“You don’t slip and accidentally bite someone in the neck, whether it’s been snowing or not. That doesn’t just happen. You meant to bite me.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did.”
“Well, yes I did. But I can assure you I wouldn’t have bitten you if I’d known what you were.”
“What do you mean, what I am.”
“You know.”
“No, I don’t know. What am I?”
The man couldn’t believe that Arnold had no idea what he was.
“Have you looked in a mirror lately?”
“No.”
“You should.”
“Why. What would I see?”
“A zombie, friend. A zombie.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not a zombie.”
“You bloody well are. You’ve got the greenish reddish skin tone, the smell of a zombie – you really need to get hold of some deodorant – and…”
“And?”
“You’ve got bits missing.”
Arnold didn’t want to believe his assailant, but being a zombie would explain a few things.
“Missing? Like what?”
“Put your finger in your eye.”
Arnold raised his right hand and put a finger to his right eye.
The stranger watched closely.
“Move your finger closer until it touches your eye.”
Arnold had never had a problem with touching his own eyes, so he did as he was told.
The man seemed satisfied.
“Now touch your left eye.”
Arnold didn’t see the point of the exercise but went to do it anyway.
“WAAH!”
Arnold’s finger went deep into his left eye socket. He swirled it around in the vacant space and then danced around as if he were jumping on hot coals.
“Where’s my eye? Where’s my eye?”
He looked around on the ground for the missing eyeball. The stranger shook his head.
“You’re wasting your time looking for it. It’s probably been eaten.”
“Eaten? What would have eaten my eye?”
“I don’t know. Insects, rats, bugs. Who can tell?”
Arnold had to concede that perhaps his attacker was right. Maybe he was one of the living dead.
“Am I really a zombie?”
“Afraid so.”
That would explain Gillian and Keira’s reactions. No wonder they were afraid. He would have been too, in their shoes.
“Christ. I must look terrible.”
The stranger had to agree.
“You’ve certainly seen better days, I’m sure.”
He held out his hand towards Arnold.
”The name’s Trevor. Trevor Higginbottom.”
Arnold reluctantly shook Trevor’s hand.
“I’m Arnold –“
“Arnold Leadbetter.”
Arnold was surprised that Trevor knew his name.
“Have we met before?”
“No.”
“Then how – ?”
“Your name’s on your headstone.”
Arnold looked back at the grave.
“Oh, yeah. I suppose it is.”
He returned to face Trevor.
“I can’t really say I’m pleased to meet you. I mean, you did bite me.”
Trevor sighed.
“Yeah. Sorry about that. I was thirsty, you see.”
“So you bit me?”
“It’s what I do.”
“Like a vampire.”
“Exactly like a vampire.”
Trevor bared his fangs again.
“I am a vampire.”
Arnold sat down on his headstone.
“Are you serious? I’m a zombie and you’re a vampire? All we need is a werewolf and we’ve got the set.”
Trevor looked at the zombie.
“You know it’s bad luck to walk over a grave?”
Arnold gave him a sarcastic smile.
“You think? How could today get any worse? I scare the shit out of my wife and daughter, find out I’m a zombie, and now I’ve been bitten by a bloody vampire. It can’t get much worse than that, surely?”
Trevor said nothing.
Arnold continued staring at his gravestone.
After about a minute, Trevor could bear the suspense no more.
“Well? Are you going back in?”
“I’ve never been in there in the first place.”
Trevor was confused.
“But it is your grave though?”
“Yes. It is. But I wasn’t buried in it.”
“Where were you buried then?”
“It’s a long story.”
“I’ve got time.”
Arnold told Trevor his life – well, death story actually – how he’d woken up in hospital, been body-snatched by a pornographic movie director and used as a prop, been subsequently buried in the woods, dug his way out, and scared the living daylights out of his wife and daughter. Trevor was impressed, although that wasn’t the effect that Arnold was going for.
“So… What are you going to do, Arnold? You can’t stay here.”
Arnold shrugged his shoulders.
“Dunno. I can’t go home. That’s obvious.”
Trevor put his hand on Arnold’s shoulder. Arnold flinched.
“You gonna bite me again?”
“What? No, of course not. I was about to say that you should come home with me. It’s the least I can do after biting you.”
Arnold had nothing better to do, so he shuffled along behind Trevor as the pair walked towards a new estate on the outskirts of the village, taking cover each time a car or pedestrian came into view. Trevor didn’t look anything out of the ordinary, but Arnold looked like exactly what he was – they’d have to do something about his appearance before he could venture outside again. As they walked, Arnold had a question that was niggling at him.
“Trevor?”
“Yes, mate.”
“What time is it?”
Trevor looked at his wristwatch.
“Two fifteen in the afternoon.”
“Exactly. It’s the middle of the afternoon. Daylight. Shouldn’t you be dead or something? You know, burnt to a crisp in the sunlight?”
Trevor laughed.
“You’ve been watching too many movies.”
“You mean, you don’t have to hide away during the day?”
“What do you think? I’m here aren’t I?”
This didn’t make sense. It went against all the vampire stories he’d ever seen or read. Arnold had a list of vampire qualities queued up in his head.
“Does holy water burn you?”
“It’s tap water.”
“But it’s been blessed.”
“Doesn’t make any difference.”
Arnold checked that one off his list.
“Can you be burned by silver?”
“Nope.”
“Can you be destroyed by sunlight?”
That question had already been answered so Arnold skipped on to the next in his mental list.
“You do drink blood though.”
“When I need to, yes.”
“Fangs?”
Trevor opened his mouth to show a pair of now perfectly gleaming clean white fangs.
Arnold nodded.
“That’s a yes then. Do you flee from crucifixes? Garlic?”
“Nope. Like holy water, religious stuff does nothing against me.”
Arnold was running out of stereotypes to throw at Trevor.
“Ah… I know. Are you immortal?”
Trevor grinned.
“Pretty much, although a stake through the heart will kill me. As will cutting my head off. It’s something I try to avoid.”
Arnold had run out of clichés, but Trevor filled in the gaps.
“Do I sleep in a coffin? No. I like my own warm bed.”
Arnold processed the new information.
“Is that the lot?”
“Almost. I can’t transform into a bat, mist, or a wolf either. Especially not a wolf – that’s another type of creature altogether.”
Arnold grinned at his new friend.
“Not much of a vampire, really, are you?”
Trevor quickly countered.
“And you’re not much of a zombie, either.”
10
Arnold must have passed through the small housing estate hundreds of times on his way to work, but he’d never really paid it much attention. It looked like many similar estates across the country, a collection of three and four-bedroom detached and semi-detached houses clustered together to form a small and intimate community. He knew a few people who lived there but had never seen Trevor before.
It was quite an idyllic area, with neatly cropped lawns and shrubs, no litter anywhere on the streets, and an air of safety and security. Trevor crossed the road and Arnold followed him up the driveway of one of the houses. Arnold almost felt normal, but one look at his green-tinged skin soon reminded him that he wasn’t. Trevor took a key from his pocket and turned it in the lock of a white UPVC door, which swung open to reveal a mustard coloured hallway carpet leading to the interior of the house. Trevor kicked off his shoes and Arnold was just about to do the same when Trevor stopped him.
“That might not be such a good idea – we don’t know the state of your feet yet. We’ll go to the kitchen first – it’s got a tiled floor. Just try to take as few steps as possible in case you’ve got any mud or dog shit on your boots.”
Arnold did as he was told and followed the vampire into the kitchen.
“Do you want anything to eat? Or drink? We’ve got leftovers from yesterday’s lunch in the fridge – roast chicken – and two jars of fruit juice.”
Arnold sat on a stool next to a breakfast bar.
“No thanks. I’m fine. I don’t even feel hungry. I thought zombies ate peoples’ brains, but I don’t even feel a little bit peckish.”
The faint humming of a vacuum cleaner in one of the upstairs bedrooms stopped and a voice called downstairs.
“Trevor? Is that you, love?”
“Yes, it’s me. I’ve brought a new friend home.”
The sound of footsteps trotting downstairs heralded the appearance of Tracey, Trevor’s wife. She bounded into the kitchen and held out her hand to shake Arnold’s hand.
“Sorry I wasn’t downstairs to meet you when you arrived. I was just finishing off the hoovering upstairs. I’m Tracey.”
Arnold was nervous about shaking anybody’s hand, bearing in mind the various states of decomposition that various parts of his body were obviously in. He just raised a hand and waved gingerly.
“Hi. I’m Arnold. Arnold Leadbetter.”
A quizzical look came over Tracey’s face.
“Arnold Leadbetter. Now, where do I know that name from?”
She wracked her brains for a few seconds and then it came back to her.
“That’s right. I remember now. You were at a barbecue at Tony and Judy’s last
summer. From number twenty-three. They’re mutual friends.”
Trevor hadn’t recognized either Arnold’s face or name before but now, with his wife’s prompting, he too remembered.
“Of course, Arnold and – and – Gillian. Nice couple.”
Arnold was confused. Tracey was chatting to him as if he were a normal person, not a zombie. Surely she could see that he wasn’t exactly the same guy as she had met at the barbecue?
“Forgive me for asking, but don’t you notice anything strange about me?”
“Oh, you mean the greenish-reddish skin, the bone showing through your left hand, and the fact that you’ve only got one eye?”
Arnold nodded his head, a little nervous that any movement could lead to part of his body falling off. Tracey didn’t seem at all fazed by his appearance.
“Well, I’ve never met a zombie before – heard about them, of course, but always thought they were a myth. But people think that me and my Trevor are myths too, so I’m not too surprised to meet a real zombie. Admittedly, I didn’t expect to be having a chat with one in my own kitchen, but it takes all sorts.”
Arnold found the whole situation very surreal.
“You said me and my Trevor. Does that mean –“
Tracey chuckled.
“Yes, love. Trevor and I are both vampires.”
She went to the fridge and poured herself a small glass of chilled red wine.
“Trev and I met about a hundred and fourteen years ago when he turned me. We were dating – although, back in those days, they called it walking out – and Trevor got a bit carried away during a kiss and a cuddle and ended up biting my neck. Poor love was mortified. But I was alright with it to be honest – always been one for an adventure – and we’ve been together ever since.”
Arnold gestured towards the wineglass.
“So…if you’re a vampire, is that blood?”
Trevor laughed.
“My goodness, no. It’s a rather splendid Chilean Merlot. The experts say it should be served at around 60 degrees Fahrenheit but we prefer it chilled. No, we have to drink blood from a warm living human. It loses its restorative properties if it’s chilled.”