Zombie Versus Fairy Featuring Albinos

by James Marshall

  “I can’t understand you,” Francis Bacon calls to me. “I can’t understand him anymore,” he tells his friends. “All I hear is that terrible groaning sound they make.”

  I forgot. I keep forgetting what’s important. They can’t understand us. We don’t make sense to them: the wild.

  “It’s okay,” says a cute girl, putting her hand on Francis Bacon’s shoulder. “That’s what happens. Let’s just get out of here. Okay?”

  “I’m sorry, Francis Bacon. I didn’t know it was your dad.” The young man with the baseball bat isn’t slapping it against his open palm anymore. Now it hangs at his side, peacefully. “I wouldn’t bash out your dad’s brains.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” says Francis Bacon, holding out his hand. “Let’s see that bat.”

  The guy with the baseball bat hands it over.

  Francis Bacon walks toward me, purposefully. He stops right in front of me. He fixes his grip on the bat. It’s a good bat. It’s wood. You don’t want an aluminium bat. Sure, aluminium bats are strong. And yes, they’re silvery. Everybody likes silvery stuff. But think about it. When you’re being surrounded by zombies in the winter, do you want to be holding a freezing piece of metal in your hands? No. And do you want to be holding something really shiny when zombies are looking for something to eat? I don’t think so.

  When you’re trying to hide, you don’t yell out, “Hey, over here, zombies!”

  Francis Bacon holds the bat back, ready to swing, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t think he can. Do I want him to bash out my brainless brains? I don’t think. I don’t think so. So I don’t want him to destroy me but I don’t know why because I can’t think. I guess. I guess I want to live but I can’t live and I can’t think so I guess and I guess I just don’t want to be destroyed. Completely. Finally. It has to work out, doesn’t it? Somehow? In the end? No. It doesn’t. I don’t think, so I don’t think so, so I certainly don’t know but I have this feeling. Is it my depression? Is it irrational to feel everything is going to end badly? Isn’t that what every sense-impression leads me to believe?

  My son stands in front of me with a wooden baseball bat poised over his shoulder. With hate, courage, fear, and love deeply planted in his furrowed brow, he stares at me. I understand perfectly. I don’t understand, either.

  Silently, tears climb under his lower eyelids, slip over the edges, and rappel down his cheeks, like soldiers who want into his mouth for words that might be there. I reach out to him: to hug him, to hold him. It must look threatening because, all of a sudden, he swings the bat as hard as he can.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-SIX

  He’s Great Until You Find Out He’s

  A Zombie And He Ate Your Cat

  Just when the baseball bat is about to crash into my skull, a hand reaches out and grabs it. I stare at the hand for a moment, wondering if I’m imagining it. Then I look at my saviour’s face. It’s Fairy_26. She just stopped my son from destroying me. I’m filled with the rush of relief I feel whenever I see Fairy_26. She’s always saving my non-life. Even when she isn’t saving my non-life, she’s making it worth non-living. She rescues it from hateful obscenity. “You don’t want to bash out your dad’s brains,” Fairy_26 tells my son, smiling gently. “He’s one of the good guys. He just has a hard time believing it.”

  Francis Bacon’s eyes go wide. His jaw hangs. In awe, he stares at the fairy hovering in front of him. She’s wearing a short, white, backless T-shirt dress with square pockets low in the front. She’s wearing white stiletto heels with white ribbons that lace up her shapely calves. Her straight green hair frames her beautiful face. Her lips are done up in a soft matte pink and her blue eyes are surrounded by elaborate eye-shadow designs done in white. Francis Bacon lets go of the baseball bat, leaving it to her, and steps back, astonished. I can’t imagine what Francis Bacon thinks. Recently he learned his father, in whose footsteps he’d been diligently following, is a zombie. His eyes were opened to the horror of the world: zombies are mindlessly intent on destroying everything as thoroughly as possible. What keeps them from succeeding? Has Francis Bacon got far enough to wonder? Does he wonder what prevented him from seeing all the zombies everywhere? Does he wonder what prevented him from knowing the truth? Fairy_26 lands, lightly, beside me. She wraps her free arm around my waist, resting her head against the side of my shoulder for a second. When she lifts her head again, she tells my son and the young people he’s with, who, bravely, come closer, “I’m a friend of your father’s. He’s a friend to supernatural creatures. My name is Fairy_26 and I’m a member of a revolutionary group, intent on overthrowing zombies.

  “I joined this group because I could no longer sit back and watch zombies destroy the world, day after day, causing so much suffering among you young living people. As you know, most of your peers don’t even realize they’re being bred for food or trained to become future zombies. A small number of you are told or discover the awful reality and must hide and scrounge to survive. Unfortunately, most of my fellow supernatural creatures help zombies by hiding the horrible truth from the majority of young living people who know something is terribly wrong but can’t quite put their finger on it.

  “While it’s true supernatural creatures assist the zombies, supernatural creatures aren’t your enemies.

  “A long time ago, there was a war. In this war, supernatural creatures were poised to vanquish zombies once and for all. However, zombies changed, quite suddenly. They went from being mindless undead targets on whom supernatural creatures could practice their weaponry skills to being skilled military tacticians. Since supernatural creatures were suffering losses and no longer knew what they were up against, they agreed to a truce, which continues to this day. However, there are a few supernatural creatures, like me, who don’t abide by that agreement, signed long before we were born. We endeavour to destroy the zombies and assist young living people like you who recognize and must fight to live with the truth.”

  When I see Francis Bacon eyeing Fairy_26 sceptically, I realize I hardly know this young man. Almost everything I’ve experienced with him has been in the unnatural setting of the home. How much did his demeanour change every time he opened the front door? What sort of act did he put on for my wife and me? What mask did he wear? Did he give us the impression he’s less capable than he is or more? Does he know yet? These questions give me hope for him. Maybe he never wanted to be a zombie like me. Maybe he just thought he had to be. Maybe the revolting revelation I shoved into his grey brain, RE: reality, will liberate him.

  “What has my father done to earn your friendship?” asks Francis Bacon, suspiciously.

  Fairy_26 looks at me, proudly. “Your father told us about the albinos.”

  I haven’t forgotten the albinos. I can’t forget them. They’re in my head: flipping switches, lifting levers, turning dials. To an extent I can’t appreciate and don’t know, they are me and I am them and I hate them. I hate them more than I hate myself. I want to destroy them. How much of my hatred for albinos is my desire to destroy myself, to end my eternal non-life, and find some sort of peace, if only the peace of dreamless sleep? I don’t know. Am I making some sort of progress? Am I on my way to finding happiness or am I staggering, arms-outstretched, toward a new misery?

  “Who are the albinos?” asks Francis Bacon.

  “They control zombies’ actions,” explains Fairy_26.

  “How?”

  “We don’t know yet. We’re hoping your father will help us figure it out and put an end to it.”

  Where am I? In one sense, I’m outside a mall, behind the backs of stores, where the day’s deliveries are made and the night’s garbage is taken out, but in another sense, I have no idea. Am I any better off than when I first met Fairy_26? Am I still trapped in the slippery-sided pit of depression? Am I still struggling to get out? Or have I found a way to non-live in it? Are there any stars in the sky for me to stare up at and night-dream about? Du
ring the day, do I drink rainwater? Do I trap and eat small animals that stray too close to the edge?

  Still holding my son’s hand, the pretty girl whispers something in his ear. “Yeah,” my son tells her, annoyed. “He’s great until you find out he’s a zombie and he ate your cat.”

  So that’s a yes on the eating small animals part. “It’s not what it looks like!” yells Guy Boy Man, galloping toward us on Centaur111’s back. With both arms wrapped, tightly, around Centaur111’s muscular bare chest, Guy Boy Man wears his shiny white high tech plastic ceremonial robe. Guy Boy Man’s pirate hat—the Pope’s pirate hat; the tall gold and white one—has fallen down over his eyes and, instead of trying to fix it, to see where he’s going, Guy Boy Man presses the side of his head to Centaur111’s broad back and trusts. Centaur111’s powerful body ripples and flexes with every stride. He shines with sweat. Guy Boy Man clings to him, desperately. “It’s not what it looks like!” yells Guy Boy Man again. “Okay, obviously, there are overtones!” he admits.

  Centaur111 searches for a target as he gallops toward us, holding a bow on which an arrow is strung. When he reaches us, Centaur111 stops, abruptly. Guy Boy Man flies off. He lands, hard, on the ground, skids to a stop and lies there for a minute, face-down. “Undertones maybe. I don’t know.” He gets up and dusts himself off. When he finds his hat, he picks it up, puts it on, and tries to arrange it. What is Guy Boy Man doing here? He and Centaur111 arrived in a hurry. The way they’re showing up only moments after Fairy_26 rescued me from my son suggests they’re here to act as reinforcements for her but why would she need reinforcements? If she was in danger, she could just fly away. Are they here to protect me? Why? Even I don’t protect myself. I just kind of stumble from disaster to disaster, wondering why I bother. Has Fairy_26 been watching over me for long? Have Guy Boy Man and Centaur111? Wait. Didn’t Centaur111 shoot me with an arrow by means of introducing himself when I left the pharmacy with Fairy_26 back when she and I first met? Yes, he did. Could it have been a friendly arrow? A “hey, how you doing” arrow? I don’t know. I have a lot to learn about supernatural creatures. Do I want to learn it? I think so. I mean, I’m not going to go out of my way or anything. Guy Boy Man limps back to Centaur111. The young pirate spiritual leader glances at the half-horse half-man. “Thanks for . . .” says Guy Boy Man. “You know.”

  Centaur111 looks away, annoyed.

  Guy Boy Man opens one of the Centaur111’s saddle packs, searches through all the weaponry and ammunition and pulls out a bottle of whiskey, a pack of cigarettes, and a lighter.

  Just then two elves exit the mall. What the hell is going on? What are all these supernatural creatures doing here? It boggles my already-fully-boggled mind!

  “Hi, guys!” says one of the elves, excitedly, walking up to us.

  The other one hangs back, unhappily.

  Both elves are short, standing only about four feet tall. They’re both dressed in the usual male elf garb: shiny black shoes, skinny black suits with black shirts and black ties, and black top hats so tall they slouch to the side. One elf is carrying a nice wooden staff. The other one, hanging back with his arms crossed, looking miserable, is holding a little bow and wearing a quiver full of arrows strapped to his back. I’d seen supernatural creatures before Fairy_26. You can’t stumble anywhere without almost stepping on one of them these days. You see more and more as zombie numbers increase and they keep increasing. It’s exponential. I’ve never seen a giant. Like Fairy_26 said, they’re loners. Most supernatural creatures are disguised, to humans, as insects and plants and drinkable water and that kind of thing. They’re forbidden to reveal themselves in their true form because of the truce. However, we, the zombies, see supernatural creatures all over the place. They’re clean. Natural. Beautiful. When they do something, they do it easily, quickly, and efficiently. They stick out their tongues at zombies. Zombies amble after them. Supernatural creatures laugh and dart away.

  “These are members of my revolutionary group,” announces Fairy_26, gesturing toward the two elves. “This is Melvin, The Cheerful Elf.”

  “Hi, guys!” says Melvin, The Cheerful Elf, again, happily. Melvin, The Cheerful Elf, is the one with the nice wooden staff. His arms are a little short for his body. His shoulders seem stuck in the up position, near his ears. “Hi, guys!” he says again, smiling broadly, looking around. For some reason, he keeps saying, “Hi, guys!”

  Fairy_26 gestures to the elf hanging back, looking upset. “This is Ralph, The Pessimistic Elf.”

  “I knew you were going to say that,” mutters Ralph, The Pessimistic Elf. “Now they all have a negative opinion of me and I’ll never be able to overcome it.”

  “Hi, guys!” says Melvin, The Cheerful Elf, again. “I’m so glad to meet you! I just know we’re going to get along great and we’re going to have a wonderful time no matter what!”

  With his arms still crossed, Ralph, The Pessimistic Elf, mumbles, “I’m going to get turned into a zombie today for sure.”

  Are all these supernatural creatures here to protect me? Guy Boy Man, himself, is here! How important am I? How can I be important at all when I feel so badly about myself all the time?

  All I know is this: before I can be with Fairy_26, if I even can, I have to tell Chi it’s over. I start staggering away toward Barry and Deepah Graves’ house where Chi is staying. Behind me, as I make my way, I hear them talking.

  “Where’s my dad going?”

  “I don’t know. Follow him. I’ll get some altitude and act as the lookout. Elves, protect the young ones.”

  “Sure thing! Hi, guys! We’re going to protect you!”

  “This is a stupid idea. Disaster and despair await us.”

  “I’m scared, Francis Bacon.”

  “I know. So am I. Let’s go with them. There’s safety in numbers. I think.”

  “This is great! We’re going on an adventure! It’s a terrific opportunity for us to create lasting friendships!”

  “Hey, Centaur111, I was wondering if, since we’re on the move again . . .”

  “Don’t I embarrass you?”

  “Come on. Don’t be like that.”

  I never turn back to see if they’re really following me. I never hear footsteps. If they’re really behind me, they have to be wondering: where is he taking us? Is he leading us into a trap? Is he really on our side?

  As they wonder, I wonder: are they really following me? Why would they? Why would anyone? How could anyone expect to get anywhere following someone so lost? In a suburban neighbourhood, stumbling down the middle of the road, between the abandoned cars and half-eaten human bodies, I wave, telepathically, with my outstretched arms, at the zombies I pass. In tattered and dirty golf clothes, a male zombie swings a broken club, viciously, back and forth over the pavement, accomplishing nothing.

  “Good afternoon, sir!” he says, telepathically. “Would you like to join me for a round?”

  “I’m afraid not but thank you very much for the offer!”

  “Don’t mention it!”

  Furiously, trying to tear it from its hinges or crash it through its frame, a female zombie, dressed only in a blood-stained negligee, opens and closes the front door to a house, over and over.

  “Hi there!” she calls, telepathically. “I’m really opening and closing this door!”

  “Looking good!” I call back.

  I know how they feel. Angry. Mindless. They’re doing things because they’re supposed to do things. They don’t want to. They don’t know what they want. They don’t know anything. For a while, they tried to learn but they didn’t so they stopped. They became zombies. It’s easier than trying to stay human when everyone else isn’t.

  I want to say I’m worried for Francis Bacon. I want to say I’m scared about his hopeless future. But I’m not. I don’t care. If I’m perfectly honest, I just don’t care. Is that terrible? Of me or for me? I only care about myself and I don’t care ab
out myself either. Do you hate me now? If you do, good. Join the club. I probably shouldn’t. I’d just depress everybody. Fewer and fewer would attend the meetings. Then the club would cease to exist. By not joining, I’m thinking about the good of the club. I’ll be the founder. Is that okay?

  I keep wondering why Fairy_26 is watching over me. I don’t think she loves me. Maybe she likes me. Maybe there’s something so wrong with her she can actually have friendly—even romantic—feelings for a zombie like me. It’s difficult to think highly of her. She’s beautiful and I had sex with her and I’d like to have sex with her again and again, mindlessly, like a zombie, but it’s difficult to think highly of her. I think so poorly of her new boyfriend: me.

  Even if I could imagine her watching over me because she likes me, I can’t imagine she could convince Guy Boy Man, Centaur111, Melvin, the Cheerful Elf, and Ralph, the Pessimistic Elf, to do the same. It’s obvious they’re using me: to get close to the albinos. Was Fairy_26 planning to use me from the moment she met me?

  Did Centaur111 only shoot me with that arrow so Fairy_26 could gain my trust?

  Recently, I discovered depressed zombies are employed in the upper echelons or lower recesses of zombie corporations. Perhaps this was known in supernatural circles. Perhaps when I entered the pharmacy with a prescription for an anti-depressant, Fairy_26 saw her opportunity. The albinos used me to get close to Guy Boy Man. Perhaps Guy Boy Man, through Fairy_26, intends to use me to get close to the albinos. Maybe everyone is using me. Who cares? I’m using the albinos to justify my feelings of alienation. I’m using Guy Boy Man to take revenge on them. I’m using Fairy_26 for sex and to get away from my wife.

  But the question still remains: from whom or what do I need protection? Everyone and everything? If it includes Fairy_26, Guy Boy Man, Centaur111, and a couple of elves, I’m in trouble because they’re the ones that seem to be protecting me. Do I need protection from the albinos? If they’re in my mindless mind, affecting my neurochemistry, releasing a neurotransmitter here, firing a synapse there, remotely, how can anyone protect me? Aren’t I the enemy? Aren’t I a traitor to my own cause?