Mort

by Rod Redux

  “What do you mean?” Mort asked, keeping an eye on the TV.

  “I saw some ambulances earlier. Then a bunch of cops shot past with their lights on.”

  “Hmm. Dunno,” Mort replied. “Be careful going home, tho.”

  “Sure thing, boss. Bye.”

  “Night.”

  Mort fell asleep halfway through the season. As he snored in his recliner, the remote in his lap, the first zombies on his block went shuffling out into the street. It was his neighbors, the Feinsteins, a Jewish couple who lived two apartment buildings down from him. They’d contracted Virus Z the day before, at the 17 screen multiplex out by the mall, while watching the latest Jason Statham action flick. Mr. Feinstein was dressed in smiley face boxer shorts. Mrs. Feinstein was in her fuzzy pink housecoat, zombie rictus disguised by a thick layer of face mud. They’d wandered around their apartment until another resident reported loud moans and thumps and the maintenance man went to check on them.

  A pedestrian noticed the blood splattered on their bodies and went to see if they needed help. He thought they’d been robbed. He lived about three minutes longer than their maintenance man.

  Mort slept through the pedestrian’s screams. He kicked his leg as the unlucky pedestrian’s cries echoed down the street. A few minutes later, he farted.

  He woke the next morning with a start and jumped out of the recliner, worried that he had overslept and would not get the shop open on time. Flicking the DVD player and TV off, he ran into the kitchen to check the time. It was 8:30 am. Plenty of time to get ready.

  Relieved, Mort showered, shaved and dressed. He chose a pair of khaki shorts and his red t-shirt with the Flash insignia. The shirt, he found, was getting a little tight. Must have shrunk in the dryer, Mort thought. He sat in the kitchen and ate some powdered donuts for breakfast, then left for work.

  His apartment was only a few blocks from the shop.

  It was a fine, clear morning, the sun bright but not too hot. A beautiful, breezy autumn day. There were just a couple cotton puffs stranded in the sky. The birds were chirping. Mort felt like chirping, too. He’d slept most of the day yesterday so there was a little extra skip in his step this morning.

  Funny, Mort thought, there didn’t seem to be any other pedestrians this fine Monday morning. There were usually a handful of people on the sidewalks at this time of day. Business men rushing on errands. Joggers and power walkers in tight spandex, chasing after their endorphin rush. Bicyclists. Moms with kids. But for some reason, the streets were deserted. DuChamp had turned into a ghost town overnight.

  Mr. Tockstein, he noted, had not opened his newsstand. Mort usually bought a paper there on his way to work, but the stand was closed today, the doors padlocked. And no note to explain why. He checked the newspaper dispensers further down the street, but they were empty. No Times. No USA Today. He put his hands on his hips, frowning. They couldn’t have sold out already. It was way too early.

  Was the flu making the rounds again? Mort wondered. He remembered hearing something about the flu on the news a day or two ago.

  As he stood beside Mr. Tockstein’s shuttered newsstand, a big truck roared past on the street, weaving dangerously. One of those redneck monster trucks. The kind you had to climb a ladder to get inside. It had a faded Bush/Cheney bumper sticker on its tailgate and deer hunter decals on the back window. The warm wash of its passage blew litter around Mort’s ankles. Empty paper cups and scraps of newspaper. Mort turned to watch the vehicle squeal around a corner, outraged. The guy was going to kill someone!

  Then again, where was all the other traffic?

  He walked the rest of the way down the block, feeling a little uneasy.

  He noticed that the frame and art print shop on the corner was closed.

  The Gym-Borie was also dark.

  Mort finally arrived at his shop. He fumbled his keys out of his front pocket and let himself in. Five seconds after he entered POW Comics, a UPS man bolted from the alley two buildings up, running for his life. A pack of zombie canines—seven of them, with a hobbling three-legged Chihuahua bringing up the rear— ran close behind him, nipping at his heels. The dogs were making weird huffing noises instead of barking, tongues lolling, foam dripping from their muzzles.

  Mort didn’t see the UPS man running for his life, or the zombie dogs. He readied his shop: turning on lights, organizing shelves, alphabetizing some of the back issues he kept in long white cardboard boxes in the central aisle. A few pedestrians shuffled past the window as he swept, but no one entered.

  By eleven am, he was starting to worry.

  It looked like it was going to be a dead day.

  He munched on some chips, drank a pop, read a few issues of Wolverine and Fantastic Four. At 11:30, he noticed that someone was yelling down the street. He peered out the window as the cry grew louder. A moment later, Fred blasted by the window, yelling at the top of his lungs. Mort laughed. What was that nut up to today?

  Fred doubled back, dived in the front door, and slammed it shut behind himself, gasping for air.

  “Dude! What’s the deal?” Mort asked, still smiling.

  Fred was leaning his back against the door. His chest rose and dropped. He ogled Mort with horror, his ginger complexion positively chalk white.

  “Zom—!“ Fred gasped.

  “Take a deep breath,” Mort chuckled.

  “Zom—!“ Fred gasped again, shaking his head.

  “What is it?”

  “ZOMBIES!” Fred yelled. “FUCKING ZOMBIES!”

  Smiling dubiously, Mort turned to look out the window… and fell back against the counter in shock.

  There were five very dead-looking people standing in the display window, swiping half-heartedly at the dusty glass. One was his neighbor Mrs. Feinstein, looking ghastly in her cracked and peeling mud mask, the front of her fuzzy pink robe stained black with blood. Their eyes were like white marbles, red-rimmed and weepy. Viscous yellow-green snot foamed from their jaws, jiggling and dripping when they moved.

  “It’s fucking zombies!” Fred gasped. “Real fucking ass zombies!”

  Fred locked the door and retreated, shaking all over.

  “What do you…? Are you pulling my…?” Mort stepped around the counter to put some distance between himself and the very realistically made up practical jokers groaning and scraping at the show window.

  “I’m not shitting you, man!” Fred cried. “They’re zombies! I saw them eating some Chinese meter maid up the street. They were fucking chowing down on her. For real. Then they saw me and started chasing after me.”

  The zombies were staring at Fred hungrily, faded eyes narrowed to furious slits, teeth bared. As Mort and Fred stood gawping at them, the putrescent group was joined by a couple more ambulatory dead folk.

  “This can’t be real,” Mort said softly.

  “It’s real, man! It’s fucking real!” Fred shrieked.

  Mort took another step back, thinking they should maybe head toward the stockroom and go out the back before one of the gargling dead people on the sidewalk out front decided to hit the glass a little harder. He saw the zombies look his direction. They looked back to Fred, then Mort, and then almost as one, the ghoulish revenants shifted their attention to the much heavier man.

  No fair! Mort thought. Why does everyone pick on the fat guy…?

  “I think we should sneak out the back door,” Mort said softly.

  Fred looked at him, still a little out of breath, and nodded eagerly. “Yeah! Yeah! That sounds like a good idea!”

  One of the deadheads-- a buff weightlifter-- raised a veiny Arnold Schwarzenegger arm and smacked the flat on his palm on the window. Creatine-fortified protein drink mixed with bile and blood was dribbling out his mouth, running down his neck and chest. The impact cracked the glass, left a greasy stain.

  Mort and Fred wheeled a one-eighty and raced down separate aisles toward the back room.

  Mort whooshed past the white cardboard boxes filled with back issues, mo
ving pretty fast for a fat guy. The shiny covers of this week’s new releases fluttered as he thundered by. Fred took the lead, of course, and was the first one through the cluttered stockroom and out the back door. Mort hit the rear door before it swung back and stumbled into the alley just in time to see a filthy harridan leap upon his part-time employee.

  Fred yelled in horror as the female zombie bore him to the ground.

  Mort stuffed his fist into his mouth.

  The female zombie was short and slim, a petite brunette in a gore-streaked pink Hello Kitty tee shirt and jean shorts, but her phage-induced rage and hunger had granted her almost superhuman strength. When Fred tried to push her off his body, she sank her teeth into his forearm and wrenched her head back and forth, tearing a plug of skin and muscle from his limb. As Mort recovered from his shock and took a step forward to help his friend, the zombie sank her thumbs into Fred’s eye sockets, lifted his head and then bashed it down on the filthy floor of the alley. The heels of Fred’s red sneakers rattled a quick beat on the concrete as he let out a ear-piercing shriek. The zombie echoed his cry, hers a howl of exultation. She turned her bloody face to the sky, shaking her head in triumph, then bashed Fred’s head against the pavement again, driving it down so hard that his skull split open like a melon.

  Oh, hell, no!

  Mort retreated as she sank her fingers into the crevasse and prized Fred’s skull further apart. She began to stuff hunks of brain matter into her lips as several other zombies responded to her howl, running hungrily around the corner and into the mouth of the alley.

  I’m so screwed, Mort thought as he stumbled away. He knocked over some trash cans and almost fell, skidding loudly on their aluminum lids. His heart was pounding so hard in his chest he thought he was having a coronary. Pain lanced down his left arm. Did pain in the left or right arm mean you were having a heart attack? Not to mention: the alley was a dead end.

  He came up to the wire fence that blocked the alley. The gate was chained and padlocked, of course, just like in the movies. Why the fuck would someone put a fence in an alley? he wondered angrily, eyeing the top of the barrier. What use could it possibly have, aside from serving as a suspense device in a crappy Hollywood chase scene? If he was a pretty boy movie star, it would be no problem. He’d be up and over the fence, no sweat, but he was a real person, and that was a real gut jiggling beneath a matching pair of authentic man breasts. The fence was only twelve feet high, but it might as well have been twelve hundred feet. He thought he could get over it, but not before the other three zombies who’d entered the alley had spotted him and came to drag him down and rip him apart.

  Mort cast a panicked glance toward the mouth of the alley.

  Two of the zombies had stopped to help the brunette eat his friend. They worried at Fred’s corpse like wolves, snarling and snapping at one another. The third had spotted Mort, of course, and was running right for him!

  And it was the Arnold Schwarzenegger wannabe.

  Of course…!

  His breath coming in loud, ragged whoops, Mort turned back to the fence and started climbing. He curled his plump fingers into the little diamond holes between the metal links and hauled his two-fifty upwards. He heard a loud crash and looked over his shoulder. The Arnold zombie had slipped on one of the trash can lids he’d knocked over and stumbled headfirst into the side of the dumpster.

  Ha!

  Mort climbed. The weight of his body on his fingers was terribly painful, and the toes of his sneakers lost their purchase twice, but thank God the Arnold zombie had really rattled his marbles against the side of the dumpster. It bought Mort the precious time he needed to get up the fence and out of reach before the hungry deadhead got to its feet and reached him.

  Mort carefully swung one thick thigh over the metal tubing at the top and sat astride the barrier. The sharp tips of the chain link fencing jabbed into his ass and palms.

  Zarnold snarled and hopped, lunging for Mort’s foot.

  “Fuck you!” Mort spat, flipping the zombie the bird.

  Frustrated, the massive zombie began to howl. It was a high-pitched, unsatisfied cry. A moment later, Mort heard groans coming from the other end of the alley. He turned on his perch to see two more zombies stumbling up the other side of the passage.

  Oh God. I’m so-so-screwed, Mort thought, his red face turning white.

  He was surrounded! Zombies were swiping at him from both sides of the fence now, and there were probably more on the way.

  He craned his neck and examined the walls to either side of the alley. There were electricity pipes running up the wall from a cluster of meters on one side. That was the side his shop was on, and the roof was only a few feet higher than the fence there. It was the roof of the Gym-Boree building. The other side of the alley was a flat expanse of brick, going up at least three more stories. The back of an empty building which faced the next street over.

  Mort began to scoot carefully across the fence toward the electric pipes. On the ground below, the trio of zombies hopped listlessly and swung at his sneakers. The chain link fencing began to cut his palms and rip into the crotch of his khakis. He eased forward bit by bit, trying to ignore the pain, sweat dripping off his pudgy face. He almost lost his balance twice as the zombies jumped for him, battering the fence. Grinding his teeth, he persevered.

  He made it to the end of the fence and reached out for the electricity pipes. Using the gray pipes as a handhold, he raised himself carefully until he was standing atop the chain link fence. Mort wavered, hanging onto the electric pipe with one hand and holding his other arm out for balance. The ground below swung back and forth, making him feel sick. Zarnold bashed his whole body into the fence then, snarling angrily, and almost sent Mort tumbling to the ground-- but with a big sweaty grunt, Mort managed to throw the upper portion of his body onto the roof of the Gym-Boree.

  Safe!

  I’m alive! No fucking way! Mort thought, grinning in disbelief.

  He was hanging over the edge of the roof, legs doing an air dance, but he’d actually managed to climb the fence and get to the roof. He’d survived! A cool breeze was blowing up his backside, though. The sharp tips of the chain links, Mort realized, had completely ripped out the crotch of his khaki shorts. His twig and berries were waving in the wind.

  Of course.

  Laughing, Mort clawed his way fully onto the roof, his abraded hands leaving bloody smears on the sticky surface. There was tar and bits of gravel stuck to his face and neck and legs, but he didn’t care. He was alive.

  He rolled onto his back and stared up at the firmament, smiling and crying at the same time.

  Wispy white clouds hung motionless in the clear autumn sky. That one looked like a turtle if you squinted your eyes just so.

  Alive…!

  Mort laughed. He listened to his laughter echo across the preternaturally quiet city. He didn’t care if he sounded like a lunatic. He was alive. He sobered up presently, struggled to his feet. The Gym-boree’s tarry roof made a sticky, shirring sound as he peeled his body from it. His legs were weak and trembling.

  Mort shuffled to the edge of the roof and peered over the side. He was afraid of heights and the view made him feel a little light-headed, but he needed to see.

  In the alley below, the zombies were still gnawing on Fred. Mort’s employee and friend had been reduced, for the most part, to little more than skeleton by then. Several more zombies had sidled up to the Fred buffet and were playing tug-of-war with something grayish and slick that was probably some of his friend’s intestines. Feeling nauseated, Mort turned away.

  He crossed the roof to the other side of the building, the wind blowing back his thin brown bangs. Sitting in the shade of the roof access, Mort put his face in his arms and sobbed. He sobbed for his friend Fred, and for himself. For coming so close to such a horrible end. His tears were hot on his forearms, and he got kind of snotty, blubbering like a wuss, but he couldn’t stop himself. He had to vent the horror and sadness and shoc
k. If he didn’t, he was afraid his head would explode.

  When he finally finished crying and dried his eyes on his Flash t-shirt, he rose to take stock of his situation. As crazy as it all was, he knew that his survival would depend on him being rational and careful. He couldn’t afford to be careless, or deny what was going on.

  His sane, unremarkable life had been invaded by zombies.

  To think it like that, so matter-of-factly, it almost made him laugh. Not good laughter. Terrible, black, crazy laughter. The laughter of some unshaven lunatic in a padded cell and straightjacket, diaper full of shit and piss. Mort stuffed his fist in his mouth to stave off those giggles, which were threatening to come bubbling up out of him, because he was sure that if he let just one of them out, he would keep laughing and laughing and laughing.

  No. He had to be calm. He had to be rational.

  Zombies were on the loose.

  Maybe they weren’t zombies like in the horror flicks, but whatever illness had overcome the citizens of DuChamp, their appearance and behavior was one hundred percent B-movie.

  First, Mort assessed his surroundings.

  The street in front of his shop was mostly empty. A couple people that looked kind of dead were shuffling down the center of the road. They were either zombies or deeply shocked living human beings who were going to be zombie chow really soon if they didn’t wise up. Mort didn’t yell to them to see which it was. He didn’t want to attract any unwanted attention.

  Mort walked to an air conditioning console and sat. He thought for a long time. While he pondered his predicament, he heard the distant, echoing rumble of a jet. He looked up and saw the contrail of the distant airplane. It should have been an encouraging sight, but for some reason it made him sad. It seemed to him right that moment that the jet was fleeing. Abandoning his city. Abandoning him.