Hell Hath No Fury

by TW Brown

  The newscasters, all serious-faced, now expressed concern and they had tons of experts with expert opinions on exactly what was happening and why we suddenly had zombies in our midst. The expert testimonies varied from toxic waste, to aliens, to Arm-ageddon. But the one thing everyone agreed on was that zombies were fictional monsters and were impossible in the real world. They were dead. Dead cannot rise, mindless, and attack the living. The only ones who did disagree where featured on the SyFy Channel which then proceeded to run every zombie movie they could get their hands on.

  I left after the dinner shift, which was very slow, since it was still technically winter and the nights were cold and dark early. By the time I caught a cab home—and cabs were scarce—the news was full of controversy.

  I watched a film clip of the police taking flame-throwers to a cemetery in Chicago. It looked effective, but up in the corner of the screen in a picture-in-picture box, media-hungry rabble-rousing representatives of every ethnic group in the city were screaming that this was a racial attack against the dead African American, Hispanic, Jewish, Catholic, Irish, Italian, Russian, you- name-it, population. I think there were more activists yelling about zombies then there were actual zombies at that point.

  Every ethnic group in America was up in arms about the desecrations of their undead; although these same people were also screaming about the zombie problem that had to be taken under control immediately.

  There was even a warning that undead animals were out in droves, only, they seemed to try to eat their own species. All the same, the pet cemeteries seemed to be emptying out as well. Decaying and skeletal Fidos and Fluffy the cats were returning to their human families. Gross!

  Al Gore came on and blamed the zombies on Global Warming, Michael Moore put the blame on stupid white men, and Jihadists were shouting that they caused this uprising of the dead. The religious right screamed about the wrath of God, and most members of the government were trying to deny the problem at all.

  Whatever and whoever, they all had a speculation. But it didn’t really matter, because zombies were eating everyone: Christians, Jews, Buddhists, and Muslims…as well as Satanists and Atheists.

  I turned off the TV and went to bed, comforted in the knowledge that mankind was as stupid as ever, and people only banded together to save the human race in the movies.

  The next day, the news was even bleaker. It seems that the zombies were starting to travel in larger packs, and that the newly dead were a lot quicker than their rotting companions. They were actually starting to attack people, individuals walking alone, homeless street dwellers, old age centers, and teenagers who naturally insisted that they were invincible and ignored the warnings.

  I gave up worrying about the world and wondered briefly if I needed to pay my mortgage on time or even ever. Just in case the material world survived, I went to work, only, I drove my old car that usually sat in the driveway ever since the gas prices went over $5.00 a gallon. Just as I figured, parking was no problem that morning. No one was out, unlike the first morning of the zombie invasion.

  I went in and looked at Lou and the two customers sipping coffee. “So you think the rush is over for today?” I asked. “Looks like the tips are going to be light.”

  Louie just shrugged and watched the television. I followed his gaze. The zombies seemed to be growing in numbers. According to reports, the flamethrowers at the graveyards seemed to be working a little, but the cops and fireman were getting spread thin, and a lot of zombies just got up and shuffled off the grounds, not bothering to use the roads and gates. Then, of course, there was the usual rioting and looting and, no surprise here, everyone suddenly rediscovered their religion.

  One day into the undead crisis and life was settling into a new normal. Only a few people wandered in, although one guy came in with a gun and demanded money. I thought I would pass out when he burst through the door with his green Mohawk and leather jacket and pants. He looked around quickly then screamed at Louie, “All your money! Now!”

  Louie didn’t even bat an eye. He reached toward the register and asked, “Whatcha need the money for, to pay off the zombies?”

  The punk started to answer when his face went ashen. “Uh, no, don’t need nothin’.” He backed out the door.

  I turned to look at Louie and saw him holding a shotgun. “Puts his popgun to shame, don’t it?” he said conversationally, then turned back toward the television. “Picked it up just in case. Even though it won’t kill a zombie, it sure could slow the sucker down if I blow off its leg.”

  I nodded and glanced over at the only customer in the place, cowering in the last booth. “It’s okay, Dan, you can get up now.”

  Dan stood and tried to act dignified, although it had to be difficult, since he had to get out from under the table, and the front of his tan pants were wet. “That would make a great story, Lou,” he said, and took out his skinny little reporter’s notepad. “Can get you on the front page for the morning edition.”

  Louie, seemed to warm to the idea immediately. He turned to Dan and hit the off switch on the remote. “Okay, ask away, buddy, and for you, the coffee’s free.”

  Overnight, Louie became a star…hero to the living who suddenly swamped the place because, even facing what seemed to be the end of the world, people love celebrity. And Dan, who had always hung around the restaurant anyway, became a regular, interviewing the customers because the newspaper gave him his own column: Living.

  After a month or so, the customers started to dwindle, and the numbers of zombies on the streets began to increase. After an intensive investigation that ruled out pollution, solar radiation, alien intervention, the wrath of God, and terrorist actions, scientists finally announced the cause of the zombies.

  Never-Dying Grass.

  No solutions to the increasing numbers of the newly undead was offered, but at least we all knew now that it was once again the stupidity of the human race that brought about another ecological disaster, if you can consider the living dead an ecological problem.

  Dan had a field day writing about Never-Dying Grass in his column. He went out and interviewed all sorts of sources—although he couldn’t get a comment from the Green Seed Company—and he never tried to interview a zombie; although he always talked like he was going to. He was just waiting for the right one to approach. It didn’t matter that Dan was full of crap. He was scared, and who could blame him. Nobody could talk to a zombie. They bite, and once bitten, you became a zombie, too.

  Anyway, Never-Dying Grass was a wonderful idea created by the Green Seed Company. With everyone spouting about going green to save the world, the seed company decided to develop a grass seed that only grew when it rained, stayed green between stormy weather, and self-fertilized whenever it did get wet, saving the world from fertilizer runoff.

  Great concept; they sold it to cemeteries because it was so low maintenance and made even the shabbiest graveyards look well-kept. Then they started selling it to parks and golf courses. Lucky break for the world that there weren’t many dead people in those places, because, you guessed it, whatever combination of rejuv-enating fertilizers and chemicals resurrected the grass, well, that stuff seeped into the ground and started resurrecting the buried dead.

  What a mess. Once the grass was discovered as the culprit, it was torn out and destroyed. Too late.

  It soon became obvious that the rotting zombies were falling apart, leaving pieces and limbs all over the streets. Their brains had turned from pudding to sludge that dribbled out of the openings in their heads. In the more intact members, the brain fluid leaked from eyes, ears, nose, and mouth. But, oh, the older bodies, they had so many holes, that the brain cavity had to have emptied almost like a car radiator with a leak...either way, car or zombie, they hemorrhaged green guts. But there were always fresher, newer zombies to take their place.

  Life was trying to get back to routine; only, the mean streets were a little more dangerous. People carried weapons openly, lots of guns, flamethrowe
rs, and gasoline soaked torches. Much of the zombie myths turned out to be pure fiction, but setting the living dead on fire was a sure way to make them permanently dead…forever.

  After another few weeks, almost all of the original zombies were gone, rotted away to nothing. But the new zombies, the ones that were animated through contact—the ones that were never really dead to begin with—well, they were somewhere in between dead and not dead. They had that blank-faced stare, moaned and slobbered, but their limbs stayed intact, their eyes weren’t turning to gooey bulging marbles, and they had some of their coordination and dexterity. Worst of all, they had speed. These demons were quick and deadly. If they ever figured out how to band together as a thinking, cohesive unit, mankind would surely be doomed.

  During all this time, I drove to work everyday because I felt safer around Lou and the few regulars that still came in.

  Then it happened. One day after the breakfast crowd, a term I use loosely, the door opened and in came three zombies: two pretty fresh, and one who must have been a freshly dead original. They stood by the door and did nothing. One looked confused and then pained. “Huuuuh,” he said, and pointed at the counter.

  “Give ‘em a menu!” Lou whispered in a harsh, raspy voice.

  I stood my ground and stayed behind the counter.

  Lou grunted with disgust and walked over to the dead trio. He held the cardboard menus out like a peace offering. The man who had made the sound slapped them out of his hand. Lou backed up a step—just out of biting range—and said to me, “Set up three coffees and butter some of that leftover toast.”

  I stared at him like he was mad. I mean, he had to be mad to even suggest feeding zombies.

  “Do it!”

  I did. I don’t remember ever taking my eyes off the living dead customers, but somehow there were three set-ups with fresh coffee and toast. I pointed at the counter, and to my shock, the small group walked slowly over. After many attempts to sit on the stools, they finally remained seated and upright.

  The moaner, turned his dull eyes toward me and said, “Huuuuuh.” He picked up the coffee cup with both hands and spilled it down his front. The other two followed his example, and then they picked up the toast.

  The rotting one shoved the buttered triangle into her cheek, tearing a hole in the soft, unresilant flesh. The other man managed at get some into his mouth and stopped dead. His features twisted into the most awful thing I think I had ever seen. Repulsed, I stepped farther away.

  “MMMMM,” he managed after a few tries. I stared at the spray of still dried crumbs that had spilled out of his opened mouth and, with a shudder, I realized he was trying to smile.

  “Good, good,” Lou said, and smiled back. “See?” he said, turning to me. “Business is picking up!”

  I watched as the three struggled to get out of their seats, and then I glared at Lou. “Business? Business? They’re dead for the love of anything holy. What do you think? That they’ll pay you? God, Lou, I can’t go on like this, dead people are becoming our best customers. I’m broke…haven’t made a decent tip in months… ever since this began…and you say business is picking up?”

  Lou shrugged, “Baby, you just need to be adapt-able.”

  Dan got up from behind the pinball machine, using a napkin to discreetly hide the wet stain spreading down his pants. “Wow!” What a story...Diner for the Undead! Bet I make front page.”

  Lou beamed. “Somehow I’m going to get rich off of all this publicity. I can feel it in my bones! Rita, didn’t I tell you the world wasn’t coming to and end, just a new beginning!”

  I shrugged and watched Dan writing in his notebook. “How come you don’t use a handheld device to write with?” I asked. “You look like Clark Kent.”

  Dan beamed at me, “Superman!”

  “No,” I said, remembering how Dan either left a quarter for lunch or stiffed me for the coffees that Lou never got paid for. “Clark Kent sums it up just fine.”

  Dan harrumphed and moved back to the booth he’d inhabited before the zombies had eaten breakfast.

  The next day, Dan did make the front page, but there was very little news except Zombies-doing-this and Zombies-doing-that…and maybe an occasional living kitten or puppy rescued from their undead counterparts to lighten the load.

  As Lou sat and admired the headline, five zombies entered the diner and headed for the counter. The original three and two buddies, I guessed. I quickly got out the coffees and toast, and Lou shouted from the kitchen to pick up an abandoned order of pancakes. The zombies moaned and grunted like they were in dead-pig heaven.

  When they finished, they shuffled off to do whatever it was that zombies do. Dan jumped up from the booth he’d been cowering in and started to follow them.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” I asked.

  “To follow the story.”

  “Look, Dan, you really don’t have a good nose for news. Why don’t you just stay and see if anyone else comes in? Here,” I said, “have a coffee and pie on the house.”

  Dan went back to his booth and waited the rest of the day to see if anyone else came in. Of course, after the story about zombies being welcomed, no one else set foot in the place all day.

  Dan’s next story was about the irrational fear of zombies hurting the economy.

  Each day, the zombies came. First the five, then six, then they started coming in separate groups. We fed them. After all, a sated zombie was not a hungry zombie, and as the days progressed, attacks on the living in the blocks around the diner fell off.

  It was a Saturday, not that the days counted for anything much anymore. A group of four zombies had just sat down to plates of day-old tuna salad when Dan left his booth and walked up behind them.

  Before I could shout stop, Dan had tapped one of them on the shoulder. “Say,” he began. “Can any of you guys speak at all? I’d like to do—”

  Before he could finish the sentence, the interrupted zombie turned and sank his teeth into Dan’s head, ripping off a huge chuck of his face.

  Dan cried out and fell to the floor…silent and still as the blood pooled around him.

  I turned and threw up, then sank to my knees and cried. I didn’t get up again until the zombies who had returned to their meal got up and left.

  When I could finally stand again, I looked over the counter. Lou was nudging Dan with his toe. “Guess that ends the free publicity,” he sighed, and dragged Dan’s body out to the curb. Then he came back in and called the zombie victim hotline. “Got a corpse on the curb,” he said, and gave the address.

  I stood there, open-mouthed. How could Lou be so calm? Sure, Dan was a jerk, but still he was a fellow human being. Now he was destined to become either charred meat or reanimated flesh. I couldn’t stand it. Tears were streaming down my face; I felt sick and totally confused.

  Maybe the world really was beyond hope. I had not thought about giving up until that moment. I threw down my apron. I didn’t even wait to see if the torch squad came and incinerated Dan. I just left, drove home and locked myself in my nice, safe, boarded-up, steel barred home.

  I stayed there the next few days, but the walls just seemed to close in on me. With no place else to go, I went into work on the fourth day. Lou watched me enter and never said a word. After a few minutes, the zombies started wandering in.

  Some things had changed in the time I took off. When they finished eating, one of the zombies got up and carried the dishes into the bus cart. Another got up and pushed a broom around the floor.

  Lou smiled at me. “They just started working for their food. It seems that perhaps there is still a little humanity left in them, or else maybe they were just evolving.”

  “Evolving?” I snapped. “They are freaking dead, Lou!”

  Dan came shuffling in and sat. He tried to eat, but he was still getting the hang of being reanimated. He smiled at me and said, “Huuiii, Riiitttaaa.”

  I felt my mouth just drop open, and I had to physically push it shut.
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  Lou smiled. “As I said, a new generation, a little smarter. Evolution!”

  After the last group wandered in, the zombie who had taken that first bite of toast all those weeks ago finished eating, turned to stare at me with those dull lifeless eyes, and gave me that godawful, twisted, distorted smile.

  “TPPPPPPPPPP,” he sort of gurgled, and got up to leave. He pointed at the hand he had left on the counter next to the plate.

  I wanted to scream, but then I noticed a diamond ring on one of the grey, swollen fingers.

  “Tpppppppppppp!” he uttered again.

  I nodded at my first tip in weeks and smiled back at my customer. Evolution happens in many ways, I decided, and pried the ring off the hand.

  Hanna Masaryk is currently a Sophomore at New York University, where she is studying English literature and creative writing. Her specialty is “contemporary speculative literature,” or, if you prefer, “$8 fantasy paperbacks.” She splits her time between Manhattan and Cleveland, Ohio, and sleeps with a baseball bat next to both beds. You never know. “The Baseball Bat and the Axe” is her first published piece.

  “I’ll take Stopping the Supernatural for $800.”

  “They can be slowed with a gun, stopped with a baseball bat, and killed with an axe.”

  “What are… Zombies?”

  “Correct.”

  Now, Dear Reader, let me ask: Do you have your baseball bat and axe handy, just in case? Jo and Thomas have theirs, but I’m not sure it will be enough for this unlikely pair trying to cope in a dead new world. They’ve got their packs, they’ve got their baseball bat, they’ve got their axe and they’ve got each other. Come along with me to the Italian countryside and let’s see if these two have what it takes to survive the Zombpocolypse in The Baseball Bat and the Axe.

  The Baseball Bat and the Axe

  By Hanna Masaryk