An animal is sorely missed though. Having one around changed the way we all acted. Critters never doubt the sincerity of our acting, not for one second. But any twist on the timeless Zombie Attack story usually turned out to be a mistake, and this was no exception. There was a reason they kept dogs out of most of those movies. And what happened to our dog was something we zombies rarely talk about. And, as always, we worried Amy would bring up the incident by the end of the night.
I’m pulling at a window frame when someone nicks some skin off the side of my thumb with the claw end of the hammer. It’s the same set of eyes from earlier. I frown and count “strike two” in my head.
At least Jeff is laughing tonight, having more fun. See, back in the day, Jeff used to date Amy. Davey Jones encouraged this, thinking it would be great motivation since he’d puff out a little more around her, and maybe that would help sell his role to the Camels. And he let them keep their real names to help stay in character, too.
It worked for awhile.
The problem was that it quickly made some emotions bleed over into real life in increasingly dangerous ways. It didn’t help that one season Amy cheated on Jeff with Jerry, a.k.a. “Baseball Zombie.” That made Jeff target the big number 3 on Jerry’s back a bit too aggressively sometimes. During one seemingly endless barrage, Jeff broke character and mercilessly ridiculed Amy for liking athletes, even though Jerry had never thrown a pitch or hit a ball in his life. This, in return, caused Jerry to punch one Camel in the face last year (“barely a swat,” he finally admitted), a very solid and unundead-looking right hook that plowed through some bottom teeth like the Garden Weasel and cost the equivalent of a dozen of them (not cheap, we used one after each attack to fix the landscaping), plus shipping and handling, to settle out of court. A lot of “dead baby mama drama,” Mags called it. Now, Tom, our military Plant, and part of our locked room mystery during the climax, was very quick to freestyle through the awkwardness of any bloody nose by coming up with his own story off the cuff about their platoon reporting zombies imitating what they’d seen on the screen at a drive-in Rocky festival (“could happen,” he shrugged) then stood humming nervously in a dogpile of corpses as he held a toy phone over his head desperately searching for a signal.
But besides that recent love triangle, this year there was also a new power struggle in our ranks. The two Bobbys, Bobby Z and Bobby B, had both developed a strange impulse to lead us on the attack at all times. Each of them wanted to be the head zombie, standing on point, the first to use tools, first to snarl, et cetera, sort of like the “Gas” character in Land of the Dead. You know, leading assaults, making decisions, very slowly of course, it all became quite a nuisance, more and more important to each of them every siege. It made for low, slurring but serious arguments over cold barbecue chicken, over who broke what window. And even though we all guessed it was mostly because they had the bad luck of both being named “Bobby,” there was also some talk about one of them wanting to be the first zombie to drive a Camel’s car. This was inexcusable. Not just because it wasn’t in the contract, but because this would be a scene that is not in any of the movies, remakes included.
But tonight they are just fighting about that helmet nonstop.
“I don’t know why you even like the Steelers. It goes against our philosophy.”
“The fuck you talking about?”
“That Polamalu-malu-lu’s girly-ass hair would be a serious liability during a zombie uprising. I can’t believe none of the announcers ever bring that up, to be honest.”
“No, he’s way too fast to get caught.”
“Maybe with a ball in his hands. Without it, he’s lunch. In fact, I saw him take a hit so hard once that the ref yelled, ‘Fatality!’ instead of ‘Offsides’ …”
“Bullshit.”
“… got hit so hard he left his multiplication tables on the 50 yard line, along with memories of three Christmases ago …”
“Never happened.”
“… so hard his helmet rolled into the end zone and his head was still in it.”
“Unlikely.”
“I was there, man. And I couldn’t believe they played such an inappropriate song in the stadium while they gathered up the pieces. If he ever did wake up, he’d have thought he was in Maroon 5 …”
“A level of exaggeration I’ve sadly grown accustomed to …”
“Shhh!” A zombie tries to get them to keep it down.
“Anyway. You owe me a helmet, asshole.”
“Yes, my asshole owes you a helmet.”
“You guys seem to forget your roles,” I interrupt. “Mags didn’t give you two those shirts to represent the Army and Navy football teams for no reason …”
“Fuck off,” they tell me in stereo. Then the weight goes out of their arms, and they get into character. Just in time, too, as the second couple comes bounding up the driveway, laughing and zigzagging past the Bobbys as they make half-ass swipes at their shoulders. I’m closest to the house and the only one that sees what the Camel drops near the front door.
It’s a paper towel. My heart would have jumped if it still pumped. As the brother of a child with OCD, I suddenly suspect this might change some things. A guest like this might not be ready for prime time, not ready for the trials and tribulations of our particular game, not ready to fiddle while Rome burns. This might be one of those guys who doesn’t want to get dirty enough to convince himself it’s really happening. Well, then he shouldn’t have signed up, should he? This should make me angry, even angrier than the Bobbys’ constant nonsense, but for the first time since I started shuffling up the driveway tonight, this Truck Zombie is scared.
“I Bite,” someone says.
“Nice work. Hold on. Bite what?” someone asks.
“No, I’m just saying that would be the perfect name for a zombie movie. It’s even better than I, Zombie because it’s like the shortest sentence in the history of the English language.”
“Actually, ‘I bite’ is not the shortest possible sentence. ‘I am’ will always hold that title.”
“I Bite Therefore I Am!”
“Sounds like Dr. Seuss.”
Turning back to our mob, I see her keeping to the rear, head down farther than anyone’s. At some point tonight, I will have to tell her how I feel. It is expected, of course, end of the world confessions are almost required. But this is only half the reason. The other half is the perfect advice I’d heard her giving to another zombie about something entirely different. Whether or not to eat some expired eggs was the original subject of the debate, I believe, but the answer was universal.
“If not now, when?” she said.
* * * *
The smoke break was probably her idea, our Cigarette Zombie (a.k.a. Coffee and Cigarettes Zombie, a.k.a. Term-Paper-Grading Zombie), whose one character trait was, once she broke into the house, trying to smoke every cigarette and drink as much coffee as she could. But doing it really, really slow. This was all a result of trying to relive her previous existence as a grad student, according to Mags. I never thought it was fair that she was the only one claiming to be a Grad Student Zombie as we were all, without exception, University of Pittsburgh drop-outs, kicked-outs, and failed-outs, every cursed one of us.
We usually took the smoke break behind The Joshua Bush, the squat and lonely shrub in the middle of the field near the fake gas pump. This was where most of our debates occurred. It was not named after the U2 album. You’ll see.
The break was usually scheduled for the reveal of the Plants in the basement, since that should occupy all the Camels’ for a good half hour. But the timing was off tonight, and the second couple had just arrived, so we decided to eat our lunch fast. We were always tired of barbecue chicken and entrails by the end of the night (the best meat to simulate zombie feasting), so most of us usually stuck to fruit or vegetables to balance our diets. Ever see a zombie with rickets? It’s not pretty. Looks just like me.
Since we’re out of earshot, we don’t h
ave to whisper or moan. Passing around a box of fig bars, our discussion turns to the word “zombie” and how hard it is to not acknowledge exactly what we are every time we play the game, how the existence of zombies has to be a new discovery every single time. I agree, but don’t say so. Just like my small-brained cat used to think every day was her first day on Earth, it’s taboo to ever say the word “zombie” out loud, a strict rule that the British comedy Shaun of the Dead mocked quite effectively. Contrary to popular belief, the much revered 1978 Dawn of the Dead was actually the first movie to break this law. But the worst infraction was, of course, in the more recent Land of the Dead where a visibly bored Dennis Hopper seems to be speaking not just directly to the audience, but directly to the movie’s goddamn trailer, “Zombies, man, they creep me out.” I still cringe thinking about it. You’d think he would have been thankful to have a script written for his complete comfort and indifference. He has to be the only villain, zombie movie or otherwise, ever to spend 90% of his screen time in a luxury hotel sipping whiskey. He probably thought he was doing a buddy-cop flick the whole time.
Waiting for the fig bars to come back around, it’s just a matter of time before someone’s stirring the pot of discord, as usual.
“Then why are you, say, ‘Lumberjack Zombie?’” Baseball Zombie asks, pointing over the bush and talking through a mouthful of masticated mush. “We’re always encouraging the word, too, you know?”
“We don’t count, asshole,” he scoffs. “And I’m Seattle Zombie now. Don’t forget it.”
“And don’t let them see you guys kissing this time, Jack.”
“I ain’t Jack. Seattle Zombie, damn it! Recognize!”
“Who was kissing?” I ask, heart pounding, way too interested in the answer.
“Cigarette Zombie and one of the Bobbys,” someone mutters.
“Why not?” Cigarette Zombie laughs. “Zombies should want to do that just as much as they’d want to find a catcher’s mitt. Hell, they’re actually fucking in Dead Alive.”
“You mean Braindead?” someone corrects her.
“Whatever.”
“No. Not whatever. That’s the original title.”
“Whatever.”
“Ha! I schooled your ass.”
“Yes,” admits Cigarette Zombie. “You have indeed taken me to Ass School.”
Cigarette Zombie turns away, but Josh, the instigator, a kid who was technically supposed to be Sushi Chef Zombie but we liked to call “Sour Towel” Zombie because he smelled like a ripe bath towel at all times (as if he never heard of a dryer even before the Apocalypse) plopped down next to me and kept inching closer and closer to my shoulder. He was always way too into these debates. And surprisingly unfunny for a kid named “Josh.”
“That’s right, baby,” he laughs. “You have definitely been taken where asses are regularly schooled.”
“Dude, take a step back,” I hiss. “They don’t make toothpaste strong enough for the undead.”
I elbow him toward Cigarette Zombie, and she elbows him right back.
“You know what Sour Towel Zombie reminds me of?” asks Cigarette Zombie, looking up from the rotting parts of the apple she was eating around, “He’s like Night of the Living Bread.”
“How’s that?” Sour Towel Zombie sneers, ready to jump on any inaccuracies of an obscure parody.
“Like the bread on the lawn, dude! Every time we look away, you get a little closer.”
“Yeah, seriously,” I agree, then cough. “Back up, man. You’re in my bubble.”
Somewhere, the conversation takes an inevitable turn.
“Okay, sure, they may hope it’ll be like trying to deep-throat an old splintered baseball bat. But that’s just wishful thinking. It’s more like trying to inflate a decade-old New Year’s noisemaker by sucking instead of blowing.”
“Hold up. Does it even count as a ‘deep throat’ if there’s a convenient exit wound?”
“Those days are over. As we dry up, don’t tell me I’m the only one who noticed his balls are on the wrong side of things lately.”
“What do you mean?”
“You ever smack one of your Hot Wheels too hard and the wheels ended up near the windows?”
“Que?”
“The wheels on the cock go ’round and ’round …”
“Quiet!” snaps the other Bobby, and we hunch lower around the bush instinctively as Cigarette Zombie lights up, signaling the break is almost over. I look around the circle.
Besides the Plants, Jeff, Amy, and their dog or daughter (and, of course, Mags and Davey Jones, who were supposed to burst into the house later tonight) there are about, what, a dozen of us these days? Yeah, that’s got to be right. I remember the number because of a carton of rotten eggs where Mags drew every one of our faces on the yellow shells to remind us not to eat them.
First there’s Jerry, a.k.a. Baseball Zombie, a.k.a. somebody’s little brother. Then there’s the kid with the unlikely name of We Ma, a.k.a. Cowboy Zombie, a.k.a. We “None” Ma, the result of filling out a driver’s license application, putting “none” in the space for a middle name, and the clerk mistaking it for just another crazy Asian moniker. (To show her own cultural sensitivity, Mags once vetoed Davey Jones’ attempt to make him the cleaver-wielding Sushi Chef Zombie.) Then there’s Lumberjack Zombie, a.k.a. Seattle Zombie, a.k.a. Steve? I don’t think I ever met that guy, actually, and probably couldn’t “recognize!” no matter how many times he said it. He’s been known to wear two shirts to try to look bigger, I’m told. At least that’s the only possible explanation for a nickname like “Zombie Two-Shirts.” He was also Sensible Shoes Zombie for awhile, and he shuffled ever so comfortably. Then there’s Matt, a.k.a. Security Guard Zombie, a.k.a. Rent-A-Cop Zombie. His title doesn’t really fit as he sports a huge beard like a surfboard hanging off his face that he could hide half a chicken in. We’re still petitioning to make him Shoplifter Zombie instead (would have been Sticky Fingers Zombie if we didn’t all have sticky fingers) and fire Glen, a.k.a Midlife Crisis Zombie, who’s balls-deep in exactly that.
Then there are Michael and Rachel, a.k.a. Indian Zombie and Indian Zombie, one Native American with the feather behind his ear, one European with the dot on her forehead that sometimes doubles as a bullet hole. Michael loves his one characteristic, never showing emotion, and says it suits him perfect as, supposedly, he has never shed a tear in his entire life. “And now, of course,” he likes to tell us, “it’s way too late.” And Rachel, she doesn’t just stick to citing various Eastern religions. She’s also been known to ironically quote the Bible to us when the Camels aren’t in earshot (Matt, too, of course, in honor of his namesake, both always in a deep, movie narrator voice). And Mark, a.k.a. Fast-Talking ’50s Newspaper Man Zombie (who never really fit at all), he walked off the set one day and never came back. Said our plots were predictable, our jokes stale, our lifestyles unhealthy, and he just didn’t have the stomach for it anymore.
And then there’s Nate, a.k.a. Third Stage Zombie, the slippery, oily, decaying ghoul you’d see toward the end of the film that’s having an even tougher time putting one foot in front of the other. He’s one of those zombies who’s swimming in that limbo right before his muscles stop working entirely. Nate actually walked awkwardly on the tips of his toes back when he was alive, back when we used to call him Obsessive Compulsive Zombie, a.k.a. The O.C.Z., so his adopted role here is a no-brainer.
We try not to look at him. He reminds us the game can end.
And then there are the wild cards, sitting directly across from each other, as always, the two Bobbys, Bobby Zelienople and Bobby Balldinger, a.k.a. Bobby Z and Bobby B. They aren’t zombies, not yet. At this point during the game, we aren’t even supposed to see them. They are supposed to represent the military that always show up in the third act to screw everything up and dash any hopes of rescue or civilization. But they can never get this right. They like to pretend they already got bit, got turned, always way too early. They want to be b
oth, neither, apparently. A tradition in most zombie films is that the military is never to be trusted under any circumstances, and they do relish these roles. Too bad they can never wait for their cue. Sometimes, they play Army, sometimes Navy, sometimes Air Force. But their rivalry started when, after we started making the big bucks, Mags brought them Armed Forces football jerseys instead of just T-shirts so they’d be more visible at night. Then someone brought a Steelers helmet. Big mistake. Now their competition regularly comes to blows.
Tonight, however, neither Bobby wears a jersey. They claim they’re playing the roles of National Guard volunteers and are sick of the uniforms. Nobody bothers to argue. Rumor has it among the two higher-ups this is gonna be their last season if there are any more problems. And defecating in the football helmet probably sealed the deal, even though they tried to pin their behavior on some shocking news from the real world, the untimely motorcycle, train, Segway, hot-air balloon collision (and subsequent final decapitation) of their favorite Fantasy Football father figure, beloved number 7 but number 1 in their hearts, cereal endorser and serial rapist, Big Ben “Has Been” Roethlisberger, a.k.a. Hand-off Burger, a.k.a. Rapist Burger, a.k.a. Roethlisraper. But now and forever Headless Road Burger Zombie. Some say you can still see him lurking around bathrooms.
They glare at each other, arms crossed, pinched mouths and smirks crawling like caterpillars around their faces. We all know it will be a long night for us, but they won’t disappoint anybody just tuning in.
Cigarette Zombie? I never got her name. And I can’t remember when I first noticed she was stumbling alongside of me as I sighed and pounded the house embarrassingly limp-wristed.
4 Hardcore Zombie Novellas Page 10