Get Zombie: 8-Book Set

by Raymund Hensley

  The remaining people still awake (maybe around 5 of them) were fist-fighting. I was too short to just walk in their and break it up, so I threw vases at them. They stopped after the ninth one. They were all bleeding, but they said it was a fair move on my part. I was impressed with how fast and easy it was for these hippies to center themselves. I told them that I'd be the first to find a job, if that's what it took to inspire people to do the same. They all looked at each other and nodded. NOW they were smiling and happy. They began to dance around, holding hands. I don't know why, but some of them started spitting into mouths. Maybe it was a religious thing. I chose not to question it.

  I told them my plan: I'd go around, walking the streets, stapling fliers for my zombie hunting business here and there, sticking fliers behind as many store and restaurant windows as I could. I ask if anyone would be interested in helping me. Many were interested; many raised their hands. But then I asked if anyone wanted to help me.

  They all put their hand down.

  Except for one person.

  Lynn.

  After ten hours of walking around, handing out and posting fliers under the blasting sun, my feet began to hurt. I took my gray sneakers off and massaged my feet. Lynn sat down next to me and offered a beer. I told her, “No thanks,” concerned about the police. She replied by downing a can in one go and crushed the can against the side of her head and threw it into the busy street. A car ran into another car, and both drivers jumped out with baseball bats. They looked at us, looked at each other, shook hands, and ran at us, yelling bloody murder.

  Lynn laughed and took my hand, and we ran off behind a building, climbing into a dumpster. We heard the men run by, complaining and excited. I couldn't hold my breath anymore. I pushed open the cover and jumped out of the dumpster. I couldn't breathe. Lynn pulled out another beer. (Where was she getting these from?) She put a hand on my shoulder.

  “Do you need mouth to mouth?”

  I thought about it; was it a joke? I laughed it off.

  When we felt it was safe, we continued posting our fliers. A part of me called me a dummy. I had a chance to kiss a girl, and I blew it. Lynn was much older than me – by at least ten years – and that made the idea kind of weird. Shouldn't people have “relations” with others their age, yes? I wasn't sure why I thought that way, but something in me said I was wrong.

  As we went around putting up fliers, and the more I thought about her, the more I wanted her. So what if she was older. Age. Hmph! Didn't make much sense to put a number on love. Was I in love? I felt good. Maybe that was enough to know.

  An old Japanese fellow in a Hawaiian shirt, wearing a red bandana, walked up to us, holding one of our fliers. He pointed at me.

  “Are you the one in this flier? The one with the eye patch?”

  I looked at the flier, then to him.

  “Yes. What can I do you for?”

  The old man sighed.

  “I need your help on something. My daughter is possessed by a demon.”

  I put my hands up in surrender.

  “Demon? I'm sorry. I don't do demons, if you know what I mean.”

  The old man sighed again, loudly, looking like someone just walked over his grave. He looked like he wanted to cry.

  “But I thought....” he paused. “Please?”

  I was going to say something, when Lynn stepped in front of me.

  “Of course he'll do it!” she said, smiling.

  The old man began moving his body up and down in joy, trying to jump.

  “He will?”

  I looked at her.

  “I will?”

  Lynn put her arm around me.

  “This fine fellow needs our help. You can handle a little exorcism.” She looked at the old man. “What we have here is a bonafide demon hunter. A damn demon destroyer!”

  I frowned.

  “We do?”

  The old man was in awe. He stared at me. He examined my hair, touched my face, tapped on my eye patch, squeezed my cheeks together (on my face).

  “Amazing,” he said. “Of course! It makes perfect sense. For what is a zombie but a demon driving around in a corpse!”

  Lynn nodded.

  “Right! And Boss here has killed many a-zombie, which means, by default, he killed many a-demon. He's a goddamn expert!”

  The old man looked worried.

  “I don't want my daughter killed. Promise me you'll be so gentle with her.”

  Lynn assured him his girl would be fine, and the old man nodded, reaching into his back pocket for something. Lynn tightened her arm around my neck in excitement. The old man pulled out a ball of hundred dollar bills. My one good eye almost popped out of my mouth.

  For a second, I almost believed her little lie.

  I was an exorcist that day.

  I need a break from writing Ghost City. That stupid-ass biography is wasting my time. There's no one to read it. Here I am in a ghost city. I'm alone in the world, and I'm writing a book. Why? Why am I doing that?

  Therapy.

  Every now and then I catch myself talking to...myself. I'm even doing it now. It scares me. Maybe if I write all my thoughts down...maybe I can get normal. Makes sense enough. I think?

  Funny thing about writing a book....

  I'm starting to feel scared.

  I hope it's not too short or too long. A novella is perfect. Not overdone like a novel, but also not underwhelming like a short story. Novellas are perfect. I think I'm enjoying this whole writing thing. I may do more – audience or no. Just for my own entertainment. Who knows? Maybe one day someone will find my books – and enjoy them! I like that idea: Of pleasing someone. It's already working. Writing is allowing me to learn more about myself. I should keep my books safe. Put them on a shelf in Ziploc bags. Maybe put them in a freezer, or maybe I should bury them? Yes! I'll do something to preserve my books, starting with this one. Ghost City. I never thought about it before, but that title makes more sense now. Ghost City. I don't wanna get geeky on you, but I think you can figure out what it means. What it really means.

  I'm so afraid of this book being boring. I need to add more adventure into it. And more heart! Yes, that's the ticket. I should tell people about the time I saved a young kid – a girl. That was a tough one to go through. I buried it deep in my brain a long time ago, but maybe it's time to dig her up again. I need to face it for good. Get it out of my system. Take this thorn out of my mind. Own that sad period of my life.

  Who knows.

  Maybe I'll be stronger for it.

  Shells. That was that little girl's name.

  I wonder if she's in Heaven.

  Maybe I should kidnap one of these ghosts and ask.

  The old Japanese man was named Jichard, and he lived in Kaimuki. We got out of his car. The neighborhood was a quiet one – except for this ongoing scream. I assumed it was his daughter. He took us into his house, and the place was a mess. Furniture had been thrown through windows, tables were sticking out from the walls, and a big hole was in the ceiling. He said his daughter's room was through there – right above us. I saw someone poke their head through the hole. The little girl was staring right at us, so surprised! She must've been just seven.

  She spat and growled at us and called us terrible things.

  A part of me died inside.

  That demon in her was turning her into a real beast. The father looked at us and begged for our forgiveness.

  “Please,” he said, “it's not her fault.”

  “I know,” I said. “How do you think this happened? Was your daughter playing with a Ouija board or trying to read tea leaves in a bowl?”

  He said, “No.”

  One day he came home, and she was just all messed up, drawing dicks on the walls and crawling on the walls like a spider and spitting on his head from above. I looked around and saw the dicks on the walls. They were all flaccid. The father began to cry. I felt sorry for him. I always wanted a daughter. I always saw myself as the sort of dad you'd find sit
ting in the dark with a shotgun on his lap, just to scare the boyfriend when he came over for the first time. But that's just me.

  The little girl was named Sheala.

  She was still looking down at us from that hole. She began to throw socks at us. They were stained. I said I had enough and ran up the stairs to confront the demon. Lynn grabbed my arm and told me to relax. If I were to beat this demon, I had to be in control of my emotions and think clearly. Demons were tricky, she said. I had to be cool. Stop and think about my moves. I agreed, nodding for a long time with my eyes closed, taking in deep breaths, and then I continued up the stairs...calm and collected.

  Jichard walked up to Sheala's bedroom door.

  He told us to be careful. That once this door opened, and we walked in, Sheala would start spitting again. I said we could handle it...and he opened the door...and we crept in.

  Jichard was right.

  Sheala began spitting like a machine gun, even making the sounds. We just stood there with our mouths and eyes zipped. Her spit was freezing cold, then hot, then cold again, then normal. She continued spitting. This went on for approximately five minutes on the second. Sheala said she was done, and we opened our eyes and mouths.

  Sheala – or Shells, as her father called her – was on her bed, slithering around like a snake. It was like she had no bones. It was disturbing and sensational at the same time. I asked Lynn if she brought tools to handle this situation. She didn't know what the heck I was talking about. I had to use my wits to win this fight.

  “What is your name, demon?”

  “Shoehorn,” it said. “And I come from Hell! Blahhhhhhhh!”

  The thing stuck its tongue out as it said that last part. I, surprisingly, wasn't disgusted.

  I asked it politely to leave the little girl's precious body, but the demon just laughed and farted in my general direction. NOW I was disgusted. I wanted to strangle that demon out. How dare it just come on in here and torment Shells? I was filled with a sudden rage, the likes I had never felt before. I kept thinking about how this demon wasn't paying for rent, how it could just stay in that place and not PAY. It was a slap in the face for the rest of us rent-paying humans.

  I grabbed a wooden chair and threw it at Shoehorn, hitting it right in the face. The little girl cried and called for her daddy. Jichard ran up and put me in a headlock. Lynn protested and jumped on his back – on him like white on rice. I then had TWO people on my back. I spun around and backed up into walls to get them off. It was only when I fell back into a dresser that they let go. We all hit the floor, which was covered in a thick layer of clear spit. It felt like I was on jello. Jichard rolled around in pain and fell through the hole. We heard a giant crash and crawled to the hole to see the news. We saw another hole. Jichard had fallen into the basement. He sat in a washing machine that was in the middle of a wash cycle, unconscious and spinning around. His head was tilted back with his mouth open. Shoehorn looked over my shoulder and spat into Jichard's mouth. Disgusted all over again, I punched the demon in the face and sent that beast flying back onto the bed. Shoehorn bounced up and down. Laughing!

  I began laughing, too, just to prove that I was not afraid.

  Lynn joined in, but her laugh was different. Unhappy.

  Shoehorn laughed louder, trying to win. I picked up a wooden desk and made to throw it, but it just made that demon laugh faster. Its eyes were burning with power and humor. Those eyes. Those giggling eyes. They sent shivers up my front. I was losing it! I had to get a grip! I yelled out as loud as I could – the demon put its hands over its ears – and I threw the chair at Shoehorn. I got the monster right in the face. And then I jumped on it, strangling it, wrestling with it, putting it in headlocks and many wrestling holds, like the Camel Clutch, the Reverse Chin-lock, the Cobra Clutch, the Mandible Claw, and of course, the Bite of The Dragon.

  Shoehorn tapped out and promised to never enter this child – or any child – again. I had won the fight. The demon flew out from the girl's eyes, and she was all normal again. I let go of her. She asked for her dad, and I explained that he was washing clothes and would be with her in a minute. Tucking the little girl into bed, Lynn and I ran down to the basement and tried to wake Jichard up from his mighty slumber. I prayed that the fall hadn't killed him. I was lucky that night. The man woke up and cried. He had a dream about his daughter, that she was dead. We assured him that in fact the opposite was true. We took him up to his daughter's room as proof of her being cured of the demon. He went over and kissed her on the cheek, whispered something into her ear. The cops were on their way.

  He shoved his hand down his crotch and gave us a bunch of money, even some quarters.

  To celebrate, I treated Lynn to a night out on the town.

  We went to every single taco place in Honolulu.

  Then we went home to shower off all that spit.

  It was good night.

  When I woke up, I gathered everyone together – all those hippies – and showed them all the money I made from my exorcism job. They all drooled over the money. It was rent money, I explained. It would hold us off for a little while. In the mean time, everyone needed to get jobs to help out. The hippies all went, “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” and went back sleeping on the floor and doing yoga and singing songs and stringing flowers together to make leis.

  There was a knock on the door. As I went to answer it, a hippie said that SHE was going to go work as a waitress somewhere in Waikiki. I was impressed. I told her how happy it made me feel to hear her finding work, and we smiled at each other. Sadly, a week later, she would be hit by a truck transporting pigs. It was one of the few times I cried in that month.

  I opened the door and was greeted by a fat woman in a red dress. She was holding a briefcase. The first thing she said was, “There are five hundred dollars in here.” But it wasn't a zombie hunting job. It was another exorcism. My first instinct was to not do it. It wasn't my expertise. The fat woman, whose name was Tish, begged me to do it. She was a friend of Jichard. He told her all about my healing his daughter, Shells. Tish trusted me. She didn't want to go to all those other exorcists. They charged too much, and, according to people she chatted with, these exorcists made a mess. In one instance, a whole boat blew up. The exorcist in charge said, “I didn't do it! Blame the demon!” There was no responsibility. People with demon possession problems were desperate, in need of help – they needed someone trustworthy.

  Word was spreading fast about me.

  Still, I didn't want to do it. I wasn't THAT experienced. I didn't want to let anyone down, especially well-meaning folks. Better I direct them to someone better. A better exorcist that knew what the Hell they were doing. Maybe they should talk to their local priest?

  And then I thought of something: My zombie business was just picking up, but the demon thing was already in high demand. For now, I could use this exorcism money to move out – move out into my own place. I liked that idea. I'd make enough money to leave these hippies behind. I'd just have to play this exorcist game for a little while, and I'd have Lynn move in with me, of course.

  Before I left, I put the money in an envelope and gave it to the landlord. I didn't trust those hippies in paying the rent. I had an image of them running off with the money and buying marijuana or hashish or opium or potatoes or whatever it was hippies got off on.

  As we got into Tish's white van and made our way to her apartment somewhere in Makaha, somewhere near the beach, I thought about Lynn. She was working. I didn't tell her about the job I was heading to. Didn't call her cell. Didn't want her to worry.

  Tish lived on the 50th floor of an apartment building called The Queen Ka. A storm cloud was above the ocean. The waves were violent. In the elevator, I wondered if I could come up with something to say to Tish. She didn't say anything through the whole ride over. She made me feel weird, like I was doing something wrong. To help ease my nerves, I just kept thinking about being paid. I just wanted to get this whole thing over with. As we walked to her apartment �
�� down that dirty, red carpet – I could hear strange things all around me – odd sounds coming out from those other apartments. We walked past an open door. In those two seconds, I saw a skinny Chinese man in an bloody apron, cutting the head off a chicken with a loud THWACK! The head bounced on the floor, still alive and bouncing, those eyes rolling around like cartoon eyes, mouth gasping, tongue shooting in and out. Then, out of another apartment (this one a closed door), a baby was crying – wailing! Like it was being murdered, like it was being shook to high heaven. For a second, I thought THAT was Tish's apartment, but no, I was wrong.

  Tish stopped and looked in her purse for her keys.

  “I wanna move out of this dopey place,” she said, already crying. “My big day will come. See?” She showed me a napkin. Someone scribbled a few lines on it. It looked like a smiling snake. “See?” she said again. “I'm an artist!” Only she said it like, Ar-tee-sT! She searched through her bag again and found her keys. “When I'm rich and famous, I'm moving out of here. I'm moving to Arizona. Land of the free. Land of heroes. Land of ar-tee-sts!”

  I had no idea what she was talking about, but I didn't dare to say anything offensive – OR encouraging. Let's just get this over with, I thought over and over again.

  Standing outside of her apartment door, watching as she fumbled and dropped her keys, I could already hear her possessed son, Coons. He must have sniffed me out. He began pounding on the door, saying the most disgusting things.

  “I can sniff your holes!” He sounded like he was begging. “I can feel your mouth against mine....” His voice was demonic, like a hyaena’s mating call gone terribly wrong, mixed in with too much hard liquor and cigarettes and screaming and the gargling of exotic baby oils.