Zombies' End: Aftermath

by Feren, Todd C.

  “I love you, Bob.” Then I swung right at his head.

  It only took one swing this time.

  I kept hearing what he said to me before he turned.

  “Cyrus, you a good friend.”

  To tell you the truth, the better man died that night. He was a good man. He saved my life, and all I could do for him in the end was—I guess kill him isn’t the right words ‘cause he was already dead. I guess the best I could do for him was to stop him.

  But every night since then, I wish it was me that got bit. I wish long-haired Bob was here to tell you the story of how he “stopped” me.

  I went up the ladder first. I’m just like the rest of you. Scared. I didn’t wanna die.

  Maybe we did deserve this. I hear people on the streets every day talking about this like it’s all behind us. Some people say it’s over, but I can tell by their voices they don’t really believe that.

  They WANT to believe that, but it’s bullshit.

  The ones that came to Florida walked across the ocean, right?

  What do they say about this planet? Two thirds of the world are covered by water. How long till another million washes up somewhere else, and this whole thing starts all over again?

  The beaches aren’t gonna be busy any time soon.

  For five days, I was on top of that McDonald’s and nobody came to help me.

  I made a game out of ripping tile off the roof and throwing them at those things. It didn’t hurt them, but it was fun.

  Man, I really thought I was gonna die up there.

  No water, no food…

  I sure as hell wasn’t gonna go back down and try to get some food from inside the McZombies.

  I laid back down on that roof and waited. The sun was hot on my face.

  I closed my eyes and tried to think myself anywhere but there. Then, I heard a shot. I looked up and saw a man on his balcony. Wearing just a bathrobe. He had a rifle, and he was shooting into the crowd on the streets. He fired about ten times into the crowd of zombies.

  As he reloaded, I saw him wave to me. When he did his robe fell open.

  He had a little dick. But shooting a rifle into the crowd like he was—he had some big ass balls.

  There was no way he could really do anything to get me out of there, but at least he was trying. As he fired, another man with a rifle came out onto his porch and started firing shot after shot into the mother fuckers... Then an old woman with a handgun came out and started shooting down into the hoard. Then a young white woman started shooting down.

  Everyone had a mother fuckin’ gun!

  Before I knew it about half of the balconies in the apartments in front of me had people—regular people—shooting down into the streets.

  For four and a half hours they kept shooting. Some took breaks while others fired, and some just took their time and set a marathon pace of shooting.

  Most were pretty careful to not waste shots, while others fired like crazy.

  You could tell they were angry. Not angry at me, but angry at how the zombies fucked everything up. Angry because they all probably lost some people they loved. All it took was one person to start shooting, and everyone jumped in. There were even people throwing pots and pans down at the zombies in the streets.

  These people were doing something.

  After a while, I heard a man’s voice from the balconies screaming. “Now! Run now!”

  He didn’t have to tell me twice. I jumped off the roof as quick as I could—That’s how I broke my ankle.

  I felt it break the minute I landed, but I didn’t care. I just had to run. Run through the pain. Run through the fear.

  As I approached the apartment building, the door opened, and the naked man in the robe was there with a cigar in his mouth, and he was smiling. “Come on in, man!” He said.

  Once that door closed, I fell on the ground. He put a blanket on me and told me I was safe now. He told me he saw me a few days before, and pretty much figured I was a goner. But every day he saw me on that roof, it reminded him about his situation.

  I was trapped on that roof just like they were trapped in that building.

  He said he woke up that morning and saw me laying there and just started firing. He said he “Had to do something.” He didn’t know everyone else was gonna do something too. Before he knew it, everyone in the building wanted to help.

  They let me stay in the building from that day on.

  All this time, I thought people were assholes—and they are. But, there are some that give me hope. Some that can do the right thing—even if it takes them a little while.

  Look, this zombie shit is gonna happen again. No two ways about it.

  But now, I have hope. Hope for humanity.

  Maybe it takes something like the destruction of everything we know and love to make us see what’s right. It takes a punch in the face to wake up and see what’s around you. I think we’re awake now. I think when the next bunch comes out of the ocean, we will know how to stand together, and how to fight.

  But if it doesn’t happen tomorrow or next year— if it happens in ten years—Let’s just hope we don’t forget how to do what’s right.

  Let’s not run and climb that ladder right away. Let’s stand together.

  Let’s fight.

  Luke (Just Luke)

  Luke (Just Luke) was someone who had to be seen to be believed. He was dressed in apocalyptic garb, only it looked like it was fashioned to look like something from a Mad max movie. It was polished and clean. He had a faux fur fox skin thrown over his shoulder, and the heels of his shoes made him at least six inches taller than he actually was.

  Hey everyone. I’m Luke.

  Just Luke.

  I’m an artist. If any of you saw my work, thank you.

  As an artist, the very first thing that happens in a pandemic is arts funding goes out the window.

  It’s not even just in a pandemic.

  If the president needs to buy a new couch or an extra expensive dinner one night, they cut the arts funding.

  Then, when people are all locked up inside during a quarantine, what do they turn to?

  Artists.

  Books, movies, streaming television shows, fucking Bob Ross got streamed two hundred and fifty million times before the world lost power.

  The world turned to artists in its darkest hour and what the artists should have said was “go fuck yourself.”

  But, we crave attention and feed off compliments, so we continued pumping out art for your consumption.

  Let me explain to you about my need for artistic expression.

  When I was really little, I used crayons to paint this beautiful landscape on the dining room wall. I mean, it was huge.

  My mom came running into the room and started yelling at me. Asking me why I drew on the dining room wall.

  I told her it was because all the other walls were too dark for my crayons.

  She took my crayons away and told me I “couldn’t do art anymore.”

  Aside from her horrible grammar, she was wrong. When she came into the living room the next morning, she saw me painting brown cows, brown dogs, and brown clouds on that same wall using the only artistic material I had access to.

  My poop.

  Art finds a way.

  After the beating I took that day, I never had art supplies confiscated ever again.

  So, when people were suddenly locked into their homes and we were forbidden from going out to buy new canvasses or any other art supplies, I found a new medium to work with.

  Zombies.

  I know, it was a huge risk to start working with zombies, but what is art if it’s not a little risky and controversial?

  I got the idea when I was sitting on my balcony watching a parade of zombies shambling by. All their clothes were faded and tattered from whatever hellish thing they were doing.

  Very monochromatic and boring.

  One zombie in particular had a striking resemblance to one miss Marylin Monroe.
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br />   I mean, her hair was all wrong, and she was covered in blood and filth, but her cheek bones and pouty lips were spot on.

  I didn’t know what I was doing, but I suddenly found myself dangling off my balcony trying to entice that zombie to come closer so I could get a better look.

  Well she took the bait, and before I knew it, one Norma Jean looking zombie was shuffling towards my place.

  I was like a kid on Christmas morning. I ran out to the back fence and peeked over to see her standing right there.

  She was so close.

  Close enough to smell, and believe me, she smelled like Marylin now.

  I didn’t know what to do. She was at my gate, but I didn’t have a plan.

  I opened my back gate, and the minute she made it in, I slammed it shut behind her. I was terrified. I screamed and ran in circles a few times before she tripped over a sprinkler head and fell down.

  I ran inside and tried to catch my breath.

  It was exhilarating. I trapped a zombie in my back yard.

  She was there and she was mine.

  She wandered around in circles for a few hours while I started formulating a game plan. I took some duct tape and throw cushions and made myself a little suit of fluffy armor.

  I didn’t use the good throw pillows, because I didn’t want to get chew marks on those, so I used the ones my ex and I got at a yard sale.

  He was an asshole. I didn’t need those pillows anymore.

  I went out into the back yard and the minute she saw me, she started just shambling over to me.

  She was slow, they all were. But once I got a grasp of her speed, it started to become more manageable.

  While she was coming over towards me, I dug a small trench in my yard. About six inches deep and two or three feet wide— my plan was to get her to trip in my trench and then I’d have her.

  I watched as she got closer and closer— my heart was about to explode with excitement. The closer she got, the heavier my breathing became.

  She was just a few steps away—

  She stepped right over it.

  Damn!

  I made a big circle around her and started throwing small rocks at the back of her head to make her turn around.

  Once she did, it was just a matter of getting her to step in my trap instead of over it.

  After three tries, I finally got her to trip and fall. That’s when I threw the painting tarp over her. With her body pinned down, I climbed on top of the thrashing tarp and pinned her arms down under my knees.

  I felt so strong.

  Then, I ripped off about a foot of duct tape and pressed it down over her face as hard and as fast as I could.

  Got it!

  I spent the better part of a couple hours— and two rolls of duct tape completely restraining her against my outside unit of my air conditioning.

  The threat was neutralized. Now I could do my work.

  To give a zombie a makeover is no easy task. I couldn’t just use make up. That would wash off too easily in the rain, or if she fell into a puddle or something.

  I had to use paint.

  So, the first thing I did was paint a thick coat of white gesso over her entire body to create a nice fresh base coat. I painted over the tape on her mouth, it created a little line, so it wasn’t perfect, but I would have to work with it.

  Then, I started painting.

  Let me tell you, as I was painting flesh tones and blush on that zombie’s face with various mixtures of outdoor latex paint mixed with acrylics, I knew how Leonardo DaVinci must have felt while he was painting The Last Supper!

  My brush was moving as if God herself was moving it for me.

  Before I knew it, I had painted the flawless skin tone of Marylin on this wriggling and writhing canvass.

  I even perfected her pouty lips and beauty mark.

  The only problem now was that the hair and outfit were all wrong.

  I know, capturing a zombie was crazy and wrong, and I know we technically weren’t supposed to leave our homes, but I could not leave a work of art like this unfinished.

  There was a Party City a few blocks from my house, so I rode my bike—through backstreets— to the Party City. I smashed a small window by the door to sneak inside, but I covered it with cardboard and duct tape to make sure nobody else could break in.

  I was trying to be a responsible burglar.

  Then, I found the Marylin Monroe costume in the Halloween isle and raced back home.

  The wig was atrocious.

  That company was the one robbing people if they were selling that messy mop as a Marylin wig.

  But, using my artistic ability along with a gallon and a half of hair gel and hairspray, I managed to take that raggedy wig and fashion something that looked spot on.

  I couldn’t risk her brushing it off her head the instant I finished, so I used a heavy duty staple gun from the toolbox and made sure that wig wasn’t going anywhere!

  Then, the hardest part of the whole ordeal was getting the dress on her without getting it filthy.

  The inspiration to solving this little dilemma came from the realization that she was already dead!

  How do morticians dress cadavers?

  They cut the suits up the back like a hospital gown.

  So, that’s what I did. I cut the dresses back completely open and held it out like a bull fighter—shaking it and waving it, trying to make her charge at me with her arms outstretched.

  Would you believe me if I told you I got her in it on the first try?

  Well, I did.

  Sewing it back up took a few hours, but after all was said and done, I created a pretty damned realistic version of Marylin Monroe.

  I cried for hours just looking at her.

  She was perfect!

  I took a photo with an old disposable camera I found, figuring I could have the film developed later, and then I opened up the door from my backyard and released my Marylin out in to the world.

  That’s the hardest part about being an artist. Knowing that the art you create isn’t meant for only you.

  It’s meant for the world.

  I ended up doing hundreds of art pieces through the outbreak.

  Some of my favorites include Hitler, Ronald McDonald, Donald Trump, Clark Gable and Vivien Leigh, Queen Elizabeth, and OH! My most ambitious creation was when I made Santa Clause and eight reindeer!

  I used so much super glue to get those antlers just right.

  Anyway, I took pictures of all of it, and once society is all back and running hunky-dory, I’m going to release it.

  Because a lot of bad stuff happened during this thing.

  Really bad stuff happened.

  But, art can not and will not be contained.

  Art finds a way.

  Anyway, when the book comes out it will be called “Dead Ringers!” Don’t miss out. Buy my book!

  Jack Rubin

  Jack Rubin was a young man with an athletic build and short dreadlocks that looked almost like they were exploding off of his head. He carried a guitar case with him that looked more like an extension of him as opposed to an accessory. His brow was furrowed, and he had an intensity in his eyes that could only be described as fiery.

  My name is Jack Rubin. I’m from Miami originally. I’m traveling north now and trying to see what I can do to help wherever I can. I wasn’t gonna come up here and talk, but I wanted to add my two cents. All of the stories people have told here tonight are about the zombies.

  I’m not trying to take anything away from any of those stories, I’m really not. But the zombies weren't the big threat during all of this. I mean, sure, they were a threat, I'm not saying they weren’t. I’m just saying they were more of a background threat.

  When I was a kid, I asked my grandma why she put salt in the cookies that were supposed to be sweet.

  She told me “When you add the right amount of salt, it brings out the real flavor of what you have.”

  When I was older, I asked Google that
same question, and it pretty much gave me the same answer. Salt, in small amounts, magnifies the flavor by subtly enhancing the taste of what you have.

  That’s what the zombies were.

  They were salt.

  They enhanced the natural flavor of the human experience. You add zombies to some people, you see how brave or heroic they really are.

  You add zombies to others—

  Well, you find a lot of people leave a bad taste in your mouth after this.

  The zombies were slow, uncoordinated, unorganized, and just plain stupid. If you wanted to avoid them, you could just stay inside. But people are smart and conniving—It was the people you really had to worry about.

  I mean, the warning signs were all there from the very beginning.

  Before it all turned into the huge mess that it did, back when we were still talking about “flattening the curve,” there were people who bought up all the Lysol, hand sanitizer, paper towels, and toilet paper from every story in town. They flat out grabbed everything from the shelves and left nothing for anyone else.

  Then what did they do?

  They sold that shit on Amazon and eBay and made a killing.

  How messed up is that? They didn’t care. Not one shit was given about what someone else might need during a crisis.

  It was all about what could they get. How much they could make off of it.

  This wasn't "Humanities finest hour." This was humanity at its worst. People were stealing from each other, shooting and stabbing each other, women were getting raped, and children were getting kidnapped and sold.

  People stealing food and supplies from people is bullshit, but I can understand it. You want to live, so you take what you need. It's shitty, but I understand it. But, rape? How was that necessary to survive? You took what you WANTED, and not what you needed.

  When the shit really hit the fan, everyone scattered. Some people locked themselves in attics with supplies, and others went to shelters. My girlfriend left me a few months before, and I was living on my own.

  My place is a shitty converted garage. Three hundred square feet. But hey, that's the life of a musician, right? Just waiting' for my break—