Brain Dead Blues

by Matt Hayward

  He swiped the lunchbox from the floor and rammed it against the wood. A loud crack shot through the barn. The wood began to splinter, so he tried again. This time, the plank broke through. The resistance of the wall disappeared as the lunchbox plummeted to the ground outside, landing with a clank. The loft suddenly filled with glaring light, and Henry lifted his arms to shield his eyes.

  Another moan came from somewhere outside. This one didn't sound like Mary-Ann.

  Blinking, Henry poked his head out, hating the heat on his already hot skin. His eyes throbbed in rhythm with his heartbeat as he scanned the yard. Something moved to his right but by the time he looked, it'd disappeared. Something else moved on the porch of the house.

  Henry screamed.

  Momma was crawling down the porch steps like a salamander. Her caved-in head leaked as if a pipe had burst, soaking the wood around her. Her grey slacks slid further and further down her legs as she moved, revealing flabby, pale flesh. She didn't seem to notice.

  “Momma! Can you hear me?”

  “Braaaainss.”

  Henry's skin turned to ice. He jumped when Mary-Ann moaned from behind.

  The girl stood in the barn doorway, silhouetted. Her body slumped forward, her head lulling to her chest. Her arms drooped by her side and her left foot dragged at an odd angle. She made her way inside.

  The Ladder! Can she climb?

  By the looks of her, no. Her limbs dangled like floppy roadkill. Henry ran to the ladder and heaved it up, just in case. Mary-Ann whined in response.

  “Shut up!”

  Lying the ladder flat on the loft, Henry listened to Mary-Ann shuffle about below. He scooted to the edge and peered down. The girl's head fell back and she looked up at him, her mouth agape. Henry grimaced and returned to the hole in the wall, wanting to see where Momma had gone. The lunchbox lay on the ground outside, broken from the impact, its contents spilled.

  “Chocolate?” Henry couldn't suppress the nervous laughter. “Well, found your stash, Pop.”

  His stomach grumbled. How could he be thinking of food now, with this all happening? Besides, the chocolate had to be out of date.

  It's not like I'd go down there and get it, anyway. Mary-Ann's dangerous.

  Lifting his eyes, he saw Momma pull herself towards the barn on her stomach. Her slacks had slipped and caught around her ankles in a clump. As he watched, she threw an arm out, digging her fingers into the dirt and heaving herself another few inches. She left a flattened, bloody trail from the house.

  Something rustled in the trees at the far side of the yard, followed by more moaning.

  “Oh, Christ, no.” Henry lifted a shaking hand to his mouth. “Not more, please.”

  It has to be a virus, He thought. Just like one of those old movies about the zombies in black and white! Except… They never asked for brains.

  Two men fell from the trees into the yard. Their bodies sagged, their legs carrying dead weight. They walked like drunkards, staggering with each step. Both their scalps had been cracked open, same as Momma. A mess of flesh hung and swayed from their foreheads, oozing down their faces.

  Henry recognized one of them as Lenny Appleton, the man who ran the grocery store. The other was James Kirkland, the in-house Elvis impersonator at the Rock-A-Hula. He was still in costume.

  The two men stumbled towards the barn, catching up with Momma's dragging body.

  Then, more exited the tree line. Much more.

  Henry's stomach cartwheeled as all around, the farm came to life. They came from the trees, from the fields, from the road, from behind the house. All of them moaned for the same thing— Henry's brains.

  Some of their heads lifted, their glazed-over eyes finding him. Henry pushed himself away from the hole in the wall, trying to hide. His legs buckled and he fell to the floor, panting. Streams of hot tears slithered down his face. He gripped his hair with both hands and squeezed. “What the hell is happening?” Then, to Mary-Ann, “You ate Momma's brain! How can you walk around without a brain?”

  Henry was disgusted at himself as his stomach rumbled a second time. He placed a hand across his midsection and moaned. From outside, the approaching hoard of the dead sounded like an agitated swarm of wasps.

  Henry scurried to the edge of the loft and looked down. The dead knocked against the side of the barn as they lurched towards the open door. Slivers of light lined the floor, and as the dead passed, their shadows made a strobe light of the sun. Then the first of the hoard reached the door.

  Hunched over, the man's arms swung. His shadow stretched out ahead to amplify his form. The form of Elvis Presley. James Kirkland's dead eyes found Henry as he fell inside. The rest followed.

  Whimpering, Henry scurried on all fours to the wall. He pressed his back to it and willed himself to disappear. Lightheadedness set in. Sickness. The groans and cries from below blended together in a soup of skin-crawling white noise. Henry whimpered. The overwhelming heat and the toxic stench of decay seemed to be increasing. Henry tried breathing through his mouth, but the thought of what he'd suck in disgusted him. He shifted uncomfortably, squeezing his eyes shut, trembling. He didn't want to see anymore. Besides, the cries of the stinking dead didn't seem so loud. Had they gone away?

  As blind spots danced around his vision, Henry listened to the fading noise of the dead. Then he blacked out.

  Henry woke with a start, gasping for breath. The air hung heavy with the stench of spoilt meat. He wiped his eyes, his head muzzy, his heart jackhammering.

  A steady vocalized hum filled the dark barn. On his hands and knees, Henry went to the edge of the loft and peeked down. The floor moved like an ant hill. Body to body, the dead fell about, their arms grasping as if he was the Savior. Sandpaper voices called out for brains.

  Warm sweat rolled down his forehead and Henry wiped it away, his eyes puffy from crying. Everybody's down there, He thought. The whole town. Dead.

  A sniffle stirred a vocal response from below. Henry ignored it and made his way to the hole in the wall, looking out. A few lonesome town-folk fell about in the dry fields. The sky above them showed the first sign of dawn, the farm bathed in silver light. A soft mist hung low to the ground. As Henry watched, one of the dead tripped, thumping face down soundlessly.

  Henry pushed himself away from the hole and shook his head. He wiped his running nose on his sleeve and made his way to the edge of the loft.

  Below, the dead reached up, their fingers flexing like plump, white worms. Their mouths slopped opened, some drooling. Each of them, Henry noticed, had a cracked head.

  “Brains!”

  Henry studied the sea of faces. There stood Mary-Ann. Beside her, Justin Kenny. There, Patrick and Fiona White. Richard Ingram, the bartender. Momma.

  Momma had finally stood at some point. Her grey slacks pooled around her ankles. Her milky eyes looked just like the rest. Henry knew she wanted his brains as much as the next.

  I could jump, Henry thought. Just taking a step forward and end it. It'd be easy. He chuckled. Right. Too afraid to live, but too frightened to jump.

  His stomach grumbled, a cramp spreading through his midsection. He needed to eat.

  “You want a piece of me, huh? Need to eat? Not the only ones, you know.”

  He spotted the dead face of Charlie Harris. Charlie had always made fun of him. Charlie who'd hopped into the air every time Henry took a step in the schoolyard, crying, “Earthquake, Earthquake!”, always getting a laugh from the other kids. Henry locked eyes with him. “Big, fat-ass Henry outran the end of the world. Didn't see that one coming, did you, Charles?”

  Charlie didn't reply, but Henry's stomach did. He rubbed it. “How about I eat one of you? How would you like that?” Butterflies began fluttering inside his chest. I'm giddy, He thought. I'm losing it.

  “That'd be good, wouldn't it? Ol' fat Henry, just couldn't stop eating, not even at the end.”

  Charlie stared back with glassy eyes, his mouth moving silently.

  Then Hen
ry's face scrunched. He fell silent for a moment. Well, why not? Why not eat the bastard? Poetic justice and all that. I'm a dead man, either way. Why not go out with a bang?

  “Last supper.”

  And what if it doesn't kill me? What if… Henry giggled. What if, after chewing on the last bone of dear old Charlie Harris, I survive? I could build up my strength. Concentrate better. Start to plan a way out of this mess, make for the next town and see how far things have spread. Maybe even find others.

  Henry cocked his head. “How am I going to get you, Charlie? Huh? How am I meant to get you up here so's I can eat you?”

  The response seemed to be brains.

  “You're all useless, you know that? Fine. I'll think of something myself.”

  Henry pushed himself up, his eyes landing on the hole in the wall. Could he jump? No. It was too far and the ground was much too hard. He'd snap his ankle and be an easy target. Spotting the blue polypropylene rope in the corner, Henry smiled.

  “Gonna lasso you, Charlie Harris. Wring your damned neck.”

  Henry swiped the rope from the floor. He began tying a Honda knot, something he'd done since childhood, back when they had horses. He started by making an overhand in the end of the rope, passing the tail back through. He tied a stopper at the end of the tail for more durability. Wiping his face, he inspected his work. Good.

  Henry made his way to the edge of the loft. “Like fish in a damn barrel.”

  The swaying sea of faces pushed forward, each trying to get below him. Their stench wafted. Gagging, Henry waited for Charlie to get into position before he began to lower the rope.

  “Come on now, don't move.”

  Charlie didn't. The noose fell loosely around his head, and the dead man opened his mouth, biting as it passed.

  “Stop that,” Henry said. “Need to get this around your dumb neck. There we go.”

  The rope flopped on Charlie's shoulders. Henry smiled and gave it a yank. The rope tightened. Charlie's brain-calling cut as his vocal chords squeezed.

  “All right, then. Come to me, Charlie.”

  Lowering himself to a seated position, Henry held the rope between his legs and wiped his sweaty hands onto his jeans, then he looped it around his fists and pulled. He gritted his teeth, feeling the weight pulling him down. His face grew hot as he wrenched on the rope with what little strength he had. Then, Charlie began to rise. His bulging, strained face floated upward, like a toy in a catch-machine. The others watched Henry, oblivious.

  Charlie's body rotated in the air, his limbs hanging. A gasp forced itself from Henry's mouth. His arms shook. Spittle flew from his cracked lips.

  “Gah! Come on! Come on!”

  The rope went lax. Henry, toppling bassackwards, heard a wet, ripping sound. Something struck the wall behind, then rolled to a stop. Panting, Henry forced himself up. He looked over the edge.

  The headless carcass of Charlie Harris rolled on the dead like a crowd-surfer from hell. His body jittered and bobbed as it was passed about, eventually splatting to the grubby floor. Henry spun, already knowing what he'd find.

  The head of Charlie Harris lay a few feet away.

  Charlie's glazed eyes burned holes in him, his mouth snapping like a fish out of water. Trails of inners streamed from his shredded neck, leaking over the dusty floorboards. Henry screamed and almost lost his balance. Below, the dead cried in a choir for brains. Henry toppled forward and sidestepped around Charlie's head, seeing the splatter of gore on the wall where the head had smacked.

  Henry took a deep breath and shook out his arms. “It's all right. The plan's still working. I got him up here. Part of him, at least. Come here Charlie. Fat Henry finally got you.”

  Henry lifted Charlie's head by the temples, careful not to touch the ruined burrow in the top of the skull. The skin, cold and soft, felt like old fish. Drops of crimson tapped the floorboards. Henry grimaced. He could feel Charlie's jaw still working, trying to bite at him.

  “I've lost it, Charles,” Henry said. “It's the end of the world, and I need to eat. Guess we all do.”

  He flipped the head, viewing the serrated opening in the neck, and got presented a mess of gore leaking icy blood over his hands. His grip went slippery, but Henry held tight.

  Then he began to weep.

  “Just couldn't stop eating, could I?”

  Holding the head with one hand, he wiped his eyes into the sleeve of his shirt. “Never good enough to fit in with assholes like you. Not handsome enough. Never fit enough to play football… Not that I ever wanted to. It's not my fault, you know. I never asked to be this way.” Henry wiped away a new stream of hot tears. He chuckled. “Well, none of that matters now, Charlie. At the end of the day, we both lost our heads.”

  Henry slowly raised the grotesque gauntlet to his mouth. His tongue slid slowly along the soft, cold line of a severed jugular. Like licking a slug. The taste of copper filled his mouth.

  Then a gunshot rang out.

  Henry dropped Charlie's head and screamed. The head thumped to the floorboards, and Henry listened. An engine revved.

  Dread suddenly flooded Henry's body, making him nauseous. At the drop of a hat, the adrenaline coursing through his veins disappeared.

  “What the hell did I just do?”

  He kicked out at Charlie's head like a football, sending it sailing back down into the barn. He heard the dead scurry about to inspect as he made his way to the broken hole in the wall, wiping his tongue on the way.

  Outside, a battered and filthy jeep bobbed and rocked over the rough terrain in the morning light, a trail of dust hitching a lift. Two men stood in the open flatbed, holding the cab. One had a shotgun. A shuffling figure fell towards the jeep as it sped through the empty field, and the shotgun raised.

  A splatter exploded from the figure as the shot boomed out, the two men whooping from the back of the jeep. Headlights cut a path in the dirt ahead, casting the soil in relief. Then the jeep began to turn to the right, towards the main road. Henry stomach fell.

  “Hey! Over here!”

  He waved his arms frantically. He called again, his throat stinging.

  The jeeps break lights went up and it fell still, dust drifting by. The two men in the back looked towards the barn and one pointed.

  They see me!

  The jeep crunched dirt as it U-turned and veered towards the barn. Below the loft, Henry heard the dead shuffle about, seeming to sense the newcomers.

  Hurry up! Please, hurry.

  The engine cut as it skidded to a stop just below the hole in the wall. The two men peered up at him. Henry wiped his face on his wet sleeve, hoping there were no signs of what he'd done.

  “Well I'll be a son-of-a-bitch. Henry Miller?”

  The two men laughed. Great. George Thompson and Douglas Peters. Two of Charlie's crew. Henry couldn't see the driver, but it had to be Jerry Carter, completing the four.

  Douglas called up. “We came out here to see if Mary-Ann was around. Whole family are lurchers. Such a shame, right? How'd you get through the night, fat ass?”

  Their faces blurred for a moment as a dizzy spell washed through Henry. He shook his head to clear it.

  “Don't shout so loud,” He said. “There's about twenty of them in the barn. They don't seem to realize the door's open, but if they do, they'll be on you.”

  “Shiiiiit.” Douglas planted his hands on his hips. “Then we better get the hell out of here, eh?”

  The driver revved the engine.

  “Hey! You can't leave me here!”

  George and Douglas honked a laugh.

  “S'pose not,” Douglas said. “Looks like you're going to have to jump, lard-ass. And soon, too, if they're in the barn like you say.”

  Henry's stomach gurgled. He blinked fast and stayed focused on the guys below.

  “It's too far.”

  His voice sounded alien to his own ears. His shook his head again, trying to concentrate.

  “Well then there ain't nothing we can do
, Henry. Sorry about that.”

  “Hold on!”

  With a whimper, Henry pushed himself through the hole in the wall. The broken wood jabbed at his belly. He placed his hands onto sides of the opening, and braced himself.

  “Clear the area!” George called out, hands cupped to his mouth. “Big load, coming through!”

  Douglas leaped from the flatbed, scurrying a few feet away. George looked up, shielding his eyes. “Bombs away, big boy!”

  Henry took a deep breath. And jumped.

  The pit of his stomach elevated as the ground disappeared. The jeep soared towards him as the air ripped past his ears. Then came a metallic thunk as he landed in the flatbed, rocking the suspension.

  Panting, Henry opened his eyes and looked around. The two men were doubled over laughing, their eyes wet with tears.

  “Oh man,” Douglas said. “Like a goddamn whale!”

  A long horn beep cut them short. Henry looked towards the barn, his eyes widening.

  “Shit!” George shouted. “Go, go, go!”

  From around the barn, the dead shuffled, bathed in headlights. The vehicle rocked as Douglas leaped back inside and banged the hood.

  “Step on it, Jerry!”

  They took off, veering in the direction the road. Henry jumped as the shotgun burst to life. The smell of gunpowder filled the air.

  “Dropped one!” George cried, his voice muffled from the ringing in Henry's ears. “Think it was Mrs. Jefferson!”

  The jeep rocked and bumped, and Henry lay down, the cold metal digging into his back. He didn't care. He needed to close his eyes for a moment. After a while, he asked, “What's happened?”

  He kept his eyes closed, feeling hot and clammy.

  “Not listening to the radio?” George said. “Something to do with a virus in the water. Shit, the warning's been broadcast since last night. How'd you not know?”

  “Our water comes from the well. Don't have a radio. And Momma only ever watched VHS tapes because we don't get any stations.”

  “Well that's what happened. Don't know specifics, fatty. Seems the virus killed a whole bunch of unlucky S.O.Bs that drank the water. Then yesterday, they all come back to life. Eat people's brains!”