“What the hell, asshole?” the woman screamed as she wobbled out of the car.
Stanley supposed the wobbling was either the result of her nerves being a bit frayed because of the accident, or the difficulty of navigating snowy pavement in six-inch stiletto heels. While the woman surveyed the crumpled ruin of her rear bumper, Stanley let his eyes wander up her bare legs until they reached the hem of a garish coat that hung about halfway down the woman’s thighs. The coat only partially concealed a voluptuous figure that he immediately decided would be darn tasty to snack on.
“Shit. I’m going to be late for my shift,” he heard the woman say. “If I lose my job over this, I’m suing your ass. Nekked’s is the only strip club for fifty miles.”
Stanley moved to open his door, but Farman was faster. The deputy wobbled toward the woman while she showered him with derisive comments. Her tirade ended with a surprised squeal when she tried to slap him and he bit her wrist. Her free hand boxed his ear and a knee shot up into his groin. The move was impressive, especially considering her footwear, and effective. Farman stumbled back, giving the woman the opening she needed to flee. After the brief altercation, Farman simply stood in place, his vacant stare watching the retreating taillights of the smashed up Miata’s rear end.
“Aaaawwwww,” Stanley commiserated after freeing himself from the squad car and making his way to Farman’s side. “Waaaaaalllk nooooowww?”
His new friend bobbed his head, and the two began a halting, staggering, lurching journey that carried them further from the wrecked squad car and closer to an honest-to-goodness meal.
Chapter 7
Eating at Ronnie’s had left Stanley full but feeling empty. The waitress had taken his order, the cook had cooked his food, and he’d eaten a decent meal. If that had been his only goal, he’d have felt fine. Unfortunately, he had really wanted to talk to someone, but no one felt like talking back. Despite his best efforts not to, Stanley found himself wondering about Lois and Herb and Dallas. Who knew what they were up to? Whatever it was, it hurt to know they weren’t doing it with him.
Stanley left the diner in a funk. While driving home, he was so caught up in his dark thoughts that he almost didn’t notice the two men staggering down the side of the road. When he did, he couldn’t help but roll his eyes. More drunks? Stanley was certainly not one to judge the drinking habits of others, but it did seem a little early in the day to be that far into their cups.
I suppose I could give them a lift, he considered briefly. A glance at the Cavalier’s clock put that idea to rest. He needed to get home before the sheriff’s deputy showed up to investigate his home invasion. So he wasn’t a Great Samaritan, or even a good one. He’d considered giving them a ride, which he decided made him an Okay Samaritan. That worked for Stanley.
When he arrived home, he made sure to park in the garage and lock it up tight. Stanley did some crosswords to pass the time and wondered idly when the deputy would arrive. After a couple of hours, he began to worry that the deputy might drive by, not see a car, and decide Stanley wasn’t home. That wouldn’t do, so he backed out of the garage and parked in the driveway. After another hour had passed without any sign of the deputy, he called the sheriff’s department again.
“Yeah?” Corliss asked after a fresh round of coughs.
“Oh. Hi, Corliss. It’s Stanley again. I mean, Stanley Henkelmann. C-calling again. You know, about the b-break in. No one’s been here.”
A smoky, mirthless laugh forced its way through the receiver, after which Corliss explained that no one had been there, either.
“We got a stack of calls. Jaywalker, litterbug, some lady parked in a handicap spot without a tag, even some guy walking around in a Viking’s jersey and saying all kinds of nasty stuff about Vince Lombardi.” Corliss paused after that one to let the significance settle in. “Anyway, Farman’s going to have a busy afternoon when he finally gets around to answering my calls.”
Stanley grumbled an insincere ‘thanks’ and set the phone back in its cradle. The day had officially settled into evening. He decided that he could either stay put and die of boredom while waiting for a deputy that wasn’t likely to come or take in a few games at Bay City Bowlers. The town’s bowling alley was a second home of sorts for most of Trappersville’s menfolk. If Stanley wanted comradery, Bay City’s was the place.
A short time later, his jeans hovered a few inches above a nice pair of suede bowling shoes instead of his usual leather loafers. Stanley carried his bowling bag to the counter, smiling and waving at all of the familiar faces and trusting that they would’ve all waved back if they weren’t so busy bowling. He asked for a lane, but the alley’s owner, Slow Johnson, said everything was taken. He tried to join Stu, Dozer, and Wyatt on lane six, but the three giants said they weren’t looking for a fourth. He tried to join a family on lane eleven, but the mom said she didn’t want her kids bowling with a stranger. Lane after lane, he reached out in the spirit of friendship, and was rebuffed in the spirit of Midwestern passive-aggressive politesse.
Stanley finally asked Johnson to holler if a lane opened up and headed for the karaoke bar. Pushing through the bar’s saloon style doors, he stepped up to the rail and waited for Rhoda, the omnipresent bartender, to notice him.
“Make it quick, hon. Busy tonight,” she said after he finally caught her eye.
“Oh. Yep. You b-bet. Um. A ‘Waukee’s B-Best. That’ll d-do,” Stanley requested.
Rhonda deposited the beer, but before Stanley could ask if she’d seen the prior night’s Final Jeopardy question, she was on to the next customer. After a long, contemplative swig, Stanley turned his attention to the karaoke stage. A couple were trying to do Sonny and Cher’s I Got You, Babe, but it was apparent they didn’t get each other at all. He drank his beer, endured the song, and waited with forced patience for a lane to open up. Seven songs later, he checked in with Slow Johnson.
“Oh, sorry ‘bout that,” the manager said. “Forgot you were waiting, and someone else got the lane. Want me to put you back on the list?”
Feeling worse than before he’d arrived, Stanley said no and finally called it quits on one of the worst days he’d had in a long time. The drive home from Bay City Bowlers was a glum one. He turned off the main road, threaded the trees lining his long driveway, and put the car in park. A twist of the key silenced the engine, and a familiar creak accompanied the door’s opening.
“Rotten d-day,” he complained to no one, “but I guess there’s always t-tomorrow.”
Ready to do nothing more than crawl back into bed and pull the covers up under his chin, Stanley stepped out of his car and onto a fresh dusting of powdery white snow. His foot shot out in front of him, and for a moment Stanley felt himself floating. When the back of his head connected with the car’s doorjamb, his head snapped forward and jammed his chin down against his chest. At the same moment, the ground rushed up and pounded his back like a sledgehammer. A whimper slipped through his chipped teeth and blood-filled mouth before everything went dark.
Chapter 8
Stanley surveyed the bloody slaughterhouse that used to be Steinknocker’s Bar and gave a contented sigh. His gut protruded happily over the waistband of his blue jeans, and his jaw ached pleasantly from all the biting. Many of his new friends were still chewing on the gory remains of those patrons that weren’t fortunate enough to turn before they were mostly eaten. A few paused mid-bite and looked his way. When they saw Stanley’s red smile, they waved cordially in return.
It was nice, being around so many friendly people. It hadn’t been that way when they had first arrived. Stanley had trudged through the snow, and Deputy Farman had followed. For a long while, that was all there was. Step after shuffling, lurching step through the ankle-deep snow. No significant thoughts besides the persistent desire to eat. When they’d arrived at Stein’s, Stanley had leaned a shoulder against the door and pushed his way into a nearly full bar.
Drinking in Wisconsin wasn’t just a pastime. It was a
serious endeavor. Everyone had their own technique and spent most of their adult years perfecting it. There was the friendly drinker that would smile at newcomers and share good-natured jokes with whoever ended up beside him at the bar. The loudmouth, whose volume increased with each swig. The overworked drinker tended to sigh a lot and say things like, “TGIF, ya know?” There was the chuckler, or cackler, depending on the laugh, that found everything funny, and the grump that made sure everyone knew that no, it wasn’t funny, and only a damn idiot would say so. Lots of different drinkers, but they all had one thing in common. Cold weekends at this time of year, when the holidays were in the rearview mirror and spring was still a distant hope, were the perfect time to come together and practice their craft.
Stanley and Farman had walked into a bar teeming with noise. Conversations, clinking glasses, old Stein’s bark when someone bumped the juke box or spilled beer on a pool table. It was the familiar din of a northwoods watering hole, and it filled the small bar like the smell of apple pie in a grandmother’s kitchen. The noise had wrapped around Stanley and drawn him in, comforting in its embrace. Then someone noticed the two newcomers. Then a second person noticed them, and a third. As each new person laid eyes on the two men standing just inside the front door, they had fallen silent. The hush crept like a slow burn through a field, consuming each blade of grass and leaving a charred husk in its wake.
“The hell’s wrong with you two?” someone had finally asked. Probably one of the grumps, but Stanley couldn’t be sure. It was still early, so the guy could’ve been a loudmouth that was still getting warmed up.
“Yeah,” a woman’s voice said. “Halloween was months ago.” The ensuing cackle let Stanley know exactly what type of drinker she was.
Stanley had shrugged off the cold looks and unkind comments and made his way to the bar. Farman followed and occupied a space beside him that another patron had quickly vacated. Stein, the bar’s owner, made his cautious way over and tipped his chin in a polite, if guarded, nod.
“You boys look like death warmed over. Maybe you wanna head home, clean up a bit, and come back later?”
“Yeah,” a fresh voice had added, seconding Stein’s recommendation. “And get some shoes while you’re at it. No shirt, no shoes, no Stein’s.”
Stanley had turned to look at the waitress, a new girl Stein must’ve hired to replace Helen after her mishap with Herb and the tanning booth the past summer. He figured all he needed to do was introduce himself and let her know that it was okay, he was a regular, and he and his new friend just wanted a bite.
“Haaaaaahhhh,” he had started, and was roughly shoved aside.
Deputy Farman staggered past Stanley and charged the girl jaws first. When another patron had moved to intervene, Stanley grabbed at his arm with uncoordinated fingers. What happened after was a wholly new and rather exciting experience.
Stanley had never been in a bar fight. He’d been around plenty of them, drinking with Dallas guaranteed ringside seats to occasional brawls, but he’d never actually been one of the combatants. When a fist hit his face, his first thought was that someone must’ve mistaken him for Dallas. When the second fist hit his face, he realized that he actually was the target. The blows didn’t hurt, but they did send him reeling and reminded him that he had no idea what to do in a fight. When someone made the mistake of catching him, Stanley did the only thing he could. He bit.
It was around that point in time that the small bar fight Farman had started by biting the waitress turned into a big bar fight, and it was one that the two men should have lost painfully and quickly. They had been woefully outnumbered. At least, they’d been woefully outnumbered until the waitress bit someone, and the fellow Stanley had chomped on bit someone else. Each person that had started by swinging at Stanley or Farman got bit, went down, and came back up on their side. The tide turned, one bloody, flesh-tearing bite at a time. Before Stanley knew it, he was shoulder to shoulder with the waitress that had accosted him and munching happily on a middle-aged local named Flo.
It was right about then that he realized they were zombies. It wasn’t some big revelation, not like it was with Herb and Dallas. Herb had told him about the night he first figured out that he’d become a vampire. He’d collapsed onto his bathroom floor and cried bloody tears, denial finally succumbing to the unavoidable truth that he wasn’t human anymore. Poor Dallas had had an even worse time of it when he learned that he was a werewolf. Stanley was there for that literal awakening. Dallas woke up on the floor of a rundown cabin in the woods covered in Fancy Dan’s blood and full of Fancy Dan. Very dramatic. For Stanley, the notion that he wasn’t human anymore and was in fact a zombie had just sort of dawned on him.
Wait a sec, he had thought as he was about to bite down on Flo’s nose. This ain’t normal. No sir.
Relaxing his jaw, Stanley had thought back on the day he’d just had. Waking up on his living room floor and moving like a sloth on Quaaludes. Walking for miles with only a pair of tube socks between him and the snowy streets. The trouble at the Get’n’Gobble. Biting the deputy like the fly bit him.
Like the fly. The strange fly that bit his finger.
Oooohhh, he thought, nodding his head. Yep. Must’ve been a zombie fly.
With that realization, he had shrugged his acceptance, leaned back over Flo, and chomped down on her nose until the bones cracked like a chicken drummie.
Stanley shook himself out of his reverie. The commotion had all but ceased. The pained and terrified screams were gone, replaced with a collection of moans and groans. The recently turned and recently fed zombies shifted idly from foot to foot, bumping into one another and making small talk.
“Aaaaahhhh,” one fellow said, his overalls marking him as the town’s mechanic.
“Errrraaaaahhh,” a lady responded and then shared a gruesome chuckle with her companion.
Curious what was so funny, Stanley weaved his way across the bar, grateful for his slow pace. The floor was slick with blood and other fluids he couldn’t identify, and keeping his balance was definitely tricky.
“Aaaahhhh?” he asked.
For a moment, he was sure he’d be rebuffed. Ignored. Told to move along. It was what always happened. Then the lady replied with a friendly, “Urrrrrgh. Aaaahhhh,” and the man added, “Haaaarrrghuh.”
Stanley couldn’t help but chuckle. It really was funny. He was about to ask what had happened next when a scream erupted from somewhere outside. As one, the zombies all turned toward the sound and started shuffling. Their bodies pushed tables and chairs aside, and they piled up against the booths lining the bar’s wall. Bloody palms slapped the paneling and knocked condiments to the floor. One of the sharper tools in the shed headed toward the bar’s door. When the others remembered there was a way outside, they ceased their fruitless assault on the wall and lurched toward the exit.
Stanley was in the middle of the bumping, jostling crowd. Herded along by his friends and drawn by the continued screams, he made his way around the side of Steinknockers. A smaller clump of bodies was gathered near the far side of the parking lot. Drawing closer, he realized that the bodies were mostly women and mostly naked. Their tiny outfits covered a wide range of fashion trends with very little fabric. Stanley was impressed to realize how much a small swath of sequined lace or a few feathers could convey. They also revealed a significant amount of yellow-grey skin, the result making the strategically placed patches of sequins sparkle even brighter in the lot’s sodium lights.
Those girls must be from Nekked’s, he realized. The town’s strip club wasn’t a long drive from Stein’s. When he spotted a voluptuous and scantily-clad brunette still wearing a stiletto heel, his suspicion was confirmed. The girl he and Farman had crashed into must’ve made it to work after all.
The Steinknockers crowd converged on an unfortunate band of survivors that were in the process of being devoured by a bunch of undead strippers. Stanley didn’t think he couldn’t possibly eat another bite, but he’d been wrong
before. Shoving and worming his way through the crush of bodies, he ended up next to the brunette. Together, they made short work of the remaining survivor and finished with a small intestine stretched between their mouths like a spaghetti noodle. Stanley let his end of the intestine drop, and the brunette hungrily slurped it up. As the last bit cleared her lips, she smiled, and Stanley lit up inside.
“Hiiiii,” he said sheepishly.
“Haaaaaahhh,” she replied with a coy wink. At least, he thought it was meant to be a wink, even though both eyelids drooped heavily and then pushed their way open again.
“Sssstaaaaannnwweeee.”
After a long pause, she responded, “Laurraaaa.”
Her hand, still coated in sticky blood and melting snow, slid forward and linked fingers with his. Stanley couldn’t believe it. He’d started the day hungry and alone. Now, barely twelve hours later, he had a full belly, loads of friends, and a girlfriend to boot. A hot one, too. Laura’s dark trusses were matted and clumped with sultry bits of gristle and blood, and her jaundiced skin practically glowed in the romantic glare of the parking lot lights. He couldn’t wait to tell Dallas.
Except he couldn’t tell Dallas. Dallas had left him. And he couldn’t tell Herb either. Herb was off with Lois. Looking around at the collection of zombies, Stanley was surprised again by how nice everyone was being to each other. No one argued. No one fought. They clumped together in twos and threes and swayed idly in an invisible breeze. Some moaned, others moaned back. They were all really nice folks. So what if they weren’t Herb or Dallas or Lois. He didn’t need them. Not anymore.
Pushing himself awkwardly to his feet, Stanley surveyed his companions. Now that he had all these new friends, he wanted to do stuff friends did.
Undead Cheesehead (Monsters in the Midwest Book 3) Page 6