Just a few more friends, he thought again. Just a few more, and I’ll never be lonely again.
Chapter 11
Stanley’s alarm clock was a thing of beauty. A reliable wonder of plastic and circuitry with a blue liquid crystal display. “It’s time,” it buzzed. “It’s that time that you indicated was important. I’m so glad I was able to help wake you at this very important time.”
Stanley wished he could come up with a truly wonderful way to thank his alarm clock. He sat up and stretched his bony arms, and froze with them in a wide ‘Y’ above his head. His arms should have been covered by his winter flannel pajama top, but instead were sleeved in warm velour. He flipped the covers back and saw that his legs, legs that also should have been pajama-clad, were sporting a nice pair of denim jeans. As if that wasn’t strange enough, he’d also worn his winter boots to bed. As the alarm clock continued to announce the start of a new day, Stanley frowned and wondered why he was already dressed. He tried to remember what he’d done the previous night. Had there been drinking? He didn’t remember drinking.
The furnace. I’ll bet the furnace went out during the night, and I put on some clothes to stay warm, he reasoned as he finally switched off the alarm clock.
Stanley opened his mouth and huffed a few times, expecting to see his breath.
Huh. Must’ve come back on. The air in his bedroom certainly didn’t feel cold. It felt like it was sixty-eight degrees, the temperature he always set the thermostat to.
Not in the mood to spend any more brain power on the problem, he reviewed the list of things he had planned to start the day. Pee, poop, shower. Brush and floss his teeth. Put on clothes, eat breakfast.
After crossing items one and two off his morning to-do list, he briefly considered showering. A quick sniff of each pit later, he decided a shower wasn’t really necessary so he skipped right to cleaning his teeth. Still smacking his minty fresh lips, he trotted downstairs and into his kitchen, eager to whip up some breakfast. He had a hankering for eggs and hotdog, one of his favorite breakfast treats. It was like eggs and sausage, but with a hotdog, which made it completely different. His excitement fell flat when he pulled open the fridge and didn’t see any hotdogs.
“Hmmm. Guess I had a midnight snack when the furnace went out and I got up to get dressed,” he reasoned, disappointed that he’d already eaten his leftover meat.
Since he was apparently stuck with dining out for breakfast, Stanley decided to have a slice of toast to hold him over. After dropping a slice of white bread in the toaster, he opened the cupboard for a plate.
“Where the heck are my p-plates?” he asked out loud. “What the heck happened to all my p-plates?”
Something close to a memory bumped around the back of his brain. He concentrated, focused, and thought real hard until he almost had it… and then the toaster dinged.
Crappers, he grumbled as the almost-memory slipped back beneath the surface of his conscious mind.
Grabbing the toast, he took a malcontent bite and headed toward the door to grab his parka. Out of habit, his hand swiped at the coat hook but came up empty. His parka was nowhere to be seen. Stanley started hunting around the house, flummoxed by where he might’ve left it. When he passed the front window, he noticed something even worse.
His car was gone.
Stanley grabbed the phone and dialed the sheriff’s department. He was halfway through blurting out that he’d been robbed when he realized he was talking to a busy tone. Perplexed, he hung up and redialed and got a busy tone again.
“Sheriff’s never b-busy,” he commented. “What the heck’s going on?”
He rang Lois, but no one picked up there, either. After leaving a long message on her answering machine about being robbed, he tried the sheriff again and finally got through.
“I’ve b-been robbed!” he exclaimed. “They got my plates and my hotdogs and my j-jacket and my car,” he said before an angry cough cut him off.
“You think you got problems?” Corliss snapped in a gravelly voice. “I’ve been here damn near nonstop for three days, and the switchboard hasn’t stopped. Whole town’s gone crazy. Reports of assault, people biting people. It’s mayhem, complete mayhem, and none of my deputies are answering their damn radios.”
“B-but, b-but… I was robbed and I g-got no food and I g-got no car.”
“And my give-a-damn’s busted,” Corliss replied before disconnecting the call.
Tears welled up in Stanley’s eyes and were just about to spill over when the phone rang. He snatched it up and started to let Corliss know that just because she was having a bad day didn’t mean she could just hang up on folks. That was rude, really rude, and he…
“Stanley! Hush! It’s Lois.”
“Oh, hey Lois. Sorry about that. I j-just called the sheriff’s and that Corliss, b-boy oh boy was she rude.”
“I’ll bet,” the witch agreed. “I guess you can’t get to be her age and not find a few things to be crabby about. I just checked my messages. Oh, Stanley. I can’t believe you were robbed. That’s just terrible. The game starts at noon and should be done by three. We’ll hurry back. Herb can always whammy the trooper if we get pulled over. I’ll drop off Herb and head straight to your place after. Can you hold out until around four-thirty or five?”
Stanley’s brow furrowed. Back from the game? What game? The Packers didn’t play until Sunday. While he tried to fit the jumbled pieces of his recollections together in his mind, Lois reassured him that everything would be okay.
“You just stay put. I’ll be there before you know it.”
Stanley agreed and hung up the phone. There wasn’t much else to do, so he settled into his Barca Lounger with a yawn. The stressful morning had taken its toll, and a nap was in order. Just a little cat nap to recharge.
A frantic pounding at the door jarred him awake. When he opened it, Lois exploded through the door and ran to his main T.V.
“What the h-heck, Lois? What’s going on?”
Lois turned a panicked look on Stanley.
“Have you watched the news?” she asked. When Stanley shook his head, she flipped on the tube and started rifling through the channels.
“No, no, no. Crap. Is there news on Sundays?” she asked.
“Sunday? Lois, it ain’t Sunday,” Stanley responded, still trying to shake off the effects of his nap.
“Of course it is,” the witch replied and then shushed him when an emergency newsbreak cut into a televangelist’s sermon.
Lois knelt in front of the T.V., and Stanley returned to his Barca Lounger. Both stared quietly at the news anchor, a young, pretty woman named Robyn Larsen. She normally helmed the weeknight news segments, so it was a bit of a shock to see her on what Lois swore was a Sunday. The unexpected shift probably explained why Robyn didn’t look nearly as polished as usual. Her normally puffy bangs were wilted, and her typically symmetrical makeup was lopsided. Her left cheek’s rouge was about four shades darker than her right, and her eyebrows had a haphazard, scribbled-on quality.
“Please don’t change the station,” Robyn pleaded with her audience. “This is an emergency broadcast. If you’re receiving this message, stay indoors. I repeat, stay indoors. Do not go outside. Stay away from people, even people you know. A large and growing mob of violent persons have been attacking area residents and,” she managed before faltering and looking off camera. “This can’t be right,” she muttered. Whoever responded, what they said caused her eyes to widen in shock. “Um. A mob of violent persons have been attacking and eating people.”
Lois switched off the television and let out a slow whistle. “I thought so,” she said quietly. “I didn’t want to believe it, but I thought so.”
“Thought what, Lois?” Stanley asked in a scared voice. “What d-did you think?”
“Zombies, Stanley. Trappersville has been overrun by zombies. After I dropped Herb off, I passed a bunch driving here. They were shuffling along and moaning the most horrible moans. If there are cow
s in hell, that’s probably how they sound.”
Stanley’s pulse quickened. His breath came in shorter and shorter gasps. He started to race in one direction after another, all the while looking frantically around the room.
“Um, Stanley,” Lois asked with a frown. “What are you doing?”
“Hockey stick. Hockey stick. Gotta find a hockey stick!”
The witch stood and grabbed him as he raced by, dragging him to a sudden halt.
“Calm down! Why do you need a hockey stick?”
Stanley gaped at Lois for a long moment before realizing she’d never trained with the Society.
“Oh, right. You weren’t there. You wouldn’t know,” he panted, out of breath from his harried running. “For the zombies, you g-gotta have a hockey stick. It’s b-best if the end is pointy, but you can use the blade too and whack ‘em in the neck. Randall said if you d-do it hard enough, you can take that head clean off. Especially if they’ve been d-decomposing for a bit. Makes the flesh softer, so you j-just gotta get through the bone.” When Lois stared at him in utter shock, he clarified. “The spine. You either c-cut that spine or you poke their b-brains out. Only way to kill a zombie.”
“Randall… You’re talking about the Society,” Lois said with dawning comprehension.
Stanley rolled his eyes. “Who else would b-be telling me and Big D how to kill zombies? G-Glen from the library?”
“Crap. I forgot about the Society.” The witch shook her head angrily. “Zombies I can deal with. But trigger-happy monster hunters that have a bone to pick with a certain witch and her vampire boyfriend…”
Stanley chewed a fingernail. “So what do we d-do, Lois?”
“You have a second winter coat somewhere?”
Stanley gave Lois a look that conveyed in no uncertain terms how ridiculous the question was.
“Good,” Lois continued. “Grab it. We’ve got to get back to my place and get Herb. After that?” she wondered, pushing a shaking hand through her golden locks. “I don’t know, Stanley. I just don’t know.”
Stanley joined Lois in her mid-nineties Volvo. As he buckled in, he mentioned how he was always surprised when he saw her car. It wasn’t what someone might expect. For a woman like Lois, you couldn’t help but picture her in a fancy sports car, or maybe one of those new VW Beetles. Seeing her in an older, grey Volvo with the square headlights that had their own wiper blades was unexpected, and he said as much.
“B-but once you’re inside, well,” he continued with a gesture at the odd satchel dangling from the rearview, the arcane symbols scratched in the dashboard, the fat, dark candles in the cup holders, and the assortment of asymmetrical crystals pinned up above the windshield, “it’s d-definitely your car.”
“Don’t poke fun. I love this car. Must be my Scandinavian roots. Let’s just hope its reputation for safety holds up during a zombie apocalypse, too.”
Lois was taking the long way home. In a town like Trappersville, that was more than just a saying. The long way usually meant actually having to drive a long, long way before another road appeared and offered a different direction of travel. When Stanley asked why she was driving halfway around Wisconsin instead of just driving back to her house, she politely reminded him that one, there was a zombie apocalypse that she was hoping to avoid, and two, that comments on her driving were a really effective way to end up walking.
Her plan didn’t work out as intended. They’d turned onto a two-lane road and were only a mile or so from her house when they spotted a pickup on the shoulder. It was surrounded by a mob of undead, their grey and bloody hands slapping the side panels and windows. A few crumbled zombies sprawled behind the truck, evidence of the driver’s failed attempt to drive through the bodies. Just visible through the truck’s rear window was a man in a camouflage jacket and bright orange hunter’s hat. He was rocking back and forth in what Stanley assumed was sheer panic.
“We have to help him,” Lois said.
Stanley gulped loudly. “Oh b-boy. I don’t know about that, Lois. I mean, I know about them hockey sticks, b-but Dallas was the one that was supposed to swing ‘em. I j-just did the, you know. The research and stuff.”
Lois wasn’t listening. She’d already pulled over the Volvo and had swung open her door.
“Just follow my lead. I’ll throw a distraction spell and see if I can lead them away. When they move, you go get the guy and bring him back to the car. Ready?”
Stanley wanted to say no, but Lois was already on the move. She ran in a half crouch until she was a handful of yards away from the truck. Skidding to a stop, she twined her hands in an intricate pattern and then cast her arms toward the woods across the road. A loud clap sounded from deep in the trees. The zombies’ heads all perked up at the sudden noise. One turned and took a few halting steps toward the trees. Lois wound her hands around again and made another throwing motion toward the trees. An instant later, a second loud clap sounded out from deeper into the woods. The zombie moved more confidently toward the sound, and the others turned to follow.
“Now, Stanley. Now!” she commanded in a loud whisper.
Stanley gulped again and did his best to imitate her crouched run. The final few zombies had crossed the road,
Oh boy. There’s a joke in there for sure, he thought,
and the coast was clear. Stanley reached the truck, yanked on the driver’s side door, and swung it open. Adrenaline thrumming, he realized that he actually liked being a man of action, a hero. If Dallas had seen Stanley in action, he would’ve definitely been impressed.
A realization blossomed clear as day when Stanley saw the man. He hadn’t been rocking in panic. He’d been shoving shells into a shotgun. The same shotgun that was now pointed at Stanley’s chest.
A second realization blossomed. Stanley really didn’t want to be a man of action. He was perfectly content to be a man of non-action, watching his favorite T.V. shows and drinking and letting all the action happen far, far away.
A third realization blossomed, but this one was full of bright fire and a thunderous boom, and then everything went dark.
Chapter 12
It’s like Amway for making friends, Stanley realized. I bite someone, and they bite two more, and each of them bites two more…
When the zombies followed Stanley from Bay City Bowlers, there’d been a hundred or so, maybe even one-fifty. Now, Stanley couldn’t even begin to guess. Like some vast amoeba, the swelling horde sent tendrils snaking down streets and through the woods. They piled up against fences until the fences collapsed. They pressed against barricaded doors until the barricades fell. They pounded against the windows of surrounded cars until the windows shattered. Over and over, a zombie would find its way into a place and more zombies would come out. Sure, they met resistance. It was Wisconsin, after all, so there were more guns than people in town, and folks weren’t afraid to use them. Plenty of zombies took slug after slug, but only a shot to the head seemed to have any lasting effect. Otherwise, they’d just keep lurching along until their assailant ran out of bullets, and then there’d be another zombie.
Stanley stood with Laura near the north end of Main Street and surveyed the sprawling mob of undead with a sort of reverent awe. So many people just hanging out and getting along, and all it took was a bite.
“Wooorrrlllduh. Peeeaaace,” he said.
“Yaaaaaahhhhhh,” Laura replied and smiled.
Her lips were cracked and caked in gore. She’d lost a couple of teeth when an intended meal jabbed her in the face with the butt of a rifle, and her left eye lazed to the side like it was trying to contemplate the dent a baseball bat had left in her cheek. She was, in a word, beautiful.
World peace and a girlfriend. Stanley could hardly believe his luck and couldn’t wait to tell Herb and Lois, and Dallas too if he ever came back. They were going to be so jealous. Mind made up, Stanley nudged Laura’s arm, shuffled feet that were still clad in the ragged remnants of his tube stocks, and set off in the direction of his h
ouse. Once he got home, he’d give Herb and Lois a call and invite them over. Then it would just take a few quick bites, and everything would be perfect.
Chapter 13
Stanley’s alarm clock was a thing of beauty. A reliable wonder of plastic and circuitry with a blue liquid crystal display. “It’s time,” it buzzed. “It’s that time that you indicated was important. I’m so glad I was able to help wake you at this very important time.”
Stanley wished he could come up with a truly wonderful way to thank his alarm clock. He sat up and stretched his bony arms, and froze with them in a wide ‘Y’ above his head. He was wearing an older winter coat, one he usually only wore for shoveling. Once upon a time, it had been a jaunty red with bright yellow bands around the arms. Years of use had dulled the red to more of a rust, and the arm bands had turned the color of Dijon mustard that was way past the expiration date. A mosaic of duct tape sealed holes in the Nylon shell and kept its polyester stuffing inside, and the zip-off hood’s jammed zipper guaranteed that hood’s zip-offing days were done. It was an old coat, well past its prime, but it was also a good coat, one that had served Stanley well and would continue to do so without complaint for many seasons to come.
“A lot of memories in this here c-coat,” he said fondly, the memories distracting him from the inexplicable fact that he’d been wearing it in his sleep.
Still wearing his coat, he made his way downstairs and rummaged in the fridge. He’d been pretty sure there was a hotdog, but there wasn’t one now. Had he been robbed? He made a quick inspection of the windows and doors. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, but someone had definitely gotten a hold of his hotdog. It was a mystery, plain and simple, and Stanley did enjoy a good mystery. He decided a quick run to the Get’n’Gobble was in order so his brain wouldn’t have to run on an empty stomach. Fortunately, he already had his coat on and even his boots.
Undead Cheesehead (Monsters in the Midwest Book 3) Page 8