“It’s time,” it buzzed.
“It’s time,” it buzzed.
“It’s time,” it buzzed.
“It’s time,” it buzzed.
Stanley after Stanley formed, stood, and joined the growing ranks of their brethren. At first, Stanley rushed frantically back and forth, helping his new clones climb out of their confusion and understand the plan. Once enough Stanleys knew what was going on, they took over orientation for the newly made clones. The first Stanley clone assumed command of the growing army and marched back and forth like a general, yelling encouraging words and readying his troops for the battle to come. As the crowd of Stanleys continued to swell, more of the Stanley started their own stirring speeches, and soon the rooftop was full of stuttering bravado. Prime stood in the middle of it all, awed by how courageous he was. An hour passed, then two. The diner’s rooftop wasn’t big enough to hold them all, so Stanley after Stanley climbed on to the gift emporium’s adjacent roof, and then to the roof over the wing housing the cots and showers. When the sun finally rose, painting the cold grey sky with warm oranges and yellows, there were a thousand and more Stanleys pressed shoulder to shoulder over the entire truckstop. Their stuttering created a din so loud that Prime had to yell to be heard.
“Do you think there are enough of us?” he asked his first clone.
“I sure hope so,” the clone yelled back, echoed almost immediately by hundreds more saying the exact same words. “But k-keep ‘em coming j-just in case.”
Prime chewed his lip nervously. “This is going to be very hard to explain to the Gerploonkians. They were concerned about two of you running around. Now? Oh dear, what will I do with all of these me’s?”
The first Stanley clone slapped Prime on the slippery fabric stretched across his back, and ten or more Stanleys repeated the gesture, knocking the man about like a piñata.
“Maybe we c-can start our own bowling league,” he suggested.
“Leagues,” dozens of nearby Stanleys amended. “Yes sir, we g-gots enough for lots of bowling leagues.”
The first clone climbed up on top of the HVAC unit and surveyed his army. A thousand identical faces looked up, eager for what he was about to say next.
“We only g-got one shot at this,” he said.
“Only one shot,” the thousand Stanleys agreed.
“So let’s g-go save our town!”
“Save the t-town!” they all cried.
Stanley after Stanley ran for the rooftop’s edge and flung themselves down like rock stars diving into a sea of fans to surf the crowd. Unlike rock stars, when they landed among the zombies, they whacked heads and grabbed throats and poked eyes. The Stanleys picked up rocks and bricks and swung them spastically at anything that moaned or tried to bite them. When one of the Stanleys retrieved a gun, zipping bullets added to the mayhem, but also furthered their cause. Stanley might’ve been a terrible shot, but there was so much to hit that simple odds were in his favor. Many of the Stanleys fell quickly. Some were chewed to death by the horde of zombies. Others were accidentally felled by their nearby, flailing clones. Only numbers were on their side, but they had lots and lots of numbers. There were two or three Stanleys for each zombie, and slowly the tide turned in their favor.
“I might b-be worth less than a wet fart in a fight,” the first clone said to Prime as the battle for Trappersville unfolded beneath them in the truckstop’s parking lot, “but when there’s lots of wet farts, b-boy oh boy, you’d better watch out.”
It was a sloppy, gory, bloody, crazed battle. Zombie after zombie went down beneath the zealous Stanleys and stayed down. After an hour or so, the only Sconnies left standing were the exhausted and ragged clones, their matching velour shirts soaked in the blood of victory. A cheer went up, and Stanley heard his voice holler out from hundreds of throats.
It was done. He’d saved the day, saved the whole town. Heaving a huge sigh of relief, he pulled Stanley Prime into a warm embrace.
“We d-did it!” he sobbed, relief and exhaustion pouring out in a fresh wave of tears.
Prime patted his clone’s back and slowly extricated himself from the other Stanley’s embrace.
“You, Stanley. Not me. You did this. I’ve been so blind, only ever thinking of you as a temporary thing, something to be used for my convenience. But you are so much more.” The original’s eyes misted up as he considered his glitchy copy. “You, my good sir, are a hero. A genuine hero.”
A smile split the first clone’s face and was matched by the faces of the hundreds of surviving clones.
“I sure am the Hero of T-Trappersville,” he announced.
“No, I am,” another Stanley said.
“I am,” a third protested.
“No way. If there’s a hero here, it’s d-definitely me,” said a fourth.
As hundreds upon hundreds of Stanleys bickered over who best deserved the prestigious title, the first clone winked at Prime.
“Dallas is g-gonna be so jealous.”
The Final Chapter
Where do monsters go when they just want to live their lives?
“Strike! Holy c-camoly, I g-got a strike!” Stanley squealed. “You g-guys saw that, right? You saw it!”
Laura clapped and whistled, and a second Stanley slapped him on the back.
“Sure d-did. That makes two this month!” the second Stanley said. “Boy oh boy, we should b-bring back another c-clone and have our own t-team. We’ll give those King P-Pins a run for their money, yes sir.”
While Laura planted wet kisses on first one, then the other Stanley, Dallas guffawed. “Fat chance, double-douche. Even if me and Herby replaced you with a drunken badger, the King Pins would still kick your identical asses.”
The vampire lifted his arm from Lois’s shoulders and gave Dallas a fist-bump as the werewolf strode past. Dallas reached the ball return, picked up his familiar ball, rolled a seven-ten split, and cursed.
“Awww, don’t pout,” Aletia said. “It makes you look like el niño mimado.” When Dallas glowered, she translated. “Spoiled child, mi amor.”
The Stanleys settled onto two brightly colored, molded plastic chairs, one on either side of their girlfriend.
“How do you think they’re doing, all the other Stanleys?” Laura asked. “You think they’re having fun?”
“You bet’cha,” the Stanleys said in unison. “The things they’re seeing, the stuff they’re learning? Wow. It sure must be exciting. But it’s b-better being with you.”
Laura batted her eyelashes, causing her two boyfriends to blush, and returned her attention to the lane. Dallas had nicked the seven and grumbled his way back to Aletia’s side. The hunter playfully poked his ribs while Herb and Lois told him not to feel too bad. Bowling was, after all, a tough game.
The group had made bowling a regular pastime, a chance to settle into their second lease on life and reflect back on the past few months. After Stanley and Stanley Prime had saved the town, they’d spent a full week bringing everyone back to life, one clone at a time. It had been a long, gruesome process that required getting bits of blood or hair or skin from the hundreds and hundreds of dead bodies that littered the parking lot around Ronnie’s truckstop. But many hands made might light work. The Stanleys made a bucket brigade of sorts, passing bits of each friend and neighbor up the line to where Stanley Prime waited with the alarm clock. He would scan the DNA, set the alarm, and another Sconnie would wake up gasping and shocked to be alive.
Some of the reunions were truly beautiful. Herb and Lois. Dallas and Aletia. Even Dempsey sniffled a bit and complained that he had an eyelash in his eye when Jonah was brought back. Other reunions were a bit acrimonious, like when Stanley cloned the town’s florist, Betty Johannsen and her husband, Kyle. No one knew that Betty didn’t really want Kyle back. It had taken three Stanleys to prevent her from killing her husband again, and two more to do some impromptu marriage counseling afterward. For the most part though, cloning the folks from Trappersville settled into a fa
miliar pattern. People woke up confused, then became terrified by all of the Stanleys hovering around them, then reverted to confusion as memories slowly resurfaced, then went right back to being terrified again when they realized they’d been flesh-eating, undead monsters, then finally were overjoyed to realize the nightmare was over.
After the Stanleys had revived the people that had died at Ronnie’s, they set out all over the surrounding town to round up everyone else. In some cases, they were accompanied by a revived resident that knew where to find their family or loved ones. Other times, they had to slowly comb the woods or go room by room through house after house. It was a slow process, but infinitely rewarding. Each time they found a finger or a bit of an ear or a piece of a foot, they’d bring it back to the truckstop where Stanley Prime would check to see if it had already been cloned. If not, he’d set the alarm and another neighbor would wake up to their second life.
One of the Stanleys even made a surreptitious trip into the woods outside of Cecil’s restaurant, where a decrepit little cabin leaned tiredly in a small clearing. It took a bit of digging to find the grave, but later that afternoon, Fancy Dan ran out of Ronnie’s wearing his authentic Domenico Dolce reproduction shirt. Dallas was there, which made for an awkward reunion. The werewolf apologized for eating Dan. Dan apologized for anything and everything he had ever done or might ever do that might upset Dallas. The two men shook hands and agreed that they should probably see as little of each other as possible.
Once the Stanleys had cloned everyone they could find, they set themselves to more humble tasks. A great many homes and buildings had been damaged by the horde. Every project to replace a door or window, mend a broken fence, or right an overturned car had at least two or three extra sets of identical and willing hands. Thanks to the Stanleys, the transformation from horror movie set to sleepy northern Wisconsin town was accomplished far quicker than anyone would have imagined. And during their work, the most amazing thing had happened. No one argued, no one bickered. Everyone was nice to everyone, including Stanley, and not just Midwestern nice. They were genuinely nice, the kind of nice you can only be if you’ve been turned into a zombie and then saved by the local Jeopardy fanatic.
Another surprise was when Kevin reappeared. Four of the Stanleys and Deputy Farman were helping to repair the Get’n’Gobble and get it restocked. They were in the middle of wheeling in cartons of muffins when a large, furry head appeared around the far corner of the building. The Stanleys all immediately started trying to shoo him away, afraid someone would see. Despite their efforts, Farman saw the giant beast and gasped.
“Is that what I think it is?” the sheriff’s deputy asked the gathered Stanleys.
“Nope, uh, d-definitely not,” two of them replied, while the other two said, “Yeppers. That there’s a Sasquatch. His name’s K-Kevin.”
While the Stanleys glared at each other and asked each other why in the heck they would say that, the deputy walked cautiously over to the large ape-like monster.
“HIYUH,” Kevin said politely. “GOT MUFFINSUH?”
Farman opened a package, drew one out with trembling fingers, and held it up. The Sasquatch plucked it gently from his hand, pulled at the paper wrapping, and popped it in his mouth.
“THANKSUH,” he said with a wide smile.
One of the Stanleys peeled off from the argument and begged the deputy not to arrest him, but Farman just shushed him.
“Stanley, there’s something you have to understand. I’ve been a monster. Heck, we all have. And when I was, I didn’t want to hurt people, not really. Not in a mean way. I guess I was just acting according to my nature. I imagine the same is true for that big fella, and, if I what I hear is true, for your friends Herb and Dallas.”
Stanley stared into Farman’s eyes, looking for a trick or trap, but what he saw was nothing of the sort.
“D-do you think other folks feel the same way?” he asked. “I mean, you think they’ll b-be okay with Herby and Dallas and, um, well…” he trailed off.
“All the others,” another Stanley chimed in. “Heck, there’s all sorts of monsters in the Midwest. And I’ll b-bet they’d love to know they can c-come up here and just be, you know, themselves.”
Farman had called the sheriff. The sheriff had called the mayor. A town meeting was held, there was a vote, and it was near unanimous. Not a single person in town could claim they hadn’t walked a mile in the shoes of a monster, and they all agreed that just being different wasn’t any reason not to be welcome. If monsters wanted a place to vacation, or even settle down, Trappersville would greet them with open arms. No eating people, of course, but that went without saying (although the mayor said it anyway, just in case).
Even the Society had agreed to give Trappersville a wide berth. After Aletia, Jonah, Dempsey, and the others had been consulted, they agreed that maybe just killing monsters wasn’t the best way to keep folks safe. Maybe, just maybe, it was worth taking the time to learn if a monster was really all that bad. If not, the Society knew of a certain Wisconsin town that was worth a visit.
“And I think my hunting days are done,” Aletia had added. “I like this town. I might just stick around.”
Dallas had grinned like an idiot and was about to say something stupid when Aletia silenced him with a passionate kiss.
Winter slowly released its grip on the northwoods, and as the snow melted away, the town healed. When all the dust had settled and life was about as close as it would get to being back to normal, there was only one issue left.
“What are we going to do with all of you Stanleys?”
Lois had asked the question one night at Steins. The bar was packed, and about two-thirds of the patrons were identical.
“It does make things a little cumbersome,” Stanley Prime had agreed. “Do they get one listing in the phone book, or a few hundred? During elections, do they all have to agree on a candidate, or can they cast their own votes? And what about the census?”
The surrounding Stanleys had argued and bickered about their options, but fell quiet when Prime raised his voice above the din.
“I have a proposition,” he had announced. “The Gerploonkians have offered to help. They have countless research teams all over the galaxy and are always looking for lab assistants. Would any of you like to go with them? Visit new worlds, discover new lifeforms, and solve all of the mysteries of the Milky Way?”
Hand after hand, each with identical fingerprints, raised up into the air. After the final count, only two Stanleys wanted to stay, the clone of the one that had been a zombie, and the one that had come up with the plan to save the town. Laura had been ecstatic. She had taken quite a shine to Stanley and proclaimed that two boyfriends was manageable. Two hundred plus boyfriends… not so much.
Over the following week, Stanley after Stanley was teleported up to the yellow spacecraft, and from there sent off to who knows where. When the final one was readying himself to go, he had solemnly shaken his remaining clones’ hands.
“You send us recordings of Jeorpardy and Judge Judy, and we’ll send p-postcards,” he said.
There was a flash of light, and he was gone. In the following months, postcards would magically appear on Stanley’s dining room table with the most unexpected selfies. In return, he’d leave a fresh VHS tape in the same spot, and it would be gone the next day.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Laura asked StanOne while StanTwo was bowling.
The clone took a moment to look around the bowling alley. It sure had changed. A witch and vampire bowled with a werewolf and monster hunter. A few lanes down, Fancy Dan was trying to teach Kevin how to roll a hook. Back in the karaoke bar, the faint voice of a siren named Rebecca floated past the saloon-style doors, bringing verses of Fleetwood Mac’s You Can Go Your Own Way to his ears, and a troll was helping Slow Johnson, the bowling alley’s owner, spray shoes with disinfectant. A satyr walked by, complaining that none of the shoes fit his hooves, while his companion, a beautiful pixie, flittered by
his ear and scolded him for making excuses for a rotten game. Back in the bar, a goblin was helping Rhonda wash glasses, and two other vampires, a young college couple up for the weekend from Madison, were taking turns putting the whammy on Jimmy Tibeaudeax and making him do all manner of embarrassing things.
“Oh, you know,” Stanley said. “Just thinking about how interesting Trappersville is these d-days.”
“You bet’cha,” another voice agreed.
StanOne turned and saw Herb’s old neighbor, Jerry.
“Hey there, Jerry! P-Pam and the girls having fun?” he asked, pointing down the lanes to where Jerry’s wife and daughters were squaring off against a gnome named Rufus and two wood sprites whose names no one could pronounce.
“Heck yeah,” Jerry said. “Wish I could stay. Can’t, though. I have a sales trip tomorrow. Heading up to Massachusetts for a few days. I have to pack and get some samples together.”
“Oh, that’s a shame,” Stanley commiserated.
Jerry nodded. “It’s funny. I used to crave putting as many miles between me and Trappersville as I could. Now, though?” The paper salesman shrugged. “Well, it’s definitely more interesting around here. But it should still be a nice trip. I’m staying in a town called Innsmouth. They’re supposed to have great seafood. Maybe I’ll bring back a can of sardines or something.”
While the Stanleys and their friends waved, the paper salesman headed toward the bowling alley’s exit, briefcase swinging at his side.
The End
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Scott Burtness lives in the Midwest with his wonderful wife, Liz.
Find Scott on:
Facebook
Goodreads
Amazon
Undead Cheesehead (Monsters in the Midwest Book 3) Page 21