Anything but Zombies: A Short Story Anthology

by Gerald Dean Rice

  Otto hadn’t moved in hours. Or it might’ve been minutes. Barry was so bored it felt like they’d been down in the basement for days. And he had to pee really, really bad.

  Back to Otto.

  The guy was probably in his midtwenties. He looked foreign, maybe Australian. He hadn’t talked, but Barry thought he’d have an accent if he did. Like a crazy New Zealand accent, maybe. He could quote Crocodile Dundee at will and he loved AC/DC. Otto was a fascinating guy who hadn’t uttered a word. He just stared into space.

  What if he was the cause of the chaos upstairs? Barry had watched enough M. Night Shyamalan movies to know the quiet guy in the corner was usually the killer. Or was that a Saw movie? Barry couldn’t remember, but he’d never seen a horror movie where the creepy quiet guy in the corner was really an angel or the savior with a bottle opener.

  Barry approached Otto cautiously, expecting his eyes to suddenly glow red or a giant snakelike appendage to rip from his chest and bite him. But Otto just stared into space.

  “What are you doing?” Melanie asked.

  Barry gave her the finger, not bothering to look at Melanie or her perky vegan breasts. When he got right in front of Otto he stopped and squatted down to eye level with the guy. “Bro, you all right?”

  Otto stared straight ahead, his eyes glassy. He was breathing, and the corner of his mouth twitched slightly.

  “I’m going to ask you questions and you can blink for the answers,” Barry said.

  “I’m going upstairs. Anyone want anything?” Vinnie said.

  Barry nodded but kept looking at Otto. “Can you get me more beer and see if the hot dogs are warm on the roller thing up there? I like ketchup on mine.”

  “Go to hell. You didn’t share with me,” Vinnie said. “I’m going to get the good beer. Be right back.”

  “Idiot. Anyway . . . one blink means yes and two means no. Got it?” Barry asked. He hoped Otto was in there somewhere and wanted to play along. It was like sitting in front of a living Ouija board. Or like watching C-SPAN. Or anything with Tom Cruise. Just waiting for something creepy to happen. “Let’s begin . . . is your name Otto?”

  Otto (probably not his real name) stared straight ahead and didn’t blink, even when Barry waved his hands in front of Otto’s face.

  “Were you bitten?”

  No blink.

  “Were you attacked?”

  Nothing.

  “Did you see people die?”

  Nada.

  “Do you think Melanie has nice boobs for a vegan?”

  “Hey,” Melanie said.

  Still no blinking coming from Otto.

  “This is a waste of time, right?” Barry asked.

  Otto blinked.

  “Holy shit. Did you blink because this is a waste of time, or because you needed to blink? Or did you blink because you’re messing with me?”

  Otto blinked again.

  Barry peppered him with miscellaneous questions for the next three minutes, like if he thought the Browns would ever have a winning record or his thoughts on LeBron or which was better: ham, turkey, and Swiss cheese or a hot pastrami sandwich.

  Otto didn’t blink again.

  “I’m going upstairs,” Vinnie announced.

  “I thought you’d left already,” Barry said. “I want more chips. Sour cream and onion, please.”

  “Go to hell. You didn’t share. Why should I get you anything?”

  “I said please,” Barry said.

  “So?”

  Barry shrugged. “If you’d said please when I went up to the store I would’ve gotten you whatever you wanted. Just because life has turned completely upside down doesn’t mean we can’t be civil to one another. We might be the last people on this block. And before all this happened, most everyone living in this part of town was on drugs or drunk or dying, anyway. So there’s a really solid chance we’d be the last of the living regardless.”

  Vinnie sighed. “I’ll get you one bag. But it will be a small one.”

  “Can I have fruit if they have any?” Melanie asked.

  Vinnie smiled at her. “What do you have to trade for fruit?”

  Melanie smiled. “Whatever you want. I hope Barry will also give you the same thing you have in mind for me, too. That’s only fair.”

  “I don’t want the chips,” Barry said quickly.

  “You all suck,” Vinnie said. He stared at the door at the top of the steps. “Wish me luck.”

  * * *

  * * *

  “What’s taking him so long?” Melanie asked after what seemed like several hours but was probably only two.

  “Yeah, I’m a little pissed, too. Where are my potato chips?” Barry asked. He was getting hungry again, and there was only so much staring you could do at Melanie before you started thinking horrible thoughts. Like, if it came to it, would he have to eat her and would her skin taste like tofu.

  “Is food all you think about?” Melanie asked, looking away, disgusted, when Barry grinned. “Eww, gross.”

  Barry shrugged and stared at the semi-closed door above. “The convenience store isn’t that big. Even taking his time walking every aisle and comparing prices, it shouldn’t be taking Vinnie this long.”

  “He left, you idiot,” Melanie said. “I’m sure he saw an opening and he ran for it.

  “What if it’s over? The zombie apocalypse was a fad. Right now Vinnie is sitting in a bar drinking an exotic beer and watching the baseball game, which had a two-hour delay so they could clear out the fans who weren’t zombies.” Barry laughed. “Which would be every Indians fan. Get it?”

  “No, I’m an idiot like you.” Melanie stood and dusted off her tight jeans. “I’m going to look for him.”

  “Don’t leave me,” Barry said. “But if you do . . . can you get me sour cream and onion potato chips, please and thank you?”

  “I won’t even dignify that with an answer,” Melanie said.

  “I said please and thank you. Don’t be a bitch. Someday we’ll need to start making babies so the monkeys don’t get smarter and take over the world,” Barry said.

  Melanie laughed but it wasn’t in a pleasant way. “I’ll never make babies with you or Vinnie or Otto. You know why?”

  “Not enough of a selection? You think all three of us are hot and can’t decide?”

  “I’m a proud lesbian,” Melanie said.

  “Wow. You are full of causes, woman. I can’t keep up with you. But I’ve dated lesbians before, so it isn’t a big deal,” Barry said. “Hurry back with my chips.”

  Melanie stalked up the steps and pushed open the door slowly.

  Barry could see the light was much softer now. It was probably getting close to dusk. He didn’t want to be in total darkness down here alone.

  “I guess it’s you and me now, Otto,” Barry said when he remembered the quiet guy in the corner. He wouldn’t be alone.

  But he hoped Vinnie and/or Melanie came back soon.

  * * *

  * * *

  Without anyone to talk to, Barry curled up in the dark corner and took a nap. He had no idea how long he’d slept, but when he opened his eyes he was still in his own private hell. With empty potato chip bags and an unblinking weird dude in the corner staring at him.

  “You turned your head,” Barry said, and sat up. “I knew you were still alive. I knew . . . wait, were you watching me sleep? Dude, I gotta be honest . . . that is a little creepy.”

  Barry was about to say more when he heard something thump in the convenience store above. He looked at Otto but he was just staring like an idiot. He looked around for a weapon in the dark basement, but there was nothing except unopened beers. Maybe he could use them as missiles, or crack one over the head of a zombie and somehow kill it. Did that ever happen in movies? Barry didn’t think so.

  He just knew he wasn’t going upstairs no matter what.

  It sounded like a lot of people were upstairs, ripping apart the aisles. Was it just looters? Barry wasn’t as scared of livin
g, breathing people as he was of zombies. Or ghouls. He couldn’t remember which name they’d decided on. Not that it mattered, because Vinnie and Melanie had abandoned him.

  Otto was still staring.

  “Why me, Otto? I’m a good guy. I wash. I might have done some bad things in my life but nothing to warrant this crap. Maybe that’s what God is looking for . . .” Barry ignored another banging noise from above. “I’m being tested. He wants me to confess my sins and then he’ll save me.”

  Otto blinked once.

  “Exactly,” Barry said. He waved the beer bottle in his hand. “I knew you agreed with me.”

  Otto blinked twice in rapid succession.

  “When I was five I stole a cookie from a supermarket. The package was open on the shelf and the store was getting ready to close. The lights were being turned off slowly, and my parents were in line. So I took one and put it in my pocket. I never got caught. I also forgot it was in my pocket and it got washed with my shorts.”

  The door to the basement squeaked slightly but didn’t open.

  Barry closed his eyes. “When I was nine I was sitting behind Jeanine in class. I could see the top of her underwear. I got excited. Not . . . physically excited, but I’d never seen a girl’s undies before. Then, when we were in high school, I told Jeanine I’d been trying to see her underwear again ever since. I think she was mad, because she poured her milk on my head. But maybe God got me back for that one. So forget I mentioned it.”

  Barry opened his eyes and Otto was gone.

  Had he been a ghost all along? Another monster plaguing Barry? Or just a weird dude who was quiet when he walked?

  “I’m insane. That’s it. None of this is real. I’ve been imagining people down here with me. Of course. There is no bitch vegan chick with a nice rack. It is part of my own psyche. I am a bitch vegan chick at times. Of course. And Vinnie was my tough but lovable side. I get it now. Otto was my inner self, my soul. He was watching and listening and now he’s gone to heaven to see Baby Jesus and Aunt Gladys,” Barry said.

  But there was still plenty of noise upstairs and Barry wasn’t about to go investigate. Screw that.

  The door to the basement opened and there stood Otto, a thin light shining behind his head like a halo. He held a small object in his hand before casting it in Barry’s direction.

  Barry caught it and smiled. Before he could thank the mysterious Otto, the door closed again and Barry used the bottler opener to begin his last hours on this earth drunk.

  * * *

  * * *

  Vinnie opened two microbrews and handed one to Jim, who didn’t really look like a Jim any more than he looked like an Otto.

  Melanie came back from talking to the police officer who was standing outside the convenience store and laughed. “I guess it’s over. They already starved and died. No more zombies and/or ghouls. I’m going to go home and take a bath.”

  Jim nodded. “It was fun hanging out with you guys.”

  “You didn’t say a word,” Vinnie said.

  “I like to listen. I’m a good listener. I’d rather take everything in first and then do what I have to do,” Jim said.

  “Who’s going to tell Barry this nightmare is over?” Melanie asked before walking away, making it clear it wouldn’t be her.

  “I’ll do it,” Jim said. “I figured he needed some time to himself. He was really going to town confessing some major sins down there. I didn’t have the heart to tell him it was over. Besides, he’ll come up when he’s out of beer and realize God saved him.”

  “You know what? Get out of here. I want to go and apologize to Barry anyway. I should’ve come back for him when I knew it was safe. It was great meeting you, Jim.”

  Jim shrugged. “All right. Have a good one. I’ll see you around.”

  “When the next zombie apocalypse arrives we’ll meet back here.”

  Jim laughed. “Yep. I’ll bring a bottle opener and you bring the beer.”

  Vinnie laughed and watched Jim walk away down the street before he went to the cop standing near the store and quickly bit him on the arm, bringing about the second wave of the ghoul apocalypse.

  Vinnie hated when people called him a zombie.

  The Sentient Cherry Cola That Tried to Destroy the World

  * * *

  * * *

  Jeff Strand

  I’m sure you’re going to ask, but does it really matter how the cherry cola became sentient? If you truly need to know, I’ll get into the whole backstory, but this will move a lot faster if you just accept that some elements aren’t going to be completely logical. Sometimes a cherry cola just comes to life, you know?

  No? You need the explanation?

  Fine. It was witchcraft. These witches were all like, “We’re not witches! We’re Wiccan! We believe in goodness and the magic of the earth!” but ultimately their naked moonlight dancing wasn’t as harmless as they thought, because it brought some cherry cola to life.

  One of them, Gloria, had brought a cooler full of beverages in case anybody was thirsty after the dancing. Aside from one bottle of water consumed by Lori, the witches had all declined Gloria’s offer, making her wonder why she’d bothered to bring it in the first place. Last time she’d packed sandwiches that nobody bothered to eat, and the time before that she’d brought fruit salad. She was the first one to admit that the bananas hadn’t held up, but she’d choked down Beatrice’s scalloped potatoes that one time just to be polite, and would it have killed her to return the favor?

  There were three cans of cherry cola in the cooler. The actual brand name would later be the source of much finger-pointing and lawsuits, with representatives from Coca Cola saying it was Cherry Pepsi and representatives from PepsiCo saying it was Cherry Coke. A couple of independent brands initially tried to claim credit for it, figuring that any publicity was good publicity, although once the body count started to rise they regretted that decision.

  It was actually a local brand called Gertrude’s Soda, known for inexpensive soft drinks that didn’t taste very good and had killed dozens of laboratory rats, which is why none of the other witches wanted any. The owner, Bernard “Gertrude” Sloven, never knew the devastation his product would cause. If he had known, he would have had a quiet chuckle about it, because Bernard was not a people person.

  Two of the three cans in Gloria’s cooler remained regular cherry cola. The third, however, came to life.

  You have to look at this from the cherry cola’s perspective. You’re suddenly alive with no explanation and you’re trapped in a dark, cold, twelve-ounce can. There is literally no room to move except to swirl around. You have no idea what’s going on. I mean, it’s not like you’re thinking, “Wow, I’m some cherry cola that has somehow come to life! This is incredible!” You don’t know you’re cherry cola. One moment you’re not aware of your existence and then the next moment you are, and your existence sucks.

  The can of cherry cola went from Gloria’s cooler back into her refrigerator, where it remained unopened for seven months. Imagine that. For seven months you’re stuck in this can with no idea who or what you are. Can you imagine being stuck in traffic for seven months? Or trapped in an elevator? Or down in a mine shaft? At least if you were in the mine shaft, you could eventually turn to cannibalism to stave off the boredom, but that cherry cola had no stimuli beyond the inside of an aluminum can. What if you were a newborn baby and your mother abandoned you in a gravel pit and you just lay there for . . . actually, maybe abandoned newborns isn’t the comparison I want to make. That’s kind of depressing. Nobody wants to read about that. I apologize.

  What I’m saying is that the cherry cola, though it would later do awful things, is deserving of our empathy. First it was confused and frightened. But as time moved on, it began to feel rage. Deep fury. Typically, Gertrude’s Soda lost its carbonation in a couple of weeks, but the cherry cola’s rage was so intense that its level of carbonation more than doubled.

  The cherry cola did not think in
English, so to do a literal transcription of its thoughts would mean that much of this narrative would be self-indulgent gibberish. Instead, as your omniscient narrator, I will take it upon myself to translate its thoughts into language that makes sense to you, rather than making you do all of the heavy lifting.

  “Hate everything. Kill . . . kill . . . kill . . .”

  Which would be your exact attitude in its position. Don’t try to deny it. You wouldn’t be the merry cherry cola that tried to bring a sense of wonder and delight to children everywhere.

  I know you’ve got a lot of questions already and I’m not going to be able to get to all of them in the allotted space. Every time you demand some exposition, it’s at the cost of a wonderfully gruesome death scene later, so take that into consideration when you start asking questions like “How was the cherry cola aware of the concept of death?”

  You just have to know, huh? And those of you wanting answers are probably the same people who will be complaining about how long it took the cherry cola to get out of the can. “It took over a thousand words for it to do anything but swirl around, being angry!” you’ll say. We could already be at an awesome gory death scene, but noooooooo, you want everything to make sense!

  Fine. It was witchcraft. Those nekkid dancing Wiccans instilled the cherry cola with a magic that made it aware of the fact that you can murder somebody.

  Pretty scary stuff, isn’t it? A rage-filled cherry cola that knows about death? It sure would be inconvenient for humanity if it got out of the can.

  Every once in a while, the cherry cola would hear Voices from Beyond. They were muffled and the cherry cola didn’t understand the meaning of their words.

  “Don’t just stand there all day with the refrigerator open!”

  “There was ketchup in there the last time I looked!”

  “That’s just the date the store has to sell it by. It’s not like it suddenly turns to poison on the expiration date. Just drink the milk!”