Anything but Zombies: A Short Story Anthology

by Gerald Dean Rice

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you believe this, Anthony? That there are beings called Realators looking to buy up all the property on Earth with promises?”

  “They don’t have to buy it all up, just the majority share. It’s in their Covenants.”

  “Right, the Covenants they make people sign to show their loyalty.”

  “Yeah.”

  * * *

  * * *

  “Sign it, Tony,” Hal grinned. “Just put your John Hancock right there and it’s all done.”

  I stood on my front porch and looked up and down my neighborhood. Every house but ours had balloons on the mailboxes and OPEN HOUSE signs out front. The smell of fresh-baked cookies was almost overwhelming. I felt like I was choking on mustard gas made out of chocolate chips and snickerdoodles.

  “Tony,” Maura growled. “Sign the paper. For me. For your daughters.”

  I looked behind me and into the house. The girls stood there, their faces drawn and scared. They knew—they knew—that something was wrong. I mean, who schedules all these open houses during playoffs, am I right?

  “These aren’t closing papers,” I said as I looked at the strange documents on Hal’s clipboard. “I’ve seen house closing papers before, Hal. I’m not signing these. And what the hell are ‘Covenants’? You can’t amend the HOA regulations without calling an official HOA meeting and having a quorum present. I know that much.”

  The TV blared the Seahawks game, and I could tell I just missed something big. I sighed and turned to my wife, ready to lay out my argument one last time.

  “We aren’t selling,” I said. “End of story.”

  “Sorry to hear that, Tony,” Hal said. “I am really, really sorry to hear that.”

  “I’ll talk to him,” Maura said.

  “You do that.” Hal frowned then looked past me and at my daughters. “You two should come play with Lisa. She misses you.”

  The girls didn’t respond.

  “Last chance, Maura,” Hal said. “Midnight is the deadline.”

  Then he turned and walked off to the group of neighbors waiting by the curb. The Berglands, Lancasters, Whitreds, Ketts, Garrets, Villanovas, Havingshaws, Tulanes, even the Trangs, who never came out of their house, all stood there staring at me. I waved and went back in to watch the game.

  * * *

  * * *

  “None of your neighbors remember that day, Anthony. They all testified, those that survived, that you were out on your front lawn in your underwear, screaming at everyone that walked by.”

  “What? I never did that. No, hold on . . . Okay, yeah, I was in my underwear when Hal came over. I had spilled salsa on my sweatpants and they were hanging in the downstairs bathroom. But who cares? Everyone has seen their neighbors in their underwear.”

  “No, that’s not true, Anthony. I haven’t seen any of my neighbors in their underwear. But then I live outside town on a nice piece of land. Eighteen acres with a pond. So no neighbors, really.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “Keeps me from being burned to death by one, doesn’t it? Oh, dear me, sorry. That was out of line.”

  “Yeah, it was. Jeez.”

  “Sorry. Now, tell me about what happened at midnight.”

  “No.”

  “Anthony? I am here to help.”

  “No.”

  “If you do, then I may be able to arrange for you to see your daughters. Would you like that?”

  “My daughters? But they . . .”

  “They are still recovering, yes, but it’s within my power to arrange a visit.”

  “My daughters . . .”

  * * *

  * * *

  “Daddy? There are people at the door,” Allison said.

  “Huh, what, where?” I asked as I rubbed my eyes and switched on the bedside lamp. The rest of the bed was empty. “Where’s your mother?”

  “She’s at the door,” Allison said.

  “Then she can deal with it,” I said as I started to turn out the light, but Allison put her hand on mine.

  “No, Daddy, she’s at the door with everyone else,” she said.

  “Yeah, so let Mom deal with them,” I replied.

  “Daddy!” Allison shouted. “Mom is outside with everyone else! She isn’t inside! She’s outside!”

  “What? It’s like thirty degrees out,” I said.

  “She’s out there and they are with someone,” Allison said. “They keep calling your name over and over. It’s making it hard to sleep.”

  I sighed and stood up then grabbed my sweats and slipped them on.

  “Where’s your sister?” I asked as I followed her to the stairs and down to the front door.

  “She’s in bed,” Allison said. “Upstairs.”

  “She is? Good. You go back up there too, okay? You need your sleep.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Allison yawned. “ ’Night, Daddy.”

  “ ’Night, sweetheart.”

  I watched her go back up, then turned and opened the door. I noticed two things: that every single one of my neighbors was on my front lawn, with my wife in front of them, and that all the houses I could see had their front lights on and there were fresh balloons floating from the mailboxes.

  No, wait, I noticed three things. The third was that it smelled like chocolate-caramel brownie cookies. Which I don’t like because they usually have walnuts in them and I hate walnuts. I preferred the snickerdoodle smell.

  “Hey, everybody,” I said. “What’s up?”

  “Sign the Covenants,” they all said as one.

  “Sign them, Tony,” Maura said as she walked up to me and shoved a stack of papers in my hands. “Sign them now and we will get our promise. If you love me then you’ll let me get my promise, Tony. Do you love me?”

  “Yeah, baby, I love you more than anything,” I said. It was a white lie. I loved my daughters more than anything. Maura was easily second. Or tied for second with football, at least, since I’m being honest.

  “Sign the Covenants,” the neighbors chanted.

  And that’s totally what they did. It was like a little cult sing-along. They even started to sway back and forth.

  “Sign the Covenants,” Maura said. “Then we can be together forever.”

  Yikes. Forever is a long time.

  “I’m going back inside, baby,” I said. “I need to sleep. The games start early tomorrow.”

  “Grab him,” Maura said to my neighbors. “We’ll have to make him sign.”

  “You what?” I asked as everyone rushed me. “Oh, crap!”

  I turned and ran inside, intending to head back upstairs, but I tripped on the hall rug and had to scoot-scamper my way into the dining room instead. I could hear them rushing through the house. A hundred feet all pounding against our bamboo laminate flooring.

  “TONY!” Maura screamed. “Time to sign!”

  I got through the dining room and was into the living room when my path was blocked by Margo Zoletti. She was holding a baseball bat and smiling.

  “What are you going to do with that?” I asked.

  “Sign or no football,” she said, raising the baseball bat above her head as she turned to my 64-inch HDTV.

  “You won’t do that, Margo,” I laughed. Margo had been a college cheerleader. There was no way she’d hurt my TV.

  Then she hurt my TV. She hurt it so bad. So bad . . .

  * * *

  * * *

  “And the next thing you remember is that you were dancing in the street while your house burned?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You have no idea how you got the gas can? Or why you were burning your house?”

  “Uh . . . no.”

  “Anthony, honesty is how I help you. Please, be honest with me. Why did you burn your house down?”

  “Because . . . because . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Because . . . because they made me sign! They said I’d get a new TV and then I could watch all the football I wanted! They
made me! They forced me!”

  “But why would you burn your house down if they were giving you a new TV?”

  “Because they lied! That’s what Realators do! They take over people, they control their minds, they get them to sign, and THEN THEY LIE!”

  “Calm down, Anthony. Tell me, how did they lie?”

  “It wasn’t in the Covenants. I signed like they said, then they laughed at me and told me I should have read what I was signing. There was no rider for a new TV, Dr. Chalmers! THERE WAS NO RIDER!”

  “Okay, okay, take a deep breath. Center yourself.”

  “Sorry, sorry, it’s just so hard to think about. No TV. No TV. That meant no football.”

  “So you burned down your house? Why? I’m still not seeing the connection.”

  “I just said! No football. What the hell is the point of a house if there’s no TV and no football?”

  “To live in, Anthony. To raise your family in. The normal reaction to losing a television is not to burn down your house.”

  “It is when you’re told you not only aren’t getting a new TV, but you will NEVER be getting a new TV! My God, Doctor! Haven’t you been listening? There was no rider! Why am I even talking to you? What’s the point?”

  “Your daughters. You are talking to me so I can say you are fit to see your daughters.”

  “Right, right. My daughters. How do they . . . how do they look?”

  “They are healing. It’s about all I can say.”

  “Okay. Sorry.”

  “Are you, Anthony?”

  “What?”

  “Are you sorry? I need to hear it from your lips.”

  “Hear what?”

  “That you are sorry for burning down your house. For hurting your daughters. For trying to burn the other houses down. I need to hear you say it.”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “Think about it, Anthony. Once you can admit what you’ve done and admit there are no such thing as Realators, then I can take you to see your daughters in their hospital room.”

  “Wait . . . hospital room?”

  “Well, yes, that’s where they are. Like I said, they are still healing.”

  “I’m sorry. Totally sorry.”

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for burning down my house and for lying about the Realators and for trying to burn down the neighborhood. I’m sorry for it all.”

  “Well, that was sudden.”

  “Yeah, totally, but you’re a great doctor. You helped me see the truth. Can I see my daughters now in their hospital room?”

  “Yes, but it’ll be a couple of days. I have to make all the arrangements.”

  “A couple of days? So, Sunday then?”

  “Probably. Let me check my calendar. Hmm . . . yes, Sunday will work.”

  “Wonderful. Thank you, Doctor. Thank you so much.”

  * * *

  * * *

  “You can speak to them,” Dr. Chalmers said. “Just be calm about it.”

  I barely heard him, I was so overjoyed. There, finally, a TV.

  “Huh? Oh, right,” I said. “Hey, girls.”

  “Heh, Duddee,” they said. Or I think they did. Hard to tell with the bandages.

  “Where’s the remote?” I asked.

  “I’m sorry?” Dr. Chalmers replied.

  “The remote,” I said. “For the TV. The Super Bowl is on and I always watch the Super Bowl with my girls.”

  “Yes, well, it’s right here,” he said as he picked up the remote from a bedside table and handed it to me. “But we can’t stay . . . very . . . what are those out there?”

  He walked away from me and over to the window. I sorta looked, but didn’t really since the—well, the Super Bowl.

  “Duddee?” Allison mumbled.

  “Hold on, baby, Daddy’s finding the game,” I said as I clicked through the channels.

  “Duddee, wuz dat?”

  “Huh, baby?” I asked, but didn’t really. I mean, I asked, but it was more of a reflex. I was too busy flipping through the channels. “What the hell is all this crap? Where’s the damn game?”

  “Reports are coming in that balloons have started to appear on every piece of property in the country,” an anchorwoman said as I finally stopped looking for the game.

  “Oh, God, Anthony,” Dr. Chalmers said from the window. “You . . . you . . . the Realators.”

  “That’s not all, Diane,” an anchorman said. “There are reports that everywhere you go, the smell of cookies is so overpowering that health officials are asking that those with bronchial issues stay inside.”

  “I sure do love cookies, Ted.”

  “Me too, Diane. Oh, wait, our producer is saying there is a new development . . . I’m sorry, Larry, but that can’t be right . . . No, no, I understand.”

  “Oh my.”

  “Oh my, indeed, Diane. Folks, we are now receiving reports that there is something now blocking the moon.”

  “But it’s daytime, Ted.”

  “Oh, Diane, you silly woman, the moon can show up during the day.”

  “Oh, huh. Well, learn something new every—well—day. Ha ha ha ha.”

  “Let’s go to our reporter in the field, Tamara Gutierrez. Tamara?”

  “Thank you, Ted. It appears there are several massive Mylar balloons now bobbing around the moon. And by massive, I mean massive. I have here a local expert. Can you tell us more about these types of balloons?”

  “Uh, well, I just fill up normal-sized ones at the Rite Aid. I don’t really know about—”

  “Anthony? What do we do?” Dr. Chalmers asked as he rushed to me, grabbed the remote from my hand, and turned off the TV.

  “Hey!” I replied.

  “You . . . you were right, Anthony. The Realators. I see them. Down in the parking lot with their fistfuls of balloons and plates of cookies. They are hideous. What do we do?”

  I walked to the window and looked down at the parking lot four stories below.

  “Huh,” I said. “I’ve never actually seen a Realator before.”

  “What?” Dr. Chalmers exclaimed.

  “Yeah, I only dealt with my neighbors,” I replied. “Boy, you’re right, they are pretty hideous. Yuck.”

  “Anthony! You are the only one that knows what is going on!” Dr. Chalmers screeched.

  I grabbed him by the shoulders and slapped him once, twice, three times. Then four times because I like symmetry.

  “Get it together, Doctor,” I said. I smiled at my girls. “Hang tight, girls. Daddy has work to do!”

  “Work? What work?” Dr. Chalmers asked, his eyes teary and wild.

  “Well, first, we go to every room and save the TVs,” I stated. “But if that doesn’t work then we find the best team of lawyers we can. If the lawyers haven’t been taken over yet, that is. I’m sure the Realators have already gotten to the real estate lawyers by now, at least. Maybe the contract lawyers are still free.”

  “Lawyers?” Dr. Chalmers cried. “Have you lost your mind? What do we need lawyers for?”

  “This time I’m ready,” I said as I ran out into the hall. “This time there will be a rider! A RIDER FOR THE EARTH! A RIDER FOR OUR TVs, FOR THE SUPER BOWL, FOR OUR VERY LIVES! But mostly for the Super Bowl and TVs.”

  “Buh, Dudee!”

  “Buh-buh!”

  “Bye, girls! Don’t be afraid! I’ll be back with a rider! TO THE LAWYERS!”

  Out of Mind

  * * *

  * * *

  Faye McCray

  It had been four minutes since I’d thought about the dead girl at the party.

  Four minutes and about ten seconds if you count the tone-deaf riffs Ben and I attempted after the song was done.

  Then he looked at me, smiled, and ruined it. Reminding me that he was, in fact, trying to distract me from the dead girl while simultaneously reminding me that nothing could really distract me from the dead girl.

  That was the pesky thing about dead girls. They were
impossible to forget.

  Less than forty-eight hours earlier she had been slumped at my feet, her thick blood pooling onto the sticky dance floor between us as her life poured from the smoky bullet hole burrowed into her toned tummy. Her body shook and shuddered as the stampede of screaming partygoers rushed toward the exit, trampling her beautiful salmon-colored dress. I stood beside her, speckled in her blood and still. My scream was stuck like a gumdrop in my throat, my feet frozen in place.

  “Are you okay?” Ben looked at me uncomfortably from where he sat behind the wheel of his small sedan. He spoke in that same reluctant tone he had when I showed up at his apartment that night covered in her blood. Like he wasn’t sure if the title of “sort-of ex-fiancé” made him qualified to deal with dead girls and blood stains. Drunk, midsex proposals make for a tenuous kind of commitment.

  The night I went to the club, Ben and I were on a break. I’d found a phone number for Katie-with-a-heart-over-the-“i” buried in one of his pockets and listened to him stammer out an epically weak explanation about how it got there. They weren’t his pants or they weren’t his pockets, he didn’t even know his pants had pockets.

  “Drink,” a coworker I’d confided in said the minute we got to the club. She placed the tequila shot in my hand and watched me throw it back. She barely gave it time to burn its way down before handing me another.

  Maybe if I hadn’t been drowning in tequila when the dead girl was shot, I would have had the good sense to run. Instead, I stared down at her in a sort of dreamlike fog, not entirely sure she, or even I, was real.

  “Tiff, are you okay?” Ben asked again. He placed his hand hesitantly on my thigh. We hadn’t exactly gotten back together. The last time we spoke I was a blubbery mess. Spouting mournful Sara Bareilles lyrics in one breath and Beyoncé-like revenge predictions in the other.

  “I guess that’s a dumb question.” His dark brows furrowed, squinting his brown eyes. He’d been choosing his words gingerly for the whole ride as if at any moment I’d say, “I completely forgot you were an asshole,” and leave him on the side of the highway.