Anything But Zombies

by Gerald Rice

  “Phyllis,” he said. “Please, look at me.” He willed her to recognize him but those eyes held nothing for her husband. They all lifted their hands up to him, reaching like they had fallen overboard and he was a lifeline. His will left him and he rolled to the edge, wanting nothing more than for them to take him as they were taking his home.

  He went over, his body rag doll limp, and he snagged on the gutter. He was too high for the ones on the ground to reach him and the ones on the roof fell over when they reached for him.

  The gutter held for a few minutes and he watched them with their arms out to him as if in supplication. He knew just about every one of the faces looking up at him.

  They were his fans. Every single one of them.

  And the look. It was more than adulation. It was adoration. They wanted him. They all did.

  Toby fell.

  They descended.

  Constrictor-like open mouths filled with blue-lit teeth fastened onto him, bloodlessly tearing off limbs. It was impossible for him to fight and a moment later there wasn’t anything for him to fight with. Phyllis reached and picked him up by his curly hair and held him in her hands, staring.

  His wife walked to her car, opened the door, and put him in a nice box she had taken from the house.

  Toby heard the car start and felt the rumbling engine as she slowly backed out of the driveway. The writer merely wished to return home, he thought. But he dreaded his daughters seeing him in such a state. They were much too young to appreciate his work.

  Mister Poo Poo

  * * *

  * * *

  Jimmy Pudge

  Bobby was born with only two fingers on his right hand. He used to hold up those two fingers, his thumb and index finger, like a pistol, firing at his father when he shut him in the closet at night. Father loved him; Bobby knew this. But father had to find a new wife since Bobby had made his first wife leave. Father said Bobby was pure fucking ugly and he would make the women-folk sick. That’s why he’d started making Bobby sleep in the closet.

  Bobby was playing with a boot in the closet one night when he heard an unusual noise. He sat up from his towel, which Father had laid on the floor for him when he was younger, and tried to peer into the darkness. He rubbed his eyes and saw yellow dots dancing. The dots disappeared and the blackness remained.

  “Hello?”

  He heard the noise again. A crunching sound. Something warm and wet landed on his head.

  “Hi ya, Bobby!” a voice said. “Want some Cheetos?”

  Bobby scooted his ass back until he hit a wall. “Help!” He kicked the closet door as hard as he could. “Please!”

  He heard heavy footsteps on the floor.

  “Bobby, you wouldn’t rat out your best friend, now would ya?”

  “Help!”

  “Everyone loves Mister Poo Poo, you little bastard!” the voice said, hot breath and the scent of decay slapping Bobby in the face. “Just remember, Bobby! You created me!”

  The door opened and Bobby’s father looked angry. “Bobby, what the hell? What are you shouting about?”

  “Someone’s in my closet, Father!”

  The old man reached up, yanked a chain, and a dim light from a 40-watt bulb bathed the clothing and shoes and cardboard boxes a putrid yellow.

  “Ain’t a damn soul in this closet but you. What are you doing in here anyway?”

  “Father, someone’s in the closet with me!”

  “No one’s in the closet, son. Now please, get up and go to your bed.”

  “But you said I was ugly and had to live in the closet.”

  Father looked confused. “Huh?”

  “You said I was an ugly motherfucker and would scare all the women-folk away!”

  “Oh shit. You haven’t been taking your medication, have you, Bobby?”

  “It’s poisoned. I know you want me dead.” Bobby looked into his father’s eyes and could see the rage. He rolled himself into a ball, prepared for the onslaught.

  “Bobby, you look damned ridiculous in that closet. You’re twenty-four years old, son. It’s time to start acting like a man. Get out of that closet.”

  * * *

  * * *

  It wasn’t until later that night when Bobby heard the crunching noise again. This time it was coming from under his bed. He pulled the covers over his face, fear punching him in the gut.

  “Bobby! Why don’t you crawl out of bed and come down here with me. Aww . . . come on, Bobby, don’t be a pussy! Come down here and hide under the bed with your pal, Mr. Poo Poo. We’ll talk about things, Bobby. We’ll talk about all sorts of fucking things, Bobby.”

  Bobby could feel his heart racing. He tried to take deep breaths, but the fear had tightened his chest. He could hear someone or something moving under the bed. He could feel it pushing against the box springs and the mattress. He could hear it on the wooden floor, sliding out from its hiding place and into the shadows engulfing the room.

  He heard heavy footsteps and felt something tugging at his sheet. And then the phantom hand was gone.

  “Bobby, look at me!”

  Bobby kept his eyelids shut and the sheet over his head.

  “Why create me, Bobby, if you’re not going to play the game? Huh? Why make Mr. Poo Poo, little baby?”

  “Leave me alone.”

  “Then look at me, you chickenshit motherfucker!”

  Bobby jerked the cover off his head. Mr. Poo Poo stood six feet tall and his belly was massive. In the darkness, Bobby could make out little else but the outline of something in the man’s hand. The smell, however, was overpowering. His eyes watered as he inhaled horrible aromas he could not place.

  He reached for the lamp on his nightstand and gasped at what he saw. Mr. Poo Poo was butt-ass naked and grinning and his teeth looked like rusted scalpels. His bald head was the color of marble and a blazing blue neon light suddenly emerged from it. Bobby glanced up and saw the word BITCH in neon blue spelled out on the ceiling.

  “Like my razor?” Mr. Poo Poo said.

  Bobby stared at the huge hand that was stretched out to him. An ivory handled straight razor gleamed as the hand came closer.

  “Touch it,” Mr. Poo Poo whispered. “I want you to.”

  Bobby ran his hand over the side of the razor. “It’s cold.”

  “I know it is, Bobby. Let’s warm the motherfucker up.”

  Bobby sat up in bed. “How are we going to do that?” he said, his voice cracking.

  “Well, Bobby, first I need to know why your imagination birthed me. You see, I’m like a genie in a bottle. I can’t go free until I grant your wish. That’s the game, Bobby. I need you to play it. I’m hungry, Bobby! Tell me what you want! And tell me now!”

  Bobby’s lip trembled and he lowered his head. His heart was speeding, blood was flowing, and a million thoughts wafted through his mind and died at his tongue. He told himself to remain silent, to scream for Father. But instead of calling for help, he heard his high-pitched, squeaky voice spill out of his trembling mouth. “I want—I want you to kill Father. He’s trying to kill me with those pills I’m taking. They make me feel so icky. I can’t do anything with those pills. I can’t concentrate. They’re destroying me. That’s why you’re here! I want you to save me.”

  Mr. Poo Poo sat down on the bed and the frame groaned under his massive bulk. He moved up the bed, leaving a brown trail where his ass had slid. “You want me to save you?”

  “Yes.”

  “No problem, Bobby!”

  Mr. Poo Poo tightened his grip on the razor and ran it across Bobby’s face with a vicious swing. The blade sliced through Bobby’s flesh like butter and popped an eyeball.

  Bobby screamed and his hands reached for the razor. “Please stop it, Poo!”

  “Fuck you!” Mr. Poo Poo shouted. “I’m saving you from yourself, you crazy sonofabitch!”

  Blood was running into Bobby’s one good eye and the pain was white lightning in his veins. “But I—I created you. How can you d
o my bid-bidding if you kill me?”

  “Because I already know what you want, you stupid motherfucker!” Mr. Poo Poo leaned over Bobby and put his lips on the ruined eyeball he had sliced wide open and slurped fluid building up in the socket.

  “I drink your eyeball, Bobby.”

  Bobby shouted for his father.

  Mr. Poo Poo ran the razor across his throat and Bobby jumped out of bed, running wildly across the room. Red frothy bubbles boiled from the wound and blood splashed the floor and Bobby tried to hold it in but it seeped through his hands and rained on his feet.

  He slipped in the blood on the floor and fell on his back, his head bouncing off the wood. Mr. Poo Poo casually strolled to Bobby and lifted him to a sitting position. He grabbed his chin with one hand and propped him up with the other. And then he pulled the head back, the skin splitting like a plastic bag.

  “What a fine meal you’ll make, Bobby!” Poo shouted, ripping Bobby’s head off. He took it in the kitchen and placed it in the microwave oven for four minutes.

  He sat at the table and watched the microwave as the head rotated. Goddamn it, I forgot to add seasoning, he thought. And then he smelled the scent of burning hair and he grew enraged for not scalping Bobby’s head before he put it in.

  He walked to the oven and laughed when he saw Bobby’s only eyeball explode on the glass. He cleared the time remaining and opened the door.

  “You’re not even worth a shit dead, Bobby!”

  He pulled the smoking, blackened head out and tossed it in the trash. Then he went to the kitchen counter and looked through the drawers until he found a meat cleaver.

  * * *

  * * *

  Hank was snoring and his wife hit him with her pillow.

  “Honey, you’re snoring again,” she said.

  “Huh?”

  “Quit snoring.”

  “Okay, baby.” Hank turned on his side and closed his eyes. Maybe it was time to admit Bobby to the hospital and get him some professional help. He remembered the last time they had sent him away. It had been the most difficult month of his life. He suddenly felt like talking about it.

  “Sarah,” he said. “Sarah?” He shook his wife until she slapped his hand.

  “What?”

  “Bobby was in his closet again. This time he said there was someone in there with him.”

  Sarah opened her eyes. “Oh, no. The paranoia’s coming back?”

  “That’s what I’m thinking.”

  “Hank, I can’t send my baby back to Westville.”

  “I know. I don’t want him to go either. But things are escalating, darling. I don’t know how long he was in that closet, but you should have seen how he reacted when I told him to go to bed.”

  “Hank, I can’t deal with this right now. Let’s talk about it tomorrow.”

  “Goodnight, baby.” He rolled on his stomach and mashed up his pillow, trying to get his mind away from his son.

  The windup alarm clock on his nightstand ticked steadily on and he felt hot. He was burning up. Hank kicked off the covers and touched his feet to the floor. He stood up and stretched and headed to the hall. There was a strange noise. He stopped. Heavy footsteps. A shadow passed the bedroom doorway. A really big shadow.

  He walked to the dresser and grabbed his .357 revolver out of the bottom drawer. He pulled back the hammer on the pistol and ran into the hallway. He flicked the light switch. Light filled the hall.

  Not a soul was there.

  “Bobby?” he said.

  No answer.

  He walked down the hallway to his son’s bedroom and opened the door.

  “Bobby, you in here?”

  There was a strange smell in the room. He flicked the light switch on and gasped. Blood was splattered on the walls and a puddle of blood surrounded his son’s headless body, which lay motionless on the floor.

  “Bobby!” He dropped to his knees in the puddle and put a loving hand on his son’s shoulder. He wanted to break down. But he wanted to kill whoever had done this more.

  Hank screamed, stood up, and ran to the closet and opened the door.

  It was empty.

  His eyes were wild as he ran out of the room and into the bathroom.

  Empty. He checked the living room and the utility room.

  Empty.

  He opened the door to the kitchen and walked inside and almost lost his balance as the smell of burned hair attacked his nostrils. His eyes watered and he searched the kitchen, under the table and in the pantry closet.

  He caught a glimpse of his son’s charred head in the trash can and his heart fluttered. The urge to vomit flared and he hunched over, clutching his stomach as he threw up his supper and five shots of J&B and gagged on the bitter taste.

  He thought of his wife then and ran into the hallway.

  “Look up, motherfucker,” Mr. Poo Poo said.

  Hank raised his head and saw a six-hundred-pound naked man with massive arms and legs pressed against the hallway walls, his back touching the ceiling. Before the pistol could be lifted, Mr. Poo Poo let go with a huge belly flop on Bobby’s daddy.

  Hank kicked and scratched at the man’s back, his face absorbed in the stomach. He couldn’t breathe and he couldn’t get the massive weight off him.

  He could feel his heart racing. He fought for air but nothing was there but oily skin and a cold hardwood floor beneath him.

  He heard Mr. Poo Poo laughing and could feel his body tiring. And then the weight was gone and he could breathe again and he took in gulps of air, coughing as he exhaled and inhaled.

  “I’m Mr. Poo Poo and I’m gonna kill you!”

  Hank looked up and saw a meat cleaver pointed at his face.

  “I think I’ll cut off your arm first.”

  Hank tried to speak.

  “What did you say?” Mr. Poo Poo said.

  “I said you can’t cut off an arm with a meat cleaver, you stupid sonofabitch. The bone’s too thick.”

  Mr. Poo Poo laughed and Hank watched the enormous belly shake. “I ain’t goin’ through the bone. I’m goin’ through the cartilage. Let me show you.”

  Hank felt the man’s massive hand on his forearm and then a powerful squeeze made him scream.

  “I’m going right where the shoulder and the arm are connected. So be real still,” Poo said, swinging the meat cleaver. Steel went through Bobby’s daddy’s flesh. Mr. Poo Poo pulled it out with no effort and swung again. Hank suddenly felt his arm give and heard it drop to the floor.

  Pain flared, white and hot, and he tried to call out his wife’s name but suddenly realized he couldn’t because he had been screaming since the hacking had begun.

  He looked up at his torturer and Mr. Poo Poo was holding his arm like a turkey leg, eating the raw flesh and sighing with delight.

  “You taste soooo good.”

  Hank held his hand to his wound and the blood was raging like a flood and he saw the pistol on the floor and went for it.

  Mr. Poo Poo took Hank’s arm and beat him with it. “You don’t want to do that,” he said. “That’s not a good idea at all, Hank.”

  Hank could feel the numbness setting in. His eyelids were growing heavy and it was hard to keep them open.

  “Why are you here?” he said.

  Mr. Poo Poo quit eating the arm and lowered it. “I don’t really know,” he said. “Your son imagined me. I was born in his closet less than two hours ago, Hank.”

  Hank closed his eyes. “That doesn’t make sense.”

  Mr. Poo Poo grinned. “Nothing really makes sense.” He put the arm back to his mouth and took another bite. “How tender is your wife, Hank? Does her pussy taste sweet?”

  The man didn’t respond and Mr. Poo Poo grinned. He dropped the arm and headed into the bedroom.

  She was sound asleep and he liked it that way because it gave him time to smell her shoes in the closet. He really liked the red high heels and decided he was going to take one in his hand and put the heel through her eyeball.

/>   He lifted his great weight and his knees popped as he stood to his full height. Mr. Poo Poo walked up to Sarah and reached underneath his enormous belly until he found what he was looking for. Then, he pissed on her.

  She sat up in bed gagging, spitting the venomous green liquid from her mouth. “Hank!” she yelled. “What are you doin—”

  She looked away from Hank’s side of the bed and spotted the hulking giant standing beside her. His smile was childish and his dome head was glowing neon blue in the darkness.

  She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t breathe. All she could do was watch in silent horror as he lifted his hand and brought the pump down in an arc. The heel missed her eyeball and snapped off as it connected with her pig nose.

  Mr. Poo Poo cursed and tossed the pump aside.

  Blood ran down her face and she clutched her broken nose.

  “You fucked up my shoe!” he screamed, reaching down for its twin.

  A thought occurred to Bobby’s mom as Poo went for the shoe. She jumped out of bed and ran.

  She saw a pump fly past her and bounce off the bedroom wall and she was in the hallway and her husband was on the floor looking helplessly up at her, his mouth forming words. She jumped over him and turned to see Mr. Poo Poo come flying into the hallway, his huge foot smashing Hank’s head like a rotten pumpkin.

  “Come back here, bitch!” he screamed.

  Sarah fled into the kitchen and the smell almost doubled her over as she opened a cabinet door and grabbed a frying pan.

  She heard him in the kitchen and turned to see the huge beast slowly walking toward her.

  “Damn, I was looking for that,” he said. “I wanted to lightly brown your son’s liver, but I just couldn’t find it anywhere. And there it is. Stupid me.”