Chivalry Is Dead

by Bennie Newsome

  “Dad,” she walked up behind him, her hand unconsciously drifted to her knife sheath, “what’s that song you were humming?”

  “Huh?” he slowly stirred the pot with a metal spoon.

  “That song you were just humming…what is it?”

  “Oh…” he chuckled. “That was your mom’s and my song. Open Arms by a group called Journey.” He turned and looked up at Ronni with a smile.

  Ronni stifled a scream and involuntarily staggered back a few steps. On reflex she’d drawn the machete halfway from its sheath before stopping herself. Todd’s smile fell away and a look of confusion replaced it.

  “What is it, Ronni?”

  “Your eyes, daddy,” she took a deep breath and swallowed, “the change is starting.”

  Todd dropped his head. He knew what that meant. His eyes would begin to look terribly bloodshot, but the little traces would be black…not red. That was a tell-tale sign. People could conceal a bite, but the eyes would always give them away.

  All night he’d hoped and prayed that he would be okay. All night he had hoped and prayed that there had been no contamination. All night he had hoped…and prayed. However, he had also planned for this eventuality.

  “We’ll worry about that after breakfast,” Todd made every effort to sound nonchalant. “I have a surprise.”

  Ronni didn’t care about surprises. The only surprise wanted was for her dad to be okay. She was sick and tired of losing everybody she loved and cared about. She wanted her life back. She wanted these last four years back. She wanted to be close to her dad and tell him it wasn’t his fault that he’d had to shoot her mom. She wanted to tell him how much she was thankful for how he protected and trained her to survive in this world of death.

  “Close your eyes.” Todd put a lid on the pot and slowly stood up. His face couldn’t quite mask the pain.

  “Daddy—”

  “Just do this sweetie.” He smiled, only Ronni could see that it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

  No! Ronni thought. Those aren’t his eyes. She knew his eyes; they were a deep brown, like a puppy, and full of life. They were her eyes. Her mom had always said so…

  Ronni closed her eyes. She felt hands on her shoulders. She was led a few steps and helped into a chair. The chair scooted up to the rickety wooden table. She heard a few things moved around.

  “Okay,” Todd said with as much flourish as he could muster, “open them.”

  Ronni opened her eyes. She blinked a few times in disbelief. There was a plate of non-descript food, obviously an MRE but it was the cup that caught her attention. She looked at it, then at her dad.

  “Is it…?”

  “I sorted and cataloged everything last night. While I was going through the boxes I found two packets of instant coffee…and one hot chocolate mix!”

  Ronni picked up the cup and held it under her nose. She took a deep breath. It smelled heavenly! She sipped the steaming liquid. Four years ago she might’ve spit it out. But at this moment, it was the most wonderful thing she’d tasted in months.

  “Now, get started. I’ve got to take care of some stuff, then it’s time to move out.” Todd leaned down and kissed his daughter on the forehead.

  Ronni took another sip. It was sweet and simply terrific. She glanced at her plate. That even seemed better with the addition of this cup of hot chocolate. She set down the cup and grabbed her spoon. She would shovel down breakfast fast because the last thing she wanted was the taste of the hot chocolate as a finish to the meal.

  She’d taken two huge spoonfuls when realization struck. There was only one plate on the table. Hers. Only one cup. Hers. Ronni knew that her dad had often been as vocal with his bemoaning the loss of coffee as he was her hot chocolate. She spun around in her chair. On the door was a note:

  My Dear Princess Ronni;

  I love you. Nothing beyond that matters now.

  I always have, I always will.

  Then…now…always,

  Love Dad

  A muffled pop sounded.

  Ronni ran to the door, jerked it open, and was greeted by a blast of cold air. There was at least three feet of snow on the ground. That made it easy to spot her dad’s tracks. She glanced at the sled that sat loaded and ready. Her dad’s holder for his .22 pistol sat empty atop the pile of covered and secured stuff.

  She followed the tracks around the back of the cabin. There was a mound where she knew the two bodies lay. A few yards away, up beside a pine tree, leaned a dark figure. Her dad had sat down beside it. She could see the hand that held the pistol.

  She turned and trudged back to the cabin. After finishing breakfast, Ronni packed up a few things her dad had not taken care of. She left the cabin after one final look. Her eyes rested on the half-finished cup of hot chocolate just before she pulled the door shut.

  ***

  It had taken two days. Ronni had seen nothing other than a few deer and elk. She’d considered bagging one but knew that she had more than enough food for the winter with all the MRE’s. Plus, she didn’t want the extra weight. The sled was heavy enough and she didn’t need to worry about attracting wolves. Zombies were quite enough to worry about for now.

  She slept in a tree that one and only night. Setting a sling between branches for support, she’d climbed into her sleeping bag with her dad’s field jacket. He’d left it in the cabin. She fell asleep wrapped in his smell.

  The second day, she’d reached her destination about mid- afternoon. She walked up to the house, pushed open the door and, without bothering to make a walk through, unloaded all the gear and supplies from the sled. By nightfall she had everything stowed or sorted out properly just as dad taught. The sled had been set-up with an emergency evacuation load out. Her backpack was likewise prepared in case she had to run and couldn’t bring the sled.

  That night, the eve before her birthday, she selected a dinner and ate. Occasionally she hummed a song…Open Arms. Afterwards, she cleaned and prepped all her weapons and set out everything for breakfast.

  Just before drifting off to sleep, she praised the absolute silence. She’d hate for anything to ruin her birthday. A dream came that night. A dream of her dad.

  ***

  Ronni woke to silence. The room was cold. She fired up the stove. This was going to be a busy day. She’d be cleaning out the chimney today. She had always been curious why zombies seemed to hone in on sound, but didn’t seem to be drawn by smells. Of course smoke from a fire could bring other survivors, but Ronni knew to only light fires at night when people could possibly smell smoke, but not likely see it as easily.

  Tomorrow she would start rigging alarms and traps. But today was her birthday. Ronni already had plans. She ate breakfast in peace and quiet. Afterwards, she made a cup of instant coffee. She’d drink it black and bitter just like her dad used to. After the first sip she decided it was the thought that counted and set the cup aside.

  Strapping on all her gear, Ronni walked through the filthy kitchen. She shone the lantern around. Yep, plenty of cleaning to do if she was gonna call this home for the winter.

  Staring at the door, Ronni took a deep breath and turned the knob. She walked into the garage. It hadn’t moved. Like a dog waiting anxiously for its master, the thing sat in its new position…the driver’s seat with its face pressed against the window.

  Ronni walked up to the truck and drew her pistol. It just stared at her with a stupid blank expression just like all the others. This one really was no different. It slapped one hand on the glass and opened its mouth.

  Ronni tried the door…locked. She shrugged and brought the pistol up. Sighting on the center of the forehead, she pulled the trigger. There was a pop and the thing fell back across the seat of the truck.

  Knocking out the window, Ronni reached in and unlocked the door. She hauled the body outside and left it near a lump that was a snow covered car.

  That night, Ronni fell into her sleeping bag utterly exhausted. A fire crackled in the fireplace adding warmth
to the room. Dreams came almost immediately. Dreams of her dad.

  “I failed you, it’s my fault,” Ronni moaned in her sleep.

  Bennie L. Newsome was born and raised in Birmingham, Alabama where he currently resides. He is a fairly new writer with his first published work appearing here in the Chivalry is Dead anthology. Bennie considers himself to be unique and humorous; therefore, he strives to instill those qualities in all of his work.

  Imagination…black sorcery, and witchcraft. Losing a loved one as a look-a-like corpse with lifeless eyes and hanging skin fills the void. Playing with the dark heinous forces of resurrecting a zombie, Demetrius, a young boy, takes upon himself the gruesome task of raising his father back from the dead. Enslaved by a mind rotting spell, his father, a tortured zombie, endures the price of being married to a witch with unearthly curves.

  Trapped in a marriage as shallow as the grave, Demetrius plots to break the bands of his father’s unholy matrimony. A daunting, perilous fight he is up against. Especially when having to write all the undead details in his homework assignment. Making the grade or digging a grave, Demetrius keeps his head cool and safely on as he conquers both.

  Summer Assignment

  By: Bennie Newsome

  1

  It was a glorious day and Mother Nature was feeling especially generous. She sent a strong gust of wind to move the leaves of a large oak tree, allowing a good portion of sunlight to enter through the recently washed windows of a second grade classroom. The sun’s summer heat traveled along the radiant rays and embraced the exultant students in its warmth. The kids in that particular room were all talking loud and excitedly about anything and everything that had nothing to do with the task at handeveryone except for Demetrius Beck. The seven-year- old boy was too nervous to talk.

  He continually wiped his sweaty palms on his denim jeans, his right leg twitched rapidly from anxiety. Demetrius took a deep, cleansing breath as he looked over the neatly typed essay that lay on the desk before him. “Over a thousand words, painting the perfect picture,” his father told him after they had finished writing the report together. It was perfect and Demetrius knew it, but he was still uneasy about presenting it to his teacher and his peersmainly his peers.

  Ms. Truffles, the second grade english teacher, lifted her head and looked out at the group of students. The old woman’s white hair, streaked with gray, was tied up in a neat little bun that sat on the side of her head. She wore wide-rimmed spectacles, which were attached to a beaded necklace that hung around her neck. Ms. Truffles claimed that the necklace was needed to keep her from losing her glasses, but for some reason she was always removing both the beaded chain and glasses; thereby losing the whole set.

  The English teacher cleared her throat and everyone went silent right away. That was the cue Demetrius had been dreading his moment was at hand. “Alright class,” Ms. Truffles said. “The assignment was to write about your Father’s Day with your dad. I specifically said that if you were unable to spend the day with your father, then write about your day with your mother. If for some reason that was not in the cards, then you should have spent it with your legal guardians. There is no excuse for you not to have done your report. If you did not do the assignment, that shows a blatant disrespect for me and I will respond in kind by giving you a disrespectful grade.”

  With that being said, the teacher looked down at her attendance sheet and called out the next name on the list. “Demetrius Beck, come on up and give us your oral presentation.”

  2

  Demetrius took another deep breath before standing to his wobbly feet and walking to the front of the classroom. The little boy could feel the judgmental eyes of the other students focused on him. He hated being the center of attention, although his mother would beg to differ. When he reached the front of the classroom, he turned around and faced his audience. The expressions amongst the crowd was a mixture of seriousness, sneering, kindness, and uncaring. Demetrius was not sure which look he liked, or feared, most.

  Despite his feeling of inadequacy, no one but the most trained could tell that Demetrius lacked confidence. In actuality, he looked bold and quite handsome standing up there before everyone. Demetrius stood up straight and tall. The boy’s short, black hair was greased and neatly brushed, while his pudgy face was clean and oiled up nicely. However, there were the slightest telltale signs that exposed the uneasiness he felt within. Like the way his big, brown eyes darted around the room briefly before returning to the paper clenched in his trembling hands.

  “The name of my Father’s Day essay is Resurrecting Daddy,” Demetrius said in a voice that quivered just as bad as his hands.

  “Speak up Demetrius, we can’t hear you,” Ms. Truffles said.

  Demetrius cleared his throat and repeated his previous statement a bit louder, “The name of my Father’s Day essay is Resurrecting Daddy. My daddy is … well, he was a zombie, but on Father’s Day I reversed the spell that had been placed on him. Before he was one of the walking dead, Daddy was a proud, strong man. However, my mothera witchkilled him and reanimated his body, making him her mindless slave.”

  “Uh, Mr. Beck?” the English teacher interrupted. “I’m sure you got the assignment sheet to take home over the summer break just like everyone else. The task I gave you was to write about what you did with your father on Father’s Day. You were not instructed to go home and write whatever your imagination cooked up.”

  “But I’m not making this up,” the little boy insisted. “My mother is a witch. Daddy was always saying so. He mumbled things like, ‘Witch, you better leave me be,’ or ‘You just can’t stand seeing me happy, can you, witch?’ Of course he didn’t say it where Momma could hear him, but I heard him. And he would exchange his W’s for B’s when he said witch, but I understood that he was a mindless zombie and he didn’t know how to say the word right.”

  Ms. Truffles clamped a hand over her mouth to stop a sudden burst of laughter. She pretended to clear her throat and asked, “Okay, um, how is your father a zombie then?”

  “For the same reasons,” Demetrius replied as if the answer was obvious. “Because of what my father said when she would walk away, he’d look at her and mumble, ‘Witch, I want my life back’, and my mother is always calling him a deadbeat. A deadbeat who wants his life back has to be a zombie. Not only that, but he used to have these lifeless eyes, and his skin clung to his bones. His breath constantly smelled of death, he was always moaning, and he walked around like this.” Demetrius put his arms out to his sides and staggered around a little ways like a zombie.

  Ms. Truffles just smiled while the students laughed.

  “I’m sorry that I interrupted you,” the old lady said. “Now that you’ve cleared that up for us, you may continue.”

  Demetrius nodded his head and returned his gaze to his report.

  3

  Resurrecting Daddy: The nineteenth of June came around, and just like every other Father’s Day, Momma was extra mean to Daddy. That morning, she stormed into the living room with her worn out broom in hand. I’ve never seen Momma fly about on any of the brooms; it probably had something to do with her fear of heights. Nevertheless, Momma still struck terror into our hearts when we saw her wielding that broom, whether it was clenched in her hands, or between her big thighs.

  Daddy was unaware that Momma was on a tear. The night before, he had gone on one of his own as zombies are known to do. That night was like many other nights. He terrorized the house by cursing and fussing at people that wasn’t there (probably the voices Momma put in his head), he beat on the walls, and threw stuff. It was on those nights that Momma and I would lock our bedroom doors so Daddy couldn’t come and feast on our flesh and brains.

  And so it was, Daddy was extremely tired after a night of ransacking the house. He snored contently while sleeping on the living room couch, unaware that the witch was coming for him. “Get up you good for nothing sack of bones!” Momma yelled as she hit him over the head with wha
t was left of the straws on her broom. “You done left your filthy beer bottles laying around my living room again, you stanking alcoholic! You better wake up and pick them up this instance! Do you hear me?”

  Daddy just grunted and rolled over onto his side.

  “Oh! So you just gonna ignore me, huh?” Momma hurried over to the living room window.

  “No, Momma!” I yelled from my spot on the floor. “Daddy doesn’t like sunlight!”

  She didn’t care. Momma yanked those curtains open and let the natural light flood the room. Daddy let out a painful moan and recoiled from the intense brilliance. “Uh-huh!” Momma yelled. “Do you think I care if you got a hangover? Get up and clean this mess up now!”

  Daddy waited until Momma left the room before he sat up and placed his aching head in his hands. “Witch, why won’t you let me be,” he muttered so no one could hear him but me. After a few moments, Daddy started removing his blankets from the couch. He and Momma hadn’t slept in the same bed for a long time. I suppose no one wants to sleep with a zombie.

  While Daddy made up his bed, I looked toward the kitchen doorway to make sure Momma wasn’t coming back anytime soon. When I was sure that the coast was clear, I crawled over to Daddy with a folded sheet of paper in my hand. “Daddy,” I whispered.

  He removed his hands from his face and looked down at me. “Hey, champ,” he said. Daddy’s breath reeked of something most foul and his body smelled of the grave. It took every bit of restraint I had not to retreat from his horrible stench. I could do nothing about the odor induced tears that spilled from my eyes though.

  “I made you something, Daddy,” I whispered. I glanced quickly toward the kitchen, then I returned my attention to Daddy. “Momma wouldn’t let me buy you anything for Father’s Day, but I made you something.”