I've Been Deader

by Adam Sifre

  Did he think Jeffrey was screaming before? The poor kid was just warming-up. Without even pausing for breath, Jeffrey really screamed; and Jon definitely did not hear chewing or dentures clicking. No, sir. That's imagination and hysteria talking.

  Guess he found something more exciting than Pokémon.

  Leaving Jeffrey to his new friends, he turned to run. Shambling toward him from the other end of the hall was the gore-spattered orderly that had been making time with Lori, now lying on the hall floor, a dark puddle spreading on the ground behind her. On some level Jon understood he was in shock. He also understood that action meant survival. The screams from grandma's room abruptly stopped, and from the corner of his eye he saw the anything-but-new zombie revue start to turn back toward him.

  Blood ran freely across his face, some getting in his eyes and darkening the world. The rational Jon knew he was fucked. The irrational Jon frantically threw open the door to the fire extinguisher. He gripped the fire extinguisher and pulled with all his strength. It snapped free, the breakable plastic clasps shooting across the hall.

  Not exactly a chain saw, he thought. But bleeders can't be choosers.

  He hugged the extinguisher against his chest, turned and ran down the hall toward Don Juan, building up a good head of steam. He let the extinguisher drop to his side, and setting loose an inarticulate scream he swung with all his might. The end connected most satisfyingly with the zombie's chin, shattering his jaw and sending a sprinkle of bone and teeth chips into the air. The orderly dropped to the floor, twitching like a marionette on crank.

  Jon didn't stop to enjoy the show. Still running he dropped the extinguisher, opting for speed over security. He ran faster than any middle-aged man with a pot belly and bad neck had ever run before. With the grace of an Olympic hurdler he leapt over Lori's body, landing on the edge of the spreading puddle. His feet shot out from under him and he hit the ground, back first, smack in the middle of Lake Lori. Blood splattered against both walls. He tried to get up but the fall had knocked the wind out of him making it impossible to breathe, let alone stand. A riot of pain shot down through his neck and left forearm.

  Somehow he managed to roll over to see what was happening, covering his entire front side in marinade à la Lori. The Zombie Social Club was back on the move, and was Lori starting to twitch just a little? Why, yes, he believed she was.

  Jon's breath returned in short painful bursts. He made it to his hands and knees, turned and started crawling down the hall. Up ahead on opposite sides of the hall were two residents' rooms. He struggled to his feet, slippin' and slidin', but somehow managed to stay upright. Still struggling for a strong lung-full of air, he started shambling down the hall.

  Both doors were closed. Do they automatically lock here? I can't remember. The staff would need to be able to get in without a key during a medical emergency, so the smart money on the life or death bet was 'maybe.'

  Eeny, meeny, miney, moe ... He went to the door on his left.

  Catch a zombie by the toe ...

  The door was actually open about an inch. Jon leaned into it without stopping and pushed his way into the room.

  If it bites you, let it go ...

  Inside, the room was divided by a plastic hospital curtain. He assumed there was a second bed on the other side of the curtain. The first bed was empty, thank Christ. He turned away from it and closed the door.

  "Could use a room with a goddamned lock right now," he rasped.

  Hearing a low chorus of moans outside the door, Jon turned back toward the room and scanned the meager furnishings, praying he had stumbled into the residence of the world's oldest NRA member or president of the David Koresh Fan Club. No such luck.

  An empty I.V. rack stood on one side of the bed and a crappy IKEA reject night-table on the other. A water pitcher, plastic cup and a V.C. Andrews novel that had seen better days were the only weapons God had seen fit to provide him.

  Jon swore under his breath.

  The bed was one of those craft-a-matic hospital beds. If he could push it against the door and somehow lock the wheels in place -

  A shadow moved on the other side of the curtain.

  Without thinking, he grabbed the I.V. stand and swung it with all his might at the curtain. Added to his Learn-Something-Fucking-New-Every-Day list, Jon learned it wasn't easy to swing an I.V. stand with any real force. It hit the curtain with a soft woof and lightly connected with whatever was on the other side.

  Wonder of wonders. The shadow went down.

  Down, but not out. No Sirreeeh, boys and girls.

  Jon fixed his grip on the stand, threw the curtain back and began clubbing. He got lucky again and connected. The thing on the floor was stick thin. There was almost no flesh on its face - its skull wrapped in wrinkled gray saran wrap. It clawed frantically at Jon's legs with its filthy hands, its long, yellow finger nails searching for something to sink into. He let out a soft scream of revulsion and brought the I.V. stand down on the creature's head.

  "You think you're a killer," he gasped, smashing the end of the I.V. stand against the creature's face. "We'll see ... who the killer is."

  He swung again. "Not ... today -"

  A loud banging brought him up short. Something was throwing its body against the door. Whatever else they were capable of Jon guessed that the Mother Mary's Social Club had trouble opening doors.

  "My lucky day."

  He ignored the twitching thing on the ground and turned his attention to the problem gathering at the front door.

  "Nevermore," he whispered and then broke out into a fit of laughter.

  He shouted at the door. "I am definitely not operating on a full six-pack."

  The zombie's half of the room looked more promising. He was standing in the doorway of the bathroom. The zombie's bed stood between Jon and the door. Two rather large oxygen tanks flanked the foot of the bed - both too heavy for clubbing.

  If this were the movies he would turn the nozzles on, wait for the zombies to break in, toss his lighter into the air, run into the bathroom, close the door and blow them all to hell. Then he'd stroll out of Mother Mary's a little singed but otherwise no worse for wear, and head home to fuck his ex.

  "Well, why the fuck not?" he shouted. "Why the 'what-the-fuck-do-I-have-to-lose' not?"

  He surveyed the bathroom, hoping to find a tub he could use to shield himself from the blast. But this wasn't the movies. At Mother Mary's Nursing Home for the aged and terminally undead, private baths were a no-no. Because while its guests might be world fuckin' champions at eating children and tearing open jugulars, they were shit for negotiating bathtubs. The room had a shower with a plastic door.

  "That's okay," he rasped. "When it comes to improvising, I'm the goddamned MacGyver of zombie killers."

  He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and barked a sharp laugh. The love-child of Jack Torrance and Carrie grinned back at him, its face a mask of blood framing the whites of its eyes and teeth.

  Just like old times.

  Another thud against the door brought him back to his senses. He frantically tore off sheets of toilet paper until he had a good sized 'wiping glove.' Satisfied with its size he went back into the room. Ignoring the twitching thing on the floor, he went to the oxygen tanks and twisted open both valves.

  Standing with the wad of toilet paper in his hand, covered in blood, he took deep breaths and counted to thirty as the pure oxygen filled the room. The hissing of the tanks started to grow softer as he reached thirty.

  Before his good sense kicked in, Jon walked across the room to the door.

  "Okay, marshmallows - come on in."

  I'm losing it, he thought, opening the door just an inch. Without waiting to see which geriatric wolf would huff and puff and push his door in, Jon retreated back to the bathroom entrance.

  The door banged open and a zombie stumbled inside. Jon couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman. It was bald except for a few tufts of dirty white hair at the temples. It wo
re a grimy sweatshirt that said I LOVE MY GRANDKIDS!

  "WITH A LITTLE KETCHUP!" Jon screamed.

  Two, three, then four more of the Social Club followed behind the proud grandma? Pa? Without breaking eye contact he pulled his lighter from his jeans pocket. It wasn't an old Zippo that his grandfather had given him on graduation day, along with pertinent words of wisdom that would become ironically relevant in this situation - just orange Bic butane. Thanks to years of smoking in various states of inebriation, Jon's grip on his lighter remained true.

  The zombies were about ten feet away. Jon made the flame, held the lighter to the ball of toilet tissue and supplied his own witty irony.

  "Fuckers," he whispered.

  He threw the flaming wad into the room and slammed the bathroom door shut. Just before the door closed he heard the thing on the floor moan something that sounded a lot like "Nurssse ..."

  There was a terrific explosion, followed by terrific pain, followed by blessed darkness.

  He awoke sometime later, bruised, battered and disoriented. The room stank of burning hair, which turned out to be his. His right leg was bent at an awkward angle and pain was radiating out in throbbing waves from just above the knee. He could taste blood in his mouth.

  On the plus side he didn't have an unusual craving for brains, and the Mother Mary's Social Club was scattered piece-meal throughout the room, on the walls, the halls and, he was guessing, over parts of the parking lot.

  He managed to stand despite the pain.

  Shouldn't be too difficult to find a crutch and pain killers in this place.

  Jon had an irrational confidence about his chances for survival now. His baptism on the third floor of Mother Mary's was complete. Jon was a new man. He hadn't felt this alive since the last time ... Well, since before.

  He'd fix his leg with morphine for now and get to his car. In the trunk, where the spare should have been, he'd find his .44, the knives and the gasoline.

  "Tools of the trade," he whispered.

  Then he'd go hunting.

  "Just like old times." Jon felt like a kid in a candy store.

  Chapter 13

  Fred Learns A Trick

  There once was a zombie called Fred,

  Whose life much improved upon dead.

  When asked why he bit,

  he thought over it,

  and moaned "Brraaiiinns" as he slobbered and fed.

  Fred - last name unknown - the early years.

  After killing the breather in the house he had stumbled across, Fred decided to call it a day. With a mental sigh he shuffled over to the microwave and stuck in a bag of Orville's, still in that damned plastic wrap that made it impossible for zombies or frat boys to open. The breathers who owned this house had stockpiled microwaveable treats, including half a dozen boxes of Hot Pockets and three huge boxes of Cohen's Franks 'n Blankets. He was pretty sure the hot pockets had gone rancid, but the hot dogs would stay as edible as they ever were long after the flesh finished falling off his bones. If the zombies hadn't killed the breathers who lived here, their diet would have done the trick.

  As he tried to nuke the Orville's, his attention was drawn to the large bay window which looked out onto the backyard, where two zombies were walking in aimless circles. Both were female. For an instant he clung to the irrational thought that Aleta had come back to him, but even if she had turned why would she come here? Besides, if he was going to be honest with himself, an undead Aleta did not hold the same allure as a breathing Aleta.

  Fred focused his vacant stare on the two women. The fat one was wearing filthy pink sweat pants with the word Juicy plastered across her ass.

  Takes on a whole new meaning these days, doesn't it?

  The other zombie, roughly shuffling in an opposing circle to Juicy, was younger, maybe nineteen. She wore denim shorts and was topless. A golf club in her right hand listlessly dragged across the ground. Fred saw what looked like matted hair on its business end. He supposed the breather she took it from had gone down swinging.

  "Braainnnsss," Fred moaned.

  After several attempts he managed to hit the power button on the microwave. Outside, the fat one was now sitting on the grass. It looked to Fred like she was staring at her feet. Maybe wondering what happened to her shoes. The young corpse continued her walk, orbiting around the fat one in erratic circles and staring up at the sky - the nine-iron softly bumping behind her along the lawn.

  He wouldn't eat the popcorn of course, but the sound and smell would be a comfort - even to a zombie. Ever since accidentally eating Aleta - it WAS an accident - he'd been feeling nostalgic and a little blue. He missed a lot of things, like watching television and doing nothing. Ironically, all reality shows were now off the air - just when, as a zombie, he could really enjoy them.

  After much trial and error Fred managed to turn on the television in the living room - now the unliving room. He was disappointed to find just two channels broadcasting. There was the government news station, dedicated to assuring the breathers that the zombie situation was under control. The other station still on the air was MTV; poor choices, even for a corpse.

  I miss driving. It was a strange thought. There were plenty of cars around for him to use and he could remember driving when he was a breather. But he couldn't remember how he did it. Probably for the best. Zombies had a tendency to combust around gas stations and fuel trucks. Kind of like how trailers had a tendency to attract tornadoes.

  Being undead sucked. He smelled awful - like a wet dog that had been dragged ten miles down a road paved with shit. Every day he had to count fingers and toes. He was hungry all the time now, and catching breathers was much harder than it used to be. Most of the slow and the stupid had been culled out of the herd by now. That left the quick and the smart, and they were always heavily armed.

  In the beginning it looked like the breathers would go the way of the dinosaurs, or at least the way of the cattle. Now he had to admit that it looked like they were winning. Every day ZNN showed new video of breather squads hunting down the undead. Many were armed with flame throwers and Fred lost count of the number of times the news station, based in New York, showed video of flaming undead in Greenwich Village, staggering toward the camera until so much flesh had burned away they collapsed into small gruesome bonfires. Sure, it was fun to watch. But he could read the writing on the wall. The day of the zombie was coming to an end.

  He looked down at the microwave. The bag of Orville's remained flat and silent, refusing to pop fifty percent more than the leading brand, as promised. He pushed the power button again. Nothing.

  Damn it.

  Outside, the naked corpse stopped walking and turned to face the kitchen window. She stared at Fred. He noticed that the fat one, still sitting, was also looking up at the window.

  Weird.

  He poked the power button again and again. Nothing.

  Fuck.

  He jammed his fist against the control panel and when that didn't work he hit it a little. All he wanted was to hear and smell something familiar - something that wasn't screaming or trying to kill him.

  Is that too much to ask for?

  Outside the window he saw the pretty corpse still staring at him, opening and closing her mouth. Yum.

  He looked down at the microwave. Nothing.

  He moaned in frustration and smashed his fists against the microwave. The top bowed in and the microwave door snapped off its hinges. When he got like this things tended to go all red and it was much harder to think. When the rage hit, Fred became more like the lesser dead and Keifer Sutherland.

  He picked up the oven and threw it so hard it crashed through the sheetrock and remained wedged half-in and half-out of the wall, about five feet off the ground. Having dealt with the object of his frustration he pulled out the kitchen drawers, spilling flatware across the floor. With a final moan he charged into the refrigerator, smashing into it head first. The door buckled in and the ice-maker spewed frozen chips onto the floor. Remarka
bly, his head was more or less intact.

  As he turned around looking for something else to smash, his feet started slipping on the spilled ice. Fred did a George Jetson for a few seconds, and then his feet shot out from under him and he landed flat on his back on the linoleum tile. He stared vacantly at the ceiling. The rage began to recede, and he had just started thinking about Hot Pockets and the toaster oven when his thoughts were interrupted by a soft thwicking sound.

  He got back on his feet thinking that maybe the microwave was finally working, forgetting for the moment that it was now a piece of modern art suitable for framing. After a minute he was able to place the sound as coming from the backyard.

  Outside the window Fred saw the pretty corpse raise her nine iron and bring it down on what was left of the fat one's head. Fred watched the club connect, making that wet 'thwicking' sound over and over; and while he would never forget whatshername, he couldn't help noticing this zombie's breasts jiggling every time she brought the club down.

  "Braaiiinnnsss," Fred moaned.

  The pretty zombie, her pale face now speckled red, stopped swinging and turned toward him. The club slipped from her hands.

  That's interesting.

  The popcorn fiasco forgotten, he wished she'd come closer and treat him to a better look. He especially wanted a better look at the top part of her. Almost as soon as he thought it, the zombie took a few steps toward the house.

  That's close enough, Fred thought.

  The zombie stopped.

  Go pick up the club.

  The zombie tilted her head as if she heard him speak, turned around and walked back to the fat corpse. The club was lodged in its head, almost perpendicular to the ground. The pretty zombie bent down and worked the club back and forth a bit, until it broke free from Juicy.

  Wow.

  From the television in the living room, a talking head was discussing the zombie plague with a Pentagon spokesperson.

  "They are disorganized, mindless and slow," the spokesman was saying. "It's just a matter of time, perhaps weeks, before the situation is completely under control. It's just a question of mopping them up one by one."