by Adam Sifre
Fred sat staring at nothing, as only zombies can. He'd already forgotten about the stranger. There was something about that rock. It radiated power. And somehow it promised survival.
Still, a long way to go for a vision.
And there was Timmy to think about. Fred didn't know where he was yet, but he was pretty sure it wasn't Comfort, Colorado. Was his son alive? Dead? Undead? A father liked to know these things.
He commanded Aleta to retrieve the Magic 8-ball and bring it over to the desk. When she was alive, she reminded him of his ex. Not so much in looks but in spirit. She brimmed with life. In the short time he had followed her when she was breathing, he'd become enamored with her. He could feel her presence. It was a physical force and he couldn't get enough of her. As a zombie she left a lot to be desired. Who would have thought that the novelty of absolute control of a woman, even a dead one, would wear thin so fast?
Aleta dropped the Magic-8 ball on the desk and waited. The rest of the undead were in the shark wing of the aquarium. For some reason they all faced the main tank, staring up at the four lemon sharks floating lazily on the surface. He didn't much care why, as long as everyone gathered in one place. He didn't want to waste time chasing down strays.
So, should we go west?
The oracle stopped rolling, its window facing up. Yes, definitely.
Chapter 24
Timmy Turns Twelve
Cold wood met bare feet on another post-apocalyptic morning. Timmy stood still, listening for anything unusual - groans, thuds, etcetera - but only heard his mom's soft snoring from down the hall.
All clear.
Happy birthday to me … happy birthday to me …
Twelve years old today and still breathing.
I'll go have some breakfast, right after I pee.
He glanced at his digital watch, his pee arc jumping wildly and hitting the back of the toilet seat. 7:45 a.m. ...
Five second rule.
The house they lived in was much bigger than their 'pre-zombie' place; one of the perks of surviving an apocalypse. It was one of those overly large colonials with a huge entranceway, big bedrooms and bigger bathrooms. It still had running water - hot.
"The force is strong in you, young Palawan." He jumped high in the air, avoiding an imaginary slash at his feet, and landed with a not very catlike thump on the floor.
"Timmy!" Annie’s half-shout, half-groan came from upstairs. "PLEASE keep it down."
Properly chastised, the young Jedi warrior softly padded into the kitchen. It was a spacious, modern monstrosity. All white cabinetry and gray fossil marble countertops. The fossil marble was pretty cool, with imprints of leaves, small fish skeletons and shells scattered over the surface. But the whiteness was a bit much for him. He opened one of the cabinets and took out a large white bowl. A box of KABOOM cereal was already on the counter, left there from yesterday's meal. A cartoon clown, slightly less menacing than a zombie, hovered over a bowl of sparkling KABOOM cereal, which was ninety percent faux marshmallows and ninety percent corn syrup. His mother always said it contained more sugar than sugar. It wasn't his favorite but it didn't suck either.
He poured the bright colored goodies into the bowl. The refrigerator didn't work - no electricity. But it was cold enough outside, and he'd suggested putting milk, butter and some eggs out by the back door in one of those big green trash bags. His mom reluctantly agreed but made him promise not to go out unless she was with him.
Timmy looked out the kitchen window. He could see the bag sitting right there on the back deck. He'd hardly have to leave the house. Just open the sliding glass door, lean out and grab it. He thought about waking Annie.
It's just right out the door. She's not even my mother, not really.
The thought made him ashamed. Annie loved him, and she did the best she could.
He stood before the glass door. The yard was zombie free, almost. Just one little zombie. She stood at the far end of the yard, whipcord thin with long black hair that reached all the way down to her waist. The dress looked like it was held together with mud and shit. Her bare arms were covered in dark smudges. Timmy figured she was a grave baby, one that had clawed her way up from the ground. She wasn't moving, just swaying a little, looking up at the sky.
"Holding pattern. No way can she get close to me," he whispered.
He licked his lips, wishing for something cold to drink. Hah! The glass door opened onto a large, wooden deck. The bag of groceries was on top of the round glass table.
Okay. So maybe I have to take one step outside.
He shot another quick look at the yard. The zombie remained at one with the universe.
This is stupid ...
Timmy slid the glass door open and quickly stepped outside. He grabbed the garbage and scanned the yard again. The zombie started moving, nice and slow; slow as molasses. He didn't think she even noticed him. Just bad timing, that's all. I could probably sit out here and eat my birthday KABOOM and be finished before she makes it halfway across the yard.
Probably.
He hefted the bag and turned back toward the door, just before the world went gray.
Chapter 25
Dreamer
Timmy stood in the middle of an empty street, a cold wind buffeting his face. It was a bright sunny day, but the place had emptiness to it, making everything feel dark. Small, neat colonials flanked both sides of the street. Timmy was sure they were empty. Tombs. They're just tombs now.
A large green sign off to the right of the road proclaimed:
Welcome To Comfort, Colorado!
We're small, but we're friendly!
Population: 512 and growing!
Something's wrong.
He started walking up the street, not sure what he was looking for. The houses gave off an aura of wrongness, or menace; but as far as he could tell, everything here was wrong. The street itself wasn't long, ending in a cul de sac a few hundred yards up the hill.
It's just a dream. I'll walk to the circle, turn around, and walk back. Then …
Then what?
He stopped walking. The end of the street was no closer. The sign was still off to the side of the road.
Cold Comfort, Colorado.
Come for the view, stay for the service!
Population: 418
Hey -
A skeletal hand closed on his arm and Timmy screamed like he just won 'American Idol'. The woman looked to be about two hundred years old. She was wearing a filthy dress and her mouth was filled with dark dirt. Both eyes had been sewn shut but one had popped open, a thread hanging down her cheek like a bizarre eyelash. A zombie but -
But she's terrified.
"Take it out. Take it out!" For someone with a mouth full of dirt, she had quite a set of lungs on her. She kept on screaming, "Take it out!" At first he thought she was talking about something in her mouth, and there were quite a few somethings moving around in there. But then, with the certainty known only in dreams and to tea baggers, Timmy understood she was talking about something else - The rock. The rock!
It's just a dream. Nothing can hurt me here.
He grabbed her hand and pulled it off his arm. It came off easy, and literally. He threw the hand down in disgust and ran up the street until he couldn't hear her shouting.
Still a fair ways from the circle when he stopped running, Timmy put hands to knees and tried to catch his breath. Whoever heard of running out of breath in a dream? The big green sign stood at his side, and he rested against it for a moment.
Welcome to Cold Comfort!
Come for the brains, stay for the meteor!
Population: 257 and dwindling!
Up ahead another zombie shuffled onto the scene. Something's wrong. Timmy felt it in his gut. And it wasn't the fact that he was alone on a street - a dark street now. Night had fallen and put in its claim here, with an undead - mailman. That's a mailman - shambling toward him. And something else made the hairs on his arms stand up. Something about -
/> Then the mailman was there, quick as you please. The first thing he noticed was the name Potts sewn above its pocket, which was eye level with him. Timmy was used to seeing zombies covered in filth and gore, but everything looked pretty spic and span on Mr. Potts. The uniform was clean and his shoes looked like they were just polished. Mr. Potts looked like he was shooting for undead employee of the month, except for the rock lodged in his skull. The back of Mr. Potts' head was pushed in. His left ear seemed to be missing and the whole left side of his face was droopy, like melted wax. Timmy was reminded of that cartoon with the depressed basset hound.
"Hi, Timmy." Mr. Potts slid the mail bag from his shoulder and after some time fumbled open the pouch.
"How do you know my name?"
The undead civil servant didn't look up as it searched the bag. "You're on my route now, yessir." Timmy could see the back of its head, the rock nestled in there. There was a faint green glow about it, and looking at it made him queasy. "In here somewhere," Mr. Potts moaned. "What to get for the dead who has everything …"
Something's coming.
"Listen, I don't know what you want."
"What you want." George straightened up. "Not here," he moaned. "Not here. Not what you need. Not what Fred needs."
Timmy started. "What Fred needs? You mean my dad?"
Mr. Potts was really glowing now. Turned up the wattage. His head bathed in eerie green light, bright enough to light up the street.
"Something you need."
Timmy looked up to see a few more corpses standing in the back yard across the street. "What about Dad - Fred? What does Fred need? Do you know where he is?"
They're waiting.
George Potts looked up at the sky. "I'm number one, Timmy. I'm the best. The best of the unrest, and everyone wants the best."
Suddenly the screaming woman was standing next to Potts. She was mute now, quite still and - broadcasting - staring at nothing. Potts was lit up like a Christmas tree on crack and Timmy was forced to look away. He threw an arm across his face and turned to the sign.
Cold Comfort, Colorado
It's the METEOR STUPID!
Population: 238 undead -
and growing!
The other zombies started toward him. He could see their elongated shadows on the street. "Can't hurt me. It's just a stupid dream."
George Potts was laughing. He'd dropped the pouch, and letters had spilled across the street. Timmy saw a postcard, yellowed with age. It was a picture of a family, grinning like idiots. They were standing behind a barbecue. "Happy Fourth from the Tysons" in red, white and blue block letters underneath.
Who sends out July 4th postcards? He bent down to pick up the card. I know this place.
"Dreams can't hurt you, son," Potts laughed. "But waking up can be a BITCH."
Timmy opened his eyes to bright sunlight and the smell of cedar. His face was pressed against the deck, the bag of food still clutched in his hands.
"What?"
And then the corpse fell upon him.
Chapter 26
Respite
Pennsylvania was cold, rainy and dark. Not a big problem for an army of walking dead. And now that they were holed up in an IKEA, Fred could feel the tension melt away, although his mortified flesh remained as stiff and unyielding as ever. Something about the endless aisles of household goods appealed to his inner zombie. Shopping malls, government buildings and waiting rooms drew the undead, like vodka and hookers drew Charlie Sheen.
They were making pretty good time, for zombies. This was their first stop since leaving the aquarium. But determination and relentless shambling didn't change the fact that Comfort, Colorado was a friggin' long way down the road.
He'd had another dream. This time he found himself standing in the street with George Potts, the mailman, whose head was glowing an unhealthy green despite it being midday and sunny. Even in the dream Fred felt stronger just being that close to the rock. The mailman just stood in front of Fred, staring up at the sky. The rock, that wonderful rock, nestled comfortably in the back of his skull. Fred's fingers itched. He took a half step forward when he noticed the mail bag at his feet. Something inside it was moving.
Something important.
"What's in the bag?" Fred surprised himself. Apparently he could speak here. George Potts, however, was not a good listener. Ignoring the question he continued to study the stars. Fred felt torn between his desire to get his hands on the rock and his need to see what was in the bag. "Come on, Georgie, what's in the bag?"
Still ignoring Fred, Comfort's tireless civil servant picked up the strap and lumbered down the street, dragging the heavy bag behind him, its secret package still moving inside. Fred had started to follow when the dream ended.
I need that rock.
He'd 'woken up' from the dream to see Aleta and Karen standing a few yards away, in glassware, each ignoring the other as far as he could tell. He shambled over and placed his hand on Aleta's shoulder. She wore a black cocktail dress he'd acquired for her. It was torn and she had it on backwards, but it still looked great on her. Karen didn't move or otherwise acknowledge him. No surprise there.
One thing he learned since becoming a zombie was that nothing was easy. He had no illusions about his chances of reaching Comfort, Colorado and getting his hands on that rock. Two thousand miles on foot was a tall order, even for him. If he was going to have any chance of success, he'd need all the help he could get. And that was a problem. His army was dwindling. They'd picked up undead stragglers along the way, but he was losing more than he gained. Some were wandering off when he wasn't paying attention, others picked off by the occasional armed breather. Most troubling were the ones that just … stopped. Those gave him the creeps. So after crossing over into Pennsylvania he decided he needed new recruits.
At first they simply came to him. IKEA apparently retained its charm with breathers as well as the undead. Small groups wandered into the store, looking for supplies or meatballs. But the easy pickings were short-lived, and the word soon spread among the locals that IKEA was off limits. So Fred had resorted to sending out small patrols to find fresh meat and turn it into … not so fresh.
Their numbers were more or less replenished at the moment. When they were ready to leave he'd do a quick walk around the area and see what undead he could scrape up to flush out the ranks, but he didn't hold out much hope there. Since that first time back in Wayne he hadn't been too successful in bringing more zombies into the camp. He'd spent no small amount of time trying to remember exactly how he'd done it that first time. But the whole thing was a bit hazy, and try as he might he couldn't get back his zombie magnetism.
He stared blankly at a bin of cushions for patio chairs. Recruitment wasn't his only concern. There was also trouble at home.
After dying and becoming a walking corpse, the last thing Fred expected was kid trouble. Like all zombie children Karen was fast, which should have been an asset for Fred. Undead tots were invaluable as cavalry and scouts for his little army. They'd proven themselves time and time again these past few weeks, rooting out small patches of breathers and even giving advance warning about an approaching column of infantry, something Fred was always keen to avoid. Karen was fast and relentless, even by 'runner' standards. The problem was he couldn't control her.
Yesterday they had stopped at an abandoned Friendly's, and two breathers, both children, had lit out the back door. Fred ordered Karen to go after them. Two more runners would be invaluable to him.
Get them.
Karen twitched but her feet didn't move. She remained standing in front of the freezer display next to Aleta, staring at buckets of melted ice cream. She heard him. He knew she heard him. But she didn't listen.
Angry, he had taken a step toward Karen, just intending to give her a little push in the right direction, when Aleta turned and faced him. She just stood there, staring blankly in his direction, but he didn't need Dr. Phil to know he was on shaky ground here. Like the rest of the
undead Aleta did whatever he told her to do. But so far he hadn't tried to come between her and her daughter.
She coddles that kid. He'd be lying to himself if he said he understood it. Aleta had no problem eating Karen and turning her into a zombie. But since killing her daughter, she'd become quite protective of her.
Women.
There was something about Karen that gave him the heebie-jeebies. He got the feeling that there was something more than simple blind rage going on behind those blank eyes. Her refusal to obey his every command just added to his mistrust.
Turn around.
Karen turned around. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't; another mystery to worry over. He mentally sighed. I need more runners.
Time to get moving. Colorado wasn't getting any closer and he'd have to pick up more recruits along the way. Besides, it might be another day or so before he found his way out of this place.
Chapter 27
Bad Habits
Timmy screamed and tried pulling his foot away, but the corpse had a good grip and she looked hungry.
She'd managed to get her fingers underneath the cuff of his pajamas and wrapped around his bare ankle. She tightened her grip and clear pus oozed from underneath the fingernails as she squeezed. She began pulling herself up his leg, arms above her head, head below feet, her mouth getting closer to his foot.
He kicked at the arm with his other foot to no effect. The fingers kept tightening and the thing's mouth came a little closer.
Oh God, it's going to break the skin.
Desperately Timmy searched for anything he could use as a weapon. What he found were two more zombies coming into the back yard, both male.
That is not -
Hands grabbed him from behind, eliciting a fresh bout of screams. The thing behind him screamed as well.