The horrors ushered unto the police station had turned it into some kind of grotesque birthday part. The dismembered cadavers of police officers littered the hallways. Intestine streamers draped the walls, as well as confetti in the form of eyeballs, organs, and other unidentifiable parts. A foot rested on the blade of a ceiling fan that spun just slowly enough to keep it from falling off. How it wound up there in the first place, we may never know.
Freight came to a sudden halt and pointed the barrel of his shotgun down the hall—his spider sense had detected a shuffle in the darkness. This time, their eyes were not playing tricks on them. The group of misfits were about to have their first run in with a zombie. Freight lifted his flashlight and shined it into the darkness. He took a few steps forward, searching for whatever he had seen. He found it.
The following revelation surprised them all: it was a zombie, a zombie unlike any Freight had run across thus far, and he would have blown its head off at that moment if not for his police training. The creature stood with its arms high above its head in surrender. The zombie’s decaying body was in shambles and looked like it had literally been through hell. Guts dangled from its stomach like a cat toy. A giant gash sliced into the top of the zombie’s head gave it quite the hair part. Its nose and one of its ears were missing. Somehow, despite all it had been through, the zombie’s sparkling white teeth shined brightly under the flashlight. It started to speak but the only thing to part from its lips just happened to be its tongue.
The zombie reached down, picked its flopping tongue from the floor, and put it back into its mouth. It wiggled its cheeks and pursed its lips as it maneuvered the hunk of flesh back into position. The creature opened its mouth to speak once more, this time everything worked properly.
“Don’t kill me! I’m not like the rest of those things!” the zombie said, its voice sounded as if it had been beaten with a blunt object many times over. The undead creature’s hands, still raised high over its head, trembled as if it was actually scared to die—again.
“You can… talk?” Captain Rescue said before coming to the realization the group had not exactly seen a zombie yet. He turned to look at Freight, “Can any of them talk?”
“I DIDN’T REALLY STOP TO CHAT BEFORE I BLEW THEIR HEADS OF, BUT I DON’T THINK SO.”
Captain Rescue took a moment to regain his composure after being bombarded by his words and said, “Then we’ll just assume that he’s special.” He tilted his head back and motioned towards the zombie behind him, as if everyone needed to be reminded of the topic of conversation.
“So, what’s your story?” He asked it.
“Urghghl,” it said, choking on his tongue. The zombie moved it back to position, “I’m a zombie.”
“Yes, we gathered that from the obvious evidence,” snorted Dr. Malevolent.
“I don’t know much,” the zombie continued as it stuck a finger into its arm and wiggled it around.
“Well, give us some answers you mangy beast or we’ll blow your head off,” she threatened.
“Hey now, the thing didn’t try to eat us, might be worth keeping it around,” Captain Rescue suggested as he leaned in to take a closer look at the zombie.
“Yeah, don’t kill me. I can tell you things.”
Freight held his shotgun to its forehead, “WE’RE WAITING.” The pressure exerted by his voice caused the zombie’s skin to fill like a balloon. It pressed its hands to its face and pushed the air right back out.
“Umm… they made me in a lab,” it replied.
“How on earth would you know that,” Dr. Malevolent asked as she pointed her handgun to its head.
“I just remember things,” the zombie replied as it pushed her pistol aside.
“You’re gonna have to be more specific,” she said as she pushed its hand away and put her gun back in its face, “who are they?”
“The people who made me,” it said, clearly annoyed at having to repeat itself, “if we find the laboratory they build the zombies at we can stop this.”
“How?” She asked as she pushed the pistol closer to it.
“There’s a failsafe in the laboratory.”
“Really? Convenient.”
“Well judging by the carnage so far, I’d say zombies are pretty dangerous, why wouldn’t they want a way to put an end to this.”
“This all seems a little too… convenient. You’re not up to something are you?” Dr. Malevolent said.
“If I were, you’d be able to kill me just as easily as any other zombie.”
A twinkle appeared in Dr. Malevolent’s eyes for a moment, “You have a deal!”
Captain Rescue had spent the entire conversation thinking about one thing and one thing only, “Do you have a name?”
The zombie appeared to be thinking for a few moments then said, “No.”
“Well then, I dub thee Stubbs.”
The zombie simply shrugged and began picking at his protruding intestines.
“Hey!” Captain Rescue said as he slapped Stubbs’ hand away, “Didn’t your mother ever teach you that if you don’t stop picking at it that it will never heal.” With their new zombie companion in tow, they made their way to the entrance of the police station.
“You’ll warn us if any zombies are close right?” Captain Rescue said to Stubbs
“What do you mean?”
“If we get close to any other zombies, you’ll be able to tell us—right?”
“No, what makes you think that?”
“They’re zombies… you’re a zombie. It just makes sense.”
“No it doesn’t, can you sense when other humans are nearby.”
“I’d rather not answer that.”
“I thought so.”
Chapter 8: Zombies, Guns, & Rabbits
Thus, with a stinky zombie in tow (Stubbs had decided retaining control of his bowels was no longer of any concern, for him at least—the others felt otherwise), the group waltzed their way through the police station on the very tips of their toes like the most beautiful ballet dancers at the opening of their big night. Heels had not graced the ground in a while. Someone, possibly Captain Rescue, decided that tiptoeing through a gore-infested police station was the best way in which to keep a low profile. Not to mention that rushing through an environment as dangerous as this would certainly have been ill advised. They could easily trip and sprain an ankle.
They eventually danced their way to the police station’s lobby, through gallons of blood and gore. Once there, they discovered that someone had left the front door ajar and a mysterious wind left it swinging back and forth. Captain Rescue, ever heroic, stepped forth and peered into the world outside. He took a step back and closed the door calmly.
“Gentlemen… and you,” he said, glaring at Dr. Malevolent before going absolutely hysterical, “We’re all going to die!”
The hero pressed his back to the door and looked around the lobby, eyes soon focusing on a desk in the corner. He darted over to it, slid underneath, and curled into a ball, protecting himself from the horrors of the outside world.
“Oh come on, you coward. It can’t be that bad out there,” Dr. Malevolent scoffed before opening the door and peaking outside. “Hmm, we have our work cut out for us.”
“That bad, eh?” Boris said, his fake Russian accent beginning to fade.
“That’s putting it mildly.”
Boris reached forward, opened the door a couple inches, stuck one eye outside, and then hastily shut it. He turned around and faced the rest of the group, “Oh yeah, this’ll be tricky.”
Freight let out a frustrated sigh, pushed Boris and Dr. Malevolent aside, and then kicked the front door open.
If the police station were a birthday party, then the city must have been Mardi-Gras—Mardi-Gras on all kinds of elicit substances after not sleeping for four days and after having just bungee jumped from the empire state building in the dead of winter wearing nothing but a loin cloth. That’s what the city had become. Fires were abundant—cars, tras
hcans, buildings. Even dogs ran through the streets with their tails on fire, as if there were some arson zombie wandering around deriving great enjoyment out of torturing these innocent animals. They were surprised at just how destructive a few ravenous corpses could really be. But alas, the swarm of locusts that were the undead seemed to have moved on, exemplified by tumbleweed of human hair passing through the streets.
“Okay,” Dr. Malevolent said, kneeling down and looking at the barricaded Captain Rescue, “Come save the world, you idiot.”
That phrase was all he needed to kick himself into gear. The hero climbed out from under the desk and jumped to his feet. If there were worlds to save, kittens to rescue from burning buildings, beavers that needed help building their dam, zombies that needed their faces smashed in, Captain Rescue would be there. He marched to the door leading into this forsaken world and then lunged forward. As expected, he tripped and fell flat on his face.
“Doors really don’t like you very much, do they?” Dr. Malevolent said, laughing as she followed the super hero through, using him as a carpet.
“So, what’s the plan?” One of Dr. Malevolent’s lackeys asked, his appendages would soon be torn and eaten and he wanted to make the best of the little time he had left on this pale blue dot.
“Hey, Stubbs,” Captain Rescue said to their shambling friend, “do you know where to go to fix this mess?”
“Don’t look at me, I’m only about 45 minutes old.”
“We should go back to the bank and take a look around, maybe there’s a clue where to head to press this magical button.” Dr. Malevolent said.
Boris looked at her, “This is all your fault, good goin’ boss.”
She grew red with annoyance and ranted, “How was I supposed to know that the one bank in this god forsaken city I chose to rob would be the one that some super evil corporation was housing its doomsday device, or that they would have left it so easily obtainable. It’s almost like they wanted there to be a zombie apocalypse.”
Dr. Malevolent’s dream beyond all dreams was to drive civilization into anarchy so she could rise up and claim herself overlord of this new dominion. Recently, however, due primarily to lots and lots of zombies, her dream had evolved into something else. Now, her only wish was that when the zombies had their fill, there would be enough semblance of a civilization remaining for her to conquer. Then she would worry about deeming herself overlord, and with any luck, her minions would not try to eat her.
With the next step in their journey decided, they embarked for The Bank, which sat but a few blocks away. Any further than that and their plan might need some revision. The streets, littered with abandoned cars housing only the gutted remains of commuters, made trekking there using anything other than their feet tricky. If only Captain Rescue had remembered to bring his Hovercraft. Nevertheless, clearing the streets would take more effort than any of the super heroes would be capable of managing. Actually, a real super hero could clear the roads quite easily. In fact, a real super hero could just walk around and destroy legions of zombies by simply flicking them with his or her pinky.
“CHARLIE!” Boris had suddenly become hysterical, “I forgot all about him, we have to save him! He’s still in the van!”
Dr. Malevolent began to twitch with rage. She closed her eyes, took a few deep breaths, rediscovered her Zen, and then let out a labored sigh. Dr. Malevolent regretted not torching that damned costume the many times the opportunity had presented itself in the past. She knew all too well of Cecil DeWitt’s unhealthy obsession with his alter ego, Charlie. She overlooked his eccentrics when they spent their time doing productive things like robbing banks and taking over worlds, but if that giant rabbit were to be the harbinger of their deaths, she would be less than thrilled.
Captain Rescue chuckled, “And who is Charlie?”
She said slowly, the anger seeping from her ears, “you’ll see.”
“But… but… but, I’m impatient!”
“Excellent, this will be a good exercise in patience for you.”
“What?! I don’t like to exercise!”
Dr. Malevolent poked his belly, “I can see that, but this isn’t that kind of exercise.”
“What other kind of exercise is there?”
“Shut up!” Boris bellowed, his Russian accent abandoned, “We have to go save him! We have to save Charlie!”
“Go ahead; we’ll be right here waiting for you!” Dr. Malevolent said to her panicked sidekick.
“Sit tight, I’ll be right back,” his voice trailed off as he sprinted down the side of the police station.
“Whoa now, we can’t really let him do that on his own, what if he gets eaten?” Captain Rescue asked.
“Believe me when I say that a henchman with an identity crisis is a burden to all.”
Like a sports car slamming its breaks at a red light, Boris screeched to a halt just before reaching the corner of the police station. He placed his hands on the edge and peered around. To no one’s surprise, the van had not gotten up and walked away during their time in the police station, but zombies now gravitated to it as ants gravitate to yummy morsels left on the ground. If all these zombies suddenly decided they wanted to, they could have easily lifted the van and carried it off to their nest as a prize for their queen. Luckily, zombies are not as smart as ants, nor did their queen have an interest in getaway vans.
“All we have are these pistols,” the ever-astute Captain Rescue said as he pointed repeatedly at the undead and then to his puny little sidearm, which he had pried from the dead hands of a police officer on his way out, “I think we may need bigger guns.”
Freight gripped his shotgun tightly; he had no plans to let these cretins get their hands on his beloved—the only real weapon. Unless you consider Dr. Malevolent’s inanimate carbon rod a weapon—it wasn’t. If anyone could lead these rag-tag zombie slayers to an arsenal of weaponry, it would be Freight. He had been a cop in another life, which meant he knew where the police kept their weapons. Once inside, they could arm up with all sorts of cool gadgets. Where would one find this mythical depository? On the other side of this wall, of course.
“I HAVE A PLAN,” Freight roared.
“Oh lord, I can’t wait to see where this is going,” Dr. Malevolent said as she glanced around the corner to get a good look at the zombies.
Freight faced the wall, lifted his leg, and then kicked a hole through it. He pointed into the opening, and with a cheer yelled, “GUNS!”
“Wow!” Captain Rescue cheered, “You have quite the kick!”
Dr. Malevolent knelt down and inspected the hole, “No he doesn’t, this wall is just made out of what appears to be cardboard.” She looked up at Freight, “You keep your plethora of dangerous weapons in a cardboard room?”
Freight shrugged, “I HAD NO IDEA, THEY DON’T LET ME IN HERE.”
“That’s understandable,” Dr. Malevolent said with a nod before looking towards Boris, who had not been paying attention to the conversation, his head peaking around the corner. “Anything interesting over there?”
“Weird.”
“What is it?”
“As soon as you asked that, the zombies started to shuffle this way. It’s like they heard you.”
Freight shoved his arm into the hole he put into the wall, and then yanked a section of it out, leaving enough room for the group to enter and arm themselves. The city might have spent very little on its walls, but Freight could have burst through many a wall regardless of its consistency. The survivors piled into the armory and prepared themselves for their first real encounter with the smelly cadavers—a smell that grew increasingly rank as the horde streamed around the corner.
“GRAB YOURSELVES A GUN, GET READY. HERE THEY COME.” Freight roared.
Captain Rescue gazed at the wall of weapons. Normally, a super hero would never resort to using firearms, it violated everything they stood for, but hell, those were zombies. So Captain Rescue grabbed the largest assault rifle he could wrap his hand
s around, even if he had no idea how to operate it. Maybe by the time he and the others finished this little battle, the hero would have figured out which button was the trigger. Dr. Malevolent and Boris both grabbed submachine guns, and slid handguns underneath their belts just to look cool. With that, the battle began.
To put it mildly, the undead are walking, moaning sacks of meat with teeth. This profound lack of intelligence had propelled three of them into the armory at once. Of course, they became stuck, clogging the entrance for any other zombie. Squished together, they snapped their teeth, clawing at the heroes. When this proved ineffective, they turned to each other and argued by means of gnawing. However, this traffic jam would be short lived—the wall had already begun to give way under the immense pressure of a billion mindless zombies trying to burst their way through. The band of super heroes, villains, a crazy cop, and Stubbs all turned zombie hunters stood at the ready with their guns pointed towards the dam, awaiting its rupture.
As they stared at the mess of zombies clawing their way in, a realization suddenly occurred to everyone at the same exact moment: they were wasting ample zombie destruction time just waiting for the wall to cave in, so they opened fire. A few seconds of unrestrained zombie slaughter commenced. The bullet spray ate away at the dam, but it did not give in and flood them. Arms, legs, hands, feet, and heads all went flying through the air in every direction. The fire pierced the thin wall and even took out a few of the zombies that were minding their own business a few hundred feet away. This would send all the zombie rights activists raging.
Not Everything Brainless is Dead Page 5