Ambulance Masters

by Raymund Hensley

OUR ambulance pulled up to the farm. The sun was baking. I hadn’t spoke since he told his story. The fool. How could he have been so stupid? So gosh darn blind? What’s with modern folks nowadays??? So ignorant of the malevolent Energies all around them!

  I remember saying to him, rather irate, “If only you didn’t stick those devil picks into that boy’s mum, she wouldn’t be a member of the walking dead right now.”

  “True.” He cleared his throat. “No point in hiding it now. I did it to them all. All the bad operations. All the ones that went wrong. I didn’t want them to tattle.”

  We jumped from the ambulance and got to work unloading the sleeping people. “Sometimes, our brain farts,” he said. “We have to be careful what we eat, ‘cause sometimes the smell be real bad.” His arms were shaking as he said this, and every now and then he’d drop the unconscious body he was dragging, cursing the ‘Damn arthritis’ in his feet.

  Fear. Could I blame him? Did I have a right to judge? I was playing tug-of-war with my ethics.

  We opened the back doors and carried the surfer, the mum, and the son into the house, dragging each by the shoulders.

  When we arrived at the farm, right when the sun was peeking over that tall mountain up ahead of us and bathing the land in a light orange, I could see bodies searching all around, scattered about, lumbering here and there.

  They were in the fields. Some were on the road, and we had to swerve by them, carefully of course, I made sure of that. Cakers, he’d just start hollering at them.

  “Watch yo’self now, damn dingbat!” he yells. “I’ll be a monkey’s uncle, be alert for once in yo life!”

  We drove by someone who was walking into a fence, over and over with her chin up, gazing at the passing birds. Her eyes were crusty with blood, and she was wearing a nurse’s uniform, all dirty now and growing moss.

  A lawyer was crawling on the road with a dead cat in his mouth. Cakers sped up to do the obvious, but I set him straight, and we just went right on by. I could see in the rearview mirror that the once-respectable-lawyer was reaching for us.

  A gaggle of football players were surrounding a tractor, each one trying to climb on for some reason. They all had their helmets on. I ain’t no expert in fool’s ball, but I’m pretty sure they were football players, seeing how they had all that muscle in their arms and legs and necks. They all saw us zoom by, too, and started following us…their legs tired. One of them had no pants. His genitalia was showing. Birds flew to it and ate. But this fool’s ball player, he didn’t give one iota. The other men grabbed at the birds with hungry snarls, but it was no good. They flew away—right to and past our ambulance. Cakers whistled.

  “Damn fast! Such lovely creatures. I think I was a bird in my past life. Just amazing beasts. Did you know that pigeons can attain speeds up to 100 miles per hour? Did you just hear me? I’m talking about pigeons, for Christ’s sake. We evolved from them.”

  I looked behind us again.

  They were all coming for us.

  Good, I thought. We should get them all out of the rain. Get them into that moldy barn.

  I told Cakers, and he scoffed.

  “Where we gonna put them until the dang thing’s all spic and span? There’s no time, I tell ya. Someone’s gonna have to build something.”

  “Or distract them.”

  He sighed.

  “You barbarian.”

  Once we had the sleeping goons in the house, I nabbed a butcher knife from the kitchen and ran to the barn. Cakers took hold of a rake and stood on the porch, just in case anything weird happened.

  The zombies were indeed heading my way…though slowly. They all turned their shoulders and shambled in my direction. I could hear their broken knees clicking as they went. Many sat up in the fields, their heads a silhouette against the morning sky, some with eyes that glowed yellow. Seeing so many heads—50 to 80—looking around with their crazy hair, sent shivers down my back and up my front.

  I kept running.

  I had time.

  The farm smelt like an awful sweet candy. It reminded me of the time I killed a centipede in my bedroom and threw it in the wastebasket. The sweet stink was so powerful. I still get visions of centipedes whenever I walk into a candy shop.

  A zombie child with no arms was standing in front of the barn. Its eyes—clueless and pitiful! The goon hissed at me, spitting crap out from its mouth. Running on pure energy, I plowed right through the animal, shouldering it, sending it sailing against the barn doors. They opened and I jumped in, kicking the complaining body away and closing the doors. There was no time to worry—no time to understand—at least not clearly. I had to work fast.

  Oh, wicked zaniness.

  I gathered all the dangerous instruments—the rakes, the shovels, the barbwire, all the pointy sticks, and threw them into an old truck with oversized wheels. This detail stalled me a bit as I began to fathom just why in the hell did it have such HUGE tires. For what purpose? Maybe Cakers knew.

  Screaming sounds now, in the distance.

  “Cakers!”

  I ran out to see him in between the house and the ambulance. A group of zombies had encircled him, and he was trying to get them away by swinging his rake this way and that. He saw me running to help.

  “I didn’t hurt them!” he smiled. “Just like you said!”

  I charged at the scene.

  “Good lord!”

  Your mind goes numb when you’re scared and your heart is beating mad—the only clear thing is current intention. I pushed and dropkicked and karate chopped away so many zombies in under a minute—just enough to drag Cakers away into the ambulance.

  The zombies were beating against the ambulance, moaning and blinking rapidly. We drove toward the barn, slow, pushing many of the zombies inside. I’d run out and open the doors, and he’d nudged each one into the barn, and I’d close the doors and jump right back in with him. We’d repeat this for many hours: Him nudging the goons into the barn, me closing the doors, so forth and so forth.

  Some were stubborn.

  Some would be facing the ambulance, so I had to get my balls inflamed and go outside, waving my hands and whatnot, acting like bait. It worked. It always worked. By this time, the adrenaline had worn off, and I was a scared little man again. I wished I could drive then. My mind was white hot—busy. I didn’t know how tired I really was. I kept moving all the same. Fear kept my legs from imploding, but I knew that once I was in bed, I’d be in a coma.

  Many times, Cakers had to drive into the fields to fish out the dead. There was one zombie he ran over. He apologized, but I held no grudge. There was nothing you could do.

  “The damn thing was hiding!” said Cakers.

  “I know,” I says, and walk toward the beast, wading my way through the tall grass that went up to my face and tickled my nose. I found the thing on its back, legs in the air. It was easy for me not to look at her ‘obvious place’. It was female—a waitress—who was breathing in quick, short bursts. She was looking up at me, bewildered, with her hands held out, as if trying to take hold of me. Her hands were opening and closing—gripping air.

  I think it moved. But anyway....

  Were they all really dead?

  They seemed like people.

  Were they all really dead?

  Cakers said he put those damn devil sticks into their eyes. Every one of them. He didn’t know about the horrible end result. And yet he DID do it…into each and every one.

  I took the zombie by the sneakers and hauled it through the grass. Cakers pulled up and helped me carry her inside.

  I bit my nails as Cakers drove. Birds flew out of the grass.

  These zombies were dead, yet moving? They had no soul—one could easily see that fact by looking at them. It didn’t take a genius. We sense it. Somehow, we know.

  We just know what’s evil.

  I exhaled.

  “This has got to be the most spooky-ass scene I’ve ever seen.”

  IF we were to sleep over the
farm and watch these maniacs, we needed to be prepared. That night, Cakers had to go back into town to gather some supplies and to refuel the ambulance. As for me, I had work to do…of the folding kind.

  At around four in the morning, Cakers picked me up at the Wal-Mart and took me home to gather some goods. Tranzam was with us, looking over books with titles like ‘How to Care for your Child’ and ‘How to Discipline your Child’ and ‘How to Control your Child’ and ‘How to Feed your Child’. I remember seeing these books on the large bookcase at the house. In fact, they were all about babies and how to raise them. I inquired about these, and Tranzam said that it was research.

  “We’re one step closer in understanding these beasts,” Cakers said to me.

  Tranzam nodded, and then went:

  “Hmph. Whatever you say, dear.” Then, “I feel like eating things. Stop over at Taco Bell.”

  At home, I crept in, careful not to wake my roommate, and stuffed my backpack with clothes and frozen bacon and a bag of rice and many large eggs. I need eggs with my rice. Every time. End of story.

  The back of the ambulance was filled with boxes labeled HIS and HERS. There were many HERS boxes.

  The farm was not quiet.

  The ambulance cut through the night without running over a single zombie. We had done a mighty fine job. A great noise was coming from the barn, which we sealed with a washing machine. We parked in front of the house and stepped outside, staring at the barn. The zombies were moaning together. Tranzam shook her head.

  “Worse than cats in heat! Are they gonna be doing this all night?”

  “Probably all through the livelong day,” I said.

  Cakers threw up his dukes like an English boxer from 1860. He bounced back and forth.

  “Not if I can help it! I’ll cut off their mouths with these very fists if they keep at it. I needs me my sleeps!”

  “Hold your horses,” I said. “I have an idear.”

  We ran into the house and gathered all the blankets and pillows. On our way to the front door, a zombie-chef jumped out, tackling Cakers to the floor. Tranzam kicked the zombie’s head off. No blood came out. Its body got up, casually, and walked out of the house and down the stairs with its hands behind its back.

  “Help me, God!” Cakers wiggled on the floor and knocked over a desk lamp. He had his hands around his throat. “I can’t breathe! Something’s wrong with me! I feel like I’m drowning! I’m just like a whale!”

  Tranzam pulled him up by the waist and breathed into his mouth, instantly curing him.

  “The only whale in here,” she said, “is my muscular vagina. There’s a lot of meaning in here, if you know what I mean. So what, who cares?” It came out so indifferent. So calm.

  “God bless,” I says. “Truth is stranger than fiction.”

  “You know what they say,” she said, clapping her hands to celebrate Cakers instant recovery. She picked up her pillows and ran out of the house. She was proud.

  Cakers coughed.

  “Miracles…miracles…miracles.”

  “Do you have a cow’s heart?”

  “Not yet.” He looked around, suspicious. “Well. Not in this alternate reality.”

  I shoved blankets and towels into his arms…

  “Vamoose!”

  …and we shut the front door and ran out after Tranzam. She was already at the barn. Ladder leaned against the barn. We each took one and covered and stuffed all the barn windows with pillows and blankets, securing them with duck tape and scotch tape and Elmer’s Glue. The beasts inside complained and complained all through the night, but now we had muffled their moans to a fine volume.

  We went back inside the house and slept for so many hours.

  MY brother calls me and says my mum is in the hospital. I’m sure he wants me to go visit her. Something happened with her arm. The plastic tube inside broke and blood is everywhere. And I don’t want to go to the hospital. I care for my mum, yes, but don’t make me walk into a hospital.

  They’re depressing. They smell weird. Too clean. Guilt sets in. I hope she’s okay. She’s a cancer survivor and goes to dialysis 4 times a week, hence the plastic tube in her arm. This has been going on for so many years. She tells me that people around her have died. This goes on and on. This is her life, aside from watching The Filipino Channel and soap operas and wrestling (redundant?). Why do I feel I wrote all of this before?

  And I wanted to be a mortician?

  Yes, until I realized one has to go to the mainland for schooling. Does anyone know if there are online courses towards obtaining your goal of becoming an undertaker?

  When my brother talks on the phone about my mum’s status, he sounds dead and bothered. Calls like this can sag your day. Maybe this is why I hate phone calls now? How can people be addicted to their phones, anyway? I hate my cell. I hate getting calls. I love my privacy. My quiet life. Peaceful. Undisturbed. Meditative. I only get—at max—one call every other day. I get a bit more of those pesky texts, but those are negligible. Why text anyway? It’s insulting. You’re telling the other person I’m too lazy to call and have an actual conversation with YOU. But at least I remember you. So there. Although, if you were Angelina Jolie, you better damn believe I’ll call!

  I’m also afraid to see my mum because I know she’ll go on one of her rants: Telling me to eat my vegetables, asking if I showered, if I cook my own food, to make sure I don’t sleep with my hair wet, to make sure I washed my clothes (because people can smell what your nose has become accustomed to, especially if you’re on the bus), to not walk home after work at four in the morning (although sometimes I do), etc.

  It’s lovely that she cares—all mothers do—but do I have to hear the same things over and over again, year after year, week after week, day after day?

  Maybe yes.

  Our band, The Rorschach Experiment, just finishes a gig, playing at a bar near Pearlridge. We’re all standing outside, chitchatting, when somehow the subject of me not driving pops up. I’m too drunk—and naturally blind—to make out the faces in the night, with their arms around their lovers, but I try my best to explain.

  When I was a wee lad, I was in a car, sitting in the back, between the driver’s and passenger’s seat. The car makes an abrupt stop and my head goes flying forward—right into the stick shift. This wouldn’t be that much of a big deal, except for the fact that the damn thing didn’t have one of those dandy rubber handles. Long story short, blood rockets everywhere and scars me for life, mentally. It would explain a lot.

  No more driving for this lad. I remember none of this story, not so surprisingly. This is a tale my mum told me. Or did I dream it?

  In any case, this seems to shut them up a good one. What are they thinking now, I wonder? Do they see me as a loser now, simply because I don’t want to drive? Is that fair? Truth be told, a hunk of metal going at 80 miles per hour does frighten me. If only the darn things were made of cotton candy.

  Listen, you can be the most disciplined driver on the planet, but there’s always some fool out there, a’drinking and a’driving, or—what’s more commonplace nowadays—a’texting and a’driving.

  Earlier in the week, work is difficult.

  I’m dead tired and slow as we near the 2:30am mark. Never again am I missing my 3pm-7pm nap before work. My eyes refuse to stay open. It’s amazing how heavy they feel. Is this normal? Am I dying? Is this what death feels like? Being sleep deprived? It’s also amazing how once you clock out and walk through the front door, you’re no longer tired! You’re wide awake, ready to go home and surf the internet—cruise Google Images for things that make the baby Jesus cry.

  It’s been a few years now.

  How much has the band progressed?

  Could I have done things to help speed things up?

  Have I wasted my time?

  Have I squandered life?

  What is my worth in life?

  They say that if you want success, you have to find its feeling place. If you can’t imagine
it—if you can’t feel how it will feel like when you finally get there—then it will elude you. You’re not calling it.

  I want things to go faster.

  FASTER.

  A GODDAMN rooster woke me up at the crack of ass. I opened my eyes, and they hurt. The clock read, in big red numbers, 7:00. Lord almighty, let me sleep for 1, 2, 3, 11 more hours. And then I heard the moans again, still hushed.

  My bedroom door flew open, and a picture of a flower vase, on the wall, fell with its glass cracking.

  “Up and early, bright eyes. We’ve got work to do.”

  “NO.” I threw my blanket over my head.

  “Yes, bright eyes!” he said, yanking the blanket away and throwing it out the window. I heard chickens complain, and I imagined the blanket had covered them and was now moving over the grounds like a ghost.

  “What is your damage??” I growled.

  “We have to get this place cleaned up, lad!” he said. “Do you have any idea how much money we could make?”

  “What was that? I ain’t no farmer. Farming?!?! No, thank you, kind sir. Now if you will excuse me, my eyes are still closed. Good night, sweet prince. Hello, lucid dreams.”

  “I didn’t say anything about farming, fool. I’m talking about racing! We have so much land here…”

  “Where did these irksome chickens come from? I hate chickens! They’re too weird for me.”

  “I bought them at the local feed store. Reminds me of my childhood. Call me nostalgic.”

  “Listen, Nostalgic,” I said, eyes still closed. “I’m thinking about life right now—trying to find my future’s feeling place. I need tiiiiiiiiime. I’m so tired.”

  “Sorry,” he shrugged. “That’s the way the cookie hits the fan.”

  And then he dragged me by the shoulders out of my room and down the stairs. I gave no struggle, still trying to go to sleep. It was no use, so I opened my eyes. I saw the walls lined with old-timey pictures of elders in straw hats, carrying pitchforks and shovels and sitting on tractors. Everyone wore overalls. How disturbing. Where was I now? Was I still dreaming??? Maybe I was dead.

  Was he going to at least let me get dressed?

  “Are you going to at least let me get dressed? I’m in nothing but my racecar boxers ova hea.”

  “Oh, don’t you worry, honey lamb,” he says as my feet thud down the stairs. “I got you some threads, as the youth gangs used to say during the 90’s.”

  On the kitchen table was a pair of blue overalls.

  “Just like the ones I’m wearing now. You can thank me later.”

  Tranzam was cooking bacon and eggs. Five glasses of milk were on the counter. We sat down to eat while those chickens gossiped. I’m eating your babies, I thought. You irksome bastards, I’m eating your babies.

  I got dressed there in the kitchen as they watched and made sure I was doing it right, got a pitchfork, and we went outside into the sun. My eyes caved in and whined.

  Zombies were everywhere.

  “What goes on here!?”

  “No worries, mate,” Cakers said, smiling and waving a pitchfork in the air. “As you can plainly see, they’re all behind the various fences. We put up extra barbed wires and fixed all the gates, too.”

  “Now I can get to work on that barn. Treat it right.”

  “Oh. Hrmmm. One more thing you should know before you go in there. Seems our fine fellow fiends were ‘releasing’ themselves in there. You’ve been warned. As a positive note, I hosed them all down. It was fun. Some of them are bloated with water. The stuff was coming out of their eyes and ears! So what, who cares?”

  I shrugged.

  “Can’t be helped. We all need baths.”

  He was right about the barn.

  The place was buzzing with stink. Excrement was everywhere in piles, along with pieces of meat and intestine and socks. How horrible! Cleaning all of this? Impossible. You’d have to be a psychopath.

  What was I going to do?

  These apes needed a place, and I’d be a monkey’s uncle if I were to just leave them there in that shitty barn, or even outside, for that matter, whenever it rained. I was no devil. All loving things need love and care.

  True, these things had no soul, but they were living.

  It was all clear to me then, as I ran out of that barn and leaned against a wall, trying to breathe in the good and coughed up a fly.

  There were living things—full of energy, loving life. That was more than I could say about many of my human friends that played video games all day. The zombies had a goal, and they made it a point to follow it until the end. And they were our brothers. We are all made from the same basic building blocks—like everything else in the universe: The stars, the planets, the galaxies. The Universal Subconscious connects all of us. Through our soul. One soul. I’m no different from you, as you are from me…because we are the same. That bag of meat, that lump of clay, that hunk of metal…all the same.

  All the same energy.

  Another gag in my throat, and I coughed up another fly. I was getting dizzy. My belly whimpered. Those eggs were not sitting well.

  Somewhere, a chicken was laughing.

  Should I burn the barn down? It was such a dead thing now. I could feel it pleading with me. “Please,” it was begging. “Kill me. Kill me now.”

  I went inside to look for a gas can, making my way past the bales of hay, to the back. There was wood all around me—giant sheets in piles, 2x4 leaning against walls, whole logs here and there, even random sticks could be found. Leftovers, I thought.

  Maybe I could use all of this junk. Build something for the nincompoops. How about a maze to keep them busy? The idea excited me. I was awake then, and I rushed back into the house and pulled up a seat at the kitchen table and drew out so many blueprints.

  Why stop at the maze?

  I could build cheap little houses. I’ve lived in them for so long, I knew them inside and out. The architecture would be easy. I could build a whole Goddamn town! Maybe even add a church, a bar, a library, various tree houses, and a play theater.

  Finally, my own little town. My own little world where no one would bother me.

  I couldn’t just sit.

  I went out and began to carry out some of the wood. The maze! It would be the maze I’d work on first. If I could make that, it would give me more confidence to construct more elaborate structures.

  As I dragged along one of the giant, rectangular sheets of wood, I saw Cakers in one of the fields, carrying an odd harness of some kind connected to a large blade. Was he getting ready to plough? If so, why?

  Tranzam had a zombie on a leash—a muscular woman in a bikini. She must’ve been a bodybuilder in her past life. Cakers put the harness on her—or more like THREW it on her.

  The zombie followed Cakers, ploughing the field, as he led her on with a Twinkie on a stick.

  I asked him about this strange act, and he reasoned that, until they fixed the farming machinery, or bought bulls, this would have to do.

  “Why are we ploughing?” I said, arms crossed.

  “I’m building a pentagram.”

  “Nani? What? Why?”

  “I’ve been expanding my mind lately. Last night, I was looking at you while you slept, when I noticed a book on the floor, called ESP Right Now. I picked it up and found it such a delightful read.”

  “I need that back, by the way,” I said, following him was he walked backwards. The muscular zombie was grabbing for the Twinkie. She had no lower jaw. This was mildly disturbing.

  “The book’s perfectly safe,” Cakers assured me. “I found the chapter on Pentagram usage particularly interesting.”

  “Yes?”

  “Well…write down your wish, or want, and translate the sentence in symbols that only you can understand on a sheet of large paper.”

  “You’re creating a sigil, really. It’s all the same. It’s all about the energy you put into your ‘wish’…how much you concentrate on it, how strong you imprint your want
into your subconscious—the soul of this very universe.”

  “If it’s all about energy, it got me thinking, why stop on a measly sheet of paper?”

  “This is gonna take you such a long time. There will be many mistakes.”

  “Don’t be such a negative Nancy. I’m down for a pound. I’m ready. I’ll fine tune this project right to the tiniest detail. It’s all worth it. I believe.”

  I left him to it and got back to work lugging lumber. He was a chaos magician now, whether he knew it or not. I didn’t ask him what his wish was, but I’m willing to bet dollars to doughnuts it was somewhere along the lines of asking for $1,000,000.

  And why not?

  So be it.

  Underneath all appearances, the same energy that makes up the very air we breathe also makes money. There’s no difference between attracting $1,000,000 or just $1. It all hangs on your beliefs—the value you put in things. You make it possible or impossible.

  It always seems impossible until it’s done, said Nelson Mandela.

  And what was wrong with wanting money? Money isn’t evil. It’s not anti-spiritual. To grow as spirits, we need to be able to buy what we need to expand our talents—to give back to the community. It’s all in how you use it. One should not hoard wealth. Share it. Send it back into the economy.

  People with a lack mindset see lack in everything, see the negative in everything—money being the chief thing—and that’s what they will always attract until they go into an abundance mindset.

  It’s an easy switch to make. One just has to understand the fact that you get what you look for. And why worry so much about bad happenings, anyway? We live in a balanced universe. There is no black without white, up needs down. If things are so bad, then things must also, in accordance with the Law of Polarity, be good. Choose what you want.

  We get what we look for.

  There’s no one to blame.

  It’s all you.

  I’M reminded of a time when, during the early 90’s, I was in a gang in KPT. That stood for Kuhio Park Terrace, but the creative locals lean more towards Kill People Tonight. Ahh, life. I was very young then.

  Of course, I wanted to fit in…to be a part of something. I was in one called (censored by editor).

  It was also smart (really????) to join a gang because they’d protect you against the big, bad Samoan and Korean gangs that would steal your glasses while you walked to school and throw them in the river. They would laugh, of course. And why not? They’re fucking comedic geniuses!

  The initiation was simple: The other members pound your face in. There were only two of us in that tiny apartment on the 3rd floor of A-Building. There must be something about me, because one chap had a hard time connecting his fists to my delicate bone structure. He seemed worried.

  “Eh, no worry,” said the main honcho in charge. “No ‘tink about anyting right now. Here, now, Ray not yo friend. Just hit’em! Blast’em in da face!”

  This main honcho guy looked like Bruce Lee. He’d also be my brother right now, if my mum ended up marrying his dad. My face was fine though, but I did end up with many welts all around my midsection and back and shoulders.

  That was so long ago. I haven’t seen any of those guys for so many years. I think one of them is in the military, some others in jail. Yeesh. How depressing. You can still spot ex gang members on the streets or in bars. They look like they’ve been punched in the face one too many times: Features caved in and leathered.

  My gangbanging days lasted all-but a week.

  Was I ever initiated out?

  Uh oh.

  LAND, land everywhere. I walked to the back of the house. There was indeed a forest, but it was way in the distance. In between the house and the woods were a line of trees—10, 15 at most. It took many minutes for me to reach them, and my knees were already sore by the time I was halfway there. I should’ve invested in a bike. Maybe I could make my own out of wood?

  There was a tree for every ‘popular’ fruit. There was a tree for apples, a tree for oranges, a tree for pears, and so forth and so forth. I climbed the apple tree and had me a little snackaroo.

  This was where I’d build my little town. It was far away enough from the house, and it wasn’t like I could use the fields anyway, not with Cakers disfiguring the land with giant pentagrams. I wanted him to proceed with his project. If he felt as alive as I did, let him go on and on doing what he was doing.

  When I went to tell him about my project’s progress, he was gone. The ambulance, too.

  The plough zombie was roaming about with that heavy blade, making deep zigzags in the dirt. I walked along and noticed a body down in there, half buried. It was the body of a police officer with no head. That part of him was further down the zigzag. But was it a dead zombie?

  I spun around, feeling alone.

  Dread.

  Where was Tranzam during all of this?

  Upon further inspection, I saw that the cop’s gun was missing. I reached down with a squinty face and pulled out his wallet, reading his drivers license.

  “Harold Farchild. Born July 4th, 1968,” I said to the rotting air. “Cancer, eh? I have a friend with the same sign as you. Did you know Tom Cruise is also a Cancer? You could be in his shoes right now, if this were a different reality. Oh well. Rest in peace, Har.”

  I left him his money and tried my best to kick dirt over his body. I did the same with his head. Har apparently had a long mane of blond hair—all straight, like a girl’s. Was he a hippy cop?

  I stood there for a moment, under the heat and the bugs.

  Why wasn’t I vomiting?

  Had I grown accustomed to these horrible sights?

  I was changing.

  Who was I now?

  I had to remember to remember. I was growing. But into what? And how would it change my personality? Would I now be able to talk to girls and ask them on dates? Would I allow myself to finally learn how to drive?

  What was I changing into?

  I felt more alive, for one thing.

  All I wanted to do now was build.

  Create.

  I ran off before the plough zombie in the bikini could reach me. Sticky things were in her hair. Things that were moving.

  Back in the kitchen, I added more detail to my plans. A horrible thought entered my mind. What about work? My night job? I’d be late if Cakers didn’t get back before seven. I called his cell, but got no answer. Maybe he was working, picking up homeless people and dropping them off at shelters. How rude of me to interrupt him. His job was more important.

  To clear my mind, I focused on my plans.

  What followed was the repetitive cycle of me dragging out lumber to the construction site and walking back to the barn. By nightfall, I had many piles of many different kinds of wood, all sectioned off. I was able to transport bags of cornet as well as concrete blocks and nails and hammers and saws via an old fashioned, red wheelbarrow.

  My body was exhausted, but my mind was racing.

  I was shirtless, which was rare, and the cool night breeze felt good. My arms were aching and stiff. My forearms wanted to bend skyward, and I had to constantly force them down.

  I felt like a man.

  I get it now, I thought. I GET it.

  Cakers came home at around 9pm.

  The ambulance pulled up to the house and then I remembered about work. I’d never make it on time. Half of me wanted to run up to him and yell nasty things. But I ended up walking and taking out my cell phone.

  No messages.

  I called work and explained that I couldn’t make it because…because…my mum was in the hospital and very ill. I’d have to get back to them. It was a half a lie. The manager on the other end (years younger than me) said he hoped everything would turn out all right, and that was that.

  Cakers was on the porch, rocking back and forth on a rocking chair.

  “Damn. Sorry about your job. I got here as fast as I could,” he said. I could hear genuine sympathy in his vo
ice.

  “I already called them,” I said, pulling on my shirt and eyeing a zombie in the distance, walking nowhere slow. “Where’s Tranzam?”

  “Eh? I don’t know. I can’t keep tabs on her. Shouldn’t, really. I must trust her, right? Let her go off. Can’t be helped. I’m fine with it, though, really I am. She hasn’t died yet.”

  “I wanted to ask her about that dead zombie.”

  “Now which one is it?”

  “You mean more are dead?”

  “Just one other. I was cleaning the ambulance when I heard a loud popping sound. I went around to the side of the house and saw a clown zombie, resting on a pile of balloons. It was sitting down, not moving…and its face had a big ol’ hole in it. I don’t know what happened. Swear.”

  “Did you smell anything weird?”

  “You mean besides putrid meat?”

  “I mean like gunpowder.”

  “Sorry. No.”

  We waited for Tranzam as long as we could, then we went into the house and locked all the doors and shut all the windows. I tool one final peek outside. The zombies were all standing, not moving. Don’t they ever get tired? I won’t be surprised if I still find them like this in the morning.

  That night, I tried to have an Out of Body Experience, or OBE. It’s simple and hard at the same time. There are many ways to go about getting it, but here’s the easiest way. While in bed, when you’re totally relaxed, try to imagine your big toe. Now feel—I mean really feel—it tingling. Move that vibration up through your body, all the way up to your head. And voila! You’re on your way.

  My problem was I kept falling asleep. It worked before, but that was many moons ago.

  Something hard hit my bedroom window, and I bolted up with a sharp yelp. Cakers came running in with a shotgun, face sweaty, hair a mess and all sticking up in sharp edges.

  I screamed.

  “What was that noise?”

  Cakers put his hand on my face.

  “All is well. I have a shotgun. Peace be with you.”

  “And also with you.”

  Something crashed through the window and rolled across the floor, right into Cakers’ feet.

  It was a zombie’s head, mouth opening and closing, spitting up worms. It was smiling.

  Cakers jumped back and yelled and kicked it back out the window.

  “Who is down there?” Cakers screamed. “Show yourself, murderer!”

  I slipped my pants on with both feet and followed him downstairs. There were weird sounds all around us—whooshing sounds, buzzing sounds, laughing sounds, moaning sounds, banging sounds, and even vroops!

  We rushed out the front door, Cakers with his shotgun and me with a catoninetails I found under the sink earlier. What we saw blew up our brains.

  Witches.

  Four of them, on brooms and wearing pointy black hats, all cackling. They flew around and were attacking the zombies, banging into them and decapitating them.

  The witches saw us and stopped laughing.

  Cakers gave out a horrified shriek, much like a girl’s, and shot at them. I yelled with him, pointing at the witches as they zigged this way and that, avoiding the blasts.

  “There!” I instructed. “No! There! No! There! No! There! No! There! Arrrrrrrrrrggghhh!”

  Cakers just kept on firing. He was crying.

  “G-G-God, help our poor souls! Witches are real! Real, I tell you! REAL!”

  “Wahahahaha!” went the witches. “Wahahahah, fools! We witches are obese with magic and are unstoppable!”

  They flew to us and pulled out fat, curved swords that they must’ve had delivered from India. They were swinging them around and around and acting like race horse jockeys, whacking imaginary horse buttocks.

  “Eye-yayayayayaya!” they hollered.

  “We are overweight with magical power! Bow down, pansies, to our ways!” said one.

  As they zeroed in on us, their faces became clear.

  Such hideous beasts: They were old and moldy in their black cloaks. Their eyes were yellow with tiny, black dots.

  One of the witches was towing a body via rope. The dead man’s arms and legs swung around, knocking off zombie heads and hitting birds.

  I gripped Cakers’ arm.

  “Oh, Jesus, JESUS! Look, look!”

  “Eh?!” Cakers said, reloading his weapon.

  “It’s Queen Pro Amm!” I cried in disgust. “Queen!”

  She was dragging her husband’s corpse—Yucrain’s corpse.

  “Queen!” I said, stepping forward. “Remember us…now!”

  It was no use. She was laughing like a crazy person, threatening us with that fat sword of hers. Cakers and I jumped out of the way as they flew right into the house, messing the place up. They were smashing dishes. We stood outside and looked in as their silhouettes zoomed from room to room in amazing speed. Papers were flying around in my room under all that wicked, canned laughter.

  “Get out from there!” I demanded. “Be gone, witches! Queen! Queen, how could you?!”

  Cakers held me back.

  “Queen is no more, boy. She’s a far-gone loon.”

  The four witches flew back out.

  I stepped in front of Queen before Cakers could put his mitts on me.

  “Queen! Stop this insanity, right this instant!”

  She grinned and giggled and made to run me over. My face burst. Cakers kicked me out of the way right as Queen zoomed by with a vooooot!

  Cakers was all up in my face.

  “Be reasonable!” he begged.

  Queen came swooping in to give it another go. She had her yellow eyes on me. Cakers stood in front of me. He had his ice picks out, ready to stab. Queen yelled in joy and came at him at full speed. Cakers stepped to the side and held onto Yucrain’s arms. Queen snarled and came to a dead stop, trying to wiggle Cakers off.

  It was like watching a sad fool on a mad bull.

  Cakers gave out a screech and let go and flew onto the ground. He was groaning and touching his back. I ran over and helped him up, saying, “Thank you! Thank you!” over and over.

  The witches hovered before us. The leader witch—the ugliest one of them all with those rotted teeth and that lazy eye—spoke with an accusing finger aimed right at us.

  “You, who have no right using OUR magic, must pay, pay, PAY!”

  Cakers threw his hands up.

  “I’m sorry!” he said, getting on his knees. “Forgive and forget? Hrmm?”

  The witch looked at me, drooling and merry.

  “And you, fool?”

  I straightened my spine.

  “Leave us be, wench! Poof! Be gone!”

  The witch flew back, shocked. She struggled to gain control of her broom, backing up into the other witches.

  They complained.

  “Whaaaa?!” the leader witch said, eyes wide. “You dare??”

  There was lightning for some reason. My legs were shaking, but I refused to show fear in my voice. We could die right now. Might as well try to be a man. Better time than any. The wind began to pick up, and it quickly turned into something mighty.

  “Anyone can use magic!” I was yelling through the gust. “Anyone can use energy for whatever, whenever, and however they choose!”

  One of the other witches—an old crone with a dripping black hole in place of a nose—flew up front and ogled down at me.

  “Why you…” she said, hitting me on the head with her broom in big taps. “I’ll blow your throat up! I was in the middle of an important spell before you leeches drained my power! I was going to have a husband! Now the spell’s ruined, and now I’m so lonely! Do you have any idea how it feels to be lonely? You rat!”

  I pushed her away.

  “You can’t drain energy. There’s enough for everyone.”

  The witches threw their heads back and laughed so loud we had to cover our ears.

  “Amateur!” said the leader witch. The four of them were all in a line then, bobbing. Queen yanked out the ice p
icks from Yucrain’s eye sockets and threw them to the ground like darts. She didn’t recognize us at all. “Ignorant amateurs!” went the leader witch. “We will not have our powers drained by a couple of idiotic hacks!”

  They flew around and around us, generating a mini tornado. Our clothes picked up, and Cakers was screaming. I covered my eyes from all the dust.

  “Now don’t move,” they all said in unison, raising their swords. “This will hurt very, VERY much! Hawhawhawhaw!”

  Queen yelled out.

  “Gadzooks!”

  Yucrain was all over her, moaning and tugging.

  “Holy shit!” said Queen, losing control of her broom. “His fingers are in my hair! Oh, Jesus, get this thing off of me!”

  She was plowing into the other witches, sending them bouncing off the house in yelps.

  Yucrain pulled on Queen’s clothing, driving her mad. The zombie made to bite her.

  “Brains!” he says. “Braiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinssss!”

  Queen slapped him away, cautiously, as if touching a disgusting thing.

  “You gross bastard! I knew it was a mistake!”

  They were all swooping here and there, all out of control. They were low. Too low. The zombies below snatched at their feet, digging their fingers in like bear traps. They flew into the air.

  One of the witches whined, “It won’t let go of my foot! Aiiiiiiiiiiiiii! What sorcery is THIS?”

  The witch with no nose protested, “We are no match for this—at least not today! We must flee, Gargantuon! Flee, I tell you! FLEE!”

  The leader of the coven of witches, Gargantuon, flew over us and kept going.

  “Weeeee’lllll beeeee baaaaaack!” she bellowed.

  They were all far in the distance, all against the moon and struggling with the zombies at their feet.

  I fell to my knees.

  “I’m still here. I’m still alive! ALIVE!”

  I was weeping and laughing at the same time, my hands to my face in claws and pulling down skin. I looked like I was melting and sounded like I was hyperventilating.

  Cakers crawled to the ice picks like a man on an icy lake. He held the instruments, kissing them and thanking God for all his miracles.

  Tranzam ran up to us.

  “What were those things?! Are they the ones killing the zombies?”

  We stopped our sniveling…looked at each other with round, glossy eyes…then to her.

  Lightning again.

  Then rain.

  CAKERS was furious.

  We were all in the kitchen, looking around at the mess. Cakers picked up a dish and threw it against a wall. He jumped up and down, beating his hands against his chest.

  “Those witches! I’ll eat them out!”

  I cleaned up a bit with a broom.

  Tranzam shook her head.

  “All this because you did some hocus pocus?”

  Cakers whipped his head to her and snarled.

  “It’s my RIGHT.” He stormed about. “I'm so mad right now! They can’t stop me from fulfilling my dreams! My wishes! My happiness! I have to stop them witches before it’s too late, before they ruin everything. Those weird fiends!”

  I was careful not to step on broken glass.

  “Where would a witch live?”

  Tranzam stepped forward.

  “I was in town earlier, when I heard something that may help.”

  Cakers raised an eyebrow.

  “What were you doing in town? Running for mayor?”

  “Town drunk.”

  “I can smell all your voters. I'm guessing you won.”

  “I was depressed and wanted to drink my woes away.”

  “I won't judge you.”

  “Don't judge me!”

  “I'm not.”

  “Don't lie.”

  “Can I sit?”

  “Just say you're sorry.”

  “You're sorry.”

  They hugged. I applauded. Cakers smiled at Tranzam.

  “Now please...proceed with your precious words of vital information.”

  “Like I was saying,” Tranzam sniffed, “I'm in town, at the saloon, having my little morning drink, when this salesman strolls in. He walks up to everyone at the bar, trying to sell them those little drops that make your toilet smell all flowery after you defecate. He chats with an old lady right next to me. She tells this interesting story about how her intestines are all out of whack because some witches put a spell on her. And all because she ran over a black cat with her scooter. It was a sad, gross sight, she says. And then this aging dame starts crying and whatnot, blowing her nose on her forearm and asking God why he doesn't help her. Irritated, the bartender tells that salesman, ‘Hey, buddy, if you're not gonna buy anything, then gets the hell out. Please? I have paying customers here, and I can’t have them weeping. It disturbs me.’ The salesman agrees and asks the elderly woman where the witches are hiding out. He believes he can sell many units of his product to them because in his experience, witches stink. The old woman gives him a stern look and says they live in the old amusement park.”

  That’s all Cakers has to hear.

  He is out the door before I can say, “I love amusement parks.”

  WE took the muscle zombie with us. Cakers insisted. The beast could be useful. We taped her mouth shut to keep her quiet and strapped her to a chair in the back of the ambulance. We had to be careful. She was strong. To cover her stench throughout the ride, Tranzam constantly sprayed the dead woman with perfume—something from the Victoria’s Secret catalogue—that stung my eyes and nostrils. I kept my mouth closed. It was worth it, though. Better this than that sweet, horrid odor of decay.

  And what was this secret? Is it that women spread tissue paper over the water in toilet bowls to silence various splashes?

  C'est la vie.

  It took us ten minutes to get there. We turned off the headlights and parked the ambulance in front of a cardboard cut-out of a bald muscleman. He had a mustache and held up a dumbbell with one mighty hand. He was winking at us, giving us a thumbs up. We kept the zombie in front of us at all times, encouraging her on by poking her in the back with a tree branch. The beast didn’t seem to mind.

  Vines were on all the booths, and we had to step over bushes many times. A large sign out front read: The Greatest Place in the World 1941. What went wrong with this park? Maybe the attack on Pearl Harbor had something to do with it. All the signs squeaked with the wind.

  “We should have brought flashlights,” Tranzam said.

  Cakers waved her away.

  “Better this way. Now we can get the jump on them.”

  A flash of me making love to Queen The Witch stung my brain. I shut my eyes and shook the image out. Get a grip, man. Don’t mate with evil.

  We walked by a stand that sold hotdogs. There were three hot dog warmers inside. A rat ran on one like a treadmill. Disgusted, Tranzam picked up a rock to throw at it, but I stopped her.

  “Let it go on with its exercise. Something about it seems so familiar. Almost human.”

  Tranzam eyed the area and saw a pool, covered by a trapdoor. She threw the rock at the bell above it. It went DONG! and scared away the birds sleeping inside the pool. They flew into walls and flopped on the ground for a bit before getting their heads together and taking off. They flew through the trapdoor and into the pool.

  “Shhh!” Cakers said, finger to his lips. “If you can’t shut up, then leave.”

  “Sorry,” Tranzam said. “Don’t get your panties in a bunch.”

  We both laughed.

  Cakers picked up a handful of stones and threw them at us.

  “Shhh!” he said again. “You fiends.”

  We walked on, looking around corners and into booths. The place smelt like burnt hair. We were close. We all knew it—could feel the bad vibrations rattling our bones. Common sense shouted at me to vamoose! Skedaddle! Cakers was right. We had to fight—fight to defend what was ours—our birthright. The abundance of energy.

&nb
sp; Discarded, black baby carriages littered the place—all standing upright and ready. What happened here? I thought. It looks like people just up and left. And maybe that’s just what they did. Maybe that’s what we should be doing right now.

  Then…a yelp.

  Cakers was backing up in big steps, his arms out, fingers twitching.

  It was Yucrain, walking like a clichéd zombie with his arms held out in front of him. He was licking his lips—eyes nuts and locked on us.

  “Get him off me,” Cakers begged. “Before it’s too late!”

  Tranzam and I scooped up handfuls of pebbles and pelted the beast, but it was no good. It only enraged Yucrain further.

  “Brains,” he blathered. “Braiiiiiiiiiins!”

  Parts of his face fell off with each word. How long had he been like this? How long had Queen kept him alive for whatever carnal pleasure? How many months, years has it been???

  Yucrain stumbled on a passing rat and fell on his face.

  His head blew up, echoing down the maze of red-and-white-striped tents.

  We all ducked as bits and pieces of goo rained on the tents. Much of it covered our muscle zombie. She staggered about, wiping the mess off her face. The tape over her mouth was soaked and peeled off. Our zombie groaned in disgust.

  Interesting. Gore from her own kind repulsed her.

  I could have sworn I heard her whimper the word Yuck.

  The wind kicked up. Tents flapped. Paper cups took off and flew about. I listened through the gust: “Ooh-ooh-ah-ah.” There were monkeys nearby.

  “There are monkeys nearby!” I said, scared. “If there’s one thing I hate more than chickens, it’s monkeys. God save us all!”

  Laughter now.

  Crazy witch laughter.

  It was all around us and swirling—all high above.

  Cakers crawled toward us. His face was wide and sweaty. He was salivating.

  “No, no! I hear theeeeem,” he said. “Now what do we do?”

  “Fool!” I said, “This is your mess…you being so bent on vengeance.”

  He flung his hands to his mouth and bit his nails, his eyeballs looking around and around. The ears were moving up and down, listening. He looked like a rodent.

  “They’ll kill us! They’ll cook us and eat us and feed our life-giving bits to the spiders! Gadzooks!”

  I wanted to say something to soothe him. This was too much for him—for me. I was looking at a mirror. It was time to take him by the belt and drag Cakers back home.

  Tranzam slapped him.

  Cakers fell on his back, and he stayed there as he spoke. He was calm.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Oh, Tranzam, thank you so much. You know how to make me think like a man again.” He sat up and slapped a stern hand on our shoulders. “Take hold of something. Be ready. Let’s hide.”

  We told our zombie to keep quiet and shoved her into a tent, then we looked around for weapons. Tranzam found a fat, wooden mallet and hid in a cotton candy booth; Cakers found a whip in a dusty baby carriage and hid in the pool, shooing away the birds; and I got an abandoned pogo stick and jumped in the House of Mirrors, peeking out.

  The witches flew down on their brooms, giggling. A monkey army was following them. They marched as they looked around. Quiet.

  “They’re here—somewhere. I can smell their nutrients,” said Queen. She walked around Yucrain. I could see that she was crying…that she was trying to hide her face from the others. “You bastard,” I read her lips. “We had love. Real love, damn you.”

  When their leader asked what she was doing, Queen sniffed and whipped her eyes and gave Yucrain a hard kick.

  “Burying the past,” she said. “Have you found those cockroaches?”

  Gargantuon stood still.

  “They’re hiding,” she said, sniffing and licking the air like a snake. Her tongue went in and out and in and out—lick, lick, lick. She pointed to everyone. “Queen, Endgrat, Oslong, go into the tents and find the vermin. I’ll search around here. They won’t get away.” She spun around. “You hear me, swine! We’ll yank your buns over your heads and drink the spills!”

  Then Endgrat, the one with no nose, said, “I’ll eat your obliques, varmint! And use your neck as a waste basket! Questions?”

  Gargantuon kicked the monkeys.

  “Get a move on, you silly bleeders! So useless! I can’t believe I saved you all from that rogue tractor. Are you even listening to me?! I’m not paying you bananas to stand around and touch your southern lands. GET!” She kicked at them again, and they cried out in fear, scattering.

  Queen said, “I really wish you’d be nicer to them.”

  She got no response.

  The witches hopped on their brooms and slowly went about their search, eyeing the scene with squinty eyes. Their pointy hats went left and right with the wind. Oslong, who always had a surprised and happy look on her face, flew toward the pool. Endgrat came right for me. I jumped back into the tent, shaking, sweating, praying—trying my best to contain my bladder. Did she smell my nutrients? Did she know?

  I ran back through the dark. The mirrors made me tall and fat and even thinner as I sneaked by. I got down on all fours and crawled out from the tent. A monkey was staring at me. The beast was on its hind legs, pointing at me. Then it screeched.

  “OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH!”

  The monkey threw a banana at me, and I ran back inside the tent, right into Endgrat, knocking her off her broom. Her hat and wig slid off, revealing a shiny skull. She was surprised, clawing the ground for her coverings. The broom kicked to life and zoomed toward me. I jumped in the air, somehow doing the splits again, and the broom flew through the tent, leaving a burning hole.

  The monkeys were singing then, sounding like a fanatical, irritating alarm. I ran out of the tent. The broom was flying into the monkeys. One of the beasts was on it, weeping and waving its arms in the air. The broom then went up, up into the air, and the monkey fell into the awaiting arms of its fellow mates.

  They crawled around, moaning with stars in their eyes. I smiled and ran up to them, shaking my fist.

  “Ah-ha! That’s what you get for throwing poop at human babies!”

  The broom flew down and gave me a good wallop on the old noodle, and I hit the ground on my bullocks. The monkeys were all over me, biting my back and slapping my spread thighs.

  “Mercy!” I begged. “I see the error of my ways! Darwin was right!”

  The monkeys stopped and looked at each other. One of them climbed my belly and stared into my eyes, then kissed me with those flat, smoochy lips. I think there was tongue. But I was safe, that was the point. The monkeys danced away, hollering with their arms waving in the air, wrists limp.

  Cold hands slapped around my face. I turned around to face Endgrat. She spat in my face and picked me up by my head. My neck creaked and my feet boogied in the air. I tried punching her in the nose, but it was like punching a pillow full of water. My fists bounced off. She laughed and threw me into the air, onto the top of a tent.

  I sat up, dizzy.

  “Cakers! Tranzam! Save me!”

  The witches were all in front of me, brooms humming. Endgrat was on Oslong’s broom, holding her from behind. Queen was shaking her head, looking away. Gargantuon came close.

  “Now…you will see our true power.”

  She opened her mouth and her tongue zipped out, flying right through my lips. Her tongue tied around my tongue and I became weak. I went on my palms, trying to vomit. I was losing consciousness. I kept hearing the sound of a broken record—a maddening scratching sound—over and over in my mind. I forced my eyes open to make sure they weren’t planning anything else awful. The tongue in my mouth was long and stretched, and it was glowing green, then blue, then white.

  Was she sucking my aura?

  “N-n-n-awww,” I said. “Shhh-toppp!”

  Gargantuon threw her head back, then forward, then back again and laughed. This was the funniest thing in the world to her. She jus
t kept at it, taking breaks to breathe. The more I begged, the more she loved it. Her laugh came out in sick gagging sounds. Spit shot out in tiny sparkles against the moon.

  I closed my eyes and fell to my side. Her tongue shook my head. I just wanted to go to sleep. Just let me sleep. All day. Every day. I don’t care anymore. Death sounds good. If this is dying, I’m all for it. Quiet. This is better than suffocating in so much smoke. I’m flying now. Leaving. Going up. Up. Up. Up…

  Then a shot of life went through me like lightning, and my eyes sprang open.

  I grabbed the tongue and yanked it out, along with a whole mess of blackish blood that splats all over the camera, shocking the audience.

  That damn tongue was out of my mouth. It was out!

  “Bloody hell!” I screamed.

  Cakers and Tranzam were dangling off Gargantuon’s broom, pulling her down.

  “Unhand me!” she cried. “This isn’t happening!”

  Cakers grabbed her calf muscle and gave a strong yank. Gargantuon hit the ground the wrong way, bones snapping. “This is NOT happening to me right now! No, no!”

  Cakers had her by the neck.

  “Prattle on if you must,” he said, jabbing her in the eyes repeatedly with his first finger. She was crying, hands useless.

  The other witches surrounded Tranzam. I looked around trying to figure out a way off the tent.

  Then I heard the most beautiful sounds in the world.

  “Ohh-ooh! Ahh-ahh!”

  The monkeys! Those angels! They were all over the witches—bonking them with large mallets and gnawing on them and sticking their tongues in their ears. Tranzam joined in and screamed a battle cry and closed her eyes, punching whatever was unfortunate enough to get to close to her swinging fists of fury. She looked like a windmill.

  Endgrat and Oslong, bodies’ pliable from the beatings, took off, leaving Queen to fend all by her lonesome.

  She was looking up at me.

  “Raym! I remember! I remember!”

  The monkeys had already made up their minds. They clobbered her so many times. I screamed out and jumped down into a pack of baby carriages. I was sent rolling toward the animals. “Charge!” I said, pointing and mad.

  I ran them over. Then I jumped out and kicked them away. They looked at me, weeping as I cradled Queen’s limp body. She was wet.

  “How could you!” I said to the beasts. “This one’s mine! No banana shall harm her, lest it be mine.”

  The monkeys bowed their heads in shame and walked away…one at a time…into the dark tents.

  Gargantuon was on the ground, maybe dead, maybe sleeping. The monkeys grabbed her broom, trying to figure out how to work it.

  I dragged Queen by the waist. Tranzam stood in my way, but I backed right into her and kept going, not making eye contact.

  “Where do you think you’re going with that…with that Goddamn witch!?”

  “She’s right,” Cakers said. “Have you lost your marbles, boy? She tried to kill us. She tried to kill YOU.”

  They were in front of me now. I looked over my shoulder. I was close to the ambulance. Tranzam kicked at Queen’s feet.

  I shot her a stern look.

  “Stop that at once!”

  “You’re not taking this wanker to the farm!” she said, grabbing Queen’s feet.

  “Let go of her feet, stupid,” I said, still dragging her.

  Tranzam tugged.

  “We have to kill her,” she said. I could see a hint of a smile as she said it. Was she serious? Did she say it just to enrage me further?

  Cakers was thinking.

  “No,” I said to Cakers. “We can’t murder her.”

  “I agree,” he said. “She has done so much for us.”

  Tranzam threw Queen’s feet down.

  “Madness! She’ll wake up and slaughter us all like hogs! Pleeeeeaaassssse,” she begged. “Let’s be reasonable.”

  I took the opportunity and dragged Queen even faster toward the ambulance. The two didn’t bother to follow. Their voices echoed throughout the amusement park.

  “She’s his responsibility now,” he said. “I’ll have my Rambo knife on me at all times. I suggest you do the same.” Tranzam made to interrupt, but Cakers was quicker. “If she wakes up and acts retarded, I’ll be the first to slice her throat out. If she turns out to be normal and reasonable, we’ll get her to pay rent…more than usual, seeing how she made to kill us and drink our goods. I used to owe this lady. Now she owes ME. Do yourself a favor, and think of things to buy.”

  Tranzam seemed to like the idea. Cakers put a loving hand on her cheek.

  “I’ll split her shillings with you.”

  I dragged Queen into the van, and as we drove off, we could see the monkeys standing on the road, their eyes glowing as the headlights hit them. They stepped aside, saluting us. One was saluting with both hands. I stuck my head out the window.

  “Rest now, young warriors! Youngblood!” I said to them. “Your home is here now. Amen.”

  The monkeys ran into the amusement park. They were going to do sensible things to Gargantuon. It was fair.

  I could tell that they were so merry.

  I smiled, making peace with them.

  No more hate.

  AT the end of my rope (or the tip of that witch’s tongue, as it were), I had given up. What was the matter with me? Was I so weak? I never really believed it. I always thought I had some sense of worth—even through all the blather. We’re not physical beings having a spiritual experience, we’re spiritual beings having a physical experience. Spirits in disguises. Like Transformers. And was my spirit—this real me that runs my heart, that controls my dreams, that knows more about ME than my logical brain—was it tired? Had it given up? “Damn it, Johnny, your car’s busted. No use repairing’em now.” Was that it?

  I pounded the dashboard.

  “BLAHHH!”

  Cakers struggled to gain control of the ambulance.

  “What’s happening?!”

  I screamed more.

  “Blahhhh! Blahhhhhhhh!”

  Tranzam ran to the front.

  “I’m awake now! What’s all the hubbud?!”

  “I’m not broken!” I said. “I’m worth every penny!”

  The ambulance swerved, almost hitting a stray dog with no tail. Eventually, Cakers was able to set it straight…right after Tranzam put me in a headlock.

  BEING lazy is just so damn relaxing. Sleep follows, and next thing you know, you’re sleeping more and more—longer and longer hours. It’s normal to sleep 10 to 14 hours. It takes a toll on your body: You feel weak the whole day. Dead. Nothing is real.

  And then…and then you get bored of being bored.

  Time to get busy, busy with life.

  God…I’m wasting myself.

  Wasting away and away.

  Forgetting. Forgotten.

  “…No,” he says.

  THE sun rose, and it felt like my eyes were exploding behind their lids. I rolled over and look at Queen. She was still next to me, staring at me. There was a long silence before a rooster outside gave its call. Tranzam was chasing it, yelling at it.

  “Come here, if you know what’s good for you!” she said, voice tired.

  Queen looked indifferent.

  “It’s a cold morning.”

  “Yes. It’s freezing cats and dogs.”

  “You saved me,” she said. “I was going to kill you.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t.”

  “They must’ve done something to me…those witches. I don’t know what they did to me. I came to them for help, for guidance, next thing I know, I’m traveling the globe and rescuing monkeys and creating an army—all for Gargantuan, our leader. She promised us things—wonderful things. We were going to save the world. We were going to exterminate the wicked. They were wasting energy—such precious energy. We would make good use of it,” she said. “We were gathering as much energy as we could. We wanted to—our leader wanted—to transform thes
e monkeys into a master race of evolved humans. They would rule the world for us for many years. We wouldn’t be around, understand? Because we had plans to build a spaceship and fly off into outer space and explore the other planets. We would expand our knowledge. We would be friendly with aliens and bring them back to earth…repopulate.”

  “What would happen to the monkeys?”

  “We’d eat them, of course,” she shrugged. “Such fine, intelligent meat they would have. Gargantuon promised us all of this with a smile. There was always something weird about her. Like she was hiding something. There were times when I’d walk into her room to ask a question, and she’d throw clanking things into her closet and spin around and yell, ‘What do you want from me!? Don’t be rude, knock next time!’ She was very strange. But she was caring, too. She’d feed us beef. Ahh, such tasty stew. It always put me to sleep. I wondered why I always had bruises in the mornings. Oh, well. Can’t be helped.”

  “You didn’t recognize me at all. It made me sad.”

  “I remember the day we decided to fly to this farm and kill you all. When you two ran out, all I saw were crazy people. That night, when I was sleeping in one of the park tents, Yucrain broke from his ropes and tried to eat my back, and that’s when I began to remember the love we shared such a long time ago. I began to remember you, too. Everything fell into place. I thanked Yucrain by kissing him on the lips—after I knocked him out with a sock full of pennies—and opened my mind to more memories as I made sweet love to him. Gargantuon had tried to erase me. I vowed to kill her in the morning, but when I woke up, I was standing in the middle of a fight! Monkeys were beating me! Where had my day gone? I couldn’t remember. Had she strolled into my room and spoon-fed more of her mind-altering beef past my lips? Blast her! Come to think of it, I wonder where that beef came from.”

  “Try not to think of it.”

  “I hope it wasn’t monkey meat.”

  “Bless them for beating you back into sanity.”

  “If it wasn’t for you kind folks, I would still be under her spell. Mahalo.”

  I SPENT the day building my town. I showed Queen my plans, and she helped as much as her old body would allow. She needed the exercise, she admitted. I was impressed. As we carried lumber, I happened to see her eyes. They were full of life—eager to live. This, I thought, is a great worker…one with a clear goal. Without goals, one’s future is a mess.

  As the day went on, I asked if she would help carry bags of concrete.

  “Yes,” she said. “I will.” And did.

  Later, I asked if she would help me carry some shovels.

  “Yes,” she said. “I will.” And did.

  I asked if she would help me paint some walls.

  “Yes,” she said. “I will. And did that, too.

  On our break, she had something on her mind.

  “When I look in the mirror,” she said, “I don’t fully understand what looks back. I feel like I’m in a dreadful disguise. A disguise of wrinkles and sagging skin. When I close my eyes I still see the vibrant me at 25. I still feel the energy working my body. But the outside tells the world different. It lies. And no one knows the truth because everyone’s superficial.

  “I know the truth,” I said. She smiled, not looking at me, and we finished our cheese sandwiches.

  We worked for days, with nights reserved for my nighttime job back at the mall. One night, after Cakers picked me up and drove me back, we saw corpses of zombies littering the fields. What had happened? No one—not Queen—had any idea. Had the witches come back? Queen told us not to worry. She made a large pentagram days ago, on the ceiling of the barn with a chicken’s spit, to protect us. If those pesky witches set a big toe on the land, they’d get an electrical shock, and all their insides would come rushing out of their mouths. Queen assumed that they would have already figured she would try this. Why test their luck? Having your innards was important. Useful. Even for a witch.

  Tranzam was nowhere to be found. But this was normal.

  Maybe we had to feed the zombies?

  From that day on, Cakers gave them bits of chicken to nourish them. They seemed happy. Still, we ended up finding bodies. Odd. When we were able to question Tranzam about this mystery, she got all fussy and stormed out. We had shamed her. How could we accuse one of our own of such a weird act?

  Again, she was gone for a bit.

  I passed the time—and drowned my worries of work and purpose—by constructing my little town. The idea of being a mayor was exciting. I could show these zombies how to live. Besides, I had all the answers to life. Don’t we all?

  I had a plan, and we carried out each phase with the tiniest detail in mind. Nothing was to be missed. There was no room for sloppiness.

  By the time we were done, we had ten one-story houses and a church. There were two rows of five houses, all facing each other. The church was at the end, looking over the town. It was the heart.

  When Cakers saw the place, he asked how we managed to hold everything together. Buildings were lopsided, doors were twisted, some rooms were large, more rooms were cramped, and each rooftop was a different shape. I said that we had used a lot of duck tape and nails and even more duck tape. Cakers said the village looked like something a German expressionist would have made…or maybe the set designer from The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari. He clapped in approval and treated us to beers. I was flattered. I had once, in my youth, wanted to be an architect. Now that goal was complete.

  Now it was time for a new one.

  THE next morning, we set out to gather all the zombies. We got pitchforks and roamed the scene, prodding the zombies along, toward the barn. Cakers set a radio on the porch, blasting classical music. The news came on. Sarah Palin’s church burned down. No one was hurt. My heart dropped. What devil would do such a thing? People were against her, for sure. But to burn down a church? It was repulsive.

  “Good for her,” Cakers said.

  I wanted to tell him off. Did he know her? No, he didn’t. So why say ‘Good that her church is no more’?

  I watched Cakers as he worked, assembling zombies. He was angry. Something else was driving him. He seemed desperate for something. Angry.

  He repelled me.

  I did my work as far from him as possible. Whenever he yelled a question at me, I smiled and yelled back. No need to make him angrier. No need to stoop down to his level. Did he really mean what he said about her church? Maybe he was joking. Maybe it was Tranzam, getting on his nerves again. Where was she? If she was murdering cows again, she better stay away. I don’t want the fuzz ruining this place of peace and reconstruction.

  I hadn’t slept all night. As the others snored and dreamt, I was up, digging a moat around the town. I decided to call the place Nightingale, after my mentor from beyond the grave, Earl Nightingale.

  Fast forward.

  We had made a cheap funnel-shaped fence out of large pieces of cardboard and forced the zombies through, over the moat and into the town. It was Queen’s job to make sure they didn’t fall through. Many of the zombies were looking up, openmouthed, tongues sticking up, vibrating at an impressive rate. Some of them did break though and strayed into the forest behind the town. We were quick to throw nets on them. Running was a chore. Our meal of bacon and duck meat made us sleepy.

  Cakers shoved the last goon into the town.

  We pulled the plank from over the moat.

  Some zombies stood at the edge of the town, staring at us with creepy crawlies falling from their mouths. Then they turned around and explored the grounds. I watched in amazement as many of them—maybe by instinct—casually went into their ‘homes’. Soon, they all did this.

  The ‘streets’ were empty.

  Everything was quiet.

  Cakers leaned over the moat.

  “What just happened?”

  I scratched my scalp. Leaves were in my hair.

  “I guess they’re sleeping,” I said. “Let’s not wake them.”

  As we walked away,
I looked over my shoulder.

  Not one of the zombies went into the church.

  Why? Were they afraid? Did they even know what it was? They occupied each house…except for this one building.

  I had modeled it with an image in mind: A small church in the middle of a country desert—one floor with a high ceiling and a long walkway toward the altar. I couldn’t afford stained glass windows, so I duplicated them by overlapping sheets of colored dividers—the kind you find in folders—over and over again, then taped them together to make large windows. The hardest part was depicting acts from the bible. I took certain liberties, of course: A UFO snatching a disciple of Jesus into the clouds, aliens helping to build the pyramids, the human spirit driving a human body like a car, God in the shape of a woman-man-tree-cat-dog-lion-computer thing, amongst other windows. It radiated an impressive aura. Kids were round it, merry. Under its bare foot was an old man in a white beard and a white dress, shaking an angry fist. All this action in one window.

  It was the main window, at the front of the church, symbolizing how universal energy is in everything, even a computer. Especially a computer. I was so fond of this window, that I rigged a large light behind it.

  The beautiful, multi-colored window glowed throughout the night and across the field. Queen said she could see it from her window…and that it was beautiful.

  I WOKE up to moaning and a loud crash. Mad screams. Terrible auras. Tranzam was home, and Cakers was none too happy to see her. I got up and stood by my bedroom door. Queen was already out of her room. We both looked down the stairs, listening.

  Cakers: “Always out, always out! NOW you come home? Why so mysterious? Do you think you’re funny? Does this impress you? Seeing me like this?”

  Tranzam: “Thou shall bare witness to the coming of the new Lord.”

  Cakers: “What in blue blazes are you blathering about, wench?? It’s four in the morning!”

  Tranzam: “Do ye wish to enter the new land? The Heaven many have spoke of? Do ye yearn to explore the galaxy? Eh??”

  Cakers: “You’ve gone totally sideways, man. You and I are done, professionally.”

  Queen’s eyes were wet. She tried her best to hide her face from me, but she still wanted to listen. I wanted to hear, too. As awful and bizarre as it all was, I wanted to see how this ended. Maybe I’d learn something. The more someone complains, the more you learn about them. I had to be ready. Had to protect myself. Get educated.

  Tranzam sounded like she was storming about, knocking over chairs.

  Tranzam: “Leave this place! Be gone, fool! Beware the new day!”

  Cakers: “Blathering blatherskite. You speak to me in that disobedient tone one more time and you are out. OUT! Comprende, mon cheri?”

  Then, a door slamming.

  Then silence.

  I went back to sleep…I mean, tried to. I was visibly shaken. All that yelling. All that confusion. What to make of it all? Was this normal for a couple? Was Cakers ever going to find peace with her? With love and lovemaking? With life? Maybe this was why he was acting so strange—so upset at the world. He handled it before…but I guess there really is only so much a human can take before the great snap comes. One strike…two strikes…three strikes…you’re out!

  SNAP.

  How awful.

  How disgusting.

  How terrifying.

  I hoped it never came to that. Nothing is worse than seeing your fellow man break. Some are weak. We have a responsibility to pick them up—to show them the straight line. My heart was beating fast. I got out of bed, took in a deep breath, and went downstairs.

  Cakers was on the ground, on his rear, looking at me—past me. His face was blank. His hands were gripping his elbows—locked in a cradle, swaying front and back. What was he staring at?

  Dead air.

  Brain static.

  I backed up and went upstairs and back into my room.

  Gone.

  He was a far-gone loon.

  What to expect tomorrow?

  NINE