Pull the trigger already!
“Oh, my, God,” one kid said in slow, punctuated bursts.
“Did he just do what I think he just did?” the second asked in a quiet, awe-filled whisper.
“He just put the barrel of my gun against his head.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought he just did.”
“What does it mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“You suppose he … he … he actually wants to die?”
“I think he does.”
“Does he?”
“Yes!” Bob shouted, which of course came out as a kind of squeaky grunt.
The kids jumped at his declaration.
“I think he just agreed,” said one kid.
“You know what that means?” the second one said.
“Yeah.”
At last, they were getting the big picture. Bob grinned as he realized that yes, zombies could feel happiness. He was feeling it right now. And even though the warm tingling didn’t extend over the whole of his being, he was still pretty sure it was happiness he felt. Happy to be laid to rest at last.
“It means we can’t kill him,” said the first kid.
“No we can’t,” agreed the second.
“Waaa?” moaned Bob in confusion. What happened to the shooting and the killing and the joyful second death?
“A zombie that wants to die?” the first kid asked. “What’s that all about?”
“I don’t know,” said the second. “Maybe the virus mutated and is making this one suicidal.”
“We should catch him and take him with us. Maybe someone will know how to make the others be like him.”
Oh boy! This day just got better and freaking better. Not only did Bob not consider himself suicidal—he just wanted what was rightfully his, a decent death, thank you very much—now these kids planned on leaking his slacking secrets out to every Tom, Dick and Harry zombie this side of the Rockies. Why was nothing ever easy? Why was everything one big conspiracy to make him work harder than he actually wanted to? Why was the kid with the gun screaming?
Well, the last one turned out to be the easiest to answer. The kid was screaming because, in his ponderings, Bob had grown hungry again. And in this state of hunger, he reached for the nearest snack, which happened to be attached to the hand, wrist and forearm of the kid aiming the single-cartridge buckshot rifle at him. Bob had the poor boy’s index finger halfway down his gullet before he realized he was even chewing.
“Shoot him!” the second kid yelled.
“I can’t!” the first screamed. “He gnawed off my trigger finger!”
“Then give me the gun.” The second kid held out his hands. “I’ll shoot it.”
Bob supposed he hadn’t heard anything so clever in all of his days. The second one was bound to be a better shot. Wouldn’t he? Surely he would. An epileptic, blind, one-armed man with all the directional sense of a demagnetized compass was bound to be a better shot than that kid. And since he was missing his trigger finger, he had no choice but to let his friend-
“No!” the first kid shouted. “I wanna kill it!”
“But it ate your trigger finger,” said his friend.
“I still have my left hand.”
The kid held up the hand in question, as if showing it off. Bob put an end to that nonsense right quick. He snatched the kid by the wrist and sheared off the boy’s left index finger with one powerful snap of his undead jaws. Pointer went from full-grown piggy to eaten sausage in a matter of moments.
“Why were you still standing so close?” the second kid asked over the agonized cries of the first.
“I don’t know!” the first kid cried.
“Give me the gun.”
“No!” The first cradled the gun in the crook of his bloody arms. “It’s my dad’s gun! He said not to let anyone else shoot it!”
“But you can’t even shoot it,” whined his friend. “You don’t have any trigger fingers!”
The boy stared at the evidence before him, his face growing paler with each spurt of blood from either stump. Speaking of growing paler, Bob had no idea why the kid wasn’t face down in the dirt already. All it took was a nip to the ear from a manic mailman and Bob was flat on his backside doing the obituary mambo. Then again, he always did take to easy chores like a fish to barrels. No that wasn’t right. It was fish to something else, wasn’t it? He couldn’t remember.
“Okay,” the kid finally said. “Take the gun.”
“Good!” the second shouted, taking the gun. A few awkward moments passed as the kid acquainted himself with the firearm. Bob filled this time with thoughts of what a fish took to, and the probability that he could bite off rest of the boy’s fingers before his friend fired a single shot. That probability was beginning to look really good, considering how long the new gunman was taking.
“What’s wrong?” the fingerless wonder asked in a weak voice.
“How … how do I fire it?” his friend asked.
“You point the hollow end at him and pull that curved bit. But watch out; it kicks like a mule. That’s probably why my shots have been so wild.”
“Sure. That and you can’t aim.”
“Can’t aim? You can’t even shoot!”
“I can too.” And to prove his point, the boy did just that.
Bob took the shot full in the face, blowing his brains out the backside of his skull and painting the end of the alleyway in delightful hues of putrid green and midnight black. As he fell to the ground his last thought was this:
Carpe Mortis.
Yes, that sounded about right.
***
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Catt Dahman
Mr. Romero’s Warriors
“George Romero was spot on.”
“Dead on. Get it? Dead on? It makes it more witty.”
“Wittier,” She nodded. “You must be witty at all costs.”
“He wasn’t exactly right, but he was close.”
“By far. He insisted they were slow,” She nodded. “He is like a Romeropedia.”
He smiled, “And thanks to him, we know better than to run over to the mall. No mall shopping.”
“No. I was thinking that some things aren’t exactly like he thought.”
That wasn’t the right line. Neal frowned, tilting his head and drumming his fingertips lightly on the arm of the chair. They had done this routine a thousand times, albeit with a few variations. Sometimes the routine was funny and sometimes it was grim, but it was always safely predictable. He tried to get her back on track, “The mall is closed.”
“Not really closed. Closed to us, I reckon, but that’s what he was wrong about. They don’t just stand outside the mall doors forever and moan and shuffle aimlessly.”
Neal sighed. This was becoming a conversation instead of a routine and he didn’t like it. “Okay, let’s do another routine. We can do the one about blondes being safe because they’re brainless. That one is funny.” But none of them were really funny; it was just better to laugh at something of your own doing than to start laughing as if you were insane. Some did that: laughed or cried until they sat down and refused to move even as the shamblers came around, laughing while they were ripped to shreds.
“Do you dream?” Jenny asked.
“No,” he lied. Why had she asked that? It wasn’t fair. They both knew Neal was lying because sometimes he whimpered in his sleep and she reached over to pat him.
Neal saw that some of the others were glancing at them, listening. Had they stayed with the nice, safe routine, no one would have looked up. They preferred a witty conversation, not one with meaning.
“I dream. Not like the dreams before or right after…not like those,” Jenny said, “but other dreams. They dream too. Mr. Romero didn’t know that, did he? He didn’t know they slept a
nd dreamed. He thought they would be just walking dead people.
Crawling dead if you shoot ‘em in the legs, he thought. That was a line from their routine but Neal didn’t say it. Why had she brought this up? Why did she mention that and make Neal think of how they appeared to sleep and dream, moaning and maybe human-like verbalizations?
In some ways, it was worse than when they chased him. When they dreamed, it made them seem almost, well, human. If he thought about it too long, he would….
“Scream,” Jenny said. “I think sometimes they scream when they dream. We could add that to the routine but I don’t think you like it.”
“I don’t.”
Everyone was listening now, their eyes shifting with fear. We weren’t supposed to talk about this.
“We should move on,” she said.
“Not yet. In the movies….” I began.
“In the movies. The main characters die. I’m not saying we are the main characters, but he was spot on about the basics and he made the rules, and I think we may be at least some of the main characters. He never wrote about this part…some did but not him and only he can make the rules.”
“But….”
“But nothing. We’re on our own now. No one ever cares about the main characters past the initial struggles. No one cares what comes next. Mr. Romero never mentioned all the changes. For everyone”
Neal could handle it all. He had handled his worst nightmares, killed them and run from them, hid, and survived. He had learned to play witty word games. He had watched the creatures sleeping, and had seen a little girl mouthing the word mommy over and over in her sleep. Her shirt had been matted with dried blood and pus.
When the girl moaned and reached for him, Neal had felt nothing as he shot her in the head, because that was simply what they had to do, but he hadn’t only shot her because she was infectious or would bite if she got close, but because he wanted her to stop dreaming. It was obscene.
Neal saw a few of the others inching for the doors, ready to run away. Neal wanted to scream; he wanted Jenny to stop talking. He was afraid she might say what Neal was thinking, and if she did, he might scream and scream forever.
She said those three words that terrified him to his very soul, “We are all evolving.”
***
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Mia Darien
Descent
Demeter.
The goddess. Not she who is mother to the earth, but she who is earth mother. Her compassion gave the people the knowledge of growing and cultivating, how to survive off the earth’s bounty. Her anguish rent the world and shaded half the year in cold. She who held no fear to confront the god of death, to show her power to Mount Olympus itself, all to have her daughter Persephone back.
She whose steps nourish the ground, so that people might live from it. A powerful ally, a powerful enemy.
A powerful ancestor.
This is what my mother, Cyrana, told me: that she was the issue of a brief coupling between Demeter and a mortal man. It was where, she said, our power came from. I never found reason to question the story, for power we did have. We had power that others did not, or if they did, they hid it very well and more than we cared to.
The story that I shall tell took place in the twelve hundreds B.C. - twelve centuries before the birth of Christ.
I lived near the Black Sea at that time, in a region known as Thrace. I was not born there, as far as I know, but my mother had never told me where I had been born. She was dead, my mother, by the time I lived in that place. I chose it because, at that time, I was devoted to Ares, the god of savage war and blood lust. The mountainous areas of Thrace, with its war-like people, were said to be most like him. It was also said that he had been born of that violent land.
They did not call me witch then. In those days, I was simply Ioena. No one could tell my age and staying on my good side meant good things for one’s crops and live-stock, particularly horses. Their crops and sheep I cared little for, but for what from those things they would pay me with. It was a way for me to make a living. I could use my powers to encourage good growth in fields and easier tempers in animals. (Unfortunately, I was not able to use this power as keenly on humans, just animals.) Their horses, however, I was happy to tend. It was said that Demeter chose to run in the form of a mare and she has often been associated with horses by those who worshipped her. I suppose that would explain my affection for them, although I never spent much time wondering why.
It was a blessing, our ancestry, my mother had said, although it was weaker in me than in her, for my father had been mortal. This was as much as I ever knew or cared to know.
My life was a strange one, but it always had been. In every place I lived, I was a part of it and yet wholly removed. Thrace was no different, but I felt more at home there than anywhere else. People were good to me because they feared me, which is also why they stayed away except for matters of business. I did not mind that, though, as I liked my independence from other humans. This is a trait that has grown stronger in people in the years since, but it was not as common then. It only added to the aura around me that kept others away.
One morning in spring - when Demeter’s daughter was with her mother for half the year and the earth bloomed again - I made a decision, the long term consequences of which I could not have begun to comprehend. I wanted to make a gift to Ares. I wanted to make a gift above and beyond all other offerings I had ever made, or that anyone else would give to him.
There were four mares in my possession. They were beautiful and strong, graceful in ways that only horses of their nature can be. They were pure black in color and their fur gleamed in sun and moon light. It would be hard to part with them, for I adored them above all else, but I wanted to give only the best to Ares. They would be wonderful gifts, perhaps even consorts for the four fire-breathing stallions who pulled his chariot. They would be as lovers, like Ares and I had once been.
I am sure that you wondered why I was devoted to Ares when I was a descendent of Demeter.
The problem was that the mares were completely docile and would be no match for Ares’ steeds.
“A small change,” I whispered to them as they grazed.
I stayed near them until night fall, exerting the full will of my power. If my mares were to be given to Ares, they had to not only be strong, but fierce. They had to be as fire - powerful and consuming. By the time that darkness descended, they were precisely what I needed them to be: four man-eating mares. They were viscous, wild and untamable, though they did not harm me, for I was as their mother.
Speaking to Ares as if he were there - for I knew he could hear me - I told him of my gift to him. I fell asleep in that small field with my horses. In the morning, they were gone and I knew that Ares had taken them, for I had made them so only a god (and I) could handle them.
They were magnificent.
A lot of my power was wasted on such small things: helping bring a good harvest or calming the live-stock of farmers. In this, it felt good to create something great and strong.
It was some time later that I would encounter Ares upon the road. He simply appeared and I was caught quite off guard. It might seem odd to you, but in those days, gods walked among us when ever they chose. He chose to appear to me as he always did, and as he always would to others, for he was too proud to disguise himself. He wished to thank me for the horses, and I was very flattered, until he told me that his son Diomedes had them.
One does not simply argue with a god, but oh how I wanted to argue with him. I wanted to scream at him, curse, and rail against the lack of feeling that he had shown me. I was most devoted to him, so was I not worthy of more attention in my offerings than that? I had poured time and energy in to creating a gift worthy of him alone, and he had simply cast them off to one of his bastard sons. I did not care that Diomedes was the king of Thrace. He was
not my king!
I said nothing of how I felt and watched as Ares departed, leaving me to contemplate the fickleness of the gods... and of one in particular.
Years would pass. I did not get to see my mares in all of that time, nor was I ever able to again create anything that was their equal, and I tried.
Then, during a day that was like any other, a terrible tale found its way to my ear.
One of Zeus’ many half-mortal children, a man named Heracles, had slain King Diomedes and fed him to my mares. This part did not cause me any significant alarm, for Diomedes was a giant and would make a good meal for them. No, I was not upset about that at all, for he should never have had my beautiful mares in the first place.
The part of the tale that bothered me was what came after. This Heracles had bound and stole my mares, who were then sated and calm from their meal, and he had taken them to some King Eurystheus - yet another king who was not my king but who had been given my horses! Then, this unworthy man had turned and offered these magnificent creatures to that arrogant pig Zeus, who did not wish them. I would have been glad for their survival and escape from sacrifice and would have gone any length to get them back, but Zeus had sent wild beasts to slay and eat them.
It was as though those beasts had eaten my heart. It was as though I was the one torn to shreds and lying in their bellies. I cannot define nor describe my anguish, or the level of my sudden and over-whelming desperation.
There was only one place that I could go to for help.
I wanted my horses back, but they were in the bellies of beasts and even killing those animals would not bring them back. If it would have, I would have hunted down each one and torn them apart with my hands.
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