Z- Zombie Stories

by J M Lassen

  I asked what did that mean and Daddy said the Lord come down among people and nobody saw the signs. Said they treated Him just like any normal person, except then He set off doing miracles and people got scared and nailed Him to the cross. Said it was probably gray people that done it. I asked Daddy if we ought to open the church door and see who was knocking.

  Daddy said gray people wasn’t fit to set foot in the House of the Lord. I asked what if it’s the preacher or the Hodges kids or Opalee Rominger from down the road. Daddy said they’re all gray, everybody. Said they was all headed under Hell. Said ever sinner is wicked and blind to their sinning ways. I didn’t see how Opalee Rominger could eat living flesh, because she ain’t got no teeth.

  The knocking stopped and I didn’t hear no screams so maybe whoever it was didn’t get ate up.

  I listened to Daddy read the Bible. The sun come up higher and I wondered about the cows. Did the gray people eat them all? It wasn’t like they ain’t enough sinners to go around. I didn’t for a minute believe that everybody was gray. There had to be others like us. There’s a hymn that says you11 never walk alone. I don’t reckon the Lord breaks promises like that but I was way too scared to ask. Daddy’s eyes were getting bloodshot, like he hadn’t slept a wink, and he was whispering to hisself again.

  I drank water from the plate that Preacher Aldridge passed around on Sundays. The water tasted like old pennies. Daddy didn’t drink nothing. I asked him if he wanted the last can of sardines but he said man can’t live by bread alone but by the word of the Lord. I wondered what the Lord’s words tasted like. I wondered what people tasted like. I ate the sardines by myself.

  That night was quiet, like the gray people had done gone on to wherever they were headed. I woke up in the morning plenty sore and I asked Daddy if we could take a peek out the door. Daddy hadn’t moved, only stood up there at the pulpit like he was getting ready to let loose with a sermon. He had the shotgun raised toward Heaven and I don’t reckon he heard me. I asked it louder and he said you can’t see the gray people because ever sinner is blind. I said I ain’t no sinner but he said you’re looking mighty gray to me.

  I said I ain’t gray, and then he made me prove it. Said get on your knees and beg the Lord to forgive you. He pointed the shotgun at me. I didn’t know if he would use it or not, but the way his eye twitched I wasn’t taking no chances. I got on my knees but I was scared to close my eyes. When you close your eyes and pray it’s just you and the Lord. You’re blind but the Lord sees everything. I asked Daddy to pray with me.

  Daddy set in to asking the Lord to forgive us our sins and trespasses. I wondered if we was trespassing on the church. It belonged to the Lord, and we was here so we wouldn’t get ate up. I didn’t say nothing to Daddy about it, though. I added an extra loud amen just so Daddy would know for sure that I wasn’t gray.

  Later I asked Daddy how come ever sinner is gray. He said the Lord decides such things. He said Momma was a sinner and that’s why she was gray all along and her soul was already under Hell. I didn’t say nothing to that. Sometimes Daddy said I took after my Momma. I wished I’d took after Daddy instead and been able to pray all by myself.

  I said it sounded like the gray people was gone. Daddy said you can’t trust the Devil’s tricks. Said the only way out was through the Lord. I said I was getting hungry again. Daddy said get some sleep and pray.

  I woke up lost in the dark and Daddy was screaming his head off. He was sitting where the moon come through the window and he said look at me, look at my skin. He held up his hands and said I’m gray, I’m gray, I’m gray. Said he was unfit to be in the House of the Lord. He put the shotgun barrel up to the side of his neck and then there was a flash of light and a sound like the world split in half and then something wet slapped against the walls.

  I crawled over to him and laid beside him ‘til all the warm had leaked out. I was scared and I wanted to pray but without Daddy to help me the Lord would look right into me and that was worse than anything. Then I thought if Daddy was in Heaven now, maybe I could say a prayer to him instead and he could pass along my words to the Lord.

  The sun come up finally and Daddy didn’t look gray at all. He was white. His belly gurgled and the blood around his neck hole turned brown. I went to the door and unlocked it. Since it was Sunday morning, I figured people would be coming to hear the sermon. With more people in the church, I could pray without being so scared.

  I stacked up some of the hymn books and stood on them so I could look out the window. They was back. More gray people were walking by, all headed in the same direction. I figured they were going to that place under Hell, just like Daddy said, and it made me happy that Daddy died before he turned gray.

  Time passed real slow and the bread was long gone and nobody come to church. I never figured so many people that I used to pray with would end up turning gray. Like church didn’t do them no good at all. I thought of all the prayers I said with them and it made me scared, the kind of scared that fills you up belly first. I wondered what the Lord thought about all them sinners, and what kind of words the Lord said back to them when they prayed.

  Daddy’s fingers had gone stiff and I about had to break them to get the shotgun away. He’d used up the last shell. The door was unlocked but nobody set foot in the church. I was hoping whoever had knocked the other day might come back, but they didn’t.

  The gray people didn’t come in the church. I figured if they was eating live flesh they would get me sooner or later. Except maybe they was afraid about the church and all, or being in plain sight of the Lord. Or maybe they ain’t figured out doors yet. I wondered if you go through doors to get under Hell.

  Night come again. Daddy was dead cold. I was real hungry and I asked Daddy to tell the Lord about it, but I reckon Daddy would call that a selfish thing and wouldn’t pass it on. I kept trying to pray but I was scared. Preacher Aldridge said you got to do it alone, can’t nobody do it for you.

  Maybe one of them Aye-rab bugs got in while the door was open. Maybe the gray people ain’t ate me yet because I ain’t live flesh no more. Only the Lord knows. All I know is I can’t stay in this church another minute. Daddy’s starting to stink and the Lord’s looking right at me.

  Like I’m already gray.

  I don’t feel like I am, but Daddy said ever sinner is blind. And the hunger gnawing at me is the kind of hungry that hurts.

  Outside the church, the morning is fresh and cold and smells like broken flowers. I hear footsteps in the wet grass. I turn and walk, and I fit right in like they was saving a place for me. I’m one of them, following the ones ahead and leading the ones behind. We’re all headed in the same direction. Maybe this entire world is the place under Hell, and we’ve been here all along.

  I ain’t scared no more, just hungry. The hungry runs deep. You can’t live by bread alone. Sometimes you need meat instead of words.

  I don’t have to pray no more, out here where it ain’t never dark. Where the Lord don’t look at you. Where we’re all sinners. Where you’re born gray, again and again, and the End Times never end.

  Where you never walk alone.

  Xx{P

  THE

  DEAD KID

  DARRELL

  SCHWEITZER

  I

  It’s been a lot of years, but I think I’m still afraid of Luke Bradley, because of what he showed me.

  I knew him in the first grade, and he was a tough guy even then, the sort of kid who would sit on a tack and insist it didn’t hurt, and then make you sit on the same tack (which definitely did hurt) because you were afraid of what he’d do if you didn’t. Once he found a bald-faced hornet nest on tree branch, broke it off, and ran yelling down the street, waving the branch around and around until finally the nest fell off and the hornets came out like a cloud. Nobody knew what happened after that because the rest of us had run away.

  We didn’t see Luke in school for a couple days afterwards, so I suppose he got stung rather badly. When he did sho
w up he was his old self and beat up three other boys in one afternoon. Two of them needed stitches.

  When I was about eight, the word went around the neighborhood that Luke Bradley had been eaten by a werewolf. “Come on,” said Tommy Hitchens, Luke’s current sidekick. “I’ll show you what’s left of him. Up in a tree.”

  I didn’t believe any werewolf would have been a match for Luke Bradley, but I went. When Tommy pointed out the alleged remains of the corpse up in the tree, I could tell even from a distance that I was looking at a t-shirt and a pair of blue-jeans stuffed with newspapers.

  I said so and Tommy flattened me with a deft right hook, which broke my nose, and my glasses.

  The next day, Luke was in school as usual, though I had a splint on my nose. When he saw me, he called me a “pussy” and kicked me in the balls.

  Already he was huge, probably a couple of years older than the rest of the class. Though he never admitted it, everybody knew he’d been held back in every grade at least once, even kindergarten.

  But he wasn’t stupid. He was crazy. That was the fascination of hanging out with him, even if you could get hurt in his company. He did wild things that no one else dared even think about. There was the stunt with the hornet nest, or the time he picked up fresh dogshit in both his bare hands and claimed he was going to eat it right in front of us before everybody got grossed out and ran because we were afraid he was going to make us eat it. Maybe he really did. He was just someone for whom the rules, all the rules, simply did not apply. That he was usually in detention, and had been picked up by the police several times only added to his mystique.

  And in the summer when I was twelve, Luke Bradley showed me the dead kid.

  Things had progressed quite a bit since then. No one quite believed all the stories of Luke’s exploits, though he would beat the crap out of you if you questioned them to his face. Had he really stolen a car? Did he really hang onto the outside of a P&W light-rail train and ride all the way into Philadelphia without getting caught?

  Nobody knew, but when he said to me and to my ten-year-old brother Albert, “Hey you two scuzzes”—scuzz being his favorite word of the moment—“there’s a dead kid in Cabbage Creek Woods. Wanna see?” it wasn’t really a question.

  Albert tried to turn away, and said, “David, I don’t think we should,” but I knew what was good for us.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Sure we want to see.”

  Luke was already more than a head taller than either of us and fifty pounds heavier. He was cultivating the “hood” image from some hand-me-down memory of James Dean or Elvis, with his hair up in a greasy swirl and a black leather jacket worn even on hot days when he kept his shirt unbuttoned so he could show off that he already had chest hair.

  A cigarette dangled from his lips. He blew smoke in my face. I strained not to cough.

  “Well come on, then,” he said. “It’s really cool.”

  So we followed him, along with a kid called Animal, and another called Spike—the beginnings of Luke’s “gang,” with which he said he was going to make himself famous one day. My little brother tagged after us, reluctantly at first, but then as fascinated as I was to be initiated into this innermost, forbidden secret of the older, badder set.

  Luke had quite a sense of showmanship. He led us under bushes, crawling through natural tunnels under vines and dead trees where, when we were smaller, we’d had our own secret hideouts, as, I suppose, all children do. Luke and his crowd were getting too big for that sort of thing, but they went crashing through the underbrush like bears. I was small and skinny enough. David was young enough. In fact it was all we could do to keep up.

  With a great flourish, Luke raised a vine curtain and we emerged into the now half-abandoned Radnor Golf Course. It was an early Saturday morning. Mist was still rising from the poorly tended greens. I saw one golfer, far away. Otherwise we had the world to ourselves.

  We ran across the golf course, then across Lancaster Pike, then up the hill and back into the woods on the other side.

  I only thought for a minute, Hey wait a minute, we’re going to see a corpse, a kid like us, only dead… but, as I said, for Luke Bradley or even with him, all rules were suspended, and I knew better than try to ask what the kid died of, because we’d see soon enough.

  In the woods again, by secret and hidden ways, we came to the old “fort,” which had probably been occupied by generations of boys by then, though of course right now it “belonged” to the Luke Bradley Gang.

  I don’t know who built the fort or why. It was a rectangle of raised earth and piled stone, with logs laid across for a roof, and vines growing thickly over the whole thing so that from a distance it just looked like a hillock or knoll. That was part of its secret. You had to know it was there.

  And only Luke could let you in.

  He raised another curtain of vines, and with a sweep of his hand and a bow said, “Welcome to my house, you assholes.”

  Spike and Animal laughed while Albert and I got down on our hands and knees and crawled inside.

  Immediately I almost gagged on the awful smell, like rotten garbage and worse. Albert started to cough. I thought he was going to throw up. But before I could say or do anything, Luke and his two henchmen had come in after us, and we all crowded around a pit in the middle of the dirt floor which didn’t used to be there. Now there was a four-foot drop, a roughly square cavity, and in the middle of that, a cardboard box which was clearly the source of the unbelievable stench.

  Luke got out a flashlight, then reached down and opened the box.

  “It’s a dead kid. I found him in the woods in this box. He’s mine.”

  I couldn’t help but look. It was indeed a dead kid, an emaciated, pale thing, naked but for what might have been the remains of filthy underpants, lying on its side in a fetal position, little clawlike hands bunched up under its chin.

  “A dead kid,” said Luke. “Really cool.”

  Then Albert really was throwing up and screaming at the same time, and scrambling to get out of there, only Animal and then Spike had him by the back of his shirt the way you pick up a kitten by the scruff of its neck, and they passed him back to Luke, who held his head in his hands and forced him down into that pit, saying, “Now look at it you fucking pussy faggot, this because it’s really cool.”

  Albert was sobbing and sniffling when Luke let him go, but he didn’t try to run, nor did I, even when Luke got a stick and poked the dead kid with it.

  “This is the best part,” he said.

  We didn’t run away then because we had to watch just to convince ourselves that we weren’t crazy, because of what we were seeing.

  Luke poked and the dead kid moved, spasming at first, then grabbing at the stick feebly, and finally crawling around inside the box like a slow, clumsy animal, just barely able to turn, scratching at the cardboard with bony fingertips.

  “What is he?” I had to ask.

  “A zombie,” said Luke.

  “Aren’t zombies supposed to be black?”

  “You mean like a nigger?” That was another of Luke’s favorite words this year. He called everybody “nigger” no matter what color they were.

  “Well, you know. Voodoo. In Haiti and all that.”

  As we spoke the dead kid reared up and almost got out of the box. Luke poked him in the forehead with his stick and knocked him down.

  “I suppose if we let him rot long enough he’ll be black enough even for you.”

  The dead kid stared up at us and made a bleating sound. The worst thing of all was that he didn’t have any eyes, only huge sockets and an oozy mess inside them.

  Albert was sobbing for his mommy by then, and after a while of poking and prodding the dead kid, Luke and his friends got tired of this sport. Luke turned to me and said, “You can go now, but you know if you or your piss-pants brother tell about this, I’ll kill you both and put you in there for the dead kid to eat.”

  II

  I can’t remember much of what
Albert and I did for the rest of that day. We ran through the woods, tripped, fell flat on our faces in a stream. Then later we were walking along the old railroad embankment turning over ties to look for snakes, and all the while Albert was babbling on about the dead kid and how we had to do something. I just let him talk until he got it all out of him, and when we went home for dinner and were very quiet when Mom and our stepdad Steve tried to find out what we had been doing all day.

  “Just playing,” I said. “In the woods.”

  “It’s good for them to be outdoors,” Steve said to Mom. “Too many kids spent all their time in front of the TV watching unwholesome junk these days. I’m glad our kids are normal.”

  But Albert ended up screaming in his sleep for weeks and wetting his bed, and things were anything but normal that summer. He was the one with the obvious problems. He was the one who ended up going to a “specialist,” and whatever he said in therapy must not have been believed, because the police didn’t go tearing up Cabbage Creek Woods, Luke Bradley and his neanderthals were not arrested, and I was more or less left alone.

  In fact, I had more unsupervised time than usual. And I used it to work out problems of my own, like I hated school and I hated Stepdad Steve for the sanctimonious prig he was. I decided, with the full wisdom of my twelve years and some months, that if I was to survive in this rough, tough, evil world, I was going to have to become tough myself, bad, and very likely evil.

  I decided that Luke Bradley had the answers.

  So I sought him out. It wasn’t hard. He had a knack for being in the right place at the right time when you’re ready to sell your soul, just like the Devil.

  I met him in town, in front of the Wayne Toy Town, where I used to go to buy model kits and stuff. I still liked building models, and doing scientific puzzles, though I would never admit it to Luke Bradley.