Jillybean's First Adventure [An Undead World Expansion]

by Peter Meredith

  It was just the two of them, alone.

  The monster had only one play in its playbook: it charged with a bloodcurdling roar—and tripped over a crack in the cement, falling on its face in such a cartoonish manner that Jillybean heard a distant chuckle; Ipes she assumed.

  Then the thing stood up—directly into the sideview mirror, breaking it right off and causing it to let out a new kind of roar, one of frustration. The chuckle grew to a laugh and yet the monster was even closer, and she was still scared out of her wits. Only now the beast noticed movement in the van’s window. It was seeing its own reflection but without a working brain it couldn’t tell the difference and attacked the glass, and the door, and the entire side of the van. No monster had ever looked so frustrated and this, at last, broke the spell of fear that had gripped her.

  Jillybean was over the side of the stoop’s railing and in the bushes just as the beast turned back to the door. In a mountainous rage, it went stumbling up the stairs and blasted through the front door as if it were made from nothing but popsicle sticks.

  Now’s our chance, Jillybean! Run! screamed Ipes.

  She couldn’t. She was too weak to stand and still too afraid to try the driveway and so she scurried, bunny-like along the side of the house, hoping to see a gate in the fence. When she reached the edge of the house she saw there wasn’t a gate, but there was a small rabbit run that went under the fence which she could shimmy under if she took off her pack.

  As the monster rampaged inside the house, sometimes just on the other side of the wall from her, Jillybean rested, letting her pounding heart calm and her nerves and muscles cease their trembling. It was only when she felt she could stand that she remembered the food in the man’s pack. The pack had appeared to be very immense, so big that she could’ve curled up inside of it, and all she could think about was the great mass of food that was undoubtedly stored within it. Perhaps enough to feed her for a year.

  It’ll still be there tomorrow or the next day and besides, you have that rice and those beans. And you can’t eat anything if you’re dead, so come on, let’s go.

  “What if it’s not there tomorrow?” she replied, hesitating. “What if someone else heard all the shooting and such?” The answer was simple: someone would come by, see all the dead monsters and take the food, and Jillybean would starve in her bed like her mother did. She didn’t want that. Ever.

  Then we should go wait across the street. Quickly. Quickly. Ipes was practically wetting himself to get away. You know it can be hours before the monster leaves and more might come in the meantime and we can’t be stuck out here without any cover. Remember, the lessons? Become Jilly-mouse and escape.

  “And die,” she muttered, to herself, torn by indecision. Having not eaten well in weeks and not at all in the last few days, her situation was getting desperate. Her body felt as though it were becoming unglued, as if her stringy muscles were pulling away from her bones and her teeth were starting to wobble in her gums.

  She had to get food somehow…only she didn’t know how. Her parents had shielded her from the horrors of the monsters, and then, when they were both gone, her own fear took over, keeping her safe, but completely ignorant of them. Ipes was just as bad and his only suggestions were to either run or hide.

  “We need to get that thing outa there. Hmmm.”

  For the next few minutes, that “hmmm,” was the closest thing she had to a thought. No experience, in all her six years of life, prepared her for the challenge in front of her. There was no bad guy or silly “monster” in her books back home that were anything like the terrible creature in the house, and the tv cartoon movies she used to watch only advocated “understanding” the villains, none of which ever ate people for real. In school she had been taught about bullies, though she wasn’t about to “Say No!” to these monsters.

  “What do we knowd about monsters?”

  A lot. We know they’re mean and that they eat people—and probably zebras. They’re stinky and ugly and stupid.

  “Yes, good. What else?” Ipes added more descriptors, all of which were synonymous with either stinky, ugly or stupid. It wasn’t very helpful. “That’s not very helpful. We gotta think of a way to get it outa there. What about using fire?”

  Ipes raised an eyebrow. You know you aren’t supposed to play with fire. And how would a fire help? You’d just burn up our food.

  She looked down her nose at the zebra. “I did go to school, you know. We learnded more than just our A, B, Cs. We also done fire-drills and that’s what means you pretend there’s a real fire. Too bad there ain’t no more ’lectricity in the walls. We coulda lit a small fire and when the alarm went off, out he’d come.”

  Don’t say ‘ain’t’ and don’t even think about playing with fire. It’s far too dangerous, just like it’s too dangerous to sit here out in the open plotting. You’re being too loud. If it comes out and sees you that’ll be it for both of us. You’ve heard how delicious grass-fed cows are. Let me tell you that cookie-fed zebras are doubly delicious.

  Jillybean, who thought cows ate hay, dismissed the zebra’s ranting except for one small fragment: If it comes out and sees you. “We need a worm, like catching fish. You know something that’ll…” Her vocabulary wasn’t extensive enough to finish the sentence.

  Lure it out? Ipes asked, reading their shared mind. Like what? The only thing they like to eat are…wait! he cried. She had started to nod, realizing that the only thing she had for bait was herself. Ipes wouldn’t hear of it. This is a terrible idea. You can’t. What would your daddy say?

  “I think he wouldn’t want me to be hungry to death. It’ll be okay. You can stay with the backpack.” He didn’t want to stay with the backpack, but she didn’t listen to his protests. They undermined the first bit of real courage she had ever shown in her entire life.

  It was only a very small portion of courage and couldn’t overcome the shivers that wracked her malnourished body as she crept to the front door. There she left her pack and the still bleating Ipes and went up the three steps of the stoop as if she were heading towards the gallows. With each faltering step, the weak and sputtering flame of her courage grew smaller and smaller until it was snuffed out entirely as she saw the horrific monster.

  And that was okay. She didn’t need actual courage for the next part of her rudimentary plan which was simply to run for her life. At the sight of the pale little girl and her huge, wet blue eyes, the monster let out a terrific bellow and charged at her.

  Run! screamed Ipes. She ran as fast as she could, her eyes locked on the narrow trough beneath the black iron fence. Too late, she remembered the hood of her pink coat which had once been frilled with fake white fur. The fur was now grey and shabby and would catch on the underside of the fence, choking her and pinning her in place long enough for the monster to grab her up by the ankles and dangle her momentarily over its immense gaping mouth before it bit her head clean off.

  The thought brought on a mad fear that nearly equaled what she’d felt earlier. Her legs went spastic and she stumbled, a shriek lodged squarely in her throat as she fell. Now she was scrambling, crawling like a panicked, frantic baby right to the fence. Just before she went under, she yanked her hood over her head, and dove so low her face went into the dirt.

  She came through the other side wearing a beard of dirt just as the beast struck the fence full force, sending up a dull clang. At first it tried to tear the bars apart, but when it discovered it couldn’t, the huge monster attempted to follow her under. There wasn’t enough room between the bottom of the bars and the hard-packed dirt for its thick body.

  It didn’t care. Jillybean watched in sickened horror as it almost tore itself into pieces as the metal bars cut grooves, three-inches deep through its grey flesh. Black blood gushed up, turning the dirt to mud. She could see bones snapping and muscle pulling like taffy and still it came on. It would never stop.

  Run, Ipes said, speaking into her ear as if he were right next to her. She ran, blind
ly at first, tripping over a sprinkler and bouncing off a tree. She fell twice more and each time she was up again in a flash. It was only after a block and a half that she began to regain her senses. She looked back and with the pervasive dark she couldn’t see any sign of the monster.

  Time to be Jilly-mouse.

  “Yeah,” she replied, in a breathy whisper. Crouching down, she crossed the wide street and made her way back to the “nice” house. The giant monster wasn’t far away. It had freed itself but at a terrible cost. It bled buckets of black juice and dragged along a ragged grey skein like a shadow built of horror.

  When it passed, she counted to a hundred, slipped to the bush next to the house and fetched Ipes. “I did it,” she said, flushed with pride.

  I always knew you could. Now, let’s go see if the man had any cookies. I call dibs on any Double-stuffed Oreos!

  “No way. I did all the work, and asides, you didn’t want me to do this in the first place and that’s what means I can have Oreos, too.”

  Dibs is dibs. That’s called logic. Sorry.

  Jillybean ground her teeth together. She didn’t know what logic was, but she was bound and determined to find out and when she did, the world had better watch out, especially if it planned on getting between her and a package of Double-stuffed Oreos.

  ***

  Author’s End Note:

  From a biographer’s perspective there were many interesting aspects of this story, not the least of which was Jillian’s absolute reluctance in telling it. She found the outright fear she demonstrated to be degrading and unfit to be told given the rest of her many heroic deeds.

  I was able to persuade her only by stroking, what I have described in other works as: “an infinite ego, justified solely by the history of her time, the shape of which was molded almost exclusively by her own hand.” When I explained that, although her initial all-consuming fear was utterly normal, her ability to overcome it was in fact, singular. This has been proved painfully true. Only a handful of other children her age lived through the early stages of the apocalypse, yet none were ever on their own so completely or accomplished so much as such a young age.

  There was another aspect of this story that was fascinating from both a writer’s point of view as well as a psychoanalytical one, and that is the juxtaposition of Jillian’s first display of raw courage and the first stirrings of her utter ruthlessness.

  I’m sure you’re asking yourself, “What utter ruthlessness?” The answer came out of what I thought was more or less a throw-away question at the end of my final interview.

  “Did you ever see Becca Risbon again?” I didn’t expect much more than a simple yes or no. Instead, Jillian froze, her blue eyes, misty now with age, went completely blank and then her head began to go side to side, very slowly. “No,” she said.

  It was as bald a lie as I had ever heard, but I didn’t take offense since Jillian herself wasn’t even aware of it.

  “Are you sure?” I asked, skating across ice that was both thin and dangerous. Doubting the Queen has led to more than one death and who knew how many disappearances. Despite this, I persevered. The job of biographer is not for the faint of heart, after all. “Perhaps you saw Becca and might have forgotten.”

  Instead of growing angry at my temerity, Jillian grew still and unsettlingly cold. “Who are you again?”

  At this seemingly simple question, I could feel my face grow stiff and my pulse begin to race. Jillian had a towering intellect that had lost nothing in seventy years. She was as razor sharp as ever and she definitely knew who I was. The woman in front of me was not Jillian. I was in the presence of Eve and though she was small and thin, and I was a robust six-feet, young and strong, a wave of goosebumps rashed out across my flesh.

  Eve was the stuff nightmares.

  “I’m Ezekiel Cross. I’m your b-biographer.” I was abruptly aware that Jillian invariably carried weapons and that Eve would know exactly where they were.

  “Ah, she’s looking to polish her image,” Eve said, sitting back, one hand sliding out of sight. I tried not to notice. She went on, “Good for her. She needs it, but I don’t. I want you to capture me in all my wicked glory. Promise me.” It was an order and one with an unspoken “or else” hanging over it.

  “Of course.”

  She smiled with all the affection of a Mako shark. The smile then curdled. “She wants to come back, so I have to hurry. You asked about Becca Risbon? Becca was as dull in her undeath as she was in her short life. She was a lurker. They never stray too far, and it was easy for Jillybean to find her the next day. Did you note I said ‘was’ when I mentioned her?”

  “I did.” And I had.

  “Yes, she became a was very quickly after Jillybean and that stupid zebra filled their bellies. She went looking for her bestest friend in the whole wide world and found her at that same fence and you know what she did?”

  I wanted to say something along the lines of Put her out of her misery? only Eve still had that hand hidden along the side of her leg, and that godawful smile had never left.

  “Murdered her?”

  Eve scoffed, making me feel small and stupid. “You can’t murder a zombie, moron.” I could tell she wanted to go on, digging the knife deeper into me, but Jillian was coming back and would not be stopped. “From one side of the fence, she called over her bestest friend who obediently reached through the chain links. Then this six-year-old girl tied her outstretched hands together, calmly walked around to the other side of the fence and beat what was left of Becca Risbon’s brains in with a brick. What a beautiful child, huh? And people wanted to adopt her, instead of me? So, what do you think of her now?”

  “I guess I think she did what she had to do,” I said, slightly embarrassed to be defending my subject. “She was making amends, I suppose.”

  “Then why’d she bury it so deep? If it was the right thing and all, why did she hide it even from herself? Ask her that when she comes back. I’d love to hear her excuse for killing her bestest friend ever.”

  Eve was gone seconds later and in her place was Jillian. It had been a very strange but subtle transformation—it almost looked as though one soul had ousted another. After a final shiver, Jillian pierced me with such a long look that it felt as though she were looking straight through my flesh and at the wall behind me.

  “I take it you got everything you needed?” she asked, replacing the hard look with a wintery smile. “Or do you have more questions.”

  Had she heard? Did she know what Eve had asked. Did it matter? I hesitated, deciding the answer was, no. It didn’t matter. Jillybean had done what was right. In killing her best friend, she had shown maturity and strength far beyond her age, even if it had widened the already deep fissures of her young mind.

  “No. I have my story,” I told her, “and it’s a good one for a first adventure.”

  ***

  The story of Jillybean can be found in the 10 book series: The Undead World as well as its spin off series: Generation Z. If you enjoyed this story, please take the time to leave a positive review on Amazon and maybe you Facebook page. If you didn’t like it there may be no helping you. Please call your mom and tell her you love her.

  Now that you’ve read this and have caught up on all my other zombie books maybe I can suggest Sprite. Although there are no walking corpses in the novel, the story is about irrepressible, absolutely innocent ten-year-old who is lost alone in the world. If you love Jillybean, Sprite will break your heart…

  Her name is Odd.

  Ten-year-old Audrey Wyatt bears the unfortunate nickname "Odd," a name even her bar-hopping, alcoholic mother uses when she's sober enough to recognize the girl. Cowed by life, Odd doesn't protest, not when she's deformed as she is.

  Born with a combination of rare birth defects, Odd's eyes are a startling and dreadful red. Demon eyes is the first thought that springs to mind. The little girl takes care to hide them behind dark sunglasses, something her mother insists on, except when she's tradi
ng freak-show peeks for dollars or drinks. A practice that is a nightly torture for Odd.

  Yet when her mother abandons her, Odd discovers that loneliness and fear of the unknown are far worse than being a freak. Desperate for the least love, and without a cent to her name, the girl with red eyes begins a quest through the American underclass that takes her halfway across the country. Odd thinks her adventure is a search for her mother, but in truth it's a journey into the soul of humanity, where she discovers along the way everything that is both ugly and beautiful in each of us.

  What the readers say about Sprite:

  "I fell in love with her. I cried when she cried, and laughed when she laughed, and hurt at her every predicament.

  "...the heart rending story of a little girl in a cruel world...yet she never stops looking for love and happiness."

  "...sometimes it hurt my heart to continue, but I couldn't stop."

  Chapter 1

  "Don't screw this up for us, Odd," her mother warned. "Get up here and smile as pretty as you can." Taking small steps Audrey Wyatt climbed onto the rickety little porch. At the door, she reached up to push her glasses firmer onto her little bump of a nose.

  Thinking that Odd was about to take them off, her mother smacked her hand away. "Keep those on, damn it! You don't want to freak them out do you? Jeez! If my brother turns us away..."

  Odd knew. It meant going back to the shelter. Odd hated the shelter. She hated the people there, most of whom were runny-eyed bums. She hated the day-old food, and the filth, but most of all she hated the smell. It always stank of stale urine and fresh vomit. Being there for any length of time gave her a headache.

  Her mom stank as well. She reeked of cigarettes and had since Odd could remember. This gave Odd a headache, too.

  "Here we go," Karen Wyatt said. In the fading December afternoon, the woman took a deep breath and knocked. At the age of thirty-three, Karen seemed to be fading faster than the light. Odd thought she looked closer to forty-five. Her hair, once a tawny gold, was now a dirty blonde with more dirt than blonde. A million cigarettes had discolored her teeth, and an uncountable number of vodka tonics had given her a worn-out look that no amount of make-up could cover. Somewhere over the last few years wrinkles had set in around her eyes and lips. There would only be more coming.