Dougie chuckled but it didn’t exactly sound like a chuckle. Then he said, “Lapprew.”
“You should totally go get a latte, Dougie,” Kiki said. “You can drink it with a straw. I’ve got to hit the porta-potty before Kristoph calls action again.” She shrugged at Bubba. “He says five minutes but that’s really like thirty minutes in Hollywood time.”
“Okay,” Bubba said agreeably. The pair shambled off, clearly still partially in character.
The man that Kiki said was Risley Risto spoke briefly to Kristoph and then Kristoph pointed at Bubba. Bubba gathered up basket and blanket and hoped he hadn’t broken any laws. He was tired of going to jail. At the very worst there were dead people around who weren’t really dead, unless one counted the ones already in the ground.
He trudged toward his truck, trying not to shuffle, although it was hard not to.
“Hey, fella,” someone called and Risley Risto caught up to him. “Kristoph loves your look.”
Bubba looked at Risley. It did sound like a made up name. Risley was about five feet ten inches and in his mid-fifties. His hairline was receding and what was left was pure salt and pepper. He had earnest brown eyes that observed Bubba intently. Bubba didn’t know what an Oscar nominee looked like so he observed back.
“Okay,” Bubba said because there didn’t seem to be an appropriate man response to the statement.
“If we advertised for actors, we’d get a flipping slew, and that would be such a headache,” Risley went on. “Literally thousands of people would flock here just to have a walk-on part and the town would probably throw us out so fast our mothers’ butts would spin. It’s the whole zombie thing.” He did the finger quotation marks when he said the word, zombie. “So snapping up local talent is much better. Easier, too. It wouldn’t be a great role, but you can talk like a redneck, right?”
“I kin do that,” Bubba said dryly.
Risley clapped his hands together and laughed. “Yes. Just like that. Great. Be on set tomorrow early. Five a.m. Makeup starts then. It’ll be a long day but you’ll get paid scale plus scale and a half for having a few lines.”
Bubba said, “How much is scale?”
“Oh, details,” Risley said. “I don’t remember exactly. It’ll be about 700 dollars plus another 700, plus the half, so maybe 1800 bucks for a full day of work. Look, yea or nay. I’ve got to get a few more people, too.”
“Yea,” Bubba said promptly.
Risley smiled and handed Bubba a card. “Everything’s done on scene tomorrow. This is the address. Don’t be late.”
Bubba glanced at the address, looked up at the assistant director, and then down at the card again. “Oh, carp.”
“What? You should see this place,” Risley said. “What am I thinking of? You live here. You know the place, am I right?”
“Yep. I reckon I do,” Bubba said.
Risley clapped. “That’s priceless. Ah reckon you do, too. Ohh-kay?” His fake accent made Bubba’s ears hurt. “Kristoph loves to look over the really weird places and loves to use them in the film even more. He has a problem keeping out of them as a matter of fact. It’s gotten him in trouble with locals before.” He sighed. “Anyway, tomorrow’s Saturday and we may film on Sunday if we can wrangle things out. If you do a good job we’ll find some more lines for you but I do not promise anything.”
Bubba nodded.
“Toodles.” Risley turned toward the zombies. “Kristoph, you’re not supposed to smoke on account of your heart condition. You know your wife has threatened me if you keep smoking and she knows everything. Billy, stop giving him your cigs or I’ll fire you or shove the cigs so far up your butt that you’ll have to swallow a lighter to smoke them.”
* * *
Bubba went back to work, repaired a Chevy transmission, replaced a battery in a Chrysler, and attempted to figure out the wiring schematic of a 1978 Dodge Magnum. His boss, Gideon Culpepper, didn’t say anything about him being late, so Bubba didn’t complain when Gideon asked him to work late on the Dodge.
An hour past his usual end of day, Bubba found the wire under the dash that had been worn completely through. Thus repaired, the car started again. It didn’t sound wonderful but it ran.
Bubba drove to his home with a heavy heart. Sure he’d repaired the nearly antiquated car, but he hadn’t done what he’d really wanted to do. He pulled around the mansion and eyed the caretaker’s house. It wasn’t really the caretaker’s house anymore. The woman who had murdered Bubba’s ex-fiancée had tried to burn it down. It hadn’t been burned badly but certain load-bearing walls were affected enough for the local inspector to declare it history. It also hadn’t been insured, but Bubba had managed, through horse-trading, finagling, and other means nefarious and not-so-nefarious, to get it rebuilt. The original had once been a stable. Bubba’s grandfather had it converted to a house after WWII to house soldiers from nearby Fort Dimson. It had been transformed into an oddball residence, into which Bubba had moved when he’d returned from the Army. Now it was a trim two story house that superficially resembled its predecessor. It was on the small side but once the trim was painted and the stickers taken off the windows, it was all but finished, paid for, and even had a few meager possessions within it.
Bubba parked the truck and rested his head against the steering wheel. All of his debts had been paid off. Some of them he had paid off. Some of them had been paid off by fundraising done by Willodean. (She might not be able to cook, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t worth her weight in gold.) As of the last month, Bubba was officially in the black again. It was a mark of something good to come. He’d taken it as a sign and had started to move along, but zombies had come up and bitten him on the metaphorical buttocks.
An intense howl made Bubba’s head spring up. His dog, a Basset hound named Precious, barreled out of the mansion and charged toward the truck, baying all the way. She was so happy that he was home. She knew the sound of his truck and she was ready to get her lovings.
She abruptly stopped, raised her nose to the air and turned around, plunking her long posterior on the ground. Clearly, being excited to see her master was being too easy. She knew she couldn’t go to work with Bubba, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t play hard to get when he came home.
Bubba smiled and climbed out of the truck. He’d saved some of the chicken for Precious and put it in the refrigerator at work. He’d even remembered to bring it home for the pernicious pooch. He pulled the Tupperware container out of the picnic basket inside the cab. Precious’s head twitched, but she didn’t turn toward him.
“Yum,” Bubba said vociferously as he popped the lid open.
Precious’s ears fluttered but she didn’t budge.
“A fella’s got to work, you know,” he said. He blew over the top of the container in the direction of Precious. He did it three times before Precious’s nose trembled and convulsed.
“All this chicken done gone to waste,” Bubba said prosaically. “Mebe them big koi in the pond would like some of it. They et chicken, you know. That’s what Miz Adelia said happened to those hens and roosters she tried to keep last year.” Privately Bubba thought it was coyotes but the koi in the pond were awfully large.
He took a single step before Precious turned rapidly and came for him. Her tail wagged frenetically and she jumped up on him, reaching her paws up his body, while her body shuddered in glee. Whether the canine was happiest to see Bubba or the chicken became a moot point.
Chapter 3
Bubba and the Mendacious Mama
Friday, March 8th – Saturday, March 9th
“Ma,” Bubba said. It was a single word and a single syllable that denoted all kinds of meaning within its simple two letter structure. Warning, dismay, irritation, and a plea for normalcy were all contained within it.
“Ididn’tdoit,” Miz Demetrice said straightaway. She paused to consider what she had said and added, “Oh, dear Lord, Brownie rubbed off on me.”
They were sitting at the dining roo
m table. Miz Adelia had just served creamed chipped beef over Texas toast. Bubba passed the platter of cornbread around to his mother and he paused to appreciate the mouthwatering scent of southern cooking. Specifically, he appreciated the scent of Miz Adelia’s southern cooking. “Smells rightly good, Miz Adelia,” he said.
“What didn’t I do?” his mother asked as she served herself a square of cornbread. After she put the cornbread on her plate, she smoothed some her white hair back away from her face. Cornflower blue eyes, the same shade as his own, steadily regarded him. If there was one thing in the world that his mother was good at it was bluffing, however the problem was that she was good at a great many things. Furthermore, she knew that she was good at them. Miz Demetrice was not the Titanic backing up to hit the iceberg again.
Miz Adelia sat down next to Bubba and he handed her the dish of creamed chipped beef without hesitation. She took a deep breath and stared at the food she had just prepared. It wasn’t a typical look. Both women seemed a little on edge.
“Is there something you need to tell me?” Bubba asked his mother. Something was going on. He didn’t need to be a rocket scientist to figure it out. Everyone was acting flaky and it was a matter of putting the pieces together.
Miz Demetrice had transferred her gaze to the food, but upon Bubba’s words, her head shot right up. Bubba saw Miz Adelia replicate the movement out of the corner of his eye.
Up To Something could be the name of a Broadway musical. Something, as the pundits would say, was fishy as a barrelful of largemouth bass.
“Ma, that butterfly flew all ‘round the perty flowers and then done landed on a cow pie,” he remarked. Bubba didn’t know exactly what it meant but it was something along the line of someone making a poor decision. His mother had been known to make a poor decision or two, but then she usually covered it up with cow patties or something else. Sometimes she had even shoved an unknowing soul in front of it as a ritual sacrifice to the gods of him-first-lord. Bubba might have been the unwilling and unknowledgeable recipient of that shove once or twice.
Miz Adelia served herself a spoonful of creamed chipped beef. She skipped the toast. Then she carefully picked up a fork and put it on the plate. She spread out her napkin and put it on her lap. It was a calculated process determined to stall the conversation. She picked up the fork and served a forkful into her mouth.
Bubba tapped his fingers on the table. “I was in the cemetery today.”
“That’s nice, dearest,” his mother said.
“There were zombies there.”
Miz Adelia choked on the creamed chipped beef. The subsequent swallow sounded like a sink hole swallowing an RV in Florida.
“The movie,” Miz Demetrice said understandingly. Bubba’s eyes returned to her and it seemed to him as though his mother was relieved. She took a deep breath and her shoulders relaxed. Really, really relieved.
“Yes, the movie. I dint catch the name,” Bubba said. “Pass the green beans, please.” Should I tell Ma I’m in the movie or should I figure out what she’s about? Oh, these wretched decisions.
“The Deadly Dead,” Miz Demetrice said helpfully.
“The deadly what?”
“The Deadly Dead,” she repeated. “I know it’s not the best of movie titles, but I didn’t make it up, dearest.”
Bubba stared at his mother. Then he looked at Miz Adelia. Miz Adelia had composed herself. She hadn’t needed a sheriff’s deputy to whale the blockage out of her esophagus. Her dark hair spilled over her shoulders and her dark eyes were focused on the meal.
Bubba stabbed a green bean viciously. He couldn’t very well stab his mother or Miz Adelia. Precious bumped his leg from under the table. Clearly, the canine was sensitive to undercurrents. She nosed his ankle and rested her head across his foot.
“The film company is coming tomorrow to film here.” Bubba waved the green bean around in order to emphasize his words.
Miz Demetrice nodded. “They’re paying fairly well. It seemed lucrative and timely.”
“I’ll say,” Miz Adelia muttered.
The green bean froze in space. “Why? Do you need money, Ma?”
“I wouldn’t say that. The economy’s a little slow. Do I need to repeat what I usually say about the idjits in Washington D.C.?” Miz Demetrice pushed her plate away. “It smells delightful, Adelia dearest, but I’m feeling down in the tummy.”
Miz Adelia pushed a chunk of creamed chipped beef to the part on her plate farthest away from her. “I understand.”
“The economy’s bin slow for the last few years,” Bubba said. “Damned shame.”
“People don’t always want to spend money on seeing an old wreck of a house, no matter who tromped through it in the past century and a half. The stories about the Civil War gold are dying down, too.”
“Thank the Lord,” Bubba said fervently. “Precious fell in the same hole as that federal agent did who broke her leg. I need to get a backhoe to fill that in. I think there might have bin bats down there.” He ate the green bean. “We should be grateful she dint sue us.”
Miz Adelia and Miz Demetrice looked at the ceiling, at the floor, and at the sideboard. They looked anywhere but at Bubba.
He swallowed the vegetable and then asked conversationally, “Is there anything else you need to tell me?”
“I’ve often wondered why McDonalds doesn’t sell hotdogs,” Miz Demetrice said. “They could call them McWeenies.”
“If it’s square why do they still call them crop circles?” Miz Adelia asked.
“I’ve always wanted to know what would happen if you blow a bubble in space?” Miz Demetrice said. “Perhaps we could call John Glenn.”
“I’ll never understand why Ginger had so many different outfits on Gilligan’s Island when it was only a three-hour tour,” Miz Adelia commented. “Mebe she had OCD.”
“Or why was it Gilligan’s island? Why wasn’t it the Skipper’s island? Or Mary Ann’s island?” Miz Demetrice smiled at Bubba. “These things do boggle the mind, dearest.”
Bubba’s mind boggled all right. “Is someone going to get murdered? Are you trying to tell me that you done kilt someone and dumped the body in the swamp?”
“I would never dump a body in the swamp again,” Miz Demetrice avowed fervently. “When I killed your father I tried to put chains on his corpse and put it in the swamp but it kept floating to the surface.” She waved a genial hand across her face and added sotto voce, “All that gas, you know. Your daddy loved beans. Pintos. Limas. Great northerns. Kidneys, too.”
“Pa’s in the family cemetery, Ma,” Bubba said.
“Well, he is now.”
“And he died of a heart attack.”
“That’s what it says on the death certificate.”
“What have you done, Ma?”
“Nothing too terrible,” Miz Demetrice said. “Finish your dinner. We’re expecting company.”
“Jack the Ripper? Adolph Hitler? Richard Nixon?”
“Don’t be silly, dear,” his mother said. “Jack the Ripper has probably been dead eight or nine decades.”
“That’s if he was about thirty years old when he done killed all those women,” Miz Adelia added obligingly. “Or if she was about thirty years old.”
“Jill the Ripper,” Miz Demetrice chortled. “I like that.”
Bubba proceeded to ignore the two and got to eating. He wasn’t a growing boy anymore, but he was a big man and he needed his calories. When they were done, Bubba even helped carry the dirty plates into the kitchen.
He was drying the last plate when they heard the sound of a vehicle coming down the lane. Bubba tilted his head. “Don’t sound like the po-lice. Could be some kind of mass murderer, I reckon.”
Precious barked once and Miz Demetrice hushed her. Precious knew better than to disobey Miz Demetrice. After all, Miz Demetrice had been known to put perfume on the dog. Once she had even put a rhinestone collar on the hound and pink ribbons around her ears. It had been positively dreadful. I
t had taken the dog ten minutes to get the ribbons off and another five to bury them under the oleander bushes around back. It was a deplorable record for Basset hounds.
Miz Demetrice grimaced at Bubba and went to open the kitchen’s door. “Wonderful,” she pronounced. “They’re here.”
Miz Adelia whipped her apron off. “I cain’t wait to see the little chillen.”
“It’s not Fudge and Virtna with Brownie and Cookie, is it?” Bubba asked suspiciously. A sneaky Miz Demetrice, a close-mouthed Miz Adelia, a dodgy Willodean, zombies, and Brownie. It would be purely chaos. It might cause WWIII.
“No, that little baby’s only sleeping half the night and they’re plumb tuckered out,” Miz Adelia said. “They ain’t going away from Monroe in a month of Sundays, or until that chile gives them a break.”
Miz Demetrice went outside followed closely by their housekeeper.
Bubba put the last plate away and debated whether he should escape out a window or not. Before he could make a move, his mother and Miz Adelia ushered a couple into the kitchen. Each of the couple was carrying a small child in their arms.
Bubba smiled tentatively when the man winced upon seeing the big man. The man was in his early forties and Hispanic by descent. He wore a workman’s shirt and worn khakis with work boots. He adjusted the child in his arms and glanced at Miz Demetrice. Clearly he was silently asking about Bubba’s presence.
The woman was a similar age with gray-shot brown hair and deep brown eyes. She tugged at the scarf around her head and shuffled to the side of the kitchen with her own precious burden.
Both children were obviously asleep; their little heads pillowed against the parents’ chests.
“Alfonzo,” Miz Demetrice said, “this is my son, Bubba. Bubba’s a good sort, although not the most knowledgeable.” There was enough of an emphasis on the word knowledgeable that Bubba knew his mother was sending some sort of message to the other man. “Bubba, this is Alfonzo Garcia.”
Bubba and the Zigzaggery Zombies Page 3
