Bubba and the Zigzaggery Zombies

by Bevill, C. L.

  “I thought that place went out of business years ago.”

  “They sell water beds now. Also they rent to the movie makers as a set.”

  “So what happens to you in the scene?”

  “I think a zombie reaches through my back and explodes through my breast bone,” David said confidentially. “I don’t think a rotting corpse could really do that, but I’m not writing the movie script.” He appeared contemplative. “Maybe I need to write a movie. I could do that. I have lots of good ideas.” He dismissed it with a wave. “The Graphology and Reading shop isn’t doing so well. I should have rethought the need for such a service in a small town. My only customer last week was the mayor, who wanted to know if the lines on his hand indicated something very personal about his more intimate characteristics. I won’t repeat what it specified.” David shuddered.

  “That would be good,” Bubba said.

  David leaned closer. “So no mysteries to solve lately? No notes in car parts or the like? Irish Travellers or seven-foot-tall Buddhists? Disappearing or reappearing bodies?”

  “No!” Bubba glanced around apprehensively and said it again, “No, and I’ll thank you not to bring it up. You’ll jinx me or something.”

  “Bubba, I hate to break it to you, but—” David paused and added the rest slowly and in half a whisper as if saying it faster and louder would cause the fates to toss anvils down on their heads “—there…are…corpses…everywhere…today.”

  “They’re not real.”

  “It’s probably a sign,” David insisted.

  “They’re all actors, and in some cases, they’re people you know.” Bubba crossed his arms over his chest. “Yesterday I was a zombie.”

  “No.”

  “On account of this thing this gal attached to my face, I couldn’t talk for nigh on eight hours.”

  “How could anyone tell the difference?”

  Had David just made a joke? Bubba wasn’t used to that. Maybe David the Psychotrist was now David the Comedian. Bubba’s eyes narrowed.

  The redhead called Bubba over and he said to David, “See you later.”

  “Be sure not to take any wooden corpses,” David opined gravely.

  Bubba grimaced.

  Simone waited beside the redhead. Simone got Bubba to change his clothing while the redhead disappeared to do filmy types of things he wouldn’t begin to comprehend. When he returned wearing clothes from yesterday, she started on his face and hair. She even took time to take Polaroids of him so she could replicate the effort. She handed him a clipboard and said, “There are your lines. You need to memorize them.”

  “‘It shore ain’t a pink elephant,’” he read inexpressively.

  The cosmetic brush Simone was using to apply some kind of powder to Bubba’s face stopped momentarily. “Say it like this,” she advised, “‘It shore ain’t a pink elephant!’” Her rendition was acute and full of expression.

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re acting,” Simone said. “Kristoph’s going to have a fit when he hears you say it like that. Of course, he can always dub it with someone else’s voice.”

  “‘It shore ain’t a pink elephant!’” Bubba said obediently.

  “Better,” Simone said and it was clear from her tone that it wasn’t much better. “Imagine that you see something really weird and cool at the same time.”

  “Like a tricked out AC Cobra?”

  “What is that, a car?”

  “Yeah,” Bubba sighed wistfully. It was the kind of car that reminded him of Willodean. It had lovely wondrous curves and was all business under the hood. There weren’t many of them and the ones that were left were to be worshipped.

  “Are you…a mechanic…named Bubba?”

  “Yep.”

  “Of course you are.”

  * * *

  “‘It shore ain’t a pink elephant!’” Bubba emoted. Emote was his word for the day. Kristoph had the three involved actors practice. This technically included Bubba, although he was fairly certain he couldn’t, in fact, act and wasn’t entitled to be called an actor. Kristoph used the word emote thirteen times in his impassioned Braveheart-inspired speech. It might have been more like fifteen or sixteen times because Bubba hadn’t started counted after he’d heard it three or four times.

  Bubba emoted. (Emoting unfortunately could be compared to being constipated.) The lead actress, Tandy North, emoted. The lead actor, Alex Luis, emoted. The zombies emoted. It was emotiful.

  “Cut,” Kristoph said in a tone that could have shattered glass. “Bubba, a word with you.”

  Bubba trudged over to the director. He had decided that he didn’t really like the director. Kristoph wore his Silent-Movie-Director ensemble again. Again the boots, hat, and megaphone were the same with the pants and the wool coat changed for effect. He also wore his What-the-hell-do-I-do-with-them? smile. He wasn’t a very sincere person and Bubba suspected that Kristoph would have tried to cheat orphans out of their only piece of candy if they wouldn’t emote.

  “Just imagine,” Kristoph said to Bubba, “that you’re seeing something extraordinary and creepy and fantastical at the same time.” He extended his arm and all the fingers of the hand were spaced apart as he slowly moved it across the length of his personal horizon, showing Bubba its limitless possibilities. “It’s surprising you. It’s scaring you. It’s going to eat you and you know it. But you…can’t…look…away.”

  Bubba glanced at Tandy. She stood at the side of the set and puffed a cigarette. It was a regular one. Alex reached over and nabbed the butt from her to draw on it.

  The redhead snapped, “Don’t encourage him, Tandy. He’s supposed to have quit last week. It said so in Tiger Beat.”

  “What am I seeing anyway?” Bubba asked Kristoph, because he couldn’t not ask.

  “It’s the super zombie, the target beast that has caused the apocalypse, and it’s scary, mega-scary. It will make you pee in your manties.”

  “Then I wouldn’t be saying, ‘It shore ain’t a pink elephant!’” Bubba pursed his lips and added, “I’d be shrieking like a little kid.”

  “Bubba, just say the line like you mean it,” Kristoph said and his eyes were cold.

  Bubba didn’t really want to tick off the director. He hadn’t been paid yet. He was directed back to his spot and Tandy and Alex joined him.

  A kid with a bald head and piercings through both eyebrows held the clapboard with the scene’s number and takes on it. They were up to ten and Bubba had a good idea that he was precariously balanced on the edge of two bad things: elimination or replacement.

  Tandy took a last hit on her cigarette and flicked the butt to the side. It hit the head of the redhead and she glared at Tandy. “Sorry,” Tandy said insincerely.

  Bubba said to himself, “Time to cowboy up, ya’ll.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Alex said and winked at Bubba.

  Kristoph said, “Roll film.” The cameramen got busy. The bald kid clicked the clapboard and vanished. “Action,” Kristoph added softly.

  Tandy immediately became all seriousness. Her eyes stared over the shoulder of the director. Her hair drifted a little in a light breeze and her lips parted in shock. If Bubba hadn’t known, he would have thought she was genuinely frightened of something.

  “Oh, my god,” she said. “What is that? What in hell is that?”

  Bubba looked toward the director. His mouth opened and he saw Willodean standing in the crowd behind Kristoph. She smiled tentatively at Bubba. Sheriff John stood beside her with his great arms crossed over his chest and a doubtful expression on his face. Bubba registered it peripherally because Willodean had almost 99 percent of his undivided attention. The one percent was focused on…

  “‘It shore ain’t a pink elephant!’” Bubba said sincerely.

  “Run!” Alex yelled.

  The three turned to run and Kristoph yelled, “Cut!” He clasped his hands together and looked heavenward. “Perfect! Thank god, perfect! Finally, Bubba! You fi
nally got it! Thank god for Bubbas!”

  That was the moment that Precious heard the word “Bubba!” one time too many. She abruptly decided to see what was happening, to see if canine assistance was warranted, and in her uncontrolled struggle to reach her master, tripped the cameraman. The cameraman tottered as the dog attempted to decide which was up. Her ears flapped in the air as she slid to one side. Her back legs scrambled for purchase. The camera flipped out of the man’s hands and he threw himself toward it trying to catch it before it hit the ground. Instead, he hit the side of Kristoph’s director’s chair and crashed against Kristoph’s elbow. Kristoph was holding a cup of coffee with the hand that connected to that elbow and it was knocked over. It spilled all over Kristoph’s riding pants and made the man screech like a little girl as the hot liquid made contact with his flesh. Everyone within a radius of a hundred yards froze at the sound.

  It was similar to what would have happened to a group of people if they had suddenly heard the frenzied roar of a real live Tyrannosaurus Rex.

  Precious promptly hid behind Bubba’s legs with her tail down.

  Bubba put a soothing hand on the canine’s back.

  The redhead appeared from nowhere and attempted to staunch the flow of coffee with a wad of paper towels she had instantaneously managed to find. Kristoph knocked her hand aside and his eyes settled on Precious and then Bubba.

  Kristoph glanced at the pieces of the camera strewn on the asphalt. The cameraman was endeavoring to hide in plain sight. Bubba didn’t have that luxury. The crowd of people had split apart like warm string cheese, to reveal Bubba at the other end, with Precious slinking behind his legs.

  For a long moment silence ensued. The fart of a flea could have been discerned, if a flea had happened to be flatulent at that particular moment. Then Kristoph leapt to his feet and sound exploded viscerally out of him, filling the void with a noise that overpowered everything else.

  “GET THE BLEEP OFF MY SET WITH THAT BLEEPING DOG!” Kristoph screamed at Bubba, except he didn’t use the words “BLEEP” or “BLEEPING.” “NOW! NOW! NOW!”

  Now that’s emoting, Bubba thought. Totally has me convinced. Am I getting paid?

  Chapter 7

  Bubba and the Cryptic Corpse

  Sunday, March 10th

  Bubba did get paid. The redhead made sure of that. In fact, he got paid for Precious being in the movie, too. Two security guards in The Deadly Dead RISES! T-shirts helpfully facilitated his exit from the set, too. They even stopped at the wardrobe and make up tent to make sure he changed into his own clothing and said something about him not taking souvenirs.

  Sticking the folded check into his pocket, Bubba said, “What am I going to take? Fake blood or a fake shotgun hole?”

  The two taciturn men escorted Bubba right to the yellow tape strung between two plastic sawhorses and lifted it while he ducked under. Precious followed with her head down and her tail drooping. She knew she had done something wrong.

  A few people stopped to ask Bubba what was going on or to shoot the breeze with him, so he didn’t make it very far past the tape.

  One was Doris Cambliss, the owner of the Red Door Inn. The Inn used to be a not-so-cleverly concealed brothel, but Doris had gone legit. She said, “Don’t you pay that director no never mind, Bubba.” She reached down to scratch Precious’s head but it appeared the canine could hardly bring herself to enjoy the uncharacteristic stroke.

  “I got paid,” Bubba said woodenly, although the director had said something about insurance and suing him for the cost of the camera that had been broken. With his luck the cost to replace the equipment would be proportional to three times the amount he had been paid. Things that were broken always cost more than what one had in one’s pocket.

  “And you got to be in a movie,” Doris said cheerfully. She had dyed black hair and always dressed in the finest clothing. Looking to be fifteen to twenty years younger than her actual age, she could have been a movie star herself. “That’s something to cross off your bucket list.”

  “I don’t have a bucket list,” Bubba said. “Pardon me, Miz Cambliss, but I aim to go home before someone thinks to arrest me for doing something or other.”

  Doris nodded. “Been there. Done that. I’ve got the t-shirt.” She considered. “Not that I’d ever wear a t-shirt.” She waved and meandered off, stopping to chat with Rosa Granado, who was George Bufford’s secretary when she wasn’t being his mistress. George Bufford was the proud and cheap proprietor of Bufford’s Gas and Grocery. Bubba had once worked for him and been fired for having been suspected of murdering his ex-fiancée.

  Bubba glanced around for Willodean, but she wasn’t anywhere to be found. That made him feel a little more dejected. In his moment of greatest infamy, he needed…but then he tended to have several of those moments and she had been there before. She probably had been called to a scene of something or other. (The subject of greatest infamy made him want to write an actual list of his top ten offenses. 1) Breaking the arm of his commanding officer while catching him in bed with his fiancée. 2) Discovering the body of his ex-fiancée on the family property with little to no alibi and practically having a smoking gun in his hand. Oh, Bubba could go on and on. There was likely a lot more than ten. Mebe twenty. Oh, hell make it the top hundred.)

  “‘It shore ain’t a pink elephant,’” someone half cackled at him with a gravelly voice.

  “After you say it about a dozen times, it don’t sound proper anymore,” Bubba said to Sheriff John. “And it starts sounding like it don’t mean nothing at all. Kind of like a congressman.”

  Sheriff John was one of the few men in the county who was taller than Bubba. He was also older, heavier, and was gray-haired and gray-eyed. His full name was Johnathon Headrick but Sheriff John had stuck in the days of his first election to public office. His trademark battleship gray colors were part of the man. He wouldn’t have looked the same if he had brown hair. (No Just For Men for that fine figure of Orwellian authority.)

  Bubba rapidly scanned the area again, hoping that Willodean was hiding behind the sheriff. She wasn’t. “You send Willodean out on a call?”

  “She needed to talk to someone,” Sheriff John rasped. His voice had never recovered from being nearly strangled by a rope around his neck. He still had the scars there as well the remnants of a tracheotomy. Bubba ought to know; he’d been right on the spot to save Sheriff John’s bacon. The older man had treated him somewhat more deferentially after that incident, but it didn’t mean he couldn’t tease him. “Must have been a hot date.”

  Another perfectly sane and pleasant day in Pegram County, Bubba thought inanely. “You arresting me for something?”

  “For what? Bad acting?”

  “The director said I had a square jaw,” Bubba said.

  “Did you get to talk to Tandy North?” Sheriff John asked. “Don’t tell Darla, but she’s a hot little piece of Hollywood starlet.” He considered. “Not that the wife isn’t. But the wife isn’t twentysomething anymore with a tushie as tight as a snare drum.” He shrugged.

  “Tandy might have said a few words to me,” Bubba said. The words had been something like “Your mark is over there, dumbass,” but they had been a few words. Bubba was rapidly coming to the conclusion that the Hollywood business was distasteful and most of the people were unfriendly.

  Bubba noticed something in the distance as the crowd was dispersing. “Is that my mother with her new handy people?”

  “Miz Demetrice has got new handy people?” Sheriff John asked curiously. He craned his neck. “What is she going to do with handy people?”

  “I saw the fella scraping paint this morning.”

  “The mansion is a mite deficient in paint.”

  “I bin meaning to get around to that.”

  Sheriff John laughed. “With all the extra things you’ve bin doing for money, I don’t see how you could have time. Everyone’s engines are purring thanks to you. The City of Dallas prolly bought three boots for what y
ou had to pay them. And the plasma place has a glut of product thanks to your donations.”

  “I only got dizzy once last week,” Bubba said defensively, “and I finally paid the last bit to the hospital.”

  “From which visit?”

  “I don’t recollect. They lumped them all together. No pun intended.” Bubba watched Alfonzo speaking with Miz Demetrice and Pilar. Looking like a jackass on a movie set was pushed to the background as he thought about what the trio was up to. (It was easier not to think of the movie or of Willodean.) Alfonzo held one of his daughters while Pilar held the other one. Miz Demetrice was nodding and Alfonzo was nodding back. A few hours before he had been scraping the paint off one of the columns. Now they were mingling in a light crowd.

  Then Willodean appeared next to them and she spoke to Alfonzo, who nodded. She clucked the chin of the child in the man’s grasp. The baby eagerly held her arms out toward Willodean and Willodean instantly complied, cradling the child close to her body. That was funny. One baby didn’t like Willodean and the other one did. And the sight made Bubba go weak in the knees, forcing him to go back to what he was thinking about instead of what darted into his beleaguered brain.

  Willodean held the child like an expert. Kids had been on her mind lately. Why is that? Because she’s been around Alfonzo and Pilar and their two daughters. It wasn’t surprising to Bubba because he’d already surmised that Willodean was involved in whatever his mother and Miz Adelia were up to.

  But what is it that they’re up to and how much trouble is it going to cause?

  “You ain’t met Alfonzo and Pilar?” Bubba asked, trying to be innocent about it. Do you know them, John? Are you in on it, too? Hmm?

  “I have not,” Sheriff John said. “You’ll have to tell me if they’re any good because the missus wants some things done around the house. Lloyd Goshorn does some of it, but he’s bin on a bender of late. Last night he was as fried as a corn pone. Tried to et all the pickled eggs out of the jar at the Dew Drop Inn. He went one cotton-picking egg too far and they had to call an ambulance to take him in. Boy swore he won’t touch another egg in his life.”