Bubba and the Zigzaggery Zombies

by Bevill, C. L.

  “Well Schuler doesn’t look like himself if he isn’t wearing the ascot, or whatever.”

  Bubba held the door for the three men and one of them said, “Hey, aren’t you Zombie #14/Farmboy?”

  “I reckon,” Bubba said.

  “He’s the one with the zombie dog, too,” another one added as they walked away.

  Once he was inside he told the receptionist that he needed to speak with Doc for five minutes. No more. No less. The receptionist was new. He didn’t know her name and she didn’t have a name plate, but she looked a lot like Doc’s intractable nurse Dee Dee Lacour, a woman with the least amount of sense of humor that Bubba had ever known.

  Doc popped out thirty seconds later. “Bubba, dear boy,” he said. “You’re in luck. No business right now.” He waved around the empty room. “I had to send the last young man to the hospital for an x-ray. Very unfortunate. He’s going to need an ear, nose, and throat man to put that nose back where it belongs.” He gestured for Bubba to follow him back.

  Bubba went and looked around for Dee Dee. “Where’s the sourpuss?”

  Doc chuckled. “The acting bug took her but properly. She’s on the set, being made up into a zombie. She texted me a photo. I’d show you but I don’t want to spoil your morning.”

  He ushered Bubba into his office. “I assume you’re not injured, seeing as you’re not unconscious upon this splendiferous occasion.”

  “It’s true I don’t get much occasion to see you when I’m awake and all,” Bubba acknowledged.

  “Let me guess the reason for your visit,” Doc said and sat in his high backed leather chair. He motioned at the other chairs and Bubba sat.

  “Do you know what Ma is up to?” Bubba asked. Might as well kill two birds with one stone. I might get lucky.

  “The eminent Miz Demetrice is capable of many things, the dear lady. Her brilliance and glory are a force to be reckoned with.” Doc swept a lock of white hair away from his forehead and grinned. “As you well know.”

  Bubba studied Doc. It was good that Bubba didn’t play poker because Doc could and would bluff. The physician knew something but he wasn’t going to blab about it. “The DEA came calling yesterday,” Bubba said, “out at the mansion.”

  “The DEA,” Doc repeated. “How fascinating. Did they search your mother? I always wanted to know how in depth such a search would go. Well, not with your mother, of course, but such an agent would have to be highly motivated, would they not?”

  “They searched the Garcias’ minivan,” Bubba said. “You know the Garcias? Alfonzo and Pilar and the two babies.”

  “Of course. I looked at the children yesterday. Healthy young ones, although Blanca could use soy milk for a bit until we determine if she’s allergic to dairy or not.”

  Bubba pursed his lips. Dead end. “Okay, next subject.”

  “You want to know about Kristoph Thaddeus,” Doc answered. Doc was a doctor for no little reason. He was hardly stupid. “As does Sheriff John, Deputy Gray, the DEA special agent, your mother, thirteen representatives of the media, and Mayor John Leroy, Jr.” Doc lowered his voice. “I think the mayor was just trying to make sure the town couldn’t be sued for the death. I was happy to inform him that the director did not die in the town proper of Pegramville but in Pegram County, thus the jurisdictional influence of the Pegram County Sheriff’s Department.”

  “Yes, I know. He died in my house, with my knife in his back. My house is located in Pegram County, not Pegramville, or I’d still be in Big Joe’s jail playing pinochle with Butterfingers Moran and Pretty Boy Floyd.”

  “A confounding conundrum,” Doc admitted.

  Bubba stared at Doc. “How is that confounding or a conundrum? He was stabbed in the back. It sorta implies death all by itself.”

  Doc steepled his fingers together, folding them in and out and looking at his ceiling. “It didn’t bleed.”

  Thinking about stuff was Bubba’s biggest issue of late. If he had to think hard about a subject then it was bound to give him a massive headache. He was thinking about his mother, about Willodean, about the Garcias, about the DEA, about the film, and about Kristoph Thaddeus. So he thought about that only. Infamous director was stabbed in his back. It didn’t bleed. One didn’t lead to the other. “Kristoph didn’t die because someone stabbed him in the back,” Bubba said slowly, comprehension making his synapses, neurons, and dendrites ever so happy.

  “No.”

  “How did he die?”

  “That would be the confounding conundrum part, stalwart lad,” Doc said dramatically. “It really is a puzzlement.”

  “And John said something about a necktie,” Bubba said, half to himself. “I didn’t turn the man over. He looked dead to me. Perhaps I should have turned him over to see if he was dead. He was dead. Wasn’t he dead, Doc?”

  “Kristoph was dead. Still is dead, I would think. It would be rather ironic, wouldn’t it, if he happened to turn into a genuine zombie at this point?” Doc chuckled at his own black humor.

  Bubba leaned forward in the chair. “Necktie. Willodean said something about a necktie, too.”

  Doc looked at Bubba. “I say, categorically and without hesitation, that there was no necktie involved.”

  “Then how do you think he died, Doc?”

  “It’s my sincerest belief that his heart stopped beating,” Doc said. “The problem is determining how the heart was caused to stop.”

  “You don’t know how he died?” Bubba sat back in the chair, confused. A knife in the back was one thing. It was clear. It was irrefutable. It was like a bulletin board announcing its presence and intention. “I killed Kristoph! All six and three-quarters inches of my blade! Yes me! What are you going to do about it, huh? Pussies!”

  “You know that I’m not supposed to discuss particulars with the general public, Bubba,” Doc said with a grin.

  “I know that rules are applied only when you think they should be applicable,” Bubba said, “which is a trait that you share with my mother.”

  “I love it when your education is clearly illuminated,” Doc said immediately.

  “I reckon,” Bubba said promptly.

  The receptionist pounded on Doc’s door, startling both of them. “Your five minutes is up and you have a patient, Doctor Goodjoint!” she bellowed.

  “Lordy,” Bubba muttered. “Cain’t you find a nice helper?”

  Doc sighed. “Unfortunately not. She’s a friend of Dee Dee’s, as one might surmise.”

  * * *

  By the time Bubba swung by the Pegram County Sheriff’s Department to see if Willodean was about, the rain had blown off to the east. However, Willodean was not about. Furthermore, Mary Lou Treadmill, whose job description meandered from 9-1-1 operator to receptionist, would not give him any information about the lady in question. “I will pass your message onto her, Bubba,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Arlette was telling me about your recent break-up,” Mary Lou stared at him coldly.

  “I ain’t bin broke up,” Bubba said.

  “That’s not what Arlette says.”

  Bubba lowered his head and looked at the floor. Linoleum squares of black and white, they hadn’t been changed since the building was built and Bubba couldn’t remember when that was, even if he had wanted to remember when that was.

  “You said you were going to pop the question,” Mary Lou accused. She smoothed over her scarlet red hair done up in its usual bouffant. Her blue eyes studied him with a clarity that he found alarming.

  “I dint say that exactly,” Bubba said.

  “I think you’re breaking that poor girl’s heart,” Mary Lou pronounced.

  I am? What’d I do? I told her I wanted quadruplets. I told her I kin change diapers. If that ain’t a declaration of my undying love, then I don’t know what is.

  Bubba left the Pegram County Sheriff’s Department feeling mildly dejected.

  * * *

  Pegramville High School was pretty much exactly like Bubb
a remembered it. Except now it had zombies wandering across the vast lawn. (High school students first thing in the morning could be mistaken for zombies but mostly they didn’t have blood and brains all over them.) Several were gathered around the giant rock that got repainted every year with a new school theme. (This year’s theme was “Education ROCKS!” Bubba was certain the pun was intended.) Other zombies gathered at a chuck wagon, drinking coffee and eating whatever they were serving. (Brains probably weren’t on the menu.)

  Bubba parked on the far side of the lot and waded through onlookers. Clearly the high school had called a day off to accommodate the film crew. Many of the curious spectators were obviously high school students hoping to be extras.

  “BUBBA!” someone yelled as he moved through the crowd. Bubba stopped to look and saw a man in his thirties approaching quickly. He wore a Saint’s jersey and purple leather pants with glossy black knee high boots. His white grin lit up his entire face and set off his mahogany skin.

  Bubba knew the man from somewhere. It finally dawned on him. “Bam Bam,” he said as the other man approached, bumped fists with Bubba, and then performed an elaborate set of hand gestures that would have confused an expert on nonverbal communication. Bubba’s eyes followed the gestures with both bafflement and interest, trying to detect the meaning but failing miserably.

  Bam Bam Jones had been one of the first people that Bubba had met in Dallas while searching for Willodean. He was several parts street guy, several parts entrepreneur, and all friendliness.

  “Bubba, I was so glad to hear that you found that missing gal,” Bam Bam said, “and I sent some flowers when she knocked you on your ass. I got to say I thought there would be a big A. hole in your head but I don’t see nothing.”

  “I remember. White carnations,” Bubba said. Was there a man rule about acknowledging flowers from another man? If there was, he couldn’t remember it. “Thank you. I liked ‘em.”

  “The least I could do,” Bam Bam chortled. “Bizness was tremendous after I got connected to you. Peeps coming from all over to talk with me. Wanting to know what that was like. Peeps from jail. Peeps from South Dallas. Peeps everywhere.” The hands kept moving.

  “Glad I could help?” Bubba said.

  Bam Bam chortled again.

  “What are you doing in Pegramville?” Bubba asked. “It don’t seem like the sort of place you’d like to go, or am I making an assumption?”

  “You be correct, ma man,” Bam Bam said. “Small towns are so damn small. Your peeps be looking at my boots and saying, ‘What the hell?’ They don’t know when a man needs to dress for success.” He stopped to adjust the jersey as if he was straightening the lapels of a fancy suit. “And I got a tip about six months ago from a fella I know who’s in the movie business, wanting to know about good areas to film in. Places with at-mo-sphere. You know? I thought of you. Small town. Needs some cash. Has some famous fella who rescued his woman. How kin I go wrong with that?” More hand gesturing ensued well after Bam Bam’s words trailed off. “So I hooked him up. Got some deals cookin’ with peeps supplying the movie. Got some deep discounts. I got me a quarter percentage point on the film.”

  “So you came to see how your investment is going?”

  “That fella, Kristoph, up and died, man,” Bam Bam said, “in your house, homes. With your knife in his back. You damn tootin’ I came down to see how the investment is going. Of course, I know a stand-up fella like you wouldn’t stab a man in the back.”

  “Mebe you should share that,” Bubba said. Several of the people around them were blatantly eavesdropping.

  “Ma man, Bubba, wouldn’t kill no one that way,” Bam Bam said loudly. “If he were of a mind, he would likely punch them in the face and knock their asses down. Never in the back.”

  “Thanks,” Bubba said.

  “I hear you’re in the movie,” Bam Bam said. More explosive hand gestures followed apparently indicating his approval of the news. “A redneck zombie.” He grinned widely and nodded. “That be the way it be.”

  “That be the way it be,” Bubba repeated. “I got to go, Bam Bam. You should come out to the house. My ma would love to meet you.” And Bubba would love to see his mother meeting Bam Bam Jones.

  Bam Bam produced a card. “Ma numbuh,” he said. “Call me.”

  Bubba turned away, toward the cordoned-off set, but paused when an odd thought popped into his head. “Bam Bam,” he called, “who was it that you told about Pegramville?”

  “Risley Risto,” Bam Bam said instantly. “I told him it be a hotbed of intrigue and murderous scenarios. The shizz is happening around here. Bodies left and right. Missing gold, blood, little kids with Tasers, and rock and roll. I mean, a fella’s got to take advantage, am I right?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I’m right. Don’t hurt none that the place is infamous. That’s why they make movies on Alcatraz Island, and in Washington, DC.”

  “I reckon,” Bubba said. “Catch you later, Bam Bam.” As Bubba walked away he heard a young woman say to Bam Bam, “So you’re in the movie business?”

  “I am but a lowly associate, my dear,” Bam Bam said suavely. “Do the firemen know about you because you’re smokin’?”

  Bubba got admitted and walked to the makeup tent while he thought about why he’d asked Bam Bam that very question. He couldn’t imagine why someone would want to film in Pegram County. It was isolated. There weren’t enough hotels and motels for the film crew and people were packed in every spare room available. The scenery was nice but it wasn’t as spectacular as a mountain range or a yawning gorge on a dusky evening. It did have some infamy though most of that had died down. As for financial availability, it might be advantageous. The Honorable Mayor John Leroy, Jr. was probably letting the film use whatever they wanted for free.

  I am confounded. Bubba frowned. And it is a conundrum.

  Chapter 15

  Bubba and the Acrimonious Assault

  Tuesday, March 12th

  Simone Sheats was Bubba’s makeup artist again. “Bubba,” she said, “so glad to see you. Sit down. I didn’t think you could have killed Kristoph. I can tell, you know. It’s a trick that all artists have. A skill that we have. We can divine everything when we’re doing a session. We’re like makeup gods and goddesses. You’re supposed to be a zombie again. So you need to find your gear and change again. Remember it’s Zombie #14/Farmboy. Go ahead, stand up. Don’t forget to go pee pee.”

  Bubba bumbled his way through wardrobe. Once Bubba was back in her chair, he listened to Simone chatter with only half an ear. “—thinks an insane critic did it. Some of those critics are like the phantom of the opera. They’re all warped inside because such and such director or so and so producer said their review sucked the great big lemon. It can be such a horrible business with dog eat dog going on.”

  Then why do you do it? Bubba wanted to ask but it was too late. The shotgun blasted face prosthesis was already attached and he couldn’t move his mouth. He’d forgotten to take another antihistamine so who knew what was going to happen. He briefly thought of one of the FBI agents who had been investigating Brownie’s disappearance and who happened to be violently allergic to poison ivy. The man had blown up like a water balloon. Doc Goodjoint had hinted that he’d had to treat him with more antihistamines than he’d ever given to one single person before.

  Simone was already filling in the blanks without being prompted. “It’s not that horrible of a business. You establish your network and you keep abreast of latest innovations in the field. There’s a con in July just for makeup, wardrobe, and special effects. It’ll be killer. I shouldn’t say killer. It’ll be fantastic. We all do our best to outdo each other. Just imagine every conceivable costume and makeup possible wandering around Las Vegas in July.” She frowned. “We’re going to melt.” She brightened again. “But we’ll have a blast melting.” She grinned. “Some of the effects people in Vegas make six figures regularly with bennies. No diving for the next movie to come out or for the television sh
ow with all the aliens on it.”

  Bubba yanked his head out of the clouds. He couldn’t talk to Simone and pump her for information but he could think hard at her. Who else might have done it? Tell me how to get Willodean Gray to talk to me again. Is the DEA really going to arrest my mother for complicity in drug smuggling?

  Simone was exactly as she was the previous times Bubba had spent with her. Her everyday prattle was numbing and she was happy that the person with whom she was chattering couldn’t answer her back and thusly distract her. “I’m doing a giant daisy. My entire body naked except green paint and appropriate leaves. Stark mother naked. Buffness. Wearing nothing but a smile and some body paint. A special headdress with the flowers on top of my head. Bejeweled, too. I mean, Swarovski crystals all over all of the petals. I wish you could see it. Well, they’ll take pics in July so keep an eye on the web. Hey, you could friend me on Facebook. I’m on Twitter, too. I have two thousand followers. Last year I was Lady Godiva.”

  Okay. Ifin it was Willodean who was naked just for green paint, mebe. Bubba wanted to shake his head to get the image out of there, but his jaw was immobilized by Simone’s fingers. He stared in the mirror in front of him, trying to catch Simone’s eyes, but she was lost in the moment of transformation appreciation.

  “Oh goodness, you look very zombie-ish,” Simone said approvingly.

  Someone else came up behind them. It was Schuler and his purple hair was styled into a fancified, plum colored rooster’s comb. “Great work, Simone, as usual,” he said to Simone. “Hey, Zombie #14,” he said to Bubba. Bubba grunted. It wasn’t like he could give an oral treatise on the simplicities of the Bazooka Launcher Platform Concept Theorem. (What were the simplicities of the Bazooka Launcher Platform Concept Theorem? Bubba did not know.)

  “Do you have your dog with you today?” Schuler asked. His tone was short. He towered over Bubba sitting in the chair and made Bubba think of the three men at Doc Goodjoint’s clinic and the one with the broken nose.