Quick Bites: A Short Story Collection

by Jennifer Rardin

  “Dug? As in—unburied?” asked Paul.

  As Vicky nodded, Brady applauded. “What a great show! Is there more?”

  “The grand finale!” Vicky announced. He snapped his fingers, and she ran straight for Paul, jumping onto his chest like a karate expert. He went down under her attack. Before he hit the floor, he managed to grab hold of her collar so she couldn’t sink her teeth into his neck. But even in a zombie state, Gigi fought like a pit bull. She refused to give up or even back down.

  Paul yelled, “Stop! Please! I don’t want to die! I don’t wanna die! I wanna liiiiiive!”

  “Let him up! He hasn’t even been to third base yet!” pleaded Brady as he jumped on Gigi’s back. She didn’t even flinch, just stood there while Brady’s momentum carried him right over her head. He landed flat on his back, wheezing like he’d suddenly developed asthma.

  Vicky came off his throne so he could tower over Paul, Brady, and Gigi the zombie dog. He stared down at them for a full ten seconds. Then he held out his hands. “I like you boys. You have spunk and initiative. Plus, it’s hard to explain missing WUSSes. So maybe I’ll leave you alive. If you agree to help me rebuild my staff. What do you say?”

  Paul strained to pull himself away from Gigi’s hot breath and her long, sharp fangs. He couldn’t. He was trapped and he knew it. “O-okay,” he said, begging Brady with his eyes to make the same agreement even as his heart sank. Now he was going to have to marry Mary and become an Amish farmer. All because he’d squeezed her breast once behind the woodshed. What was his mom going to tell the priest?

  “I’ll help you with your zombie problem,” Brady said. “But that’s where it stops. Your wardrobe issues are not my responsibility.”

  “Then we have a deal!” Vicky whistled. Gigi stepped off Paul’s chest, sat down beside him, and panted gently like they’d just been for a run together.

  Vicky asked, “Do you know where Muenster Cemetery is located?”

  * * *

  Neither Paul nor Brady had ever set foot in the Muenster Cemetery, but they’d heard of it from the pale, stoic kid who lived across the hall. Though Dillon looked even spookier than the stories he told, everybody listened because they were so good—including the one that described the worst criminals in Wisconsin’s history being killed during police pursuit and then buried in their city’s very own boneyard. The serial killer Clint Spakes had a grave site that people regularly defaced there, although if he stayed dead long enough, maybe they’d start to bring bottles of whiskey and flowers, which was what collected in front of the tombstone of the 1920s bank and train robber, “Waltzing” Hank Woodridge.

  When Brady had asked Dillon why they called him “Waltzing” Hank, he said it was because the dude always showed up to his heists in a black tuxedo and he’d never left without dancing the prettiest lady around the room, or dining car, depending. He also made sure his hostages always got a cut of the take. Brady sighed with understanding when Dillon explained that Waltzing Hank was so charming nobody ever gave a good description of him, so the cops didn’t catch up to him until he was unlucky enough to rob a bank who’d hired a security guard with ambition. The guy plugged him in the shoulder, forcing him to run wounded, which was how the cops tracked him to the farm where the last shoot-out took place.

  Brady was still looking for the famous graves among the rows and rows of tombstones as they braked their bikes at the site where Voodoo Vicky had told them to meet him for their first lesson in zombie raising. The half-moon didn’t shed much light on the spot, which was a dip between two hills covered with expensive markers and cedar trees. Luckily this new addition to Muenster had just enough pole lights to keep a grave robber from tripping over the sites and breaking his neck.

  “Do you think we’re in the right place?” asked Brady, craning his head over his shoulder for a peek at the spotlit grave of “Waltzing” Hank Woodridge. It must be on the other side, in the older section, thought Paul.

  Shoot. Wait, that’s what Waltzing Hank would’ve done! Hee-hee!

  Paul said, “Yeah, Vicky said the grave we’re supposed to meet him at is in the new section east of the Wilson mausoleum, and there’s the mausoleum.” He pointed to the miniature cathedral that housed at least seven generations of the Wilson family.

  Brady cast his eyes over the rectangular stones in front of them, each flanked by smooth green grass. “These bodies have been here for a while. I don’t see—oh, there!” He pointed at the middle of a row about ten steps to their right. Then he dropped his arm. “Darn it all, Sweet Mama Jo says it’s not polite to point. Why do I keep forgetting that one?”

  “I think there’s an exception for when you’re about to go to zombie school,” Paul said. He hooked his thumbs into the reinforced backpack he wore so his hands wouldn’t shake as they walked toward the fresh mound of dirt covered with wreaths and bouquets of flowers. It sat just at the edge of the nearest light’s reach, so the stone describing the identity of its owner stood in shadow. So did Voodoo Vicky’s giant form. Paul would’ve suspected it was a sturdy tree if he hadn’t stood next to Vicky himself a few hours before, as he’d slid off the purple silk cape he now wore over his shoulders, giving himself the outline of a healthy young spruce.

  Vicky said, “It’s about time. I have a social life, you know.” He tapped the dial of his diamond-studded watch to emphasize his point. “Where were you?”

  “Gathering the ingredients you told us to get,” Paul said, throwing the backpack on the ground beside the grave. He watched its edges squirm as the creatures he’d carried inside scrambled to find their way free. His stomach squeezed, but he ignored it, reminding himself that he couldn’t possibly vomit anything else up tonight. Grateful that at least Vicky had left his zombie dog at home for this part of his project, he said, “We appreciate you letting us, uh, dip into your, ah, larder for the tortoiseshell powder and the ant urine. But it’s not as easy as you think to capture live rats and cockroaches. Even at college.”

  “I trust you have them all stored separately,” Vicky said.

  “Oh yes,” Brady said eagerly. “Everything is in those cute, little white bottles you gave us in the front pocket of the backpack. Except for the rats. They wouldn’t fit.”

  “Well, their noses would,” Paul corrected.

  “True,” Brady admitted. “We did get their noses in the bottles. And I think one of them might have sneezed, so it’s possible that we have some rat snot somewhere in there for you. Does that help with—”

  “Enough!” Vickie hissed. “I’m expecting a call, in case you hadn’t gotten the idea earlier, so the quicker you two get the lead out, the sooner I can plan the rest of my evening.”

  “What do you want us to do?” Paul asked reluctantly.

  Vicky nodded happily, a teacher who’s finally gotten the right answer from a class full of dumbbells. He said, “Take all the flowers off the grave. They interfere with my mojo.”

  Brady dug right in, though he did pause a couple of times to admire the florist’s style. “I’ll have to find out who did these,” he said once. “Whoever tied these bows is a creative genius!”

  “It was probably Chenise over at Flower You with Flowers,” said Vicky. “I use her for all my formal occasions.”

  Paul was trying to imagine what kinds of events a voodoo queen would arrange that required a professional flower arranger when Vicky’s phone rang. When he squealed happily, both boys jumped.

  “I knew he’d call!” Vicky gushed as he pulled an iPhone from his front pocket. He waved it at the guys as they stared in amazement. “I’m a little psychic, so I know you two are wondering why I don’t just use a disembodied ear for all my important communications.” He rolled his eyes at them. “Silly boys. That’s my home phone.” He thumbed himself into talk mode. “Hello? Larayjay? How are you?”

  He stepped away to talk, giving Paul the chance to murmur, “Brady, I’m so freaked out I think my back teeth are grinding right into my gums.”

  �
��Relax,” Brady whispered. “I’ve got your back.”

  “I don’t even know what that means. It sounds like you’re just hanging around waiting to take a picture when you happen to see my back in an interesting pose. And what if he stabs me in the back?”

  “Then I’ll make a lot of money from the tabloids.”

  “Brady!”

  “Paul, get a hold of yourself,” Brady said as he grasped his friend by the shoulders. “Nobody who dresses like a Disney character is going to put one over on Sweet Mama Jo’s boy. So here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to raise this corpse just like Vicky tells us to. Then, as soon as we can, we’re going to bike out of here so fast our wheels will be smoking. We’re going to ride straight to Reverend Stiflal’s house and let him fix this whole mess.”

  Paul thought a minute. Reverend Stiflal prayed so hard at the Sunday services he and Brady attended that the sweat dripped down onto the microphone and made plopping noises that sounded like God applauding the high points. In fact, ideally he’d bring along his wireless mike for the showdown, which would sound something like, “God-a is a good God-a. Until you tick him off. Voodoo Vicky, you have annoyed-a your maker by threatening and manipulating two of his precious sons-a.” Plop. “Now back off-a before I have to sic-a the heavenly host on you.” Yeah, Brady was right. If anybody could protect them from the wrath of Vicky, it was Reverend Stiflal.

  But first they had to survive the zombie raising, which Vicky seemed eager to begin. He shoved his phone back into his pocket and rushed back to the graveside. “I have a date! Larayjay’s finally broken up with his boyfriend, and he wants to see me!” He paused for their responses, which were so quiet that he said, “Well, quit looking so surprised. Love’s no fun if you’re always shoving potions down people’s throats. The thing is, he wants to meet me in an hour, which means I have to run back home, take a shower, press my suit.…” He waited. When they still didn’t answer, he said, “Just follow these directions.” He handed them a dirt-smudged index card. “After the zombie’s climbed out of his grave, give him directions to my house. Gigi will guard him until I get home to train him.”

  Vicky turned away. Paul said, “Wait!” He winced when Vicky swung back, his eyes snapping like bear traps. But Paul’s steadily dimming future forced him to go on. “When we first talked, you said you’d help me with my problem. We’ve done everything you asked so far. But when we finish, you’ll be the only one who’s gotten what he wants out of this deal. That doesn’t seem fair to me.”

  Voodoo Vicky seemed just about ready to shove his fist through Paul’s face. Then his hand went to the pocket that held the iPhone, and he smiled. “What was it that you wanted again?” he asked.

  “I need you to break up with my girlfriend, Mary, for me.” Paul had never felt so brave or stupid, and definitely not at the same time.

  Vicky stared. “Mary who?”

  “Mary Rockenfeffer. She’s an Amish girl I went to school with.” Paul took a deep breath. “I just can’t marry her! Not now that I’ve seen girls like the ones who go to WUSS! Some of them even work at Hooters!”

  Vicky said, “How am I supposed to contact her? It’s not like she’s in the phone book.”

  “She works at a grocery store. They have a phone. I can give you the number,” Paul said hopefully.

  “Fine. Consider yourself single. Just raise that zombie for me. Pronto!”

  “Yessir!”

  Vicky rushed off, leaving Brady to read from the card like it was a recipe from hell while Paul followed the directions—almost happily now that he knew he wouldn’t die a pre-engaged man.

  “Sprinkle the tortoiseshell powder and ant urine on the four corners of the grave,” said Brady.

  Paul dug the ingredients out of the backpack’s front pocket and did as he was ordered.

  Brady read, “Drill a hole to the casket.” He paused. “Oooo.”

  “What?”

  He cleared his throat. “Do that—what I just said—and then drop the rats and cockroaches into the hole.”

  “That’s awful.”

  “It’s not as bad as having to slit their little throats.” Which was what they’d been dreading, and neither one of them could figure out how to slit a cockroach’s throat or if they even had one.

  “Okay,” said Paul.

  He looked around for the tool he needed and found that Vicky had left an electric auger lying behind the tombstone. He’d been avoiding reading it all this time, but now he couldn’t help but see that a fifty-five-year-old man named Ralph Creever had been buried in front of it only the day before. Paul tried not to think about why Ralph had died or the sad people who’d buried him as he dug the hole and shook the squeaking, scrabbling contents of the bag down into it. Hopefully Reverend Stiflal would be able to send him straight back to heaven as soon as he found out what insanity Voodoo Vicky had put them up to.

  Brady started reading. “Wake, rise, you unclaimed soul. Spark into service. Leave the silence of your hole. Run.” Brady looked at Paul. “Oh, I think that last part was for us.”

  “You mean, we’re supposed to run?”

  “Yes.”

  The earth under their feet began to rumble. They stared at each other for a second, and then they both yelled, “Run!”

  They raced for the shelter of the mausoleum as clods of dirt began to explode in the air behind them.

  “They’re plopping!” yelled Paul.

  “I know!” Brady yelled back. “They sound like Reverend Stiflal!”

  Another rumble. Paul wanted to look over his shoulder, but he was afraid of what he’d see. Maybe a half-rotted hand shooting out of the earth, or maybe Ralph’s dirt-covered suit rising from the muck while his head stayed stuck underneath and his hands scrabbled to unbury himself. Paul laughed hysterically at the image as he and Brady swung around to the back of the minicathedral, where they skidded to a halt, their hands already rising in the face of the double-barreled shotgun. The openings where the slugs come out loomed so huge that Paul was almost surprised he noticed the brown-eyed girl guarding the trigger end. And then he wasn’t sure how anything could’ve distracted him from her, until she said, “What the hell did you just do?”

  * * *

  Paul opened his mouth to confess everything, starting with that April evening when he was twelve and his mom had caught him jerking off to her JCPenney catalog. She’d screamed that his soul was burning like tar on a cross and called the Lutheran school, who pitched her such a high price for tuition that she told the secretary to call Judas and tell him he’d invested his silver well. Then she marched down to the Amish school, signed Paul up for half the price, and that was how he wound up in a cemetery full of serial killers and gangsters raising Ralph Creever zombies in the middle of Wisconsin. He drew in a big breath, amazed that one pair of soft brown eyes could gouge the truth out of him without even batting a lash. But before he could begin, Brady flopped onto his back and started jiggling like a victim of ants-in-the-pants syndrome.

  Paul knelt by his convulsing friend, trying to remember if he was supposed to shove a stick in his mouth or just let him bang his head against the ground until he’d twitched himself unconscious, when he realized Brady was trying to rub the dirt from Ralph’s grave off his back by wriggling against the grass like a flipped turtle trying to right itself. At the same time, he was squealing furiously, banging his arms and fists up and down as he yelled, “It’s ruined! It took me hours to put this cemetery ensemble together! I ironed this flannel shirt for half an hour straight, trying to get out all the wrinkles that Goodwill store cretin had scrunched into it by hanging it in an overpopulated row like some sort of prison inmate. And now it’s covered in graveyard muck. And these pants. I have never washed or worn them before this evening, and now they’re stained. Stained! Do you have any idea what that means?”

  The brown-eyed girl said, “That you’re gay?”

  Brady had freaked out so badly, he didn’t even acknowledge her as he scree
ched, “Sweet Mama Jo says clothes never wear the same once they’re washed, and if you stain them the first time, you’ve run the luck right out of them.” He pounded his hands on his thighs. “These are now unlucky pants!”

  His rage had brought a froth to his lips and made the toes of his work boots click together like they wanted to reassure each other that they, at least, still retained their good fortune.

  Paul traded a bewildered glance with the brown-eyed girl, whose spiky black hair gave her the look of a pixie. He said, “I’m Paul. That’s my roommate, Brady. We’ve both been under a lot of strain because a voodoo queen named Vicky has sort of threatened our lives. Also, Brady’s clothes mean the world to him.”

  She nodded. “I can see that. I’m D. D. Carmi. Not Dee-Dee, like the name,” she explained as she raised the shotgun to make sure he understood the difference. “Like the initials.”

  “I got it,” he said. He glanced down. “Brady? Are you going to be okay?”

  His roommate had pulled a handkerchief from his front pocket and was dabbing his lips in delicate little pokes. “I think so.” He glanced forlornly over his shoulder. “Maybe I can Shout it out.”

  “Ssstt,” hissed D.D. as she anchored the butt of the shotgun into her shoulder. “Backs to the wall,” she ordered. They scrambled to flatten themselves against the mausoleum’s cold support, thinking they’d seen the bitter end until they realized she wasn’t even looking at them. Her concentration had moved, like a laser, to the corner of the building, beyond which they could now hear the soft sounds of movement backed by an occasional muffled sob.

  Brady whispered, “Paul? Is that what I think it is?”

  Paul nodded. “It’s Zombie Ralph Creever. And he doesn’t sound happy.”