by MJ Ware
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Super Zombie Juice Mega Bomb - The short story that inspired the upcoming novel
Ever have a really bad day? I'm not talking miss the bus, caught cheating on a test, bike gets stolen bad. I mean, people dying and coming back from the dead to eat your brains bad.
Guess it proves things can always get worse.
The whole mess started one night when my best friend, Misty, messaged me, "Let's go to D. Q."
I'm as down with Butterfinger Blizzards as anybody, but it was almost eleven p.m.
Somehow, she talked me into it—I can never say no to her. I mean, I can say it once or twice, but after eight or nine times, I give in.
You might have guessed, we didn't exactly ask permission—and of course, we got caught by her dad.
He went ballistic. He's normally too nice, one of those soft-spoken church-going types. But boy, did he holler.
He grounded Misty for the whole summer. Not from her girlfriends—just from me.
He even cancelled our camping trip. Our families go every year, so that made it a tradition or something.
Almost three weeks passed before I heard a peep from Misty. I wasn't sure if her dad really came down on her or if she was just too busy to bother with me.
Finally, she called, "Guess I should feel Honored."
"Hey Nate, ready to go camping?" She replied.
"Who is this? I think you may have dialed the wrong number."
"Nathan!" she exclaimed, "Dad's been keeping me under house arrest. Even confiscated my cell. It's so humiliating." The echo told me she was probably hiding-out in her dad's workshop. "So, you up for camping or not?"
Apparently, no one bothered to tell her the trip was off. I tried to break the news gently. "Where've you been? Your dad put the smackdown on camping."
There wasn't much to do in our tiny mountain town, so this trip was the highlight of our summer: fishing, ghost stories, eating s'mores until you puke.
"Just because our parents are being stupid doesn't mean we can't go."
I don't normally do crazy things like run away from home. Which is probably why we weren’t prepared. We lasted all of one day. Who knew a jumbo box of Little Betty snack cakes could go so fast?
On our way back we knew we were in trouble, but had no idea just how much. We quickly found out that the only bridges out of town had been blown. No one was around, except for the mayor, who tried to bite Misty's head off. The only reasonable thing to do was take my dad's '69 Mustang to Walmart and lock ourselves in until help arrived.
As we rounded the corner a lone zombie stood in the middle of the street. He wore an old style tuxedo, bow tie, even tails. It looked like a big chunk of its scalp was coming off; either that or it was a seriously bad toupée.
“Five points for hitting the zombie, ten if it doesn’t get back up.” Misty sounded almost cheerful.
“No way. I am not hitting a zombie with a '69 Mustang.”
“What? That’s what you do, Nathan. Plow through zombies. How else are we going to kill them?”
“I’m not hitting it, end of conversation.”
“But-“
“No!”
“At least pass it on the left. I don’t want to look at it.” Misty folded her arms across her chest.
As I passed the zombie, the thought occurred to me that it might dive at the car. I hit the gas and dropped it back down a gear, except—since I'd only taught myself to drive stick five minutes ago—I forgot the clutch.
The car lurched, the zombie lurched, and the next thing I knew a rabid zombie was knocking at my window—knocking with its head that is.
“Nathan, get the car started, now!” Misty started crawling up the back of her seat.
“I’m trying, I’m trying.” Thick green goo dripped out of its eye and smeared all over the window. It took me a few seconds to think. Clutch in, turn key, a little gas, first gear, clutch out, more gas.
“You so cannot drive stick,” Misty said as we sputtered away, leaving the zombie behind.
“Oh no. No. No!”
“What, what’s wrong?”
“Zombie snot—it’s all over the window. That stuff will eat through the paint like your brothers at an all-you-can-eat buffet.”
“Don’t panic, we’ll wash it off.”
“If anything happens to this car, my dad is going to kill me.”
“Nate, we’re driving around an abandoned town overrun by zombies. I think you might get a few scratches on the paint.”
“No, no, unacceptable. See if you can find a hose.”
“There’s one by the mall. Pull it up on the sidewalk.” She pointed across an intersection to our town's old, run-down mall.
Misty jumped out and ran for the hose. I followed out on her side. “Nate, there’s no knob. It’s one of those security things.”
I dove back into the car and popped the trunk. My dad always carried a tool kit for just such emergencies—well, not just such, but you know what I mean.
I grabbed a pair of vice grips and dashed to the spigot. Misty sprayed the window as I supervised.
“The paint's okay." A wave of relief washed over me. "It's a sign—we’re going to make it through this.”
“Oh, brother." She shook her head. "We're already at the mall. Might as well pick up some cinnamon rolls."
"We'll drive right through the middle,” I said cheerfully. I loved those cinnamon rolls.
I’m not sure who decided our mall qualified as a real mall; there must not be any actual standard for the word. Ours was really more of a large, beat-down shopping center. A couple dozen shops ringed an old three-screen theater.
We dragged a cement trashcan aside and drove down the mall's center walkway.
Once out of the car, I realized we could easily get cornered here. Suddenly, I wasn't so eager for my cinnamon roll fix.
Sappy jazz music floated overhead. Stores wide open, welcoming us as if we'd been expected.
“Miss, take the left side, I’ll go right. Get as much food as you can and keep an eye out for anything else we might use,” I said trying to sound like I had everything under control.
It wasn’t long before we'd loaded the trunk with cold cuts, cinnamon rolls, even gourmet cookie dough. One thing was sure; we weren’t going to starve.
By the time we reached the end of the mall, we'd made a pretty good haul.
“Hey Miss, I’m going to check out the Sharper Image. You finish up the food court.”
“Got it.” She wasn't carrying food, but rather an armful of clothes and designer handbags.
I got a bag and started stuffing it with anything in sight. When I got to the binoculars, I took my time. Lots of models were on display. As I picked up the most expensive looking pair, I heard a scream.
I ran back as fast as I could.
“Nate, help!”
Misty stood behind the counter of the Krazy Karrot Smoothie Bar, a zombie close behind.
I didn’t worry about the Mustang. It was in my way, so I hopped up and slid over the hood. Just like in those old car movies they play on the free movie channels, except that I slid right over and onto my butt. I would have been embarrassed, if I wasn't so panicked.
By the time I got to the counter, Misty was cornered. The zombie was almost on top of her. She desperately held up a stool—the only thing between her and its teeth.
I headed towards the counter, when I realized I’d messed up. I'd left the axe in the car. There wasn't time to go back and get it. I had to find something to hit this thing with or Misty was zombie chow.
Picking up a plastic chair, I threw it at the zombie, hoping to draw its attention. It just bounced off its head.
The zombie, inches from Misty, pushed against the stool, jaws full of brown rotting teeth snapping at her.
I grabbed the largest thing in reach—a five-gallon bucket of lemonade. Struggling, I got it over my shoulder. Somehow, I managed to swing it over my head and upside down onto the
zombie. Lemonade flew everywhere. I was about to tackle the thing when I heard an ear-piercing scream. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t Misty. It was the zombie.
This guy really didn’t care for lemonade. It fell, first to its knees, then flat on the ground. Its legs jerked and kicked, like its head was in an electrical socket.
A second later it stopped. Smoke rose out of the bucket, still stuck on its head. The monster lay motionless.
Rather than step around it, Misty climbed over the counter and walked over to me, not once taking her eyes off the corpse.
“What was in that lemonade?” I said.
“Nothing. It was just lemonade, even tasted some.” I looked over; she was shaking slightly, splashes of lemonade on her face and shirt. I wanted to take her hand, but guys don’t go around taking their best friend by the hand—even if they had just fought off a killer zombie together.
I could see the tails on its retro tux. “Misty, I’m really sorry. It's the same one. I should have hit it with the car. It’s all my fault.”
“Don’t be sorry. This is the best break we’ve had. We’ve found their weakness. We know how to kill them.” She looked down at the puddle of lemonade and zombie pus pooled on the floor.
“What -lemonade? You think lemonade kills zombies?”
“Probably not lemonade, but something in it. The sugar maybe? I don’t know, but look, it works.”
I couldn’t argue. Smoke still billowed out of the bucket. This zombie was toast.
“If you're right, we'll need some weapons. There’s a CB's Toys down at the corner. Go grab some water guns. I’ll see if I can’t find more lemonade.”
Before running off, she grabbed a large cup of the stuff to take with her.
I found three full buckets of lemonade in the fridge and several cases of lemons in back.
Misty returned with the largest Super Soakers I'd ever seen. These things had tanks you wore on your back. I wondered what kind of terrible people my parents were for never buying me one of these.
“Says they shoot up to seventy-five feet,” she said.
“Um, yeah, that should do the trick.”
We used an entire five-gallon bucket filling up the two Super Soakers and a few smaller guns. I grabbed a few tools, like the lemon masher and funnel, so we could turn the rest of the lemons into zombie-killing juice.
I strapped the tank on and started pumping the gun. "Now we're ready. Bring on some zombies."
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About the Author:
M.J.A. Ware, known as M.J. to his friends, lives in the foothills of the Sierra Mountains with his wife and two daughters. When not writing about aliens, monsters and ghosts, he runs a company where he designs award winning video arcades. He’s currently polishing his latest novel, Super Zombie Juice Mega Bomb, about friends who take on an army of the undead, armed with nothing but Super Soakers—filled with zombie killing juice.
