The first floor is dedicated to rehabilitation. Many zombies just need to get used to dealing with the special needs of their new existence. Here they are taught many basic life lessons.
They cook in the kitchens, learning to sustain a new, iron rich diet. “Glad I don’t have to eat what they’re cooking,” said Frank.
Those with a medical background also help in the injury center, which also teaches about the hazards of having an undead body. Physical therapists also teach them how to stay fit and healthy. “Hazards like a baseball bat to the skull?” Frank muttered.
This is also the center for occupational therapy. Many zombies volunteer here at the home before transitioning back into the traditional workplace. Some help with the accounting, some serve the food, and some even start a career in zombie care and support. “Forget about blind leading the blind, what about dead leading the dead?” Frank remarked.
Next they were taken to the second floor, which is for the permanent residents with physical disabilities. Most zombies on this level were in one of two groups: they were in an accident leading up to their death, or they sustained a critical injury since then.
In the west wing is the intensive care unit for the zombies with potentially unlife ending injuries. Some had their heads bashed in partially, enough to incapacitate them but not kill them. Others have similar non-fatal gunshot wounds to the head. This man here is missing his entire lower half, while his roommate is missing the left hand side of his body. “Wouldn’t euthanasia be more human?” Frank wondered aloud.
The majority of the floor is for standard missing limbed patients. Most of them have multiple missing appendages that makes it hard to do simple things like walk or eat on their own. We are able to equip them so they can live a somewhat normal if assisted life. “My tax money goes towards dead cripples too?” said Frank.
Actually no, Frank. As you likely already know, all existing homes for the differently animated are privately funded.
But the east wing is for the ones who may eventually make it downstairs to rehabilitation. These are the ones who can accept prostheses, or in rare cases still have their missing limbs to reattach. We’re also experimenting with a new transplant program. Frank said, “I’m taking ‘organ donor’ off of my license.”
The top floor is reserved for those with special educational needs. “It’s the undead loony bin!” said Frank, who couldn’t hold back a smile.
Sometimes the virus affects the brain as well as the body. Our halfhearted attempts at cures or “euthanasia” backfire and cause a permanent learning disability. Many zombies just can’t handle the reality of their new existence and become depressed or angry. The zombies on this floor have little hope of being introduced back into society.
“How do you decide that?” asked Frank.
We give them a simple test.
“What’s the test?”
Well, we run a bathtub full of water and give them a bucket, a tea cup, and a tablespoon. Then we ask them to empty the bath in the quickest way possible.
“So you let the ones go who chose the bucket?”
No, the ones who have the best prospect at rehabilitation pull the plug. Perhaps you should take this a bit more seriously before you end up here too.
(back to TOC)
****
Advertising
My office is right across from a busy street corner, probably the busiest in town. There are parking garages nearby in all four directions, past several popular restaurants set on the ground level of major office buildings, so it gets a lot of foot traffic.
On this particular day, a beggar had set up at the corner with an empty coffee can and a cardboard sign. He was an old man, with shaggy thin gray hair, many lines on his face, and a pair of dark sunglasses. His sign read, “Blind. Please help,” scrawled slantwise in black marker.
He had been there all morning, and now the lunch rush hour was ending, and there was barely any change in his can.
A zombie was walking past and stopped to take a look at the man. The zombie wasn’t doing so well financially himself, but he did something even better than giving money. With the blind man’s permission, he took out a pen, turned the cardboard over, and wrote something on the other side. I couldn’t see what it was from my office window.
Whatever it said, it was working. Now nearly everyone who passed stopped to drop change in his can. I saw him fill his pockets and return the can to the ground several times.
He was still there when I got off of work, and I walked up to him on my way home. I greeted him before putting money in his can.
He asked me, “I’m sorry miss, but can you do me a favor? Can you tell me what my sign says?”
I finally got a good look at what the zombie had written on the sign in perfect penmanship. I said, “It says, ‘It is a beautiful day. You can see it. I cannot.”
(back to TOC)
****
Bonnie’s Bears
Bonnie McCulley’s daughter was diagnosed with cystic fibrosis at the age of four.
Bonnie did all that she could to help her. She cut her hours of sleep down to merely three hours a night. Since she was a zombie, she could get by with less sleep and still be highly functioning.
So she used the extra time to be with her daughter as much as possible while working two jobs to pay all her living daughter’s medical bills. Her own undead status made her ineligible for health insurance, and her employer’s plan wouldn’t let her insure her daughter without insuring herself. Therefore, paying for her daughter’s treatments was entirely up to her.
As hard as Bonnie tried to give her everything she needed, her daughter succumbed to her condition a year later.
Bonnie channeled her grief into helping other children. She wanted to take the time that she had spent at the hospital with her daughter and give it to other children whose parents weren’t able to be there with them. But when she tried this, it backfired on her. The children were too afraid of zombies, all she did was agitate them.
Instead, she spent her extra time making companions for the sick children. It started with one bear that she had made for her daughter. Then she got more fur, and started sewing more bears for other children. Inside each one, although they would never see it, she inserted a paper heart with, “With this bear, you will never be alone,” inside of each bear’s chest.
First, she started with one bear for each child that had been in the same ward as her daughter in the hospital, which was about a dozen bears. And then she went on, sewing bears for every child in the hospital.
She encouraged people in other communities to do the same. And Bonnie’s Bears was born. Every child receives a special bear sewn just for him or her. Each one contains a note stating that the bear was made with love especially for them so they would never be alone.
(back to TOC)
****
The Hospital Room
After my brother’s motorcycle accident, he lay in a room in the intensive care unit of his city’s hospital.
I lived two hundred miles away, and my sister lived in Florida, but we respectively made the all night drive and caught the first plane into Craig’s city.
Lying in the white sheets on the hospital bed under a medically induced coma, he looked so weak and small. His right arm and left leg were bandaged, and his neck was in a brace. The nurses said that this was because he was often restless.
That sounded just like my brother. He was always the kid with too much energy, even after he grew up. It was no surprise when he bought the motorcycle, in fact we wondered what took him so long.
Although he was energetic, he wasn’t stupid. He wore boots and a motorcycle jacket and a helmet for safety. Craig was the local director for the Department of Natural Resources, but he was never in his office. Instead, he preferred to be out implementing the programs he introduced himself. I don’t know if he even owned a television set, it would have been impossible for him to stay seated for so long.
So to see him ly
ing motionless in this bed, all the tubes and wires coming from him... it scared me. It scared my sister too. So we remained by his side, and were thankful for every visitor that came.
Craig was naturally a very popular man, so he always seemed to have a visitor. Most of them felt as awkward as his brother and sister did, watching Craig laying still. They also weren’t used to being in the same room as him with so much silence.
Many of the visitors would try to make up for the lack of conversation by rambling on and on without saying much at all. But one man came in and introduced himself. He was one of Craig’s employees. Then he stood silently, staring at Craig’s still body on the bed.
He merely stood there for close to an hour. Then suddenly, tears started rolling down his face, and he held back sobs the best that he could.
He turned away from the bed and said, “I’m sorry,” to my sister and gave her a huge hug.
Then he shook my hand and gave it an extra squeeze.
Finally, he looked both of us in the eyes and asked, “The doctors say he’s not going to pull through, don’t they?”
With tears in our eyes, we both nodded.
“I have the ability to do something for him. I can’t stop him from dying, but I can make him come back.” We nodded in understanding. “Would you like me to help?”
“Yes,” my sister whispered.
“Yes, please,” I said as soon as I found my voice.
He held Craig’s hand between both of his own and said to us, “He can’t know that I was the one who did this.” We both nodded.
Suddenly, the heart monitor stopped beeping and emitted the tone we had been afraid of hearing for days. We swallowed our fear as the monitor went silent altogether and Craig sat up with a gasp.
The man brushed each of our shoulders before he left the room. We never had the chance to tell him, “Thank you.”
(back to TOC)
****
Cookies
At first, I didn’t take the conversion to being undead well. I locked myself in my house and refused to go out. I was afraid of what people would say and afraid they would be scared of me.
I used to be a baker. My specialty was cookies. My shop made cookie bouquets. We’d insert a stick in the bottom of a cookie, and the other end in the bottom of a vase or pot. After being accented with tissue paper and/or leaves, it would make the cookies look like edible flowers.
The best cookies I made were good old fashioned chocolate chip. Not only would I make them for my shop, but more often, I would make them for my friends and family. I’d spend as much time making cookies to give away as I’d spend making them to sell. Whenever I heard of an elderly friend of a friend, or a neighbor in need, I’d bake them cookies.
Since I died, I hadn’t made any cookies. I figured no one would want cookies made by a zombie. My employees would call me and ask me to come in, but I told them to hire someone to take my place. They continued to call, saying they missed me and just wanted to see me.
When an old friend would come by, I wouldn’t open the door. Instead, I’d tell them that I wasn’t accepting visitors today.
One day, a young neighbor boy came by. I told him that I was sorry, but I didn’t want to see anyone that day. But he wouldn’t leave.
“I know you’re a zombie,” he said.
“Aren’t you afraid?” I asked.
“Naw,” he said. “Zombies are cool.”
The next day, I got up the courage to go for a short walk around the neighborhood. No one ran away screaming. In fact, many people smiled and waved.
The day after that, I went to the mall. The day after that I went to the grocery store. Every day I would go out, and for the most part, people were as friendly to me as they used to be.
Finally, I went into work. My employees were so happy to see me that they threw me a party. They said that business had been down. As soon as customers knew I was back, the orders came flooding in. They didn’t care so much that I was a zombie now, they had just missed my cookies!
Soon my days were back to normal. I’d get up in the morning, have coffee and cereal on my front porch, then go in to work. Around three in the afternoon, I’d go for a walk. Then I’d check back in on the store before I went home for the evening.
During one of my afternoon walks, I passed by a high school. A large group of teens were hanging out front, sitting on walls next to the sidewalk. As I passed, they yelled things out like, “Dirty zombie,” and “Go back to the grave you came from.”
I didn’t go back to the shop that day, I just went straight home. I reconsidered whether I was really accepted into society the way I was.
During supper, one of my employees called me to make sure I was okay. And then another called. And then a neighbor came by. I told them all what had happened, and they all told me it was just teenagers being mean.
So the next day, I had a plan. When I went on my walk the next day, I walked by the school again, the same teenagers started taunting me. I walked up to them and said, “Your comments don’t bother me. I’ve heard a lot more compliments than your insults. But you should be careful, not everyone has that level of self-confidence. I will be back tomorrow.”
As I walked away, behind me the teens threw insults like, “Oh, I’m so scared,” and “What are you going to do, eat our brains?”
When I went back, I was armed. The same group was there, but they hurled fewer insults this time. I walked right towards them, and they became silent as I reached into my bag for my weapon.
Their frowns turned into smiles when I brought out cookies. I had baked a special batch of my chocolate chip cookies and boxed them in individual boxes. I gave each teenager a box with about half a dozen cookies inside.
Now their comments switched to, “Wow,” and “These are really good.”
And then, without any prompting, each one said, “Thank you,” and, “I’m sorry.”
(back to TOC)
****
Playing Guitar on the Beach
After a night out with my friends, I got in at four in the morning, and had no inclination to sleep. I was still too wired up. So I grabbed my guitar and went to the beach.
Since it was still early morning, the beach was practically deserted. A figure to my left wandered slowly down the beach, stopping occasionally to pick something up and put it in a bag. Another figure to my right just sat on the retaining wall and stared out at the ocean.
I laid out a blanket and took a seat between the two and started to play. The figure on my right eventually made her way over to me. As the beach got brighter and she got closer, I realized she was a zombie, but I wasn’t afraid.
“You play such beautiful music,” she said. “It gets so lonely out here, and your music makes me happy.” He clothes were worn and tattered, and the hat on her head barely covered her colorless hair.
“I come out here every morning,” she explained, “and pick up the trash that the people partying in the night leave behind. I want to make something beautiful in the world, like you do with your music.”
Then she took a few coins out of a pouch on her belt. “Will you play a song for my friend over there?” She gestured to the figure sitting on the wall. “She’s always so sad. I think your music will cheer her up.”
She handed me the coins. “I don’t have much, but this is important. Will you accept this and play for her?”
I handed the change back to the woman. “I’d be happy to play for your friend at no charge,” I said.
She led me over to the retaining wall. The woman there didn’t look to be in much better shape. Her clothes were also in poor condition, and she had a pair of broken sunglasses on. A discolored red scarf was tied around her neck.
“This is Gail,” she told me. “She doesn’t speak much, but she likes music.” Then she turned to the woman, who I figured was also a zombie. “Gail, I brought someone to play music for you. He’s good.” Then she left me while she returned to cleaning up the beach.
I played a sweet but sorrowful song for Gail. From her demeanor, I thought she might enjoy it. After it was over, she turned to me and smiled. I took that as a good sign and played another and another.
I lost myself in the music. It seemed like the only people in the world were me and Gail. Finally, the lack of sleep was setting in, and I stopped and looked up. A small crowd of the early morning sunbathers had gathered, and when I stopped, they applauded politely.
Then before I could say anything, they started putting their money in my guitar case which had previously been closed. I tried to stop them, but none listened to my pleas.
When they were gone, I gathered up all the money and handed it to Gail. “This is for you,” I said. “Thank you for letting me play for you.”
She waved her hands to decline the money, but I insisted. She put her hands together and bowed to me to say Thank You. I replied, “You’re welcome.”
Then she gestured again, and took the scarf off. It confirmed my suspicions that she was a zombie. Her throat had been ripped out, so she no longer had the vocal chords to speak.
I played her one more song before I left, and she gave me a big hug.
About once a week, I still return to the beach with my guitar. And she is still there, staring out at the ocean. I play her songs, and when I am done, she gives me a big hug.
Brains for the Zombie Soul (a parody) Page 11
