my way and ducked, uppercutting him in the stomach on my way back upright. He doubled over and his "Oof!" could be heard throughout the whole bar. I stepped back and assessed the situation. He was bent over, clutching his stomach, and I could see a small amount of intestine bursting out through his fingers. That's the worst part of getting punched in the stomach when you're decaying--it often winds up in disembowelment as the flesh and that peritoneum sack-thing are no longer strong enough to keep your guts in.
The ghoul looked up at me and held up one hand, while the other was busy trying to contain his innards. "Enough." I nodded at his concession, reached in my coat pocket, and handed him my stapler. "Thank you," he said, looking like I had forced him to eat lemons --also known for causing projectile vomiting--and I couldn't blame him. After he had closed the wound to his belly, he handed me back the stapler. I stapled my face back to normal, and we began stopping the other fights still going on around us.
We zombies beat the snot out of those ghouls, and we also earned a promise they'd leave Martin's alone after buying Griffin a new game. A collective cheer went up among my horde. Griffin had a tear in his eye as he looked over the ruins of his once cherry Donkey Kong as well as an utterly smashed Evel Knievel pinball game, one splintered foosball table, and several chairs we had destroyed in the battle. He whipped out a calculator and came up with an amount. He then informed the ghouls they were to pay the larger half, as they had started the fight.
It didn't go over well, and I was worried for a second that another fight would start. Some extremely angry and downright obscene words from Griffin cowed them, and the ghouls agreed. They gave him a credit card, which he then ran and forced the skag leader to sign. We all apologized, but I saw a bitter light in the eyes of the ghoul who had started the whole mess. I knew if I ever saw him alone we'd be fighting again. He didn't like being beaten by a zombie.
That very night, they began calling the incident "The Undead American Brawl." I'm embarrassed to say that's how it, and I, will be remembered by most of the patrons. After the ghouls left, I sought out Griffin in his office.
"Hey, I'm really sorry."
"It's not your fault, Bob. Those ghouls are getting downright dangerous. Their witch hasn't called on them at all, and they're starting to brag about it. I need to find her before they get too wild and start eating humans. If that leash isn't kept short, they can easily run amok and start causing serious problems for us supers, things far worse than some busted games and ruined chairs. I just know that Von Karolinas is going to hear about this and give me hell for it." He sighed and rubbed his temples like a man fighting a big headache.
"Why didn't your mojo work on them?" I probably should have left, but I had to know.
"I don't know. It normally does. I wonder if there aren't other problems due to them not being called. I really have to find that witch." He then started mumbling and looking through his rolodex.
"What about the credit card they gave you? We dead folks don't exactly have live accounts. It's possible she gave them a card in case they needed something." I shrugged and smiled an apology for interrupting him.
"Bob, you're a genius!" He bolted up out of his chair and ran for the bar. I smiled at his praise and slowly followed him. I couldn't help chuckling to myself how much the scene looked like a monster movie: him running away, me slowly ambling after him. I was chortling by the time I entered the main bar.
Face had put "Highway to Hell" on the Wurlitzer, and I joined my squishy rotting brothers on the dance floor. For me, it had been a great day. People had looked up to me, impressed with my gaming skills. I'd also been able to showcase my ass kicking skills. I felt like I was "The Zombie." I danced like I had no worries in the world, and when the song stopped, I was breathing hard and grinning like an idiot. The people around me were also grinning. There was a thick undercurrent of joy running through Martin's, one its owner was not responsible for. I had finally stood up for myself and my brothers, and I'd done what was right rather than sit back meekly and allow someone to bully us yet again.
It felt great. A part of me felt badly about the Donkey Kong game, but mostly I felt like I was alive again, for real. As a zombie, one of the things that overwhelms me is the fact that I don't feel emotions as strongly as I did when I was human. It can be a little sad but, for the most part, it's just a fact of afterlife we have no choice but to accept. Today, though, I felt as proud and happy as I had when I was alive. I was grinning like a fool, and for once, I didn't need a single staple to hold the smile on my face.
"Hey, Bob, can you give me a hand?" Griffin hollered over the sound of "Fortunate Son" by CCR. Without thinking, I ripped my hand off. A few noses wrinkled with the wet sucking sound my flesh made, but thankfully nobody puked, and I tossed it to the owner of my new favorite bar. "Ew! Not what I meant, Bob." He tossed my hand to me, and I stapled it back on.
"Sorry, I guess I got caught up in the fun."
"No apologizing. It was funny, just not what I needed," Griffin reassured me.
"What can I help with?" He pushed a shot glass filled with the beautiful amber ambrosia that is whiskey toward me. I gulped it down and nodded my thanks, appreciating the smooth caress of warmth and the slight aftertaste of vanilla and apricot. He hadn't skimped on me; it was the good stuff.
"I need someone to go with me to talk with the ghouls' necromancer. I'm worried she could use my gift as an expath against me."
"How is that possible?" From what I knew, expaths emitted emotion that other folks picked up on. I had never heard of anyone being able to influence an expath.
"To be an expath, you must also hold some empathic ability. I can feel other people's emotions pretty strongly. It's how I know when to emote ? emit ? whatever you want to call it."
"I think emoting works, and it's cooler sounding."
"Thanks, me too. Anyway, being a witch, she would be able to influence my emotions through the means of a spell, or even certain herbs."
"Creepy. Must be hard being you." I felt bad for the guy. Being a green man, he wasn't able to get out into public much either, and having to fret constantly about being influenced had to be worrisome. It made my problems seem a bit smaller by comparison.
"Not really. I think it would be harder being a zombie. You have to tell me about how that happened." I synopsized it for him, and he sat back astonished, "Wow, having your mom bring you back only to boot you out had to be painful as hell. I am so sorry, Bob." He seemed genuinely sorry that I had been hurt so badly.
"Thanks. Mom is a great lady, but she brought me back hoping I'd be the same. When my eyes clouded over with death and I began rotting and moldering, she couldn't handle the pain of seeing her baby dead and decaying. I don't blame her ? well, maybe a little. I would have been happy being reincarnated. She couldn't let me go, and now I'm forced to live an eternity of a life with no life at all."
"That's rough stuff, buddy." He pulled my shot glass closer, refilled it, and pushed the shot of Jameson Black Barrel back my way. I downed it and thanked him.
"Could be worse. I have a new life now, got my horde, found the coolest bar on the planet, and made some new friends. I think things are going to be okay."
"Glad to hear it--and thanks for agreeing to come with me."
"No problem! I'm just going to let Face know where I'm heading and that I'll meet up with him and the guys later." I hopped off the bar stool and fell on my face. I hadn't expected the whiskey to have such a profound effect on me.
Griffin came around the bar and helped me up. "You okay?"
"Yeah, just a bit tipsy, I guess. Never had liquor affect me so much before. Not since I was raised, anyway."
"Ah, yes. The good stuff will knock even a werewolf on their ass."
"Must be really good stuff." I grinned at him rather dopily. After a few moments, the feeling of being drunk passed and I was back to normal ? well, normal for me at any rate.
"It is, indeed. You head on over and tell your f
riends what's up. I'll see you in a bit. I have to talk to my bartender, Will." He gave me a small smile and headed into what I assumed was the kitchen area, as it was behind the requisite swinging doors.
"Hey, Face! I'm heading off with Griff to check out the ghouls' witch. He wants to have a long talk with her. I'll meet you guys back at the bunk tonight?" We'd been staying at a bunkhouse on an old cotton plantation. The main house was in ruins, but the bunkhouse had survived and, with minor repairs, had become our home. We even had Dish Network and a big screen TV for playing videogames. Sure, most of our furnishings came from the dump and from garbage left out for collection, but it was home to me and my undead family.
"We'll wait up for you, brother." I could read between the lines and knew what he was saying. If anything happened to me, my horde would be coming after Griffin and that witch. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I had true family again. Before this, Face and the guys were my friends, but tonight he proved he was my true brother. Happiness welled up in me and I smiled at my family.
"I'll be there no matter what. Horde equals family!" I hollered it louder than I should've, but it was true.
"Horde equals family!" they shouted back.
"You ready to jet?" Griffin asked me as he approached.
"Yup, let's head out, Griff."
He raised an
Bob the Zombie Page 3
