by Jim Couper
The other vees turned on the children whose bodies had half the blood of adults and started sucking. Draining children was a long-standing verboten, but these were difficult times and vamp bodies had not been properly nourished for weeks. Within two minutes six children with painted faces and bright clothing lay on the sidewalk, slightly flat. They would recover to donate again, but they would be orphans.
Groups of kids cried “Shell out, shell out, the witches are out.” Their cry should have been “Look out, look out, zombies and vampires are out.” Dressing up as a zombie claimed number one spot on the Halloween fashion list followed closely by various super-heroes, cowboys, cartoon characters and then vampires, whose fame had waned like twilight.
Mort no longer led his group. He lagged 10 yards behind, feeling sorry for the victims, feeling sorry for Peachland and feeling sorry for himself. Zombiedom could be bearable if not for the eating of innocents. It was one thing to be addicted to mature meat, but to think children’ bodies gave equal or better culinary pleasure was a cruel and unusual predicament.
On the sidewalk ahead of him marched a pair of tots dressed as ballerina and airplane pilot. A short, pretty woman and a burly, tattooed man, who swigged from a bottle in a brown paper bag, chaperoned them.
Dark blue drool spewed from the mouth of the zomb beside Mort when he spotted the beefy man sucking on a bag. The zomb set his sights on the big one: the tiny kids were nothing more than appetizers.
Within dining distance, Mort yelled, “Stopth,” at the other zombs, “Don’t eath them.” The woman’s downcast eyes suddenly looked up and she gasped, “Oh my God, not you again.”
“Yeth,” Mort gleefully shouted as he walked closer. “I talkth bether. We can be together: we are family.”
“You’re a fuckin’ zombie,” Melody shrieked. “Don’t come near me you sad sack of shit.” Her eyes glazed over and she sank in a faint to the pavement against which her head thumped audibly
“Deothorant and mouthwath work,” he muttered as she fell. “And wath your language with kids.” He stooped to her side and lifted her head, which trickled blood from behind her ear. Red droplets stained the sidewalk, but Mort licked them up and it was good. He wanted her brains and her organs − memories of ovaries and pancreases from dinners past danced in his head. Just a few strategic nibbles would transform imagination into reality and, with prompt medical care, she could survive and they could live as husband and wife. Her organs might even grow back and he could eat them again. That’s what Doogie was talking about! But surely he shouldn’t devour his wife, the woman of his dreams, the mother of his children. At least they should mate first and then, like a praying mantis, he would consume her. Or was it the other way round? Did the female eat the male? Or did preying manatees do that? So much to learn. Like a doomed insect he would gladly give himself to Melody if she wanted to dine on ripe revenant: if it was for the greater good, if it floated her boat.
As if arriving on the job, the man drinking from the brown bag rolled his sleeves over bulging, muscular arms and planted punch after punch on pale, putty faces. He knocked out some teeth and moved several noses closer to ears. The recipients of the blows made no howls of objection or cries of pain, instead surged forward oblivious to the beating.
Calculus and Abacus pulled at their mother’s hand. Abacus exclaimed, “Daddy still stinks.” Mort bent over to kiss Calculus, but she recoiled, screaming. Abacus shouted, “Daddy has no lips,” then asked, “Are you going to eat Uncle Walter?”
“No,” Mort mumbled, unsure of the truth and unsure of parental guidelines. Do you always tell children the truth? “I’m on new dieth,” he continued. “I eat peaths, carroths and spinath.”
Four zombs surrounded Uncle Walter, got hands on him, pulled him down and the best parts went to the fittest. In a few minutes a gutted, split-head carcass, almost unrecognizable as human, lay in a bath of blood. Heady, who had not fared well in the fight for organs, hovered over Uncle Walter. She appeared to be making a decision and then bent over, pulled down his pants, ripped off his testicles and jammed them into her mouth. His pink prostrate went in beside the blue balls. Heady chewed 20 times, took a giant gulp and everything went down. Visibly and audibly the parts thumped against the tape wrapped around her midriff.
Melody sat up in time to watch the demise of Walter and fainted again. Two zombies bent over her, their black saliva dribbling onto her neck. Another grabbed Abacus and again Mort shouted “No” and they stepped back. Melody lifted her head from the concrete and pulled her children into her. Mort spoke quietly, “I take you home, safe. Cook dinner; we wath TV. I promith not eat Abacuth and Calculuth.”
With a child in each arm Melody wobbled to her feet and glared at Mort with a hatred that started at the bottom of her soul and permeated every atom of her existence. The foulest of curses were insufficient venom with which to poison him. He took her silence as an indication of conciliation and reached for her hand. She shrieked like a burning witch then turned and ran. Her speeding legs took her in the direction of the family home and Mort presumed she wanted him to follow her down the yellow brick road to Utopian bliss. He hobbled along and kept up, which was not difficult as she carried two children and never did much in the way exercise. Carrying two bags of groceries up the stairs taxed her.
A yellow car pulled up, she got in and pointed to Mort. Perhaps the taxi would also give him a lift although he had concerns as he didn’t have money to pay the fare. The cab’s tires screeched and it sped towards him. When two wheels mounted the sidewalk he knew its aim was for a fatality rather than a fare. A rock garden offered protection and he joined his cronies on the far side of a row of boulders. The car slewed into a U-turn and as it passed in front of him Mort grabbed the door handle to get in beside his life-love. The cab sped away taking Melody, two fingers and his children out of his life. Longingly he gazed after it, his heart heavy with the loss of loved ones and body parts. Long ago he had forgiven Melody for her indiscretions. He could understand why so many men would love her and how could she resist? Surely she could forgive him as he forgave her. Bad diet and body odor were not traits he had taken on of his own volition.
41
The new blue squad car, still with a police logo from another town, started quickly and Jane began an early sweep of Peachland’s streets exactly as she and Jesse did every Halloween. Donald had little on his agenda and asked if he could come along. She agreed, hoping it would keep her mind off Jesse and help her focus on police business.
Uprooted plants tossed on front porches and pumpkins smashed on sidewalks constituted the only evidence that Peachland kids carried out pranks on the day of the dead. Tipping an outhouse never entered their thoughts despite the fact, with the army in town, temptation sat at nearly every street corner.
Rural roads and lanes received a quick look and, as usual, no activities required investigation or intervention. Gaggles of kids did not straggle from house to house as the focus of trick or treating had shifted to the well-lit downtown. Jane chatted about life − getting back to normal, locking up the town drunk, giving parking tickets, warning cyclists who didn’t wear helmets and filing a weekly report in which the most serious crime would be an NSF cheque accidentally passed at the grocery store. It would all be so dull and so welcome after three weeks of fighting and losing most of the battles. Donald remained quiet as she nervously rattled on, keeping her mind from drifting to Jesse lest emotions again break through the artificial barrier that divided the real Jane from the police chief.
With the police radio turned off for the first time in weeks Jane tuned in a local FM station and Donald hummed along with popular songs. As she tapped time on the steering wheel he asked, “What did the zombie eat after his teeth were pulled?”
Jane looked at him blankly, “Is that the opening for a joke?”
“Yes, zombie jokes got bantered about at the coffee shop this afternoon. I thought it might amuse you if it’s not in too bad taste.”
&n
bsp; “It’s in terrible taste. We’ve both lost our partners. But you know what, if Jesse sat in the back seat right now he’d say ‘tell the damn joke as long as it’s funny.’ So what exactly did the zombie eat?”
“The dentist.”
“Oh that’s bad, but you got me.”
“Do zombies eat popcorn with their fingers?” Donald asked.
This time Jane was more alert and had a response. “No, they eat them separately.”
“You’re sharp. OK, one more. What did the zombie professor say to the doctorate candidates?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“Brains.”
“Of course. That was obvious.”
“Speaking of brain,” Donald said, “that’s not what they say. I’ve listened carefully. Recorded it. I think it's pain: they are in some sort of pain. We often hear what we expect to hear. The bilabial plosives sound similar to the casual ear.”
Jane understood the concept, but didn’t understand linguistics and didn’t want to get involved in a discussion about labia, bi or otherwise. “They deserve to be in pain. I hope they hurt like hell and if there is everlasting damnation they deserve it. Is that it for zombie jokes?”
Before Donald could tell another they approached town and their eyes locked onto a pair of boots sticking out from a hedge. Mirth crashed like a racist joke. Attached to the boots was a bloody body, bearing all the signs of a zombie attack. An attempt had been made to bury the carcass in a shallow grave, but the diggers hit rock. They had gone a step further with this beefy body − pulled the pants down, ripped off genitalia.
“There’s one more zombie loose,” Jane said dejectedly. She phoned their location into army headquarters and left the info with a message service. A turn onto Lakeshore Rd. brought more carnage, worse than ever they had seen: bodies of families ravaged beyond recognition, bodies that appeared untouched by zombies, but were pale, thin, dead or unconscious.
Donald knew about vampires and had fallen for the fallacy that everything was under control and bloodsuckers did no harm. Jane’s hardened eyes could not remain dry when she saw six-year old children, dressed as princesses, warriors and action heroes, lying on sidewalks and lawns with their tiny, pale bodies looking lifeless. Some, ironically, had dressed as zombies, a few as vampires.
“Sorry,” she manged amidst a sea of sobs. She looked at Donald and his hands draped his face. Tears dripped from his chin.
“We’re supposed to protect them,” he whispered and his hand reached out and held hers.
“Where’s the army?” she sighed, squeezing his fingers. “Where were the police when those poor people needed us most? We thought it was over, that they were blown to bits. Who, what, could do that to a child?”
Donald got out and felt for the pulse of a boy in a Spiderman suit and said he was still alive. After the arrival of army and ambulances Jane’s foot jabbed the gas and a minute later she swung into a parking spot in front of the police station. Without words Donald knew what it was about. While issuing orders over the phone she unlocked cupboards and handed various implements to Donald and the duty officer.
Jane and Donald loaded the new car with shot guns, rifles, pistols, ammunition, tasers, billies, stun guns, tear gas, Z-D-Cappers and any weapon within reach including confiscated knives and baseball bats.
Three blocks from the station they came upon a festering zombie feasting on the remains of something they could not identify. Two private cars driven by uniformed RCMP pulled up beside their squad car and each driver received a share of the munitions. Jane pointed to the zombie and fired her shotgun from 15 feet. Scalp, hair and ear vanished from the left side of its head. The zombie, in a pale pink dress with crimson stains, seemed not to mind. Jane fired again and the same happened on the right side of her head. Donald closed to six feet and fired point blank. The forehead and nose vanished leaving bare bone stained with brown liquid. One of the police officers shot his handgun and the left eye became an empty socket as the yellow orb splatted through the back of the skull. With one eye blind and little left of a face the zombie still groped for giblets that she stuffed into her gaping gob. Another six shots filled the quiet Peachland air. More zombie’s head vanished and the creature, which had a broken spinal column poking out back, strutted defiantly towards the shooters as if to say, “You can’t hurt me, but I’m going to eat you.” Jane moved behind her, planted the Z-D-Capper on her neck and was shocked that the zombie swung around and grabbed Jane’s hair as the blades snapped. The capper lopped off the arm that held the hair. The grip remained firm and the arm swung back and forth on Jane’s back in time with her movements as she backed away and reloaded. Another officer approached with an axe and swung wildly, landing a blow that glanced off the creature’s shoulder, removing a steak-size chunk. The next chop landed atop the head and split the monster in two, leaving it with an eye and a bit of scalp hanging on the left and an eye hole and some jaw on the right. A couple of teeth moved up and down, attempting to bite. It couldn’t ingest a gummy bear and was as good as dead.
"You need a hand?" Donald asked and before Jane could answer he removed the arm that clung to her hair and hung down her back.
The noise, or perhaps the smell of humans, attracted other zombies and before the four police could congratulate themselves on the maiming, a mob of fleshmen surged towards them. Disabling the first zombie proved too easy, Jane thought. Zombies would be extinct by now if four cops could handle one with just a little resistance. Now they were nearly surrounded and reality hit them like a slap in the face from a frozen mitt. They backed towards a centre of greenery and stepped up onto the pedestal of a statue of a founding father planting a peach pit.
Mort had done his best to organize those around him into some sort of orderly platoon, but most zombies, especially the empties, did not comprehend his orders and wandered in ever widening circles. Or maybe he didn’t know how to give orders the way Doogie gave them. They obeyed Doogie when he lifted their sunglasses, looked deep into their eyes, spoke. Somehow they understood. Lots of body language and hand gestures accompanied Doogie’s instructions. Apparently zombies liked charades.
Mort’s group of soldiers of misfortune numbered 20, plus a few stragglers trying to catch up. Mob mentality remained within the undead consciousness and they herded like sheep on a hillside: misery liked company.
Veronica’s group had never feasted so recklessly. For the first time their need for blood − an appetite that could never be fully satisfied − reached a level beyond the previous high of satisfactory. For the first time in their lives many could say they were sated. Rosy cheeks and renewed energy accompanied their march through town disguised as nothing but themselves. Every one of them topped up like a glutton grabbing an extra dessert following a buffet dinner. The town reeled as if plague, earthquake, firestorm and tsunami hit at the same time.
No adult and only a few children had chosen vampire as a Halloween costume. It disturbed the group that they lagged behind Miss Piggy, Elvis and Dora in popularity and didn’t even contend for the top 10. What about Edward, Bella, Dracula, Count von Count or even, God forbid, Buffy?
The quantity of bodies ruined by zombies distressed the vamps, but new blood surging through their bodies gave them courage, although a few felt uncharacteristically sluggish and heads throbbed. Hangovers were not their normal cup of tea. If the zombs continued their anti-ecological and unsustainable rampage a future worse than bleak awaited all.
Among them they possessed six Z-D-Cappers yet no one had the courage to get near enough to a blood-soaked cannibal to remove its head. Veronica received congratulations for her idea of coming out on Halloween night and feasting on a populace that did not recognize them for what they were. As no alternative strategy existed, the vamps swaggered through the periphery of downtown as if they owned it. Swagger came cheap as long as lurchers didn’t challenge.
Doogie and his band struck the widest path of destruction, mercilessly felling all they came across, maki
ng no concessions for age, sex, race or religion. They tore off turbans to get at brains and held true to the maxim, it’s what’s inside that counts. On Halloween they didn’t judge a spook by its cover. Fat and thin, black and white, short and tall all got equal treatment. Only bloodsuckers, with organs like kitty litter used by a sick cat, got an exemption.
Doogie’s band of 50 ate its way through an army post, rounded a corner and found cops at the base of a statue battling a ragged and disorganized group of zombie cohorts. One zombie spasmed on the ground: little remained in the way of a head that had been split in two. Her mates closed on the four temps like flies in a butcher shop. The cops blasted and reduced a second head to a little more than a burned marshmallow on a stick, however the demise of the peacekeepers seemed inevitable. Doogie silently waddled behind a cop firing a shotgun, grabbed him around the neck, hauled him to the ground, unfastened him and directed a brained one to dine. As he did this the other three cops turned towards him and a chunk of his shoulder vanished as a shotgun fired. The new suit provided by a teacher was ruined.
An armored tank, covered with zombies who reached through every opening to grab something human, rumbled in from a side street. Through the cloak of undead the driver could see nothing and veered through a frame building that came down like matchsticks. The tank continued up a steep incline of shale until it slid sideways, overturned and rolled across greenery in the direction of the founding father statue, crushing a dozen zombs. The disoriented crew made the error of assuming the zombies had been shaken loose and opened the hatch. Ghouls jumped in.
The gang of ruddy draculs headed towards gunshots, figuring a sharpshooter had targeted zombs and may need either assistance or a draining. New blood charging through veins and arteries put them in the right frame of mind for action: especially action from a safe distance. The vamps came upon three cops, clinging to a bronze statue, trying to keep feet away from reaching arms. Well-dressed, reeking zombies surrounded them. Decapping an unaware zomb at the back of the pack proved remarkably easy and their hands went up in a high-five dance.
