Dead (A Lot)

by Howard Odentz

  Four others were close enough to him to get hit by the poxer pyrotechnics, and pretty soon they also lit up like dry wood on a hot fire, shrieked, and burst.

  There was one left to go—the guy with the bowtie. He watched with dead eyes as his buddies burned up the place—and that was no exaggeration. Wherever poxer goo hit, the walls and the ceiling started to smolder. Finally, bowtie guy turned and began slapping his palms against the glass of the sound booth.

  Jimmy James looked crazed. He wouldn’t move. He just sat there with his eyes open and his mouth agape.

  “We gotta go, Jimmy,” I yelled at him, loud enough that he could hear me through the glass. He just pointed at bowtie guy and wildly shook his head. I grabbed the remaining pages I had and gingerly maneuvered through the burning remnants toward the sound booth. When I was close enough, I lit the last few pages off of a burning chunk of something really gross and walked up behind the guy.

  “Hey, mister,” I said. “Got a light?”

  The poxer whirled around to face me, shoulders hunched, with drool dripping out of his mouth. I stuck the burning paper in his face and backpedaled half way across the room to watch him light up like a fourth of July fireworks display.

  When he finally popped and burning glop hit the glass window of the sound booth, Jimmy James became just a little unhinged and turned white.

  “Suck it up, college dude,” I muttered to myself as I made my way back across the room. Smoke was starting to fill up the place, and we had to get out soon. “Jimmy, please. We gotta go.”

  I saw his head over his equipment sort of half nod. He slapped himself hard in the face a couple of times and looked at me with tears in his eyes. His gaze spoke volumes, and I could only imagine what the past night had been like for him, locked in the sound booth with the dead all around him.

  He motioned to the side of the booth, and I went to the door, watching his head and shoulders as he sort of crawled over to let me in.

  ‘He must be in shock,’ I thought as I heard the door lock click and watched the handle turn. The door swung open wide, and it was my turn to be in shock.

  Jimmy James, D.J. extraordinaire of WHZZ, was in a wheelchair.

  14

  NOW I’M AS politically correct as the next guy, but . . . are you kidding me? A wheelchair? Everything was going too fast, and I couldn’t stop and think about our brave new world filled with zombies and how much of a liability a wheelchair would be. I supposed I could have left him there and told the others that Jimmy just didn’t make it, but I couldn’t do it.

  Besides, I think Poopy Puppy would have known I lied. So I said, “Hurry, before we’re fricasseed.”

  “I don’t know how I can thank you.”

  “I’m sure I’ll figure something out. Do you need me to push you?”

  Jimmy James gave me a look that made me feel like a very small, amusing child. “Ah . . . I think I can manage,” he said.

  I suppose he was right. Wheelchair or not, the guy’s arms were thicker than my legs. He had leather gloves on his hands, and his wheelchair was tricked out like a racing bike. He grabbed a backpack off the ground and slung it over his shoulders.

  “When we’re out of here you’ll have to teach me your little pyro routine,” he said and popped a wheelie. “Let’s go.”

  The smoke in the room was definitely getting thicker, and the ceiling was already on fire. Jimmy rolled straight through the carnage, letting his wheels leave tread marks all over what remained of the poxers.

  I followed closely behind him, his back muscles flexing as he palmed the chair forward. Geez, he must have worked out ever since he was old enough for training wheels. When we got to the double doors he stopped me from opening them and pushed through himself.

  Just like that we were out of the broadcasting room and safe from what might have been a grim fate for our man on the airways.

  SEVEN OF THEM, he had said. He was surrounded by seven of them—and a little boy.

  The boy was waiting for us around the corner.

  I think I let out an involuntary yelp, not because I was scared of a pint-sized zombie, but because I had come straight down the very same hallway just minutes ago, and the kid hadn’t been there before. This hallway was supposed to be safe!

  He was about the same age as Sanjay, with light brown hair and freckles. He looked like someone’s kid brother, anybody’s kid brother, which is exactly what he probably was less than twenty-four hours ago. Now, he was a mindless monster, albeit a little one. A little one just like him bit Mr. Mic last night and infected him on the spot.

  I pulled out the lighter and reached into my other pocket for what was left of ‘The Lottery,’ but the pages were all gone. I had used them inside the broadcast room.

  “Quick, in here,” I said and pushed Jimmy into a room to our right. I didn’t even have time to check for oogie boogies. I closed the door behind us and turned to look for something to burn. My bad. A middle aged woman was sitting behind a desk with her head on the ink blotter. The desk was slanted against the far wall.

  At first I thought she was dead, dead. Like really dead.

  I was wrong. She lifted her face up, and a large portion came off and lay on the desk in front of her.

  Jimmy’s wheelchair flew out of my hands. In a second, he was across the small office. He reached down with both his hands, found the lip of the desk, lifted with his freakishly bulging biceps, and pinned the poxer to the wall.

  Everything on her desk—her computer, pictures of family, little memorabilia from vacations past—all fell on the floor with a crash.

  The poxer snarled and gnashed her teeth but couldn’t free herself.

  “Now what do we do?” he said to me. “And don’t push my wheelchair. I can do it myself.”

  “We burn it,” I said. “And duly noted.”

  I flicked the lighter and nothing happened.

  “No.”

  “No what?”

  “No,” I said again as I flicked and flicked and flicked. Nothing happened.

  That’s when I got mad. I mean really mad. Mad that everyone turned zombie on us. Mad that my parents were gone. Mad that Sprinkles died and I was driving around in Chuck Peterson’s stupid gas guzzling Hummer. Mad that I had to endure Prianka Patel and Sanjay the human robot and Poopy Puppy. Mad that the one guy I thought would be able to help us was a human cart on steroids.

  Mad that the stupid lighter failed just when I needed fire the most.

  Hatter mad.

  Yes siree. I was officially mad enough to do just about anything.

  I reached down and grabbed a chunk of rock that fell off the lady poxer’s desk. Someone had written something on it in Spanish—words that didn’t mean a hill of beans to me, because I was too mad to see them through the red haze in front of my eyes, much less read them.

  “We’re leaving now,” I said. “Stay or come. Your choice, man.” I opened the door and stepped into the hallway. The little boy was still there, drool dripping from his mouth.

  “Move,” I said.

  He didn’t.

  “Well then. I don’t ask twice.” With that, I fast-balled the rock as hard as I could right in the middle of his head, and he dropped.

  The thing didn’t even have a chance to get up, because I picked up the rock and slammed it down on his head again. Okay, maybe more than once. I kicked the body to the side of the hall, letting loose with a whole bunch of pent up anger the whole time. I’m not exactly sure what I said, but as Jimmy wheeled past me he looked at me but didn’t say a word.

  At the exit, he pushed open the doors and wheeled down the ramp. I followed him around to the front of the building.

  I’ve thought about that rock a lot since that happened. What were the odds that it was there, right when I needed it most?

&
nbsp; One thing was for damn sure. When you got poxers to deal with there ain’t nothing that feels better than a good old fashioned stoning. Don’t ya think?

  15

  JIMMY HAULED himself into the back seat next to Prianka and Sanjay, and we threw his chair into the way back with the rest of our belongings. The chair folded up pretty neatly so there was still room.

  Both Prianka and Trina shot off a whirlwind of questions. Was he scared? How could he be so brave around all those zombies? How many times a day did he work out? Did he have a tattoo, because college guys always have tattoos? Did he have a girlfriend?

  Hello, Trina. Chuck just keeled less than twenty-four hours ago. Down girl, down.

  Poor Mr. Muscle in the tragic chair was soaking up the attention like a sponge. Vulnerable guys are chick magnets, or that’s what my dad always said. You know—guys with puppies or babies—or apparently, wheelchairs.

  As we pulled out of the parking lot Jimmy said, “So what’s the deal with fire?”

  “The necropoxers are combustible,” said Prianka. I looked in the rearview mirror to see if she was mooning over Jimmy as much as Trina.

  Her dark eyes were brimming with excitement. Life sucks.

  “Combustible?”

  “Combustible,” repeated Sanjay. “Combustible. Capable of igniting and burning. Alternate definition, easily aroused or excited.”

  That shut the girls up for a moment. I snickered. Sanjay added his signature flourish to the announcement as he showed Jimmy his stuffed mouthpiece. “Poopy Puppy says so.”

  “You’re a regular Einstein, aren’t you?” said Jimmy and reached over to ruffle Sanjay’s hair, but Sanjay shrank away from him.

  “He doesn’t like to be touched by strangers,” I said.

  “Oh. Hey, I’m sorry Buddy. No harm no foul?”

  Sanjay leaned over to Prianka. “Why does everyone call me Buddy? It’s not my name.”

  Jimmy caught my eye in the mirror. He looked perplexed.

  “He’s autistic,” I said. “Got a problem with that?”

  “No, man,” he said. “I’m cool.”

  I suppose he was, so we explained everything to him. Actually, we gave him a blow by blow of what happened since Chuck’s car alarm went off the night before. There was a lot of yawning while we talked, so when Jimmy offered his place as a crash pad for a couple of hours before we went on to Aunt Ella’s, Trina and Prianka were quick to agree. I wasn’t so easily swayed until he told us he had lighters and food. I guess the caveman with the supplies wins.

  He guided us down a few side streets until we were in a quiet part of town with trees overhanging the road and white picket fences.

  We ended up in the driveway of a little, one story bungalow.

  “Pad, sweet pad,” he said. None of us moved. “Come on.”

  “There could be poxers,” said Trina. “I can’t deal with any more poxers right now.”

  “And Tripp broke my lighter,” added Prianka. “We don’t have any fire.”

  “I didn’t break your stupid lighter.”

  “Well I guess it just broke itself.”

  “Maybe it did,” I snapped.

  “Maybe it did,” she snapped back.

  “Whoa, whoa,” said Jimmy. “How long have you guys been going out?”

  Sanjay barked out a laugh and that was enough to get Prianka moving. She opened the door, took Sanjay by the hand and got out of the car. Jimmy reached around to the back of the Hummer with one thick arm. He grabbed his chair, opened his door, set the wheels on the ground, and maneuvered himself into the seat like a gymnast on a pummel horse. Trina and I didn’t even look at each other. We just sat there for about ten seconds before both reaching for the door handles at the same time, and got out of the car. Weird twin thing, I guess.

  We followed Jimmy up to the front stoop. There were three brick steps there, with moss eating through the cracks. They led up to a small porch.

  “No handicapped ramp?” I said.

  “Who’s handicapped?” said Jimmy as he turned his chair around, popped a wheelie, and literally hopped the chair up the stairs backwards on two wheels like some sort of freakish circus act.

  Just shoot me now.

  “You know, I think there’re some old phone books lying around,” he said as he rummaged in his backpack for his keys. “Maybe you can look up where your aunt lives.”

  “I never thought about using a phone book,” said Trina. “Aren’t they just for old people?”

  “Yeah, but some folks still swear by them, so they keep getting printed. You’d think they’d have gone green by now. Everything else has.”

  Jimmy dug deep and finally produced his keys. He examined them for a second before pulling out the one for the front door.

  “What if there’re zombies inside,” I said.

  “I live alone.”

  “But what if they got in the house?”

  In answer to my question, a small voice from inside said, “Hello.”

  Trina and I bolted off the porch in one leap.

  Jimmy rolled his eyes and just stared at us. Prianka picked up Sanjay, and he wrapped his legs around her waist.

  “Hello,” the voice said again—high and lilting.

  Jimmy unlocked and opened the door. “Hello?” he said into the emptiness.

  A black shape flew out of the doorway, and Prianka screamed like a little girl. It was a crow. The bird flapped its wings and settled on Jimmy’s shoulder then cocked its head and looked around at all of us as though we were new and interesting toys.

  “Hello,” the crow said.

  “And hello to you,” said Jimmy. “How’s my pretty bird?”

  “Pretty bird,” repeated the crow.

  “You have a talking crow?” I said.

  Jimmy kissed the bird on the beak and stroked its back feathers. “Everyone, this is Andrew. Andrew, these are my new friends. Can you show them some respect please?” On cue, Andrew the crow bowed his head like I’ve seen parrots do on TV shows about stupid animal tricks.

  Sanjay stared at the crow, fascinated.

  “I missed you,” said Jimmy to the bird. “Sorry that I didn’t come home last night, but I got into a little bit of a jam.”

  “Got lucky,” said Andrew and Jimmy turned a color of red that looked funny against his hair.

  “You’re a dirty bird,” he said,” But yeah, I guess I did get lucky or you would have been locked up here for good.” Andrew clucked and bobbed his head. “Come on in everyone,” said Jimmy. “If there are poxers around, let’s not advertise that we’re here.”

  That got us all moving. We followed Jimmy James and Andrew into the house, closing and locking the doors behind us.

  Without electricity, the interior was gloomy. Jimmy, with Andrew on his shoulder, quickly wheeled through the house and did a quick inspection of all the windows. He went in and out of each room to make sure everything was locked. After he checked each window he pulled the shade.

  We parked ourselves in the room to the left. There was a futon couch, an old coffee table, and a bunch of pillows on the floor. In the far corner was a computer desk. Sanjay climbed down from Prianka and went over to the computer and just stared at the blank screen.

  There were some men’s fitness magazines on the futon. I caught myself wondering how flammable they were. Trina picked them up and dropped them on the coffee table, then, without a sound, Prianka, Trina, and I all collapsed on the overstuffed mattress.

  Exhaustion rolled over us like the numbing waves of a winter sea.

  16

  IT WAS DARK WHEN I woke up, and my arm was fast asleep because Prianka Patel was lying on top of it. Trina was sleeping against Prianka. We all must have looked like a weird game of pig pile.

  Th
ere was a candle lit on the coffee table, but there was barely enough light to see anything.

  I disentangled myself from Prianka and got up, leaving her and Trina to sleep. My mouth tasted like cotton, and I really had to pee. There was another small candle by the doorway, sitting on a stack of telephone books. Down the hallway was another candle on the floor. I felt my way in the dim candlelight and was thankful that the first door on the right was to a small bathroom.

  Leaving the door cracked so I could get a little bit of light from the candle, I did what I needed to do.

  When I was done, I gingerly lifted the window shade and looked outside. The night was clear, and there were stars everywhere.

  We weren’t alone. The street wasn’t swarming with zombies, but there were a few shambling back and forth. Maybe they had lived in the neighborhood before they died. Maybe they smelled life somewhere close. Who knows? But for the moment, they didn’t seem to be targeting the house, so I wasn’t too worried.

  Out of the bathroom and a little further down the hallway was another, slightly ajar door. Through the crack I could see candlelight flickering.

  When I peeked in, a shirtless Jimmy, wearing only blue jeans and socks, lifted up his head from his pillow and gave me a short wave.

  “What time is it?” I said.

  “Somewhere a little before dawn, I think. We all crashed. It took me a bit to get the little guy to go to sleep, but we came to an understanding.”

  “What do you mean?” said Prianka who was now standing behind me.

  “Come on, I’ll show you.” Jimmy sat up and stretched then lifted himself over into his wheelchair. Yup, college guys do have tattoos, and I couldn’t help noticing Prianka noticing the band etched around Jimmy’s arm.

  He grabbed a t-shirt that was rolled up at the bottom of his bed and slipped it over his head. Prianka and I parted as he wheeled past us.

  Across the hall was another room with the door almost closed. Jimmy put his finger to his lips before softly cracking it open. A flavored jar candle sat on the floor in the middle of the room that made everything smell like cinnamon buns. I couldn’t help but think of my mom. In the far right corner sat a weight bench and a bunch of dumb bells on a rack. The weights went higher than I could lift. Hell, they went higher than Chuck Peterson could ever dream of lifting.