Undead Cheesehead (Monsters in the Midwest Book 3)

by Scott Burtness

  “Lookin’ g-good, buddy,” he congratulated himself and picked up his toothbrush.

  Oral hygiene attended to, Stanley dressed his wiry frame in crisp 60/40 polyester-cotton blend underpants, well-matched tube socks with gold stripes around the tops, clean jeans, an undershirt, and a yellow and brown velour sweater with a warm collar buttoned all the way up. Winter had officially settled into northern Wisconsin. Buttoning up the collar would help to keep his neck warm.

  Breakfast was a simple plate of fried eggs, buttered white toast, and a microwaved hotdog washed down with black coffee. Stanley sopped the remaining bits of egg yolk up with the final corner of his toast, took a last bite of hotdog, and swallowed the final gulp of coffee. A deep breath preceded a hearty belch that belied his slender frame.

  After breakfast, Stanley settled into the next phase of his day. The blue Barca Lounger gave a satisfying creak as it accepted his weight, almost as if it too were anticipating the upcoming excitement. Stanley extended the footrest, placed his remote controls in their proper order on his lap, and powered up his entertainment center. First one VCR, then the main television, then the second VCR and second television, then the cable box and third television. The air around him hummed with electronics coming to life, and a variety of lights from the three screens danced across the living room. One of his favorite shows, Judge Judy, was about to start. Television number three was already tuned to the proper station. He’d be able to hear the case description and opening arguments while queuing up recordings of season two of Veronica Mars on the main T.V. and National Geographic on the third.

  Soon, Stanley was happily absorbing a dispute over an electricity bill one neighbor incurred because another neighbor had plugged an extension cord into their outdoor outlet, episode thirteen of Veronica Mars, one of his favorites, and a special on sheep cloning. When the phone rang, he already had the answer.

  “Six. Six years, and that’s a fact,” he stated proudly into the receiver.

  “Um, six years what, Stanley?” Lois asked politely.

  “The sheep clone,” he explained reasonably. “Them scientists made it in 1996, and it d-died about six years later.”

  “Oh, okay. Good to know. Thanks, Stanley. Say, I was wondering if you’d heard anything. You know, from Dallas.”

  Stanley didn’t reply right away. He knew he hadn’t heard from Dallas, but he was distracted by an itch in his nostril. Dallas always said he was picking his nose. That wasn’t the case at all, or at least, not always. Sometimes a nose had an itch, and itches needed scratching.

  “Allergies,” he finally said. “Even w-with the antihistamines.”

  During the ensuing pause, Stanley returned his attention to Judge Judy. She was close to handing down a ruling, and he had a pretty good feeling that the plaintiff was going to make bank.

  “But what about Dallas?” Lois finally asked. “Unless, are you, I mean. Are you talking about him being allergic to the full moon?”

  Stanley’s head started to bob excitedly. “Oh, Lois. That’s a g-good idea. You bet’cha. Werewolves sure c-could be allergic to the moon. I bet they could. Like hives, but all over and hairy.”

  Lois asked again, “But you haven’t heard from him?”

  The up and down bobbing of Stanley’s head shifted into a side-to-side shake.

  “Nope. I’m really sorry, Lois. I ain’t heard n-nothing. Don’t you worry, though. Dallas, he’s a t-tough guy, real tough. He’s okay.”

  Stanley heard Lois sigh before saying, “I’m sure you’re right, Stanley.”

  “Hey,” he said with sudden inspiration. “You, me, and Herb should g-go bowling later.”

  “Tonight?” Lois asked. “I don’t think tonight’s going to work. Herb wants to get up early and cook me dinner. It’s been four months since our first date. Can you believe that?”

  Stanley almost dropped the phone with excitement.

  “Really? G-gosh, Lois. That’s pretty great. Really great. I’ll get some b-beers. ‘Waukee’s Best. And, um.” Stanley’s mind churned as he tried to think of the best side dish for the occasion. “Fritos. That way, it won’t m-matter what Herb makes for dinner. Fritos go with everything.”

  “But Stanley,” Lois said with a laugh. “It’s our anniversary.”

  “Oh. G-gosh. You’re right, Lois. Absolutely right.” The wiry man smacked his forehead with a palm. “What was I thinking? Snickerdoodles. Fritos are okay for lots of things, but this is sp-special. You t-tell Herby I’ll still bring ‘em, but I’ll definitely get some snickerdoodles too. P-perfect for special occasions.”

  Another laugh tinkled through the receiver before Lois said, “No, Stanley. That wasn’t what I meant. I meant that it’s me and Herb’s four month anniversary. That’s something people usually spend with, you know. Each other.”

  A long silence filled the telephone line stretching through the Wisconsin trees. Stanley finally broke it by asking Lois if she thought Herb might want to stay up and watch football on Sunday.

  “Sorry, but this weekend won’t work,” the witch apologized. “I have the weekend off, so we’re going to drive down to Green Bay and spend a couple of nights.”

  “B-but, but it’s football. Me and Herby and D-Dallas. We always. We used t-to. It’s… Lois, it’s the P-Packers! There’s the j-jerky, and the beer, and the maple b-bacon donuts, and...”

  Lois gently interrupted. “I know, Stanley. That’s why we’re going to Green Bay. We’re going to the game.”

  “You and Herby are g-going to Lambeau? B-but, but Lois, it’s outside. During the d-day. You’re g-gonna burn Herby right up.”

  “I got him a big hooded Packers parka, tinted ski goggles, and one of those masks that covers up your nose and face. Not only will he be one-hundred percent sun-proof, but everyone’s going to be dressed that way so he won’t look weird. Oh, and that mask has a little hole for the mouth, so I got a big travel mug with a straw. Herb can even bring some blood to snack on,” Lois added excitedly. “Don’t say anything, though. It’s all a surprise.”

  Stanley found his head nodding, but the gesture lacked enthusiasm. It felt more like the nod someone on the electric chair might give when asked if the wrist straps were comfortable. Ever since Dallas had run off into the night earlier that fall and hadn’t returned, things had been different for Stanley. It hadn’t been anything too obvious at first, so he didn’t immediately notice. Like how you can skip showers for a few days or even a week and still feel normal. Maybe an itchy scalp or a little B.O., but nothing too off-putting. Now, though, it was getting hard not to notice how things had changed.

  “B-but I took a shower today,” he said, not fully realizing it had been out loud.

  “Oh. Well, that’s good, Stanley. Real good,” Lois answered in a confused tone. “Um. Me too.”

  This time, the silence said more than words could.

  “Well,” Stanley finally managed. “You g-guys have a good time.”

  Lois wished him the same and hung up her end of the call. Stanley considered the phone in his hand. It felt heavier than when he’d picked it up, which was surprising given its sudden emptiness. Setting the phone carefully back in its cradle, Stanley returned his attention to the televisions vying for space on his credenza. At least they still had time for him.

  As he’d hoped, a few hours of T.V. drove the blues away and left Stanley feeling better. He’d learned how important the nuclear transfer of DNA from adult somatic cells was when cloning mammals, and felt that if he ever needed to defend himself in court for stealing electricity, he’d be able to do so competently. Episode thirteen of Veronica Mars was so good that he decided to watch episodes fourteen and fifteen right after. By lunchtime, he was brimming with information and couldn’t wait to share it.

  Scooping up his winter coat and slipping on his favorite brown leather loafers, he trudged through the fresh layer of snow on his driveway and slid into his old Chevrolet Cavalier. The cold engine protested, but finally rewarded Stanley’s
pleading with a sputter-turned-rumble. He put the car in reverse and had almost backed all the way out to the main road when the realization hit home.

  There was no one to tell.

  It used to be that he could head to Steinknockers and talk while Dallas put back a daunting amount of beer, or regale Herb with any newfound knowledge over a game at Bay City Bowlers. Now, though, it was just him. Dallas had been gone for months, and Herb had a girlfriend. That meant Stanley had no one to talk to except Stanley.

  “Crappers,” he grumbled as he hit the brakes.

  The Cavalier idled fitfully while Stanley tried to decide what to do. It was his stomach that finally offered a reasonable suggestion. Pressing on the accelerator, he backed onto the main road and shifted into drive.

  Trappersville was a town in name, but to Stanley’s knowledge, no one had ever successfully mapped its borders. It seemed like every time someone managed to say, ‘Yep. That’s it. That’s the whole town,’ some Sconnie would drop a trailer or pop up a little house deep in the trees and throw the whole notion of town limits into the dust bin. The one area that everyone agreed was definitely Trappersville was a small collection of paved roads and established businesses that were grouped together a few miles from Stanley’s house. The First Lutheran Church anchored one end of Main Street, the Get’n’Gobble grocery sat at the other, and a collection of little storefronts filled the space between. The few blocks to one side of Main Street were filled with small houses in orderly lots. The few blocks on the other side held more of the same, but more importantly held Bay City Bowlers. The town’s only, and by default premiere, bowling and karaoke establishment had been a regular haunt of Stanley’s for years.

  He passed by it all and turned onto the main highway. A short while later, Ronnie’s Famous Truckstop, Diner, and Gift Emporium appeared on the horizon. Owned by a retired trucker, its diner was open ‘round the clock and served up an impressive variety of Midwestern fare. Herb had been a cook there until Dallas had stabbed him with a broken pool cue, and Lois still worked there as a waitress. It was a go-to spot for lots of folks around town, which meant chances were good there’d be someone to talk to. Stanley turned into the parking lot and peered through the wide, plate-glass windows. He spied a few regulars and some guys he assumed were truckers packing in a good meal before getting back on the road. Perfect. After fitting his rusty Cavalier into a spot near the front door, he silenced the grumbling little engine, hopped out, and hurried through the cold to the welcoming warmth inside.

  Taking a stool at the counter, Stanley grabbed a menu and flipped through its laminated pages. A few stools over, the truckstop’s owner and namesake sat grumbling over a stack of papers.

  “No, no, no,” Ronnie muttered. “I swear, they’re trying to ruin me. They’re all trying to ruin me.”

  Stanley waved and offered a friendly hello, ignoring the sour look Ronnie sent his way in return.

  “Who’s ruining you, Ronnie? The IRS? I’ll b-bet it’s the IRS. Dallas always said them g-government types will take your last penny and send you a b-bill for a nickel.”

  Ronnie blew air out through his nose, producing a sound that reminded Stanley of the cloned sheep he’d been watching earlier.

  “The electric co-op,” he complained. “I don’t know where in the hell they get these numbers from. Am I paying for everyone in town? Am I paying to keep the sun lit up all day?”

  “Oooohhh, you should’a watched the Judge Judy today. Yes sir. P-people say to me, ‘Stanley, why do you watch that stuff?’ And you know what. This is why. This exact moment is why. You wouldn’t b-believe it, but today they had a c-case about someone stealing electricity…” Stanley started, but found himself talking to empty air. Ronnie had grabbed up his papers and stomped away to his office.

  Down but not out, Stanley waited patiently until Dee came round to take his order.

  “What’ll it be, Henry?”

  “Oh, uh. Hi D-Dee. Stanley. I’m Stanley. You know. Dallas and Herb’s friend.”

  “Sorry, sweetie. Of course you are. Dallas. Gosh. Where the heck has he been? Haven’t seen that boy in months. And Herb? Lord knows where that psycho ended up.”

  “Right. Um,” Stanley hedged, unsure of what to say.

  It had been an eventful few months in the small town. Deaths, disappearances, even rumors of a vampire, but most people didn’t know the half of it. Fortunately, Wisconsin folk weren’t the type to make a fuss. When the dust had settled, they’d gone back to their daily lives. Even so, Herb and Dallas were still regular topics of idle conversation. Was Herb a serial killer? What happened to Dallas? Were vampires real? Thinking about it brought a scowl to Stanley’s face. No one ever wanted to talk about what he wanted to talk about. It was always Herb or Dallas. Dallas or…

  “Herbert Knudsen!” Ronnie spat. “I knew he was rotten. Rotten to the core.”

  The diner’s owner had reappeared, face reddening at the mention of his former cook.

  “I tried,” he continued in a building rant. “Tried to instill a sense of responsibility in him. Tried to convey even the tiniest bit of understanding of the importance of service,” he lamented. “But you can’t make pie of out rotten apples.”

  “You c-can make cider,” Stanley offered. “I was watching this c-cooking show. You know, the one where they t-take leftovers and stuff you forgot you had in the p-pantry and show you how t-to whip up something delicious. This lady, she had all these b-bad apples. Did that stop her? No sir! She just g-got out the paring knife, cut-cut-cut,” Stanley explained, hands pantomiming the graceful work of a kitchen cutlery master. “Stuck them b-bad apples right in the, oh. N-never mind.”

  Ronnie had vanished again, Dee had flitted away to take someone else’s order, and Stanley was all by himself. With a heavy sigh, he propped an elbow on the counter and set his chin on his fist. A good sit’n’visit was a dwindling possibility, and getting served seemed even less likely. He was about to call it quits when the door opened and a cold blast of air followed a familiar face into the diner.

  Stanley watched Herb’s old neighbor stomp snow off his boots, rub his hands briskly together, and make his way to an open booth a safe distance from the door. Jerry looked pretty rough. The hair sticking out from under his knit cap was lanky and disheveled. Dark circles weighed heavily under bloodshot, shifting eyes. When one of the cooks dropped something back in the kitchen, the resulting clang caused Jerry to flinch like a frightened animal.

  That Jerry looks like he could use some company, Stanley decided.

  Relocating from his counter stool, Stanley slid into the bench seat across from Jerry.

  “Hey, J-Jerry!” he announced. “Sure is c-cold out there, huh. I heard on the weather that it’s g-gonna be real chilly all week. It’s because of the El Nino. That’s a polar j-jet stream. Like a river, but with air, not water.”

  In response, Jerry looked everywhere but at Stanley. When Dee stopped over to take his order, he mumbled something about a burger and fries.

  “Me too,” Stanley added.

  Jerry finally met Stanley’s eyes. “Look, Stanley. It’s nice to see you and all, but…”

  “You too! Gosh, it’s b-been, what? Months I guess. Folks j-just aren’t out and about as much. Can’t blame them. It’s cold. Me, I usually keep to the c-couch. Lots of stuff on the T.V.s. You watch Veronica Mars, right?”

  The paper salesman gave a slow shake of his head.

  “Oh,” Stanley said, a bit deflated. “You really should. That Veronica, boy oh boy. She’s a sharp one. Like Jessica Fletcher. Some folks say you c-can’t compare Veronica Mars and Jessica Fletcher. I say that’s nonsense. I mean, sure. That Jessica’s got all the looks, b-but they’re both real smart. Always looking for the c-clues. Figuring out the tough stuff. You watch Murder, She Wrote, don’cha Jerry?”

  Another slow shake of the head.

  Stanley sighed and nervously drummed his fingers on the table top and asked, “Columbo?”

  “Uh uh.
”

  “But you watch Judge Judy, right? Everyone watches the Judge Judy. Or Jeopardy?”

  “Um, no. Sorry.”

  Stanley hmph’d. He was about to scold Jerry for his disturbing lack of cultural development when he realized again just how rotten the man looked.

  “You feeling alright, J-Jerry?” he asked.

  Jerry let a slow breath out and focused intently on his hands for a moment.

  “Do you,” he started, and then furtively looked around before continuing in a lower voice. “Stanley, do you believe in... I mean, what do you think about…” he managed, and then blurted out. “I read horror books. That’s what I like. Vampires. Werewolves. And zuh,” he gulped before finally forcing out, “Zombies.”

  Dee arrived with two plates, each one weighed down with a heavy burger and enough fries to keep Idaho in the black for another month. Stanley grabbed up his burger and took a satisfying bite. While he chewed on the thick slab of ground beef, Jerry stared and swallowed and gagged a bit. A moment later, Jerry pushed his untouched burger to the side.

  “You gonna puke, J-Jerry?” Stanley asked around mouthfuls. “If you’re g-gonna puke, make sure you do it in the toilet. Me and Herb and Dallas c-came here once after drinking at Stein’s. Herby puked in the sink, and Ronnie d-darn near had a heart attack.”

  The sage advice didn’t seem to register. Instead, Jerry asked in a low whisper, “Stanley, do you think they could be real?”

  “Heart attacks?” Stanley said. “G-gosh yeah. That’s why they say, ‘serious as a heart attack.’ If they weren’t real, p-people wouldn’t say that. They’d say something else. Like maybe, ‘serious as a flat t-tire.’”

  “No. I mean monsters. You know. Like zombies. They’re not real, are they?”

  Stanley chewed thoughtfully and set down his burger. After careful consideration, he nodded his head.

  “Yep. I mean, I haven’t seen one myself. But vampires and werewolves and Bigfoot and b-boo hags and witches and stuff are all real. So p-probably zombies too.”