Undead Cheesehead (Monsters in the Midwest Book 3)

by Scott Burtness

  Alright! It was a little victory, but a victory none the less.

  More rocking, and he managed to get the left foot to scoot forward. Rock, rock, right foot. Rock, rock, left foot. With each repetition, his eager fingers moved closer to the waiting hotdog. One more rock-scoot, and it would be his. Stanley’s weight shifted left. His right foot moved the last few inches forward and settled in a small puddle of soapy water from the sink. The inertia that had previously been his ally turned coat and sent his foot shooting forward. He dropped heavily onto his rear, fell backward, and whacked his head against the kitchen cabinet. Along the way, he also managed to kick the hotdog and send it skittering across the floor.

  Crappers, he grumbled again.

  The hunger was still there, reminding him in no uncertain terms that its needs took precedence over any thoughts of wallowing in self-pity. Stanley began the slow process of getting back to his feet. It was obvious he wasn’t up to the task of feeding himself. Fortunately, Ronnie’s was open all night. Decision made, he shuffled to the front door, hooked a finger through his key ring, fought with the door handle for a few minutes, and made his way into the cold winter night.

  Stanley’s little Chevrolet Cavalier was dusted white with a fresh layer of fluffy snow. Already certain that operating a snow brush would only end like the rest of his recent endeavors, he used his forearm to move some of the white powder off the windshield. Satisfied he’d cleared a patch big enough to see through, he set himself to the challenge of pulling open the door and getting his reluctant body into the driver’s seat. Raising a leg didn’t work. Trying to go in head first didn’t work. Finally, he settled on putting his rear end toward the open door, leaning back, and letting the door frame bend him forward while his butt inched toward the seat. Despite the slightly uncomfortable scraping of his shoulders and back of his head against the door frame, the method worked. Most of Stanley was inside the car.

  Keys came next. After holding up a hand to confirm he still had them in his grasp, he slapped the side of the steering column. The resulting clank and jingle might’ve been funny if Stanley were capable of being amused. As it was, each unsuccessful thwap of his keys against the column just bumped the needle of his annoyance up a notch. The last straw came when he swung his arm and hit the column hard enough to knock the keys from his hand to the floor mat below.

  Crappers, he grumbled one last time.

  Using the car was out, and Ronnie’s would be a long, long walk. The Get’n’Gobble was much closer. Stanley pulled himself from the Cavalier, pointed himself toward the road, and shuffled his feet forward. It was still going to be a long walk through a cold, dark night, but with luck, he’d get there right when the town’s little grocery store opened.

  Good thing, too, he thought as he began his slow trek through the ankle-deep snow. I’m hungry.

  Chapter 3

  Stanley’s alarm clock was a thing of beauty. A reliable wonder of plastic and circuitry with a blue liquid crystal display. “It’s time,” it buzzed. “It’s that time that you indicated was important. I’m so glad I was able to help wake you at this very important time.”

  Stanley wished he could come up with a truly wonderful way to thank his alarm clock. He’d never been able to find a thank-you card for an electronic device, so he would just pat its snooze bar lovingly and said, “Th-thanks!”

  Alarm clock attended to, Stanley reviewed the list of things he had planned to start the day. Pee, poop, shower. Brush and floss his teeth. Put on clothes, eat breakfast.

  With a satisfied nod, he pulled his comforter aside, swung his legs off the mattress, and placed his feet on the floor. Feet that were already snug in a pair of tube socks and attached to legs that were covered in jeans.

  “What the heck?” he wondered out loud.

  Stanley was pretty particular about what he wore to sleep. In the summer, it was a light pair of Nylon jogging shorts over his 60/40 polyester-cotton blend underpants and a 100% cotton tank top. In the winter, he traded the shorts and tank for a set of flannel pajamas. But jeans and tube socks? Highly unusual.

  The mystery didn’t end there. Not only had someone dressed his bottom half, but his top half was ready to go, too. Someone had pulled him into an undershirt and covered that with his favorite yellow and brown velour long-sleeve shirt. They’d even taken the time to button the collar all the way up.

  “K-keeps your neck warm,” he whispered, the observation dusted with déjà vu.

  He figured that whoever had dressed him hadn’t gone so far as to make sure he was empty and had clean teeth,

  Definitely would’ve woken up for that, he decided,

  so he headed into the bathroom. After flushing the toilet, he briefly considered showering. A quick sniff of each pit later, he decided a shower wasn’t really necessary and skipped right to cleaning his teeth. After a final rinse and spit, Stanley stood and considered himself in the mirror.

  “Lookin’ good, b-buddy!” he announced with a wink. The wiry, angular guy with a mop of brown hair pushed into a severe part and an Adam’s apple sharp enough to cut cheese with winked back. “Let’s get some breakfast and then figure out who came over last night and g-got you all dressed up.”

  There was definitely a mystery afoot, and Stanley did enjoy a good mystery. When he made it to the bottom of the stairs, the mystery deepened. More than that, it got a lot less enjoyable. Someone dressing him while he slept could easily be construed as an attempt to be helpful. An unconventional attempt, sure, but still. Stanley had never considered the advantages of getting dressed before going to sleep. He realized now that it was a darn good way to save time in the morning, unless you really did need to shower. If he had someplace important to be, he could easily shave twelve or even fifteen minutes off his morning routine. So sure, solving a mystery about why someone wanted to help him save time in the morning, and who would’ve had reason to be so considerate, was not a bad thing.

  Figuring out why someone trashed his living and dining room? Not nearly as much fun.

  Stanley took halting steps through the mayhem. His small, two-story home had a pretty common floorplan. The front door opened up to a small entryway. Turn left, and you’d find yourself in a modest laundry room that led to the back door. Go straight, and a flight of stairs headed up to the main bedroom and smaller guest room. To the right, a small living room and smaller dining room shared the same expanse of cushy, brown carpet. Just past the dining room, a compact kitchen. All things considered, it wasn’t a lot of space. Even so, Stanley was shocked to discover that pretty much the entire main floor was wrecked.

  The living room’s back wall was lined with bookshelves that had been full of books. Now, only a few tomes still occupied their intended places. The rest were strewn all over the floor, as if fleeing the toppled television that lay among them. The dining room table had held a collection of odds and ends. Newspapers from the past weeks, mail and bills, and other normal odds and ends. Just about everything that had been on the table had, like the books and T.V., been forcibly shoved to the floor. The only thing that was fortunately still in place was the glass containing his newly discovered horse fly. Stanley scooped it up with a relieved gasp and inspected the little bug inside.

  “Oh, thank goodness,” he breathed. “I’m g-glad you’re okay, little lady.”

  A memory popped like a soap bubble, and Stanley looked at his finger. Where he expected to see an angry, red bite was just regular old finger-skin. He shrugged his acceptance at the apparent miracle. He did take a lot of vitamin supplements.

  Worrying about whether someone had stolen his stuff, like a favorite book or maybe his monthly cable bill, he made his way into the kitchen. The sink’s faucet was trickling. The fridge was wide open, compressor chugging away. The floor was a mix of broken dishes and soapy water. Right in the middle of it all was an uncooked hotdog. Whoever had decided to pay him a visit must’ve really hated plates and hotdogs.

  “Holy c-crappers! Why would someone d-
do this?” he asked with a hitch in his voice. “Why the heck would someone d-do this?”

  Shaking his head at the sheer rottenness of it all, he picked up the phone and dialed Lois.

  “Someone b-broke in!” he blurted out the second the call connected.

  A long yawn stretched through the receiver, followed by the loud smacking of lips.

  “What’s that, hon?” Lois asked in a sleepy voice. “Someone’s joking? Oh, Stanley. I’m sure whatever you heard was really funny, but maybe we can talk about it later. Herb kept me up all night, if you know what I mean.”

  Stanley shook his head. “B-broke in. Someone broke into my house. They dressed me up in j-jeans and socks and one of my favorite shirts and then made a great b-big mess outta my living room and maybe stole my c-cable bill and then they messed up my kitchen and they ruined my last hotdog,” he gushed. Recounting the horrors out loud had him on the verge of tears.

  Lois finally offered an appropriate gasp of sympathy. “Oh Stanley, that’s terrible. Are you okay? Did you call the police?” she asked. Before Stanley had a chance to reply, she added, “Wait. They dressed you?”

  Stanley’s head bobbed in clear agitation. “Yep. You bet’cha. I woke up, and my j-jeans were on, and my undershirt and my velour shirt. You know the one. It’s soft and has this nice c-collar that k-keeps your neck real warm. Socks, too. Tube socks, which makes sense, especially in the winter. No one’s really ever seeing your socks when you’re wearing the shoes, so it just makes sense to wear g-good, comfortable socks.”

  “And you didn’t wake up?” Lois asked.

  The bobbing turned back into a shake as he explained that no, he hadn’t woken up.

  “That’s what m-makes the rest of it so weird,” he said. “Why would someone be so g-gentle getting me into my clothes, and then be so rotten and make a mess out of things? I worry. I mean, little things b-bother me,” he continued in his best Columbo voice. “I'm a worrier. I mean, little insignificant d-details… I lose my appetite. I c-can't eat. My wife, she says to me, ‘You know, you can really be a pain.’”

  “You’re not married.”

  Stanley hmph’d. “I was doing Columbo. Columbo was married.”

  “Oh. Huh. I suppose he was,” Lois conceded before giving in to another long yawn. “Well, if you’re okay, I think you should call the sheriff. They’ll send over a deputy, someone real good, and get you all taken care of. Why don’t you call us tomorrow and let us know how things worked out. Okay? Later, Stanley.”

  The call ended with a click. Stanley stared at the receiver in disbelief. The sheriff? He had a mystery to solve. What good would the sheriff be? Although the more he considered Lois’s suggestion, the more he realized it probably would be a good idea. If the home invader did steal his cable bill, he’d need to have the official report to contest the late charges.

  Stanley kept a pair of readers in the house. Not because he really needed them, but because he liked the way Angela Lansbury would slip hers on when she really needed to look intently at something. He figured a conversation with the sheriff’s deputy would be the perfect occasion to slide them on. His hand reached toward where they’d normally be and came up empty.

  “They got my g-glasses, too? No good no-gooders, and that’s a fact.”

  Stanley pushed numbers on the keypad, listened impatiently to a few rings, and was finally rewarded with the raspy voice of Corliss Dunkel. She’d been working dispatch at the sheriff’s department for as long as anyone could remember. Some folks even said she was there first and they just built the county office building around her.

  “What?” Corliss asked, the sound falling somewhere between a word and a cough.

  “Um, hiya C-Corliss. It’s Stanley Henkelmann. I had a home invader, and I need a d-deputy to file a report in case they stole stuff.”

  Phlegmy hacking filled the line and continued for a few moments, followed by the forceful clearing of an old throat long abused by two packs of cigarettes a day.

  “Address?” Corliss finally asked.

  Stanley prattled of his address and added a robust description of many of the trees that were viewable from the road to make sure the deputy didn’t miss the turn. Corliss repeated the address, but neglected to confirm the description of the trees. She then inquired about the nature of the break in.

  “Well,” Stanley admitted. “I g-guess I didn’t see a busted door or broken window.”

  Corliss followed up with a request for missing items.

  “Hmmm,” Stanley hedged, looking around the detritus of his living room. “I haven’t looked too c-close, but they might’ve taken my c-cable bill. And they ruined a p-perfectly good hotdog.” When a long silence followed, he repeated himself.

  “Yeah, heard ya the first time,” Corliss responded. “No forced entry, maybe a bill missing, ruined a hotdog. Got it.”

  After a few more questions about the nature of the disturbance, the ancient and ornery dispatcher explained that it would be a while before someone responded.

  “Sheriff’s skiing in Utah. Deputy Farman’s at the Get’n’Gobble. Someone’s causin’ a fuss,” she offered before indulging in a fresh wave of throaty coughs.

  Stanley tried to get a quick ‘thanks’ in between coughs and finally just disconnected the call. With a determined grimace, he set himself to putting things right. By the time he’d muscled the television back onto the credenza, moved most of the books back on their shelves, swept up the broken dishes, and piled newspapers and mail back up on the table, he was famished. A hotdog would’ve hit the spot, but his had been thoroughly ruined by the mystery invader. There wasn’t much sense waiting around for the deputy on an empty stomach, so he pulled on his boots and parka and reached for the key hook by the front door.

  “Where the heck are my k-keys?” he asked when his hand swiped at air. “They took my keys?”

  A quick glance outside added a fresh layer of weird to his already unusual morning. His keys were gone, but his Cavalier was still right where he’d left it, although the door was open. Running outside, he wondered why someone would take his keys but not take the car. He couldn’t think of a single episode of Columbo, Murder, She Wrote, or Veronica Mars that even remotely paralleled the day he was having.

  But I know what they’d do, he decided. Look at the facts. Always got to start with the facts.

  Stanley dropped into the Cavalier’s front seat, squinted, and scratched his chin. Someone broke into his house without actually breaking in, dressed him while he was sleeping, trashed his living room and kitchen, and wasted a perfectly good hotdog. Then they came outside, wiped off the car windshield and opened the door, but left the car where it was. It sure wasn’t a prank. Even if Dallas were still around, his pranks never broke plates or wasted hotdogs.

  “Enemies. Enemies. That’s what th-they’d be asking me next. Like that Veronica Mars, she’d c-cut right to the chase, say something clever, and ask who I’d t-ticked off.”

  Stanley tried to think of who in town might want to do something like this. It was a depressing exercise. After lengthy consideration, he couldn’t think of a single person that expended any mental energy on him, much less enough to be considered an enemy. Hungry and defeated, Stanley slumped forward and rested his forehead against the steering wheel.

  And saw his keys.

  The sudden elation lasted long enough for him to retrieve the keys from the car’s floor and try to start the Cavalier. It ended when the car responded with nothing more than a click. Another few attempts confirmed what he already knew – the battery had died.

  With a weary sigh, Stanley went back inside, traded his loafers for a sturdy pair of snow boots, pulled on his parka, grabbed his mittens, and trudged back out to his garage. Like any good Sconnie, he kept a jump kit ready all winter. After reviving the Cavalier, he let the old engine rumble and sputter for a bit before backing out of his drive and heading toward town. Stanley figured that while the day might not get better, he could at least face
the rest of it on a full stomach.

  Chapter 4

  After a long slog through the wintery night and into the wintery dawn, Stanley finally reached his destination. A gust of air brushed his face when the Get’n’Gobble’s sliding doors whooshed open. He supposed it should’ve felt warm, a welcome respite from the frigid outdoors, but he wasn’t all that cold. Hungry, sure. Cold, not so much. The realization was a little surprising. He’d slipped and fallen on the treacherous snow and ice more than a few times on his trek. Once, he even rolled down into a roadside ditch and had slide on his belly back up to the road. His shirt, jeans, and socks were muddy and soaked through with melted snow. A dusty corner of Stanley’s brain knew he should’ve been freezing, but apparently the rest of him wasn’t convinced.

  Operating on instinct, his hands found the rail of a shopping cart and swerved into the first aisle. He bounced his way between the shelves like a bowling ball between bumper buddies, all the while wondering what he should get to eat. About halfway down the aisle, a display of granola bars caught his attention.

  Fiber? he wondered. Probably a good idea. Keeps the cholesterol down, helps you poop. Nothing better than a good poop.

  An arm swung out, and four or five boxes fell from the shelf. To Stanley’s great delight, one even fell into his cart. A slow smile creased his face as he shifted his weight and sent the cart rattling forward again. Even though he had plenty of time to prepare, navigating the U-turn at the end of the aisle didn’t work out too well. The sound of breaking glass echoed through the store as apple sauce jars fell from the end-cap.

  Geez, he thought with a grimace. They gotta stack those better.

  The next aisle held baking goods and international food. Stanley careened off the shelves and added a couple boxes of cake batter, a tub of frosting, birthday candles, a few taco kits with shells, seasoning, and salsa inside, a box of penne pasta, and two bottles of soy sauce to his cart.