Zombie Road Trip

by Miller, T. Alex

  There were cars and buildings, some with windows blasted out. He didn’t want to duck into the first one, though — that’d be too obvious. He led Marilyn down a side street that soon opened onto a wider boulevard full of store fronts. The scene told the story of what had gone on in the city: burned buildings and cars, gore smears all over the sidewalks and even walls, a complete absence of light or electricity and water bubbling up from the street drains and manholes — so much so that they were up to their knees in it in the street. Tim grabbed Marilyn’s arm and guided her onto the sidewalk and then through the shattered opening of a store full of beds and other furniture.

  As soon as they were inside, they could hear the hunters enter the street, yelling directions (some of which Tim was starting to understand). He pulled Marilyn over to the back of the store and looked around for a place to stow her.

  One of the beds on display had a large drawer underneath it, which was in the open position. He recognized it as an extra place for a bed, but there was no mattress in it: perfect for a hiding zombie. Marilyn complained, but he managed to get her to lie down on the slats and then shoved the drawer shut, giving her the “keep quiet” gesture before her tortured face slid out of sight. He stood still for a moment to listen for her whistling lung. Yep, there it was, but so long as no one got within a few feet, they shouldn’t be able to hear it.

  Nearby was a kids’ section, and Tim chose a loft bed made to look like a pirate ship. He climbed the spiral staircase into the top, which was covered in a swath of fabric made to look like sails.

  And he waited. The sheets smelled very new, and the mattress, he reflected, was thin and not nearly as comfortable and plush as the one at the house where they’d eaten Belly and Thong. But it felt good to lie down for a moment — at least until the danger was either past or … no longer relevant. The image of his and Marilyn’s bodies burning out on the sidewalk, next to the street-river, produced in him an involuntary shudder.

  Two of them came in and gave the furniture showroom a good, 20-second blast of automatic weapon fire. Then, they stomped around, kicking things over and, Tim could imagine, looking under beds and around corners. Tim lay perfectly still on his back, his arms folded across his chest like a vampire as he peered into the leering face of a pirate — Blackbeard, perhaps, woven into the fabric of the bed’s canopy.

  When the men left, he stayed where he was, took one last look at Blackbeard and closed his eyes. Being in something akin to a child’s bedroom was prompting more memories of his human life, and he was hoping to capture some of them before they drifted away. Marilyn, he knew, would remain right where she was until he came to get her.

  She was that kind of patient Zee.

  First, he went down the list of things he’d heard from the men that he’d understood. “In here!” “Fuck” and “fucking” (which the squealer-squad guys used as liberally as their bullets), and “Hit it!” This one just before they sprayed the place with their weapons.

  It occurred to Tim that, had the men taken just a little more time to do a thorough search, they would most certainly have found him and Marilyn. So they were lazy, or stupid, or they just didn’t care that much about Zees in hiding.

  Because soon enough they would either die where they hid or come out seeking flesh and get whacked in the process.

  Tim tried to remember the last time they’d had anything to eat. Time was still a fuzzy concept for him, but he was starting to get some semblance of day and night counting back. It must’ve been two days ago that he’d run over the young man and woman, and they’d been able to linger over the kills for quite some time to fill their bellies. He could feel a bit of an empty space in his gut now, which meant Marilyn would be even hungrier. But the last thing he wanted to do right now was roam the streets of an unknown city while squealer squads were afoot. Better to at least wait until dark. He also wondered about the furniture store — why no one was in here already? It was close to the highway, had a wide-open door and plenty of comfy beds. If he and Marilyn had found it so easily, did it not stand to reason that someone else might? Someone with a pulse?

  They were rare among Zees, he knew, when it came to their willingness to use the trappings of humans — beds, cars and the like. It was unlikely any other Zees would wander in here, but it might be worth waiting a few hours to see if dinner walked in the door.

  Clambering down out of his pirate ship, Tim went to get Marilyn. It was a pretty big store, and it took him a long time to find the bed that contained her. But then he got close enough to hear her punctured lung whistling. It sounded like a distant teapot. He slid the drawer open to reveal her comatose eyes staring straight up, like she’d been reading recipes written on the underside of the bed. She cocked her head about a micron, looked at Tim and freed one hand from her Snuggie to hold out to him.

  Since Marilyn was still all Zee, her first instinct was to wobble through the smashed entryway onto the street and make herself available to be shot. Through the rudimentary communication system they’d established — grunts, gestures and the occasional shove — he got her to hunker down with him behind a large buffet near the front of the store. He pantomimed as best he could some people walking in, followed by their attack and consumption. Marilyn gave him a slightly less blank look, which he took for comprehension. At least she wasn’t trying to walk out the door again.

  Their stakeout so close to the smashed front windows enabled Tim to listen to the sounds of the city. In the background was the constant sound of moving water as the myriad burst pipes of the city gushed their contents onto the street. He wondered if, at some point, the level would rise past the sidewalk and into the ground floors of the buildings. A concern for another day, he figured.

  In addition to the water, there was the occasional gunshot and what sounded like a car being dropped from a great height every minute or so. After the sound occurred several times, Tim started to realize it was on some kind of schedule, but he couldn’t imagine a reason for it. Was it some kind of Zee trap? Maybe a manufacturing plant still running somehow, yet gone haywire? Some squealer squad creating noise or distraction for some unknown purpose?

  Wham/Crash! Wait … Wham/Crash! Wait … Wham/Crash! Wait …

  What the hell IS that?

  It was pretty far away, Tim reckoned, but he couldn’t help but listen for it, his body tensing more and more as the water-silence prepared to be broken by the wham/crash. By the time the 10th iteration of the sound came around, he could focus on little else — which is why he didn’t notice the enormously fat woman who walked, with extraordinary stealth for a woman of her size, right into there here-and-now.

  Chapter 14. The fat lady

  Marilyn saw her, though, and with a horrific shriek she was on her in a flash. Marilyn could move like a rocket ship when dinner was involved, and in this case she moved so fast the fat lady only had time to raise the pistol in her hand about halfway before Marilyn was tearing into her neck with savage abandon.

  After his double take, Tim watched in awe as Marilyn dispatched her prey, tore the tent-like dress from her body and tucked into the massive reservoirs of fat this woman had been storing — apparently just for them — lo these many years. Her breasts alone represented more meat than you’d get off an average, full-grown man, and her ass could no doubt fortify a Zee family of six for a week or more. She was, in short, a tremendous windfall, and Tim lunged forward to tear off her brassiere and behold the apricot-sized nipples quivering atop tits the size of volleyballs. He soon had both apricots in his mouth, happily chewing away, before his somewhat-higher brain kicked in again:

  What was she doing in here, all alone?

  He stood up and looked toward the entrance where she’d come in. No one there. Walking over, he peered out, half expecting to get the crown of his head blown off, as he’d seen happen to so many Zees. It was coming on twilight, and the sidewalks appeared empty as the water rushed by in the street.

  He was about to turn around and back t
o their fabulous meal when he noticed it, bobbing right in front of him: a small, flat-bottomed boat tied to a fire hydrant. Was this what the fat lady came in? It hardly seemed possible that someone of her girth could’ve fit in the tiny craft, much less get far in it without sinking.

  On closer inspection, though, it appeared the boat was being used simply as a water-borne wagon of sorts. In it were boxes and bags full of food, water, weapons and other supplies. Pushing his brain hard to make sense of it, Tim guessed the fat lady walked along the sidewalk towing her little boat of stuff. Alone, apparently, and now very much not in need of her craft. Tim eyed the craft and wondered whether it would support him and Marilyn, and if it made any sense whatsoever to get in it and float down the street. Where would it lead them? And wouldn’t they just make great targets, sitting there in the middle of the main drag?

  Perhaps, but not so much at night. Looking up and down the street, working hard to remember where the highway was and which way south lay, Tim came to the uncertain but alluring conclusion that the street-river flowed south as well — south, toward Meridian. If they could float on this current under cover of darkness, they could get far – a lot farther than they could on foot.

  Struck by the idea, Tim started emptying the boat, tossing the boxes and bags of stuff into the running water. His idea was to see how high it would float, then try to guess if his and Marilyn’s combined weight would swamp it. He stepped into the street and observed the water was almost up to his knees. Once the boat was empty — save a machete, a couple of guns and a box of Slim Jims (he had an idea for those) — his poor brain clattered to the conclusion that it just might work. They could float in comfort down this urban river, munching on one of the fat lady’s legs and ass cheeks they’d bring along as provisions, and shooting at anyone who tried to shoot at them. Assuming, of course, Tim could figure out how to make a gun shoot.

  Hell, I drove a car, I can shoot a gun.

  There was, of course, the small matter of disengaging Marilyn from the meal-of-the-century and convincing her to get in a rickety little boat. No doubt it’d be easier to do in a day or two, after they’d had their fill of the fat lady. But Tim somehow doubted the boat would be so patient. He could also imagine it being something of a signpost out front of their story, encouraging squealers to wonder who the sailor was and what he was doing in the furniture store. On top of all that was his growing sense of urgency: south, Meridian, those people — clues to his former existence and some kind of key to the future. Maybe even a cure. And somehow he knew the clock was ticking. He could feel more pain in his body, a growing sense that he was morphing toward become more squealer than Zee.

  No, it had to be tonight. With the sun just setting, he had a couple of hours to get ready. That meant cutting some hunks of flesh off the fat lady with the machete, loading the boat with Marilyn and the meat and, perhaps most difficult, untying the knot that held the little aluminum boat in place.

  Returning to the kill, which was right next to a little girl’s fanciful unicorns-and-mermaid bed, Tim observed Marilyn efficiently inserting the easiest, choice bits of fat lady into her horrible maw. Not ready to arouse suspicion, he dug into some of his own favorite parts, and the two of them noisily fed for an hour or more, reducing the woman from a person to a pile of indiscernible flesh, bones and blood in no time. As he ate, Tim also managed to save some selects, sawing them off with the machete and tucking them under the wings of a large, stuffed pink dragon. Marilyn didn’t seem to notice, gnawing intently on a gelatinous forearm as Tim shoved a 10-pound roll of belly fat under the dragon’s wings.

  When Marilyn finally sat back on her haunches — her Snuggie now looking like a butcher’s apron and a dazed, sated look on her face — Tim started to put his plan into action. He shoved the bloody fat-lady bits into a pillowcase and, standing up, started for the door while gesturing to Marilyn to follow.

  She didn’t, which was no surprise. Marilyn was in a meat coma, and he knew from experience she liked to just sit stupidly for hours following a feed like that. But the sun had now been down a couple of hours and it was a moonless night, raining lightly. There wasn’t a better time to go, and if it came down to it, he’d leave without her.

  The thought made him sad, as he tossed the dripping, bloody pillowcase into the boat. He’d known Marilyn almost as long as he’d been a Zee — which was to say his whole life, in effect — and felt they pretty much needed each other. He needed someone to watch out for, and Marilyn needed him to keep her out of trouble. Or so he thought. Ultimately, he knew it made little difference, that they were both doomed. At best they might survive another week or two, and what kind of life was this? But, then, who ever know how long they had? A squealer at the top of the world could get hit by a bus tomorrow, he knew. For Zees, it was even more sketchy. You could be hobbling along minding your own business when some asshole with a long-range rifle could blow off the top of your head without a second thought. Talk about fate … and karma. It wasn’t like creatures like Tim and Marilyn could expect sympathy from any humans. They were the scourge of the earth, murdering ghouls without a single redeeming characteristic. If Tim had any sense of decency left, he’d figure out one of those guns tout de suite and pop himself before he murdered again.

  He leaned against the building, looking at the bobbing boat and thinking about that. How was he any different from, say, a leopard, which survived by murdering antelopes? There were even fish and other critters, he recalled, that ate each other — much as the Zees fed on squealers. If there was a god — and Tim was pretty sure at this point there wasn’t — would he split hairs between leopard-on-antelope and Zee-on-squealer killing? What was the difference, other than brain capacity, underwear cleanliness and bank balances?

  All this philosophical thinking literally made Tim dizzy, and he sat down, back against the wall and closed his eyes. He was increasingly aware of the growing part of his mind that wasn’t all Zee, that wasn’t solely concerned with where the next bit of live human flesh and fresh blood was coming from. He had the words in his grasp: Janet, Madison, Monroe … and Meridian. The first three words were connected to people, people he cared about — or at least used to care about. That fourth was … a place. It was the place in the south, the place he was looking for. If he could get there, he somehow knew, something good would happen. Questions would be answered. He’d get to see Janet and … the kids. Maybe they could fix him, help him …

  Cure him.

  It seemed unlikely; he seemed far beyond help. All these bullet wounds, if he turned back into a human, could he even survive? Marilyn, he was pretty sure, was even deader than your average Zee, and with no discernible human part left. Still, he would take her with him, and when he was cured, perhaps they could keep her out in the yard as a pet.

  Tim felt the corners of his mouth twitch slightly upward as the thought of Marilyn tied to a stake in the backyard amused him. And then, speak of the devil woman, he heard her whistling chest approaching. He opened his eye and there she was, scuffling past in her blood-soaked Snuggie carrying a dripping Harry Potter pillowcase which, Tim would learn shortly, contained a substantial rump roast from the fat lady.

  She stopped and looked to Tim for further instructions and, in that moment, he felt something like … well, he wasn’t sure what, but it was something just ever so slightly warm and charitable towards Marilyn. He pointed at the faerie pillowcase, and she tossed her own on top of it. Tim then took her hand, guided her to step into the boat and motioned for her to sit.

  So far, so good. The boat was sitting lower in the water, but it seemed like it would continue to float with him in as well. He turned his attention to the rope and quickly discovered there was no knot at all; it was simply looped over the fire hydrant. He pulled it over the top, flopped into the boat and they took off down the river-street at what seemed a breakneck pace.

  Look Marilyn! We’re Tom and Huck heading off down the mighty Mississippi! Goddamn!

  What actuall
y came out was a barfy-sounding “Huck,” which drew a scowl from Marilyn. She now had her pillowcase in her lap and was soon ducking her head into the opening from time to time, emerging with gobs of flesh.

  That’s my girl, thought Tim. That’s my girl.

  Chapter 15: The River

  The boat ride wasn’t as much fun as it might have been — not that zombies are looking for fun. In fact, it pretty much sucked. They couldn’t move in it, as the slightest shift in weight would cause the craft to tilt crazily and threaten to buck them out. The river in the street was shallow, and they often bumped and scraped along the bottom. On several occasions, Tim had to take the paddle and push off at the bottom to get moving again. Still, it was moving them at a good clip, and the rain had increased, making it even more unlikely anyone would spot them from “the shore.”

  After what he guessed was roughly midnight, the current slowed enough that Tim could sit back and stop worrying they were about to capsize. Marilyn had gone into her happy place, and Tim watched as the street widened, the storefronts grew fewer and farther between and the rain began to slacken. Sitting back against the side of the boat, he pulled out one of the Slim Jims and regarded it.

  It had occurred to Tim that, if he had any chance whatsoever of regaining normalcy some day, he’d have to give up the eating-people thing. That would entail the consumption of people food rather than people, and the sterile, highly processed meat substance of a Slim Jim seemed like a good place to start. Somewhere in his submerged memory, Tim had a vague recollection of a guilty fondness for Slim Jims, and though it took him nearly half an hour to get the package open, he beheld its salty, cylindrical form with both wonder and warmth. Placing it slowly between his teeth — which still needed a good flossing from the fat lady feast — he bit down slowly with the expectation of savoring every morsel while noting he wasn’t sure what happened to a zombie when it tried people food. Would he be like a dog, who soon learned he much preferred it? Or would it cause some sort of negative, physiological reaction – an allergic fit, anaphylactic shock perhaps, or terrible hives or boils?