by Adam Sifre
Ted sat down next to the soft, dark earth, wiping his forehead on his sleeve. He didn't know about other grave diggers, but he hated burying corpses almost as much as he hated digging them up.
On the bright side, digging them up often paid better. It amazed him how much wealth people tried to take with them. The dead made Ted's night life arduous, but profitable.
He retrieved a bottle from his coat pocket, raised it to his lips and took a long pull. It would be another hour or so until full dark, so he'd have to wait a spell. It was going to be a long night. But he was determined to claim his prize.
Chapter 6
Cold Comfort
Found crumpled and stuffed in the mouth of a female corpse identified as Jodie Wylde, 60-65 years of age. Death by blunt trauma.
Jenny's Journal, Sept 2
What a day to start keeping a journal. On top of everything else, mother's dog died last night. Mom's been widowed for almost four years. Dad was killed in a bizarre landscaping accident that I don't feel comfortable writing about just now. I'm not usually around for Mom. I was just visiting her when all the weird stuff started happening. I was supposed to fly back to Chicago last night, but those plans are on hold for the moment. Sparky was Mom's only real companion for the last three years.
After finding Dad in the compost heap, mother was devastated. We all thought she'd follow him in a matter of weeks. Not necessarily ending up in the compost heap, but you know what I mean - just a joke between us girls, dear diary. When I'm a published writer I'll have to come back to you and do some serious editing!
Anyway, I guess you could say Sparky was a kind of Christmas miracle. That scrappy little puppy saved Mom's life just by being there for her on those lonely nights. If you're not a dog person, you won't understand, but a dog can be just like a person for some people. Maybe better than a person; certainly better than a lot of people I've come across recently, if you can call them people.
Anyway, again last night Mom was making a batch of smores for St. Jude's kitchen of hope, like she does every time this year. I guess she figures if the homeless and starving can make it through another year, they deserve a few cookies. Only last night ... last night ...
The thing is, Mom's getting on in years and she doesn't see as well as she used to. But she's so vain about her eyes, especially the glass one. Always cleaning it, she is, and showing it off to the Jehovah's Witnesses when they come to call. Usually that's enough to convince them to peddle their Jesus elsewhere. So she didn't notice the roll of Brawny paper towels close to the stove. But she noticed when it caught fire.
She panicked and just stood there watching it burn. She could have burned the whole house down if it wasn't for Sparky. That beautiful, crazy dog threw itself on the small fire, smothering it before it got out of control. I know the cynics will say he was just going for the smores. But you don't know Sparky. That dog was all heart, and a lot of fur. Flammable fur.
Anyway, by the time we put Sparky out, it was too late. The smores were cold and Sparky was overcooked. I think it was too much for Mom. She took to her bed and won't get up. She just lies on her back, staring at the ceiling. So now I'm stuck in Jersey with a semi-catatonic mother upstairs, no television - long story - and a batch of ruined smores. If she's not more responsive in the morning I may have to take her to a hospital.
That's all for now, Journal.
Ttyl
As proof that either God or the Devil appreciates irony, George Potts turned on Monday morning, just in time for work.
George was Comfort's sole mailman and until Sunday morning, its oldest living resident. He was balder than bald on the old dome, scarecrow thin like most octogenarians, and had a habit of scratching and prodding various body parts whenever the mood struck him, again like most octogenarians. In his sole concession to vanity, he sported the largest snow-white mustache the good people of Comfort had ever seen. Annie, the hostess at the Broadway Diner, enjoyed teasing him about it.
"If you want to see the Tuesday special, I think there's still some buried in there somewhere," she'd say when he walked in every Friday evening for the blue plate. George would always shoot back, "If you want a mustache ride, all you gotta do is ask, darling." Good times.
The last day of George's life started off just about as good as a Sunday could get. It was a bright sunny morning and he had big plans for his one day off. His son and the not-so-grand grandson canceled their weekly visit and George would be lying if he said he was disappointed. Most days he enjoyed blessed few moments of quiet, and looked forward something fierce to being left alone. He had two Aleve tablets and a glass of grapefruit juice - fuck the government and their warning labels - for breakfast; and now, resting comfortably with his barkin' dogs on the ole' La-Z-y Boy, he was looking forward to indulging in his one, more or less, vice - an afternoon shooting Nazis on the Xbox 360. He'd purchased it for when his grandson visited, but he had to admit he was addicted to the damned thing.
None of this interested a meteor the size of a crab apple. After zipping through most of the galaxy, the small mischievous messenger ended its journey by plummeting through the roof and lodging itself in the back of George's skull, snug as a bug in a rug. An autopsy of his remains later revealed that in addition to being a zombie, George was in the midst of stage IV pancreatic cancer. Much later the few scientists left speculated that his condition, combined with the unique radioactivity of the meteor, may or may not have had something to do with George's decision not to remain dead.
He remained dead in his La-Z-Boy for the rest of Sunday, undisturbed by grandchildren, neighbors, Jehovah's Witnesses or anything else, other than a radioactive crab apple from outer space.
It wasn't until Monday morning that George Potts, the Adam of Zombies, woke up. He lurched out of his chair and shambled down the hallway, stopped at the front door and reached for the empty mail bag hanging on the coat rack. The strap caught on the hook and sent the rack clattering onto the tiled floor, making enough noise to wake the dead.
Mail bag in hand, Mr. Potts opened the door and went to work.
* * *
As always he started with Allison Green's house on Spruce Street. Allison was Comfort's town librarian. Her claim to local fame, however, was her green thumb. She was hands down the best gardener in the county. George made his way up the small walkway to the front door. Bright blue perennials flanked the cobblestone walkway and two well-trimmed butterfly bushes framed the entrance, their long trumpet-shaped flowers lending an aristocratic air to the house.
Allison was already at work but the two boarders, a young writer and his wife who also lived there during the summer, were at home. George threw his body against the front door - the patented zombie knock. A few moments later the writer's pretty wife, armed with a dazzling smile, opened the door. Her smile hardly had time to falter before George fell upon her.
With the slow determination common to the undead and civil servants everywhere, George made his way up and down Spruce Street. Most did not come to their doors when he knocked. Only Jenny Hague, the retired school teacher, and little Sammy, the Fredrick's boy, were unfortunate enough to be home.
By the time Mr. Potts reached Elm Street after delivering Ellen's mail, seven people were dead - for the time being.
Elm Street was the end of the line for Mr. Potts. Gladys Jackson, the town gossip, happened to be looking out her window as she often did, and saw George digging into Molly Sharpe - little more than the town tramp. Poor Mr. Sharpe is barely out the door some days before Jake's pickup pulls around the corner - But not even the town pump deserved to be eaten by a mailman, and Gladys promptly called Sheriff Stevens.
George was quite full and his mustache not quite so white when Sheriff Stevens arrested him. Comfort's number one mass murderer didn't put up a fight. They put him in a cell with two vagrants and Jimmy, the town drunk who was sleeping off a bender.
* * *
Being the sole Jew in town, they buried poor Ellen - still dead for t
he time being - the next morning. The others were in the morgue when they turned; the morgue being the basement of Morgan's Funeral Home. They killed Morgan, his wife and their infant son who through some small mercy remained dead. The writer's wife went home to get her husband and the librarian. The Fredrick's boy, the prodigal son, paid a visit to his dad who for one brief instant was insanely happy to see his son up and about.
Ted, the gravedigger had to work extra hard for his death. It was the middle of the night by the time he had dug up poor Ellen's coffin. Drunk and tired as he was, Ted was still horrified to hear feet kicking against the wood. He was not a brave man. Had he thought for a second that a half-starved zombie lay trapped in the wooden coffin, he'd have jumped out of the grave quicker than you could say "brains," and kept running until he was home with Jay Leno.
Of course this is not what he thought. He thought a terrible mistake had been made and that poor Ms. Rosenstein had been buried alive. So Ted got down into the grave with his trusty crow bar and started to pry the lid off. It wasn't difficult. It was a plain pine box held together by penny nails. With a little more effort, he popped the lid.
"Don't worry, Ms. Rosenstein," he gasped "Everything is going to be-"
Ellen sprung up like a nightmarish jack-in-the-box. Her once arthritic hands shot out and clawed into poor Ted's eyes. Ted screamed a high whistling scream that sounded like it came from a broken steam pipe.
Ellen, her fingers still hooked in his eyes, pulled his head down to her mouth. She covered his screaming mouth with her own in a parody of a lover's kiss. And she bit and she bit and she bit.
Ted did little more than mewl, having lost the use of most of his tongue and both lips. Even that stopped when Ellen pushed her fingers deeper into his eyes, searching for that special finger food that zombies, for lack of a better word, live for.
* * *
Even at this stage, most of the town refused to acknowledge that they were being turned into lunch meat. Mr. Potts had bitten the two vagrants and Jimmy, who never woke up. One of the vagrants tore Deputy Larkin's throat out when he opened the cell to see what was going on. The other had made its way out of the jail, and wound up at the Broadway Diner at a little past two a.m.
Annie, who was just about to end her shift, didn't notice anything wrong with the vagrant. He shambled instead of walked; he smelled like rancid meat, his clothes were stained and filthy. But that wasn't so unusual for the Broadway Diner at two a.m. Only after the man got fresh by tearing out a chunk of flesh from her thigh did Annie begin to suspect something was wrong.
And so it went. Of course the entire town did not turn into zombies. Many fled. Some who were killed remained dead. But when the grave dust settled, Comfort, Colorado was home to the first colony of undead, boasting a population of two hundred and thirty-eight undead ... and growing.
Chapter 7
Yes, Dear
Stanley fished out the sponge from the soapy tepid water, wincing as the submerged dishes clattered and clinked. Janet was stretched out on the couch in the family room. He could hear her snoring clear as day, even over Glenn Beck's weeping on the television. If there was a God, she'd be out for the night. And if there was a really good God, she'd never wake up.
If he were forced to use one word to describe their marriage, it would be long. And if he had to choose one word that terrified him, it would have to be longer. Stanley envied all those imaginary people who, when confronted with something that didn't work in their life, did something about it. He was thirty-nine years old, a stranger to hair products, and so hen-pecked over the last twelve years of marriage that he sometimes woke himself up in the dead of the night mumbling "yes, dear" in his sleep.
The mind wanders when one is alone in a quiet kitchen washing dishes. This was his me time, and even in misery he relished it. Things were tough lately. Work had slowed down and the company had cut back on overtime. Stanley could stand the cut in pay. It was being home before six that was killing him.
He was daydreaming about bachelor pads, the Playboy channel and White Castle dinners when disaster struck. A soapy blue water glass, purchased for ninety-nine cents at Costco, slipped from his fingers and shattered on the kitchen floor. Glenn Beck, still weeping over the destruction of America, and babbling some nonsense about the dead rising again and illegally crossing the borders, ignored it. Janet did not.
The snoring abruptly stopped and Janet launched into Jesus Christ mode.
"Jesus Christ!" she yelled. "What did you do now, you brainless idiot?"
Stanley closed his eyes and leaned against the kitchen counter.
"Nothing, honey. Don't worry about it. Just watch your show. I'll take care of it."
Janet must have muted the television because Glenn Beck went silent. Stanley no longer believed there was a God.
"If you didn't do ANYTHING, then what is there to take care of?"
Eyes still closed, Stanley heard Janet begin the labored process of getting up from the couch. Ignoring the broken glass for the moment, he put his hands back into the dishwater.
"Jeez and fucking crackers, are you so stupid," she wheezed. "So incompetent that I can't leave you alone to wash a few dishes without worrying about you wrecking the house? I can't just sit down for five minutes and watch my shows? What is wrong - no, wait. What is right with you, Stanley? I don't have time to stand around and listen to everything that's wrong with you, and that's the God's truth."
Stanley saw her in his mind's eye, rocking back and forth, building up momentum to propel herself off the couch and into the kitchen. Her cotton sky-blue warm-up pants, spackled with spaghetti sauce and chocolate, hung on to her hips for dear life.
"It's nothing, sweetheart. Just a drinking glass." In a moment of brilliant inspiration, he shouted out, "Don't come in until I clean up the glass. I don't want you to cut yourself."
Ignoring him - big surprise - Janet waded into the kitchen, guns blazing.
"Stupid is as stupid does, I guess." She had switched into injured, suffering spouse mode, knowing it was more effective in driving him crazy than yelling.
"I don't know what I did to deserve this. I wouldn't wish this life on Tonya Harding, that's the truth. I swear, if you were to get up one day and do something right, I'd just about have a heart attack and die from shock, Jesus forbid."
Stanley never knew what Janet was talking about when she got like this, but he hated it. Over the years she had accused him of crucifying her, pissing in her lemonade - and don't think he hadn't considered doing just that on a number of occasions - and once declaring that he was a kind of cancer.
"I can see you're just tripping all over yourself to clean up this mess. Jesus on the cross had it easier than I do. I swear if the Lord had known you for ten minutes, he'd have kissed Judas on the mouth and planted a tree in Israel to thank the Jews for bleeding him."
Stanley kept his eyes closed. He knew if he saw her he'd never do it. His hands found the frying pan handle, and he listened for Janet to come a little closer. For once Janet did what he wanted.
Can you say Amen?
In his mind Stanley shouted with rage, turned and swung the frying pan into Janet's flapping maw. He heard the satisfying thwack as it connected, Janet falling to her knees, her big mouth spewing blood instead of insults. He saw himself standing over her, screaming at her, swinging the pan over and over again - shutting her up forever.
"Is that my Costco drinking glass on the floor?" Janet shrieked. "I just ..."
Stanley let out a roar, but it came out as a high pitched squeal. He turned, eyes squeezed shut as he swung as hard as he could. The handle of the heavy frying pan, slick with soapy water, flew out of his hand and smacked Janet right in the middle of her fleshy forehead.
Big as she was, she spun around with the grace of a ballet dancer and collapsed to the floor.
Stanley stood there for a long time in shock. Not by what he had done but rather by the strange sensation of living with a silent Janet. Then he laughed o
ut loud - something that was verboten until tonight.
"I guess maybe there is a God after all."
When Janet didn't stop him he laughed harder.
* * *
Stanley was not a strong man. But tonight he had the strength of the righteous.
And he used his righteous strength to drag Janet's heavy body into the garage. He had intended to roll her up in a rug, but righteous strength went only so far these days and he couldn't handle the extra weight.
He pulled her across the kitchen and into the adjoining mud room, where they kept coats and boots. There was a half step between the two rooms and Janet's head made a soft, sickening thud as he dragged her over it. But Janet's capacity for patience had increased dramatically in the last hour, and little things like broken glass and smacking her head against the floor didn't bother her any more.
His plan was to put her body in the trunk of the Cadillac, drive out into the Pine Barrens - like he had seen on that Soprano's episode - set the car on fire and bury the license plates somewhere in the woods. It would be a long walk to somewhere he could call a car service, but nothing a righteous man such as himself couldn't handle.
