I've Been Deader

by Adam Sifre

  Of course any senior citizen or unemployed person that decided to visit Paradise today would be treated to a very different kind of buffet. For the foreseeable future it was 'all-the-customers-you-can-eat' day.

  Paradise was basically one large dining area. The center of the room was trisected by three long troughs, originally meant to hold steaming platters of MSG-laden food. Scattered haphazardly about were Fred's new friends, most of who were staring at the ceiling.

  In his book, yesterday's ambush amounted to a loss. Three of the four soldiers had turned; the fourth had been overeaten and wouldn't be coming back. None of the new soldier zombies displayed any special talent. Fred had hoped one of them would remember their military training, but they couldn't shamble and chew gums at the same time unless they were following his orders. While they'd lost just one zombie in the ambush, it had been a runner and runners were hard to come by. The zombie in him had no qualms about killing children to fill out the ranks, but the father in him burned with shame at the idea. The thought that his own Tommy - Timmy? - would be the perfect age, made him uneasy.

  He glanced up at the front entrance as two more zombies made their way inside. What does that make? Eighty, I think. After grabbing the runner in the park and enjoying the sight of Niki's demise, Fred had gone looking for Aleta, intending to try his new Zedi mind trick on her. Trouble was he couldn't find the brownstone. He knew it was close to the park. He'd cased the place for days - weeks - before approaching Aleta, but no matter how hard he thought, he drew a blank as to exactly where she lived. Instead he had to be content with going up and down the main streets in the area, part of him silently praying that he didn't stumble upon any armed and vengeful breathers. The other part sent out a general recruitment call.

  'Come to the Paradise Buffet ... Come to the Paradise Buffet.'

  Most ignored the call, either because they didn't hear it, or because they were able to resist Fred when not in his direct line of sight - he wasn't sure which. In Willowbrook Mall alone, he knew there were more than twice the number of undead than those here at 'HQ'. Still, his instruction had some positive results, and zombies dribbled into the Paradise by ones and twos throughout the day. From what he could tell so far, all the new recruits were brain dead with no talent, but that could change.

  Besides, every army needs cannon fodder, and nothing foddered cannon better than the average zombie.

  The first of the two new zombies stopped at the front of the door, apparently satisfied that she had carried out Fred's instructions to the letter. He watched in amusement as the zombie behind her, a stick thin male corpse that reminded him of Shaggy from the old 'Scooby Doo' cartoons, kept bumping into her back, unable to get inside until she moved. Shaggy even wore a green T-shirt like in the cartoon, except his had PETA SUPPORTER in bright orange letters across the front. Fred started to tell the first zombie to keep moving - and suddenly stopped.

  It couldn't be, could it? He shambled closer to the door. Her hair was short and matted with blood and gore. A few of her teeth were broken in the front, but they were still so white. The eyes were rimmed with blood, but there were still two of them.

  Aleta.

  "Braaiinns," he moaned.

  * * *

  Fred instructed Aleta to go into the back room, now functioning as his office. While he wasn't much for paperwork, he needed a place where he could get away from the incessant moaning and unpleasant smell that was part and parcel of all undead armies. He didn't follow her in at the moment. He needed to think.

  He had loved Aleta, the breather. An undead, Aleta was a different animal altogether. She was apparently brain dead, although like all starry eyed lovers he tried to convince himself that he had seen something behind those two beautiful eyes.

  Let's be honest. She's a walking corpse. No different from almost all the other undead here. No different from a vegetable really, a vegetable that hungered for human flesh and brains, but a vegetable. He could think of no reason why he should give her a second thought or treat her any differently from the rest of the cannon fodder.

  That wasn't entirely true, was it? After all, she still had that white smile, more or less, and those two eyes. And now she wouldn't run away from him. She couldn't run away from him. She had to do whatever he told her to do.

  Fred couldn't blush with shame, but he wanted to. He had no right to be thinking this way. This isn't what he wanted for her. What kind of monster equated love with absolute control over the thing that it loved?

  Absolute control.

  He'd have to be a monster to even consider it. It was one thing to be corrupt in the flesh and another to be corrupt in the soul. Besides, having an undead sex slave had its own drawbacks; the cold, hard truth was that when a male zombie had sex, he tended to leave with less than he came with.

  Then again, the thing in his office wasn't Aleta. There was nothing behind those dead beautiful eyes. If Fred was willing to use all the other zombies as pawns in his plan to win the war, then why shouldn't he be willing to use Aleta for another, but equally important purpose?

  His thoughts were interrupted when the girl - the runner from the park - started moving. She didn't run, but she didn't shamble either. It was eerie seeing a zombie walk like a regular breather.

  Stop.

  She didn't stop.

  Stop!

  A few zombies moaned but the girl kept walking. She walked straight to Fred's office.

  He felt a moment of panic. Was he losing it? Fred picked out another zombie at random. A thin ruin of a corpse covered in blackened and blistered skin. It looked like it had been through fire, which made no sense. Zombies burned faster than Qur’ans in Texas. It was standing in a corner of the room, next to a fat woman dressed in some sort of muumuu.

  Hit her.

  The burned corpse turned and swung at muumuu, his fist connecting solidly with the side of her head. Muumuu's only reaction was to rock back a step.

  Still got it. Fred didn't know if it was his imagination, but he got the feeling that the walking matchstick was happy.

  Thinking back to the little girl, he knew he'd have to look into this. She could be a real asset. She was fast and relentless. He needed that. But if he couldn't control her she'd be useless to him.

  Across the room by a soda fountain, Shaggy PETA was staring at the ceiling tile and moaning something that Fred could have sworn sounded just like "Grraaiiinnnss."

  Chapter 17

  Vows

  Found staked to the chest of female zombie, still undead, Elmira, New York.

  Jenny's Journal, Sept 6

  Unbelievable. Mother finally gets out of bed and now we're being told we have to stay in the house. I love Mom, but a week in this house with her just lying in bed with that TV blaring loud enough to wake the dead twenty-four/seven, is just too much.

  Now we have Mr. Foxworth adding more piss and vinegar to our coffee. That guy always gave me the creeps. He must weigh 110 pounds soaking wet, and with that 1970's porno mustache and scarecrow blond hair - oy! He reminds me of a gay scarecrow. Mr. Big Shot thinks being president of the condo association makes him royalty. He's been bitching about the flamingos and garden gnomes on Mom's front lawn since Jesus wore short pants. Then that stupid petition, and now I can't BELIEVE what he did.

  He kept banging on the door all morning, moaning and groaning. Mom refused to speak to the man. She just kept yelling at the door and Mr. Foxworth just kept banging against it. By the time tea was up, I was ready to start screaming myself. Mom kept yelling, shouting about fascism and how her garden gnomes gave this 'shithole' character, and how she was going to go out and adopt '101 gosh fucking darn Dalmations.' Between you and me, Journal, those gnomes give me the creeps. I mean, who wants a bunch of little dwarves laying about their lawn all day and night? It's not natural.

  Finally she worked herself up for a face-to-face and threw open the door. Mr. Figg was a mess. He wasn't knocking on the door; he was banging his head against it. His cheesy musta
che was caked with blood and his eyes were glazed and unfocused. Mom was so shocked she stopped screaming. Then he … he bit her, right on the arm. Boy, what a mistake that was! Mom's not exactly 'small boned' and she's been known to have a temper.

  Well, let me tell you, after Mom got over the shock of being bitten, she repaid Mr. Figg in kind, and then some. She grabbed that crazy man by the arm and bit him right back, and believe me, it was no love bite. But that wasn't enough for Mom. She smacked, pummeled and kicked poor Foxworth all the way down the front lawn. When he fell on the sidewalk, Mom picked up one of the flamingos and began hammering Mr. Figg with it. I had to drag her back into the house. A few of the neighbors were out and had started walking over. You know how everybody loves a show.

  I cleaned Mom up and put a bandage on the wound where he bit her. It wasn't bad but he bit hard enough to draw blood - so did she. Now she's upstairs in bed again, ranting about the condo association. All this before breakfast. Oy!

  That's all for now, Journal - I hope.

  Ttyl

  It didn't take Fred long to increase the size of his small army. He just shambled from street to street thinking 'Follow me.' They came out of abandoned houses, supermarkets, gas stations, the T-Bowl bowling alley - all the undead hot spots. By early evening he estimated there were about one hundred and forty zombies at his command.

  Enough for today. He was hungry.

  They were all just milling about the street, flanked by two rows of rather nice sized colonials. They must have been quite a sight.

  Hmm. He looked at the two zombies closest to him.

  Frick 'n Frack.

  Frick was fat and covered in filth. Frack, on the other hand, was covered in filth and fat. If there was a Cosmopolitan magazine for the undead, Fred guessed he'd be reading articles like 'Which shade of shit works for you.'

  Maybe I'll have dinner delivered.

  Looking at Frick and Frack, he thought 'Go fetch' and visualized a breather on a dinner plate. The two zombies started moving, making their way to the house across the street. Fred doubted they'd come through for him, but it was worth a shot.

  He scanned the crowd for Aleta. He'd tried summoning her before with no luck. His trick required him to see the zombie he wanted to control.

  Out of sight, out of mind.

  Finding her wasn't easy. She might be the light of his life and put the coco in his puffs, but to be honest, one walking corpse looked pretty much the same as another. Maybe he should stick a pink ribbon on her head or something.

  Of course she'd been the first zombie he went after. As soon as he discovered his talent he'd made a bee line for the brownstone, back when he could recall where it was, and went a-courting his beloved. She wasn't there, however, and he'd resigned himself to never seeing her again. Then she had walked in to the Paradise Buffet, bold as you please.

  He finally spotted her in the crowd. Rather, he spotted the little blonde girl; and wherever the little biting doll went, Aleta was sure to follow. They were standing so close to each other that Fred thought they might be holding hands. Aleta stood about halfway down the street, staring up at the sky.

  So beautiful, Fred thought.

  "Braaiinnnss," he moaned.

  He 'called out' to her with his undead mind, and a still beautiful Aleta turned and began walking toward him, the little girl in tow. If he was still breathing, she would have taken his breath away. She made him feel like a teenager.

  Come.

  Her lips were smeared with blood and gore. She'd obviously eaten. She still had the most beautiful eyes he'd ever seen, although they were a little glassy now. The bite marks on her chest and left leg didn't improve her looks, but Fred could hardly hold that against her as he had put them there.

  Even with all the changes and excess baggage she brought to the relationship, he still loved her. While he wasn't thrilled with her being undead, at least there was none of the awkward tension that existed on their first date. And communication was no longer a problem. She stopped a few feet before him, his queen.

  My queen ... Why not my queen?

  If any of his buddies had been around, he'd never have had the nerve to do it. But they were long dead and gone - gone, anyway.

  Why not do it?

  No one here but us chickens.

  He scanned the crowd, but didn't find what he needed.

  Priest. He thought as hard as he could. Nothing. In the end he settled for an undead teenager dressed in a dirty black tuxedo, black socks and no shoes. The kid shambled up to Fred and Aleta, facing them both. He had a nasty gash on the back of his right hand, but otherwise looked fit enough.

  Fred stared out at the crowd and thought as hard as he could.

  Kneel.

  The entire mob of undead fell clumsily to the ground, with much moaning and scraping. Eventually they settled down, most more or less resting on their knees, facing every which way. He gave a mental sigh.

  Can't have everything.

  With 'Prom King Preacher' still standing, Fred took Aleta's hand and raised it above their heads. The little girl - Karen; her name is Karen - did nothing.

  He paused, confused. How do I know that?

  He turned to the girl, half suspecting that somehow she had spoken. She just stood there, ignoring everything. For some reason this made him angry. He felt like she was pulling a trick.

  Kneel.

  Karen went to her knees in one smooth motion, her obedience partly mollifying Fred. He turned his attention back to the crowd.

  I give you your queen. All hail queen Aleta!

  Aleta stared glassy eyed at nothing.

  There was tentative moaning and a few scattered "Braaiinnns." Just enough to make him feel like an idiot. Still, it was better than nothing.

  Congratulations, my queen. We're newlyweds.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a screaming woman. Frick 'n Frack were back, dragging a breather between them. She was bloody, but alive. Just the way he liked them.

  Time to celebrate.

  Chapter 18

  Going Mobile

  The price for surviving his adventure at Mother Mary's was a bit steeper than Jon first thought. Once the adrenaline rush wore off the chickens had come home to roost, and right now they were pecking the shit out of him.

  His face felt like a microwave dinner. His eyebrows and a fair amount of noggin shag were burned off, and his right leg made him mewl in agony every time it moved. On the plus side, the pain in his neck had disappeared. So, if you were a 'glass half full' kind of guy ...

  With a grimace he popped the last of the Percocet into his mouth. How many did that make today? Three; he was almost sure it was three. Together with the two Codeine - breakfast of champions - the pills kept the pain down to a dull roar. He didn't want to think about what was waiting for him when the last of the meds wore off.

  On the 'silver lining' front, the driver's seat of the black Escalade was a helluva lot more comfortable than Lori's wreck of a car. He had pulled into the same Stop 'n Go on the way back and found the manager, Earl, according to his name tag, taking a lunch break. Smack dab in the middle of the food aisle, Earl was gorging himself on the remains of the Escalade's former owner, flanked by six-packs of Budweiser and Corona on one side, and various bags of salty treats on the other. Earl was down on all fours, his face buried in the owner's chest. The grisly tableau, accompanied by quiet sounds of chewing and tearing, didn't do anything for Jon's appetite.

  He didn't waste any time in introducing Earl to the business end of his .44. He put three bullets into Earl's head and one in his nuts for good sport. Certain Earl's reanimation days were at an end, but not one to take chances, he put a bullet between the main course's eyes before going through his pockets.

  He fished out a wallet from the man's soiled blue jeans. Inside was two hundred and twenty dollars in cash - all twenties. The driver's license identified the meal as Ron Stoat from Camden, New Jersey. Mr. Stoat had brown eyes like Jon and was about the same h
eight. Mr. Stoat was also an organ donor. Jon glanced at the mess on the floor.

  "Guess so," he said flatly.

  He pocketed the wallet, and whistling softly took out his own and removed a credit card. He tossed his wallet on the floor and did a more thorough search of the body. He didn't find any keys and guessed Mr. Stoat had been a trusting soul and left them in his car.

  "Let's go shopping."

  Twenty minutes later the Escalade was packed with Cool Ranch Doritos, several cases of Bud and Corona beer, a sawed off shotgun with two boxes of shells which he found behind the counter, a few titty mags, three hundred and fifty dollars in cash, aspirin, and a full tank of gas. He started the SUV and drove a few hundred yards down the road before pulling over. He got out of the car and locked the door.

  Some folks are more trusting than others. Limping back to the gas station, he noticed in passing that not a single car had driven by the whole time. He didn't give it much thought. Lack of traffic did not earn a place on his list of strange occurrences. Not today. No, sir.

  He limped over to Lori's car and opened the trunk. He'd already moved his tools of trade to the Escalade. Now he grabbed the bright red five-gallon gas container and headed for the pump. Swiping his own credit card, he chose Premium.