Curious what kind of magical wonders were contained within the vial, he held it close to his eyes and peered inside. The green liquid bubbled as it mixed with the air. Frank’s partner next did something quite inadvisable: he slid out his tongue and dribbled a tiny amount of the liquid onto it. Apparently, he liked the taste, because he guzzled down the rest with a stupid grin upon his face, fingers covering the warning labels the entire time. Frank had always been the brains of this operation, and he did always have to keep his partner from doing silly and foolish things.
“Did you really just drink that?” Frank inquired, turning around to see his partner holding the empty vial and burping. “Did your mom not teach you anything growing up?”
“It smelled good.”
“Well, you better hope it’s not poisonous or radioactive or something crazy like that, as the warning symbols would imply.”
“Don’t be silly, I’m sure it’s just some food coloring or something.”
“Oh yeah, because they usually put biohazard symbols on food coloring.”
Phil found himself unable to reply, his words drowned within a cough. The green liquid had already made it to his stomach and started reacting with the acid churning inside. He cupped his hand over his mouth, coughed once more, and stumbled backwards. As he pulled his hand away, Phil noticed blood speckling his palm, and then wiped his hand clean on his uniform.
“You okay, Phil?”
“Yeah, I just think I need to—” Phil lurched forward, gripping his stomach with both hands. He tried to groan, to yell, to cry out, but a flurry of coughs cut off every attempt. He fell to his knees, and looked up to his partner for any kind of help or sympathy. Frank looked down in horror at his partner, whose pupils had dilated and eyes had gone gruesomely bloodshot. His coughs had evolved into something else, something even more terrifying—like his body was trying to force an intruder from inside that refused to let go.
“Oh great…” Frank said as he stepped backwards, afraid to catch whatever had taken hold of Phil. “I hope this teaches you not to drink random things you find while on the job, especially if they have a biohazard symbol on the label.”
Phil could barely hear his partner over the pressure building within his skull that blinded him to the outside world. The police officer resorted to painfully slapping himself upside the head to quell the pressure. If he had tried this sort self-therapy before ingesting poisonous liquids, he might have knocked some sense into himself and avoided this whole catastrophe. However, with the damage done, Phil’s thoughts became increasingly muddled as everything within that made him human went on permanent vacation.
Phil slouched over, motionless. His partner stepped forward, leaning in to check if the poor man still lived, but as Phil’s lifeless body twitched, Frank stumbled backwards just as his partner lifted his head once more. His bloodshot eyes had faded to white with no signs of that spark of humanity that had been there just seconds prior. It had vanished and been replaced with nothing more than an empty dead stare. Phil tilted his head to the side, inspecting his former partner with what little instincts remained, and then moaned.
While no expert on the subject, Frank instantly recognized those pale white eyes. He had been exposed to them one way or another since childhood. He had seen dozens of movies about them, read books about them, and even followed a few comics. Hell, he might as well have been an expert. Phil was a zombie and Phil was dead. His brain, never known for firing on all cylinders, was greatly relieved that its prerogatives had been simplified: moan a lot, eat brains, and fear Easter. Frank started to pant nervously as he realized that yes—he did have flesh and that yes—it was human.
He stumbled backwards just as Zombie Phil rose to its feet, looking directly into his eyes. Then, like a baby learning to walk, Zombie Phil took its first steps forward; its toes pointed uncomfortably inward and its arms curled up across its chest. It progressed slowly at first, almost losing its balance repeatedly, but the technique strengthened with each step. Then, as any good zombie should, Phil began to shuffle.
Frank practically had a panic attack as Zombie Phil leaned in towards him, brains spinning within its eyes, ironic that the police officer with no brains would be the first on an unending quest to eat them. Frank did not attempt to reason with the creature or to get through to the human that might have still been buried inside there somewhere. He knew how this ended—how this always ended. He panted heavily as the zombie inched its way towards him, drooling all the while.
Frank’s nerves were getting the better of him; he knew what he had to do. He had to kill this thing before it sunk its teeth into him, but Frank had never felt himself shaking this badly before. He breathed slowly and tried to regain his composure, backing away from the zombie as it shuffled towards him.
Finally, after an epic battle with his nerves, Frank was able to pull his revolver from its holster. He did it: he had won. Now he just needed to put this miserable creature out of its misery. Frank cracked a smile as he unloaded all six shots into the creature’s chest—Phil had always been a terrible partner, and this was just further proof. The creature stumbled backwards and fell over, feet swinging into the air. That was it. He was safe. He turned around and leaned against a nearby table to catch his breath. He had done it. His smile widened—then simply fell away.
Frank suddenly realized the most important part of any zombie movie: you had to shoot the things in the head. His police training and his frazzled nerves had made him forget that simple fact. Frank wheeled around just as Zombie Phil sat up from the floor, blood oozing from its chest wounds. The zombie looked down, slid a finger into one of the holes, and investigated. Its head then shot up, looking straight at his former partner.
Frank went for his ammo pouch, cursing the police department for instituting this damned cowboy week. Why couldn’t it have been assault rifle week, or bazooka week, or high-powered laser week? No, it had to be cowboy week. They had shoved this revolver into his hands, they had given him the ammunition pouch, and then just told him to have fun. The precinct had not even bothered teaching the police officers the basics, and it took Frank nearly an hour to figure out how to reload the stupid relic.
Zombie Phil stumbled to its feet, resuming its advance. Panic swept over Frank. He swung open the cylinder and pulled a handful of bullets from his ammo pouch. With a shaky hand, he tried to load the gun, refusing to take his eyes off the zombie as Frank backed away slowly, trying not to trip over his own feet. The cartridges rained from his hands, clinking as they hit the ground, frazzling his nerves further as he tried to slide them into the slots.
He looked down and groaned at the fact that only two shells had made it into the cylinder. He dove back into the ammo pouch and tried again as his back slammed into the wall. He looked down at the revolver’s cylinder and its four little cartridges sticking out. That would have to do. He slammed it shut and lifted the revolver. With uncontrollably shaky hands, he aimed for the zombie’s head and pulled the trigger. The creature’s head shot back, blood spraying over Frank, and then the head bounced forward, a narrow wound across the side of its head.
He had one last chance at this; the zombie was almost on top of him. He pulled the trigger and a click resonated out. Frank cursed just as Zombie Phil crashed into him, immediately tearing a chunk from his neck, blood squirting all over the zombie. Frank went limp almost immediately. The zombie went to take another bite out of him, but something stopped him. Frank twitched once and then lifted his head, eyes white as snow, and the two police officers’ partnership resumed once more.
Chapter 7: Like a Freight Train
Still unconscious from her blow to the head, Dr. Malevolent found herself awoken by Boris’ vigorous shaking. She opened one eye and looked up to her second in command, who had a worried look upon his face. Her first inclination was to go straight for her rod and bash him upside the head, but she soon realized someone had confiscated it. Therefore, she just used her palm.
“What is it
?” she asked with a clear sign of annoyance.
“What is it?!” Boris repeated hurriedly. “Don’t you hear that?”
She sat up and placed her hand behind her ear sarcastically, accentuating her attempt at listening. A gunshot rang out. The patronizing face she had been adorning disappeared entirely and her hand dropped.
“See, boss?” Boris asked.
“Yeah, I hear it. I’m sure it’s nothing. They’re just training or something.”
A few more shots rang out, followed by a voice somewhere nearby yelling, “Kill it! Kill it! Oh God, it bit me! It bit me!”
Dr. Malevolent sat up from the bench and walked over to the bars, “Okay, so maybe it’s not a training exercise—at least we’re safe behind these bars.”
A blood-curdling scream echoed through the war-torn halls of the police station like that of a little girl who had unwittingly wandered into the wrong neighborhood and then viciously devoured the souls of everyone around her. The ever-approaching scream commandeered the attention of those cramped inside the small cell. Dr. Malevolent, who had been formulating a plan for her big escape and return to a life of crime, felt strangely overcome by the wails.
Deep within the woman’s body, possibly somewhere to the right of her spleen, or maybe hiding behind her liver, a small switch flipped into the on position. It caused the only hurdle that could possibly dissuade her lust for world domination to kick in—motherly instinct. Yes, baby fever had grabbed her by the gonads, or not really, since she did not have any. Rather, it grabbed at the spot where her gonads would be, but found only air and disappointment. Baby fever did not have a thorough understanding of human anatomy.
The criminal mastermind began to worry uncontrollably about whatever little girl was out there within the hail of gunfire and screams. What mother had abandoned their poor little daughter in a place like this? What kind of world are we living in where the safety of a child was so audaciously pushed aside? The super villain clenched her fists in rage. The scream continued its journey down the hall until just outside the room. Dr. Malevolent’s jaw dropped as the source of the scream burst into the room and ran around in circles, crying at the top of his lungs.
Yes, Captain Rescue had arrived. Blood speckled his skin and suit and his eyes were as open as can be. The horrors he had just borne witness to had apparently regressed the poor hero. Mentally, he had become that little diva he always pretended to be as a young child, sneaking into his mother’s room late at night and stealing her oversized clothes, then dancing around with a wooden spoon, singing Aretha Franklin songs.
With lungs unperturbed by the continuous screaming, Captain Rescue frantically stumbled for the ring of keys that hung from a nail on the wall. The living scream unlocked the cell door and scrambled into the cage without taking a moment to breathe. He turned his back to the criminals, locked the cell door, and then turned around only to find Boris’ fist connecting with his face. The hero dropped like a rock. Luckily, the jolt had ceased his incorrigible shriek. Boris had actually done the Captain a favor—who knows how much longer he would have been able to cling to consciousness, he had not breathed in well over five minutes.
Captain Rescue sat straight up, “Zombies! They’re everywhere, they’re going to kill us all, we’re going to be eaten alive! Oh God, oh God, oh God!”
Boris sighed and punched him again.
Captain Rescue’s head whipped backwards and then straightened immediately. “I’ll keep us safe, though, don’t worry!” the hero said ecstatically as he tossed the keys through the cage. They slid across the floor and stopped just inside the hallway.
Boris sighed and punched him yet again.
“Why do you keep doing that?”
Boris raised his fist to the hero, “’Cause you keep doing stupid things, and from my experience, this is the cure.” His fist connected with Captain Rescue’s face once more.
“Did I really hear you say that there were zombies out there,” Dr. Malevolent spoke slowly to Captain Rescue, as a mother would to a child that had consumed too much sugar and had started to run around frantically like a decapitated chicken. This child, however, was just bat-shit crazy.
“Well, uh, they’re trying to eat the ones that aren’t doing the eating.” Captain Rescue said, tracing his words with his hands, assuring he understood the definition of zombie. A look of utmost horror and confusion appeared on Dr. Malevolent’s face, and then she punched the hero, inciting a round of applause by Boris.
By the time the clapping had ended, an eerie silence had blanketed the police station. The cacophony of screeches, groans, and gunfire that had turned the building into the party of the century had finally died down. Either the police officers had put an end to the zombie uprising, or they had all been eaten. Knowing zombies, they had all been eaten. Thus, with Captain Rescue’s mental handicap more than confirmed, the rag-tag group of survivors sat in silence, waiting for some sign from the outside world that everything was okay.
After a few minutes, a squeaking, sloshing sound broke the silence as heavy footsteps traveled towards them from down the hallway. The sound was reminiscent of a wet grizzly that had been synchronized swimming and now wandered about in search of salmon. However, considering they were nowhere near grizzly or salmon territory, chances were the bear in question was actually a ravenous zombie, and the salmon it wanted so badly was human flesh. The sound grew steadily closer, and no one within the jail cell knew whether to ready their anti-bear weapons or their anti-zombie weapons, and then froze in terror at the realization they had neither.
Freight, the large police officer from earlier, stepped through the door. The man was a remarkable sight; a delicious stew of blood and various bits of zombies covered him from head to toe. Judging by the visual evidence, the zombies had simply started to think he was one of them. He certainly looked like the part. His unblinking eyes were wide open and he did not seem to notice the blood flowing over them. Freight’s hands clutched a smoking shotgun, a red ribbon around the barrel.
He was trembling. Not from fear, but from the sheer excitement of having free reign to blast the heads from zombies. He loved guns and he loved to shoot them, so this zombie apocalypse was the perfect environment for him to strut his stuff. His bloodshot eyes made it apparent that the plethora of drugs he pumped into himself regularly to form his chiseled physique had sent him into overdrive and rendered him practically insane. The steroids, his hardcore mental disposition, and the ramped up testosterone found their way into a blender and this was the outcome. His keyboard of life had its caps-lock key pressed and then torn to pieces.
Captain Rescue stepped towards the twitching mass of flesh that had just barged through the door, appointing himself the leader of this rag-tag group of survivors, “Is it safe out there?!”
“NOT IN THE LEAST, A LOT OF THEM GOT OUT!” the twitching mass of flesh replied.
His words were like a tidal force, and after recovering Captain Rescue asked, “Why aren’t you dead?”
“FREIGHT DOESN’T LET A FEW LITTLE ZOMBIES GET IN HIS WAY!”
“Oh jeez,” he said, taking a step back, “you’re going to be fun to listen to.”
Dr. Malevolent stepped toward Freight with her arms crossed and inquired, “How come you’re not one of them… you’re covered in blood.”
Freight shrugged, “I DIDN’T GET BIT.”
Truth be told, Freight was infected. Next time there is a zombie outbreak, he should probably refrain from tearing the throats from zombies using only his teeth. Despite this, deep inside his body, his immune system was doing to the virus what he had just done to a few dozen of the mangy flesh eaters. Right now, that well-oiled machine could have fended off every major disease known to man and a few hundred that were not. In fact, Freight was the closest thing in this world to a real super hero with super powers. He grabbed the keys to the cell and released everyone inside. The time had come for Freight to blow this joint, and they were coming with—mostly as fodder.
&n
bsp; Before Freight had even opened the jail cell, Dr. Malevolent was tearing the room apart in search of her inanimate carbon rod. Before she could turn to dismay, she found her sidekick sitting alone on a nearby table. She held it in her hands like a mother reunited with a long lost child, inciting awkward looks from everyone around her. Dr. Malevolent snarled at these naysayers, slid the rod into her holster, and latched it in tight; the thought of being parted from it ever again sent chills down her spine.
They left the cell room and ventured forth into the police station. Freight led the way, followed closely by Captain Rescue, who was simply using the giant man as a meat shield incase anything leapt from the shadows to eat them. Boris and Malevolent continued to bicker, and the hero listened in.
“We have to go back to the bank and see where that stuff came from, I’m sure they have a cure.”
Dr. Malevolent chuckled, “Why should I bother saving the world?”
Captain Rescue replied, “Have to save it to take it over.”
Dr. Malevolent thought about the statement for a moment and then nodded—these were probably the cleverest words he has spoken in years.
They treaded lightly to avoid any unwanted attention. Attention that, if given the chance, would tear them limb from limb and then eat those limbs. Not plain, however, zombies garnished their dismembered bits with an assortment of spices—a little chipotle for that nice spicy zing or maybe some oregano for whatever it was oregano did. Zombies liked to experiment and create new and exciting ways to eat people. The undead had quite the culinary flare if given the opportunity to show it, but the last thing any of the survivors wanted was to be first prize on a zombie cooking show.
Disarray had taken the small world contained within the police station by storm. In the back of the police station, a poor confused zombie that had been looking for something to munch on mistook a power cable for a juicy human intestine and then was quite shocked when it tried to chomp down on it. This left the hallways shifting in and out of utter darkness, the perfect atmosphere for a horror movie—the one where you barely catch a glimpse of something before everything goes black only to find that when the lights came back on, whatever you just caught a glimpse of was nowhere to be seen. Fortunately, the zombies that had not been blown to smithereens by Freight had already left the police station behind. Regardless, they proceeded with caution—unaware of what horrors awaited them around each corner.
Not Everything Brainless is Dead Page 4
