“My boys sure are hungry. We got us a good haul today. Some dark meat, too.”
“I’m going to piss my trousers if you don’t untie me, harlot!” Grandpa said.
The woman reached over and scooped up the baby, then pulled out her breasts. The heads wiggled and jerked, then calmed as she pressed them to her chest. They suckled on the oversized raisins, and the woman’s eyelids fluttered.
“Well, any appetite I had managed to conjure has just been vanquished. And a fresh pair of slacks is required.”
Courtney screamed. The old couple flinched and stared as she wailed. Her throat felt shredded, but she kept at it, fighting against her restraints—the rope ate away at her skin.
“No screamin’ at the table. Ain’t that right, Mama?”
Bo, Jethro, and a short wrinkly man with spotted lips shuffled in, wheeling a cart covered in a checkered tablecloth. A bandage was wrapped around Bo’s head and he walked with a limp, but he smiled. Jethro wore a new mask, but there was no mistaking his huge frame. The penis hanging from his face made him look like an elephant, and when he turned to face Courtney, it swung and whipped the side of his head. She recognized the scar where George had been scratched on the dick by the family cat when he was little.
“What did you do? Where’s George?”
Jethro giggled and nodded—the penis swayed.
“Dinner is served.” The wrinkly man ripped the tablecloth away. Lamar lay there, steam swirling from his cooked body.
Courtney’s mouth watered at the savory scent, then she vomited into her lap.
“When we’re done eatin’ I’ll show you my room,” Bo said. “We gonna have us a good time, ain’t that right, Mama?”
“That’s right, honey. Mama needs more grandbabies. Especially since yer sister went and took off. Left her poor babies behind.”
Jethro shaved off slices of Lamar’s leg and handed out the plates. His eyes blinked away the pubic hair that rested on his forehead. He dragged his feet as he moved toward Courtney, set a plate with a large helping in front of her.
Despite the sickness in her stomach, she was hungry. Grease oozed over the hot meat, creating a beige pool around it on the plate. Bo sat beside her and winked, then grabbed handfuls of meat and jammed them into his mouth. A brown stain grew bit by bit on his bandage.
“Eat?” Jethro said. He plucked a wiggly piece and dangled it in front of her mouth.
She curled her lips around her teeth and pressed her mouth shut, shaking her head as Jethro pressed the morsel against her face.
“You gonna need yer strength, girl. Eat up,” Bo said through a mouthful of food.
“Yeah, it’s bad manners not to eat at Mama’s table,” the wrinkly man said through a mouthful of masticated meat.
“Come on, Courtney. Wake up,” Jethro said. His voice was clear and strong all of a sudden. He reached up and pulled away the groin mask. He smiled at her.
It was George. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a wrinkled joint, clamped it with his lips. He dragged the dick mask across the table and the head ignited, then he lit the joint with it.
Lamar sat up as steam spiraled off his body in smoky curls. “Say, man, pass that this way.”
“What the fuck is going on?”
The table exploded into laughter. Their mouths were perfect circles on their faces, staying that way as they laughed. Courtney’s hair flew back from the wind rushing from their throats.
Then she laughed too.
George blew a cloud of smoke into her face and leaned in. “Wake up, goddamnit.”
***
Courtney jerked awake, slamming her knee against the glove compartment of the Camaro. George passed a joint to the back seat where Lamar sat. They both laughed.
“Bout time, girl. Been talking in your sleep, saying some crazy shit.”
“What’s a dick mask?” Lamar said.
She ran her damp, shaking hand over her face and took long breaths. They were parked in a clearing somewhere, trees all around them. Her shirt was pasted to her chest and stomach.
“Where are we?”
“We’re lost.”
“Let’s get outta here, George. I’m serious. We can’t be here.” She grabbed a fistful of his shirt and tugged on it.
“Calm down. You had a bad dream, that’s all.”
“No, it was more than that. First, I was you, and we came to this house, and you got killed, then I was Lamar, and he got killed too. A mutant, hillbilly family—cannibals. They got me, wanted me to give them babies. Jethro was wearing your pecker on his face and Bo had teeth on his dick.” The words tumbled from her lips and she tried to catch her breath after. George and Lamar looked at each other without saying a word, and Courtney knew they thought she was crazy.
“Just…nevermind. Where are we?”
“Like I said, we’re lost. But I found this old camp. Figured there’s gotta be a groundskeeper or something around. Maybe he can point us toward the highway.”
Courtney looked around at the cabins stacked one after another. A lake sparkled behind them.
“Hey, Lamar, pass that shit this way,” she said.
Zombies Don’t Eat Blondes:
Blondes on the Prowl
by Heather Whittington
I watched the young man stumble out of the night-black alley, crashing into a garbage can and sending it into the wall with a noise that would wake—well, never mind. Those jokes are so old they stink worse than the zombies do. Hunkered on the top of the building, I had a good view of the city. I could watch the pods of undead weave their way street to street, and I could keep an eye out for idiots like the one I watched now.
He scrambled to get his feet under him again, reminding me of those old toy ducks with the wheel of webbed feet that spun underneath its body. I snorted, the closest I got to laughing these days. I checked my Waki sword in its sheath on my back, straightened my clothes, and smoothed my hair. Then I jumped down onto a lower roof, shimmied down a drain pipe, and landed with a ninja thump on the ground. Pumping my arms, I ran after the guy.
Peeking around the corner of the red brick pharmacy building, I spotted him. The zombies surrounded him, moaning their triumph. I still can’t help that little shiver that runs down my arms and draws out the gooseflesh when I listen to their “I’m about to gorge myself on fresh brains” song. It sounds like humpback whales dying from lung cancer. The young guy, messy brown hair falling into his face and hiding his eyes, crouched on the sidewalk, hands held up over his head and screaming. I shook my head. This dude needed help. In more ways than I could count.
I dashed down the sidewalk and stopped a couple of yards away, just to the edge of the stench cloud that always trailed them. Legs askew, I placed one hand on my hip and blew a piercing whistle with my fingers.
The moaning stopped as all zombie eyes turned toward me. The guy kept screaming.
“Yo, loser,” I yelled at him.
His trembling hands lowered until I could see his face. Though he seemed a little older than me in stature, his maturity level remained to be seen. I knew what he was seeing: a lithe body clad in white blouse tied just below the boobs, black pleated skirt, black thigh-high stockings, black sneakers, and light blonde tresses that streamed to the small of my back. And before you ask, yes, it’s natural. I ain’t no bottle blonde. That’s why I’m able to pull off this kind of thing so well.
When I was sure I had his attention, I told him, “Scream again, and I’ll let them have you.”
Confusion contorted his sharp cut features, but I had other things to deal with. I vamped through the crowd of zombies. They all stared at me, following me with their eyes, those who had them. I hate the smell of them—it makes my tripes clench. But they stayed with me until I was between them and their latest meal.
I spun on my heel to face them, twirling my hair around a finger. “Now this guy don’t hardly seem a morsel. How about you all shove off and leave him be?”
“Wha—?” the
guy sputtered.
I scowled at him over my shoulder. “Shut up. And run.”
At least that got through his thick skull. He jumped up and took off down the sidewalk.
The first zombie that roared and lunged after him met a quick fate: I whipped my Waki out of its sheath and swung it through his neck. His head thudded on the cement, rolling in a lazy circle. As the others looked at me, I swung my sword up and over my head, spraying green blood from the blade into their faces.
Another one started heading for the guy, who slowed down at the end of the block to turn around and watch me. I rolled my eyes at his stupidity and swirled the blade in an arc, slicing off an arm and a leg. I cut downward to remove the head, and the blade clanged. Damn, I’m gonna have to sharpen it again. I’d wanted to redo my pedicure tonight.
I faced the horde once more. There were five left. One stared at me with his jaw hanging from a single piece of flesh. I brandished the Waki, holding it aloft with both hands. “Anyone else?” I dared them.
The zombies shifted side to side, looking at our favorite guy again. He made the big mistake of stepping toward us when he saw they weren’t chasing after him.
All five howled and charged. Son of a bitch.
I leapt into the air and hacked at the one in the lead, hoping his body would trip up a few of the others. It did. That gave me time to spin over them, knock the next one down with a crescent kick, and slice a third across the chest, leaving a dark gash that welled with green blood. As the others tried to get up, I relieved them of their heads, as well as a few other body parts. The ground was soon littered with zombie pieces that inched along, still moving any way they could manage.
Yuck. I checked my blouse and skirt—no green stains, thank God. I hate messes. But my new friend apparently didn’t know the meaning of the word “run.” I guess he needed more details.
I drew an old handkerchief from a little pocket in my skirt and wiped the blade free of blood. As I slid the sword back into the sheath on my back, the man came up to me.
“How…? What did you…? Why didn’t…?” He didn’t seem to know which question to ask first.
“Why didn’t they attack me?” I asked for him.
“Yeah.”
“Because I’m blonde.”
There was that confused look again. I hoped he had other expressions besides confused and scared. “What does that mean?”
I sighed and started off down the road back the way we came, not caring if he followed or not. Of course, he did. “What’s the first thing you think of when you think of a person being blonde?”
“If brains were taxed, she’d get a refund,” he said automatically. Then he realized what he said. “Oh, God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t waste your energy, I know you didn’t. But that’s the point. Everyone, and I do mean everyone, thinks that, whether they believe it or not. Of course not all blondes are dumb.”
“I still don’t understand—”
“Look,” I cut him off with my hand. “We still need to get out of here without alerting any more zombies of your tasty presence. They can smell you from miles away if the wind is right, and they don’t have a lot to eat left in this area. Let’s get to my camp outside of town and I’ll explain more.” I kept walking. “You need the learning, anyhow.”
I could feel the insult in the stiffening of his body, even though I wasn’t watching. His curiosity was too great to stop following me, though.
***
I’d made a camp right outside of the city limits, where the trees grew thicker and enclosed us pretty well, keeping our smell from reaching too far. Zombies usually stayed in the city where all the human scents are the strongest, even if there aren’t many live ones left. And most of them, unless they are recently deceased and have all their body parts, don’t move very fast to begin with.
I saw the shining eyelids of my guards before my new friend did. As we approached the camp, an orange glow emanating from behind the trees illuminated our path. I smelled cooking meat on the breeze that tickled my cheeks. There, directly in front of me, sat four Furbies. One tiger striped, one gray with white beard and ears, one blue with pink spots, and one green with yellow ears. When we got a couple of feet away, their motion sensors triggered and they woke up, opening their huge plastic eyes and beaks as they yawned. Some spoke in Furby gibberish, some said, “Hi!”
My companion jumped a foot in the air when he heard them. “What the—?”
I sighed. He needs a larger vocabulary. “Furbies.”
He nodded, dusting off the front of his dirty flannel shirt as though disguising his ignorance. “I can see that. What are they for?”
“They’re the best for guarding against zombie attacks. Anything gets near them, and they wake up and talk. Zombies get hypnotized by their moronic babbling and they’re easy to pick off. The Furbies are loud, too, so their noise wakes us up if we’re sleeping.” I stepped between them and kept walking toward the orange glow. He trotted to keep up with me. “There’s a ring of them around the camp.”
“How do you keep them going?”
I gave him a look. Is he really that dense? “Batteries from the abandoned stores.”
We entered the camp to find my chubby friend Kaylee bending over the fire and stirring something in a pot. Her blonde curls dangled a little too close to the flames.
“Watch out, Kaylee, or you’ll burn your hair again,” I said as I stopped next to her.
She squeaked and grabbed hanks of her hair, dropping the spoon with a clatter into the pot. “Oh, crap,” she muttered, pouting her pink lips and smoothing the smoking ends of her hair. Leaning over the pot to fish for the spoon, she held her hair back with the other hand. “Thanks a lot.”
“Anytime, girlfriend,” I said with a grin. I sat down in the pink and white plastic lawn chair, motioning for the guy to take the blue one. “Would you tell me your name, please, so I have something to call you in my internal monologue?”
He flopped into the chair and crossed his legs at the ankle. “John. John Smith.”
I snorted. “Well, if you prefer to remain anonymous, I suppose that’s about as discreet as you can get.”
He grinned. “It’s really my name. My parents were boring.”
“Hmm.” I stretched my legs out and yawned. “Call me Wicked.”
John’s jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”
I sighed. Yet another explanation. Am I really that odd? “My favorite musical in the whole wide world is Wicked. I sing the songs from it all the time. So my friends started calling me Wicked instead of Wendy.” I felt the corners of my mouth turn down as I thought of happier, easier times. “Karaoke used to be one of my favorite activities.”
Kaylee came over holding out a spoon caked in stew. It dangled from her two fingers as if it were zombie flesh. “It’s almost ready. I just need to rinse this off and fill the water jug.”
“Got your chainsaw?” I said as she walked away. She nodded and pointed to it, sitting next to a tree. She scooped it up by the handle as she passed and plunged into the foliage.
“Where’s she going?” John said.
“Stream.”
John tucked his hands behind his head. “I’m trying to decide what to ask about first.”
“How about I save you the trouble and start from the beginning?”
A smile. “Works for me.”
I crossed my legs and folded my hands. “I’m just lucky that the jokes about blondes having no brains is so buried in the psyche of our society that even the zombies believe it. That’s why they don’t attack me—because they think there’s nothing there to consume.”
“So they eat only brains then?”
“Well, that and anything that’s in the way. But it’s the desire for brain matter that drives them.” The corner of my mouth lifted in a half-smile. “My friends and I had loads of fun creating distractions for the zombies. I loved the brain Jell-o mold the best.”
“Jell-o mold,” John
murmured, squinting as he tried to picture this.
“And when we got to the mall, that’s when we discovered—” I spread out my fingers and widened my eyes, “the mystical powers of the Furby.”
He cackled and slapped his knee.
“Yeah, I know. It’s ridiculous. But I don’t sneeze at what works. My martial arts training only carries me so far. I can still get bitten like anyone else.”
“Ah.” John shook a finger at me. “That explains the fancy kicks and sword play.”
“Well, the martial arts training is real enough.” I unbuckled the sheath and slid it from my shoulder, holding the Waki lovingly in both hands. “The sword play is courtesy of watching too many movies in my teens.”
John fell silent, probably pondering the events of the evening. He twiddled his thumbs as he stared off at the trees. Kaylee returned, lugging the water jug in one hand and the chainsaw in the other. The spoon stuck out of her cleavage.
“See anything out there?”
“Not a soul. Or a soulless beastie.” She set the jug down, sloshing a little water on the ground. The chainsaw went back to its spot near the tree. Taking the spoon from her cleavage, she bent over and checked the fire. “Oh, rats!”
“What?”
“I just broke off a nail and it fell into the fire.”
I sighed. “Come over here and I’ll fix it for you.”
She fetched my nail care bag, a small pink thing covered in sparkling rhinestones. After unfolding a third lawn chair, this one green, she plopped down with a grunt of exasperation and held out her index finger for my inspection. I got out the nail file to even out the ragged edges. “Do you want to keep the same polish theme?”
Kaylee took back her hand and looked at her other nails: red with little black dots to look like ladybugs. “Yes.”
John watched as I applied glue, then a nail tip, and filed the edges to make everything neat. As I rolled the red nail polish bottle in my hands (shaking the bottle makes bubbles in the polish), I noticed John had a slightly disgusted look on his face. “What?”
It Was a Dark and Stormy Night... Page 12
