Zombie Revolution

by K. Bartholomew

  Again, the key rattled in the lock and we braced ourselves. What would they do to us? Would they take us somewhere else? Or would they just eat us all right here, right now?

  Damn, there was so much in my life I’d wanted to achieve. Waiting tables and drinking my own urine were not among them.

  The door opened and another man was thrust inside.

  This was getting real tiring now.

  It was Tag from Friends.

  I stood by the window and allowed Costner and Hogan to make the effort of acquainting and making comfortable our new guest.

  In Hollywood, the weather was often used as a mechanism to illustrate the protagonist’s mood. For example, thunder and lightning meant the hero was in danger or in personal turmoil. Yet staring outside, it was hot and sunny, quiet and peaceful. On top of that, rabbits played on the vast lawn and several species of bird which I’d never before seen in the city chirped away in an attempt at attracting a mate. If the weather was supposed to reflect this protagonist’s mood, then once again, Hollywood was playing a cruel trick on me.

  But no matter how beautiful the day was, I was still a prisoner. There was no hope. I could have ended it all right there and then. We were four stories up and I doubted I’d feel anything if I took the plunge. The only problem was, I was a gutless son of a bitch. I’d proven that fact by locking myself in a storeroom for three months while my colleagues and friends screamed for help before being devoured on the outside, mere feet away. The ironic thing was, I’d taken the easy way out my entire life. Yet I knew I didn’t possess the balls to take this ‘easy way out.’

  Eddie Cahill, best known for playing the role of Tag in Friends winced as he shook Hogan’s hand.

  I actually knew this guy.

  We’d both auditioned for the role of Tag way back in 2000. We both wanted to make it big in Hollywood and the producers were arguing with each other over which of us was the right guy for the part. Days went by, audition after audition. We struck up a friendship. It was an odd situation, but we were both in that same odd situation. A special bond had formed between us. It was obvious that whoever got the part would become famous due to the huge popularity of the show. We agreed that whoever was chosen would do all they could to help the career of the other. It was a kind of insurance policy that would be mutually beneficial.

  Eddie got the part. Eddie got top dollar. Eddie got to be the onscreen boyfriend of Jennifer Aniston.

  I never heard shit from the double crossing bastard again.

  I sent him scripts I’d toiled over for months. I even pitched a tent outside his front door for six weeks, little did I know he was away filming at the time.

  While he was working on Friends, I was being abused by hostile diners in Hollywood. While he was making out with Jennifer Aniston, I was going home to an empty apartment in Downtown LA, with only a copy of Playboy for company. Tag had kept his movie star good looks, doubtless life had been easy after the Friends gig. I’d since gone gray, wrinkled beyond my years and I’d often been told I was a bitter, twisted, friendless piece of shit - And that was by the people closest to me.

  When I look in the mirror, I see a poor dude who never got his shot. It’s often said that in Hollywood, half the waiters are actually struggling actors waiting for their big break. Well I never got my big break. And it was all down to Tag.

  And there he was, speaking with my boyhood hero. Man, I hated him. We were probably the last four people on earth and one of them just happened to be Tag. What were the fucking chances of that happening?

  Once more my mind wondered off into overdrive. Just what in the hell was going on? Why had the z’s devoured the entire world, yet spared the four of us?

  Tag now looked at me. I wanted so bad to punch him out. But doubtless he had his own story to tell. His story may just be the link as to what we were all doing here. So at the very least, I’d remain composed and hear him out. “Hey Todd, how’s it going man?”

  I had to fight myself to keep from diving on the guy. “Fuck you!” He got the response he deserved.

  Hogan exchanged glances between us. “Do you two know each other?”

  “You could say that.” I looked over at Costner, expecting him to have perked up some, alas he was sulking over by the window. Tag had kept the Hulkster between the two of us. Fucking coward! “Why didn’t you pass my script on, like we agreed, Tag?”

  He hesitated and scrunched his lips to the side. He was annoyed I’d used his character name. “Oh man, sorry dude, but you know, I was busy.” I had no idea if he was being genuine or not. “But hey, I guess none of that shit matters anymore, huh?” He was right about that, but I was still determined to watch some filthy z ripping his stomach open. I pictured myself stood over him while watching the event, pointing and laughing.

  I perked up at my happy thoughts and new motivation for remaining alive. “So Tag, what’s your story dude? How’d you end up here?”

  He exhaled a deep breath, seemingly relieved he no longer thought I wanted him dead, even the Hulkster relaxed a little. “Well dude, I was staying with Matthew Perry over in Malibu.” He paused for effect. Who was he trying to impress, given he was in a room with Kevin Costner, Hulk Hogan and, well, myself. “Suddenly, security banged on the door, so Matt let them in. Then they attacked us. So we went to the ammunition stash, bust out a pair of AR-15s and went to town on them.” His eyes darted about the place as he spoke, his hand fluttering over his mouth. His bullshit story was so full of holes I doubted even Hulk believed him. “After that, we saw freaking zombies scaling the fence dude, I mean it was scary. We held out for weeks, just the two of us. We must have taken down close to a thousand in that time dude. But you know, eventually you’re gonna use all your ammo. So finally they just overwhelmed us.”

  “Uh huh, and then what happened?”

  “Matt, got a chunk taken outta his leg and turned. It was shortly after that, they brought me here.”

  “And that’s the truth?” I really didn’t believe a word of it. This guy was hiding something.

  “Of course.” Tag looked to Hulk for any sign his story was believable.

  After that pile of horse shit I just listened to, I was even more clueless as to what was going down here.

  There was one thing however that we all had in common. We had all at one time been actors. Even I was a member of the Actors Guild, even if I waited tables for a living. Whether that meant I could call myself an actor per se was up for debate.

  The door opened once more and I took immediate discomfort from the site of Hulk stepping backwards, raising his hands to cover his solar plexus. Wasn’t he meant to be a tough guy?

  Z’s! Lots of them.

  They stammered into the room, filling my nostrils with the stench of extinction, a smell that the newly opened window could never hope to quell. As they limped into an arc around the four of us, one of them looked at us.

  I recognized him - It was Ernest Borgnine.

  His mouth hung loose to one side, his eyes lacked vision or clarity, his skin had long undergone the decomposition process. He’d played Sargent ‘Fatso’ Judson in From Here To Eternity. Now, he was back from the dead and who better to lead a troop of zombie heavies in Hollywood than Borgnine who’d had acting experience in that role.

  “Out. Now.” I thought I understood him, but I knew not to ask him to repeat it.

  3

  In Deep Shit

  I burrowed deep down into the earth using the shovel from my backpack before carefully lifting out the small box. I shook the soil from the cardboard and opening the lid, I lifted out the binoculars.

  They were a pair of $1500 all weather binoculars, battery powered with optical image stabilizer lock. They had perfect close distance focus and a magnification of 18 x 50. The latter made twilight or even night-time viewing appear almost like daylight. They folded together which made packing them away in the tiny and discreet box all the more simple. Finally, they screwed onto a tripod, which was perfect for t
hose long evening viewing sessions. Nobody was supposed to know I owned these things, so naturally, I kept them where I used them.

  I unfolded the beach chair, parked my ass down and poured some coffee from the vacuum flask. It was a clear autumn night so thankfully there’d be no heavy downpours like yesterday. By my calculations, there was not much longer left to wait.

  The damn cell rang, scaring me shitless - I’d forgotten to put it on silent. It was Doug.

  “Yeah? I’m kinda busy right now.”

  “Yo man, I got us some weed if you’re interested?” Doug sounded like he’d already smoked most of it.

  “Can’t. Not tonight man. Busy.” I moved to flip the cell closed.

  “Hey man, where’ve you been lately anyways? I haven’t seen you in like – Forever man.”

  “I told you – Busy.” I needed to get rid of this guy quick.

  “I don’t know why I still bother with you man. You used to be cool. Where are you anyways?”

  A red Chevrolet Corvette Coup with the top drawn back pulled up outside the house and I felt the usual increase in heart rate along with sweaty palms.

  “I’m going, Doug. I’ll see you at school tomorrow.” I flipped the cell closed and switched it off.

  Ensuring nobody could see me, I repositioned myself within the bushes and made myself comfortable on the chair. I then slid over to the binoculars and placed my eyes against the eye piece.

  There she was - Wendy Buaniconti. A third generation American of pure Italian descent and still in her high school uniform. It just killed me. She had long slim legs matched only by the length of her silky brown hair. Even from this distance, her smile sent electric coursing through my body.

  Only – It was Brett Dekker she smiled at, as they walked together up the driveway.

  “There you go Wendy, just shake his hand and thank him for a lovely night, then send him on his merry fucking way.” I muttered under my breath as I watched them talking on the doorstep. He stepped closer toward her, prompting her to move back a pace which in turn provoked a step backward from him. “That’s it mother fucker, now just continue stepping all the way back to the car and drive the fuck away.”

  Dekker was a wavy blond haired, muscular, captain of the football team and a bigger stereotypical antagonist to my protagonist in a typical bad Hollywood high school romance I could not have made up myself. Most girls at high school swooned over him which I was fine with – Kind of. What I didn’t like these last few weeks was that he’d chosen my Wendy, who I always assumed didn’t think much of the dude. It pained me greatly watching him drop her off in his car every evening, but it was always a relief when he drove away frustrated.

  What I wanted to know was – When would the protagonist get his chance? When would he ride in on his white horse to rescue his damsel in distress?

  I sipped my coffee as Dekker shrugged his big, broad shoulders before turning to leave. The corners of my mouth involuntarily rose on my face as he strode off toward his Corvette. Then Wendy ran after him, throwing her arms over his shoulders as she pressed her lips against his.

  A new sensation surged through my body, something I’d never before felt, as my testicles shrunk deep inside my asshole. My fists trembled, my bottom lip went numb, my vision blurred.

  Wendy led Dekker by the hand toward the front door before entering the house together. I trained the binoculars on the tripod toward the bedroom. Seconds later the light came on.

  Wendy’s bedroom - The one place I’d give my left nut to see just once.

  There he was – Dekker. Making wild, playful gesticulations with his arms, a grin the size of a football over his stupid face. What the fuck was that? Please God, Wendy just kick him out. Where was her father? I checked my watch. Damn. He wouldn’t be due home for another hour.

  Then Dekker closed the curtains and I was reduced to viewing two silhouettes merging into one.

  Then the shadows dropped down – Out of site.

  I reached for the backpack and filled it to the brim with earth.

  We were marched along the corridor, all the way to the far end, surrounded by z’s on all sides. I had the utter displeasure of walking behind Hogan, my childhood hero.

  Two things bothered me; One, that he was afraid of our z captors and two, that they weren’t afraid of him. We were in deep shit.

  I was grateful only Tag walked behind me. I’d shat my pants again. The average person would doubtless judge me harshly. Heck, in former times I’d have been among them. But unless they’d been frog marched by a couple dozen zombies who’d like nothing better than to eat out their heart while still breathing, then I don’t think they have the right to make that judgment. I glanced over my shoulder to Tag - He looked like he’d done the same.

  I thought about my father, the wonderful man he was. He worked as a train conductor. Every morning he’d leave home, even before the birds began to sing. He’d return late and still be smiling. He’d still look official and proper in his immaculate uniform, no matter what the day threw at him. My father was a dignified and impressive man. He always brought out the best in other people and brought a smile to the faces of everybody he was around; whether it was a member of his family or an unruly teenager on his carriage. He’d wanted me to go work with him on the railway. “The rail built this country, Todd, and there’s not a single profession more honorable than that.” He’d been devastated when I left for Hollywood to pursue a career in acting.

  We emerged in what turned out to be the coolest room I’d ever seen. A pool table, slot machines, candy machines, at least three bars, a giant movie screen on the wall, huge leather couches lavishly spread out. I was impressed. Then I surveyed the movie cameras which were set up at various locations throughout the room. A little odd perhaps, but we were in Hollywood. Besides, I still had no idea who used to own this place but I was beginning to get the impression it was a movie star, director, producer or some other Hollywood big shot.

  They made us stand on the spot, in a row facing the large window that overlooked what appeared like most of LA.

  That was when we saw them.

  They sat on swing chairs, behind a large expensive table.

  Spielberg, Scorsese and Lee.

  It was weird. All my life I’d wanted to be in the same room as these guys. Now I was stood facing the zombiefied versions of them. Was I in awe? Was I star struck? Was I speechless? Maybe a tiny bit. In fact, I had no idea what was running through my mind. Imagine you finally got to meet your heroes, only instead of completing your life, you were fully aware all they wanted to do was eat you. It was that sort of convoluted, confused feeling. But surprisingly, I felt quite underwhelmed by the three of them in front of me. Technically, they weren’t really Spielberg, Scorsese and Lee. What’s more, I doubted very much they had my best interests at heart.

  They glared at the four of us, time seemed to pass by and still not a single word had been uttered. Their table was filled with hundreds of sheets of paper and a big pile of what I knew to be movie scripts.

  I looked over at Costner who was almost entirely blocked from my view by Hogan’s giant frame. Costner would have known these guys in the former world, yet he simply hung his head, oblivious to the situation. I worried he was broken, he hadn’t said much in a long while.

  When Spielberg finally opened his mouth, his words turned out to be just as underwhelming as his z aura. “Watch screen.”

  The giant movie screen on the wall flickered before the titles emerged, ‘The Last Humans – A Zombie SSL Reality Production,’ then I recognized the guy who appeared in full color.

  It was me.

  The footage was from my kidnapping and I realized my abductors must have had hidden cameras on them. Tag sniggered from my side as I was thrown into the trunk of the SUV. Then there was a close up of my terrified face to the sound of canned laughter.

  There was more canned laughter as poor Costner was manhandled in a similar way to myself.

  Then it was Hogan�
��s turn. I knew his story hadn’t quite added up. His yellow skin turned red as we watched him dive into the dumpster he’d been scavenging from. So much for dropping the ‘big leg’ Hulk. The footage proved he was no more than an overly large coward who stole food from children.

  Now it was Tag’s turn - I was looking forward to this. To my side, he shook at the prospect of becoming unmasked. There was no Matthew Perry in the footage. All they showed was Tag on his knees, looking up at five z’s while praying, begging to be spared. It was the climax of the five minute montage that had the music from Benny Hill playing in the background.

  We were now reality TV stars being watched by an audience of zombies. I laughed at the irony.

  I was not an object to be made fun of. If these bastards didn’t want me in life, they were sure as hell not having me in death.

  Well that’s how I felt. But having the balls to actually tell them was another matter entirely. Hey, given that Hulk was keeping quiet and going along with being mistreated kind of let me off the hook a little. The important thing was that I was still alive, even if there were no real prospects for humans anymore.

  Hogan’s belly rumbled. Now that scared me.

  “You perform now.” Spielberg finally cut the tension, although I had no idea what the hell he wanted us to perform. “Read script. You perform.” That made it a tiny bit clearer.

  If they really wanted us to work for them then the least they could do was put on some kind of a spread, or at the very least some kind of a snack. I hadn’t eaten in approaching three days and Hogan’s belly was becoming increasingly vocal. Costner didn’t look like he cared much for food and as for Tag, well I couldn’t give a shit about him.