Ambulance Masters

by Raymund Hensley

  ***

  SOMETHING terrible was going on.

  Something was invading the darkness in front of my eyes. My limbs were frozen. A heavy fear paralyzed me. Oh God…no…not again!

  The apparition was on my chest again, hovering, a large face. It seemed familiar. I had seen this face before.

  It was Krill…and another face beside him. Who is this?

  I woke up, panting, scanning the dark corners of my room. It felt like someone was outside, looking up at my window. I was too afraid to check.

  There was a noise. It was distant. Irritating, like a bean under your mattress. Was a drunkard driving around and around? Wait. Listen. More engines. Was it a race? Who would hold a race in the middle of nowhere? Only a lunatic could sleep through all the noise.

  I jumped out of bed and ran around the house.

  Cakers was gone—Tranzam too, of course (where was that broad?). Queen was in bed, twisting and turning…groaning something about cats and witches and dead things. The engines were growing louder. A crash? What was happening? Did one of the wankers throw up on the wheel? This was getting serious. I couldn’t have wreckage on the land. It would be a pimple on a face. And I needed SLEEP, damn it. My subconscious mind needed time to play, understand?

  What to do?

  I couldn’t call the fuzz—couldn’t call the pigs—couldn’t have them snooping about. That would be foolish of me. If only Cakers was here, I thought. He’d grab a shotgun and chase those hooligans out! They were racers, for sure. Stupid kids with no goals in life, killing themselves with booze and car crashes—getting off on the ultimate high.

  J.G. Ballard was right. A car crash is like an orgasm.

  “Maybe I should go back to bed,” I said to myself, doing my pregnant-breathing. “Maybe this will all go away soon. Try to sleep. Get drunk, and try to sleep.”

  A sharp turn near the house.

  Many sharp turns and screeching tires.

  Were they coming here?

  Bad lord!

  I ran into Cakers’ room. He kept shotguns everywhere—on the walls, in his dresser, under his bed, in the closet, he even had a few dangling from the ceiling for easy access right out of bed. A double barrel shotgun was in the hand of a gold statue of Buddha as tall as me. I took the HEAVY weapon and ran to the front door, peeping out. Was this animal in my hands even loaded? Did I even know how to load it? Did it really matter? Maybe I’d just wave it around at the brats—scare them off. Maybe I’d hop up and down. Make monkey sounds. Act like a raving lunatic. That would do it, for sure. Who wouldn’t mind?

  Honk, honk!

  An ambulance pulled up. It was Cakers…followed by 10 other ambulances—all identical—all white with blaring blue and red lights. The emergency medical technicians jumped out. They were all dressed in uniform—white shirts and white gloves and black pants. They walked like musclemen and musclewomen.

  I ran back up and put the shotgun back where I got it. He would absolutely FREAK if he found out I touched his things. Downstairs: The front door banged shut. Laughing. Drunk laughing. Backs were being slapped. Chairs were sliding here and there. Many strange voices. A siren screamed outside. Cakers protested and it was turned off. He was stumbling on his words. Intoxicated.

  I tiptoed into my room and shut the door, pushing my dresser behind it.

  I’d keep quiet.

  A fly on the wall…listening…learning.

  They were all outside again. I peeked over my window. They had beers in hand. What were they thinking? What was happening here? Who fed alcohol to these apes?

  Cakers walked up to the crowd and raised his hands.

  It was a speech of some kind. I was too far-off to make out the words. The men and women cheered, patting each other on the back. Cakers pantomimed playing a violin, and the audience laughed. He raised his hands again…said a few garbled words…and the people cheered.

  Something was up.

  They formed a circle around Cakers. A man and a woman stepped in with him, exchanged a few angry looks and shook hands. The crowd opened up and the man and woman climbed into their ambulances. The crowd cheered again. Cakers reached into his pocket and revealed a red handkerchief.

  “You grimy bastard,” I said. “You dare bring these pissers here to play your batty games? HERE? This place of peace?”

  The ambulances took off for the main road, kicking up dust that made the crowd gag and fan the air. I pressed my forehead against the cold glass. Everyone ran after the ambulances and stopped at the gate. The two hunks of white metal drove to opposite ends of the road, the man on the left, the dame on the right. People were jumping up and down in pure excitement, some tossing confetti and glitter into the air. They were all huddled close together. Not one foot stepped past the gate.

  Below me, music from some abandoned ambulance. Opera. Mean…slow…rising to its peak.

  The two ambulances revved their engines—bulks shaking, swaying from side to side. Cakers raised the handkerchief, eyed the ambulances, and then dropped it. A breeze snatched it away. The beasts roared to life, wheels spinning in place, and took off.

  Everyone danced and hollered. Cakers remained still. Serious.

  The ambulances snarled closer…closer…CLOSER.

  One of them blinked.

  The male ambulance swerved.

  One second too late.

  They met in front of the crowd and EXPLODED into each other. People screamed and ducked as chunks of metal squealed past. Both ambulances spun like runaway tops, creating tornadoes of dust. The man flew though his windshield and landed on the ground in a wrong way. He jumped up and ran around with his torso twisted all the way around like a broken G.I. Joe toy—then he fell, shoes and hands twitching. His ambulance spun down the road and stopped, swaying left and right. The other ambulance twirled into the fence and the woman smashed through her window and cried into the air and flapped like a mad bird. It was useless. She landed on a derelict tractor—right on the seat, bouncing. She pounded on the rusty steering wheel. Confused. In shock. Crazy.

  “Waaaaahh!” she went. “WAYAAA!”

  She hit her head on the steering wheel again and again. She knocked herself out and slumped in the seat, head to shoulder, tongue out and dripping.

  The crowd divided and ran to these poor, stupid souls. Cakers chased after them, running up to each one, demanding his money.

  They carried the limp bodies into the house. I could hear them all downstairs, messing things up.

  Mysterious ramblings. Do I know these people? Should I go downstairs and confront them—comfort them? I couldn’t move my body. I stayed in bed. Was Queen awake? Was she at her bedroom door, looking downstairs? What was running through her mind? Maybe she was dreaming about lipstick. Cakers should come in any minute now, I thought. Annnnyyyy minute now.

  He didn’t.

  I looked out the window.

  Cakers counted his monies in the ambulance—grinning from ear to ear. Downstairs, something like a bag of meat fell hard on the ground. Someone shouted, “Watch it, watch it!” Someone else yelled, “Cool it, cool it!” A young man roared, “Wash the head to prevent infection!” A lady said, “So what, who cares?”

  What the young man said bothered me so much that I sat up.

  “Blood,” I whispered. Was there blood in the house? A scene crashed into my mind: Red and gooey stuff on the walls in hand prints, on the TV, on the windows, on the ceiling, on my dinner plates, etc.

  Someone ran in through the front door.

  “Get out of my Goddamn house!”

  It was Tranzam. I stared out the window again. She was grabbing people and throwing them out.

  “Out! Out! OUT!” she demanded.

  People yelled at her to be cool and to be at ease. It was no good. She threw each one of them out without a blink. I didn’t know she was so strong. Adrenaline, I thought. Amazing. Many of the EMTs were weeping and shaking and holding each other for comfort. “What are we going to do! I can’t go
to jail! I don’t have the face for it!” they were complaining. Tranzam had her arms crossed. Her eyes were cold—stern.

  “What good is a person who is too weak to clean their own mess?” She stomped her foot. “How dare you spill blood in my house!” she said.

  The emergency medical technicians carried the bodies out. Their white uniforms were stained with blackish blood.

  1: “What are we supposed to do with these guys??”

  2: “We can’t take them to the hospital. We’ll get in serious shit! All those questions…”

  3: “Please let us stay!”

  Tranzam closed her eyes and shook her head.

  “‘Nobody ever did, or ever will, escape the consequences of his choices.’ Alfred A. Montapert,” she said. “NOW SCRAM.”

  Everyone jumped and made loud noises and scattered and carried the bodies into a single ambulance. They all zoomed off, sirens blaring, emergency lights fading…fading…vanishing into the distance. Cakes saw nothing—still counting his bills, all smiles. Tranzam opened the ambulance door and yanked him out. The money flew out of his hands, and he scrambled on his knees to snatch them, horrified.

  “Creeping Jesus!” he cried out, reaching for air. His hands were clawed. Tranzam pointed at him.

  “We can’t have strangers here,” she said.

  Cakers stood up, still snatching money.

  “What do you care? Huh? It makes no sense. You’re never home anyway.”

  “You got some lip.”

  Tranzam stormed into the house, while Cakers ran around for his cash. I hopped into bed. There was a soft sound downstairs, of a door opening. It all sounded very sneaky.

  She didn’t come upstairs, into her bedroom. Did she go into the closet?

  Cakers ran in the house, yelling for her.

  “I’m sorry,” he was saying. “I didn’t mean nothing with all the backbiting. I’m just glad you’re back, Tranzam. Honey.” He was looking around. “Honey?”

  I got up and opened the bedroom door.

  “Honey?” he whispered, walking here and there. A door squeaked opened. “Are you in here?”

  And then I asked myself, did this old house have a basement?

  Feet running. Tranzam was booming.

  “Get out! Get out!” she demanded. “Spawn of Satan—of all that is reversed! Leave now!”

  Cakers was stumbling, falling over furniture.

  “What’s happening?!” he said. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “Don’t you ever open this door! This is to remain closed at all times, in the name of Jesus! Touch this knob or may a thousand plagues be in your face!”

  She sounded like a mad preacher. Where was all this coming from? Had she somehow tapped into a past life? Had a gaggle of hardcore religious fanatics from the 1950s kidnapped her? Brainwashed her good? What if the answer was yes? Good gravy. It must’ve been recently.

  “Yes, okay,” Cakers said. “Just please…stay here for a bit. Stay with me. I miss you.”

  “Out of my way, fool,” Tranzam said, marching off. “I have to go somewhere and think. They better not have gone out back,” she said. “YOU stay out of my special place. You will listen…if you indeed love me.”

  And she was out the door, slamming it behind her. Cakers was crying. I could hear him saying things.

  “What’s the matter with her?” he was asking the room. “Why is she this way?”

  I knocked on Queen’s door. She opened it, eyes sore. “What’s happening? Am I dreaming this?”

  “Yes,” I said. “It’s all a bad dream. It’s all a big joke. May I look out your window?”

  “Why am I not surprised,” she said, stepping out of the way. The light from the church bathed the room in a rainbow of light. I was mesmerized for a second. I stepped over a broom and stared out the window. Tranzam was walking across the field. She was dragging a chair. Queen was looking over my shoulder. I looked at her with a raised eyebrow.

  “Why is she going to the town?”

  Queen was looking at her.

  “She’s not.”

  Indeed, Tranzam was not at the town. She was at the line of trees.

  “What the…” I said, leaning in.

  Tranzam went right for the nutmeg tree, gathering goods and stuffing them into her pockets. She was looking around. We ducked out of sight and leaned against the wall, on our rears.

  “Out of all the…” I said. “Why that one? Why not apples? She has gone overboard. It finally happened. I am now convinced 100%. She’s gone BATS.”

  I could hear Cakers again, downstairs.

  “Screw you!” he shouted. “I don’t need you! I don’t need anyone! I’m so strong! I have my money! I’ll buy another dame! Here’s what I think about your love.” Something crashed. “To hell with your love,” he said. “Ba! Humbug!”

  The front door banged shut. The ambulance shot to life and ran off.

  I walked downstairs and stood by the basement door. It was ajar, a sickly green. This was no closet. I hadn’t seen it before. Tranzam hid it by pushing that large bookcase in front of the door. I could here Queen rattling her bones. She reached out when I gripped the doorknob.

  “Don’t…” she said.

  I winked.

  “It’s all right. I know what I’m doing?”

  She frowned, and I went downstairs.

  The basement had a dim glow, thanks to a couple of candles. The air was sharp with Clorox. I put my hand over my mouth as I went about. Boxes and buckets of water and dirty rags littered the place. On a long table was a setup straight from Dr. Frankenstein’s laboratory: Beakers big and small held up above flames, contents bubbling and connected to glass tubes that went to more beakers, some round, some triangular. Tiny lights blinked in a black box that emitted a light buzzing sound. Was it a Geiger counter? Sweet Jesus, was there radiation in here? Get a grip, lad. Breeeeeathe.

  In a glass bowl was nutmeg.

  Next to it, another bowl with a strange juice.

  Liquid nutmeg…next to a pile of used needles and syringes.

  Queen was screaming upstairs.

  “Unhand me, wench!”

  She fell down the stairs, body aching, moaning, rolling into a pile of oil stained boxes that fell all over her, spilling shirts and pants. Tranzam stormed down, jumping over the mess and landing in a squat. I yelped at the sight of her melting face.

  “Aaaarrrghghg,” she moaned, walking toward me like…like a zombie. She grew weak with each step. The jump must’ve taken a lot of energy? My feet stepped on themselves and I fell on my butt. I crawled backwards and into a grand piano. Tranzam lurched to the table and took a syringe. It fell out from her shaking hands. She dropped to her knees, weeping, searching for it. She looked at me, and my heart broke. It was still her. She was in there. I crawled over to the syringe and gave it to her, then crawled away for my life. She drove it into the front of her throat, pressing down on the plunger.

  She groaned.

  “Zzaaarrrrrhhhrrggggg…” she went.

  My body stiffened. Now what? I can’t move. Frozen. Scared. Like a little child.

  Tranzam shook.

  “Zaaatttsssss…zatss moosh bettahhh.”

  She leaned against the table, struggling to breathe.

  “That’s…much…better.”

  Her face was healing itself. I couldn’t believe my eyes.

  “Are you dead?” I asked, standing up.

  “Not anymore,” Tranzam said.

  Queen was on her feet.

  “How very,” she said. “What’s going on here? What is all this?”

  Tranzam sat on a rocking chair, tired.

  “All this nutmeg…” she sighed, “keeps us alive.”

  I stepped closer. She wasn’t going to harm us—not in her state. Besides, I had saved her, hadn’t I?

  “Us?”

  “Yes,” she said. “The dead ones. The zombies. Nutmeg is the only thing that keeps us ticking, once we are brought back from the
…um…whatever.”

  Queen scratched her head.

  “So you are dead! Amazing! What happens on the other side?”

  Tranzam thought for a second.

  “I’ll tell you what I remember. One minute I’m falling out from the back of an ambulance, next I’m a wolf in another life, eating cows. Then…then I’m ME again. All thanks to Cakers, of course. Damn him. Damn those ice picks. I was fine where I was! I was fine in that life! He ruined everything!”

  She had stopped rocking.

  Her eyes were on old memories—eyes large.

  She rocked again, taking in a deep breath, eyes relaxing.

  “There are some surprises,” she said. “Every now and then, I get a craving for cow. How was I to know I could get in trouble for it? I didn’t hear about that damn bill. I didn’t know it was illegal to murder animals now. I’ve failed myself. I’m still doing it. I can’t help myself. So long as I live, I can get better. I just have to keep taking nutmeg. It’s a drug. It gives us a high. The aliens gave it to us, just like how they gave Native Americans marijuana for the betterment of mankind.”

  I raised my hand.

  “When did these aliens tell you about nutmeg?”

  Tranzam stared at the ground, and then looked up to me.

  “The alien came in a dream,” she said. “I was sleeping. It flew over me and told me all about it. All I saw was its huge face,” she said. My heart ached at this; my head throbbed. Huge face? Had voyeuristic aliens plagued me throughout my life? I chuckled. Tranzam continued. “The alien also told me about the nutmeg tree. I’ve been feeding it to the zombies. They’ll get better soon. This is all thanks to the aliens. Praise be to aliens. Hallelujah!”

  She offered her nutmeg to us.

  “It’ll help take your troubles away,” she promised. “Try some. It’ll be an experience, and if you don’t like it, don’t do it again. Life understands that way. Life is a learning experience. It’s all about experience. This is the real difference between those living on a higher level of consciousness and those living on a lower level of consciousness.”

  We accepted, and watched as Tranzam got the needles ready. She was right. It was all clear to me. I wanted experience points. I wanted to learn about everything—to taste everything, see everything, hear everything, feel everything. I was jealous of all the young people I have known. They were hungry for life and curious about everything. They were living. I wanted to be like them. I wanted to always be learning, to always be making new friends. Old and young. Maybe I was meant to meet these younglings. Maybe they were meant to show me what it was all about—as exciting and dangerous as those days were. I know so-called adults that spend their time doing nothing and living in a cave, and I know young folk with more experience in their little pinky.

  I stuck out my neck, and Tranzam injected nutmeg into my throat.

  “Better this way,” she said. “My mix is the best. People just eat it. It’s disgusting. Enjoy. Fall into yourself. Open your third eye. Rotate your head chakra. Spin. Get up and spin.”

  We all got up and spun round and round. I could feel the stuff working. My head unleashed a flurry of images. They were all visions of what I wanted—my ideal future. We are what we think about, a great man once said. We are the images we hold in your mind. We must focus on what we want, not what we don’t want. It is the hardest work in the world. Master it. This was the great secret that all the ancient philosophers knew.

  Control your mind; control your surroundings.

  I fell down.

  My stomach wanted to throw down its contents. My eyes went from left to right, left to right. My brain was buzzing. High. Busy.

  Focused.

  Tranzam said she had something wonderful to show us, and she took us to the zombie town.

  THE lights in every house were on. The residents of Nightingale were all in the church. The preacher was excited about something, hands moving in circles. He was speaking in English. He looked fine, although a tad pale with black circles under his eyes. Tranzam went in and spoke with the preacher. He looked up at us and motioned to the crowd. They all stood up and walked outside, little white books in hand.

  These were people.

  In a sense.

  People who were missing limbs, missing tongues, missing eyes, missing feet, missing spines (one was dragging another via sled), sure, but they were still people, dammit. You could just feel it to be true.

  The preacher eyed me up and down. He gave me a cup to drink from. I looked to Tranzam, who nodded.

  “Trust,” she said.

  I nodded and sipped from the cup. It tasted like the same stuff Tranzam whipped up in the basement—only now it was going right down to my belly. It cooled my throat. Tranzam was close to the preacher. She held her hands together, smiling, teardrops trickling from her eyes.

  “Good,” she said. “And let there be peace for all eternity.”

  The preacher turned around, to his flock—or herd, if you prefer to live your life that way—and raised his arms. His mouth opened, and peculiar sounds came out.

  “Histay rainlessbay idiotyay isyay otnay ayay hreattay otay usyay,” he said. “Etlay usyay allyay ogay ackbay otay ouryay ailyday activitiesyay.”

  The zombies looked around, shrugged, and went about their business. Some followed the preacher into the church. Kids played in the streets, chasing after each other and yelling in jest. Men leaned against buildings and flirted with women. A boy flew a kite while a zombie cat sat at his feet and watched, licking its dead fur off by accident.

  Everyone spoke in that strange monster language. The cold sensation in my throat traveled up my ears. An interesting thing happened. The more I eavesdropped, the more I began to understand it. I even heard a zombie who had no lips. He was on a bike, chatting casually to an old woman. The jaw was moving, but he was enunciating so well. How was I able to hear the words so clearly? I picked it all up telepathically somehow.

  A few steps later, and all I heard was English.

  Some of the older zombies were doing yoga in a group. I understood the motions. They were doing the Tibetan 5 Rites. Was this the real secret to their rejuvenation? And if so, who had taught them this ancient system of exercises?

  Did they do the 6th exercise? Did they dare?

  I walked down the street and looked at the shadowy figures in their homes—showering, arguing, laughing, kissing, and making love. A house had its front door open. I saw a little girl inside, no more than 10, sitting on a carpet of discarded paper. She was writing something, madly, hand moving all over the sheet. I stepped closer. Notebook paper was taped all over the walls.

  “What are you writing?”

  She looked up, bewildered…then went back to writing.

  “The meaning of everything,” she said.

  “Interesting. May I read a page?”

  “Let me ask you this. Does a man contract the sum of his parts?”

  “That’s fair,” I nodded.

  The girl sighed.

  “I need peace. I need to think. I’m stuck. Why can’t I write anything?”

  “Maybe you have writer’s block. It drives me mad. Sometimes I don’t write anything for a weeks.”

  She laughed.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Well, when a writer is under a lot of stress…”

  “Never mind that now. I need to talk to an expert. I think I need a shrink to help with my mental vomit.”

  “Maybe I can help.”

  “How can you possibly help? It is to laugh.”

  “I write books, too.”

  “Of course you do. And what, pray tell, have you written?”

  “Well…I haven’t published anything.”

  “Ha! Then you have nothing for me.”

  “My, you’re a mean little troll, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, and I’m sorry. Excuse me. Sometimes I get so full of myself. I guess it’s what scientists call a Defense Mechanism. I have this hunger to suc
ceed, that’s all. I’m constantly pushing myself. And sometimes those around me. I don’t mean to offend.”

  “I’m not offended, just greatly envious.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “Maybe I should see a shrink. I need to wash the dirty clothes in my head.”

  “You don’t need a shrink. You’re fine as is. I wish I had your determination. That heat. I could learn much from you. I’m too docile.”

  “Maybe when I have more time. Now scram, kind sir, for I have much to meditate on. If you still feel the need to inquire about my work, come back in the morning.”

  “Understood. But remember,” I said, “the person you should have consultation with is always available.”

  She smiled at me.

  I put my hands out in surrender and backed away. I understood where she was coming from. Writer’s need their space and time.

  I couldn’t find Tranzam anywhere…and left the town to practice my OBE exercise and catch some Z’s. I would not have an out of body experience that night. I was constantly disturbed by a faraway rumbling sound.

  The morning found the house silent. No one was home. Cakers had been gone for sometime. It really didn’t surprise me, considering all the jazz that went down. I made a breakfast of rice, cheese dogs, eggs (sunny-side up), and milk. I took a multivitamin pill and went to town Nightingale.

  Everyone was at church.

  Always at church, it seemed.

  What, did they think they were better than me because I didn’t go all the time? Actually, it had been years since I stepped foot into the house of the Lord. Still, I didn’t feel too guilty. I knew what it was all about. I knew the score. It was all about being broadminded, right? That was how I saw it. Did I have to walk into a building every Sunday to show that I was a believer? Poppycock. My body was my temple. I didn’t have to attend get-togethers to show off how much faith I had.

  A few residents were scattered here and there on the mud, kissing and making love in the nude. Did they care I was staring? Nope. Here, I thought, you can do whatever you want. Should I take my shirt off and walk around, topless? Maybe later. Few people even bothered to close their doors. I could see them, injecting that nutmeg into their veins. Something about it looked sad. Pathetic.

  I went to the little girl’s house. The door was open, and I went in, finding the place empty. “Hello?” I said. My voice echoed. “Anyone home…home…home…?” The pages she stuck to the walls flapped under a breeze. Where were the parents? Were her parents here? Had they died with this little girl—maybe in a car crash?

  “She’s not home,” said a voice at the front door.

  It was the preacher. He was wearing his work clothes, and stepped into the house. We shook hands.

  “Careful,” he said. “I have one left.”

  I forced a laughed. “So where’s the right hand?” I played along, trying not to show how fearful I really was. Could he tell? Could he smell it off me? The preacher gave no clue. He smiled, friendly and peaceful. I had to remember to relax the muscles in my face. He was rotting less.

  Healing.

  “You’re healing,” I said.

  He grinned, arms out wide.

  “The creators…they care for their brothers and sisters.”

  “They?”

  “On the mountain, there,” he said, pointing out the door. “That’s where Banger went.”

  “The child?? Why on earth would she do such a foolish thing like that?! And you let her go? A little girl can’t go up that mountain! She could fall and break her collarbone! Are you mad, sir?”

  “I assure you, I’m perfectly happy,” he said, picking off a flake of skin from his cheek. “When she comes back, guidance will be found. The blind flock will have a shepherd.”

  “When did you let her go?”

  “A few hours ago. It can’t be helped.” He exhaled. “Why do you ask?”

  I ran out the door. The preacher reached out.

  “It can’t be helped! Think about it! Think about iiiiiiiiiiiiiit!”

  I GRABBED tree branches to help me up the mountain. At least I had shade from the blazing sun. Banger was in the mud, wiggling around. Rats surrounded her, licking their lips. Some of them had fallen in the mud and drowned. She held her book in the air, away from the muck. When Banger saw me, she sprang up and fell back down, moaning, then screaming at me.

  “Stay away! Leave me alone! I have work to do!”

  I kicked the rats away. She was punching me as I picked her up and set her on her feet.

  “First of all, stop with the hitting,” I said. “And second, I’m not here to stop you. You do whatever the hell you want.”

  She looked at me weird.

  “You’re not going to stop me from climbing this dangerous mountain? I almost broke my collarbone.”

  “I’m going to help you. Let’s go.”

  I held her hand. She was limping.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “You’re not going to hurt anyone, right?”

  “What was that? On the contrary. What I find up this mountain will help all of us. I’m the only one that can do it, for I am the greatest writer in this alternate reality.”

  “Arrogant much?”

  “It’s not arrogance if you don’t tell anyone.”

  “You just told me.”

  “Damn, you’re right. I really am arrogant. I didn’t want to believe it. But why is it a bad thing? At least I’m positive and driven.” She thought…then gripped my hand for dear life. “Please! Don’t tell anyone! I can’t have my image tainted. My message is too important.”

  “Then we better hurry before it turns dark,” I said. Did she know that there was a whole world outside her little town? Should I tell her? Maybe it was better if she found out on her own. It felt right. Gut feeling.

  We were near the halfway mark. There was an odd sound high above us…of gears. Where did Cakers run off to? Probably at another one of his games. Did he despise the world so much that he was willing to put his life on the line for paper? I thought back to the last time I saw him.

  His face was lifeless.

  Drained.

  IT was dark, and the ground was evening.

  Lights were hitting the trees above us—flashing lights of blue and red. Was Cakers up there with his posse of buffoons? No, silly. Of course not. Unless…what if he was? What would I do? Confront him? Tell him to get his act together? Would he yell at me, complaining that I had no idea what he was going through? Would he…harm me?

  I stopped.

  Banger looked at me and tugged on my hand.

  “Are you scared?”

  I kept my eyes at the lights.

  “Yes.”

  Pause.

  She let go of my hand and walked up. I let her go.

  “It’s all you from here on out,” I said to myself. “I can only give you a push.”

  She’s your responsibility now, boy.

  “You lie. And if you lie to me again I will punch you in the mouth.”

  She would’ve failed if you had not arrived. She might have died.

  “See? I’m not so bad. I’m a good person, living as best as I can. We all are. We just can’t admit it.”

  She should have failed.

  “I’d watch my wicked tongue if I were you! Which I am.”

  You interfered with another’s life. You walked onto their path. Now you’re there with them. You must follow through. A real man would. You know, to be completely honest with you, I think she’s more of a man than you. You could learn much from her, wouldn’t you say? So let’s not procrastinate…boy.

  I closed my eyes. I could smell something like soaped skin. It was Banger’s, I assumed. She impressed me. So young, yet so determined to be a success. What was I doing at that age? Watching Total Recall 50-something times a day on TBS?

  Yes.

  Had I been doing it—subconsciously—my whole life? Just daydreaming? Not doing? Not really doing?

  Such hideous t
houghts!

  I punched a tree and roared. Leaves fell all around me. I ran up toward the top of the mountain and climbed, climbed, climbed—hand over jagged rock. My palms were bleeding, but it only spurred me onward, going on pure, crazy adrenalin now. I had purpose. A righteous goal.

  The little girl was standing in a mist. The ground was flat and all rock. The lights were coming from behind the mist—red and blue…spinning with the sound of engines.

  I hid behind a tree—the only tree there. Birds were in the tree, staring at me. Something told me they were just as scared.

  The girl held the book close to her bosom and walked. The mist parted like a curtain. An unidentified flying object sat between two large, backlit bushes. She froze as the saucer’s front door slide down and ejected a long ramp. Three women walked out, down the ramp, and to the girl, standing in front of her, smiling. They were all dressed like Queen Elizabeth I in her coronation robes, complete with crown and scepter. They were taller than humans by a foot or two, with shimmering red, blond, and brown hair.

  Smiling…always smiling.

  The one in the middle—the redhead—shook the little girl’s hand.

  “Greetings, earthling. So you’ve come. My name is God #13.” She motioned to her friends Blond and Brown. “This is God #616, and God #14.

  “Hello,” said the little girl. “My name is…err…Banger. Yes, that’s the ticket. Glad to meet you. Why am I not afraid?”

  “Nice to meet you, too,” said Red. “Thank you for not being afraid. It means a lot to me.” She pointed at her with the scepter. “We know why you’ve come. We’ve been expecting you…seen you in your dreams.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. So you’ve come for knowledge, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  Banger held up her book.

  “I can only do so much with my limited imagination of the universal subconscious,” she said. “Please, help me.”

  “For starters,” said Red, “you will title your book 88. This book shall be untouchable. It is everything and nothing. Are you ready to write?”

  “Yes, I have my pen.”

  “Good. Chapter ONE,” said Red, taking in a deep breath and exhaling. “A very long time ago, the gods of Nibiru came down and made man from female apes. They needed worker bees to dig gold to save their mother world. This was all thanks to advancements in technology, such as genetic engineering. All were happy, until one day…”

  “Sorry, what was that? Did you say apes?”

  “Yes, apes. Now don’t interrupt! It upsets me. Now where was I? Oh, yes…”

  “It’s just that I can’t write that down. It’s too weird. Apes?? This is blasphemy. I think.”

  “Not what you were expecting, eh? Well, too bad. Now write.”

  “I will NOT.”

  “What did you just say to me??”

  “They’ll run me out of town! I will NOT be laughed at! I will not write! Truth be damned!”

  Red reached back and pulled out a ray gun. It had blinking lights on it.

  “Oh, I beg to differ. I think you will write. You WILL write down these words and show them to your people. The cycle will not end. It will never end. And don’t you dare twist our words with your pen. Or else the boy gets it.”

  She aimed the gun at me.

  “You can step out from the tree, boy.”

  I stepped out from the tree, smiling, hands up.

  “Am I interrupting something? My apologies, ladies.” I looked at my watch, which I wasn’t wearing. “Whoops! Look at the time. Well, I’ll just be going now.”

  Red took a quick step forward. The ray gun buzzed and glowed, charging.

  “Not…so…fast,” she said, left side of her mouth curling up. She was squinting. “One more step and POW! Ashes to ashes, as they say.”

  “Don’t shoot him!” the little girl screamed.

  The alien with the gun, laughed.

  “Ha! You humans are all the same. Screaming.” She squatted before the girl, who was crying. “Listen here, you little girl. Write this book or the moron gets it square between the eyes, you dig?”

  The girl nodded, sniffed, and looked to me. I forced a smile. I was in shock. This was it. The big enchilada. They were going to zap me into nothingness. Would my soul survive? This thought scared me more than anything else. What if the hardheaded ninnies were right? What if the atheists are right? What if there really is nothing after you bite the bullet? What would it be like? It was unimaginable. I was shaking all over. I could run. I could turn around and run. Red wasn’t looking at me. How good was her/its aim? I should run. Go, boy—now!

  Total paralysis.

  Had they done something to me? Put a curse on me? Injected me with something? I just stood there, smiling like the hapless animal they saw me as. A sudden move would startle them. That gun would go off, and I’d be pushing up the daises.

  Red began to whisper, and the little girl wrote. After a few minutes, Red stood up. She put her hand on Banger’s head and messed up her hair in a playful way.

  “Good girl. End of chapter one. As for the rest of the book, we will send the precious details to you via off-putting dreams. Don’t even think about being lazy. Don’t stop writing. We will know. See, when I put my hand on your head, I implanted a tiny device that’ll allow me to read your mind.”

  Banger screamed out, scratching her head, moaning.

  “Oh, my God!”

  “Yes?”

  “You witch! Get this thing out of me!”

  “When you’re done,” said Red.

  I was still the whole time, hands reaching sky. Finished, the alien put her gun away and gave the little girl a pat on the head. The girl kicked the alien in the kneecap. I gasped, but nothing bad happened. The aliens laughed and applauded and walked back up to their ship.

  The door closed, and they zoomed into the stars. The mist dissipated. We climbed down the mountain. Banger was way ahead of me, weeping…vanishing into the night. I made no attempt to give chase.

  When I got home, I took a boiling hot shower and went to bed.

  Don’t think about them. They can read your thoughts. Don’t call them.

  Really? How do you know for sure?

  How you know that these are even your thoughts?

  I DIDN’T sleep that night.

  I kept my mind clear. There were no images. No emotions. Just silence. The sound of God. Silence. The ultimate force. It cannot be divided.

  I was meditating. For the first time in my life, I was truly meditating.

  When the sun inched its way over the horizon, I heard the ambulance. It was going bonkers. I ran outside and saw Cakers inside, drunk and vomiting all over the wheel. His hands were sliding all over it. The ambulance was going in circles and making donuts. Chickens were on the roof of the ambulance, holding on for dear life, complaining.

  “Cakers! What the deuce?!” I was reaching out to him, too stupid with shock to get closer. “The drink has possessed you! Stop this madness! Think!”

  “I’ll show them!” he was screaming. REAL screaming—from the top of his lungs, voice cracking, teeth clenched, eyes boiling—piercing. “I WILL SHOW THEM ALLLLL!”

  He made a big I’m-stepping-on-something move, and the ambulance took off…into a field, zooming right past the house. I ran after, barefoot and jumping over thorns and sleeping grass and aged zombie mess.

  I knew where he was going.

  The town.

  I yelled after him.

  “No, damn you! Nooooooo!” My words came out in jerks as my heels hit the moist ground.

  Cakers aimed the speeding heap of metal right for the zombie town. He plowed right through the gate. I was galloping at full speed. The ambulance was running over zombies, and they exploded like bags of water. Cakers was nearing the church.

  “Not the church!” I screeched, jumping over zombie parts.

  A herd of zombies ran in front of the ambulance to stop it—their hands out
, heads forward. The ambulance plowed through half of them before coming to a halt, wheels spinning, spewing rubbery smoke. The bodies under the wheels were shredded, yet the others held their ground. Cakers was shifting gears, yelling vowels. A zombie opened the door and threw him out on his face, giving him a mouth full of muck. He stood up and spat out earth. He was in uniform.

  He was working. Maybe still at work. Had he seen something on the job? Something that finally drove him over the edge??

  The zombies circled him.

  Tranzam ran out of a house, chased by a naked zombie male. It was the preacher. His body was still healing—thighs showing glistening meat, the white of bone, belly all stitched up, kneecaps loose and clapping. Tranzam was topless. I took a step away from the scene. My inner voice was blowing whistles and ringing warning bells. Tranzam ran through the crowd and punched Cakers in the mouth. He went high into the air, twirling like in a kung fu flick.

  I was intimidated.

  My legs were shaking. I punched them to set them right.

  Cakers was up and shaking his head and massaging his head. His entire face was red. He looked like a lollypop.

  “Wickedness,” he snarled. “You cheater!” He was pointing at the preacher.

  “This must be Cakers…” said the man of God, “…life’s failure.” Then to him, “You don’t know Tranzam at ALL. Leave now. Don’t embarrass yourself.”

  Cakers turned a sad eye to Tranzam.

  “Come home, baby. I love you so much. Please, come home.”

  She let out a “Hmph” and turned away, locked in the preacher’s arms. The other zombies closed in on the three of them. Cakers stumbled back, shocked, looking around.

  “Baby…how can you do this? All those years together…all our years. Are you just gonna throw it away?”

  “Time to grow,” she said, shaking her head. “Move on, Cakers. Move on. Go.”

  Cakers repeated the words. He looked down at his feet, mumbling something. His eyes were wide open, unblinking. Something in his brain broke in two. He looked up at all of us, scowling.

  “You’re all going to Hell!”

  He jabbed his finger at each and every one of us, sneering in hate.

  “You think I don’t know what you’ve been doing here?”

  Tranzam took a step forward.

  “What are you blabbering about?”

  Cakers grinned, nodding, looking around, making strict eye contact with all. Even me.

  “Where do you think I’ve been all this time?? I’ve been hiding here—in this town, disguised as you, learning about you. This is a wicked town! I’ve seen all of you getting high on that…that stuff…polluting your minds! That tree is unnatural—the Devil’s tree! It’s disgusting! It’s unholy! You demons do what you want without thought of consequence—doing whatever comes to mind to fulfill whatever pleasure—while hardworking, honest folks, like me, get nothing but hardship.”

  Tranzam kicked a stone at him, missing his face by an inch.

  “Get out of here, stupid! We run this!”

  “Oh, yes…I’ve seen you,” Cakers said. “You think I didn’t see you two making love in the middle of town? You think I didn’t see you? Dropping your vagina all over the place?? I knew that pentagram stuff was hogwash. It didn’t bring you back to me. I knew it wouldn’t work!”

  So Cakers thought his pentagram didn’t come true? The whole time, he knew it wouldn’t.

  “It did come true, you fool,” I said to myself. “Your subconscious sabotaged you before the seeds were planted.”

  Cakers didn’t hear me. Good thing, too. He was livid.

  “People watched!” he said. “No one cared! Can you believe that? As if nothing was wrong! It was all too weird for me. I vomited in my hands. I thought the very act of seeing would damn me to Hell. Have you no fear of that burning place?”

  Everyone mumbled and looked around. They stared at him and shook their heads and shrugged. “Nope…No…Sorry…Uh-uh…”

  Cakers yanked at his hair.

  “Lunacy! Why should I feel so much guilt!? Why should I work! Why should I slave away! It’s unfair!” He was pointing again. “I want to be free! What is your secret? What is it???”

  Everyone looked up and held hands.

  “Do what thou wilt.”

  Tranzam and the preacher walked away.

  “Do what you want…” she said, “…so long as you leave everyone else alone.”

  “Don’t walk away from ME!” He jumped up and down, making fists, eyes shut. “Come back! Come back! Come back! Wahhhhhh!”

  Everyone walked away.

  “Go home,” they were saying. “Go in peace.”

  Cakers squinted under the roasting sun and saw three little girls walking into town, giggling, gossiping, and carrying baskets full of Nutmeg.

  “Let’s see how happy you’ll be without your precious drug,” he snarled. “Out of my way!” He pushed through the crowd and jumped into the ambulance and started it up and reversed.

  Tranzam yelled at everyone.

  “Stop him! He’s heading for the tree of life!”

  I dove out of the way before Cakers ran me over, doing a tuck and roll and springing up. Many of the now-quick-zombies hurried after him with pitchforks and shovels and torches. Cakers gave the wheel a hard turn and swung the ambulance around, tearing out of the town. Tranzam was furious.

  “Stop him before it’s too late!”

  I ran with them, impressed at how fast they were. The zombies were light, probably due to all the blood and meat they lost. The ambulance was near the tree, every light blinking, rotating. As if on cue, the sun appeared from behind a cloud, hitting everyone with crazy heat. Cakers waved a gasoline container around, dousing the tree with the sparking liquid.

  “Stop!” said the crowd. “Please! Stop!”

  Tranzam had her hands together.

  “Don’t do this! You’ll kill us all! You’ll kill me!”

  I kept my distance.

  Cakers opened his Zippo lighter, flicking a waving flame. Everyone gasped. Children ran away, screaming and flailing their arms. They tried to pull me away, but I ignored them, my eyes fixed on the horrific scene playing out before me.

  The preacher walked toward Cakers.

  “Take me. Do what you want with me. Just please, don’t…do…this.”

  “Nooo!” Tranzam shrieked, running into his arms. “I can get more. Please, don’t listen to him. Stay with me!”

  Cakers nodded.

  “Yes, come here,” he said, waving the Zippo around. “I have plans for you…you bastard…you unholy bastard.”

  I was close enough now to see the hunger—the anticipation—on Cakers’ face. He didn’t notice me. Did he even remember me?

  The preacher whispered something into Tranzam’s ear, and she let him go…let him walk, with his hands up, toward the flame wielding maniac.

  “Easy now,” Cakers said. “Let’s not get any bright ideas.”

  The crowd, looking around with confused looks, spread out. Something was up—literally.

  I took a surprised step forward.

  A zombie stood on the ambulance, holding a pitchfork, ready to jump on Cakers. The fool slipped and fell on the hood. The pitchfork landed on Cakers’ shoe. He jumped in the air, holding his foot and wailing.

  “Aiiiiiiiiiiiiiii! Holy hell!”

  The lighter fell. The preacher leapt forward. Everyone let out a pitiful, high-pitched sound and held their breath, reaching out. He missed the lighter by a foot and landed with his mouth wide open—stupefied. The soaked ground exploded. People squealed and ran off. The tree roared, swallowed by a rage of flames. Black smoke filled the sky.

  Cakers hopped into his ambulance and zoomed away, laughing. I couldn’t hear him, but he was smiling with his mouth opening and closing.

  Tranzam was screaming.

  The preacher was twisting around and around, on fire from head to toe. He ran into the tree and punched and kicked it and he
adbutted it. Tranzam was trying to get close to save him. The fire drowned out her pleas. My ears hurt from all the noise, my face burning. I swung an arm over my eyes and grabbed Tranzam’s arm and pulled her away—dragged her, kicking and screaming.

  She punched me in the stomach and I let her go, the two of us falling hard to the ground. Tranzam crawled toward the tree…reaching out…hand shaking…squeaking.

  8:00pm.

  It was a meeting. Everyone was in the middle of the town, on the dirt, tired, drooling, some vomiting their innards. A few hours before, they had taken all the reserve nutmeg. It was done in a mad panic—lots of screaming, weeping, begging, cradling, and looking around with strange eyes. Now they were exhausted. The stuff helped…but now they were rotting all over again.

  It would be a slow burn.

  Tranzam and I were sitting back to back. Night birds were singing duets with crickets. There were torches outside every house.

  “I’m dying,” she said.

  I looked over my shoulder.

  “We all are. Don’t worry. If we put our heads together, we’ll find a way through this crazy hootenanny.”

  “I can feel my insides going bad. What can one do? It is inevitable.”

  “Are you scared—”

  “No,” she said. “This is all one big game…a big circle. What goes around comes around. ‘I’ll be back,’ says The Terminator.”

  Didn’t she want to fight—if even a little—to survive for one more day? Did she feel complete?? I knew many people—many youngsters—who told me they were ready to die, that they were not afraid. They seemed to take pride in it. In truth, they were giving up, as if life (at least for them) had nothing left to offer. “I have no talent,” they say. I have experienced enough. The inspiration is gone.

  It’s not true. Inspiration is eternal. It is what drives all things. It creates worlds. It’s forever fighting with our rigid beliefs. We are all destined for greatness. So many are blind to their own genius—blinded by what others think of them, by what society tells them, blinded by the rules their parents lay down for them, and blinded by their own eyes.

  They have been responding only to outside stimulus. A dog can do that. Beings on a higher level of consciousness have the ability to answer inside stimulus…motivation…the voice in all…the Life in all. Have we tried to look beyond appearances? Are we too lazy to look deep within and find the truth? See that if you can imagine it, it already exists? That there is nothing you can’t Be, Do, or Have?

  It’s too hard. I’m too weak,” they say. “Just give me drugs and arguments.”

  I thought about letting Tranzam—and all the others in the world like her—free. Not to fight it. Not to bother. Not to meddle. Let them do what they want. Enjoy the unfolding of my own life. There is a wonderful urge in all of us to help another…but what’s the use if they turn a deaf ear? You can’t force your beliefs on them, and you can’t make them change by using force. No one is born a slave.

  Let them do what they want. Release them. Do your own thing. It’s what every parent should do.

  I looked around at the men, women, children—those zombies, those creations.

  Did that mean I was a…parent?

  The preacher stood before the sleeping crowd.

  “Wake up!”

  They woke up, blurry eyed.

  “What?” they groaned. “What’s going on? Who am I? Who are you? Where are we? I’m so scared. Now what?”

  The preacher raised his hand. His other arm fell off sometime during the night. Ants fell out. No one cared.

  “Ladies and germs, we are rotting.”

  “Tell us something we don’t know!” said a random voice.

  “There are approximately fifty Bibles sold each minute across the world,” the preacher said. “Now shut up and listen…everrrryyyyyonnnnne!”

  Everyone sat up, backs straight, attentive. Many of the backs cracked. Three people fell forward. The preacher called Tranzam to his side. They embraced and stared at the zombies.

  “We have exhausted our supply of nutmeg,” he said.

  Two people were walking around, lazy, moaning, arms out in front of them. They attacked people, trying to put their mouths on them. Those still sane threw pitchforks into their brains. No one panicked. The coming events were inevitable. Normal.

  “But hope is not lost,” the preacher said. “We have God on our side.” He motioned to a building. “Bring out the child!”

  Two farmers dragged Banger out of her home. She kicked and screamed.

  “No! I’m not done yet! I must not be disturbed!” She gave one of them a good kick to the kneecap. It flew off like a spinning top and went into someone’s eye, hitting brain and killing them.

  “Stop this mayhem,” the preacher said. “Let’s be civil about this, child.”

  The other zombie—who now looked like he was about to keel over with those googly eyes—held Banger before the crowd. Tranzam had her arms around his neck. She was dangling…sleepy.

  “Release me at once!” Banger said. “Please, I beg of you, let me continue with my writing! I’ll go mad if I don’t. This thing in my head hurts!”

  The preacher stomped.

  “Little girl…little prophet…call God. Have God come down and save us.”

  A woman, whose head was a brain and dangling eyes and everything else below the nose, stood up.

  “Have God come down and save us! I mean, LOOK AT ME!”

  A man shot up beside her and had everything but the bottom of his face. He used sign language.

  “Save us!” he signed. “Save us all—for the love of God!”

  Now everyone stood up and circled around the little girl. “Save us! Help us! It hurts! I can feel myself going! Now what??” They grabbed at her.

  “No, no! Let me go! Don’t touch me!” Banger cried. “Unhand me, you fools!”

  One of the fools went down and crawled through legs and took hold of Banger’s foot. The fiend was drooling and made to bite her. I rushed through the crowd and pulled Banger away. We ran off into her home. I locked the door and stuck a chair under the knob.

  “The fiend tried to taste you!” I panted. “Cannibalism! How revolting!”

  Banger was sitting on the carpet of crumbled paper balls, crying into her hands. I pulled back the blinds and peeked out the window. A fight had broken out.

  “It’s a mad feast! They’re eating themselves like ribbon worms!” And it was true. Not only were they attacking and eating their neighbors, many were on the ground and devouring their own limbs and gulping down streams of blood that shot forth from tangled meat. Banger still had her face in her hands, sniveling.

  “I have failed,” she said. “I have let my own people down. I have let God down. We are doomed.”

  The preacher SPRUNG up in front of the window and I fell back, the both of us shrieking. He headbutted the window and sent a rain of glass everywhere. He was reaching in past the shards and clawing the air—shredding his arms.

  I turned a couch over and stood it in front of the window. Fists pounded on the door.

  “Give her to us!” Tranzam begged. “If she won’t call God down to help us, we’ll eat her brain and steal her knowledge and call God ourselves!”

  “It doesn’t work that way!” I said, pressing my hands against the door. I looked over my shoulder. “I don’t remember…is there a backdoor or something?”

  Banger was eating her hands, her eyes shut tight. “Mmm, so good,” she said. “Mmm, so GOOD!” She sprung her eyes open and looked around and saw me as if for the first time. “Brainssssss!”

  She lunged at me—SMILING—and jumped into the air like Supergirl. I sidestepped and she crashed through the door, making a jagged hole. Tranzam stuck her head in and wiggled her tongue at me.

  “Blahhhhhhh!” she yelled. “I’m going to EAT you!”

  She reached in and pushed the chair over and turned the knob.

  “Meesa…gonna…feet…ewww,” she was tryin
g to say. The words tumbled from her mouth. She was a far-gone loon. The others kicked the door open and sloshed in. They were already slow, minds lost, motors running on silly hunger—everything primal. I ran to the back. There was no back door…no window…only a thick, white wall. I punched and kicked it to no desirable effect—paint chips in my hair and on my clothes. I sucked on my bleeding fists and spat out white flakes. Tranzam led the zombies in as they dragged their feet and waved their arms around, wrists floppy.

  “Brains,” they all dripped. “Brainssssssssss.”

  I was crying in a passionate way and moaned as loud as I could. I couldn’t stop. My heart blasted, breath coming in short spurts. My head spun. I was bouncing here and there, looking for a hole in the horde to dive through. The zombies were reaching out for me, drooling, spewing, grumbling, totally clueless. Brainless. Running on 100% instinct. Dumb instinct.

  That whole thing about your life flashing before your eyes right before you die was a sinister lie. Only fanatical panicking. Pure, insane alarm.

  A wave of noise fell on the town.

  Engines.

  Sirens.

  Ambulances.

  Cakers.

  The zombies looked around, sniffing the air with question marks popping above their heads. The ambulances hit their brakes. I could hear yelling and cheering. “Let them eat cake!” said a voice. It was Cakers. I’m rescued! I thought. Thank the gods! The ambulances were filing in. One of them roared to the house, plowing through the zombies with a series of dull thuds.

  A honk.

  “Have at you, fiends!” cried Cakers. He ran into the house and hacked apart the walking bags of meat with a samurai sword, creating dazzling fountains of blackish goo. The sword fell with a thick whoosh.

  Whoosh, chop, whoosh, chop, whoosh!

  “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” I said. My face was tight. Cakers laughed, still killing, head titled back. Is he even aiming? Does he even see me?? The zombies walked away from the massacre. One zombie stayed put and looked over its shoulder and just stared at me. It had a guilty expression, like when a baby turns from the TV and stares at you with that uh-oh-I-just-pooped-myself face.

  Cakers swung his weapon (he was just spinning around like a blind fool, chuckling louder to a high pitch) and hit this zombie right through its middle. The top half smacked a wall, arms out, and slid down with a sharp squeak. The legs stood, spurting green and red and black. The intestines were wiggling out like mad snakes. There was the disturbing sound of escaping air.

  Cakers snuffed allllll the zombies and reduced them to large and twitching chunks. The place was disgusting and reeked of trash bag juice. And he was still spinning, eyes shut, laughing, heading right for me with that damn blade.

  “Watch it!” I shouted, ducking just in time.

  Cakers spun right by and took huge chunks of the wall. He stopped and panted, hunched over. The tip of the sword hovered in front of his eyes, ticking left, right, left, right.

  “Let’s round them up!” said a voice outside.

  Cakers looked right past me, wearing a mask of gore—teeth white and locked in a grinding grin.

  “Oops. Forgot one,” he said. “Silly me.”

  I backed away.

  “What’s your damage?”

  “Huh?” He looked around and slapped the side of his head. “Hrmm. Thought I heard something.” He laughed. “So what, who cares??”

  Cakers blinked, and for a second I thought I heard a cash register ding and saw dollar signs in his eyes. Cakers yelled and raised his sword and ran toward me. I let out a yelp and turned tail, arms pumping. Cakers tripped on a pile of zombie feet and fell. I slid on the sick floor and flew right out the door, my face landing in guck.

  HOW long had I been out?

  I opened an eye. Something like 20 ambulance drivers walked around with samurai swords, hacking zombies up. The town was wet and stank. The ground was a giant spaghetti dish. Limbs and torsos and heads topped the dish like meatballs. Ants were on everything.

  Emergency medical technicians chased after the few zombies left—one gloved hand on their swords, the other on their jangling belts—and tackled them to the blood-mud and hogtied them and dragged the creatures. The zombies snapped their jaws at them. The EMTs giggled and poked and prodded them with their stained blades, slicing free noses and lips and nipples as souvenirs. They moseyed on over to a female EMT that sat behind a desk, in the middle of the gross street, and handed her their goods. She stitched them into necklaces made of fishing line and threw their prizes back to them.

  I stood up, massaging my chest. Puddles of blood flashed from ambulance lights. Radios beeped and spewed tangled voices. A worried ambulance driver was chopping zombie limbs, talking to herself.

  “Forgive me, God,” she said. “Forgive me, God. (chop, chop, chop) Forgive me, God. (chop, chop, chop)

  Another woman threw a ladder over three zombies and captured them. She made a strong move and decapitated them all at once.

  The Indian chief stood before a group of EMTs. He examined the bodies presented to him, checking off items in his notebook. He would nod and grunt and the workers would drag and throw his goods into the back of his ambulance, which was like any other ambulance, except his had a giant sculpture of a terrific eagle on the roof.

  An EMT kicked down the door of a house. A zombie with a broken neck strolled out with a gun, waving it in the air, clueless, brain-dead, eyes rolling. It had lazy legs...and held onto the gun with some distant, fading memory. The EMT laughed.

  BANG.

  The EMT looked down at his belly.

  “What? Gun wounds, again??”

  His white shirt turns red and his eyes rolled back and he collapsed. The zombie gave up and fell on him, mouth landing right on the man’s jaw, removing it. At first, no blood came forth…then the heart pumped and the obvious happened. The zombie seemed happy—showering in blood, munching away, tearing at the man’s heart. I was impressed (and revolted) at the strength of the zombie hand.

  The other EMTs ran up and kicked the beast off and minced its body to itty bits. A woman cradled the jawless man and cried and talked about better days. The man gurgled and blood-bubbles shot from his mouth, past his wiggling and swollen tongue. He looked around, shocked, eyes completely bloodshot. His hands had dug all the way into the ground. The legs shook and kicked.

  To my horror, emergency medical technicians were at the church, trying to break the doors down with a large battering-ram. It was a damn log. They were going, “Heave, ho! Heave, ho!”

  Some of them threw rocks at the windows. Why were they doing this? What was the point??? Maybe they just liked the sound of glass breaking. And why not do it? So what, who cares? It was unadulterated chaos.

  An EMT stood on his ambulance, yelling at the men and women with the battering-ram. “Nincompoops! You don’t heave and-a ho a log! Nincompoops!” He was clearly drunk off his gourd.

  Cakers ran out from the house and screeched.

  “Look! Look!” he went, pointing at me with his samurai sword. “Zombie! Look! Look!” His voice was so high…he sounded like a confused woman.

  The Indian chief looked up, puzzled.

  “Blimey, what the devil is he going on about? Poor chap has gone daft.”

  Cakers squeezed out a battle cry and came at me full speed.

  I stumbled and fell on my back, covering my face and looking through my fingers.

  “Gadzooks!”

  Cakers…jumped over me.

  I rolled away and sprang up. He had his sword over his head and was charging like a mad bull, right for…

  “Bethany!” he cried. “I’ll save youuuuuu!”

  Something small rode her back. It was Banger. Other EMTs ran to the rescue. Bethany, in a panic, flailed her samurai blade around, pleading for help. The others stood back, screaming at her to stop moving around so much—to just relax.

  Banger threw her head back, fluttered her eyes, and fell forward, biting d
eep into Bethany’s neck.

  “She’s biting me!” Bethany yelled, more in anger than anything else. Then her eyes rolled white, and she collapsed.

  Cakers yelled and jumped around, possessed by some embarrassing tantrum.

  “Get her away from my baby!” he said. The EMTs grabbed Banger, unsure of what to do next. Cakers went down and held Bethany. He reached back and pulled out his ice picks. “These will make everything alright, baby. I’ll make everything alright again. I promise.”

  He eased them into her belly. No blood came out.

  Bethany shook like a crazy person and wiggled in his arms. “Too soon!” she screamed. “Too soooooooonnn!” She went for his neck, taking out a small chunk. Cakers kicked her away. “Tranzam wouldn’t have done that!” He pointed at Banger. “Of course! This is all your fault! Bring her too me!”

  Banger looked up, lost. Cakers stiffened a stance and made to slice Banger’s face clean off.

  A brilliant light drowned the town.

  Everyone looked up at the UFO. It spun and let loose a sudden noise that sounded like a series of gunshots. Some of the EMTs fell to the ground and covered their heads, howling and weeping like injured hyenas. “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” People ran around, going nowhere fast. The UFO hovered low—right over Banger. She looked up, wind making her squint.

  The chief clapped his hands, smiling.

  “Oh, happy day!” he said, strolling through the frenzied swarm. “I knew this day would come. Everyone, everyone, be not afraid! Oh, happy day!”

  A blue beam zipped down and shot right through Banger’s back. The UFO lifted her through the air as its door slid open. Cakers drove his ambulance into the UFO, sending it spinning into the side of a house. Banger fell to the ground. Cakers stuck his head out the window and shook his ice picks.

  “Ha ha!” he yelled. He reversed and drove in her general direction. “Nobiscum deus!”

  The zombie girl stood up, dazed. I ran and tackled her out of the way. Cakers plowed through the same house the UFO crashed into. The zombie child was trying to bite me—trying to scratch my neck off. I held her face as close to mine as possible.

  “Stop!” I wept. “Snap out of it! Snap out of it!”

  I wanted to hug her. I wanted to hug her as tight as I could, and I wanted her to hug back. I wanted her to tell me what a good friend I was. She was glad to have me in her life. Thank you for supporting me. Thank you for understanding me. Thank you for being there. I’m here for you, too. Whatever happens…you’ll have me. You’ll never be alone again. You have me. I love you…daddy.

  The blue beam again, and the little girl flew out of my hands, into the air, into the UFO. The backdoors of the ambulance blew open, and Cakers stumbled out with his hands all over his bloody face. The ice picks were in his head—in each temple. Did he even know?? He was weeping, moaning, praying, begging…asking for forgiveness from some invisible old man. A fellow EMT ran by and Cakers tackled him to the mud, strangling this stranger until bone snapped. Cakers stood up and tore his shirt off, the buttons popping off and shooting in all directions. He was screaming down at the crooked body, shaking his head in disbelief.

  Our eyes locked.

  He hurried to me, weeping and looking sad with his hands reaching out for my throat. A gust of wind raced between us, and the church doors blew open. A mess of black birds flew out and engulfed Cakers. He shrieked and spun around, trying to bat them away, backpedaling all the way into the church. Or was he being dragged?

  The EMTs were all in their ambulances. The engines whined with each turn of the key. It was a chorus of dead engines. Everyone’s gaze went up as the UFO went high above the town. A long tube, covered by blinking lights, eased out from the bottom of the UFO. I knew it instantly as the big brother of the alien’s ray gun.

  I ran.

  The canon sucked in air and cried out. Things behind me blew up. I kept my eyes fixed ahead of me—just ran straight as the houses on both sides exploded into useless chunks.

  White powder rained all over the town.

  Blue beams hit the people in front of me and yanked them into the air, their screams fading. I ran into the church and shut the doors, backing away, catching my breath, my mind a sharp edge. White garbage was all over me, and large handfuls fell like snow with each slow step backwards.

  I looked up at the large, colorful mirror.

  Lights flashed behind it, followed by explosions and the sound of metal slicing through the air over and over again like a giant sword. I heard screams. They were soft and far away…outside. They grew louder as they fell from the sky. Bodies hit the roof of the church and dropped all around the church, landing in disturbing splats. I covered my ears. More bodies bounced off the roof. Constantly shrieking. Constantly pleading.

  Then…silence.

  I dropped to my palms and knees and just breathed, slow and steady, easing my heart.

  A squawk.

  Behind me, those black birds were all around the altar. Cakers sat on it. His back was to me. A bird stood on his head, squawking. Red junk dripped to the floor. The walky-talky on Cakers’ belt hummed a soft static. The back of his shirt moved around.

  Those birds…their eyes stared and stared at me. I wanted to leave. Why didn’t they attack me? Would I taste bad, was that it? Where else would I go? Outside? No. I’d be zapped to smithereens. Or would I? Why didn’t they do it earlier? They could’ve—easily, sure. I wasn’t that fast of a runner, thanks to years of smoking all those KOOLs and Pall Malls and Marlboros and Camels and Virginia Slims and Benson & Hedges and Lucky Strikes and Misty cigarettes. They could have done me in, but didn’t. For some mystifying reason, they didn’t.

  I opened the church doors and stepped outside.

  The sky was on fire. The houses were rubble. Ambulances burned and crackled, some on their sides with their wheels spinning in the air. One ambulance was different. It wasn’t burning on the outside at all…perfectly unscratched. A livid fire had broken out inside. A body danced about, bouncing against the driver’s seat. The windshield cracked.

  I stepped over clean, glistening bones and articles of wet clothing. The UFO was gone. A house stood, unscratched and surrounded by burning buildings. I walked in, and the front door fell over, kicking up dust. Papers were scattered all over the ground, so I scooped them up. The first paper read, “Chapter ONE. A very long time ago, the gods of Nibiru came down and made man from female apes. They needed worker bees to dig gold to save their mother world. This was all thanks to advancements in technology, such as genetic engineering. All were happy, until one day…” The last page had a drawing of an angry face, like something a kid would draw on a bad night when daddy and mommy hit'em real good for spilling milk all over the cat. (“It was joke! Don't hit me, parents! It makes me so crazy! I'll grow up to hit back – to be a killer. I'll KILL YOU!!”)

  I walked outside. Bad smoke. My eyes burned. I took off my shirt and bunched it up and breathed through it. All that black smoke pulled into the sky…stars that faded in and out and in and out…white dust falling all around…the air danced...it was beautiful.

  THE morning sun came up as I walked into the house. I called out for Queen…and got no answer. I went upstairs. Her room was empty, bed unmade. My gut told me to go check the basement, so I ran down, excited to see her, excited to tell her all that happened, to cry in her arms, to let loose.

  The basement was empty. The table, where Tranzam made her Nutmeg concoction, had been ransacked. The bowls were bone-dry. Many of the syringes were missing. As I walked to my room, I noticed a dangling piece of string above me, and I pulled on it. A ladder zoomed down and almost took my face off.

  I cranked my head up to the hole. The black square above me breathed. Cockroaches tumbled out and scurried at my feet. Some of them flew onto my face, and I punched them away. These bastards think they can just saunter in here and not pay rent?!

  I looked up.

  “Queen?”

  I climb
ed the ladder, into the basement. The place was wet. I pulled another cord, this one turning on a flickering light. Cobwebs everywhere. Dead rats trapped in them. Old and dusty toys—bikes, small pianos, slingshots, footballs, dolls with frozen faces—against an out-of-place red brick wall. Moonlight fell through a small window, across the wall. There was writing on it.

  Guillotine Girl

  Her plane crashes on the mountain,

  Her entire family dies.

  Mother, brother, father, sister—

  all in the blink of an eye.

  Walk down the mountain, she comes to a farm.

  Old woman is nice, extends a helping hand.

  Gives her a home, a nice place to stay.

  Listens to her story, of what took place that day.

  What happened to the plane? Skeletons hit it dead.

  Up there, on the mountain, a lone nun stood waiting.

  Came to the crash and took things away.

  Took the girl’s hand and forced her to obey.

  She went to a castle, deep in the woods,

  Helped to fight a war—battle evil doctors

  With giant bloody swords.

  These nuns trained her well, gave her a guillotine.

  It would serve her well, chopping off all seen.

  The doctors wanted God’s soul and fought all night,

  Launching killer skeletons with huge catapults.

  They ruin the nuns and their castle—burn down,

  Burn down the woods.

  Set their souls in cows, made into slaves.

  Guillotine Girl runs away, too afraid to help.

  She runs away, away, away…too afraid to stay.

  Cries herself to sleep, never seen since then.

  Will wake up, to fight another day.

  To make up for her mistake.

  I SPENT the whole day in bed, awake with a flashlight held close to my chest.

  At night, I got up and went to the front porch and sat down. It was quiet. The wind whistled past my ears. No one around for miles. Was I truly alone? My gut was talking again. It wanted me to know that there were ghosts in the house, and I should run away. That I should just take off and run into the night, down that road, all the way home, all the way back to Kalihi. It would be miles and miles and miles. Never mind about locking the doors. Just up and go.

  I stood up.

  What was I waiting for?

  Queen?

  “She’s not going to come back,” my gut said.

  Banger?

  “She’s not going to come back,” my gut said. “Maybe.”

  The road was calling me. I expected to see Cakers in the black distance, his ambulance lights spinning red and blue, speeding away and floating like ghosts.

  I turned my attention to the smoking town behind the house. It was silent. The fires had died down hours ago. And how many ghosts were there? And if there were ghosts there, how long before they came to the house? And what would happen to me? What would they do to me? Did they hear me? Did the very act of me thinking about them, call them to me?

  The wind stopped. Dead.

  I walked off the porch…and ran.

  THE flashlight showed the same dirt for over an hour. Various particles were in the beam. Earlier, I turned the light ahead of me and to my sides as I ran. There was nothing but thick darkness, and it swallowed the beam up. It felt like I was running in place. After that, I kept the light on the ground.

  My footsteps were loud.

  I ran, focusing on the rhythm of my jog, keeping my mind clear, keeping myself from thinking. I think, and I get paranoid. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being followed. I didn’t want to turn around. Don’t think. STOP thinking right now, I thought. Was I calling them again? Relax. Focus on your run.

  And that’s what I did. My mind was clear. I got an urge to write something down, but I wasn’t sure what. I had Banger’s pages in my pockets, along with my favorite pen, a blue Pilot G-2. I stopped, leaning on my knees, my chest pounding. I sat down with the light between my spread legs. I got out the papers and my pen, shuffling the stack to a blank page.

  Time to create something.

  I’d finish her story for her! I’d do it justice. I’d make her proud. It would be in the style of Revelations. All stream of consciousness. Real classic stuff. A grand scale battle between aliens and humans. The collapse of all religion. The realization of one truth—the only truth.

  My brain stalled. The pen didn’t move, so I forced it, producing page after page of utter garbage. I balled them up and threw them into the dark. They landed on grass, hitting frogs that hopped away. Writer’s block. And why not? This wasn’t my gig. I can’t pretend to write like someone else. I can’t force it out. What I was doing was wrong. Make your own, I thought. Don’t pretend to be someone else. This wasn’t my gig.

  The sound of a falling sword, slicing through air. I looked up. A light blinded me, and I swung my hand up, grunting.

  I was flying.

  I was being pulled up.

  It didn’t matter how tight I shut my eyes. The light went straight into my mind. I opened them—no, they were forced open—and saw three blurred faces, staring down on me, mumbling, sounding as if they were talking backwards. They were dressed in white. One of them looked like a little girl with large, blue eyes. Weird words. Strange mumbling. Something about surgery…healing…fixing. I looked to my right and saw Banger on a metal table, strapped down, sleeping. All around are blue and red lights. Pulsing colors. One of the three faces held Banger’s head, while another cut it open. I then screamed out, but there was no sound. They took something out from her head. Something small. I felt hands on my head. Cold hands. One of the faces has something sharp. The third face beats down on my chest many times. Something large—sharp scent of plastic—was put over my face.

  Wonderful air filled my lungs.

  There was an alarm.

  Terrible siren.