Cam proceeded slowly through the deserted streets of Once-Denver, his knife held at the ready in a white-knuckled fist. The Cleaning Lady was strapped to his back, dry as a bone, beautiful as the husk of a scorched wedding bouquet. He had to admit, there were a few advantages to his knife. Well, one. It never needed reloading.
"So what happened to your squadron?" Lucy asked.
He ignored her.
"Did they all die or did you go off on your own?"
He ignored her.
"How many zombies do you think you've killed?"
He tried to remember, couldn't, then remembered to ignore her.
"Can you even remember?"
He gritted his teeth.
"Okay, so maybe you can't remember how many in your life, but what about how many this week?"
He TRIED to ignore her.
"How far ahead do you thnk the next gas station is?"
"Shut up!" Cam said, flecks of spit flying from his lips to land on her mary janes.
She made a face at him, which he did not see. He was too busy focusing on what might be around the corner of the building that had once been a bank, before the rising of demonic forces had ended ninety-nine percent of all life on earth and rendered capitalism obsolete. Lucy put her hand carefully on his bandaged bicep and peeked around the bulge. His muscle twitched under her touch, and he jerked her off.
"I don't see anything," she said.
"If you don't shut the fuck up I'm going to carve your larynx out of your throat," he told her.
"Pshah," she said. "Like the Five Romantic Chemical Lords would allow that!"
If the ministers of Hell had conjured a demon designed specifically to torment him with her tasty hot bod, minty-fresh breath, endless yapping, and possible affiliations with the underworld, she would be it. He felt like he was being herded. He was sure she would have zombies or some other goddamn Hell-borne thing waiting for him around every corner and with every step he was just playing into her hands.
What other Hell-borne thing? Who knew. This little bitch could have vampires, werewolves, or who knew what other goddamn necromantic scum hidden up that tease of a skirt.
"Want me to go first?" she asked.
He should just kill her.
He sighed. "No," he growled. "No, you do not get to go first. How many times have we been over this? You do not go first. I go first. You follow. Now shut the fuck up."
"I'm just saying, I mean, you seem a little keyed up, and we've only made it, like two blocks in the past half hour. So if you want me to go first-"
"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" Cam yelled. His voice bounced off the buildings, echoed in the empty alleys.
Lucy gaped at him, then a smile twitched at the corners of her mouth. "Geez, Cam, now that's what I'm talkin' about!" she said. Then she strode out into the middle of the street, her hips swinging and gum popping, heading north. Or south. Or . . . well, Cam wasn't really sure what direction she was going, but judging by the prime view of her barely-skirted ass he was getting, she was headed away from him.
"Hey! Dammit Doublemint! What did I tell you about going first?"
"I'm tired of waiting for you," she said, and kept on walking. She sang. Loudly. Just to piss him off. Cam's rippling bicep reached for The Cleaning Lady, only to jerk to a halt, remembering his real Lady was dead. For now. Leaving him with this gum-popping zombie-loving bimbo.
"Teenagers scare the living shit outta me!
They could care less as long as someone'll bleed!
So darken your clothes
And strike a violent pose
Maybe they'll leave you alone
But not me!"
"You know what, Cam?" she called. Cam didn't even want to know, but she didn't wait for an answer. "I think it's good we came together." She giggled. He grimaced. "We should really join forces! With your fire and my power, we could make some real sparks!" She stopped. She turned. She put her hands on her hips and popped her gum. "Whatddaya think, Sparky?"
"I think . . . Shut the fuck up!" Cam said. Screw thinking.
"Uh-huh. By the way, there's a gas station right over there."
He hated it that she'd seen it before him. Being the keeper of The Cleaning Lady had always meant that Cam had petroleum radar. This little skank was messing with his petroleum radar. She had to be from Hell. He should quell her.
Fuck caution. It wasn't like he couldn't deal with any shit Doublemint could deal out, with or without his Lady. However, it would be hella sweet to let his real Lady devour this babysitter whole.
They went to the gas station. He went first. He didn't even look to see if she followed. She did though. Jesus fuckin' Christ this little bitch was like a dog yapping at his heels.
"What are your plans, Cam? Really, have you thought anything through at all?"
"I'm going to refuel the Lady," he said, as he began refuelling the Lady.
"And then?"
"I'm going to quell you."
"Hm. Could be fun. But how 'bout this? You come with me. I know Selig Retsuc's grand plan. We find him. We stop him from regaining access to the source of his power -- it may look tiny, but he knows how to use it, trust me. We save the fucking world."
Cam didn't even consider. Barbie here was full of shit. He closed the Lady, hefted her sweet, smooth curves lovingly in his calloused hands, and aimed for Barbie.
"Or, you could just torch me," she said. "If you think that's going to be new and fun for me, though, you've got another thing coming." She turned and began walking away, then tossed a look over her shoulder. "Your call, Sparky," she said, and continued going first.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
ZA Chapter 15: All Squidgy
Cam leveled The Cleaning Lady at the hotty in the skirt. What the hell was the postergirl from Playboy’s College Coeds doing walking zombietown? Well scratch all o’ that shit, anyway. That wasn’t the first question that jumped to mind. There was so much wrong with this goddamned scene that it made his ears hum. If Cam wasn’t hallucinating, that was the gum girl from the zombie school.
“Ya better fuckin’ answer my question, Doublemint!”
She raised her slender, tanned arms high over her head. “You didn’t ask a question.”
Cam’s lust for undead death was twitching something terrible. If she was a zombie, he was aching to kill her, aching so much that his arm hair vibrated and his muscles palpitated. If she wasn’t, he wanted to roll his eyes and walk away. But his kill switch was caught on toggle somewhere in-between.
Cam Sparks got a boner.
“I did so ask you a question!” he blurted, not liking the feeling. His zombie bacon should be itching, not-.
“Please repeat it,” she said, her voice far too calm for someone who was a half-second away from becoming a bubbling, greasy stain on the floor.
“You got a twin or something?” he yelled.
She cocked her head to the side. “What?”
“You’re the gum girl, aren’t you? From the school?”
“You rescued me,” she confirmed nicely for him.
“Fuckin’ right on,” he muttered, his switch clicking firmly into place. Whatever the hell she was, she wasn’t human. He thumbed on The Cleaning Lady and pulled the trigger.
She yelled, “Apatosaur of Colombe! Stop the spume!”
The Cleaning Lady sputtered and died.
Cam stared at her. He knew he should be intimately concerned with the fact that his beloved weapon had just run out of fuel, but…
“What the fuck did you just say?”
“Something about a dinosaur, I think. I don’t know. Ever since Lady M did her thing, these weird phrases just pop out. It worked, though, right?”
“I have to kill you,” Cam said, frowning and throwing down The Cleaning Lady. He pulled out his knife and strode toward her. “I’m pretty damned sure I do.”
She held her arms out in front of her and backed away. “You don’t sound sure-”
He jumped forward, knocking her to the ground and straddling her belly. He quickly pinned each of her arms under his knees and put the knife at her throat.
“Cam. Cam! CAM!” she said quickly.
He paused. “What?” His boner came back. Goddammit!
“I’m not a zombie,” she said in that soft voice.
The girl had a point. A zombie wouldn’t say "I'm not a zombie". A zombie would say “Rrrrggghrflrf.” Cam's switch clicked back to indecision. Fuck it all.
“What the hell are you then?” he asked.
“I’m Lucy Tisdale.”
“I remember your goddamned name. I asked what you are. Virgil said you fried.”
“I-”
“And how the hell did you get so clean?” he asked.
“I washed myself.”
“Well that don’t make no goddamned sense.”
She shrugged, and it felt good. Cam snarled.
“Do you kill people, Cam?”
“Zombies.”
“Am I a zombie?”
He growled. “No.”
“Would you mind letting me up, then?”
He stood up, frowned at her, then reluctantly held out his hand. She took it, and he pulled her to her feet. He couldn’t help but look at her long legs and where they disappeared into that tight skirt. He looked away with a twitch of his head.
“You make me feel all squidgy,” he said. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Could be a normal feeling,” she said, winking.
“I think I hate you.”
“Yeah,” she said. “It goes like that sometimes.” She ran a finger up his arm, the one with the zombie bacon.
A chair fell over behind Cam, and there was a groan that sounded a lot like “Rrrrggghrflrf.” He spun around to find a half-dozen zombies shuffling toward them. The Cleaning Lady was on the ground, too far away. And the bitch was out of gas, anyway.
“Damn,” Lucy Tisdale sighed with true regret. “I’m afraid that’s probably my fault.” She let her hand fall from his arm.
“You’re a weird bitch,” Cam said.
“You have no idea.”
Cam launched himself at the zombies, knife bared. It was sharp enough to slice clean through the neck of the first and the second. The third and fourth grabbed him, but he head-locked one and popped it’s fuckin’ skull right off. The other one bit him on the shoulder. Twisting, Cam threw it off the building. The last one shuffled toward Lucy Tisdale, who watched it with resigned distaste.
Cam grabbed a chunk of broken concrete, leapt up and brought it down on the zombie’s head. It exploded, and green-black gunk spewed everywhere, including one precise line across Lucy’s white blouse.
She didn’t seem to notice. “That was hot,” she said.
“Fuck you,” he said.
"Yeah," she said, smiling. "Something like that."
“Ya better fuckin’ answer my question, Doublemint!”
She raised her slender, tanned arms high over her head. “You didn’t ask a question.”
Cam’s lust for undead death was twitching something terrible. If she was a zombie, he was aching to kill her, aching so much that his arm hair vibrated and his muscles palpitated. If she wasn’t, he wanted to roll his eyes and walk away. But his kill switch was caught on toggle somewhere in-between.
Cam Sparks got a boner.
“I did so ask you a question!” he blurted, not liking the feeling. His zombie bacon should be itching, not-.
“Please repeat it,” she said, her voice far too calm for someone who was a half-second away from becoming a bubbling, greasy stain on the floor.
“You got a twin or something?” he yelled.
She cocked her head to the side. “What?”
“You’re the gum girl, aren’t you? From the school?”
“You rescued me,” she confirmed nicely for him.
“Fuckin’ right on,” he muttered, his switch clicking firmly into place. Whatever the hell she was, she wasn’t human. He thumbed on The Cleaning Lady and pulled the trigger.
She yelled, “Apatosaur of Colombe! Stop the spume!”
The Cleaning Lady sputtered and died.
Cam stared at her. He knew he should be intimately concerned with the fact that his beloved weapon had just run out of fuel, but…
“What the fuck did you just say?”
“Something about a dinosaur, I think. I don’t know. Ever since Lady M did her thing, these weird phrases just pop out. It worked, though, right?”
“I have to kill you,” Cam said, frowning and throwing down The Cleaning Lady. He pulled out his knife and strode toward her. “I’m pretty damned sure I do.”
She held her arms out in front of her and backed away. “You don’t sound sure-”
He jumped forward, knocking her to the ground and straddling her belly. He quickly pinned each of her arms under his knees and put the knife at her throat.
“Cam. Cam! CAM!” she said quickly.
He paused. “What?” His boner came back. Goddammit!
“I’m not a zombie,” she said in that soft voice.
The girl had a point. A zombie wouldn’t say "I'm not a zombie". A zombie would say “Rrrrggghrflrf.” Cam's switch clicked back to indecision. Fuck it all.
“What the hell are you then?” he asked.
“I’m Lucy Tisdale.”
“I remember your goddamned name. I asked what you are. Virgil said you fried.”
“I-”
“And how the hell did you get so clean?” he asked.
“I washed myself.”
“Well that don’t make no goddamned sense.”
She shrugged, and it felt good. Cam snarled.
“Do you kill people, Cam?”
“Zombies.”
“Am I a zombie?”
He growled. “No.”
“Would you mind letting me up, then?”
He stood up, frowned at her, then reluctantly held out his hand. She took it, and he pulled her to her feet. He couldn’t help but look at her long legs and where they disappeared into that tight skirt. He looked away with a twitch of his head.
“You make me feel all squidgy,” he said. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Could be a normal feeling,” she said, winking.
“I think I hate you.”
“Yeah,” she said. “It goes like that sometimes.” She ran a finger up his arm, the one with the zombie bacon.
A chair fell over behind Cam, and there was a groan that sounded a lot like “Rrrrggghrflrf.” He spun around to find a half-dozen zombies shuffling toward them. The Cleaning Lady was on the ground, too far away. And the bitch was out of gas, anyway.
“Damn,” Lucy Tisdale sighed with true regret. “I’m afraid that’s probably my fault.” She let her hand fall from his arm.
“You’re a weird bitch,” Cam said.
“You have no idea.”
Cam launched himself at the zombies, knife bared. It was sharp enough to slice clean through the neck of the first and the second. The third and fourth grabbed him, but he head-locked one and popped it’s fuckin’ skull right off. The other one bit him on the shoulder. Twisting, Cam threw it off the building. The last one shuffled toward Lucy Tisdale, who watched it with resigned distaste.
Cam grabbed a chunk of broken concrete, leapt up and brought it down on the zombie’s head. It exploded, and green-black gunk spewed everywhere, including one precise line across Lucy’s white blouse.
She didn’t seem to notice. “That was hot,” she said.
“Fuck you,” he said.
"Yeah," she said, smiling. "Something like that."
ZA - Chapter 14 - Lucy - Into the Lion's Den
I stared at the zombie slowly dragging himself toward me down the deserted main street of the city. It used to be Denver. Now it was a graveyard. The cold wind blew against my naked skin, but I ignored it.
Like, seriously, I had the legacies of the fucking ancients on my side, really, what was this slimeball going to do? Ooze on me? Whatever. I stood in the center of the street, still naked, watching his dead-pace swagger. I wished he would just hurry the hell up already and try to consume me. I needed to get into the department store on my left.
“Tick tock, tick tock, Lurch,” I called. “I can wait all night.”
Maybe I should just go get him.
Nah. I could wait. I picked grime out from under my nails until he got close.
"Oh, good, you're here." I said. Slime oozed out of the thing's mouth. "Ready to go?" I said. Then, calling on Lord Beckhamilroy, ancient master of ball-related sports, I hooked my fingers in the zombie’s eye and nose sockets like a bowling ball and ripped his head off his shoulders. So much for getting the grime out of my nails. I hurled the mess through the big Macy’s display window, the hair flying like moldy, sick spaghetti. Ew. The arms were still grabbing for me. “Oh, no,” I said. “I am not even trying to hear that shit,” I said. “She-Ra, ancient lady of power!” I called and ripped both his arms off. He fell on me, trying against all odds to somehow coax my firm, vibrant, taut, naked flesh that Virgil would now never touch, down his exposed esophagus.
“Sorry, Lurch,” I said, stepping out of the way. He fell over, peddling his feet in the street. “Loser,” I said, making the “L” symbol with my thumb and finger on my forehead. Then I stepped through the broken window of the department store, calling on The Nine Gatekeepers of the West to protect my bare feet from the glass. I didn’t even feel a thing.
Kudos to Lady Miraculous, this legacies of the ancients thing was turning out to be pretty freakin awesome.
It was also giving me some insights into my erstwhile "Mother". She was being real loud about how much she missed me. Yeah. Snort. As if. There was someone else with her, but I couldn't get a line on this one. Whatever, they didn't matter. If they were with "Mom" they had to be bad news.
I made my way to the juniors department and picked out something like the uniform I used to wear. A short skirt, knee high socks. I paused before grabbing a white button-up blouse. That would be hard to keep clean. But oh well. Maybe the ancients could help me with that, too.
The ancients rock.
I finished it off with some oh-so-innocent mary janes, then took myself to the beauty department. Time to really get this grime off my nails. And brush my hair. Gah, that took forever, I don't even want to talk about it, I almost just chopped the rat's nest off.
But no. Selig liked it long.
Too bad Macy's didn't have any gum.
After I was pretty like a fairy princess on Sunday, I sat down in the shoe department and centered. "Verizonella! Mistress of the Call! Bring my quarry to me! Let his army bear me on their shoulders to his side!"
Then I just waited.
I didn't have to wait long. In about a half hour, I heard them.
I wasn't too impressed, there were only, like ten of them. Looked like Verizonella didn't have such a great network. But I guessed it would do. These didn't try to eat me. Instead, they clumped around me so that I couldn't get out -- not that they could have stopped me, if I'd really wanted to. But I didn't. I let myself be carried with them like the nucleus of an atom, knowing they'd take me to Selig Retsuc. I hadn't been able to find the source of his power. It was too small, and had somehow gone really, really missing. So the minions would have to take me there.
I was sure we were on the way. They were holding course at a steady, lurching pace, but then, they got a little antsy and changed direction. "What?" I said. "No, where are you going? He can't be that way! What the fuck would Selig be doing in the freakin' Ace in the Hole Motel?" Yeah, right, look at me -- legacies of the ancients and all that; still trying to TALK to zombies. Duh.
Then it hit me. They probably smelled blood. Blood meant someone alive. Someone alive meant . . . well, I wasn't sure what it meant, but during a big goddamn zombie apocalypse, it basically holds true that the living kinda want to stick together. I let them take me along for the ride.
They scaled the side of the building, not bothering with the door. Zombies aren't really planners. They take the most direct route. I climbed with them. The old, crumbling bricks were easy to get a grip on. I wasn't afraid of falling, I had Lord Pandelta on my side. At about the sixth floor, the zombies began trying to shove their way through a window. I heard the person inside yelling, "C'mon you big damn undead bastards! Wooo-hooo!!!"
Right on.
Tongues of fire leapt out of the open window, sending charred zombie falling past me. Great. Now I'd need another entourage. Oh well, dead zombies are never a bad thing.
I clung to the side of the wall, waiting for the zombies to all go in to face the flame thrower. "Meet the Cleaning Lady you fucks!" the person was screaming.
Hey . . . did I know that guy?
After the fire stopped, I put my hands on the sill myself.
"Oh, a straggler, huh, come on, bitch, bring it! Whoo-HOOOOO!!! YEAH!!!! I LOVE this zombie fucking shit!"
"Stop!" I said, as I somersaulted through the window to crouch on the floor. "I'm alive! Stop!"
"What the fuck . . . ?"
I got to my feet and dusted myself off, looking prim. "Don't roast me, okay?"
Cam stood there like a slack-jawed fire-breathing viking. Then understanding dawned in his face -- actually it was more like understanding kicked him in the head and flicked a "go crazy" switch in his mind.
"Holy fucking shit, you ARE one of 'em!"
Like, seriously, I had the legacies of the fucking ancients on my side, really, what was this slimeball going to do? Ooze on me? Whatever. I stood in the center of the street, still naked, watching his dead-pace swagger. I wished he would just hurry the hell up already and try to consume me. I needed to get into the department store on my left.
“Tick tock, tick tock, Lurch,” I called. “I can wait all night.”
Maybe I should just go get him.
Nah. I could wait. I picked grime out from under my nails until he got close.
"Oh, good, you're here." I said. Slime oozed out of the thing's mouth. "Ready to go?" I said. Then, calling on Lord Beckhamilroy, ancient master of ball-related sports, I hooked my fingers in the zombie’s eye and nose sockets like a bowling ball and ripped his head off his shoulders. So much for getting the grime out of my nails. I hurled the mess through the big Macy’s display window, the hair flying like moldy, sick spaghetti. Ew. The arms were still grabbing for me. “Oh, no,” I said. “I am not even trying to hear that shit,” I said. “She-Ra, ancient lady of power!” I called and ripped both his arms off. He fell on me, trying against all odds to somehow coax my firm, vibrant, taut, naked flesh that Virgil would now never touch, down his exposed esophagus.
“Sorry, Lurch,” I said, stepping out of the way. He fell over, peddling his feet in the street. “Loser,” I said, making the “L” symbol with my thumb and finger on my forehead. Then I stepped through the broken window of the department store, calling on The Nine Gatekeepers of the West to protect my bare feet from the glass. I didn’t even feel a thing.
Kudos to Lady Miraculous, this legacies of the ancients thing was turning out to be pretty freakin awesome.
It was also giving me some insights into my erstwhile "Mother". She was being real loud about how much she missed me. Yeah. Snort. As if. There was someone else with her, but I couldn't get a line on this one. Whatever, they didn't matter. If they were with "Mom" they had to be bad news.
I made my way to the juniors department and picked out something like the uniform I used to wear. A short skirt, knee high socks. I paused before grabbing a white button-up blouse. That would be hard to keep clean. But oh well. Maybe the ancients could help me with that, too.
The ancients rock.
I finished it off with some oh-so-innocent mary janes, then took myself to the beauty department. Time to really get this grime off my nails. And brush my hair. Gah, that took forever, I don't even want to talk about it, I almost just chopped the rat's nest off.
But no. Selig liked it long.
Too bad Macy's didn't have any gum.
After I was pretty like a fairy princess on Sunday, I sat down in the shoe department and centered. "Verizonella! Mistress of the Call! Bring my quarry to me! Let his army bear me on their shoulders to his side!"
Then I just waited.
I didn't have to wait long. In about a half hour, I heard them.
I wasn't too impressed, there were only, like ten of them. Looked like Verizonella didn't have such a great network. But I guessed it would do. These didn't try to eat me. Instead, they clumped around me so that I couldn't get out -- not that they could have stopped me, if I'd really wanted to. But I didn't. I let myself be carried with them like the nucleus of an atom, knowing they'd take me to Selig Retsuc. I hadn't been able to find the source of his power. It was too small, and had somehow gone really, really missing. So the minions would have to take me there.
I was sure we were on the way. They were holding course at a steady, lurching pace, but then, they got a little antsy and changed direction. "What?" I said. "No, where are you going? He can't be that way! What the fuck would Selig be doing in the freakin' Ace in the Hole Motel?" Yeah, right, look at me -- legacies of the ancients and all that; still trying to TALK to zombies. Duh.
Then it hit me. They probably smelled blood. Blood meant someone alive. Someone alive meant . . . well, I wasn't sure what it meant, but during a big goddamn zombie apocalypse, it basically holds true that the living kinda want to stick together. I let them take me along for the ride.
They scaled the side of the building, not bothering with the door. Zombies aren't really planners. They take the most direct route. I climbed with them. The old, crumbling bricks were easy to get a grip on. I wasn't afraid of falling, I had Lord Pandelta on my side. At about the sixth floor, the zombies began trying to shove their way through a window. I heard the person inside yelling, "C'mon you big damn undead bastards! Wooo-hooo!!!"
Right on.
Tongues of fire leapt out of the open window, sending charred zombie falling past me. Great. Now I'd need another entourage. Oh well, dead zombies are never a bad thing.
I clung to the side of the wall, waiting for the zombies to all go in to face the flame thrower. "Meet the Cleaning Lady you fucks!" the person was screaming.
Hey . . . did I know that guy?
After the fire stopped, I put my hands on the sill myself.
"Oh, a straggler, huh, come on, bitch, bring it! Whoo-HOOOOO!!! YEAH!!!! I LOVE this zombie fucking shit!"
"Stop!" I said, as I somersaulted through the window to crouch on the floor. "I'm alive! Stop!"
"What the fuck . . . ?"
I got to my feet and dusted myself off, looking prim. "Don't roast me, okay?"
Cam stood there like a slack-jawed fire-breathing viking. Then understanding dawned in his face -- actually it was more like understanding kicked him in the head and flicked a "go crazy" switch in his mind.
"Holy fucking shit, you ARE one of 'em!"
Monday, February 16, 2009
ZA13--Let me explain...
It was while eating one of Meg Tisdale's fresh, hot caramel chip devil's food cookies and listening to that annoying song by the Killers "Are we human or are we dancers?"--an hour after Meg lost her daughter and yet seemed to stage a near complete recovery within seconds--50 minutes after Meg took Virgil to her special cookie-making hideout (yes, she had an impenetrable bunker built entirely for the purpose of making cookies--and listening to old Top 40 tunes from The Time Before)--40 minutes after Meg "stepped out" of the bunker to run back for "something" she "forgot"--25 minutes after Virgil tracked Meg to the house she'd once shared with her daughter Lucy and watched as Meg took something small but impossibly disgusting-looking from her burned daughter's charred crotch and handed it to another girl, a girl who looked vaguely like the kind of Australian who's been raised by dingoes but also kind of like a Tisdale only with frizzier hair and a smell of peppermint--10 minutes after Virgil returned to the cookie bunker, running as fast as his tired legs could carry him to get ahead of Meg, who'd laughed maniacally after handing off the short, tiny, (and did I mention "small") cylindrical package--5 minutes after Meg returned and 30 seconds after first sinking his teeth into the still-steaming caramel/chocolate gooey awesomeness that was a Meg Tisdale Original--that Virgil found God. Again.
In The Time Before, Virgil had been a minister-in-training, an aspirant to a faith that would soon be swept from the face of the earth by the broom of pandemic zombification. In that time he had believed, at the very core of his being, that God was a force of love in the universe--not an omnipotent overseer as some faiths would have it, but a shared interior spark of common good, binding all together and bending the long moral arc of humanity toward justice. When people started eating each other, this became harder to believe. Thus, for the many months that had dragged into years as the zombie wars raged on, Virgil had grown less and less convinced of that meek but omnipresent grace he called God--that still small voice.
And yet, as he bit into the cookie, enjoying its rich notes of chocolate, caramel, and blind, bewildered terror, he heard the voice again. It spoke two words, a cosmic whisper in the uncharted neuron galaxy of his left temporal lobe: arrogance, yummy. While the last word probably had more to do with the cookie than anything else, the first cut to the root of Virgil's being like a steel blade flashing the smile of his dear friend Cam.
Arrogance. For months now, Virgil had held his arrogance like a shield against those he both longed to embrace yet had to keep away, friends who encouraged in him something he could not bear in a world gone zombie. Faith. His friends, rough-and-tumble (and-then-scorch-twice-over-for-good-measure) Cam, bake-and-plot-Meg, seduce-and-distance Lady M, even whacked out Lucy Tisdale (maybe especially whacked out Lucy Tisdale)--they all called forth in him an unwilling recognition of divinity he longed to ignore. They were proof--cranky and bitter, but throbbing with life nonetheless--that beauty and truth, love and kindness, nobility and goodness could still survive in the long dark winter of a zombie apocalypse. They bore in them the wounded but inconquerable essence of God.
After finishing his cookie (and another, for good measure), Virgil set out on a mission. He would perform an act of common humanity long neglected in these unfortunate times. He would bury Lucy Tisdale. After thanking Meg (careful not to show his hand since he was now well aware that she was neck-deep in secret plots and dingo-raised Australian daughters bearing strange, comically-miniscule cylindrical packages taken from charcoaled hoochies) Virgil took his leave. He then sprinted to the old Tisdale house, lifted up Lucy's body and set out for the Plains--an empty wasteland Virgil had long sensed bore the promise of some form of resurrection--perhaps a resurrection of the human spirit, or maybe a resurrection of hope--it was fuzzy to his inner eye, but it definitely seemed resurrectiony whatever it was.
By the time he found a proper spot, the sun was on its way down. Zombie time. Virgil dug hurriedly, wishing he had more than just a spoon and those darn mantis arms of his to work with. After making a hole of about two feet by two feet, Virgil looked up and wondered if this whole burial thing really needed to be that formal. Maybe Virgil could just fold Lucy up, stuff her in the hole, put some dirt on top, and then say a prayer. The prayer was what mattered, right? Unfortunately, in looking up at Lucy's body, Virgil saw beyond it zombies, shuffling, mewling zombies lumbering toward him in the near distance.
Virgil stood. There weren't just a handful. There was an army. Not just an army. Legions. Selig Retsuc had sent his hordes. What could be so important? Surely not Virgil. Selig had had plenty of opportunities to kill Virgil and would have plenty more. No need to send this many to accomplish that simple end. Was it the girl? Was there something about her that Selig wanted? Something in her? Perhaps he had fallen for Lucy and wanted to make her his zombie queen. Suddenly, Virgil remembered one sultry afternoon with Lady M. She had been running her finger along his bare back, sighing over his Keanu-Reeves-like features (because, if you didn't know this already and you were perhaps interested in casting the movie-version of Zombie Apocalypse, and were a big-time Hollywood director, (because really, who has the time these days for B-Listers, this project is big) Virgil looked a lot like Keanu Reeves (only smarter))--anyway--Lady M was sighing over Virgil, telling him that even if she ever got mad at Virgil she would never be able to stay mad at Virgil when suddenly her eyes rolled back in her head, she shuddered epileptically and her voice dropped three registers. "I see," Lady M had said, "the One. A broken girl, pierced by an awful (if a bit shrimp-like) power, who must be shattered before she can be healed. She will turn the air into light and the light into hope for us all. She is the One." And then Lady M had spasmed twice and snapped out of it. And then they made love, because that's what people did when they weren't killing zombies. And because, even if she didn't want to admit it, Lady M totally had a thing for Virgil.
"Could Lucy be The One?" Virgil asked, speaking to no one in particular unless you counted the slavering legions of undead mutants jerking spastically toward him across the Plains. "But that would mean...that would mean, I let her die! It's my fault!" Virgil then spent a while feeling really bad in a way that was both meaningful and moving, but also strong and masculine, and handsome--but not arrogant. It was definitely not arrogant, since--as should be obvious to all you mouth-breathers, nose-pickers, and knuckle-draggers reading this entry, Virgil is NOT arrogant anymore.
After this very moving scene in which all of you gained an endless amount of sympathy for Virgil, Virgil looked back up at the hordes, who even though they'd been advancing at a threatening pace, had still not arrived and wondered how and indeed if he would survive. If he were Cam, there were even odds Virgil could have just lit up a stogie, slapped on a hero's smile and smashed his way through the legions by brute force. If he were Lady M, he could have simply gathered a monkey on either arm, snapped his fingers and disappeared. Meg, meanwhile, could have baked her way out of it, and Lucy--bless her departed soul--could have cussed her way through. Virgil, however, didn't think he could use his special talent. While sure, if he'd started talking, he would have bored at least the first wave to death, but eventually the horrible moans of the dying would have drowned out Virgil's voice and the next wave would soon enough be dining on his larynx. No, what Virgil needed was a miracle.
He waited.
No miracle. Just zombies. Goddamn, fucking zombies.
But wait, a voice--a still, small voice rose from the depths of Virgil's cortex. Maybe it would carry with it some profound truth, some secret wisdom to elevate Virgil above his circumstance, free him from his plight. He listened, even as he smelled the foul, rotting stench of the first zombies closing upon him. It was... it was... For Christ's sake, it wasn't truth, it was that frackin' pop song, that song which in 2009 made Virgil wonder if the entire radio-listening public weren't all brainless zombies. "Are we human or are we dancers?" I mean, seriously, how stupid were people back then that lyrics so profoundly moronic could perpetrate themselves not on a single listener but on an entire nation?
Of course...the song did have a good beat. He found his shoulder twitching, and then his right big toe, and then his left leg. What was this? Virgil, faced with the end of his being, with the prospect of being eaten alive by a thousand thousand foul-breathed, slime-toothed zombies, wanted to dance? Hmm. What the hey? He started dancing, dancing and singing in his high-pitched, nasal, stepped-on-baby-bird whine of a voice..."Are we human, or are we dancers?
My sign is vital, my hands are cold, and I'm on my knees looking for the answer, are we human or are we dancers?"
Little did Virgil know, but the precise pitch of his unfortunate voice was at the same precise pitch Selig Rutsec had programmed the zombie hordes to receive his commands, such that as he sang, they too began to dance. Now, if you've seen a zombie walk, you can probably imagine how badly they dance--such that as they danced they bumped into each other, turning the Plains into a giant zombie mosh pit. Strike that. A giant Bombie mosh pit. And...well...you can probably guess what happened next.
In The Time Before, Virgil had been a minister-in-training, an aspirant to a faith that would soon be swept from the face of the earth by the broom of pandemic zombification. In that time he had believed, at the very core of his being, that God was a force of love in the universe--not an omnipotent overseer as some faiths would have it, but a shared interior spark of common good, binding all together and bending the long moral arc of humanity toward justice. When people started eating each other, this became harder to believe. Thus, for the many months that had dragged into years as the zombie wars raged on, Virgil had grown less and less convinced of that meek but omnipresent grace he called God--that still small voice.
And yet, as he bit into the cookie, enjoying its rich notes of chocolate, caramel, and blind, bewildered terror, he heard the voice again. It spoke two words, a cosmic whisper in the uncharted neuron galaxy of his left temporal lobe: arrogance, yummy. While the last word probably had more to do with the cookie than anything else, the first cut to the root of Virgil's being like a steel blade flashing the smile of his dear friend Cam.
Arrogance. For months now, Virgil had held his arrogance like a shield against those he both longed to embrace yet had to keep away, friends who encouraged in him something he could not bear in a world gone zombie. Faith. His friends, rough-and-tumble (and-then-scorch-twice-over-for-good-measure) Cam, bake-and-plot-Meg, seduce-and-distance Lady M, even whacked out Lucy Tisdale (maybe especially whacked out Lucy Tisdale)--they all called forth in him an unwilling recognition of divinity he longed to ignore. They were proof--cranky and bitter, but throbbing with life nonetheless--that beauty and truth, love and kindness, nobility and goodness could still survive in the long dark winter of a zombie apocalypse. They bore in them the wounded but inconquerable essence of God.
After finishing his cookie (and another, for good measure), Virgil set out on a mission. He would perform an act of common humanity long neglected in these unfortunate times. He would bury Lucy Tisdale. After thanking Meg (careful not to show his hand since he was now well aware that she was neck-deep in secret plots and dingo-raised Australian daughters bearing strange, comically-miniscule cylindrical packages taken from charcoaled hoochies) Virgil took his leave. He then sprinted to the old Tisdale house, lifted up Lucy's body and set out for the Plains--an empty wasteland Virgil had long sensed bore the promise of some form of resurrection--perhaps a resurrection of the human spirit, or maybe a resurrection of hope--it was fuzzy to his inner eye, but it definitely seemed resurrectiony whatever it was.
By the time he found a proper spot, the sun was on its way down. Zombie time. Virgil dug hurriedly, wishing he had more than just a spoon and those darn mantis arms of his to work with. After making a hole of about two feet by two feet, Virgil looked up and wondered if this whole burial thing really needed to be that formal. Maybe Virgil could just fold Lucy up, stuff her in the hole, put some dirt on top, and then say a prayer. The prayer was what mattered, right? Unfortunately, in looking up at Lucy's body, Virgil saw beyond it zombies, shuffling, mewling zombies lumbering toward him in the near distance.
Virgil stood. There weren't just a handful. There was an army. Not just an army. Legions. Selig Retsuc had sent his hordes. What could be so important? Surely not Virgil. Selig had had plenty of opportunities to kill Virgil and would have plenty more. No need to send this many to accomplish that simple end. Was it the girl? Was there something about her that Selig wanted? Something in her? Perhaps he had fallen for Lucy and wanted to make her his zombie queen. Suddenly, Virgil remembered one sultry afternoon with Lady M. She had been running her finger along his bare back, sighing over his Keanu-Reeves-like features (because, if you didn't know this already and you were perhaps interested in casting the movie-version of Zombie Apocalypse, and were a big-time Hollywood director, (because really, who has the time these days for B-Listers, this project is big) Virgil looked a lot like Keanu Reeves (only smarter))--anyway--Lady M was sighing over Virgil, telling him that even if she ever got mad at Virgil she would never be able to stay mad at Virgil when suddenly her eyes rolled back in her head, she shuddered epileptically and her voice dropped three registers. "I see," Lady M had said, "the One. A broken girl, pierced by an awful (if a bit shrimp-like) power, who must be shattered before she can be healed. She will turn the air into light and the light into hope for us all. She is the One." And then Lady M had spasmed twice and snapped out of it. And then they made love, because that's what people did when they weren't killing zombies. And because, even if she didn't want to admit it, Lady M totally had a thing for Virgil.
"Could Lucy be The One?" Virgil asked, speaking to no one in particular unless you counted the slavering legions of undead mutants jerking spastically toward him across the Plains. "But that would mean...that would mean, I let her die! It's my fault!" Virgil then spent a while feeling really bad in a way that was both meaningful and moving, but also strong and masculine, and handsome--but not arrogant. It was definitely not arrogant, since--as should be obvious to all you mouth-breathers, nose-pickers, and knuckle-draggers reading this entry, Virgil is NOT arrogant anymore.
After this very moving scene in which all of you gained an endless amount of sympathy for Virgil, Virgil looked back up at the hordes, who even though they'd been advancing at a threatening pace, had still not arrived and wondered how and indeed if he would survive. If he were Cam, there were even odds Virgil could have just lit up a stogie, slapped on a hero's smile and smashed his way through the legions by brute force. If he were Lady M, he could have simply gathered a monkey on either arm, snapped his fingers and disappeared. Meg, meanwhile, could have baked her way out of it, and Lucy--bless her departed soul--could have cussed her way through. Virgil, however, didn't think he could use his special talent. While sure, if he'd started talking, he would have bored at least the first wave to death, but eventually the horrible moans of the dying would have drowned out Virgil's voice and the next wave would soon enough be dining on his larynx. No, what Virgil needed was a miracle.
He waited.
No miracle. Just zombies. Goddamn, fucking zombies.
But wait, a voice--a still, small voice rose from the depths of Virgil's cortex. Maybe it would carry with it some profound truth, some secret wisdom to elevate Virgil above his circumstance, free him from his plight. He listened, even as he smelled the foul, rotting stench of the first zombies closing upon him. It was... it was... For Christ's sake, it wasn't truth, it was that frackin' pop song, that song which in 2009 made Virgil wonder if the entire radio-listening public weren't all brainless zombies. "Are we human or are we dancers?" I mean, seriously, how stupid were people back then that lyrics so profoundly moronic could perpetrate themselves not on a single listener but on an entire nation?
Of course...the song did have a good beat. He found his shoulder twitching, and then his right big toe, and then his left leg. What was this? Virgil, faced with the end of his being, with the prospect of being eaten alive by a thousand thousand foul-breathed, slime-toothed zombies, wanted to dance? Hmm. What the hey? He started dancing, dancing and singing in his high-pitched, nasal, stepped-on-baby-bird whine of a voice..."Are we human, or are we dancers?
My sign is vital, my hands are cold, and I'm on my knees looking for the answer, are we human or are we dancers?"
Little did Virgil know, but the precise pitch of his unfortunate voice was at the same precise pitch Selig Rutsec had programmed the zombie hordes to receive his commands, such that as he sang, they too began to dance. Now, if you've seen a zombie walk, you can probably imagine how badly they dance--such that as they danced they bumped into each other, turning the Plains into a giant zombie mosh pit. Strike that. A giant Bombie mosh pit. And...well...you can probably guess what happened next.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
ZA Chapter 12: Zombie Bacon
Cam Sparks finished shaving in the cracked mirror and washed the gleaming edge of his combat knife. He checked his teeth in it, not because he cared at all about his dental hygiene, but because he liked to see himself grinning along the edge of a knife.
Spinning the blade, he shoved it into its sheath like he was stabbing a zombie. V said he was going to impale his leg someday, but V was a thinker. Cam couldn’t hurt himself. That would be silly. His body knew what to do and he didn’t let little things like thinking get in the way of that. Cam only had one thought: See zombie. Kill zombie.
Or was that two thoughts?
He frowned and moved away from the mirror. Falling onto the bed, he slouched against the wall and looked up at the single window above him. It was shattered, of course, from the first zombies that fuckin’ broke in and got fried. He’d kicked out the rest of it and shoved another window into the sill, one he’d gotten from a Home Depot demo, but it didn’t fit very well. Every time the wind blew it sounded like that creepy M lady sucking in a breath through her teeth.
On either side of the window was a thick, sharpened steel sheet. Inset on greased runners, the sheets were held in place by a thin latch that, if pulled, would cause them to slam shut like the legs of a female power-lifter.
Cam grinned at it. He’d built it himself, and it made him happy. Of course, he didn’t have any illusions about his own safety. The zombies would get in. The zombies always got in. But it sure would be a gas to watch the first head pop off like a beach ball.
Cam shrugged his shoulder, raking it against the blackened concrete wall. The itch was back, and he hated it. He’d have to go soon, find some zombies, and torch them. And hey, he thought with a small kindle of excitement, maybe he’d stop by Meg’s house. She always had cookies, and Cam liked cookies almost as much as he liked The Cleaning Lady.
But first things first. He stripped off his olive green T-shirt, exposing the bandage that covered his upper arm from from collarbone to the top of his bicep. The bandage wasn’t white anymore. It had darkened to a greenish black. Pulling his knife from its sheath, he cut that shit away to reveal the mottled black crust of his skin.
Cam grabbed the metal garbage can from the floor and set it on the bed next to him. With meticulous care, he shaved off the layers of black rot. It was like scraping the scum off the bottom of a pan after frying chicken, and he made sure that every crispy flake went into the trash can. At first, there was no blood. As he got deeper, that black-green shit oozed out, but he kept at it, carving one thin strip at a time until the blood ran red onto his blade. That was the trick, the blood. The fuckin’ thing had only been the size of a quarter when he’d first noticed it. But it had stopped growing when he cut down far enough to bleed real blood.
With a grunt, he levered himself to his feet, went to the sink, washed and dressed the wound again. He pulled his shirt on, sat back on the bed and set the trash can on the ground at his feet. The blackened curls of flesh twisted like the little undead worms they were. Cam pulled a bottle of Everclear from the charred dresser poured some into the trash can, then took a swig himself.
He took his lighter, Delilah, from his cargo pants, clicked open the cap and flicked the flame on. He took another swig of everclear.
“Die, zombie bacon.”
He spit a thin stream of Everclear at the trashcan. It turned into flame as it passed over Delilah and engulfed the squirming skin. Cam stared at it unblinkingly as it burned. After a time, he shook his head. He was definitely too pensive today.
It’s like I’m goddamned Virgil all-of-a-sudden, he thought.
Jumping to his feet, he threw on his utility vest and shouldered The Cleaning Lady. He was hungry. He needed him some cookies. Yeah, and then some Zombie BBQ. That's the ticket.
He left his cell and went looking for Meg.
Spinning the blade, he shoved it into its sheath like he was stabbing a zombie. V said he was going to impale his leg someday, but V was a thinker. Cam couldn’t hurt himself. That would be silly. His body knew what to do and he didn’t let little things like thinking get in the way of that. Cam only had one thought: See zombie. Kill zombie.
Or was that two thoughts?
He frowned and moved away from the mirror. Falling onto the bed, he slouched against the wall and looked up at the single window above him. It was shattered, of course, from the first zombies that fuckin’ broke in and got fried. He’d kicked out the rest of it and shoved another window into the sill, one he’d gotten from a Home Depot demo, but it didn’t fit very well. Every time the wind blew it sounded like that creepy M lady sucking in a breath through her teeth.
On either side of the window was a thick, sharpened steel sheet. Inset on greased runners, the sheets were held in place by a thin latch that, if pulled, would cause them to slam shut like the legs of a female power-lifter.
Cam grinned at it. He’d built it himself, and it made him happy. Of course, he didn’t have any illusions about his own safety. The zombies would get in. The zombies always got in. But it sure would be a gas to watch the first head pop off like a beach ball.
Cam shrugged his shoulder, raking it against the blackened concrete wall. The itch was back, and he hated it. He’d have to go soon, find some zombies, and torch them. And hey, he thought with a small kindle of excitement, maybe he’d stop by Meg’s house. She always had cookies, and Cam liked cookies almost as much as he liked The Cleaning Lady.
But first things first. He stripped off his olive green T-shirt, exposing the bandage that covered his upper arm from from collarbone to the top of his bicep. The bandage wasn’t white anymore. It had darkened to a greenish black. Pulling his knife from its sheath, he cut that shit away to reveal the mottled black crust of his skin.
Cam grabbed the metal garbage can from the floor and set it on the bed next to him. With meticulous care, he shaved off the layers of black rot. It was like scraping the scum off the bottom of a pan after frying chicken, and he made sure that every crispy flake went into the trash can. At first, there was no blood. As he got deeper, that black-green shit oozed out, but he kept at it, carving one thin strip at a time until the blood ran red onto his blade. That was the trick, the blood. The fuckin’ thing had only been the size of a quarter when he’d first noticed it. But it had stopped growing when he cut down far enough to bleed real blood.
With a grunt, he levered himself to his feet, went to the sink, washed and dressed the wound again. He pulled his shirt on, sat back on the bed and set the trash can on the ground at his feet. The blackened curls of flesh twisted like the little undead worms they were. Cam pulled a bottle of Everclear from the charred dresser poured some into the trash can, then took a swig himself.
He took his lighter, Delilah, from his cargo pants, clicked open the cap and flicked the flame on. He took another swig of everclear.
“Die, zombie bacon.”
He spit a thin stream of Everclear at the trashcan. It turned into flame as it passed over Delilah and engulfed the squirming skin. Cam stared at it unblinkingly as it burned. After a time, he shook his head. He was definitely too pensive today.
It’s like I’m goddamned Virgil all-of-a-sudden, he thought.
Jumping to his feet, he threw on his utility vest and shouldered The Cleaning Lady. He was hungry. He needed him some cookies. Yeah, and then some Zombie BBQ. That's the ticket.
He left his cell and went looking for Meg.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Chapter 11 -- The Cause
"Where the hell are we, anyway?" I said.
"Hm. Where the HELL. Indeed." Lady M smiled and laughed, but it sounded more like she was choking on something. And liking it. She always was weird. "We're in the Vast Wasteland, Lucy."
"Huh. No shit. So who, like, didn't kill all these zombies too good?"
For a minute Lady M didn't answer. She just stared into the fire we'd made out of a pile of twitching corpses. Bombies burned easier, hotter, and brighter than regular zombies. It was the gunpowder solution Selig marinated them in for a week. Lady M just moved her eyes and stared at me, and it was like I just knew who'd done it. I just knew.
Robe Guy.
"Virgil," Lady M said, like she was correcting me for calling him Robe Guy in my mind. "It was Virgil."
"Virgil. Huh. And to think I actually thought he was cute!" I stomped around the fire, naked because my clothes had been burnt to like nothing, kicking my bare feet into charred bombies. Bits and pieces of them kept getting stuck to me, especially between my toes, but after what I'd had stuck in me, I could really give a flying fuck hole about hot bombie crust on my feet.
I could do anything and not really mind how gross it was now. Maybe that was the point of all this. Huh. Sure. Like I didn't know better than that. Looking for meaning in any of this, huh, really, what was wrong with me?
"You're too close to the fire," Lady M said. "For your burns to heal quickly you need to keep back."
"Like I give a fuck about that, really. They don't hurt as much as my SHOULDER, anyway. Bitch."
Lady M smiled and stared into the bombie bonfire again. "Anger is good. Anger will heal you. Anger will give you the drive to proceed."
"Yeah, um, thanks for the motivational speech. So I guess we gotta, like, finish off all these undead before we get out of here, huh? Before they get up and go all animated on us again. Who the FUCK fucked this up so bad?"
"It was--"
"Can it, I know what happened." And I did. She hadn't told me, but I knew. Damn that Robe G -- Virgil. I would get him one way or another.
"Leave that to me," Lady M said.
"Like hell I will. This is personal."
"Nothing you do or go through is personal!" Lady M snapped. She stood up and started walking toward me, in this slow intimidating way like she was stepping real carefully, but she wasn't even looking at the ground. She probably coulda walked through the hot bombie fire and not even flinched, if she even felt it at all. Sometimes I wondered what she was made of. "You do not have the luxury of personal interaction! What was the oath you took? Remember?"
"I remember." Like I could forget. If only I had the power to forget.
"What was it?"
"I REMEMBER!"
"WHAT WAS IT?" I wasn't backing away, so she ended up right in my face. "Repeat the oath to me. Now."
"Fine." I said. As I said the words it was like I was back in her tower, in the center of the sacred pentagram, with the symbols painted all over my naked body in my own blood. "I, Lucy Tisdale-" the name sounded wrong, but I went on. "Sign my body, mind, heart, and soul over to the cause. Each thought I have, each move I make, now serves the cause." I stopped. I ground my teeth. Where the fuck was my gum? Smelling like peppermint wasn't enough. Seriously, I'd just been dead! My mouth tasted worse than the most vastest of wastelands of zombies.
"End it," Lady M said.
"I obliterate myself in the fire. My. Essence. Is. Thine."
Lady M's eyes glowed like a cat's in the light from the bombie fire. Creepy much?
"It's just as valid as the day you swore to it. More so, now you have this-" she grabbed my newly tattooed shoulder and squeezed. Really hard. I cried out. "You answer to powers greater than me now. Powers greater than the cause."
She was really right. Forgetfulness was not a luxury I could claim. I would just have to do my best with remembering. She put her hand on my bleeding shoulder again and forced me to sit on the ground at her feet, while she sat on some part of a bombie charred into a brick. Like she even noticed.
And so I told her everything I'd learned. I told her about the bombie gunpowder marinade. I told her about this like underground zombie pod network thingy Selig was building across the entire continental US that would allow the zombies to pop up anywhere, even in areas you thought you'd de-infested. Really, that was going to be, like, a serious pain in the ass. She was sorry to hear I'd lost his dick. The source of his power. And I'd carried it so safely for so long . . .
"Where is it?" she asked.
"I don't know," I said. "I guess it got burned in the bombie explosion. It's not in me anymore, anyway." I knew we had to have it for the cause, but I was still secretly kinda glad I'd lost it. It was pretty sick.
"It is also pretty essential," Lady Mindreader snapped. "And it did not burn in the explosion. It's flame retardant. We have to find it. Selig will be looking for it, and if he finds it and reattaches it . . . he'll be impossible to stop."
She turned away from me, peering into the bombie bonfire again. "Damn you, Virgil," she whispered. "Why?" After a minute she glared at me. "Well? What are you waiting for?"
"Huh?"
"Take care of this!" she flung her arm behind us, like she was talking about the whole fucking Vast Wasteland. "Destroy the undead who are not wholly dead!"
"All of them?"
"Don't be ridiculous."
Don't be ridiculous. OF COURSE I would have to deal with all of them. I didn't know how, though, really, it seemed like a pretty big job, and -
"You can do it," she said.
"Um, HELLO? Lady Malfunction? I don't even know-"
"You may never understand the powers you now serve, Lucy. If you ever do, it will be their doing, not yours. All you can do is trust in them, and serve them."
"Gee, you know, most motivational speakers aren't so cryptic. How do I-"
"Don't think about it. Just do it."
She looked back in the fire, like she was thinking about something and planning. Huh. I'd get no more help from Lady Mental, that was clear. I'd have to do my best. She could really suck sometimes. She smirked, but didn't comment on that thought. I gave her the mental finger.
Then I turned and walked away, feeling the incinerating heat from the bombie bonfire fading on my back. I had to take care of Robe Guy's mess. I pictured those cute hazel eyes. Dig THIS, Virgil! I don't want you anymore!
I didn't think. I just did it. My fresh tattoo burned, and this like swirling white light came down from the sky into me, like an alien abduction beam only it didn't beam me up. Instead, I felt this energy gathering in me, getting tenser and hotter, and then - I just pushed it out! The light shot out of me in all directions in a great white pulse like a strobe light, and it took out every last half-undead bastard in that Vast Wasteland, and a couple bunnies, too.
Poor bunnies.
Ha.
When I got back to the fire, Lady M was still all "voyeur" about the fire, but Billy Ray was holding out a stick of peppermint gum for me.
"Hm. Where the HELL. Indeed." Lady M smiled and laughed, but it sounded more like she was choking on something. And liking it. She always was weird. "We're in the Vast Wasteland, Lucy."
"Huh. No shit. So who, like, didn't kill all these zombies too good?"
For a minute Lady M didn't answer. She just stared into the fire we'd made out of a pile of twitching corpses. Bombies burned easier, hotter, and brighter than regular zombies. It was the gunpowder solution Selig marinated them in for a week. Lady M just moved her eyes and stared at me, and it was like I just knew who'd done it. I just knew.
Robe Guy.
"Virgil," Lady M said, like she was correcting me for calling him Robe Guy in my mind. "It was Virgil."
"Virgil. Huh. And to think I actually thought he was cute!" I stomped around the fire, naked because my clothes had been burnt to like nothing, kicking my bare feet into charred bombies. Bits and pieces of them kept getting stuck to me, especially between my toes, but after what I'd had stuck in me, I could really give a flying fuck hole about hot bombie crust on my feet.
I could do anything and not really mind how gross it was now. Maybe that was the point of all this. Huh. Sure. Like I didn't know better than that. Looking for meaning in any of this, huh, really, what was wrong with me?
"You're too close to the fire," Lady M said. "For your burns to heal quickly you need to keep back."
"Like I give a fuck about that, really. They don't hurt as much as my SHOULDER, anyway. Bitch."
Lady M smiled and stared into the bombie bonfire again. "Anger is good. Anger will heal you. Anger will give you the drive to proceed."
"Yeah, um, thanks for the motivational speech. So I guess we gotta, like, finish off all these undead before we get out of here, huh? Before they get up and go all animated on us again. Who the FUCK fucked this up so bad?"
"It was--"
"Can it, I know what happened." And I did. She hadn't told me, but I knew. Damn that Robe G -- Virgil. I would get him one way or another.
"Leave that to me," Lady M said.
"Like hell I will. This is personal."
"Nothing you do or go through is personal!" Lady M snapped. She stood up and started walking toward me, in this slow intimidating way like she was stepping real carefully, but she wasn't even looking at the ground. She probably coulda walked through the hot bombie fire and not even flinched, if she even felt it at all. Sometimes I wondered what she was made of. "You do not have the luxury of personal interaction! What was the oath you took? Remember?"
"I remember." Like I could forget. If only I had the power to forget.
"What was it?"
"I REMEMBER!"
"WHAT WAS IT?" I wasn't backing away, so she ended up right in my face. "Repeat the oath to me. Now."
"Fine." I said. As I said the words it was like I was back in her tower, in the center of the sacred pentagram, with the symbols painted all over my naked body in my own blood. "I, Lucy Tisdale-" the name sounded wrong, but I went on. "Sign my body, mind, heart, and soul over to the cause. Each thought I have, each move I make, now serves the cause." I stopped. I ground my teeth. Where the fuck was my gum? Smelling like peppermint wasn't enough. Seriously, I'd just been dead! My mouth tasted worse than the most vastest of wastelands of zombies.
"End it," Lady M said.
"I obliterate myself in the fire. My. Essence. Is. Thine."
Lady M's eyes glowed like a cat's in the light from the bombie fire. Creepy much?
"It's just as valid as the day you swore to it. More so, now you have this-" she grabbed my newly tattooed shoulder and squeezed. Really hard. I cried out. "You answer to powers greater than me now. Powers greater than the cause."
She was really right. Forgetfulness was not a luxury I could claim. I would just have to do my best with remembering. She put her hand on my bleeding shoulder again and forced me to sit on the ground at her feet, while she sat on some part of a bombie charred into a brick. Like she even noticed.
And so I told her everything I'd learned. I told her about the bombie gunpowder marinade. I told her about this like underground zombie pod network thingy Selig was building across the entire continental US that would allow the zombies to pop up anywhere, even in areas you thought you'd de-infested. Really, that was going to be, like, a serious pain in the ass. She was sorry to hear I'd lost his dick. The source of his power. And I'd carried it so safely for so long . . .
"Where is it?" she asked.
"I don't know," I said. "I guess it got burned in the bombie explosion. It's not in me anymore, anyway." I knew we had to have it for the cause, but I was still secretly kinda glad I'd lost it. It was pretty sick.
"It is also pretty essential," Lady Mindreader snapped. "And it did not burn in the explosion. It's flame retardant. We have to find it. Selig will be looking for it, and if he finds it and reattaches it . . . he'll be impossible to stop."
She turned away from me, peering into the bombie bonfire again. "Damn you, Virgil," she whispered. "Why?" After a minute she glared at me. "Well? What are you waiting for?"
"Huh?"
"Take care of this!" she flung her arm behind us, like she was talking about the whole fucking Vast Wasteland. "Destroy the undead who are not wholly dead!"
"All of them?"
"Don't be ridiculous."
Don't be ridiculous. OF COURSE I would have to deal with all of them. I didn't know how, though, really, it seemed like a pretty big job, and -
"You can do it," she said.
"Um, HELLO? Lady Malfunction? I don't even know-"
"You may never understand the powers you now serve, Lucy. If you ever do, it will be their doing, not yours. All you can do is trust in them, and serve them."
"Gee, you know, most motivational speakers aren't so cryptic. How do I-"
"Don't think about it. Just do it."
She looked back in the fire, like she was thinking about something and planning. Huh. I'd get no more help from Lady Mental, that was clear. I'd have to do my best. She could really suck sometimes. She smirked, but didn't comment on that thought. I gave her the mental finger.
Then I turned and walked away, feeling the incinerating heat from the bombie bonfire fading on my back. I had to take care of Robe Guy's mess. I pictured those cute hazel eyes. Dig THIS, Virgil! I don't want you anymore!
I didn't think. I just did it. My fresh tattoo burned, and this like swirling white light came down from the sky into me, like an alien abduction beam only it didn't beam me up. Instead, I felt this energy gathering in me, getting tenser and hotter, and then - I just pushed it out! The light shot out of me in all directions in a great white pulse like a strobe light, and it took out every last half-undead bastard in that Vast Wasteland, and a couple bunnies, too.
Poor bunnies.
Ha.
When I got back to the fire, Lady M was still all "voyeur" about the fire, but Billy Ray was holding out a stick of peppermint gum for me.
ZA Chapter 10: Lady M and the Resurrection
Lady M stood in the vast wasteland. The scorching sand, still aflame in some places, seared up through the soles of her flat-heeled black leather boots. She scanned the desert. Hot wind whipped her long blood-red hair tipped with yellow into her pale eyes. Lady M didn’t blink. A scowl creased her freckled forehead. Bodies lay as far as the eye could see, scattered and burning across the desert. Not human bodies, as far as she could tell, although the stench of rotting human was not much different from the decay stink of annihilated zombie.
No. These were the remnants of the already undead.
M scowled again. This was not the work of Cam and the Cleaning Lady. The haphazard manner in which these minions of Selig had been dispatched did not resemble Cam’s slaughter-style in the least. As impulsive and obsessed as Cam could be (that’s all he talked about—zombie heads and the myriad ways they could explode, the directional trajectory of the gore, the satisfied smile a good noggin-pop brought to his lips), he always hit his mark—the head. He was a professional, one of the best Quellers in the sector. And as annoyingly passionate as he was about his job, M appreciated his commando diligence in this war. She trusted him above all other Quellers, whose statistical burn-out rate had increased exponentially since the return of Retsuc and his followers. Yes. Cam was crucial in this fight. And Virgil, with his quiet ways and deep thoughts, was vital. If anything happened to him….
No. These were the remnants of the already undead.
M scowled again. This was not the work of Cam and the Cleaning Lady. The haphazard manner in which these minions of Selig had been dispatched did not resemble Cam’s slaughter-style in the least. As impulsive and obsessed as Cam could be (that’s all he talked about—zombie heads and the myriad ways they could explode, the directional trajectory of the gore, the satisfied smile a good noggin-pop brought to his lips), he always hit his mark—the head. He was a professional, one of the best Quellers in the sector. And as annoyingly passionate as he was about his job, M appreciated his commando diligence in this war. She trusted him above all other Quellers, whose statistical burn-out rate had increased exponentially since the return of Retsuc and his followers. Yes. Cam was crucial in this fight. And Virgil, with his quiet ways and deep thoughts, was vital. If anything happened to him….
Yet Virgil was the reason she was out here in this goddess-forsaken wasteland in the first place.
Damn you, Virg-- M shook the thought from her head. No use wasting energy.
“Well, Cam’s obviously not the only one out here with a mission,” Lady M breathed, peering out across the zombie littered desert. The thought of having to deal with a rogue zombie killer made her sigh in exhaustion. She had statistics to get to, after all, and hunting down a sloppy Queller wannabe was not on her list of things to do today. Especially one who didn’t have the decency to clean up after himself.
M rolled an organic cigarette, extra fat to help her concentrate, and crouched down to light it off a twitching zombie’s flaming ass. Definitely not the work of Cam and the Cleaning Lady. Cam may occasionally and out of sheer rebellion go for the genitals (what’s left of them) before blasting the head, but he would never, ever, ever, ever, ever, never ever leave behind a wriggling zombie. Or a hundred. All the deciduous fuckers needed was a few minutes to regenerate to the point of function and they’d be back at it. And M had statistics to get to, goddamn it.
She unsheathed a long, heavy skinning blade, put the heel of her dusty black leather boot between the twitching zombie’s bugged eyes and added a little weight. A stream of green-black goo arced into the air out of the top of its head, sending the most god-awful stench into the dry wind. M didn’t flinch. She often found the reek of burning zombies intoxicating, a turn-on even. She'd learned much from her zombie dissections and autopsies of late, information she hoped would better arm them in this much-too-long war with the undead.
M extracted her heel and put the blade under the thing’s charred chin. The razor edge cut easily through its necrotized flesh. The zombie stopped twitching. M backed up, took a few long strides, and kicked the head as far away as possible. She preferred using her hands in most cases, snapping spines and ripping heads from necks bare-fisted, but she had a nicely rolled cigarette to finish and some healing to attend to and didn’t want to get her fingers all slimed up with zombie goo. Not yet anyway.
Straightening, M took a deep drag and let the wind pull the smoke from her lungs. She whistled and Cyrus and Billy Ray came loping from the stinking morass, leaping to her shoulders and chattering away.
“Where is she, my darlings?”
Cyrus smiled a mischievous capuchin smile and pointed a long finger into the distance. M noticed the tiny bauble ring on her scout’s slender wrist and grabbed the monkey’s hand.
“And where did you get that, young lady?”
Cyrus nodded her head up and down, a deferential smile on her deceptively sweet face.
“Okay, you little thief,” Lady M said in capuchin clicks and growls. “You can keep it. But if the zombie you took it off of comes looking for it, don’t come crying to me.”
Billy Ray screamed with delight, pulling Cyrus’s ear. Cyrus smacked her brother and leapt from Lady M’s shoulder, pausing to make sure she would follow.
M took a final drag from the world’s most perfect cigarette, checked her piglet-skin satchel one last time, sheathed her knife, and followed her trusty scouts out across the desert. It wasn’t long before they found the girl lying in the dusty dryness, nearly burned beyond recognition.
Lady M crouched down and brushed the girl’s blackened hair off her charred face.
“Hello, little one. It’s me, M. I’ve come to bring you back.”
M got to work just as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting shadows across the writhing zombie bodies strewn across the vastness. She would have to hurry. As much as she liked kicking stringy zombie ass, there was more important business at hand. Namely, saving the only person who knew every detail of Selig Retsuc’s diabolical plan for the Zombie Revolution. The girl had done well, using her seemingly innocent and brainless wiles to extract Selig’s secrets during that long, loving embrace. Damn Virgil for making unfounded assumptions about the girl, sacrificing her in favor of that slut Meg! Virgil was due for a serious ass-kicking, and M had special boots just for that purpose. Chains, too. And whips.
M straddled the girl's limp body, rubbing oil of peppermint into her wounds and speaking the ancient incantations she had studied with shamans from all over the world since she was very young.
“Great powers of dark and night, let there be a spark of life light!”
The girl coughed, her body convulsing with the streamers of light that suddenly sailed from the dark skies above. In the glow of it, M saw a crooked, twisted, one-armed body rise from a stinking pile of corpses.
Billy Ray covered his head as Cyrus wrapped her tiny monkey arms around her brother.
Lady M retrieved the tapping stick and ink from her satchel, set the blue-black pigment into the sharp point, and began the inscription on the girl’s left shoulder, much as she had done for Virgil as he teetered between this world and the next years ago. That had been a particularly brutal zombie battle, and M wasn’t sure the inscriptions carved into his embattled body would even take. But they did and Virgil had come back stronger, more capable than ever, though a little more nasal when he spoke now. The same would be true for the girl lying limp in the hot sand (the stronger and more capable part, not the nasally voice part) … if the zombies awakening all around them could be kept at bay long enough.
Damn you, Virgil. Damn you!
Lady M tapped, penetrating the girl's flesh all the way to the bone, the blue-black ink like lifeblood gifted from the gods and goddesses themselves. The girl groaned in pain. Summoning life back into a body was not an easy task, nor was it without consequence. The girl would bear the scars of this process for the rest of her life, scars that marked her as Other and a woman to be feared, for Lady M planned to instill in the girl the insights of the ancients… her legacy.
“Great powers of light and day, let this woman have her say!”
Another stream of bright white light and the young woman convulsed once more, flailing her fists at Lady M’s face.
“Get off me, you stinking rotten zombie bitch!”
Lady M smiled, holding the girl's wrists. “Hello, Lucy. Welcome back.”
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