I've Been Deader Page 10

  Chapter 20

  Zom-bi

  The front door opened without a hitch.

  Shit.

  Sunshine stepped inside and a noxious cloud of cheap perfume, talcum powder, stale beer and desperation assaulted him like a deadbeat in-law. A few lights still worked, but the wattage was so low they made it almost more difficult to see. Except for the buzzing of flies, it was dead quiet.

  Thank God for small favors.

  Lucky Chang's seemed larger inside. The floor was movie-theater sticky, and after the thing with the prom queen back at the car, Sunshine was in no mood to investigate the cause. A small alcove opened into the main room. Red and black booths were set against the walls, flanking a small stage. There were a few tables near the stage and he could just make out a bar at the far side of the room.

  The place was decorated in cheap red velvet, with dirty Chinese lanterns hanging from the ceiling … and lots of bodies. Two were lying across the booth closest to him: two men, faces staring up at the ceiling. Both had a god-awful mess where their crotches should have been. Next to them on the floor was another Amazon special. She was a six-footer with a Liza Minnelli hairdo, wearing a red cocktail dress which rode too far up her Heisman trophy thighs. Her face was turned away but he could see her junk peeking out from a pair of torn size forty-six Hello Kitty panties.

  He fought down another urge to vomit.

  Junk?

  Sunshine tore his eyes away from the dead diva. Enough of the floor show.

  To his left was what looked like a hostess station - a small alcove with a counter, cash register and a display case. The case contained cigarette lighters, Tic Tacs, condoms, and an assortment of creams and lotions.

  Lovely.

  He made his way behind the counter, praying for a quick score. Underneath the register he found an old shoebox with 'Lost 'n Found' written in red on the side with what he guessed was lipstick. Inside the box he found a memory stick, half a pack of Lifesavers and a bottle of Tylenol. He grabbed the bottle.

  Extra strength. Somehow, I don't think this will satisfy Jon.

  The air was humid and stale. Every time he inhaled he could feel his throat being coated in dust and pollen. The adrenaline rush from the encounter with Dancing Queen hadn't worn off, and Sunshine was still a little shaky.

  He blinked rapidly in the dim light, trying to keep the sweat out of his eyes and work up the courage to go to the bar. A couple bottles of Scotch and that’s it. Jon could either take it or leave it.

  Sunshine took a deep breath of dusty air and started across the room.

  The buzzing grew louder. As he stepped into the main room he could make out a few flies dancing from patron to patron. In order to walk to the bar he had to navigate between Liza Man-elli on the floor, and the booths of dead customers, keeping as far away as possible from all of them. The two men in the first booth looked like bikers; bushy beards, ear rings, big bellies and bad teeth. Even in death they radiated an aura of menace, although that wasn't such a rare occurrence these days. They were the sort of men that always made him feel like prey. The kind of men -

  The kind of men that carry drugs.

  "No. I don't think so. I'll just go to the bar and grab a bottle. If Jon wants to play blind man's buff with Easy Riders here, he can do it. But not me. No, sir."

  Run to the bar, nab the Wild Turkey and then run the fuck out of there. Nothing wrong with that plan. Except what if Jon wasn't satisfied with Wild Turkey? What if Jon with the Gun felt cheated? And did he really want to be driving with a drunken gun-waving psychopath?

  Taking a deep breath and immediately regretting it, he walked over to the booth.

  A bunch of bills were clutched in Biker One's right hand. His left hand rested on what was left of his lap, searching for his missing link. Replace those bills with a remote control and you'd have a Norman Rockwell painting from hell. Screwing up his courage, Sunshine leaned in and searched the vest pockets, upsetting a few flies. Even the denim cloth felt dead to him - stiff and unyielding. Grimacing, he continued to fish through the pockets and came up empty, save for a pack of Parliament Lights.

  Fag. He was on the edge of hysteria and that thought almost pushed him over. He fought an almost uncontrollable urge to laugh. After an eternity the urge passed.

  I think I deserve a smoke. He opened the box.

  Bingo!

  The box held three cigarettes and six hand-rolled beauties. Just what the Proctor ordered. This would have to do. Time to get the fuck out of Dodge.

  He turned back toward the door just as Liza grabbed his ankle.

  Chapter 21

  Pinch Me

  Sunlight shone through the shark tank, bathing Fred in soft greens and blues, making him appear more ghoulish than usual. The residents of the tank were all dead, their bodies littering the bottom.

  He sat on a bench, staring vacantly at a pack of Winchester Lights lying on the tiled floor at his feet. He'd give a good six feet of intestine for the ability to enjoy just one smoke - even a Winchester Light. But smoking, while hazardous to a breather's health, was suicide for a zombie. The undead had a tendency to combust even around warm thoughts.

  Most of the undead that survived the journey were milling about in the Camden Aquarium's main lobby, but the burned man and Dickless were keeping Fred company - and Aleta and Karen, of course.

  The good news was that the zombies were winning again. According to ZNN reports the breathers were in a panic. Stories of mass desertions from the National Guard were broadcast almost daily. Some deserted to be with their loved ones, some left to try their hand at looting, or for other reasons. No surprise that all it took to bring society crashing down was panic, greed, self-interest and a few hundred thousand hungry zombies.

  The important thing was that the breathers were becoming disorganized just as Fred and his undead were getting their shit together. Their President was threatening to declare victory in Afghanistan and bring the troops home, but Fred didn't think that would matter much. If outright civil war didn't break out among the breathers, he was confident there'd be anarchy in the streets - and anarchy was like Disneyland for zombies.

  The bad news? Well, the bad news was a zombie's shuffle-time on earth was as fleeting as a Robin Williams comeback. True, the numbers of undead continued to increase. Even the deadest of undead could manage to bite two or three people - a whole family more often than not. But between the armed breathers, the unusual flammability of the undead, and the unexplainable fact that many were just up and dying again, the average zombie was not long for this earth. Fred understood that in the end this spelled victory for the undead. But fuck victory. He wanted to live.

  He didn't worry about burning up or being shot. He was smart enough to avoid both. If zombies had a Mensa chapter, he'd be president. But knowing when to kill and when to hide meant dodging only two out of three bullets. Even Fred had to worry about just - well, just dying.

  He'd decided to relocate his office to Camden. Camden had once been the murder capital of the U.S.A., and it had a fantastic aquarium.

  But it wasn't just the view of dead fish that had attracted Fred. His minions had been too successful. After overrunning Wayne and packing the Paradise Buffet with fresh, undead recruits, it was just a matter of time before they caught the attention of whatever passed for the 'Authorities' these days. Like most people from Florida, Fred's gang had overstayed their welcome and it was time to move on. He hadn't been crazy about relocating to Camden, and there weren't many - alive or dead - that could blame him. But he figured Camden wouldn't be one of those places the army was chomping at the bit to control. That Timmy loved aquariums had nothing to do with it. Most of the undead had followed Fred from Paradise, but even on the short commute, quite a few simply stopped unliving. None that would be missed, but it was only a matter of time before he started losing real assets.

  With no small effort he picked up the pack of Winchester's, intending to just hold a cigarette for old time's sake. B
ut this proved impossible, and in a matter of moments the crushed box fell to the floor, leaking fresh tobacco. He looked up to the shark tank and its dead inhabitants. He didn't know if it was lack of food or lack of oxygen that had killed them. He assumed the latter, as there was no evidence that the sharks had attacked each other. He supposed that when the electricity went out, the oxygen pumps failed and all the fish suffocated. Here and there the filtered sunlight came through in liquid patches. It was depressing, and made seeing difficult.

  He was staring at the soft light in the tank when the waking dream hit him. Not the typical waking nightmare he occasionally experienced: being unable to blink, let alone shut one's eyes, did strange things to a zombie. This was different, and somehow he knew it was coming from the same Broadcaster he'd tuned in to back in Paradise. He'd assumed there were other Broadcasters out there, but now he wondered. Perhaps, like him, the Broadcaster was unique. All the more reason he needed to get his lifeless hands on him.

  This dream felt much clearer than the others. At first he'd only a vague sense of the Broadcaster's surroundings. Now he could see everything clear as day. In the vision Fred saw the undead postal worker staring at him. It took a moment for him to realize he was looking at his own reflection in a bathroom mirror. His initial reaction was to try to take over the body. But his trick didn't work like that. He could see as though he was in the postman's head, but that was all he could do. The zombie was behaving like a civil servant and just standing there, apparently ignoring his surroundings and definitely ignoring his personal hygiene. Zombies didn't sleep but they could unplug, and this guy was unplugged.

  That this guy was standing, undead or not, was unusual in itself. It took a lot to keep a zombie dead: Decapitation, fire, and severe head trauma - stuff like that. The Broadcaster still had his head, and he wasn't a hunk-a burning love, but his noggin had seen better days. A postal cap sat skewed on its head, pushed back by what looked like a large rock that was lodged squarely in its skull. Fred had no idea how this thing - Potts, according to the name tag on its uniform - was still standing, but he guessed that the neon blue glow that surrounded the rock and much of it’s head, might have something to do with it.

  A nice fat rat scurried across the countertop, paused and keeled over, dead as vaudeville. Fred noticed a few unopened letters scattered over the sink. He could make out Comfort Co. on the address line of two or three pieces. Before he could make out anything else, some internal alarm clock woke Mr. Potts and he started to turn away from the mirror.

  Just as he turned Fred saw the rat move. It crawled drunkenly across the counter, its tail jerking back and forth. It reached the end of the counter and kept going, then fell to the floor.

  Now that, Fred thought, is interesting.

  Chapter 22

  Dead Divas

  Sunshine screamed louder than a girl scout at a Justin Bieber concert, and frantically kicked out at Liza. The kick missed the head but connected with her wig, sending it flying across the room. It landed on one of the Chinese lanterns, dangling like some kind of bizarre black spider.

  Undead Liza, even more hideous than the original, hissed and leaned in for a bite. He kicked out again and connected with a satisfying crunch. Liza loosened her grip and with another girlish scream he pulled free. Eyes on the zombie he scrambled backwards, all thoughts of finding drugs forgotten. King Solomon's lost cocaine mine might be behind the bar, but it could stay lost and forgotten as far as Sunshine was concerned. If there were worse things than undead Liza Minnelli transvestites in this world, he couldn't think of any.

  Still crab-walking backwards, he fell against the dead bikers' table. Glasses rattled, flies buzzed, and through the grace of good fortune the bikers stayed dead. He bounced off the table like a pinball and headed for the exit.

  "No, no, no. No fair!"

  Seventies Cher swayed between Sunshine and the front door, all rhinestones, beads, long hair and heels. Her lips were smeared with bright red lipstick - that's lipstick, I'm sure of it - and her dead eyes hid behind eyelashes so long that if she ever blinked, Sunshine was sure he'd feel a breeze. The six-foot-two pop icon moaned something that was definitely not "Sonny" and began walking toward him, her vest jingling and jangling.

  I GOT you, Babe.

  Without thinking, Sunshine turned and made his way to the back room, praying for a rear exit. He had no trouble avoiding Liza, who kept turning round and round on hands and knees, like a dog getting ready for a lie down. There was a doorway behind the bar, sans door. Whatever lay beyond was swallowed in darkness.

  Exit or backroom?

  A noise on his left. He turned and saw another door. Even in the dim light he could make out the 'Men's' sign.

  Are you friggin' kidding me?

  A burly Barbara Streisand stumbled out of the bathroom. Another six footer with dead eyes and a mean mouth. At first he thought she was supposed to be Ann Coulter, but even with the cheap brown wig askew, the zombie transvestite looked too feminine. It was the ski ramp nose, Dr. Lowenstein glasses and five o'clock shadow that sealed the deal.

  People who eat people are the luckiest people of all.

  He stood frozen in horror as the dead divas made their way to their latest fan.

  The icing on the cupcake followed Babs out of the bathroom. Dressed in a blue and white polka dot dress and wearing pigtails, she clutched a small wicker basket against her chest. A black ball of fur peaked out from the wicker lip. I'll miss you most of all. Judy looked like she'd spent the night sicking up two quarts of creamed corn. But her size twelve ruby slippers still sparkled with promise.

  Sunshine remembered the gun. Backing up a few steps he took it from his waistband and pointed it in the Dead Divas' general direction.

  "Stay where you are."

  They didn't. Deciding flight trumped fight, he turned and ran to the room behind the bar. The dead divas followed. As soon as he ran into the back room he knew he'd made a mistake. Maybe his last one. It was a small office with one desk, one couch, one door and no freedom.

  He spun around, certain the zombies were about to pounce on him. He was right. Liza was still on hands and knees, leading the pack with the others right behind her. It looked like Cher would be second runner-up in the Sunshine buffet.

  Without thinking, he pointed and fired. Liza's head didn't exactly explode but it would never look the same again. A nice size hole appeared in the back of her - his? - head and Liza went still, the days of living on her knees behind her.

  Sunshine let out a manly screech and fired again and again, hitting Cher in the chest and family jewels. Judy and Babs immediately turned on their two girlfriends. Babs fell upon the still twitching Cher and started biting. Judy, perhaps due to unresolved family issues, started in on Liza's body.

  Catfight.

  Sunshine screamed even louder and ran, slamming into Cher and sending her sprawling across the floor. Then he was past them, free and clear. When he made it to the front door he shot a glance over his shoulder, half expecting to see them giving chase. But the Divas were still feeding. Cher was back on Babs, Judy was busy eating Liza and Liza was busy staying dead.

  "Now THAT'S ENTERTAINMENT!"

  Chapter 23

  West

  Should I go west?

  The Magic 8-ball lay at his feet, the words 'Ask again later' visible through the small plastic window.

  Fred chewed absently on a small strip of meat, trying to make sense out of the last 'dream'. He gave the 8-ball a soft kick, sending it rolling across the carpeted floor, where the world's most well known and dependable oracle came to a stop against the lovely Aleta's foot. It was an unseasonably warm day - not that he tended to notice such things any more. Bright sunlight streamed through the office window, bathing Aleta in a gentle cloud of dust motes. During the night she had been facing the wall, but she had turned to face the morning sun. She stood before the window, a long string of drool swinging to and fro from her mouth. For a change, Karen wasn't around at the
moment.

  I'm in love with a ficus.

  In the two weeks they'd been at the Camden Aquarium, three more zombies had re-expired. Two dropped where they stood, like unwound clocks. The third was a bit more dramatic. It was the cute blonde with the golf club who had entertained him at the breather's house. She simply exploded, destroying an elaborate seahorse exhibit in the process. If he ever needed a nudge to get him moving again, that was it. But go where?

  Since dying, Fred didn't do much sleeping or dreaming. He was always tired and cranky, but he couldn't sleep. He'd begun to suspect that the zombie virus was the brainchild of an infomercial production company. He supposed he was experiencing 'visions'. Visions of the glowing mailman. An undead civil servant wasn't exactly news before the zombie plague, but the mailman in Fred's vision was special - more particularly the small rock nestled in the mailman's head. That beautiful, glowing marble held his attention in every vision. It pulled at him like a lodestone.

  The last vision showed the undead mailman standing in the middle of a parking lot of what appeared to be a deserted diner. It was dark and Fred couldn't make out too many details. Or can't remember them. The plate glass windows were all broken and he remembered some sort of graffiti spray-painted across what he assumed was the front entrance: some bullshit verse from Revelations or a Beatle song or something. These days the breathers were as likely to be armed with spray paint as guns.

  Another corpse stood with the mailman. A woman. She was filthy, even for a zombie. She would shamble forward a few steps, stop, and shamble back a step. If Fred didn't know any better he'd have sworn she looked scared. There was someone else there - just a shadow - a smudge of a figure hidden in the dark. Despite barely being able to make out the third person, a sense of familiarity washed over him. Familiarity and ... unease. Almost as soon as he became aware of the stranger, he or she disappeared. As the vision ended the graffiti grew brighter and larger, until the words 'WELCOME TO COMFORT, COLORADO!' blotted out everything else.