When high winds and a blinding snowstorm came, so did the zombies.
Stands to reason. If we get cold, so do they.
I wondered if one showed up, was I obligated to extend charity and compassion?
As I pondered this metaphysical question, one crashed through the door of my mountain cabin.
“Brains,” he said, heading toward me with outstretched arms.
“Hold it,” I shouted. “Is that the full extent of your vocabulary?”
That stopped him cold. Looking at me through lifeless eyes, he gurgled something unintelligible through his decaying throat.
“It’s no wonder you guys haven’t gotten anywhere in the world. Your English skills are so severely limited. Same with your range of socially acceptable behaviors. Even worse, is your diet. Do you realize what you’re missing?”
Another gurgle.
“I bet you’ve never been on a swing. Or a rollercoaster. And I’ll bet you’ve never experienced the simple joys of munching chocolate chip cookies.”
His arms were still outstretched, as if reaching for my neck, but he hadn’t moved an inch. I thought perhaps my words had stirred something deep inside his calcified brain. Maybe for the first time in his miserable, zombified existence he was beginning to question who he was, where he was, why he was there, and what life was all about.
“Come, sit,” I said, pointing to a chair. “I just made a fresh batch of chocolate chip cookies. Try one. I’m certain you’ll like it. Even if you don’t, it’ll expand your culinary horizons.”
Though I didn’t expect him to respond, he took a seat with arms still outstretched.
“Try to put your arms down,” I said gently. The moment I uttered those words, I was struck with a most powerful intuition. Maybe the position of his arms had something to do with his eating habits. The practical side of my brain immediately scoffed at such a strange idea. And yet, I was intrigued.
“Do you mind if I try to lower one of your arms?”
No response.
“Okay, I’m gonna get closer. And I’m gonna press on your arm. I’m gonna ask you not to bite my head while I’m doing it. Promise?”
No response.
Sometimes in life, you have to take risks to achieve a noble goal. I edged closer. And closer. And closer still.
He grunted.
I can’t say I wasn’t scared. But then so were Charles Lindberg, Christopher Columbus, not to mention cave dwellers who first discovered fire. Struggling to overcome my fears, I put my hands on his forearm and pushed down.
His joints squeaked, as I pressed harder. When I gave it all I had, his arm fell into his lap.
“Cookies,” he said.
Damn! I was right! A raised, extended arm was somehow mysteriously tied into his dietary cravings. I almost wept at the thought of how many years these poor creatures had been so vastly misunderstood, mistreated, malnourished. Maybe this one was taking his first baby steps toward a remarkable career. Maybe one day he’d even become an astronaut. Thoughts of adoption filled my head.
“I’m going to try to lower your other arm.”
When I did, he said, “Milk.”
“Good boy!” I exclaimed, patting him on the back.
I put a warm chocolate chip cookie in one of his hands and a cold glass of milk in the other.
He didn’t react.
“Eat cookie,” I said, grabbing one and munching on it. I figured if monkeys and apes could imitate human behavior, so could this large beast.
But nothing happened.
I poured milk for myself and took a swig.
“Drink milk,” I said.
When he didn’t, I yelled, “Stupid, dumb-ass zombie! Even freakin’ monkeys can do what I just showed you.”
Just as quickly, I chastised myself for being so harsh on this snow-covered, frozen, pitiful being.
“Okay, I’ll help you,” I said. I broke a piece from a cookie and rubbed it against his gray, mottled lips. “Open wide.”
He did.
I pushed the piece into a putrid mouth that reeked of decaying jungle rot.
That’s when he bit my fingers off. Even worse, he jumped out of his chair and bit my head.
Next thing I knew, he screamed and fled the cabin into the freezing night.
Three broken zombie teeth were on the floor.
It was the first time in my life that I ever appreciated the titanium plate surgeons had inserted into my cranium after a terrible motorcycle accident.
* * *
I learned several things from this episode:
- Zombies are craftier than we think.
- They don’t give a damn about cookies or milk.
- If you’re gonna try to put something into a zombie’s mouth, wear a suit of armor. Or, have a nasty motorcycle accident so you can get a titanium plate put into your head. Especially in the area where zombies like to bite.
—
© 2008 Michael A. Kechula
Michael A. Kechula is a retired tech writer. His fiction has won first place in seven contests and placed in six others. He’s also won Editor’s Choice awards four times. His stories have been published by 124 magazines and anthologies in Australia, Canada, England, India, Scotland, and US. He’s authored a book of flash and micro-fiction stories: “A Full Deck of Zombies–61 Speculative Fiction Tales.” eBook available at www.BooksForABuck.com and www.fictionwise.com. Paperback available at www.amazon.com.
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Tags: Michael A. Kechula
March 29th, 2009 at 5:04 pm
HA!! A good laugh for a Sunday morning, Michael.
Nice voice and flow, too.
–dj