At the same time all of that was going down, my boy Langston was stuck at work. Alone. With Pat. Pfft, I'd rather have zombies.
That night, three people (counting Pat) were supposed to work in addition to Langston, but two of them - Kyle and Amber - called out.
You'd think it was to party or go trick-or-treating, but nope.
They had mono.
AKA: The Kissing Disease.
We all know what that means.
Their tongues were in each other's mouths at some point. Ooolahlah riiiiiisky.
Anyway, Langston was trapped at Pissy's with Pat and probably hating every minute of it. See, Pat's like a socialist; he spreads the wealth around, the "wealth" in this case being his B.S. Since Amber and Kyle were out, that meant he heaped all of it on Langston. He bitched because the bathrooms weren't clean (even though they were), he ordered Langston to scrub the fryers just for the sake of issuing an order, he even made Langston get on a wobbly chair and dust the overhead lights (whoooa, be careful!). All the while, Pat stood there with a smug expression on his greasy little mug. He just loved telling people what to do. Makes sense, I guess; he's completely powerless in every other aspect of his life, so when he gets to work, where he has a modicum of control, it goes straight to his head.
Langston bore all of this with a stoicism you just can't help but respect. He mopped and re-mopped the bathrooms, made the fryers sparkle, took out the quarter-full trash, swept cigarette butts out of the parking lot, dusted the lights, cleaned the tables, made pizzas, and was always right there at the register when someone needed him. He didn't sweat, he didn't roll his eyes; his face remained sleepy, eyes drooping, expressionless expression (is that an oxymoron?). All that mattered to him was making enough money to track down Quentin Tarantino and avenge Bruce Lee. If he had to put up with Pat, so be it.
Just past eight, Pat locked himself in the office to do "filing" but I'd bet money he was really drawing a nine-year-old boy doing his seventeen-year-old sister. Or maybe he was using the PC to throw his weight around that fandom he's in. Either way, Langston was finally alone. He stood behind the counter, shoulders slumped, and waited for someone to come in.
Outside, four kids tore past in the street, screaming bloody murder, and Langston watched with dull apathy. I like to think he recognized me and thought Hey, there's Alex...she looks cool even when she's running for her life, but, let's be honest, folks, he most likely didn't.
Moments after we passed, a large, sloppy group of people in dirty burial suits and dresses filled the street. Many walked at a gait, but some of the fresher ones moved a little quicker. Moaning, arms outstretched, feet dragging behind them, they looked like either homeless people escaped from L.A., or the most dedicated bunch of Thriller cosplayers this side of the eighties. Aw, great, Langston thought, the Brenners' party let out early.
On the bright side, maybe they'll want some pizza.
Two of them split from the pack and came to the door, both men. Their coats and pants were muddy and ripped, just like their flesh, and one had a gaping hole in his left cheek. Nice makeup.
One opened the door and they shuffled in, their steps uncertain, shoes scraping the tiles and leaving clumps of dirt in their wake.
Fabulous, Langston thought, just incredible. Wanna screw up the john, too?
They came up to the counter…
...and studied the menu overhead.
One of them smacked his lips together and looked at Langston. His voice was deep and raspy, almost like he'd been eating dirt for the past sixty years. "Can I get a large anchovy and brain pizza, please?"
Langston arched his brow. "Brain?"
The zombie smiled nervously. I was hoping you wouldn't notice my strange request, it seemed to say.
"We don't have brains here," Langston said. "If we did, we'd work somewhere else."
The zombie sagged disappointedly. "Alright, just anchovies."
Langston looked at the other one: It squinted at the menu, then held its hand to its forehead to cut out the glare of the lights. "Your wings, do they come in people flavor?"
"No, they do not," Langston said, becoming irritated. "This is a normal pizza parlor. If you want something like that, you're gonna have to go to Dahmer's House of Cannibalism down the street."
The zombies both perked up. "Can you give us directions?"
Sigh.
Langston opened his mouth to explain he was joking, but the door crashed open and another zombie lurched in, this one so badly decomposed that its skull was exposed. A web crisscrossed one eye socket and the spider that made it scurried into its mouth as it approached the counter. It shoved the other two out of its way, leaned over, and grabbed the front of Langston's shirt, pulling him close. "Brains!"
In his usual flat-toned voice, Langston said, "Sir, can you get your hands off of me?"
The first two zombies looked from Skull Face to Langston and back again like Old West townspeople warily watching a pair of dueling gunslingers.
"Brains!" Skull Face repeated. Its fetid breath raped Langston's nose, and the chill of its touch sank into his bones.
"Sir, now I'm telling you. Next time I won't be nice about it. Get your hands off of me."
Skull Face leaned closer. Now its noseless nasal cavity was inches from Langston's lips. "What are you gonna do, fat boy?"
Langston froze.
Apparently, when he was in school, kids used to tease Langston about his weight. A lot. In seventh grade, he weighed close to 210 and everyone made fun of him for it. They called him Tubby, Lard-ass, Fatso, and a bunch of other really hurtful names. They made him sit by himself at lunch and no one ever played with him at recess or had so much as a kind word to say. A girl he liked found out about his crush on her, and told him to his face that she'd never date "a tub of lard like you." He was isolated, sad, and hated himself.
Then he found Bruce Lee movies, and watching Bruce fly around the screen beating up bad guys made life a little more manageable. Langston took up kung-fu and lost most of the junk in his trunk, though some still stuck.
Where was I? Oh, yeah, anyway, calling him fat was the exact wrong thing to do. All those bad memories, all that hatred - of his bullies and himself - all those friendless days in middle school and dateless nights in high school, all the taunts, jeers, name calling...all of that crap came back to him in a rush.
And he fucking flipped.
First, bright red crept across his face, then his lips peeled back from his teeth. He started to shake like a powder keg getting ready to blow, and boiling rage shot up from his stomach like Old Faithful, only hotter.
Fast as quicksilver, he grabbed the zombie's hand and twisted, breaking it off from the wrist with a dry crunch. Screaming, he brought his arm up and threw out his elbow, hitting Skull Face across the chin. The zombie's head whipped to one side and it stumbled back.
All of Langston's repressed feelings - toward Pat, Quentin Tarantino, his bullies, that rude cop who pulled him over six months ago, his I'll-fix-it-later slumlord - consumed him like a nuclear death cloud, and a switch flipped in his brain. Langston went away.
And Kung-Fu Psycho took his place.
He ripped his shirt off Hulk Hogan style and jumped onto the counter, then ducked and hit a sick spinning kick that smashed one of the zombies in the face. He jumped down on bent knees, and Skull Face rushed him. Langston threw a quick jab that shattered ribs, then followed it up with a sharp left. Skull Face fell back, shook his head, and came again, seething with undead fury. Langston jumped and did some kind of scissor kick move, and Skull Face's head flew off. Its body stayed standing, though, and Langston kicked it again. This time, it toppled over, hit the floor, and broke into a thousand pieces.
Panting, Langston stood over his foe, then, remembering the others, he spun and held his open hands up to his face, ready to chop the first thing he saw. One of the zombies fell on him, and Langston sidestepped, hitting it across the back. It turned, and Langston danced from one foot to the other, fists up, face drenched in sweat. The zombie faked a step, then launched at Langston.
"Waaaaah HI-YAH!"
Langston's fist crashed into the zombie's nose, broke through its weakened facial structure, and sank deep into its slime-filled brain cavity. The ghoul lost its fight and went limp.
Dead – for good.
Ripping his hand out like Excalibur from the fabled stone, Langston turned on the third zombie.
The zombie looked him up and down...then backed slowly to the door, hands up. "Hey, man, I don't want any trouble." It bumped into the door, felt behind it for the handle, and slipped out into the night. Langston watched it hurry away. There were more in the street, all making their way west.
Like a rabid dog with the taste of blood in its mouth, Langston couldn't stop...wouldn't stop.
Not until his wrath had been spent.
Going around the end of the counter, he reached into a drawer and pulled something reverently out. A white headband with a big red dot on the front.
The Japanese Rising Sun.
He stretched it taut, threaded it around his brow, and tied it just as the office door opened and Pat swaggered, all five-foot-four inches of him. "What the hell was that noise? Were you watching Bruce Lee movies on your phone again?" He noticed Langston's bare chest and sputtered. "Put your shirt back on! What are you doing?"
Pat was the type of man who just didn't know when to quit. He got closer and closer to Langston, griping the entire way. Langston's eyes narrowed, and when Pat was in striking distance, he curled his fingertips against his palm and shot out his arm. The heel took Pat in the temple, and the fat, pervy fandom hack dropped like a sack of dirty diapers, knocked unconscious.
Langston glowered down at him...then went off to find more ass to kick.
I stumbled, started to fall, and threw my arms around a stop sign. Tim stopped next to me, clasped his hands to his knees, and bent over, back rising and falling with the seething tide of his exhalations. Mark leaned against a tree, and Jess slumped her shoulders.
We were on a residential street corner surrounded by lower middle class houses. Lights burned in windows and over front doors, but the sidewalks were empty. I don't recall passing anyone on the way, but I was kind of preoccupied.
"Where are we?" Tim panted.
After we got away from Dino, we booked it, our only thought to put as much distance between us and the ravenous horde as possible. I looked around for a guidepost, but nothing was familiar. Not the yards, not the ranch houses presiding over them, not the street signs. Where were we? Oh, God, where were we?
Cool night wind rustled the trees and brought the sound of distant moaning to my ears.
Come on, come on, I've been all over this dumb town; I know this place, I just have to think, think—freaking think! Let's see, let's see, let's see: I remember going through downtown, so we have to be on the west side. Home is there too. Must have come this way on instinct. I looked around again, turning in a slow, stricken circle.
Then I saw it.
A mailbox shaped like a bass.
I knew that mailbox. I passed it every day on the way to school. Jess called it tacky, but I thought it was neat.
"This way," I said.
No sooner had I spoken, six zombies emerged from the dark behind us. My breath caught and my heart dropped to my feet.
One spotted me and pointed. "There they are!"
Jess glanced over her shoulder and screamed.
"Come on!" I snatched Jess by the wrist and started running.
"Get 'em!" the zombie yelled.
A strangled sob exploded from Jess's throat, and she pumped her arms and legs to match my pace. Tim and Mark were behind me...I think. I won't lie, my only thought was for myself and Jess. That sounds selfish, but you try getting chased by the undead.
Our street appeared to the right. My hold on Jess's hand broke, and she went to her knees. I stopped, but Mark and Tim were already scooping her up. The zombies were twenty feet back, maybe thirty, and gaining fast. Someone whimpered, and I realized it was me.
The house sits on the left at the end of the block. The porch light was on, a beacon in the night, calling, beckoning, promising safety. I pushed myself harder, feet flying over the pavement, breath coming in hot gasps, blood crashing against my temples. I veered across the yard, reached the bottom of the steps, slid on the walkway, and fell. I sprang to my feet, trampled up the stairs, and threw myself at the door where I stopped and looked back. Tim and Mark flanked Jess, each with an arm around her shoulders. She limped heavily, hissing with every step. The zombies were fifteen feet back, now ten. My heart thudded, my stomach clinched.
Snatching the knob, I twisted and fell against the door, wrenching it open. Mom sat on the couch and Dad in his chair, her watching TV and him reading the paper. They both startled and looked up.
Tim and Mark got Jess in, and I slammed the door behind them. Jess was crying, Tim and Mark panting.
"What the hell?" Dad demanded.
Jess collapsed to the floor and gave in to her tears, and Mark dropped to one knee.
"What?" Dad asked with an edge of worry in his voice. Mom was already rushing to Jess's side and kneeling.
Tim went to the front window and peeked through the blinds like a paranoid crackhead, and I fumbled for my phone, then cussed when I didn't find it; I must have dropped it somewhere. I said something, but it came out as an incoherent babble.
Mom stroked Jess's back and shushed her, and Dad got up.
"They're out there," Tim said and backed away from the window.
"We gotta call the cops and board up the doors and windows," I said in a rush.
Dad looked from one of us to the other like we were crazy. "Alright," he said in a commanding tone - his Dad voice. "What the hell is going on here?"
"Zombies," me and Tim said in unison.
Mom's brow creased disbelievingly, and Dad's eyes creaked to mistrustful slits. He looked like I just told him something completely insane. "Zombies?"
"The undead," I said.
"Ghouls," Tim added.
"The living impaired," Mark said.
Dad looked from one of us to the other like we were nuts. "What happened, Jess?" he finally asked, because to him, she was the most trustworthy of us all.
Nice, Dad, real nice.
"Z-Zombies," she managed through her tears.
Mom deflated (great, Jessy's crazy now too) and Dad hung his head. "We're telling the truth," Tim said.
"They're right outside," I confirmed. "They chased us all the way here."
Dad took a deep breath and let it out. "That's enough. There are no zombies. They're not real. They -"
"But -"
He held up a forestalling hand. "But nothing. Maybe someone played a prank on you or something, but there aren't any zombies out there."
"Yes there are," Jess hitched.
That did it.
He went to the door.
"No!" I wailed. "God, don't open the door!"
Suddenly everyone was talking at once.
"Enough!," Dad said. "I'm going to show you there aren't any damn zombies."
He unlocked the door. Jess howled, Tim winced, and I braced myself.
The door opened…
...and Dad recoiled.
Six zombies stood on the porch like a group of macabre Christmas carolers. The one in front, a short creature with a belly and the last remnants of curly brown hair on either side of a bald spot, had his hand up and balled, as though he were preparing to knock. He let it fall and cleared his throat. "Excuse me…"
He trailed off.
"Linc?" he asked uncertainly.
Dad's eyes grew to twice their normal size and his mouth fell open in surprise. The color drained from his face with an almost audible sucking sound, and for a second he gaped...then his brows lowered analytically. "P-Poppa Wheelie?"
Poppa Wheelie the zombie laughed heartily. "Well, shove a stick up my ass and call me a corndog, how ya been?"
Mom was frozen in place, breath bated. From the look of mind-bending horror in her brown eyes, I could tell that she knew Poppa Wheelie the zombie too.
Or had when he was alive.
"G-Good," Dad said numbly. "Y-you?"
Poppa Wheelie shrugged. "Remember that stomach ache I had? I shoulda gone to the doctor." He slapped his knee and grated laughter. "Anyway, look, me 'n' the boys were chasing some kids and they ran in here -"
"Yeah," Dad stammered, "my daughters."
Poppa Wheelie's face fell. "Ooooh."
He rubbed the back of his neck. "Well...this is awkward. I guess there's, uh, no chance of you handing them over, huh?"
"No!" Dad cried and flung the door closed.
"Alright, fellas," Poppa Wheelie said, voice muffled, "we're breakin' in."
Mom shook her head like a woman coming awake from a dream and gestured crazily at the door. "W-W-What was that?"
"Zombies." Dad's voice was low and filled with wonder.
Something slammed against the door from the outside, and it shook in its frame. Dad threw himself against it and Mom jumped to her feet. "You," Dad said and jutted his chin at Mark, "go in the master bedroom and get my gun. It's in the closet."
Mark stood and rushed off, and Mom grabbed her cell phone off the coffee table. She dialed a number then held it to her ear.
I went to the window, pushed the blinds aside, and peered out into the night. I didn't see anything, but I could hear them talking to each other. "Go break that window," Poppa Wheelie ordered.
"I can't do that. It's bad luck."
Poppa Wheelie sighed. "Really? You believe in that supernatural crap?"
"I'm literally a walking corpse – yes."
"Good point. Never mind."
Mom threw her head back. "The line's busy."
The banging grew louder as a half dozen hands beat against the door and the side of the house. Mom helped Jess up and guided her to the couch. They sat, and Mom pressed Jess's head to her chest.
Mark returned holding an assault rifle so wicked and intimidating looking that describing it too well would probably give you PTSD: black and sleek with a scope, a shoulder strap, and a curved magazine, it screamed BAN ME. Dad took it and turned to the door, which jumped and trembled in its frame. "Get back," he ordered, and Tim and I joined Mom, Mark, and Jess by the couch.
Dad unlocked the handle and fell back, and the door crashed open. Poppa Wheelie and the others started to come in, then froze.
"Oh, shit, he's got a gun!"
The rifle spoke, and even though I was expecting it, I jumped anyway. The reports were deafening and spent cartridges ejected from the chamber in a steady stream, hitting the floor and bouncing like brass dreidels. Rounds pelted Poppa Wheelie's abdomen, kicking up puffs of dust, and he fell back into the crowd, a look of pain crossing his face. Bullets struck the support beams holding up the porch roof, ripped a zombie's face half off, sent another falling back over the railing, and blew out the throat of a woman with one eye.
Screaming and falling over themselves to escape, the others scattered like roaches. Dad wedged the butt of the gun into the crook of his shoulder and followed.
Outside, a spreading army of ghouls lumbered aimlessly through the street, down the sidewalks, and across front yards. Dad missed a beat, then opened fire, hitting a skeletal man in the head. The zombies reacted by diving out of the way, ducking behind cover, or throwing themselves to the ground. "Ahhh, call the cops!" one yelled.
The rifle clicked, out of bullets, and Dad lowered it. "You don't need an AR-15, they said," he quipped. "The good guy with a gun is a myth, they said."
The mass was already coming, closing around the porch like a noose: Ten zombies, fifty, a hundred, every single one of Westvale's escapees all shambling toward him in a single, pulsing wave. He backed into the house and slammed the door. "There's too many of them." Something then seemed to occur to him, and he turned around. "What exactly happened?" How'd this start?"
Jess, Mark, and Tim all looked at me.
Feeling two inches tall, I raised my hand.
Dad's brow angled down in an angry V, and Mom glared at me like I did something wrong. "Alex, what did you do?"
"She read a cursed spellbook in the cemetery," Jess sniffed. "Then the dead came back."
Mark nodded. "That's pretty much how it happened."
"Real smart, Alex," Mom said. Her voice dripped with sarcasm. "Because that could never go wrong."
"I didn't know! I didn't think spells and zombies were actually real."
Something hit the door, and Dad started. "We need to cover these windows and doors." He pushed away and went over to the entertainment center. "Mark, Tim, help me with this thing. Ronnie Anne, grab me a fresh clip, my .357, and a couple guns for everyone else."
While Mom went to gather Dad's arsenal, Mark took the TV off the entertainment center and set it on the coffee table, then he, Dad, and Tim moved the complex in front of the door. On the couch, Jess hugged herself and rocked back and forth like a girl in a padded room, and I stood there, lost and not knowing what to do.
The banging started again, louder and more insistent, filling my head like a death knell. Mom came back struggling with a box, and set it on the couch. "I got guns," she said.
Dad came over, bent, and rummaged around the box until he found his .357, chrome and as big as a cannon. Next, he took out a compact automatic and held it out to me. I eyed it warily. Like Spanish, shooting was a passion one of my parents tried, and failed, to pass onto me. I've never touched a gun in my life and didn't know the first thing about them - you hold it by the barrel thingie and use it as a club, right?
"Here," Dad ordered. "You got us into this mess."
That was true.
Sighing, I took the gun and turned it over in my hands. "The safety's on. Turn it off to shoot."
He held another gun out to Jess, and she looked at it as though it might bite. "Take it."
She hesitated, then took it.
When everyone had a handgun - gee, Dad has enough here to start his own right-wing militia - Dad and Tim went to the front window. Mom brought a toolbox in from the garage and Mark broke the legs off the kitchen table, then carried it into the living room. "We're gonna nail it up," Dad said. "I want -"
The window exploded in a shower of glass, and before Dad could react, a head came through, mouth wide open. It flopped against his arm, and he pulled back with a yelp. My heart stopped - if they bite you, you turn into one of them.
Dad held his arm up and studied the wound. The skin wasn't broken, only scratched.
"Yeah," the zombie said smugly. "There's plenty more where that came from, buddy."
Dad jammed the gun against its head and it went cross-eyed. "Wait! I won't do it again, I promise!"
The gun jumped, and the zombie slumped to the side. As soon as he was out of the way, a forest of arms reached through, and Dad yelled. I ran over and helped him, Tim, Mark, and Mom push the table flush with the window and hold it in place while Dad hammered it to the wall. The zombies on the other side pushed, pounded, and battered, and my arm muscles strained against the assault.
Dad stepped back, surveyed his work, and nodded. "Alright," he said, "now the rest."
Next door, Old Man Grouse shuffled through his darkened living room and muttered oaths under his breath. It was late (for him) and someone was knocking on his door. Damn kids, didn't they know no porch light meant no candy?
He kicked the edge of the coffee table with his bare foot and pain detonated in the center of his sole.
Still, the incessant knocking, pounding.
Goddamn fools.
He went to the door, unlocked the knob, and ripped it open.
A group of dead people stood on his step, and he blinked in surprise, his ire suddenly gone.
The lead zombie, a man in a suit, leaned in and studied the old man's face: Wrinkles, liver spots, sallow skin, faded eyes.
Mr. Grouse's heartbeat sped up and paralyzing terror gripped him.
The zombie rocked back on its heels and heaved a dejected sigh. "Never mind, guys, he's one of us."
Mumbling their disappointment, the zombies turned and filed down the stairs.
It took a minute for the zombie's words to sink in, and when they did, Mr. Grouse's face screwed bitterly up.
"I don't look that goddamn bad," he said.
...
"Do I?"