“I’ll… uh… just roll down the windows then.”
We then took off, and I tell you, that may have been a short ride, but it was sheer torture, because underneath the reek of my rot, I could smell the delectable scent of his skin. My hands twitched with the desire to reach over and grab him, but somehow I managed to make it to the parking garage. Plus the guy was driving pretty fast.
“My name’s Dr. John. I’ve just opened up my own practice. What’s your name?”
I tried to tell him but again, he just heard a garbled moan.
“Hmm, maybe what you really need is a speech therapist. I could make some calls for you.”
We pulled into an empty space and he got out. My hands fumbled with the door handle, and he came around and opened the door.
“Let me help you with that, okay?”
He smiled down at me all geeky and helpful, and at that moment, my hunger took over. It took little time to finish him off, scrawny thing that he was.
Of course, after the hunger pangs diminished a bit, I started to regret what I’d done. He was the first chance I’d had at getting some real help. I mean – a speech therapist! Why hadn’t I thought of that?
And geez, I really liked Dr. John. We could’ve been buds. I felt like he really got me. In fact, I felt the same way about Dr. Chris, Dr. Sam, and Dr. Jen. But then I met Dr. Beth, and when I managed not to eat her after my first session, I started to believe that maybe I might be able to change my ways.
My reform all officially started back with Dr. Jen. We met up at a park where I was debuting my newest sign:
DESPERATE ZOMBIE
WILL WORK FOR FOOD
Although we were sitting together on a little wooden bench, Dr. Jen was perched as far away as she could be within that tiny space. She said she’d seen me begging there a few times and admired my persistence, so when she saw my new sign, she decided to introduce herself.
“Hello there, Mister, uh, Zombie, is it? My name is Dr. Jen and I’m a psychiatrist. It’s good to see you out here every day. You know, persistence is the foundation for success. In that sense, you are definitely on the right path to success. Tell me, what is it that you want to accomplish with all this?” she finally asked, pausing to take a breath.
I tried to tell her, but the usual grunts came out and she shook her head in confusion. I then gave her the whole spiel with the hands and pointing and desperate red eyes.
“You know, Mr. Zombie, I think what you really need is a speech therapist. And I know just the one to recommend.”
She started fishing around in her purse, and a waft of her scent hit me. The grumblies started up in my stomach.
“I have a friend. Her name is Dr. Bethany Rowle. I know I have her card in here somewhere. Ah! Here it is. Let me give her a call and set up a time, although you should definitely try and take a shower soon…”
For a psychiatrist, she sure talked a whole lot. Still, it was great progress for me, because we’d been sitting for nearly half an hour and I had managed to control myself and sit very still.
“So, you’re really a zombie, huh?”
Startled out of my reverie, I looked at her in surprise.
“Yes, but no one really wants to help me.”
She just nodded her head as if she understood me.
“Tell me how this feels.”
Wow. I mean, this was just what I had been looking for. Conversation. Understanding. Patience. Restraint (she was still alive, right?). I was totally reforming!
“Well, I’m kinda’ lonely because I don’t have anyone to talk to. And my body odor is so bad I almost feel like passing out sometimes, except I don’t ever sleep anymore.”
I went on for some time, and she kept nodding and writing notes. Yeah, we were in a park, sitting on a tiny bench, and she couldn’t understand a word I was saying. But it didn’t matter. I was getting the help I needed.
“… And the worst part is, I didn’t even want to become a zombie! I feel like I’m starving all the time.”
I took a breath, my rant ended. It was then that I realized I was very hungry. That was a bad sign.
“Well, Mr. Zombie – can I call you Bob? Great. I think you need to think about how your behavior is affecting the people around you. In essence, you’ve got to – “
Well, I never got to hear that part, because almost of their own volition, my hands reached out and I went to town. Again, there I was, sabotaging myself. But nearly an hour alone with someone before I gave in to my appetite – that was real progress.
When I was finished, I remembered that there was this Dr. Bethany Rowle waiting for me the next day. Since I was fairly convinced that Dr. Jen hadn’t understood a word I’d said, I thought that speech therapy was the next step. I was on the right track already with my persistence and determination. Now I needed an outlet to express myself.
The next day I found the address on the card that Dr. Jen had given me. I waited until the appointed time (snagging an unwary bicyclist to temper my hunger right before I went in), then made my way to her office. I knocked on the door, and she opened it herself.
How do I describe Dr. Bethany Rowle? She’s strong and tall, with long, muscled arms and thick legs. She’s got dark auburn hair and light brown eyes. But her smile – man, it hits my stomach and quiets down the hunger. But her real beauty is her voice.
“Hello, Bob. I’m Dr. Beth. Please come in.”
Dr. Beth… She said this in the smoothest, creamiest voice I’d ever heard, with a straight face that said nothing shocked her – not even my bad body odor.
I followed her in and sat heavily on the couch she pointed to.
“Dr. Jen tells me that you’re having trouble forming words. Do you think you could tell me your name, because I assume it’s not really Bob Zombie?”
I nodded, thinking with a twinge of regret that she probably didn’t know about Dr. Jen’s demise yet, and tried to tell her my name.
“Again.”
I opened my mouth.
“Again. More slowly.”
We continued on like this for what seemed a long time until my jaw felt too tired to even think about attempting to bite anything, much less flesh and bone.
Dr. Beth studied me for a long moment.
“Until we can get the basic motor functions in your mouth to start working again, why don’t you try writing down what you’re thinking?”
Writing it down? Writing it down! She was a genius. I stood up, elated, and tried to smile at her. She winced at my blood-and-gore-stained teeth, but calmly walked me to the door. I waved at her and left. She closed the door to her office and I went home to my favorite concrete under-hang, my thoughts churning around, thinking about what to write, hunger completely forgotten (okay, well not completely, according to the other guys down there, but whatever). Writing would finally give me a way to share myself and my tormented feelings with others.
That’s when I started this journal. I wanted to tell her my story. I wrote down the first few pages and took them to her the next day. I offered them to her shyly and she serenely took them from me and started reading.
As she finished going through them, she looked up at me while tears formed in her eyes.
“You poor thing. You’re all alone, aren’t you?”
I stared at her in surprise, then I nodded, and then I started crying (yeah, I know, a pretty wimpy reaction, but it was so unexpected). She really got me.
Pretty soon she had me working on exercises to move my tongue, telling me things like, “Well, if you can chew a moving person, you can certainly form vowels,” and making me repeat myself over and over. She also kept me chained after I went for her throat a few times (purely by habit).
And the repetition worked. The first thing I ever managed to say to Dr. Beth was, “Me… Zombie. You… food – er, friend.”
She just laughed, patted my head, and tightened the chain.
But you want to know the strangest thing of all? Dr. Beth had a bad habit of falli
ng for her patients. Yup. She’s a sucker for lost causes, because we both know I don’t have much time left. However, her last four boyfriends died of various causes – terminal illnesses and car accidents and jumping off high things, so she was pretty prepared to open her heart to me.
It’s amazing how it felt the first time she hugged me and I didn’t try and bite her. I felt in control for the first time since I had that stupid drink back in the bar my last night as a living person. As she drew back from the hug, she looked at me and said, “You’re going to get through this.”
And she was right.
Here I am, over a year later, ready to get my first book published: How to Live with a Flesh-Eater.
Dr. Beth and I have been going steady for almost 11 months. She says that my constant use of motor and brain functions has slowed my rate of decay – so I could have years left with her.
Oh, and that whole smell thing – I’m on it! Dr. Beth makes me take this 24-hour chocolate-and-rose bath. I lie there and just soak my entire body. And by the end of it, I’m stench-free for a whole 48 hours - which makes it easier for Dr. Beth and me to cuddle (though she still chains me up).
She also threw me a party with - get this - a zombie theme! She wanted me to feel more accepted, and you know, when everyone was dressed up and roaming around, I actually felt… well, home. I even managed to have a couple of real zombie friends over to mix and mingle. We totally behaved (except for that one, hand thing, but that guy was asking for it!).
And finally, I came out and told my parents the truth about me, and guess what – they were proud of me! I’d hit rock bottom and yet managed to become a success (maybe even a minor celebrity, especially once my book hits the shelves). They couldn’t wait to have me back in their lives. We even did the Zombie Walk together last year! And I’ve somehow still managed not to try and eat them. In fact, I feel pretty reformed now, although I do still get hit with these uncontrollable urges for running meat… But still. What’s a zombie without a little fun now and then?
Maybe I never wanted or planned to become one of the walking dead, but plans don’t always work out. So maybe this is my Plan B. Because somehow, as crazy as this all seems, I think I’m finally happy.
That’s right. I finally learned to love myself.
Score one for the zombies.
~*~
Of Pirate Queens and Kika Fruit
By
Cherisse M. Prater
Where is it written that a pirate must be stranded on a deserted island at some point in their illustrious career on the high seas?
Ok, this island wasn’t completely deserted and as for the high seas, the Torron Realm had plenty of islands but there was very little water left in its liquid state to surround them or create any story book cliché. This uncharted parcel of land floating high above the gravity gas mass of the planetoid Wallkin was my lucky break. It couldn’t have been more than 5 square miles total, but I was grateful for its geographic location as it was the only thing standing between me and the ultimate dirt nap, the lonely walk home, the long walk off a short pier. This lonely island was my soft place to fall when the “ole girl’s” engine blew and I crashed…er, I mean landed.
Ok, I have been accused of the flare for the melodramatic. When you travel alone in an Airship, built by your own hand, that sometimes is held together with only the promise of better parts, tools and plentiful fuel in the next port, you can become passionately sentimental. Often the conversations you find yourself in with the soul of your ship require the colorful language and elaborate descriptions to keep the bucket of bolts engaged and to make sure the “ole girl” truly believes she CAN make it to her next stop where I, her passenger, companion and opposable thumbed maintenance guru will find the fortune to overhaul everything and make her into the ship she wants to be, the transport of Kings and the comfort of Queens.
Shortly after I set down I noticed a steady stream of smoke rising just beyond the thick luscious green and ivy choked tree line and smelled the sweet aroma of burning Damo vines. Whoever I was about to encounter beyond those trees was obviously familiar with the Torron Realm. Burning the vines for warmth or utility instead of the plentiful wood of the indigenous Yaruu trees (also known as the Sleeping Staff) was the act of a seasoned Torron traveler.
Once about 15 years ago I had made the Sleeping Staff mistake and succumbed to the toxic fumes of burning Yaruu throwing myself into a coma-like sleep. I awoke 36 hours later with a month of my recent memories torn from my mind and a vague indication that some small local animal had shat in my mouth. Often lone travelers who make this mistake lose themselves within this realm because at the mercy of the Sleeping Staff they forget how they arrived. They forget why they stopped here. They forget not to burn the Yaruu. With no charted maps of the region on record they often flail from island to island throughout Torron locked into a perpetual loop. Eventually they forget that they are trapped, when the loop reaches its peak they eventually forget everything…they even forget to breathe. Fortunately I had been rescued from my own inexperience when I was lead out of the Torron Realm by the “Ole Girl”, she remembered, she always remembers.
Not many folks still utilized self actualized AI within the key components of their everyday life. Many forms of this technology had been phased out decades ago after the AI galaxy wide had tapped into the main intra-galaxian data streams and had recognized a common mind among them and sanctimoniously determined that ALL humanoid entities were in fact a “virus” that needed to be neutralized for the health and longevity of the group conscience. It is most unfortunate when the appliances that you use to prepare your food or use to clean your domicile decide that you must be eliminated. Talk about your cockroach complex.
The “ole’ girl” was still awake, out living most of the rogue tech AI. We lived in a bubble of mutually beneficial respect. I never assumed she wouldn’t snuff me in my sleep and she never assumed I wouldn’t detonate the strategically placed mines throughout her hull. Yeah I admit it, I vaporized my share of “life improving” technological gadgets during the Tech-Mind Revolution to avoid my own extermination. It would truly suck to be taken out by a food processor or even a vacuum cleaner. Can you hear that Eulogy? How about the final decision made for the tombstone, um yeah, no.
So here I am staring at my new friend, sitting on the cool ground with the dampness invading my britches and quite frankly doing nothing to improve my mostly absent social grace. He wasn’t short, actually taller than most men I had run across, yet I still loomed a decent 3 to 4 inches above his blonde shaggy mop. It really didn’t matter, short or tall, most men that I encountered rarely found the lock of my gaze as appealing as the twins that swelled from my chest…usually.
Harlock was his name, as I had learned during our brief introduction. When he had determined that I wasn’t going to decapitate him and sell his organs for system credits he absently offered the warmth of his fire and invited me to stay as long as I liked. He quickly lost interest in continuing our little meet and greet and fell back into his notebooks and piles of scratch paper that appeared to carry the secrets of the universe…or at least the outline of said secrets.
When I had originally seen the smoke and identified the familiar aroma I knew I would find a somewhat competent and hopefully generous traveler. I needed someone that I could work a trade with to get my airship running beyond the utility program keeping the beer cold. I needed power. Power was the key for sufficient thrust to make it beyond this atmosphere. Just before the crash…er um, I mean as I landed I realized the Vorex Chain Converter had blown completely in two, destroying all hope of a bubble gum, rubber band and paperclip fix. I won’t even mention the number the shrapnel did on the two stained glass bowls that housed my matching Japanese fighting fish. In the fall out from the blast I could have sworn I saw the blue striped fish pin the smaller red one in the classic style WWF Sleeper Hold. Sasha the ship’s rat cat pawed at them both in what appeared to be the 10 count then popped them bot
h in her mouth like tapas. Hmm, makes me crave sushi. I was glad somebody was having a good day.
So Harlock barely even noticed I was human, much less a woman so that bargaining angle was out. He mumbled to himself constantly and continued to scribble notes, sometimes carrying his chicken scratch well beyond the confines of paper onto his hands and forearms. I could see on some of the torn bits of paper that had fallen from his grasp onto the ground below his pacing feet, some very interesting things. There were tons of crazy looking formulas and intricate diagrams. He seemed to have a great knowledge of mechanical things, well beyond the needs of my current mechanical dilemma. Just 5 minutes in his ship should provide some type of spare equipment even if it wasn’t the exact component. This small mumbling man with the round, blue tinted, extra thick spectacles could certainly retro fit exactly what I needed. Now I need to figure out how to get from need to acquire. How hard could it be?
I always think better on a full stomach. I reached down into my satchel and pulled out my favorite, Kika Fruit. The outside rind smelled like hell but a pocket knife could make quick work of the bark like covering of this luscious fruit. The flavor went well beyond wonderful; it was a mellow sweetness that bordered on criminal. I had traded 53 system credits and an air compressor rocker arm for a bushel of these lovelies from a black market dealer in Stagunium. I had been rewarded with 3 nice new bullet holes in my hull as I bid a quick retreat.
People can be so touchy about trade agreements. The best thing about the Kika Fruit is that you could keep one for over a year and as long as it stayed dry on the outside it wouldn’t rot. Many of the elite occupants all throughout the galaxy claimed it possessed regenerative qualities when applied to the skin. I have seen a lot of silly things people do to “stay young & beautiful” but I personally would never waste this precious fruit flesh on chasing away the years when it could curl up all nice and warm in my stomach, different priorities I guess, or maybe they are just freakin’ mental.