Brains for the Zombie Soul (a parody) (14 page)

I could see his ruptured skin through the knee
hole. The one finger that stuck out of a hole in his gloves was
little more than bone. One of the fingers that was still left in
the glove didn’t appear to be filled by anything.

Then I looked into his eyes, set deep into a
sunken face, and I realized that he was a zombie.

“You know what, I’ll do you one better. Come on
in and I’ll buy you dinner,” I said while walking back towards the
building.

“Oh no, that’s okay,” he said.

“Come on,” I insisted.

“But I can’t go in there looking like this.”

“Sure you can, come on.”

When we walked inside the door, the staff told
him he had to leave. “It’s okay,” I said, “he’s here with me.”

Reluctantly they seated us. Understandably, the
zombie looked nervous sitting at a table around all these people.
The waitress brought a menu, and he ordered a hamburger. After my
insistence, he got a more substantial meal of beef manhattan with
mashed potatoes, a side salad, and chocolate cake for dessert.

After the meal, I went to my car and asked him,
“Can I take you somewhere?”

“No,” he said sadly. “I have nowhere to go. But
please, don’t let this bother you. You’ve done more for me tonight
than I have ever asked for. Thank you.”

Then he walked away before I could say anything
else.

(back to
TOC)

****

Home for the Differently Animated

A group of philanthropists were
touring a home for the differently animated. The facility was
introduced to help zombies who lost some crucial mental or physical
attribute during their conversion. One representative named Frank
was skeptical about the zombie culture and would make patronizing
remarks under his breath.

The first floor is dedicated to rehabilitation.
Many zombies just need to get used to dealing with the special
needs of their new existence. Here they are taught many basic life
lessons.

They cook in the kitchens, learning to sustain a
new, iron rich diet. “Glad I don’t have to eat what they’re
cooking,” said Frank.

Those with a medical background also help in the
injury center, which also teaches about the hazards of having an
undead body. Physical therapists also teach them how to stay fit
and healthy. “Hazards like a baseball bat to the skull?” Frank
muttered.

This is also the center for occupational
therapy. Many zombies volunteer here at the home before
transitioning back into the traditional workplace. Some help with
the accounting, some serve the food, and some even start a career
in zombie care and support. “Forget about blind leading the blind,
what about dead leading the dead?” Frank remarked.

Next they were taken to the second floor, which
is for the permanent residents with physical disabilities. Most
zombies on this level were in one of two groups: they were in an
accident leading up to their death, or they sustained a critical
injury since then.

In the west wing is the intensive care unit for
the zombies with potentially unlife ending injuries. Some had their
heads bashed in partially, enough to incapacitate them but not kill
them. Others have similar non-fatal gunshot wounds to the head.
This man here is missing his entire lower half, while his roommate
is missing the left hand side of his body. “Wouldn’t euthanasia be
more human?” Frank wondered aloud.

The majority of the floor is for standard
missing limbed patients. Most of them have multiple missing
appendages that makes it hard to do simple things like walk or eat
on their own. We are able to equip them so they can live a somewhat
normal if assisted life. “My tax money goes towards dead cripples
too?” said Frank.

Actually no, Frank. As you likely already know,
all existing homes for the differently animated are privately
funded.

But the east wing is for the ones who may
eventually make it downstairs to rehabilitation. These are the ones
who can accept prostheses, or in rare cases still have their
missing limbs to reattach. We’re also experimenting with a new
transplant program. Frank said, “I’m taking ‘organ donor’ off of my
license.”

The top floor is reserved for those with special
educational needs. “It’s the undead loony bin!” said Frank, who
couldn’t hold back a smile.

Sometimes the virus affects the brain as well as
the body. Our halfhearted attempts at cures or “euthanasia”
backfire and cause a permanent learning disability. Many zombies
just can’t handle the reality of their new existence and become
depressed or angry. The zombies on this floor have little hope of
being introduced back into society.

“How do you decide that?” asked Frank.

We give them a simple test.

“What’s the test?”

Well, we run a bathtub full of water and give
them a bucket, a tea cup, and a tablespoon. Then we ask them to
empty the bath in the quickest way possible.

“So you let the ones go who chose the
bucket?”

No, the ones who have the best prospect at
rehabilitation pull the plug. Perhaps you should take this a bit
more seriously before you end up here too.

(back to
TOC)

****

Advertising

My
office is right across from a busy street corner, probably the
busiest in town. There are parking garages nearby in all four
directions, past several popular restaurants set on the ground
level of major office buildings, so it gets a lot of foot
traffic.

On this particular day, a beggar had set up at
the corner with an empty coffee can and a cardboard sign. He was an
old man, with shaggy thin gray hair, many lines on his face, and a
pair of dark sunglasses. His sign read, “Blind. Please help,”
scrawled slantwise in black marker.

He had been there all morning, and now the lunch
rush hour was ending, and there was barely any change in his
can.

A zombie was walking past and stopped to take a
look at the man. The zombie wasn’t doing so well financially
himself, but he did something even better than giving money. With
the blind man’s permission, he took out a pen, turned the cardboard
over, and wrote something on the other side. I couldn’t see what it
was from my office window.

Whatever it said, it was working. Now nearly
everyone who passed stopped to drop change in his can. I saw him
fill his pockets and return the can to the ground several
times.

He was still there when I got off of work, and I
walked up to him on my way home. I greeted him before putting money
in his can.

He asked me, “I’m sorry miss, but can you do me
a favor? Can you tell me what my sign says?”

I finally got a good look at what the zombie had
written on the sign in perfect penmanship. I said, “It says, ‘It is
a beautiful day. You can see it. I cannot.”

(back to
TOC)

****

Bonnie’s Bears

Bonnie McCulley’s daughter was diagnosed with
cystic fibrosis at the age of four.

Bonnie did all that she could to help her. She
cut her hours of sleep down to merely three hours a night. Since
she was a zombie, she could get by with less sleep and still be
highly functioning.

So she used the extra time to be with her
daughter as much as possible while working two jobs to pay all her
living daughter’s medical bills. Her own undead status made her
ineligible for health insurance, and her employer’s plan wouldn’t
let her insure her daughter without insuring herself. Therefore,
paying for her daughter’s treatments was entirely up to her.

As hard as Bonnie tried to give her everything
she needed, her daughter succumbed to her condition a year
later.

Bonnie channeled her grief into helping other
children. She wanted to take the time that she had spent at the
hospital with her daughter and give it to other children whose
parents weren’t able to be there with them. But when she tried
this, it backfired on her. The children were too afraid of zombies,
all she did was agitate them.

Instead, she spent her extra time making
companions for the sick children. It started with one bear that she
had made for her daughter. Then she got more fur, and started
sewing more bears for other children. Inside each one, although
they would never see it, she inserted a paper heart with, “With
this bear, you will never be alone,” inside of each bear’s
chest.

First, she started with one bear for each child
that had been in the same ward as her daughter in the hospital,
which was about a dozen bears. And then she went on, sewing bears
for every child in the hospital.

She encouraged people in other communities to do
the same. And Bonnie’s Bears was born. Every child receives a
special bear sewn just for him or her. Each one contains a note
stating that the bear was made with love especially for them so
they would never be alone.

(back to
TOC)

****

The Hospital Room

After my brother’s motorcycle accident, he
lay in a room in the intensive care unit of his city’s
hospital.

I lived two hundred miles away, and my sister
lived in Florida, but we respectively made the all night drive and
caught the first plane into Craig’s city.

Lying in the white sheets on the hospital bed
under a medically induced coma, he looked so weak and small. His
right arm and left leg were bandaged, and his neck was in a brace.
The nurses said that this was because he was often restless.

That sounded just like my brother. He was always
the kid with too much energy, even after he grew up. It was no
surprise when he bought the motorcycle, in fact we wondered what
took him so long.

Although he was energetic, he wasn’t stupid. He
wore boots and a motorcycle jacket and a helmet for safety. Craig
was the local director for the Department of Natural Resources, but
he was never in his office. Instead, he preferred to be out
implementing the programs he introduced himself. I don’t know if he
even owned a television set, it would have been impossible for him
to stay seated for so long.

So to see him lying motionless in this bed, all
the tubes and wires coming from him... it scared me. It scared my
sister too. So we remained by his side, and were thankful for every
visitor that came.

Craig was naturally a very popular man, so he
always seemed to have a visitor. Most of them felt as awkward as
his brother and sister did, watching Craig laying still. They also
weren’t used to being in the same room as him with so much
silence.

Many of the visitors would try to make up for
the lack of conversation by rambling on and on without saying much
at all. But one man came in and introduced himself. He was one of
Craig’s employees. Then he stood silently, staring at Craig’s still
body on the bed.

He merely stood there for close to an hour. Then
suddenly, tears started rolling down his face, and he held back
sobs the best that he could.

He turned away from the bed and said, “I’m
sorry,” to my sister and gave her a huge hug.

Then he shook my hand and gave it an extra
squeeze.

Finally, he looked both of us in the eyes and
asked, “The doctors say he’s not going to pull through, don’t
they?”

With tears in our eyes, we both nodded.

“I have the ability to do something for him. I
can’t stop him from dying, but I can make him come back.” We nodded
in understanding. “Would you like me to help?”

“Yes,” my sister whispered.

“Yes, please,” I said as soon as I found my
voice.

He held Craig’s hand between both of his own and
said to us, “He can’t know that I was the one who did this.” We
both nodded.

Suddenly, the heart monitor stopped beeping and
emitted the tone we had been afraid of hearing for days. We
swallowed our fear as the monitor went silent altogether and Craig
sat up with a gasp.

The man brushed each of our shoulders before he
left the room. We never had the chance to tell him, “Thank
you.”

(back to
TOC)

****

Cookies

At first, I
didn’t take the conversion to being undead well. I locked myself in
my house and refused to go out. I was afraid of what people would
say and afraid they would be scared of me.

I used to be a baker. My specialty was cookies.
My shop made cookie bouquets. We’d insert a stick in the bottom of
a cookie, and the other end in the bottom of a vase or pot. After
being accented with tissue paper and/or leaves, it would make the
cookies look like edible flowers.

The best cookies I made were good old fashioned
chocolate chip. Not only would I make them for my shop, but more
often, I would make them for my friends and family. I’d spend as
much time making cookies to give away as I’d spend making them to
sell. Whenever I heard of an elderly friend of a friend, or a
neighbor in need, I’d bake them cookies.

Since I died, I hadn’t made any cookies. I
figured no one would want cookies made by a zombie. My employees
would call me and ask me to come in, but I told them to hire
someone to take my place. They continued to call, saying they
missed me and just wanted to see me.

When an old friend would come by, I wouldn’t
open the door. Instead, I’d tell them that I wasn’t accepting
visitors today.

One day, a young neighbor boy came by. I told
him that I was sorry, but I didn’t want to see anyone that day. But
he wouldn’t leave.

“I know you’re a zombie,” he said.

“Aren’t you afraid?” I asked.

“Naw,” he said. “Zombies are cool.”

The next day, I got up the courage to go for a
short walk around the neighborhood. No one ran away screaming. In
fact, many people smiled and waved.

The day after that, I went to the mall. The day
after that I went to the grocery store. Every day I would go out,
and for the most part, people were as friendly to me as they used
to be.