Not Everything Brainless is Dead (6 page)

“Urghghl,” it said, choking on his tongue. The zombie moved it back to position. “I’m a zombie.”

“Yes, we gathered that from the obvious evidence,” snorted Dr. Malevolent.

“I don’t know much,” the zombie continued as it stuck a finger into its arm and wiggled it around.

“Well, give us some answers you mangy beast, or we’ll blow your head off,” she threatened.

“Hey now, the thing didn’t try to eat us, might be worth keeping it around,” Captain Rescue suggested as he leaned in to take a closer look at the zombie.

The zombie stepped away from Captain Rescue. “Yeah, don’t kill me. I can tell you things.”

Freight held his shotgun to its forehead. “WE’RE WAITING.”

The pressure exerted by his voice caused the zombie’s skin to fill like a balloon. It pressed its hands to its face and pushed the air right back out. “Umm… they made me in a lab,” it replied.

“How on Earth would you know that,” Dr. Malevolent asked as she pointed her handgun to its head.

“I just remember things,” the zombie replied as it pushed her pistol aside.

“You’re gonna have to be more specific,” she said as she pushed its hand away and put her gun back in its face, “who are they?”

“The people who made me,” it said, annoyed that it had to repeat itself. “If we find the laboratory, we can stop this.”

She pushed the pistol closer to it. “How?”

The zombie stepped away from the gun. “There’s a failsafe in the laboratory.”

“Really? Convenient,” Dr. Malevolent said as she moved the weapon closer.

The zombie moved away from the gun yet again. “Well judging by the carnage so far, I’d say zombies are pretty dangerous, why wouldn’t they want a way to put an end to this.”

“This all seems a little too… convenient. You’re not up to something are you?” Dr. Malevolent said.

The zombie pointed at the gun. “If I were, you’d be able to kill me just as easily as any other zombie.”

A twinkle appeared in Dr. Malevolent’s eyes for a moment, “You have a deal!”

Captain Rescue had spent the entire conversation thinking about one thing and one thing only: “Do you have a name?”

The zombie appeared to be thinking for a few moments, and then said, “No.”

He clapped with glee. “Well then, I dub thee Stubbs.”

The zombie simply shrugged and began picking at his protruding intestines.

“Hey!” Captain Rescue said as he slapped Stubbs’s hand away, “Didn’t your mother ever teach you that if you don’t stop picking at it that it will never heal.”

With their new zombie companion in tow, they made their way to the entrance of the police station.

“You’ll warn us if any zombies are close right?” Captain Rescue said to Stubbs

Stubbs stopped and turned to the hero. “What do you mean?”

Captain Rescue sighed and rephrased the question. “If we get close to any other zombies, you’ll be able to tell us—right?”

“No,” Stubbs said with a hint of exasperation, “what makes you think that?”

“They’re zombies.” Captain Rescue pointed at him. “You’re a zombie.” He threw his hands into the air. “It just makes sense.”

“No it doesn’t. Can you sense when other humans are nearby?” Stubbs asked as he resumed walking.

“I’d rather not answer that,” he replied sheepishly.

Their new zombie companion turned the hallway corner and laughed. “I thought so.”

Chapter 8: Zombies, Guns, & Rabbits

Thus, with a stinky zombie in tow (Stubbs, at some point, decided retaining control of his bowels was no longer of any concern; the others begged to differ), the group waltzed their way through the police station on the very tips of their toes like the most beautiful ballet dancers at the opening of their big night. Heels had not graced the ground in quite some time. Someone, possibly Captain Rescue, decided that tiptoeing through a gore-infested police station was the best way in which to keep a low profile. Regardless of how ridiculous this was, they danced their way to the lobby through gallons of blood and gore.

Once there, they discovered that someone left the front door ajar and a mysterious wind left it swinging back and forth. Captain Rescue, ever heroic, stepped forth and peered into the world outside. He took a step back and closed the door calmly.

“Gentlemen… and you,” he said, glaring at Dr. Malevolent. The hero then became absolutely hysterical. “We’re all going to die!”

The hero pressed his back to the door, looked around the lobby, and soon found a desk in the corner. He darted over to it, slid underneath, and curled into a ball, protecting himself from the horrors of the outside world.

“Oh come on, you coward. It can’t be that bad out there,” Dr. Malevolent scoffed before opening the door and peaking outside. “Hmm, we have our work cut out for us.”

“That bad, eh?” Boris said, his Russian accent fading fast.

She slammed the door shut. “That’s putting it mildly.”

Boris reached forward, opened the door a couple of inches, stuck one eye outside, and then hastily shut it. He turned around and faced the rest of the group. “Oh yeah, this’ll be tricky.”

Freight let out a frustrated sigh, pushed Boris and Dr. Malevolent aside, and then kicked the front door open. He took one look at the outside world and let forth a manly smile. If the police station were a birthday party, then the city must have been Mardi-Gras—Mardi-Gras on all kinds of elicit substances, after not sleeping for four days, and after having just bungee jumped from the empire state building in the dead of winter wearing nothing but a loin cloth. That’s what the city had become. Fires were abundant—cars, trashcans, buildings. Even dogs ran through the streets with their tails on fire as if there were some arson zombie wandering around that derived great enjoyment out of torturing these innocent animals. The destructive capabilities of a few ravenous zombies surprised the survivors to no end, but alas, the swarm of locusts that were the undead seemed to have moved on, exemplified by tumbleweed of human hair passing through the streets.

“Okay,” Dr. M alevolent said, kneeling down and looking at the barricaded Captain Rescue. “Come save the world, you idiot.”

That phrase was all he needed to kick himself into gear. The hero climbed out from under the desk and jumped to his feet. If there were worlds to save, kittens to rescue from burning buildings, beavers that needed help building their dam, or zombies that needed their faces smashed in, Captain Rescue was there. He marched to the door leading into this forsaken world and lunged forward. As expected, he tripped and fell flat on his face.

Dr. Malevolent followed behind the superhero, using him as a carpet. “Doors really don’t like you very much, do they?”

As the stepped out of the police station, one of Dr. Malevolent’s lackeys asked, “So, what’s the plan?” His appendages would soon be torn and eaten and he wanted to make the best of the little time he had left on this pale blue dot.

“Hey, Stubbs,” Captain Rescue said to their shambling friend, “do you know where to go to fix this mess?”

The zombie let out a hoarse laugh. “Don’t look at me. I’m only about 45 minutes old.”

“We should go back to the bank and take a look around, maybe there’s a clue where to head to press this magical button,” Dr. Malevolent suggested.

Boris looked at her. “This is all your fault, good goin’ boss.”

She grew red with annoyance. “How could I have known this?! That the one bank in this God-forsaken city I chose to rob would be the one that some super evil corporation was housing its doomsday device, or that they would have left it so easily obtainable. It’s almost like they wanted there to be a zombie apocalypse.”

Dr. Malevolent’s dream beyond all dreams was to single-handedly drive civilization into anarchy. Then, she would rise up and claim herself overlord of this new dominion. Recently, however, due primarily to lots and lots of zombies, her dream had evolved into something else. Now, she only hoped that after the zombies ate their fill, they’d leave enough of civilization intact for her to have something to conquer. Then she would worry about deeming herself overlord, and with any luck, her minions would not try to eat her.

With the next step in their journey decided, the survivors embarked for The Bank, a bastion that sat but a few blocks away. The survivors unanimously decided that their best bet was to hoof it, a method of transportation that just so happened to be their only option thanks to the car-littered street. At the onset of the apocalypse, motorists just abandoned their vehicles in the middle of the road, while others tried to defend themselves from within. The flesh-eating vermin ate them all.

Clearing the streets would take more effort than any of the superheroes would be capable of managing; if only Captain Rescue remembered his hovercraft. Actually, a real superhero could clear the roads quite easily. In fact, a real superhero could just walk around and destroy legions of zombies by simply flicking them with his or her pinky.

“CHARLIE!” Boris yelled. He had suddenly become hysterical. “I forgot all about him, we have to save him! He’s still in the van!”

Dr. Malevolent began to twitch with rage. She closed her eyes, took a few deep breaths, rediscovered her Zen, and then let out a labored sigh. The super villain regretted not torching that damned costume the many times the opportunity presented itself in the past. She knew all too well of Cecil DeWitt’s unhealthy obsession with his alter ego, Charlie. Dr. Malevolent overlooked his eccentrics when they spent their time doing productive things like robbing banks and taking over worlds, but if that giant rabbit were to be the harbinger of their deaths, she would be less than thrilled.

Captain Rescue chuckled. “And who is Charlie?”

She spoke slowly, the anger seeping from her ears, “You’ll see.”

The big baby stomped his feet. “But… but… but, I’m impatient!”

“Excellent, this will be a good exercise in patience for you,” the super villain said with a smile.

Captain Rescue looked appalled. “What?! I don’t like to exercise!”

Dr. Malevolent poked his belly. “I can see that, but this isn’t that kind of exercise.”

He swatted her hand away and rubbed his stomach. “What other kind of exercise is there?”

“Shut up!” Boris bellowed with an abandoned Russian accent. “We have to go save him! We have to save Charlie!”

 “Go ahead. We’ll be right here waiting for you,” Dr. Malevolent said to her panicked sidekick.

“Sit tight, I’ll be right back,” his voice trailed off as he sprinted down the side of the police station.

“Whoa now, we can’t really let him do that on his own, what if he gets
eaten?
” Captain Rescue asked.

Dr. Malevolent glared at her right hand man as he ran off towards the getaway van. “Believe me when I say that a henchman with an identity crisis is a burden to all.”

Like a sports car slamming its breaks at a red light, Boris screeched to a halt just before reaching the corner of the police station. Once he balanced himself, he placed his hands on the edge and peered around. To no one’s surprise, the van had not gotten up and walked away during their time in the police station, but zombies now gravitated to it as ants gravitate to yummy morsels left on the ground. If all of these zombies suddenly decided they wanted to, they could have easily lifted the van and carried it off to their nest as a prize for their queen. Luckily, zombies were not as smart as ants, nor did their queen have an interest in getaway vans.

“All we have are these pistols,” the ever-astute Captain Rescue said as he pointed repeatedly at the undead and then to his puny little sidearm, which he had pried from the dead hands of a police officer on his way out. “I think we may need bigger guns.”

Freight gripped his shotgun tightly; he had no plans to let these cretins get their hands on his beloved—the only real weapon. Unless you consider Dr. Malevolent’s inanimate carbon rod a weapon. It wasn’t. If anyone could lead these rag-tag zombie slayers to an arsenal of weaponry, it would be Freight. He had been a cop in another life, which meant he knew where the police kept their boomsticks. Once inside, they could arm up with all sorts of cool gadgets. Where would one find this mythical depository? On the other side of this wall, of course.

“I HAVE A PLAN,” Freight roared.

Dr. Malevolent glanced around the corner, getting a good look at the zombies. “Oh lord, I can’t wait to see where this is going.”

Freight faced the wall, lifted his leg, and then kicked a hole through it. He pointed into the opening, and yelled, “GUNS!”

“Wow!” Captain Rescue cheered. “You have quite the kick!”

Dr. Malevolent knelt down and inspected the hole. “No he doesn’t, this wall is just made out of what appears to be cardboard.” She looked up at Freight. “You keep your plethora of dangerous weapons in a cardboard room?”

Freight shrugged. “I HAD NO IDEA! THEY DON’T LET ME IN HERE.”

“That’s understandable,” Dr. Malevolent said with a nod before looking towards Boris, who had not been paying attention to the conversation and had his head peaking around the corner. “Anything interesting over there?”

Boris glanced back at her. “Weird.”

She squinted. “What is it?”

“As soon as you asked that,” he began, “the zombies started to shuffle this way. It’s like they heard you.”

While, yes, the city might have spent very little on its walls, Freight could have burst through many a wall regardless of its composition. Freight shoved his arm into the hole and then yanked a section of the wall out, widening it enough room for the group to enter and arm themselves. The survivors piled into the armory and prepared themselves for their first real encounter with the smelly cadavers—a smell that grew increasingly rank as the horde streamed around the corner.

“GRAB YOURSELVES A GUN. GET READY, HERE THEY COME,” Freight roared.

Captain Rescue gazed at the wall of weapons. Normally, a superhero would never resort to using firearms; it violated everything they stood for, but hell, those were zombies. So Captain Rescue grabbed the largest assault rifle he could wrap his hands around, even if he had no idea how to operate it. With any luck, by the time the others finished this little battle, the hero would have figured out which button was the trigger. Dr. Malevolent and Boris both grabbed submachine guns and slid handguns underneath their belts just to look cool. With that, the battle began.

To put it mildly, the undead were walking, moaning sacks of meat with teeth. This profound lack of intelligence propelled three of them into the armory at once, and of course, they became stuck, clogging the entrance for the other zombies. Squished together, they snapped their teeth and clawed at the heroes. When this proved ineffective, they turned to each other and argued by means of gnawing. From the look of things, this traffic jam would be short lived; the wall had already begun to give way under the immense pressure of a billion mindless zombies trying to knock it down. The band of zombie hunters stood at the ready, guns pointed at the dam, awaiting its rupture.

As they stared at the mess of zombies clawing their way in, a realization suddenly occurred to everyone at the exact same moment in time: they were wasting ample zombie destruction time just waiting for the wall to cave in. Without dawdling any longer, the survivors opened fire, commencing unrestrained zombie slaughter. The bullet spray ate away at the dam, but it did not give in and flood them. Arms, legs, hands, feet, and heads all went flying through the air in every direction. The fire pierced the thin wall and even took out a few of the zombies that were minding their own business a few hundred feet away, an act sure to send all the zombie rights activists raging.

As the barrage of gunfire continued, bullet holes began to litter the wall. Then, like a game of connect the dots, cracks began to form between those tiny holes, creating an abstract work of art that would soon usher unto them the zombie apocalypse. Before long, the wall had endured all it could endure. Instead of collapsing, the wall simply disintegrated as the horde of cadavers came crashing through. Corpse after corpse piled at their feet as more zombies came barreling through this ruptured dam. Like a team of crack commandos, the survivors gunned down the vermin one by one, and before long, a mountain of dead zombies formed at their feet—geology at its finest.

An industrious zombie actually managed to make it out of the mess of cadavers, sights set on one of Dr. Malevolent’s lackeys. This poor guy threw his arms up in defense just as the creature crashed into him and clamped its jaws around his arm. The zombie tore at his flesh, leaving a sizeable wound in his forearm, through which the bone showed like the creamy filling of a strawberry pastry. The lackey shoved the zombie back into the pile of cadavers, where it blended in perfectly despite the chunk of flesh in its mouth. He then attempted to conceal what just transpired by cupping his hand over the wound and whistling nonchalantly. He gazed down and, between the ghastly sight and sheer blood loss, found himself quite dizzy. Of course, zombification was playing its part as well. He would have been in great pain if not from shock of it all. The zombie outbreak hadn’t even sunk in yet and already people had lost chunks of flesh to the mangy beasts.