Zee Bee & Bee Page 4

  And waiting for the fig bars to come back around, it is just a matter of time before someone is dwelling on labels and stirring the pot of discord, as usual.

  “Then why are you, say, ‘Lumberjack Zombie?’” Baseball Zombie asks with his mouth disgustingly full, pointing through then over the Joshua Bush and sputtering around his mumblecore of masticated mush. “We’re always encouraging that word every day, you know?”

  “We don’t count, asshole,” Lumberjack Zombie scoffs. “And I’m Seattle Zombie now. Don’t forget it.”

  “And don’t let them see you guys kissing this time, Jack. Talk about breaking character.”

  “I ain’t Jack. Seattle Zombie, damn it! Recognize!”

  “Who was kissing?” I ask, heart wanting to pound, eyebrows way too interested in the answer.

  “Cigarette Zombie and one of the Bobbys,” someone mutters.

  “What’s wrong with that?” Cigarette Zombie laughs. “Zombies should want to smooch just as much as they’d want to find a catcher’s mitt. Come on, they’re actually fucking in Dead Alive.”

  “You mean Braindead?” someone corrects her.

  “Whatever.”

  “Hey, anybody been in the shed lately?” one of the Bobbys asks. “I think we got a Meth Zombie cooking back there. That’s all we need. We’ve been moving too fast as it is.”

  “No. Not whatever. That’s the original title.”

  “Whatever.”

  “I schooled your ass. Admit it.”

  “Yes,” admits Cigarette Zombie. “You have indeed taken me to Ass School.”

  Cigarette Zombie turns away, but Josh, the instigator, a kid who was, technically, supposed to be our Sushi Chef Zombie, until we started calling him the “Sour Towel Zombie” instead (because he smelled like a ripe bath towel at all times, as if he never heard of a dryer even before the Apocalypse hit), he plopped down next to me and kept inching closer and closer to my shoulders, up high around my neck, defensive as always. He was always way too into these debates, and surprisingly unfunny for a kid named “Josh.”

  “That’s right, baby,” he laughs. “You have definitely been taken where asses are regularly schooled.”

  “Dude, take a step back. Please,” I hiss. “They don’t make toothpaste strong enough for the undead.”

  I elbow him toward Cigarette Zombie, and she elbows him right back.

  “You know what Sour Towel Zombie reminds me of?” asks Cigarette Zombie, looking up from the brown parts of the apple she was eating around, “He’s like Night of the Living Bread.”

  “How’s that?” Sour Towel Zombie, a.k.a. Josh to his friends, a.k.a. Nobody to everyone else, sneers, ready to jump on any inaccuracies of the obscure parody of Zombie D.N.A.

  “Like the bread on the lawn, man! Every time we look away, he gets a little closer.”

  “Yeah, seriously,” I agree, then cough. “Back up, sucker. You’re in my bubble.”

  “You know what I never understood before?” Bobby still wants to talk about the suspicious equipment he saw in the shed. “Crystal Method. That band’s name? Crystal Method. Get it? I just got it.”

  Then somewhere around the bush, the conversation takes a dark turn.

  “Okay, sure, they may hope it’ll be like trying to deep throat an old, splintered baseball bat. But that’s just wishful thinking. It’s more like trying to inflate a decade-old New Year’s noisemaker by sucking instead of blowing.”

  “Corpse Blowing 101 again? Jesus Christ. When does the semester end?”

  “Hold up. Does it even count as a ‘deep throat’ if there’s a convenient exit wound?”

  “Those days are over. As we’ve been drying up, don’t tell me I’m the only one who noticed his balls are on the wrong side of things lately.”

  Laughter.

  “Whoa, what do you mean?”

  “You ever smack one of your Hot Wheels too hard and the wheels ended up near the windows?”

  “Que?”

  “That ain’t right.”

  “The wheels on the cock go ‘round and ‘round...”

  “Quiet!” snaps the other Bobby, and we hunch lower around the bush instinctively as Cigarette Zombie lights up, signaling the break is almost over. She’s smoking less and less as the world runs out of her beloved Camel Blues (what else?). I look around our circle.

  Besides the Plants, Jeff, Amy, and their daughter, or dog (and, of course, Mags and Davey Jones, who are supposed to burst into the house later tonight), there are about, what, a dozen of us these days? Yeah, that’s got to be right. I remember the number because of that carton of rotten eggs where Mags drew every one of our faces onto the yellow shells to remind us not to eat them. They’re good to fake some brains when they’re ripe enough.

  First there’s Jerry, a.k.a. Baseball Zombie, a.k.a. Somebody’s Little Brother, I think. That’s the only reason he got the job. Then there’s the kid with the unlikely name of We Ma, a.k.a. Cowboy Zombie, a.k.a. Wii “None” Ma, the result of filling out a driver’s license application and putting “none” in the space for a middle name, and the clerk mistaking it for just another crazy Asian appellation (to show her own cultural sensitivity, Mags once vetoed Davey Jones’ attempt to make him the cleaver-wielding Sushi Chef Zombie). Then there’s Lumberjack Zombie, a.k.a. Seattle Zombie, a.k.a. Zombie Two-Shirts, a.k.a. Steve? I don’t think I ever met that guy, actually, and probably couldn’t “recognize!” no matter how many times he said it, which was a lot. He’s been known to wear two shirts to try to look bigger, I heard. At least that’s the only possible explanation for a nickname like “Zombie Two-Shirts.” He was also called Sensible Shoes Zombie for awhile, when he found the perfect trainers and told us how he was shuffling “ever so comfortably.” Then there’s Matt, a.k.a. Security Guard Zombie, a.k.a. Rent-A-Cop Zombie. His title doesn’t really fit though, since he sports a huge beard like a surfboard hanging off his face that he could probably hide half a chicken in. We were still petitioning to make him Shoplifter Zombie instead (would have probably been “Sticky Fingers Zombie” if we didn’t all have sticky fingers) just so we could fire Glen, a.k.a. Midlife Crisis Zombie, who was currently balls-deep in exactly that. Then there are Michael and Rachel, a.k.a. Indian Zombie and Indian Zombie, respectively, one Native American with a feather behind his ear, one European with a dot on her forehead that sometimes doubles as a bullet hole. Michael loves his one characteristic, never showing emotion, claiming it suits him perfect as, supposedly, he has never shed a tear in his entire life. “And now, if you think about it,” he loves to tell us, “it’s way too late.” And Rachel, well, she doesn’t just stick to citing various Eastern religions. She’s also been known to ironically quote the Bible to us when the Camels aren’t in earshot. Matt, too, of course, in honor of his namesake, and they both always do it in a deep, movie narrator voice (but for some reason, he always bursts into scripture at precisely 8:22 Eastern Standard Time). And there’s Mark, a.k.a. Fast-Talking ‘50s Newspaper Man Zombie, (who never really fit in with us at all) who walked off the set one day and never came back. He said our plots were predictable, our jokes stale, our lifestyles as unhealthy as our metaphors, and he just didn’t have the stomach for it anymore.

  Then there’s Nate, a.k.a. Third Stage Zombie, a.k.a. Inevitable Head Torch Zombie. He’s the slippery, oily, decaying ghoul you’d always see towards the end of the film, the zombie that’s having a tough time putting one foot in front of the other. He’s one of those zombies who’s swimming in that limbo right before his muscles stop working entirely. Funny thing is, Nate used to walk awkwardly on the tips of his toes back when he was alive, back when we used to call him Obsessive Compulsive Zombie, a.k.a. The O.C.Z., when this game was all just speculation.

  Fucker came up with a killer drinking game though.

  But, yeah, his adopted role here is a no-brainer. We try not to look at him. He reminds us the game can end.

  And then there are the wild cards, sitting directly across from each other
, as always, our two Bobbys, Bobby Zelienople and Bobby Balldinger, a.k.a. Bobby Z and Bobby B. They aren’t zombies, not yet. At this point during the game, we aren’t even supposed to see them. They’re supposed to represent the military that always shows up in the third act to screw everything up and dash any hopes of rescue.

  But they can never get this right.

  They like to pretend they get bit right from the get-go, already got turned, always way too early. They want to be both, and neither, apparently. A proud tradition in most zombie films is that the military is never to be trusted under any circumstances, and they do relish that role. Too bad they never wait for their cue. Sometimes they play Army, sometimes Navy, sometimes Air Force. But their rivalry probably started when, right after we started making the big bucks, Mags brought them both Armed Forces football jerseys instead of just T-shirts so they’d be more visible at night. Then someone brought the Steelers helmet. Big mistake. Now their competition regularly comes to blows. Thank God no one brought a football.

  Tonight, however, neither Bobby wears a jersey. Just gray T’s. They claim they’re playing the roles of National Guard volunteers who are sick of their uniforms. Nobody bothers to argue. Rumor has it among the two higher-ups this is gonna be their last season if there are any more problems. And defecating in a football helmet probably sealed the deal, even though they tried to pin their recent behavior on some shocking news from the real world, the untimely motorcycle, train, Segway, hot-air balloon collision (and subsequent third decapitation) of their favorite Fantasy Football father figure, beloved number 7 but number 1 in their hearts, cereal endorser and serial rapist, Big Ben “Has Been” Roethlisberger, a.k.a. Hand-off Burger, a.k.a. Rapist Burger, a.k.a. Roethlisraper. But now and forever Headless Road Burger Zombie.

  Some say you can still see the motherfucker lurking around bathrooms.

  The Bobbys glare at each other, arms crossed, pinched mouths and smirks crawling like caterpillars around their faces. We all know it will be a long night for us, but they won’t disappoint anybody just tuning in. More about them later, I swear. Lots more.

  And Cigarette Zombie? I never got her name. And I can’t really remember when I first noticed she was stumbling alongside me as I sighed and kicked cans and probably pounded the house embarrassingly limp-wristed.

  And, finally, there is the “live” staff inside the house. Mags and Davey Jones, the long-suffering proprietors, our secret bosses, both buried so deep in the plot that they rarely come out at all. But we know who’s in charge. Ever hear the song “Maggie’s Farm”? Yep, she’s the brains behind Pa.

  And poor Jeff and Amy, our Plants in the basement. I don’t know who is playing Jeff and Amy’s daughter this time, whether it’s a scarecrow, a tackling dummy we borrowed from the 6th graders practice field, or a splintered cowboy silhouette we took off the neighbor’s barn and shaved down to toddler size. But I am hoping Amy doesn’t bring another dog. This is always a concern. Her and that fucking dog.

  One of the Bobbys is mocking me by clearing his throat when it’s obvious he doesn’t need to, so I try to distract him with a question that’s been on my mind lately.

  “Did either of you notice anything weird about that guy?”

  “Which guy?” asks Bobby B, never looking up from Bobby Z. We used to call Bobby B “Cloverfield” because of his freakish height and tendency to destroy any beer can or small village he was squeezing. But he was less effective attacking a house that you might guess, so the “Cloverfield” thing was dropped. No one could have anticipated this monster’s rivalry with Bobby Z, who carried at least a foot and 50 pounds less than him.

  “The Camel,” I whisper. “He was moving a little shaky, looking around too much. I don’t know.”

  “Well, maybe they’re getting more cynical, harder to snow,” Sour Towel Zombie offers. “We’ve got to be famous by now.”

  “Yeah, but...”

  “The Camels shouldn’t know too much if they want to play the game right,” Sour Towel Zombie interrupts. “But they shouldn’t know too little either.”

  “They need to be the porridge that’s just right, is what you’re saying,” Bobby B scoffs with the perfect level of disgust. He’s Rembrant in the art of the scoff.

  “Exactly!” Sour Towel Zombie actually holds up one finger. “With so many movies showing the usual pattern of behavior in a house under siege...”

  “I know, I know,” I say impatiently. “And this is why the puzzle pieces have to be juggled sometimes. I understand all this. But there was something about that guy that just...”

  “See,” Sour Towel Zombie goes on, “these movies are basically just home invasion stories. It is the house that is most important. The Camels could just run away, and it would all be over, the movie, the game, everything. But by protecting the house, any house, things escalate nicely. It’s the most natural thing in the world to protect a house. And that’s what we’re all doing every day, even by tearing it down...”

  “So, technically,” Cigarette Zombie jumps in. “The first zombie movie was that book about the two guys that kill a family for a silver dollar. If a book was a movie, of course.”

  “What?” asks Rachel, a.k.a. European Indian Zombie. “No, no, no. That was technically the first true-crime novel you’re thinking of.”

  “Bed and Breakfast at Tiffany’s?” Cigarette Zombie laughs. Clearly Rachel was in her house, her wheelhouse at least, by daring anyone to challenge her book knowledge.

  “No, I meant his other book.”

  “In Cold Blood, right?” Sour Towel Zombie laughs. “No, that was technically the first pop-up book. You open it up... Foomp! There’s the house. Turn the page...Foomp! There’s the basement where they killed the dad. Turn the page...Foomp! There’s the crime scene upstairs where they raped the daughter. Open up the little flap and…whoops, you tore the page. Good job, kid, you fucked up your book already. Children will love your Christmas present when they aren’t crying.”

  “The girl wasn’t raped,” Cigarette Zombie corrects. “That’s why she was shot.”

  “Lucky her,” European Indian Zombie mutters sarcastically.

  “Never mind,” I sigh.

  “Wait, if you think this Camel might potentially take things too far,” says Bobby B as he stands up, “maybe we should introduce the military presence a little early.”

  “Here we go...”

  “Yeah,” Bobby Z agrees. “Maybe you can shit in his lunchbox and give him a heart attack.”

  “Wait,” Bobby B laughs. “Did you just say ‘hard’ attack?”

  “No,” says Bobby Z, standing up, too, trying to be the one to signal our break is over. “You fuckin’ heard me.”

  “Sorry. I’m just trying to figure out what a ‘hard attack’ is and how I can make sure you don’t ever give me one. Faggot,” Bobby B says, smile slipping as Sour Towel Zombie steps between them.

  I don’t even know whose turn it is to shove our poor Sour Towel into the bush when he gets close enough, but, for some reason, I jump on the opportunity. I push him so hard, he almost flips over twice. I don’t even wait for a Bobby to get on all fours behind him, the usual drill, and I can tell both of them are a little disappointed. This shove is very uncharacteristic of me, and I cough nervously to let everyone know it. No one says anything, even though they’ve done their share of flipping that kid turtle-like into the bush at least three times each.

  But the worst moment comes when a disappointed Cigarette Zombie quietly helps a dour Sour Towel Zombie out of the broken branches and back to his feet.

  Then we all crack some knuckles and put on our game faces and start lumbering back toward the house. I’m the last one standing up straight as I think about what I did and who I did it for.

  SOMEONE IS SICK, coughing instead of moaning. Coughing for real. And Soul Towel Zombie is telling anyone who will listen about the movie Gates of Hell and how that poor actress had to swallow still-warm sheep entrails for the effect of vomiting up her en
tire intestinal tract. Cigarette Zombie stops coughing, then lights another cigarette off the orange nub of her last one before she drops it.

  “Now that’s a chain smoker,” Sour Towel Zombie laughs. “When you light one off one and they’re both yours? Time to quit! And why don’t you ever flick ‘em for dramatic effect?”

  I leave them crouched down next to the porch and navigate the gas meters and gutters. It’s my turn on scout duty, recon, psychological warfare. I scratch around the aluminum siding until I find a good window to peek inside. I can see the beautiful bed, the carefully made bed, the bed with the big, pink, fluffy comforter and someone’s shiny, new suitcase dead center in the middle of it. Then two Camels appear, the women, arms flailing away and gesturing to the bed, both apparently explaining why it should be hers. I snicker. They must have already located the other bed, the damp mattress in the corner of the unfinished family room (or “Tetanusville,” as Mags calls it, “Spiderville to the locals.”) One of the Camels eventually leaves, defeated, and the other walks to the bathroom and clicks on the light over the mirror. She checks the lines of her face, then places a sickly green Tupperware bowl of a squirming something on the edge of the tub to soak. I blink a few extra times as I realize what it is. Then the other Camel storms back in, still yelling, and I take off.

  When I come back down the Joshua Bush, everyone is shuffling in a circle, killing time between attacks, and Cigarette and Sour Towel Zombie are still arguing.

  “I’ve seen that movie!” Cigarette Zombie almost yells. “There’s way worse than that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like Beyond Re-Animator, zombie schlong vs. rat during the end credits. Or even your precious Braindead, uh, I mean, Dead Alive, where the dude’s rectum flops out and then runs amok around the house. Hell, it even tries to groom itself in a mirror at one point, like comb its gnarly little head with tiny bladders.”

  “Yeah, that scene’s okay,” Sour Towel Zombie has to admit. “But everything in that movie is overshadowed by the Greatest Moment Of All Time.”