HIGH ADVENTURE AND LOW HUMOR: Waiting For Zachary

by

Al Bruno III

Ken Grady hated the drive to the Middleberg Assisted Living Facility. He hated the place itself even more. He hated the staff with their trained pleasantries, he hated the prefabricated buildings, and he hated the layout that made him feel like an unwanted guest at a second-rate country club.

Most of all, he hated the residents; so many of them had allowed age to turn them into the walking wounded. Some of them couldn’t even do that—they rolled to and fro in their wheelchairs and motorized carts. Ken was seventy-five years old, but he looked ten years younger. Plenty of folks asked him his secret—was it genetics or clean living? Was it diet or prayer?

His only answer was that staying young meant looking Father Time right in the eye and telling him to fuck off. That was something he did a lot these days.

The nurses heard him knock and buzzed him into building four, the tallest building at the facility. It looked half like a prison and half like a hospital, because that’s exactly what it was.

After another exchange of empty pleasantries with the staff, he made his way through the locked glass doors that served as checkpoints and entered room 814.

Jennifer was sitting in a chair by the window. The television blared nonsense, but she didn’t seem to notice or care.

“How are you feeling today?” Ken asked as he took a seat beside her.

His wife didn’t look at him when he spoke; she just kept staring at nothing. Her hands were clasped together, and her fingers moved with mindless precision, a lingering memory of the rosary she had used to count on Sunday mornings.

On the TV, some poorly dressed fool was winning cash and prizes. Ken sighed heavily.

Friends and family had told him this daily ritual was no longer necessary, that Jennifer would have wanted him to move on. But how could they know that? How could they know that when Alzheimer's had robbed her of the ability to speak?

Besides, Ken couldn’t abandon her—not after almost forty years of marriage, not after all the laughter, love, and the occasional spectacular argument.

Jennifer paused in her finger-counting, then started again.

As they’d grown older, they had spoken frankly about deathbeds and do-not-resuscitate orders. Somehow, what was happening now had never come up. Was that foolishness? Or hope? Ken supposed it was a bit of both.

Her illness had begun with forgotten names but had quickly progressed to lost hours and terrifying confusion. Ken had tried to care for her himself, but as more and more of her memory eroded, he was left with no choice but to entrust her care to professionals.

The day he had left her at the Middleberg Assisted Living Facility had been a terrible one. Jennifer had been lucid and spiteful. She had cursed, spat, and, worst of all, told him he had never been her first choice—that she should have waited for Zachary.

The name haunted Ken. He had tried to dismiss it as rambling, but every night as he lay alone in his too-empty bed, he turned it over and over in his mind.

Jennifer had a younger sister in Calgary, and after some consideration, he called her. It took some prying, but eventually, he learned everything. For decades, it had been Ken and Jennifer against the world, but before that, there had been Zachary. Jennifer had been little more than a teenager then, but she had been so very much in love. He was three years older and already on his way to making a life and a career. They would have been married after she graduated from high school, but the draft had robbed them of that dream. He had been declared missing in action.

She had promised she would wait, and she had been waiting for almost four years when Ken met her and fell in love. He had worked tirelessly to win her heart, but he had just thought she was playing hard to get. He had never suspected he was trying to get her to break that promise.

It had hurt to know there had been someone else—someone his wife had loved enough to spend a lifetime keeping a secret. Ken wondered how often she had allowed herself to think of her first love, if, in the best moments of their marriage, there had been a part of her that secretly mourned what might have been.

Ken didn’t think so, because through the good times and bad, he had always been able to make her smile.

He could still do it, even now.

“Hey…” He leaned forward in his seat and took her twitching hand in his. “…It’s Zachary.”

Slowly, Jennifer’s eyes brightened, and she broke into a grin.

FRESH OFF THE BUS FROM CREEPYTOWN: Living Dead Nerd

by

Al Bruno III

I can’t really blame what happened on some kind of horror movie outbreak or evil spell. I just woke up one morning and I was dead.

Dead. Totally dead but walking around, no pulse but a head still full of Star Trek trivia. Sixteen years old, and it looked like I wasn’t going to be getting any older. So weird. I’m still not sure what I am. Zombie? Vampire? Something worse? Has this ever happened to anyone else? Even Wikipedia couldn’t tell me. Maybe when I’m done here, I’ll make an entry.

My complexion had always been pale, and my parents never really listened to me, so the whole I can’t go to school because I’m only breathing out of habit excuse didn’t fly. I still had to shamble out and catch the bus.

The ride to Allen Palmer High School was the usual hell. Insults and blunt objects thrown at me no matter how close I sat to the bus driver. Metalhead stoners, the shop class rejects—they didn’t discriminate. That day was no different, but for once, none of it bugged me. I didn’t feel anger. I didn’t feel anything.

That just pissed them off more.

They kept at it, escalating. A textbook slammed into the back of my head. I turned around, expecting to see the usual grins, but they just stared at me. Silent. I wasn’t glaring on purpose. I thought I looked surprised—mostly because I was trying to figure out why in the hell one of those idiots had a calculus textbook. Whatever they saw in my face, it shut them up. They left me alone after that.

School was school. I went through the motions, but sophomore year is basically the middle film in a trilogy—just killing time until the ending.

I wasn’t sure what my ending was going to be now. Was I going to rot away? Fall apart? I didn’t know. I still don’t. But it doesn’t bug me much. When you’re already dead, what’s the worst that could happen?

The first week passed like nothing had changed. School, home, World of Warcraft.

No more bathroom breaks messing up my raids, so hey, silver lining.

Then came the hunger.

Not the normal kind. It wasn’t in my stomach. It was in my bones. A deep ache, like something inside me was starving, softening, getting weaker. Fish sticks and fries didn’t touch it. Nothing did.

But my neighborhood was full of cats—some of the stupidest, plumpest cats you’ve ever seen. Like those tiny chickens they serve at weddings.

The first time, I didn’t think. I just did it. Snapped its neck, teeth in before I even realized. It was warm. Blood-hot. My fingers stopped shaking. The hunger faded.

By the second week, things had changed. I smelled different, but nothing a bucket of Dad’s Hi Karate couldn’t hide. People treated me differently. Even when I smiled, something about me made them uneasy. I told my gym teacher I wasn’t playing dodgeball. I was going to the library. He just let me. Amazing.

My skin cleared up, but my grades didn’t. The jocks even stopped calling me ‘Timmy the Tard.’ Not that I cared anymore.

One guy still wanted to fight. Some seven-foot freshman who thought he had something to prove. He hit me. A few times. Didn’t hurt. I hit back. Once. He crumpled. Cried.

I got called to the principal’s office, but something in the way I stared at his carotid artery must’ve changed his mind about the whole responsibility and citizenship speech. He cut it short and suspended me for a week instead.

Mom hit the roof. Dad actually seemed kind of proud.

That night, one of the neighbor’s dogs went missing. I felt like celebrating.

Since I was suspended, Mom gave me punishment chores to keep me busy while she and Dad were at work. Fine by me. Physical activity kept me from just sitting around, and when you’re dead, that’s what you do. Sit. Stare. Stop thinking. Let things happen to you.

Let go and let God, my aunt used to say.

Not that God was something I worried about anymore. Sometimes, though, I wondered—what if Jesus was just a nerd like me? What if he was someone who kept swallowing abuse until he choked on it?

At least he got cool powers. All I got was a thousand-yard stare.

And then I got laid.

Seriously.

It was the girl across the street—Stephanie, but she wanted everyone to call her Serpentina. Expelled for setting fire to the tampon dispenser in the girls’ room. My kind of girl.

I was taking out the trash when she walked up, talking about how much she liked standing in the rain and how I sure had changed. That never happened before.

She invited me inside. One thing led to another. Next thing I knew, she was on top of me, showing me all the places she planned to get tattooed and pierced when she turned eighteen.

She was warm. I didn’t realize how cold I was until she pressed against me. I let her do the driving. She kissed me, moved my hands where she wanted them, and then guided me into her.

So warm.

And since we’re both guys here, let me tell you—I was doing the full-on zombie groan, if you know what I mean.

Bet you thought I was gonna kill her and eat her or something, right?

Come on. She’s crazy about me. And she wants me to meet her girlfriend—and the way she said girlfriend has me thinking. And you know what that means. And know what that means - I may be dead, but I’m not stupid.

Of course, all that exertion left me starving, and that’s where you come in, you big, broad-shouldered jock, you.

I knew you couldn’t resist the chance to follow me here, to ‘teach me a lesson’ after what I did to that mongoloid brother of yours.

The dogs and the cats went neck-first. But since you pulled down my shorts in gym class—

I’m starting with your guts.

Scream all you want.

No one’s gonna hear you.

Man, I always wanted to say that.

FRESH OFF THE BUS FROM CREEPYTOWN: Tourist Trap

by

Al Bruno III

The living dead shambled aimlessly down the street, their clothes and flesh in tatters. Heart pounding, I angled the van around them as best I could. Their slimy fingers flailed at the vehicle as it passed, leaving streaks across the metal.  

Niagara Falls had been a desperate hope—maybe there would be settlements on the Canadian side. Instead, abandoned cars clogged the roads, and shattered storefronts gaped like broken teeth. The Pancake House burned, grocery stores had been looted clean, and zombies milled inside a department store showroom, gnawing confusedly on half-clothed mannequins. Every few miles, I tried the CB radio, searching for any voice, any sign of help.  

Beside me, the passenger seat overflowed with ammo and weapons. Medical supplies and food were in the back with Lyta, who panted through each contraction. None of this had been planned—you have to understand that. None of it.  

Florida had been home once, but everyone had been heading north since the outbreak. The theory was that colder temperatures might slow the undead. Whether it was true or not, it seemed worth a shot.  

Lyta had been stranded on I-90 when I found her, her Volvo hopelessly clogged with zombie remains. They had begun swarming her car. Pulling over, I took out enough of them to give her time to run for my van.  

Over the last year, my aim had become deadly precise. When this all started, I hadn’t even known how to fire a gun. Guess all those hours playing DOOM had finally paid off.  

At first, I thought I’d drop her off at a settlement. When I asked where she was headed, she gave a simple answer.  

“North.”  

And just like that, we became traveling companions. It felt good to have someone to talk to again, someone to watch my back while foraging. She wasn’t stunning, but maybe she could have been, if not for something... sour about her looks. Still, she was good company, and in the back of the van, when we made love, she was eager and welcoming.  

That was then. Now, the gas gauge hovered at a quarter tank, and Lyta moaned in pain. Twenty hours of labor, and still no baby. If something didn’t change soon, she was going to die.  

Desperate, I tried the CB again. A settlement, a military base—anywhere with a doctor. Silence.  

I should have pulled out. Or worn a condom. But she’d told me she couldn’t have kids, something wrong with her ovaries. Something gynecological—I don’t remember exactly. But she got pregnant anyway. Figures. I’d never won a damn thing in my life before.  

Then an idea hit me. Ocean World was up ahead. The place had rides, animal exhibits—dolphins, killer whales. A place like that had to have first aid kits. Maybe several.  

Lyta gasped my name over and over as I pulled into the empty parking lot. We passed the skeletal remains of a bear, but otherwise, it was clear. Probably, the zombies had already eaten everything here months ago. They weren’t picky—I’d seen them devour anything from cows to kittens. Still, they seemed to prefer human flesh. Maybe we just tasted better.  

I parked as close to the main entrance as possible. Lyta was beyond walking now. Promising to find a cart, I made for the entrance, but she clutched at me, begging not to be left behind.  

Fifteen minutes. That’s how long it took to calm her down. Jesus. Fifteen minutes wasted.  

Locking her inside the van, I grabbed my rifle and handgun, stuffing extra ammo into my jeans pockets. Hopefully, I wouldn’t need it. But zombies were like cockroaches. They got everywhere.  

Ocean World must have been fun once. Now, the overgrown grass swallowed walkways, and rides creaked in the wind. A sign pointed toward the Visitor’s Aid Station—my destination.  

Most of the animals had died in their pens, likely of starvation. The bears hadn’t been so lucky; zombies had gotten to them first, stripping them to the bone.  

Movement near the "Snack Shack" caught my eye. Two zombies staggered in front of it, grotesquely bloated. I huddled against the aquarium building, considering whether to take them out. Gunfire might attract more. Instead, I decided to cut through the aquarium and take the long way around.  

The archway above read: Explore the Wonders of the Deep. Inside, darkness swallowed me whole.  

I’d forgotten the flashlight, but there was no turning back now. The stench of rotting fish filled the air. My fingers brushed against glass tanks slick with condensation and filth. The passage curved—was I going in circles?  

Then, the sound of wet, dragging footsteps.  

Something moved in the shadows.  

I called out. No answer. The figure lurched forward.  

I fired. The shot missed. The muzzle flash illuminated a zombie—an Ocean World tour guide, now a grotesque husk.  

The bullet shattered a fish tank. A torrent of water and dead barracudas slammed into the zombie, knocking it off balance. As it struggled to rise, I took another shot. It twitched once, then stilled.  

Slumping against the wall, I struggled to push down the exhaustion. There were times, before Lyta, when I had thought about ending it all. Held a gun under my chin, waiting for courage. It never came. The idea of oblivion scared me. The idea of something after this? That scared me more.  

But I couldn’t die now.  

The Visitor’s Aid Station was stocked. Bandages, antibiotics—wheelchairs.  

Grabbing one, I ran back. No detour through the aquarium this time. Two shots took down the zombies near the "Snack Shack."  

Lyta was hyperventilating when I reached her. A damp stain darkened the crotch of her sweatpants. Not blood. Not water. Something else.  

Not good.  

She kissed my hand, murmuring, “I didn’t think you’d come back. I love you.”  

I shushed her and started loading her into the wheelchair. Every movement sent pain slicing through her.  

Halfway to the Visitor’s Aid Station, something in the amphitheater caught my eye. A massive black-and-white shape floated in the murky water of the whale tank. Had that been there before?  

Zombies crawled across its bloated body like maggots.  

One tumbled over the edge, landing on the ground with a wet smack. Others followed, spilling out of the tank like a nightmare.  

Lyta screamed.  

Gripping the wheelchair, I ran. The station was just ahead.  

Then the wheel hit a crack in the pavement.  

The chair pitched forward. Lyta slammed onto the ground. The impact sent me sprawling.  

Zombies closed in.  

Three shots dropped as many, but the rest came on, relentless.  

Lyta struggled to rise, too swollen, too weak.  

“Save yourself!” she gasped. “Leave me!”  

Could I? Without her, I could outrun them. And she might not survive childbirth anyway.  

The settlements in the north called to me.  

Legs tensed.  

The squelching of undead footsteps filled the air.  

Then—  

With a roar, I hurled the wheelchair into the horde. It knocked several over, but the others pressed on.  

Somehow, I lifted her and ran.  

By the time I reached the station, every muscle burned. Lyta moaned, contractions wracking her body.  

Cold hands latched onto my neck, yanking me backward.  

I screamed.  

Lyta grabbed my pistol and fired over my shoulder. The hands loosened. She kept shooting.  

Hours later, barricaded inside, I watched her breastfeed our newborn child.  

The undead loomed outside. Our supplies dwindled. Escape seemed impossible.  

But for now, none of that mattered.  

For now, we were still alive.