Dead Living

What should I do today? The question came to me every single morning, however, I usually disregarded it. Morning wasn’t a time to think, and it always crept in on me. Funny how it did the same thing every day without ever having the decency to ask my permission. The routine had become somewhat procedural. I didn’t even need think of how much coffee I was putting in the pot. It just sort of happened, and the best thing to add to a hot cup of coffee was a little bit of Sailor Jerry’s Spiced Rum. Really pushed reality away for a while. My body took the cue from my brain and followed in its pursuit of laziness. I plopped on the couch, too far away from the remote, and too tired to pick it up. I stared at my reflection in the screen. 

Is that me? Each individual hair had its own agenda on this man’s head. Most of the ones in front had decided to retire and move down south. They met the hair on his face, now collaborating with his chest hair. Christ it was like a f*****g family reunion. A bunch of people who continually force themselves into my life, yet I neither want nor need them. 

Pathetic man on my television was surrounded by empty alcohol bottles, creating a city skyline of headaches. At least he had variety: tequila, wine, rum, more tequila, more rum. Never mind. The pathetic man was pathetic. He had made me so sick to look at, and it actually made me move from the couch. 

I looked for some type of pants to put on. Near the trash can was a pair of dust covered sweatpants that I threw on without thinking twice. While searching for a slightly clean shirt anywhere in vicinity, I noticed my poor hat slouching on top of my dresser. It didn’t sicken me like the man in the television, it deeply saddened me. What once was my favorite piece of clothing now lay in shatters, dirt covered, bleach spotted. I gave it a quick hit on my pants, though this could have made matters worse, and placed “Old Blue” in its rightful home, on my head.

I found the remote and started mindlessly flipping through channels. “Breaking News” banners flashed across every screen, but I didn’t care enough to stop. After four consecutive runs through each station I turned the TV off. Useless. I felt strange for some reason. A feeling I haven’t felt in years. The depressing image of Old Blue must have sparked something in me. For the first time in forever, I felt motivated.

The only thing that mattered that day was getting a new hat. Old Blue had been the best hat ever, and I wanted him to stay in my life, but he, like that pathetic man’s hair, needed to retire. It was time for something new. Before venturing out I needed to be sufficiently drunk to deal with all of those humans out there. Another spill or two of rum into the coffee would do the trick. 

Just getting to the kitchen was an obstacle for me. Forget the fact I had drank a little already, but the piles of books and papers scattered across the living room floor made every step a game of Jenga. I tiptoed carefully through them and took the rum down from the top of the refrigerator. This drink was a little different than the first. More of a cup of rum with a little spill of coffee in it. I sat and drank and stared at my nightmare of an apartment, but still reluctant to do anything about it.

At noon I was drunk enough to make for the mall, about three miles away. I covered my alcohol filled torso with my favorite, green and blue, though reeking of stale beer, flannel button-up. I was prepared to drive there, but to my dismay, cars were lined up in front of my apartment for what seemed like miles. I stepped onto the street and peered in either direction. The traffic reached infinity both ways. My motivation lingered away for a moment, but I caught it before it drifted too far away. Perhaps this jam was going to be a quick one. Optimism. I’m like a whole new person already. Wait until I get a new hat. 

Before I went back into my apartment, I decided to ask one of the drivers if they knew what the lineup was about. I approached the car directly in front of me. The man behind the wheel started automatically rolling down his window as I came closer. I couldn’t get out a word, gesture, or smile before he had to start and ruin the conversation simultaneously. 

“Ya know streets are for cars, not walkers, right?” He said to me in a snotty tone while sneering his nose. Thank god for the alcohol. I crouched over to be eye level. He appeared middle age and donned an opposite mohawk, though I don’t think it was by choice. To go along with his fashionable style, he wore huge glasses with brass rims and a goatee, which were both fully engulfed by massive obesity. It was a miracle that his small car could haul its driver anywhere without breaking. 

“Yes sir I do. However, I was coming to ask if you knew what this traffic was all about.”

“Well it beats me, sonny. I been sitting here for almost a half hour and nobody’s moved. Not even a nudge. I threw this old piece of junk (I couldn’t decipher if he was referring to himself, or the car) in park after five minutes. I’m just trying to get home to eat some lunch. I live right there!” He pointed at a house approximately 40 yards away. I wanted to ask him why he couldn't just walk, but my instincts told me to not impose that type of question on the man. Though, there is no doubt in my mind I could outrun him. Hell, maybe he is just stuck in his car. Anyway.

“Well that’s strange. And you haven't heard anything?” He looked at me with a face full of disgust and said:

“You been listening to a single f*****g word I just said, sonny? You deaf? Or just retarded? Get the f**k outta my face.” His grammar made me cringe.

I stared at him blankly not knowing exactly what emotion I should feel. Without a word said to that atrocious human being, I turned and headed back towards my apartment. Humans like him have always been a thorn in my side. How is it, that two humans cannot be civilized for a mere 2 minutes. Moreover, what if something really awful happened a few miles ahead, and this is why all of these people were stuck in never-ending traffic? He had absolutely zero care about anything that could have happened. All he cared about was getting home so he could eat his f*****g cheeseburger Hot Pocket.

Humans with no empathy disgust me. They can’t even hold the title as “people” because they don’t have the necessary qualifications. These “humans”, in the most basic, scientific use of the term possible, have no right or authority to engage in social interactions. In my opinion, they have no right to even breathe my air.

Liquor City was still at large when I re-entered my apartment. I grabbed the nearest bottle and took a big gulp. I needed something to rid my memory of the previous events. Tequila. The pathetic man had returned on my television. He reached for a remote control and pointed it directly at me. 

The “Breaking News” flashes finally convinced me to give in. I hated watching the news. Every time I turned it on some old liposuction-ed, face-lifted white lady was telling me how to lose fifteen pounds overnight. No details on how the rest of the country is in a free fall, but be sure you know how to make yourself appeal to others. However this time, it seemed something was actually important and worth having “news” about. I caught the report directly in the middle. A man in a tan-colored suit was interviewing another man in orange, hazardous material gear. 

“Do you have any more details on the situation?” Asked the tan suit man.

“Not just yet, Bill. We’re still trying to figure some things out. But for everyone’s safety, we are encouraging them to stay in their homes, lock their doors, lock their windows, close their blinds, and be ready with some type of weapon, just in case.” He looked directly at the camera with his blood shot eyes as he said this. I couldn’t tell if it was the liquor getting to my brain or if it was actually serious. I wondered if anybody in the traffic outside knew what was going on, or if they were too ingrained with their awful music choices killing off their brain cells one by one. The tan suit man closed the interview.

“Here that everyone? Wynn Jennings, CEO of Chemical Industries INC. has declared a potential ‘Zombie Outbreak’. We at News Room 2 implore all of you to be as careful as possible until further details are released.” I took Old Blue off and looked at him. I smiled. The news continued with the tan suit man.

“That’s all for us out here. A special thanks again to Wynn Jennings, I’m Bill Morgan, News Room 2. Sending it back to you Connie.” The screen switched to an elderly white woman whose face was so stretched back from plastic surgery it looked like it could split down the middle at any second. Her voice opposed her expression, as it was heavy and full.

“Thanks Bill, and thank you to Wynn Jennings. What a terrible thing to happen, we hope everything will turn out ok.” She rotated in her chair to meet a different camera, then began announcing:

“To counter that with some happier news, doctors say they have found a way to put a micro-chip in your child to find out exactly when they start having sex. Parents will be more relieved than ever.” I quickly changed the channel to another news station, also reporting on the zombie outbreak. This time a younger, Black man with a thick mustache and soothing voice reported.

“You’ve seen it in the movies, you’ve read it in books, now it is real life. Zombies. The undead are coming back to life.” A news reporter was actually saying these words. 

For others, they were probably worried about themselves first, but then they also had some worry for their friends and family. For me, I was just worried about the zombies. A sip of wine remained in my glass from the night before. I finished it and staggered into my bedroom where I crouched beneath my dresser, looking for the switch. Blindly patting the underside of it a few times, I hit the button. Gears began turning underneath my bed. It sank into the ground, flipped over, and rose back to sitting position. Before me laid a gallery of zombie disposal tools. Hammers, hunting knives, maces, spears, samurai swords, claymores, grenades, baseball bats with nails driven through them, axes, and most importantly, machetes. I retrieved my backpack, which had gone unused since my college days. There were still doodle filled, noteless notepads taking up the inside. They were disposed of and replaced with some of these tools. I grabbed an axe and a mace, jammed them through the water bottle holders on either side, ripping through the bottom. I filled the bigger pockets of the backpack with basic food items and two fifths of rum. 

After all of these years of preparing, not even knowing if it was really going to happen, it was here: the zombie apocalypse. A time for all people to come together in a common cause, because other things like extreme poverty and child hunger are not that serious. But when people are threatened with something that could actually hurt them, they unite against it. At least I hope so. Otherwise overall world hope is at absolute zero. I only wished Ray was here to be a part of it. It may sound rather ridiculous, but Ray is the reason for my preparedness. He dedicated years on getting ready for this event, just because he wanted to see what people can do when they fight against something together. No person can “team up” with a zombie. There can’t be any sort of coalition with them. He always used to say, “the only team a person can be on during the Z.A., is the people team.”

A knock came from the front door. 

I dropped my backpack by the dresser and closed the bedroom door behind me. Through the peephole was the fat man doing a mini Irish jig. His shirt had become so drenched with sweat it looked as though he were a cold water bottle going through condensation. He knocked again, harder this time. I replaced the chain and cracked the door so only a small portion of his face was visible. 

“Yes?” I said plainly.

“Yea, hi. We talked earlier about the traffic. Remember me?”

“Yes”

“I saw that you just lived right here, and I really have to go to the bathroom, would ya mind if I used yours?” He started fidgeting again. It looked more like a human sized water balloon that somebody just poked.

“Well what’s going to happen with your car?”

“We ain’t moved in over 45 minutes now, see, and I don’t think we’re gonna anytime soon.”

“Have you heard any news yet?”

“No. Please man, I really gotta go” He reached down and held his stomach. This could mean two things: either he wanted to defecate in my bathroom, or his over enlarged stomach fell right over his penis, not allowing him to touch it. Either way, I’ll be the better person here. I gave him a toothless smile.

“Sure” I said and unchained the door. He wobbled through the doorway, breathing heavily.

“It’s right through the kitchen, on your left” I said pointing him through the apartment. He peered at Liquor City and looked back over his shoulder. We caught eyes for the briefest of moments and he returned to his sloth like pace. Every step he took sounded like the final one the old apartment could endure. On his tirade through the living room he knocked over three stacks of books and a stack of papers, not even bothering to say “Sorry”, let alone help pick them all up. He managed to get through the kitchen and into the bathroom. I heard the door shut, then he yelled through it:

“Hey! Whatsa matter with this door!? It don’t lock!”

I yelled back, “No one else lives here, you don’t have to worry about it!”

“You sure?!”

I heard him take a deep breath and hesitate. This man couldn’t do anything in silence.

“Alright, well, don’t come in here!” The only thing he should have been worried about was that toilet seat crushing beneath him.

The backpack waited for me and I threw it on and strapped the front closed to relieve pressure off my back. I was already drunk enough, I didn’t need any more unbalanced weight throwing me off. I found a Rambo sized hunting knife and strapped it to my leg, underneath my dirty sweatpants - what do they smell like?. The television remained fully covered by zombie news, but fat man hadn’t taken any notice. I turned the volume up to the highest level, then strutted to the bathroom and knocked on the door.

“Yea?” Came a fatigued shout from inside.

“The television says there has been a zombie outbreak!” I acted frightfully back. “Yea, you got that thing so goddam loud I heard it in here!”

“What did you say?!”

“You got that…” I opened the door and gave him a toothless smile while patting my machete.

“Hey what the f**k you doin’?!” 

“Now see” I may have been slurring while I shouted my words, but I couldn’t tell. I was too drunk. “Most people would say that a ‘zombie’ is a human that has returned from the dead. They crave brains for breakfast and lunch and dinner and the only way a human can kill one is by decapitation. Sound about right, yes? Well that’s not my definition. My definition of a zombie sounds as follows.” I took a few ferocious steps towards him while reaching back as far as I could with the machete and swung down with everything I had.

“Aaaaaaaarrrrrgh!! What the f**k are you doing?!” He cried and screamed and writhed, but he was unable to move off of the toilet. His right arm lie in the bathtub, blood pursed out of the open wound where his shoulder used to be.

“A zombie!” I continued shouting to beat the volume blaring from the television,  “Is a human who is incapable of understanding what other humans are going through! Why, you may ask? Because they are balls of mass polluting the air and filling real people’s minds with the most asinine, idiotic thoughts and procedures ever. THEN! These humans expect people to help them wipe their a*s when they get their arms cut off. So here’s another f*****g wipe, you f*****g swine!!” The second hack took off half of his torso, and the fat that spilled out made the alcohol in my stomach swirl around and shoot straight up. I vomited on the severed arm in the bathtub.

My emotions died down. White walls had turned into an abstract painting. Strangely enough, I looked quite similar to the Pathetic man. My entire face was covered in the fat man’s red liquid. Old Blue was dirtier than before, if possible. I lost control.

“Look what you did to Old Blue!!” My hands shook viciously as I ripped the hat from my head and repeatedly slapped the fat mans lifeless face with it. I don’t know how it lasted, as I only stopped because my arm felt like it was going to fly off.

Everything came back in a whirl of motions. The part of the fat man’s body that remained on the toilet spun in counterclockwise ovals, and the floor became the ceiling from which I was hanging from. I closed my eyes in an attempt to calm the world from its behavior but it had its own agenda. My next thought was to get fresh air, away from the wretched stench of the fat and s**t and blood. The steps I took were slow, uncoordinated and uncontrollable. Legs which didn't feel attached to the rest of my body shook with their own seizures. I dropped to my knees, crawled out of the bathroom, into the kitchen, and rested against the refrigerator. My lungs wouldn’t take in a full breath. No oxygen was making it to my brain. After fighting for what seemed like hours, I gave in. Blackness. 

My eyes shot open and I stared around the room, securing where I was through my surroundings. I glanced up at the microwave clock, which read 2:14. It took me a few minutes to recollect what happened and why I was on the ground. I couldn’t remember if killing that fat man was in my dream, or in reality. Using the table and chair for aid, I returned to a standing position and stepped towards the bathroom. The smell came first, then I saw the mess. No dream. 

The machete was still death gripped in my other hand. I washed my face and glasses, then turned off the television. Before exiting my apartment for what I would assumed to be the last time, I took a deep breath. I stepped out onto the front porch and looked at the traffic in front of 

me. The line remained stalled. My journey had now begun, and I smiled a toothless smile.

“Time to find a new hat”