It has been a long day. The money-job is still terrible, and my energy was off kilter. “Mercury is in retroglide, man” said Dusty from the LA Phil. “Plus, I’m pretty sure there is lead poisoning in the drinking water from buckshot or something. I saw some really skanky lookin’ road dudes coming over the Cahuenga Pass, even more strung out than the usual crowd.” I nodded sagely, which I do a lot. But my mind wasn’t on the Phil, or the weird street people, or even going to the park with The Boy this morning. I kept thinking about the Seminary being shut down. “To rebuild”, they keep claiming. But you and I know better, amigo. Someone probably got their hand caught in the cookie jar.
“Nonsense!” roared The Viking when we jawed last night about our alma mater’s doors being padlocked and I shared the above view. “Mr. E always covers his tracks! They could never catch Mr. E!” I reminded him that I wasn’t talking about his larceny, but rather the administrations. “Look, E. They were total bastards when we were students, why not even worse now? We were the last of the golden era, and the trust-fundies had to come in and piss all over everything we’d already pissed on,” I reminded him. “Nonsense!” screeched The Viking. “Mr. E never pissed anywhere but on the side of the Student Union! Hey, what is up with Mr. E’s wife being the only person you ever write about who doesn’t get a crazy title or nickname?” “She hates superlatives,” I reminded him as I hung up and went to bed, it was quite late.
And then came today. And now it is evening on the 13th, and the Wife and I are up on the roof. We’ve dragged the dedicated security monitor computer up with us, and we’re flipping around the different feeds, watching the carnage in the streets. “Bwahaha!” chortled the wife. “Moo-hoo-hoo-ha-ha!” I guffawed. “Let me in!” screeched Dr. Hands at the front gate. “I’m sooooooooo hungry!“. His hands were bound behind his back and his face had some sort of muzzle duct-taped to it. “He’s been like this since lunchtime,” said his roommate Professor Victory into the intercom. “Now please let us in! I’ll wire your keyboard to the ejector seat! The turbo button will make the words come out faster than you can think of them! I promise!”
I leaned back and let the wife refill my glass from the martini pitcher. Sometimes rioting and the end of the world is good for stocking the bar. “Should we let them in?” I asked the Wife who was taking potshots at the Mormons across the street. “Jesus, can you even tell if they have joined the enemy ranks?”
“No,” she said calmly reloading the Wetherby .380. “But if they raise a stink about it I can claim ignorance, what with the coming darkness and all that.”
I leaned over and patted her on the ass. “Did you ever read that Heinlein short story, the one I love so much?” I asked my wife. “No. But that never stops you from telling me the last paragraph every time you drink too much,” she snarled. She leaned the elegent hunting rifle down against the parapet and grabbed up a SOPMOD H&K MP5, slamming the bolt home. “Back on the clock, Flash. We’ve got incoming,” she grabbed onto the ladder leading back into The Compound inner keep and slid down. “I know where I come from, but where did all you zombies come from?” I quoted. I drained my glass, shrugged the load-bearing vest on and picked up the Benelli Super 90. I checked the chamber and grabbed the fast-rope, sliding down into the exterior yard.
Someone was struggling over the 13 foot outer wall, and falling into the yard. It looked like a tall scrawny man in a straight-jacket and muzzle. I keyed the mic on my shoulder: “Don’t turn on the pressure-mines, lover. I think our party-crashers are our friends.” My Montenegro-born bride said something unprintable, the cunt.
A long and shapeley leg came over the wall next, followed by two-more attached to Baby-J, Dr. Hands’ chauffeur and minder. The severed leg hit the ground with a thump. “He was already eating it, it’s not like I killed the bitch for him” she said, watching me laugh. Professor Victory came next and started huffing towards me. “Quick! We need to be inside! With guns! Lots of guns!” Suddenly there was a blur and something whipped out of the underbrush and grabbed onto his calf, knocking him onto his face. “Jesus! It has me! Save me! I’m too pretty to die like this!” Baby-J strode over and kicked the Professor in the small of the back. “Stop whining, it’s only The Attack Boy, he’s just marking you as his territory.” She gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. “Thanks, Reverend. It’s pretty crazy out there. We had to climb over your wall using a precarious stairway of empty beer kegs, don’t worry, we knocked it down. I don’t think the Hordes are smart enough to reproduce it.”
I walked over to my physician, who was writing in straightjacket and muzzle. “Has he bitten either of you?” I asked his lover and his roommate. “No,” “Not recently,” came the replies. The Boy had pissed on Victory’s shoe and crept back into the bushes, growling softly. I wrestled my oldest living friend, now my oldest living dead friend, into the containment cell my Wife locks me in when the DTs get bad.
“Is there a cure?” wept Baby-J, her hard-exterior melting as she was plied with a tall glass of tequila. “Who cares? As long as he still has Hands That Can Heal,” my Wife snarled. “All I know is, I’m not paying his half of the rent,” said Victory, winning my esteem by pouring a glass of whiskey from a bottle he brought with him and handing me the bottle. Just then, a Helicopter landed on the roof. A name was printed across the door: Deus-X M.A.C.H. 13.
“These are the birth-pains” I murmurred to myself. “and no flesh shall be spared.”
“Ruh!” grunted Dr. Israel Hands from inside the isolation chamber.
“Nonsense!” shrieked a diminutive Viking, exiting the Blackhawk. “We heard that a Zombie Apocalypse was breaking out in Angel City and had to be here! Party at Ground Zero!” Mr. E and his wife climbed down from the landing pad on the roof of The Compound. “I bring supplies from Zabar and Dean & DeLuca!” shouted his super(lativeless)b bride.
“You have less money than we,” began my Wife. “Angelenos!” laughed Mr. E heartily. “They think they invented looting!”
Ho-ho-ho! How we all laughed! Even the Boy charged from the underbrush to laugh. We all lifted a glass, and were about to toast Miss Twist and those others from the Honor Roster who could not be with us at the time… when a shambling creature emerged from the patio doors, the ones leading into the wet-bar and billiard room. An even dozen weapons were pointed at the Zombie as it roared towards Nova. Then the monster stopped, and its rictus grin was replaced by a more natural one, as we watched the Zombie’s face seemed to change back into that of…
“The Trained Actor!” we all exclaimed. “Yes, it is I!” ejaculated the same in a booming stage-voice. “The Trained Actor! I come bringing homebrew, and we shall all sit out the Apocalypse in style!” And there was much rejoicing. “how does he always sound like he’s exclaiming?” asked Nova quietly. I shook my head: there is too much that I don’t know.
Ah yes, it’s true. I know where I come from. But where did all you zombies come from?