Trailer Park Zombies

To this day I’m still not sure if I actually wanted her body to be there or not.

It was. The light streamed in through her broken window and a breeze made the curtains billow inward. The blanket had been removed from her body and it lay in a pile on the floor. She was fully exposed to the world, her body still bent in the upright position she had died in. Her hand still clenched closed as if she had a bottle in it. I breathed a sigh of relief, thankful that she had neither been eaten or was up and about walking around.

I went forward and stood over her. For the first time since coming home Friday night and noticing that she was dead I felt a wave of sorrow touch my heart. I had a few memories of her being good to me when I was very small, before the drink had overtaken her. They were very few and very far between, but there were a couple there. I’d hated the woman most of my life but with all the trauma and tragedy of the last two days I felt like even she deserved a little better than this. I remembered mom buying me ice cream a time or two and a small, sad smile crossed my face.

My hand went out almost of its own volition and touched her forehead. I cupped it and rested my palm there, feeling her cold body and taking a moment of silence just for her. It was the least I could do for the woman who’d brought me into this world. The sorrow poured out of me through my hand into her and I could feel my heart breaking. Not for her, you understand. I don’t expect you to think I suddenly changed my mind about how I felt for her. But for the whole situation. For the whole of Rosie Acres. For all the death and destruction that lay squarely at my feet.

I closed my eyes and whispered to my mom, “I’m sorry you’re dead, mother. You deserve to have lived a good life.”

A rush of air passed through me and my skin contracted into goose bumps and every hair on my body stood on end. My nipples became hard as rocks. I felt a tear fall from my cheeks and splash onto her.

“I’m sorry, mom,” I said again. Then I turned to go.

I quickly left the trailer and went back outside. I so wanted this whole mess to be over.

The zombies were waiting for me.

24.

Mason Smith stood out there with his zombie army. It looked like all the zombies that were left were in the road before me. Their utter silence was eerie. There were at least a hundred zombies arrayed out there. None of them were moving or shuffling or twitching or making a single sound. All eyes were on myself and Mason, who stood a few feet in front of them. Only about half of them actually had eyes but I could still feel their gazes tearing at me. None of them shuffled or shambled forward for me. None held beseeching arms in my direction, hungering for my flesh and blood. None wanted to feed on me. It was weird.

I saw many, many familiar faces. Neighbors and friends and enemies. Most were horribly disfigured and missing chunks of flesh from their faces or necks or elsewhere on their bodies. A good number were actually naked and I shudder to think of the pieces they were missing. Gaping holes stood where flopping penises should have been and empty sacks of flesh hung below where even more sensitive parts should have. My stomach gave a great lurch and if I weren’t completely terrified I might have thrown up everything within me and passed out right then and there. I could feel every hurt and bite out there before me. Ever watch a guy wince when he sees someone else get kicked in the balls? Imagine what that guy would feel seeing another guy missing his equipment entirely.

Not pretty.

I looked through the crowd for Barrett, but I didn’t see him in there. Granted, he’d been so torn up that it was difficult to recognize him, anyway, and now I was staring at a crowd – a horde – of wet, glistening madness and open wounds. It kind of distracted the eye. But Mason… yet Mason… stood there before me with almost no wounds at all.

His head still cocked at that weird angle that made you immediately realize his neck was broken. His clothes and hands were covered in dried blood and his mouth was completely disgusting. There were bits of flayed skin hanging from his teeth and black blood coated everything. His mouth was opened at me in a semblance of a grin and I wanted to go over there and floss that crap out of his mouth. What did he want with me? Was this his final bit of revenge for killing him? His final little ha-ha moment to show me what horrors my acts had wrought? Screw him. Shit all over that.

I could feel anger and rage finally begin to overcome the fear and silence that was hanging over us.

“What do you want?” I spoke the words that broke the spell the dead had cast over me.

The zombies did not answer me, of course, but at this point I wouldn’t have been surprised if Mason could speak. His head cocked even more, if that were possible, and he took a shambling step toward me. I let him come. Maybe we could talk and I could put him to rest and this would all be over. Maybe if I killed him they would all fall to the ground. I desperately hoped so. It worked in Silver Bullet and The Lost Boys. How could Corey Haim be wrong?

In case you missed it, the Haimster was in both. The first was about werewolves and the second was vampires. Zombies weren’t so different, right?

It didn’t even occur to me to raise the shotgun until it was too late. Mason was acting so normal, so human that I didn’t even think that talking was not on his mind. But when he got within a couple steps of me his arms finally rose up toward me in that normal zombie fashion and reached for me. I cried out and panicked for a second, feeling my arm throb from the motion and dropping the shotgun in my effort to keep his hands from reaching me.

It fell with a clatter and I gripped his hands in my own. We did a weird zombie dance, but he just kept closing the distance between us. He hadn’t been dead long enough for his muscles to waste and rot away. They were still there and as strong as iron. No longer caring if he hurt himself by over-exertion he just keep pushing forward more and more trying to get me.

Our eyes were inches apart and I could smell his fetid breath. The rotted flesh hanging in his mouth made what little air wheezed out rancid and the whole thing wafted into my face with every push that he made. He wasn’t breathing, but something about the motions he was making pushed air through his lungs and made me want to gag.

The only sound during our silent struggle was the breath wheezing out of my throat. My arm was burning from the gunshot and my leg was beginning to burn from the nutshot Mason had given me Friday night. I didn’t think I had that much left in me with which to fight. My will was ebbing with my strength and I was even beginning to think that maybe being a zombie wouldn’t be all that bad. I could be with my friends and we could go around chomping on people. No more school. No more parents. No more anything. Just the hunger and the inexorable need