even though it hadn’t said a word to him. At least when it was alive he could believe it had some purpose for being. What purpose could it possibly have now? He stopped occasionally to gaze up at the graying flesh, trying to remember if he’d seen this face before. Was this some kind of punishment for something he’d done? Was the head’s existence meant to be some kind of sign? He walked, it followed, its neck wreathed in clouds. At times the red carpet took him into the forests and hills along the coast but he could still see the head hanging there above the trees. It was in Oregon that the head began to smell. This attracted more than the usual number of gulls, who started snacking on the flesh. The sight disgusted Neethan. Meanwhile, he continued to pick up the occasional extra life and offed the odd zombie here and there. In the town of Tillamook he took on a pack of vampire/werewolf hybrids with a nail gun, dying a couple times in the process. No biggie.
When the carpet brought him to Cannon Beach, Neethan tumbled into a brew pub and ordered a pint of the local IPA. The bartender, a stout man with a head of curly gray hair who couldn’t stop polishing the bar with a rag, cocked his head toward the window. “That head out there belong to you?”
“You could say that,” Neethan said. “I don’t know why it’s following me. Don’t worry. I’ll soon be on my way, with the head behind me.”
“Causing quite a stench,” the bartender said.
“I’m really sorry. I would get rid of it if I could.”
The bartender stopped his polishing. “Say, wait—I recognize you. Don’t tell me—” He uttered a few names of movie stars before he got it right. “You were in that gladiator movie.”
“
“Right. Great death scene. So what brings you to Cannon Beach?”
“I’m following the red carpet hoping it leads to me to some answers about my heritage. Apparently I’m an Indian. What’s your name, by the way?”
“Axl Lautenschlager.”
“This your family business?
“It’s been in the Lautenschlagers going on five generations.”
“Since the FUS, then.”
“We survived three tsunamis and a plague of human-headed locusts.”
“Nuts, man. Nuts.”
“What do you think that head is up there for, anyway?”
Neethan shrugged. “When it was alive I kept trying to ask it, but it wouldn’t answer. Then it died and now it’s never going to tell me. But that doesn’t negate the fact that it’s still up there, blotting out the sun, rotting.”
“Eventually it’s going to just be a skull.”
“Yeah, I guess. Then the wind will erode it and a couple thousand years from now there won’t be anything up there at all.”
Axl cracked his neck. “But if it really does stay up there that long, centuries after your death, folks will still be debating why it appeared.”
“Not that I’m dying anytime soon. I’ve racked up 378 lives.”
“Must’ve exterminated a lot of zombies on your way up here.”
“You know it. What level am I on?”
“Forty-seventh.”
“How many levels are there to go?”
“I don’t know. Some say a hundred. Some say fifty. Hard to tell. I’ve never left the forty-seventh myself. No reason to. I have everything I need in this town. Great food, a well-stocked video store, spectacular views. Can I interest you in another IPA?”
“Why not.”
Axl Lautenschlager poured Neethan another pilsner glass of beer. Neethan slurped off the foam. He could stay here, too, he supposed. Buy a cabin on the beach, live off savings, learn a handicraft. Meet a local girl, have babies. He let the fantasy grow to encompass his whole stream of consciousness. For a while he sat idly sipping his drink, eyes glazed, speculating about a life parallel to this one. Neethan Jordan, school board member. Pillar of the community. Volunteer director of the local theater troupe.
A couple zombies ambled in and settled into a corner booth, putting an end to Neethan’s daydream.
“I guess I gotta terminate these mofos,” Neethan said, slapping down a twenty. “Keep the change.”
Some zombie kung-fu action went down.
It was badass.
ABBY
Abby sat in her bra and underwear, eyes open barely to slits, pupils sucking electrons off the screen, which was presently broadcasting a preview of the next episode of
Stella floated over an upended table. “Get up so I can finish you.”
“I need to see my son.”
Skinner pulled himself up, ducked to avoid an unidentified projectile, ripped the cash register off the counter, and slammed it repeatedly into Stella’s head. The machine popped open, gushing currency, as he obliterated the newman’s face. She twitched and screeched and sputtered electricity all over the floor. Skinner stuffed a donut into his mouth.
Somebody knocked on Abby’s door. Her eyes, with their bloodshot root systems of capillaries, pivoted to her right while the rest of her body remained frozen. She opened her mouth somewhat wider and raised a trembling hand to push her tongue back in, to maybe kick-start it into speech by manipulating it with her fingers, but all that came out was a wheeze. She hoped maybe they would go away. They knocked again. She rose, wobbly, skin bluish gray in televised light, feet shuffling through cardboard boxes of solidified pad thai and mayonnaise-smeared sandwich papers. Standing in front of the door, she willed her visitor to turn away and return to the elevator down the hall. But the knock came again. Okay, so she’d wait it out, stand here until they left. But standing here she instead found herself uncontrollably peeing, the hot urine running down her quivering leg, pooling on the hardwood, spreading into a puddle, the border of which soon crept under the door. Whoever was on the other side was sure to notice it. They knocked again. Abby willed her hand to the knob and pulled it open a few inches until the chain went taut. Through the crack she saw two children, both in costumes, standing patiently holding pillow cases.
“Trick or treat!” they said in unison.
One was dressed as a bat, the other as a lamb. Abby guessed the bat was a boy and the lamb was a girl but she couldn’t tell through their masks. Somehow she got her tongue to work but her voice sounded as ravaged as a tobacco company executive’s.
“I think I have some candy,” she said, then pushed the door closed, slid the chain, and let the door creak open. The two children stepped over the puddle of urine and followed her to the kitchen, where more cockroaches scampered politely out of the way.
“Trick or treat!” the kids said again.
Abby pushed objects around in the cupboards and came upon a tin of cookies. “I have these. Do you want these?” As she spoke, something stung her calf. She looked down to see the lamb pushing the plunger of a syringe. “Oh Jesuh—” she started, before all control of her body ceased. She collapsed on the floor landing on yogurt containers and potato chip bags. The bat grabbed her under the armpits and the lamb took her legs and with a collective grunt they carried her to the bedroom. They sure seemed stronger than your average trick-or-treaters. In the bedroom they pushed her up onto the unmade bed and climbed up after her. The bat, straddling her midriff, pulled off his mask to reveal a head far too large to belong to a child and eyes twice the size of typical human eyes, spaced far apart. Underneath the mask the bat looked like an unnaturally sophisticated embryo with the prelude of a mustache. The lamb removed her mask as well, revealing similar features, though her hair was blonde and in
