Get Kilt: A Zombie Pill Read online

  CLAIR ALTAIR

  Some nurse called me, and when I found out what Fred did to our mother – where he put her – I took a swing at him...got him right on the nose. I was gonna get my mom out of that hell hole. She was coming home with me...to the hills. Fred called me stupid and then he called me a masochist, which I don't think is even the right word to use, but I see where he was going with it. For some reason, the crotch area of Fred's pants was always messy. He said with my mom home we'd have no time to live our lives. I punched his face and sent him crashing into a glass table. Whatever. He could handle it. Mr. Athlete...he could handle a little glass in his mouth. I didn't look as he cried his way out of my house. I had no problem making my mom my responsibility. It was fair. It was my duty to take care of her. She gave birth to me. She deserved to be pampered. Besides...I was a single woman with no kid. Until then, my mom would be good practice, what with the diaper changing and all. As you can tell, I had no idea what it took to take care of an elderly person. But I'd damn try my best to take care of my own MOTHER. (I'm looking at you, Fred.)

  When I got to the home, the place was electric with energy. I got out my briefcase and scanned the area. Old people were laughing and excited and hugging their kids. Almost everyone had presents. Mom was in her room, in bed with some old guy. He jumped up with the blanket tied around his waist, excused himself, and ran out. Before my mom could say anything, I was at her drawer, stuffing the briefcase I brought. She didn't want to leave. She wanted to stay with her new man...this Mr. Jackson.

  “Just gimme Kilt, and leave me. I'll be all right.”

  I didn't understand.

  “What's a kilt?”

  “It's an...energy pill,” Mom said.

  She couldn't even look at me. I was disgusted. I complained about how she was supposed to be a health guru, but she just rolled her eyes and nodded her head and went, “Yeah, yeah”. It didn't matter. I was taking her home where she'd be happy and safe, and I didn't care what she said. It was for her own good, you understand? I was too late. She grew attached to the place too SOON. I'd have to drag her away kicking and biting. All for her own good. These so-called “homes” were dangerous. I saw all those programs – all those undercover programs about the dreaded, disgusting things nurses did to the elderly. I shivered as I threw Mom's socks into the briefcase. She crossed her arms and threw her head back into her pillow and refused to leave.

  I told her Jackson could visit, but that wasn't the problem.

  Mom thought we didn't care about her. I was hurt. Fred didn't care, sure, but I DID. She didn't believe me. She just kept her arms crossed and stared forward...crying. I grabbed her and tried to pull her out of bed, but she started screaming into my ear bloody murder. That Jackson guy rushed in with a baseball bat and SMASHED a lamp. That got my attention. I let Mom go and threw my hands up in surrender. Mom ran to her man and hugged him. Jackson pointed the bat at me, keeping me away.

  “We think you better leave,” he said.

  I begged Mom to listen to me. I told her that home – her real home – was with me. She just shook her head. “Like you care,” she said. “Go home. Leave. And tell Fred thanks for dumping me here.”

  I remember driving away, and saying, “She's lost it. Her mind is gone. Mom is gone. Her brain has gone to mush.”

  There was nothing I could've done. If I tried anything, that bat would've found the side of my skull. It was all Fred's fault. That idiot. He screwed us both. There was no getting my mom back now. Not in any way I could think of. But she seemed happy, didn't she? And wasn't that all that mattered? But what about MY happiness? Don't I matter, too? How about what I wanted? Each mile I got closer to home, the stronger the loneliness got. I was sick of that house. Too empty. Too alone. I missed my mom. Needed my mom.

  I loved my mom.

  Halfway home and halfway up the mountain, I hit the brakes.

  “NO.”

  I reversed.

  I was going back and getting Mom. I was going to do it, and NO ONE was going to stop me. Power of positive thinking, right? I turned around and drove down the hill. I could feel – really FEEL – all that loneliness in my house whine. Those shadows.... They were expecting to torture me – had their sights on it – couldn't wait! They fed on my pain, my bad memories, my evil, depressing thoughts.

  Something ran in front of my car.

  I turned the wheel too far and hit a tree.

  The airbag didn't go off.

  Blood over my eyes, I looked up and saw, through the cracked windshield, an old man on the hood of the car. He was grinning with these wiiiide eyes. It was almost like he wanted to say something. I knew that old man. It was Mr. Berverty that lived a little ways down from me. Now there he was, squatting on the hood of my car and as nude as the Lord made him, his thing covered by a gray bush, his man-boobs sagging long and draped over his knees. My eyes didn't want to stay open. I wanted sleep. Mr. Berverty wouldn't have that. He rammed his head at the windshield, then punched it, then kicked it. I tried to open the door, but my hand died and fell off the handle. I was moaning. I felt retarded.

  I need sleep. I'll deal with this later. I'm so tired. Wake me in the morning.

  Car lights got Mr. Berverty's attention. He hissed at me and jumped a BIG jump into the trees.

  I blacked out.

  FRED

  I was making love to my lady when the doctor called and told me about Clair's accident. I tried my best to sound concerned. It's hard to talk when you have a hard-on. I remember saying, “Oh, dear,” and, “Oh, my,” a lot.

  I said, “Yes, doctor, I'll be right down,” and hung up and went back to my lovemaking.

  “Who was that?” my lady asked.

  “Nothing. My sister's in the hospital.”

  “Shouldn't you go see her?”

  “Do you see what she did to my face?”

  “She did that? I thought you said you feel down some stairs.”

  “I lied. I was too embarrassed. Forgive me?”

  I tried to go on with the show, but she pushed me back some.

  “I don't feel right about this. Your sister's on my brain. I can see her all bandaged up and looking all sad-eyed at me.”

  I exhaled depressingly and rolled off her.

  “Do you see what she did to my damn face? Let her suffer a bit. It's the only way she'll learn. She doesn't care about me anyway, so I don't care about her. All of them. My whole family is messed up in the head. They're so selfish. They never consider what I want.”

  I really didn't mean any of what I was saying. I mean, I DID...but I was just doing it at the time to get some sympathy from my lady friend. I was still feeling frisky, you understand. And it worked! She hugged me and told me that she'd take care of me and would do anything for me because she loved me.

  We made babies that night. I didn't care. It felt good. Yes, abortions were expensive, but I had money. I was a damn good athlete, remember? I could handle it. And what if she (whatever her name was) didn't want the abortion? Well...I'd figure something out later. I was living in the moment. And that exact moment felt reeeeal good. Every minute or so Clair would jump into my mind mid-sex and try to ruin it for me. No big deal. I kicked her away and locked her in a giant vault. Problem solved. What worked on my mom, worked on her. I was the master of my mind. I had it all figured out. I was unstoppable. I could get whatever I wanted...do whatever I wanted...whoever I wanted, haha.

  This was life. This was freedom.

  It was good to be young.

  This was living.

  JANICE

  When the sun rose, the home was almost empty. I walked down the hallways, hearing nothing but my slippers slapping on the floor. Some of the old people I saw from time to time sat on the ground with their legs crossed and their eyes closed and their hands held up in what I thought was prayer. These people were scattered about the place – but very few of them; just 5 or 6. That damn clown still came by. After he did his act and left, Jackson told me that I had
better come over to where he was and watch the news. Jackson was glued to the screen. He was pale...shocked. I held his hand and looked up at the TV.

  A wave of exhilaration had taken over Oahu. Something big had happened...something amazing...jaw-dropping. The news anchor called it “The age of the new-old people,” and another called it, jokingly, “Attack of The Old People”. Much laughter in the news room followed.

  Then they were all serious again. The anchorwoman, a Kesha Tuyioy, spoke to the camera.

  “We now go to field reporter Camel Stroja who has come face-to-face with one of these energetic, quote unquote “old” people. Camel?”

  The scene changed to a football field. Old people ran around – the men shirtless, the woman wearing bras. Men in their 20's and 30's played with the elderly. Camel Stroja had her finger in her ear and a microphone in hand. She looked to the camera, nodded, then smiled real big-like.

  “Yes! Hello, Kesha, I'm here at Farrington football field where many of these youthful – full of life – quote unquote “old” people are playing the dangerous sport of rugby. So dangerous, in fact, that their kids are at the sidelines, begging them to stop this foolishness. I have with me one of the rugby players, Mr. Botrew.”

  “Hello!” the old man said.

  Camel was taken back by his booming, baritone voice.

  “Mr. Botrew...”

  “Please, call me Electric. Mister Botrew sounds so old.”

  “Alright, Electric,” Camel said. “Are you at all exhausted, Electric, from playing this dangerous sport?”

  The old man rolled his eyes.

  “We don't know what the big deal is,” he said. “It doesn't hurt! We hit so soft.”

  Behind them, two old rugby players collided. One of them cartwheeled through the air and landed on his head. The old man got up and did a little dance for the camera, signaling that all was fine and dandy. Camel nodded.

  “Well, as you can plainly see, Kesha, all is fine and dandy.”

  A young man ran up beside her. He was husky, breathless, beaten up, and bleeding from the face.

  “Help!” he said.

  Camel shoved the mic into his face.

  “What happened to you?”

  The man had trouble breathing.

  “They're maniacs!” he said. “They won't stop playing! They're trying to kill us! Help! They won't let us leave!”

  The old man rolled his eyes.

  “Blah blah blah. A grown-ass man like you can't take a little hit? How embarrassing. And you call yourself a man? Gadzooks.”

  A fight between young and old breaks out on the field.

  The young people were beaten and smashed and bloodied and destroyed – bodies flung all over the place – tossed around like rag dolls – right into the stands. Much screaming; much begging. Total confusion. An old lady dressed like a referee blew a whistle.

  “I didn't say you old geezers could stop playing! Game on! Hahahawww!”

  The elderly put their hands on their hips and laughed and laughed and continued playing, kicking bodies – BODIES – around as if they were footballs. They never stopped smiling. It was eerie. One boy was hit so hard in a tackle, his head flew off and WALLOPED Camel upside her head.

  She ran off.

  “Jezus!” she cried. “Jeeeeeezzzzuussssss!”

  The camera man ran around, not knowing what to do next. Kesha demanded he stand his ground and film the scene if he wanted to keep his job. So he did.

  Police cars and an ambulance arrived.

  One man, Rammer Koblor, got internal bleeding and was whisked off on a gurney. The old people shrugged, and said, “When in Rome!” They giggled, hi-fived each other, and ran back to their rugby game. The police officers were too scared (and confused) to do anything. All twenty of them radioed headquarters for advisement on the weird situation.

  Jackson's mouth was wide open.

  “What in God's name...”

  He changed the channel.

  An old man pulled a bus with his teeth. His hands were tied behind his back, and he was foaming at the mouth. Dogs were following him around.

  On another channel, old people ran out of a hospital, cheering and spitting on people. Some of the elderly did cartwheels all the way down the street, disappearing into the sunset.

  On another channel, a family was on a talk show with their great grandmother.

  “All they do is sit around going to work and school all the time,” she said. “They're boring.”

  The audience booed her. She gave them the finger and got up and ran through a wall.

  People cheered.

  On another channel, old people ran into traffic and dodged vehicles with great skill – just for the fun of it. Another channel found some of the energetic elderly on Ala Moana beach, standing around with blindfolds on and getting, willingly, kicked in the face by youthful soccer players. An old man was behind a donkey and leaning forward. His friend slapped the donkey's ass and the beast back-kicked the old man in the face. I shrieked and looked away.

  The old man laughed, and yelled, “Is that all you got? I feel nothiiiiiiiiiiing!” Two more donkeys surrounded him and all three back-kicked him all over his body. I imagined he enjoyed it. Beachcombers watched, mortified. Many asked, “Why? Why are they doing that? WHY?” Kids wept. Babies refused to look. Japanese tourists snapped pictures. Some said, “Nani? Nani?” Which translates to “What? What?”

  On Tunes TV, a rock band made of old people played a live performance outside Hawaii's State Capital. They jumped in the mosh pit and punched and kicked the hell out of the kids AND security guards. Parents were outraged. The elderly gave the Rock & Roll Devil sign and flicked their tongues. TTV apologized and went off the air.

  Jackson went back to the news channel focusing on the rugby situation. The cops were chasing after the old people. One of them, an elderly woman named Shanesa Tamahawa, was hauled off into a police car for the death of rugby player Rammer Koblor. She was heard screaming, “He ain't no rugger! If you can't take the heat, make like a tree and get the hell out! Stupid weakling!”

  Kesha shook her head.

  “These people are out of control! The elderly have now gone super,” she said. “They are super, and they are elderly. They are the supelderly. God, help us all.”

  Jackson clicked by every channel, but it was all the same: The supelderly on every station popped pills constantly. All white and red pills. All Kilt. What disturbed me most were their chests. I could see their hearts beating under their shirts.

  That wasn't normal, I don't care how crazy your ass is.

  What was happening?

  SUPELDERLY #824

  I wanna run. I love this. I'm so alive! I can't stop thinking. My heart hurts. I want to do jumping jacks. Is that a bird? It is! I wonder what it tastes like. I'm eating this bird and I must say, not bad, not bad. Now what? Now what do I feel like doing? I can do anything? Now what to do? Ah, I know. I'll pick a fight with those gangsters in that dark ally. I'm running to them. These fine fellows should provide some excellent, stimulating play time. They're looking at me in a weird way. Some of them are digging into my pockets. Let's PLAY! I just ripped off some arms. Some of these gents are crying. Aww, how pathetic. How weak. How boring. I wonder what this arm tastes like. Mmm! Filling! AND I feel sooo...invigorated! Yaaaa-hooooo! Oh, lookie...a bus full of nuns.

  I'm so happy I could shit.

  JANICE

  We were in the middle of french-kissing and talking about somehow having kids when the tire crashed through the window. Pepper literally dove into the room, rolled, and jumped up with her hands on her hips. She was dressed like Tarzan. Jackson held me. His eyes locked on Pepper's. She jumped on him and grabbed at him. I yelled out and punched her on the head, repeatedly, but to no desired effect. She elbowed me in the chest, and I rolled off the bed, landing hard on my back. When I got up, they struggled with each other into the hallway. Pepper looked like she was trying to kiss him. She smiled and puckered her lips,
blowing him kisses. Jackson's face was always turned away, his hand keeping her face back.

  Pepper kicked him in the knees, and he fell forward – to my horror, my disgust – onto her lips. Pepper grabbed his head and gave him tongue. She made slobbering sounds, and she looked at me as she kissed Jackson. When she pulled away, a thick, glistening thread of spit connected their mouths. A white hot rage blew up in my chest, and I imagined, in that split second, ripping her heart out and burning it and shitting on it and covering it in salt and shoving it down her throat. I'd laugh the whole time.

  Pepper licked Jackson's face and threw her head back and howled like a wolf.

  “Hot damn!” she said. “Let's go back to my place, baby!”

  She ran away with him. Her speed was amazing. I gave chase. The lights all over the place were flickering. I was disoriented. It felt like I was in a rat maze. I followed Jackson's screaming into another hallway. The place looked like Hell. People were screaming all around me.

  I ran by nurses that were wiggling on the floor like snakes with their tails cut off. Many of the nurses were missing hands for some reason. The walls were bloody. Pepper had written, in blood, “Janice! You Whore!” I was offended. All that blood – all that stinging odor of blood, of rusty pennies – made me vomit in my throat a little. A male nurse with no feet grabbed my ankle. He begged for help. I was speechless, and horrified. Against my better judgment, I kicked him in the face, and I ran off screaming with my arms waving in the air.

  “Jackson! Jackson! Jackson! Where are you?”

  “Pepper's room!” he said.

  Glass breaking. A wave of inspiration shot through me. My legs were lighter. I impressed myself by jumping over body after body. The floor of Pepper's room was covered in a queer liquid. The stench was terrible. A giant, black pot of some kind was on the ground, on its side, steaming. Jackson's scream again. I ran to the busted window. Pepper ran through the night with Jackson over her shoulder. She jumped over an unimpressed cat. I yelled at her something I don't remember and climbed out the window and ran after them. I was exhausted. My chest and the left side of my waist hurt. Pepper made for the street. A car almost ran over them. It squealed to a stop and honked. The driver got out – this real mountain of a man – and shoved a shaking fist in front of her face. He was cursing in what sounded like Swahili. Pepper flicked her head forward and bit the man's fingers off. At first he was just rather surprised, but then he started yelling and praying on his knees. Pepper laughed and laughed and then giggled little teehee's and kicked the man right in the mouth – with her foot bursting clear through to the other side. The man's brains blew out right quick and all his red tinted the headlights. Pepper grinned and put her hand to her mouth.