Get Zombie: 8-Book Set Read online

  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.

  “Oopsies,” she went.

  Jackson seized the moment and bit into her ear. She dropped him.

  “Baby,” she said, “why did you do that?”

  Another car drove up and hit her and sent her flying UP into a tree. I ran to Jackson and we embraced. The driver of the car got out.

  It was Clair.

  Her faced was covered in stitches. She ran to the tree and looked up.

  Pepper was gone.

  The man on the ground with missing fingers and a destroyed brain was dead, although his eyes fluttered nonstop. We heard sirens. The police were coming.

  How was I going to explain this?

  CLAIR

  Red and blue police lights filled the home. It felt like I was in a dance club. As the ambulances were filled with complaining nurses, Lt. Humuhumunukunukuapua'a asked us questions and wrote in his little, pink notebook. Embarrassed by his name, he wanted us to call him Lt. Humu, so we did. His radio went off, and he answered it. The woman on the other end was hysterical.

  Lt. Humu told her to calm d
own, then said, “Did you say a 100-year-old man just robbed a convenient store...with his bare hands?”

  “Yes!” said the woman on the other end. “Many of them are shouting “God” over and over again!”

  Many cops were around us – interrogating bleeding nurses and the few remaining old people. The cops looked very serious. All at once their radios came alive. Hell was going down. Total panic set in. The island of Oahu was getting screwed. The voices came yelling out from their radios. From what I could gather, the old people were going ape shit – breaking into stores, stealing buses and taking them on joy rides, destroying zoos and letting the animals run free, attacking surfers, basically just doing whatever they wanted. So that was enough for me. I got Janice and Jackson out of the home.

  I stuffed them into my car and zoomed off. I could've done without that Jackson fellow, though. I didn't trust him. How did I know he didn't take the Kilt pill? Driving through downtown Honolulu – where many tall, business buildings stood – was a confusing sight. The police were all over the place, tasering and throwing nets over all these quick, senior citizens. An old woman with a walker passed in front of our car. I hit the brakes. She growled like a crazed dog and attacked our car, hitting it with her walker. I stepped on the gas and HIT her, and she went tumbling over the car. Looking into the rear-view mirror, I saw her get right back up and throw her walker at us. The thing broke our rear window.

  My house was on a mountain, on Tantalus, overlooking the city. As we drove up, I clicked through the radio stations. No music played. Only talks on how the elderly were going crazy and trashing every-THING in sight, killing any-ONE that stood in their way. The radio DJ spoke in a serious tone.

  “Healthy people are taking the pills out of curiosity...” she said, “...and are spontaneously combusting.” She paused. “This just in. Oh, my Jesus, God, no. Children are simply exploding. A woman, who shall go unidentified, just witnessed an 8-year-old boy eat the pill, and he BLEW up.”