Let me tell you something about our visitor. Zombies rarely survive more than four hundred years. They're not like vampires. There's little real magic involved. Such beings are not paranormal. They're just special. But a few are extra special and Uther aus Ulm is one of those. In case you don't know, his name is pronounced OO-ther and tonight's title means - The 800 Year Old Flesh (actually 'meat' but, you know) Eater, Uther from Ulm. He's legendary among zombies. Not those cheap models who shamble around and fall apart. Uther belongs to a somewhat higher caste (as does Ralphie and Ezekiel and all them). His kind regenerates. Rotted flesh, gristle and extremities quickly fill in and grow back.
Scientists who've studied the phenomenon believe a certain microscopic nematode acquired along with other dirty- little-soil-cooties (their taxonic term) combine to form a heady cocktail transforming most surviving premature burial victims into, well... 'zombies.' .... And now he's here... Uther, I mean. Actually, he's more than eight hundred years old. That's when the 'zombie' thing started, way back in the year 1214.... before the Magna Carta... before the travels of Marco Polo, who was not the first to visit exotic realms. He just got good press.
Meant to be a squire he was. Promised to a lesser, though rich nobleman down the river, toward Bavaria. Ritter this, or Ritter that. What difference does it make? But he ran away, Uther, I mean, to join the monks. For he craved knowledge more than battle. Though after acquiring enough of that was not adverse to a bit of empire building of his own. They had to pay recompense to the Ritter and give him another son. Uther's family, I mean. The younger boy grew to be an acceptable, if uninspired knight and did manage to carve out holdings near Sant Jean d'Acre toward Galilee during some Crusade or another. Jewelbox of a castle they had. Done up in the latest Levantine manner... mosaics, fountains, central atriums.... Rather like the commodious villas of the House ben Macabi (the vampire Jonathon's people) in Al Andalus. But that's another story.
The monks taught Uther geography and theology. But he cared more for mercantile practice than devine. And soon, with the help of a cabochon sapphire or two given him by a young prioress (who was also an heiress) in return for evening dalliances, he invested in a ship bound for England and the fabled fleece (wool) markets of the place. Not only did he back the enterprise. He sailed with it too. And on a fine April day in the sixteenth year of the life of Frederick the Second, son of Barbarossa and claimant to what was still just unofficially known as The Holy Roman Empire, set sail from a little known Piedmontese port.
Thus a stalwart young man, not yet bound by vows... a lay brother with a rapidly filling in sandy tonsure crossed the western Mediterranean on a seventy foot long 'Cog.' Imagine a one mast, primitive cousin to Cristobal Colon's (Christopher Columbus's) lesser ships and you'll see what we mean. Fourteen men embarked. One hand proved to be a maid fleeing an arranged marriage. But that was common. They survived on thick, bland crackers, dried meat, water and wine, plus whatever might be available along the way. There might have been barrels of pickled cabbage too. And a semi-enclosed, crude shelter under the aft deck was all they had.
At this point you must know that 'zombie mongers' were abroad in the world snatching victims for flesh-eating clans eager to grow and expand. Uther aus Ulm would fetch a fine price, indeed.
Thus were Fleisch Esseren 'born.'
And now, many centuries later, perhaps Uther has plans for Opal too?
(more tomorrow)
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OK, now here goes ~~~~~~~~
Sophie and Sybil heard the scream. Sophie whispers - That was Opal. I know it..... Sybil just nods. She nods a lot. You know those nice, little, ten year old, fairy-princess, London girls who dropped out of second grade (they been doing this a while) to become disciples of Ellen and talk real fast and jump up and down on her show? ... Well, Sybil'd be the second banana. She'd be the 'Rosie' one. ... So they stand there, still as statues, trying to hear it again. But, under the floor, Ralphie sniffs. He's real good at smelling humans. Ezekiel sniffs too. Zombies possess an extremely well developed sense of smell. They can pick out a stray human at least a half mile off over cold, frozen tundra... chocolate bars too, only they don't eat them. They use them to lure lost, little children.
Down below, Ralphie gestures. Ezekiel silently kneels beside Opal, slapping his cold, clammy hand across her mouth. He leans close and whispers - You so much as fart and I'll suck your eyes out..... She cooperates. Ralphie quietly unplugs a cheap string of pastel, Easter 'Christmas' lights (their only illumination) pilfered from the dollar store, lest an errant photon escapes.... And they wait... silent as a tomb. After perhaps a few dozen heartbeats, Sybil shifts position, standing right on top of the galvanized, tan painted trap door. It's locked. It's bolted from below. They can't open it. But she absentmindedly rocks back and forth, sending metallic echos down into the lair. Opal tenses. Her nostrils flare. Ezekiel wants to choke the girl with his other hand, however, Ralphie admonishes her with a raised finger. She exhales and relaxes, if that's the right word. ..... Ezekiel whispers - Oooh, warm... in anticipation of the small meal to come....
After a time the would-be zombie hunters depart. You'd think they might have detected the charnel house stench wafting up from what was left of Gary. But it's colder down below than it is up above. Provided pressures are equal, air tends to flow hot to cold. Or at least in this universe it does. Ezekiel kisses Opals quivering closed eyelids. He says - No noise...... Then he lets go of her mouth. She gasps . She coughs. Ezekiel slaps his hand back where it was, glares at Ralphie and goes - The Krazy Glue! Give me the Krazy Glue!.. He finds it mixed in with a lot of crap kept in a junk box under a table. She whimpers as Ezekiel runs a thin bead of the strong mastic between her lips and pinches them shut. Ten heartbeats later, they're sealed. Lucky she's not a mouth breather. But she chirps like a scared, little bird, wide eyed and trembling, as the two flesh eaters remove her clothes and score her body with tiny, sharp bites, creating wounds for the microbial lifeforms to enter. Then they put her in a big, black, plastic lawn bag. Not her head, though. Don't want her to suffocate. Gotta be buried alive. Gotta live through it all. Dig her way out. Oh, it might take a while, no matter how much she panics. And not 'can't find your car clicker' panic. This will be a deep, real, soul shaking visceral terror... beyond words... beyond comprehension. That's why all zombies are crazy. Some vampires might understand... a little bit anyway. But they don't really need the oxygen, while zombies most definitely do.... Still, some, little prion or virus mixed in with those microbes will take care of that, preserving her life and oxygenating her blood til she makes it to the surface.... up to a point, because a certain number never break through. And after a while the life force fades leaving spent bodies hanging in the soil like newly minted fossils.
Gary, on the other hand, will need a lot more work. His 'leavings' are a bit iffy... Zombie, or fertilizer? Hard to tell.
So the two ghoulish fiends carefully unlocked the galvanized trapdoor, checked for witnesses (Sophie and Sybil were apparently holed up somewhere else), manhandled a limp Opal up through the opening and laid her on the floor. Then they locked up and dragged her (plastic bag helped) to a nearby, half hidden door. Ezekiel had the key. No electronic lock here. This one's off the grid.
Woods come closer to the mall at that point, so they dragged her over the blacktop and disappeared into the trees. Opal knew what to expect.
She's gonna be buried alive......
(more tomorrow)
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They had a room... a lair under the faux terrazzo floor accessed via a tan,little painted, (to match the rest of the surface) galvanized metal panel. There was a key. They had that too. Years ago, the janitorial guys kept mops and solvents down there. Had to haul it all up and down this little aluminum ladder, but OSHA nixed that a long time ago. So now the buckets and mops live in what used to be WIG CITY, 'cause that place closed when Eva Gabor died. God knows what they do with dynel these days. Probably make bullet proof vests out of it.
But the zombies have it all set up... Two old flip chairs from CHEAP SEATS.... A twenty year old, thirteen inch Daewoo color TV hooked up to a small, black 'high definition' converter box from RADIO SHACK.... some little refrigerator stocked with Poland Water from the food court. They only pilfer a few at a time, so the manager won't know. The computer scanner thing by the register is supposed to keep track, but he don't have it set up right. Guy's a real schmuck. Ralphie, the second zombie calls him Schmuck-Schmuck-Schmucky-Schmuck. Thinks he looks like Adam Levine or Carson Daly. And maybe he does, if they fell out a helicopter and bounced a few hundred times.
Ezekiel, the first zombie is down there too. So's Opal.They got her all trussed up like an Inca mummy. Tied her up with gimp from THE HOBBY HUT. Black and red. They got a 'thing' for black and red. Ezekiel gets down to whisper in her ear. He goes - Soon you'll be a flesh eater too. Just like him.... Then he gestures toward what's left of Gary the former weird nightwatchman... Mostly just a dripping, oozing, grizzly skeleton now, little bits of skin, hair and fatty stuff.... They got a place deep in the woods, out beyond the parking lot. Used to be an old graveyard back in the day, like during The Mexican American War. That's where Ezekiel got planted. Eighteen forty six. Thing is, he wasn't all the way dead when it happened. Still had a little bit of life in him, like an old, double 'A' battery rolling around a junk drawer that gets snapped into a little, ear-bud radio for a few more raps or rock anthems. Dressed him up in a black, serge suit, a white shirt, a black neck cloth. Tight too. Like what Johnny Jump Up wore. Some of you might remember him from back before the vampirino known as Tomas died.... Put him in a snug, black, varnished coffin, like an individual, wide-at-the -shoulders cigar case for usually dead folks. Ezekiel, I mean. Nailed it shut. Lowered it in and covered it up. You know how much dirt it takes to fill a grave? Almost a ton... and that's when it's dry. When it's wet it's like cement. Can't move inside one a them 'dead boxes' either. Ain't no turning over in no grave. That's just in stories. That's just a pipe dream.
But Ezekiel managed to inch his hands up by his chest. Broke a few fingers. Smashed his nose. Ain't much head room, too, you know. Screamed. Defecated. Guess he pissed himself. Had to. It's like a hard wired reflex. Lid cracked. Hands all cut up. Bleeding and all. That's how the microbes get in... the zombie making microbes. Keep folks alive til they get out... if they get out. Bugs can only do so much. Some buried alive folks don't make it. And they lay there, all contorted, maybe three or four feet below the surface, dead in the heavy, cold dark. Stayin' in the box and breathing heavy would a been better. I guarantee.
Gonna plant whats left of Gary. Not in a coffin. Just in the dirt. As a 'whole,' he's dead. But tiny, little masses of gelatinous cells might still be livin'. That's all it takes. Microbes do their work and he'll live again. Won't look like much. Not at first. But after a few good, human meat feeds, that'll change. Wet, fatty. bacony strips grow 'cross the bones, like strange mold on strange rocks. They, Ralphie and Ezekiel, I mean, gone let him feed on Opal. Then, when she mostly dear, gonna plant her too.
Zombie like company, even if they gotta make 'em theirself.
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They didn't hear anything. You'd think Opal would have screamed, or yelled... but nothing. It all happened so fast. They grabbed her. They took her and she was gone. Sophia and Sybil just walked. 'Tip toed' would have been a better word. No words. No noise, just two, little skinny ninth grade girls locked in a dim, shadowy mall.
Sybil whispered - Where'd they go? Where are they?... Sophie shook her head. She didn't know. Then she bent down and tried to lift the open grating in front of one of the stores, City of Brassieres, I think it was. She couldn't do it. They were all like that. Every store was sealed off and locked via an electronic system that kicked in sixty minutes after closing. Most people, staff and all, were long gone by then. Restocking and vacuuming happened early in the morning from seven thirty to nine thirty. Even in winter it was daylight by then. That made it safer. Think it was an insurance rule and all that.... Sophie barely even whispered. Mostly she just 'mouthed' - We have to find a place to hide.... Sybil didn't say anything. What was she gonna say? That girl's 'beta' all the way. Let Sophie take the lead. Let Sophie save her. Sophie, God, Jesus, or The Lord... somebody.
By now they had to pee, only restrooms were dead ends. No way out. Couldn't go in there. Can you imagine silently opening the door. Then the motion sensitive light goes on...big light...harsh light... florescent light. If anyone (or any 'thing') was watching, they'd see the flash. How could they miss it? Restroom doors are heavy. Take a long time to close. You really can't push it..... Imagine being in a stall, sitting on a toilet with your pants down. Both can't pee at once. Somebody's got to keep watch. Pisser sits there doing her thing. Maybe she has to poop. You know, it's been a few hours. Lookout whispers 'hurry up.' Pisser goes - OK.... But then the bathroom door opens. Lookout screams. Pisser can't see, but she hears. They grab the lookout, crack her head against one of the shiny, white porcelain sinks. Not a sound you want to hear. Then a thud, as her body hits the floor. Pisser just sits there quiet as a mouse. Lifts her feet. Maybe they won't see? Maybe they won't know? Prays and prays and prays and prays. Hears them drag the lookout away. Sees a stray, little red, rivulet of blood run down a grout line 'tween the tiles and make it's way into her semi-enclosed sanctum. And finally, at the last moment, somebody reaches back inside and manually clicks off the light..... You know how dark a windowless mall restroom is with no light? Graves are brighter. Egyptian slave girls sealed in the tomb with their pharaoh see more. ... Do you sit there? Do you ever so quietly zip up your pants and leave?... What would you do? ... So the two little ninth graders climbed up into one of the big planters, really more like densely landscaped islands, hid among the trees and bushes and drizzled. The lights were low... tiny security bulbs here and there. Who could see?
But they weren't dealing with a 'who.' Sophie and Sybil were up against a 'what.'
Besides, that's when they heard the scream...
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They tried to call out, but you know how it is. For some reason, malls got lousy reception. They don't want you to communicate with the outside world. They want you to stay and stay and stay and stay. Then, when you spend your last dollar, the mall zombies come and get you. Most people still don't know this. But some do, 'cause you can hear beleaguered mom's threatening their delirious offspring with - You better shut your mouth, you little son-of-a-bitch, or the mall zombie's gonna get you...... What? You think zombies draw the line at fourth graders, or even babies? Well, they don't. Humans don't. Look at the sobbing, little, bare and vulnerable toddlers they scrapped into caustic gas chambers with rakes in the nineteen forties, or the decapitated tiny corpses from another continent two generations later. Bingo, that's it. Earth folks in a nut shell. Zombies just ain't hypocrites. That's all. But sometimes they like to play, like cats with little mousies, or bow-wows with low flying birds.
The three ninth graders huddled right up against the glass waiting for the security guys to come by. They didn't talk, or make a sound, just trembled and breathed real, real quietly. Every so often one of them would slowly turn around and check the point where the exit passage meets the main thoroughfare. But so far, nothing.... Part of a fountain... A Disney Store and the 'abandoned' cottage-like, rabbit hutch where Peter Rabbit, the Easter Bunny used to live.
In her tiniest voice Sophie whispered - They'll be here soon. They have to.... But the security guards, in their shrink-wrapped S.U.V. never came. And for at least three hundred feet beyond, the parking lot was empty. After that, the woods. Sybil thought she smelled something.... a body?... blood?.... a sweet, thick, mildew, sour smell. But she didn't say a word. And Opal just crouched there. Here feet were numb. Her legs were numb. You think she cared? Come on. She just wanted to live. Who the hell needs feet?
But Sophie saw something. The cottage... The rabbit hutch... It was hard to tell in the gloom, yet wasn't that door closed?... Not the front door. Not the sparkly one near the throne, but the smaller one facing them. The one the kids came out from after they got their Peeps. Mall used to give out chocolate. Peeps are cheaper. But the door... the door was open. And not all the way, only part way. That was worse.
Then, a sound. A car. The security guards were coming. Opal sighed. She exhaled, frosting the glass door before her. Sybil pressed her forehead hard against the cold, clear surface. Tiny orange lights glistened from the far off woods.... a deer family off on a wee hour jaunt. The world was real. There was an 'outside.' The shrink-wrapped S.U.V. pulled up. It stopped. Somebody set the break. They heard it. And three, little ninth grade hearts unclenched as two moonlighting, or retired cops hauled themselves out of the not quite large enough bucket seats, hitched up their pants and sidled over.
They banged on the glass. The guards saw. One chuckled, as they stepped up onto the sidewalk and approached the door. Sybil went - Yes! Yes! Yes! ... Sophie laughed with manic glee. Poor, little Opal with her stiff, numb legs stared wide eyed as the first guard put his hand on the door. It was over....
Til the second guard looked up over the heads of the squealing, little mall rats. But Sophie caught that and turned . Fifteen yards down the passageway in the shadows, two figures approached.... tall and spare, in long dark greasy raincoats, with stiff, blood-caked hair straight out of Japanese anime and eyes just as orange as those deer.
The guards simply stood there watching , neither startled, nor surprised. But, then again, they'd seen it all before. Some patterns are well established.
And three little not quite rescued mall-girls, down on the faux marble floor, trembled and sobbed, as pale, gray, long nailed hands reached from filthy, dark raincoat sleeves, pushing two aside before grabbing Opal's ankles and dragging her away.
Sophie looked through the glass at the guards. They saw it all, checked that the door was locked, got back in the shrink-wrapped S.U.V. and left.
Time passed. Neither one moved, til she remembered the 'girl scout' homemade flame throwers and got up to give chase.....
Four heartbeats later Sybil struggled to her feet and scrambled after her.
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{we're back where we were about three nights ago, in the dark, mall food court, after midnight. the mall-rat girls perch atop a twenty foot metal scaffold, using cell phones for illumination, as they peer into the space between the drop ceiling and the concrete 'true' ceiling above. Something's up there. They snap pictures. Sophie, who fronts the group, looks down to see a cadaverous being glide out of the shadows and maul Gary (the weird, nightwatchman waiting down below). The fiend looks up. They lock eyes. No one makes a sound. that's where we are.}
It looked like Johnny Depp from when he was Edward Scissor Hands.... white skin... dark eyes... severe features... wild hair... And oddly, not so sinister. More tragic, like it was bound to do these things. ... She didn't say a word. Hardly moved. Just stayed there, locked in position.
Gary's sprawled on the white, tiled floor. Blood pooling everywhere. Neck a pulpy mess. Left cheek gone. Left eye gone. Skull shattered. And he must have butt dialed something when he fell, 'cause the girl from Zeppo & Lucretia's wants to know what kind of pizza he wants.... A last meal he'll never get.
The Johnny Depp thing backed 'way to make room for another one. And Sophie looks, as the pair of them silently drag him away, leaving a big, wide, blood smear in their wake.... Sybil, one of the other two up there with her, turns 'round to watch. Opal just whimpers. They stay like that for maybe an hour, either in denial, or shock. Then moon beams stream down through the skylight, gilding the scene in a gray, somber wash. All is silent, except for an occasional rattle from the heating ducts. Sophie exhales and whispers - Opal, you still got the two cans of Aqua-Net?... Opal nods... And the lighters?.... More nods... Sophie goes - Give 'em to me. Not all of them, just one can and one lighter. Come on. Come on. Come on.... She takes them, sprays some out (away from the others) and lights it up. A respectable, homemade flame thrower.... Sybil goes - What are you gonna do? ..... Sophie starts to climb down and whispers - What do you think?... Five heartbeats later, Sybil screws up her courage and follows. Twelve heartbeats after that, Opal quickly scrambles after them. Nobody talks. Just three pair of ninth grade, sneaker clad feet silently making their way through the dark.
Sophie leads them passed the shoe stores. It's like a mezzanine up there. One side's all footwear. Causeway goes to the other side. But that side's all ladies' wear. Full of manikins. More places for night fiends to hide. Sophie figures them two zombies must be holed up somewhere chompin' on what's left of good, old Gary. Ain't no blood smear. Must have gone the other way. So they tiptoe to the stairs and sneak down.... First level's got more benches, plants, trees and fountains too. Locked up, little carts for sunglasses and all that. Thing is, you gotta get passed them to reach the exit and you know that's locked. Mall's got other exits, but that's the first one. Off duty cops patrol the outside, cruisin' 'round in special, compact S.U.V.s. Maybe they can wait, crouched down by the floor, til cops go by. Bang on the glass when they check the door. Only thing is, Sophie don't know the outside crew ain't got no keys, or key cards, or nothing. Pee in the little Crispy-Creme Doughnut joint out in the parking lot. Got keys for that. Well, even so, maybe there's something they can do? Who knows?
So the girls just keep on going, passed the pretzel stand, passed the sticky bun place, passed the particle board, paint and glitter Rabbit Hutch where the Easter Bunny was. He's gone now. But something else has taken up residence and it ain't no rabbit. They can't see in the darkness, but four red eyes is watchin' from a little window with like a Pee Wee's Playhouse flower box under it and no glass. Zombies in there gnawin' on Gary. Don't know how the management'd feel about that, 'cause they don't even like no Gypsy fortune teller.
Girls position themselves by the glass exit door, down a little passageway between some grill place and a reclining chair store.
Trouble is, them what gnawin' on Gary can see 'em. Oh, yeah, they can see 'em all real good.
Can even smell the blood...
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Better able to channel 'the zombie message' than I was last night. Here's what went unsaid .~~~> There was a burst of North American Zombiism in the nineteenth century. A rising population played a part. The spread of Spiritualism and gothic literature also contributed. Before that age mass communication was limited. Newspapers, although in existence, were rare and passed 'round like scripture. But the mid eighteen hundreds witnessed burgeoning media on all fronts. Daily publications, many featuring the unbelievable novelty of photography brought everything to everyone and just as now, people like blood.
Tales of premature burial were everywhere. That sad and horrific, though rare, event usually stayed hidden to avoid mass hysteria. After all, who would know? Something happens. They move a grave, uncover a coffin, only to find a splintered lid. Sometimes the body was gone. Sometimes it wasn't, revealing cadaverous and terrifyingly contorted victims. Eyes gouged out. Foreheads crushed. Dried blood on shredded, satin lids. Dislocated shoulders and cracked vertebrae. Escape was nearly impossible... but not always.
Yellow Journalism loved tales like that. Front page news, complete with photographed 're- enactments' featuring ghoulish models... kohl smudged eyes... sharp, serrated teeth... shriveled lips... claw-like hands and gray, blue veined skin. 'Tableau Macabre' they were called. John Wilkes Booth made a few. So did Edgar Allen Poe. Mary Todd Lincoln staged midnight tableau in Washington. Not at The White House. The Domestic Staff wouldn't have it, forcing The First Lady and her attendants to decamp to Admiralty House, current Vice Presidential residence, where notorious, shadowy spectacles transformed the vast conservatory into a fiends' paradise.
Thing is, one cold January night with a lesser British royal in attendance, plus an equally aristocratic Ottoman bey, a certain 'actor' tucked into his 'leg-o-corpse' with manic, uncontrollable ardor. Those witnessing the performance gasped and swooned at the authenticity of it. Though when they cleaned up after, the human leg bone proved to be real and not the usual pig meat upholstered ox bone substitute. And two hours later, a certain young woman in the bey's entourage asleep upstairs became Turkish Delight in her own right. Important guests are still shown the stained bedroom carpet today. Some claim to have seen a torn, sobbing apparition crawling 'cross the floor and passing through a wall where a door used to be one hundred and fifty years ago.
The offending ghoul was never apprehended. Members of The Secret Service did find a lair, deep within a dark, forgotten cellar, littered with old bones and other, shall we say, moister refuse. But the discovery was hushed up, what with The Assassination and all.
'Zombies' are real, crazed survivors of premature burial.... insane and infected in so many ways. They say certain pathogens in the soil cause it. And as Earth warms, it's growing.
Secret brotherhoods (sisterhoods too) foster the spread, purposely throwing drugged 'sacrifices' into damp, deep graves, sans casket, covering them up, tamping it down and waiting. According to renegade cognoscenti, three hours later you have a heaving, terrified, wide-eyed, panting zombie... that is if they survive. Sharp thorns are mixed into the soil to pierce the skin and draw the blood. Subsequent 'sacrifices' often fill the same grave, since it's already peppered with the necessary contagion.
And there you have it. That's how it is. Who knew? The denizens up in the ceiling over the mall food court were made that way... at least most of them were.
Next time we'll sneak back and, hopefully, show you more. Oh, there's a stench too.... You'll see.
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