Madam Blavatska arranged things. Opal set out on a dark June night. Lady Clemmentina, a beautiful, experienced English flesh-eater drove. They took out one of the black Porsches . Cops know 'em and won't interfere. Dressed the part to, just like Emma Peal. You know... the one from The Avengers.
On the way they talked. Zombies like to talk. Not like in the movies, believe me. Who'd make a good flesh eater?... A favorite. Clemmentina said - I vote for Nicole Kidman. She has a lean and hungry look. .... Opal thought Harry Styles, but she's just in ninth grade, you know... Or she was before all this happened.... They downed five-hour-energy-drinks too. Zombies don't worry about caffeine. Then they got the giggles.
Everything was set. The teacher with the sharp nails would meet a girl with even sharper teeth. Various intelligence functionaries got the address. That was easy. A smart twelve year old tech geek with a regular PC could probably do the same. Maybe the functionary was a twelve year old tech geek? Who knows?
Two homeless drunks argued 'neath an old, classical loggia. The British flesh eater saw them. She hated imperfection and said - If they stopped trying to control us... if they just let us run free, this planet would be a much better place. Think about it. We'd proliferate reaching truer levels and we'd finish them... Not all, just the garbage. Oh, they'd fight us. We'd kill some. They'd kill some. But we're well equipped too. Maybe on a per-capita level even better than they are...... What does per-capita mean? - asked Opal...... But the light changed. They moved on and Clemmentina thought about other things.
After a time they left the urban area proper, entering suburban hinterlands. Some were technically within the city limits, but the atmosphere was different. Detached houses of all stripes, fronted by modest lawns, lined winding roads. Here and there small 'water features' gurgled softly in the night. A raccoon couple browsed for tidbits, as a silent tabby trailed a fretting mouse. Clemmentine turned off the lights, coasted to a stop and said - That's it. The little 'colonial.' God, you Americans are architecturally dense. The burglar alarm is disarmed by the way. We have people. Don't ask. A dollar a day only buys so much. Enter through the rear basement window. No dogs. No cats. Two humans... your nemesis teacher-woman and her husband, both asleep, or in bed anyway, upstairs in the big front room. Left hand side facing us. That's it, up there. Now go. ...... Opal moved. The seductive Brit, zombie added - Wait a moment. Don't get caught. If you do we'll abandon you. Oh, they won't kill you. You'll be turned over to one of their scientific installations and live like a monkey in a cage. So, you know, don't get caught.....Opal went - Yo, English lady..... Clemmentine whispered - Yes?.... The formerly ninth grade flesh-eater added - You sure talk a lot..... And quietly left the car. The talkative English lady drove 'round the corner and waited.... A black clad woman in a pitch black car. The night welcomed them both.
Opal used what she learned from Madam Blavatska and the others, plus copious reruns of Charlie's Angels and Dora the Explorer to accomplish her mission.
The teacher with the sharp nails was going to die. Hopefully, her husband wouldn't be too traumatized.
Who knows? Maybe he wants her to die too?
Things are so simple for a ninth grade zombie with a grudge...
(more tomorrow... )
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So she stayed in the penthouse with Madam Blavatska and learned many things. Opal could yodel like Heidi, clog dance like an Appalachian Squaw-Woman and recite Shakespeare like a puny, little, flesh eating Helen Mirren . The zombie lifestyle apparently takes one many places and she was to be a queen. They even gave her a smattering of Chess Theory based on the 'Take No Prisoners' approach of Arpad Issikopf, the great, nineteenth century Hungarian master. He's a zombie too, but the human branch of the family never came to grips with that, so officially, he died in The Great War. But they take the fat checks he sends every Christmas. And to digress a bit, Issikopf is a noted zombie explorer, always on quest for bones, or artifacts that might shed light on the early days of the breed. Oh, if you've been with us a while you've heard the Creation Myths (actually more than myths) about the microbe contaminated quicksand and all that. But he wants to see how they lived and who they ate. He, himself, tried to devour a live, suckling pig. They say human meat is basically the same as young, tender pork. The Mad Hungarian wanted to test that out. While he was able to keep it down, the porcine flesh did little to reverse his insidious decomposition, so he assumed there must be a necessary chemical, or cellular component found only in human meat. To this day that elusive compound had not been identified, though all flesh eaters acknowledge its existence.
One late afternoon they were out on the terrace observing the humans far down below. Madam Blavatska said - Life eats life. They are the same as we. Every morsel humans eat is primarily organic material. That means it once was alive. Rocks sustain nothing. We are, in a sense, humans with a more refined appetite. Never feel shame. It is how we are. Lions do not eat apples. Opal didn't answer. She just watched the people and thought about the different textures and flavors each possessed. As the light waned and the streets grew darker, she thought about something else.
There once was a teacher, a hard woman with red, lacquered nails like talons. She was tall. Not young, but schooled in the ways of obfuscation. A few thought her attractive. Others disagreed. On hot June days recess was longer. Classrooms were stifling. Painted cinder-block walls radiated a thick, damp, clammy warmth. Even with the bees, outside was better.
The hard woman guarded the drinking fountains, three, lazy, gurgling spouts in a long, sink-like trough. Each 'little piggy' got three quick gulps, then a sharp poke from a lacquered nail and banishment out to the sizzling, concrete schoolyard. Resistance was futile. Those foolish enough to try got 'pink slipped.' And pink slips stayed in your record..
Eight year old Opal hated that woman. She had allergies. Her throat got so dry. Her lips grew white and papery. She'd get in line and wait. But every time, just before she drank, the hard woman kicked her out of line.... Not you! - she barked. You were here twice already!....... Opal knew the innjustice. She felt it keenly. Other children did too, but they were helpless. Opal quietly stood in the shade, leaning against an ever so slightly less fiery portion of the red brick wall. She breathed slowly. She numbly endured, dreaming of innocent, third grade revenge. Perhaps this was the time?
Opal asked her mentor if she might venture out that night. The 'Madam' sensing her purpose (telepathy being one of her talents) consented, arranging for a car and chaperon.
A bit later under cover of true darkness, Opal went out to have her revenge.... and just thinking about it felt good.....
(more next time)
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They sat on the terrace...not a balcony... a terrace. Balconies are rather flimsy, modern affairs with weak, aluminum rails and barriers. Terraces are made from bricks and slate and stone. Eva Gabor had one on GREEN ACRES... before they left New York, I mean. Madam Blavatska had one too. That was her name, Blavatska and she was a zombie too. But a highly assimilated one able to share conventional meals with human acquaintances, even if her lunch tended to be watery bisque or runny poached eggs. She was disciplined. She could do that.
Opal wore a dark, smock-like dress. Wednesday Addams had one just like it... dark leotards... white collar... white cuffs. The buttons were finest rib bone... human rib bone. Only the best. She and her stately instructor occupied an outdoor settee... traditional... white painted steel.... hand stitched canvas cushions trimmed with white piping. The 'Madam' sipped tea... Russian chai, to be precise. Opal had diet soda. Zombies drink a lot of that.
They gazed out over the city beneath a soft, white, silvery sky. The air was damp... almost misty. And the distant traffic, down below was almost quiet..... Madam said - How was your feeding?....... Fine - said Opal. Hortense and Blanche took me down...... And? - asked the stately one.... I did as you said. I had one of the children..... And Opal almost cried..... They drug them, you know. Most laugh like maniacs through the whole thing - said Blavatska. What kind did you have?.... A little Laotian girl. Three and a half years old I think she was - whispered Opal. She told me. Said she liked my hair...... They sat in silence til the Madam said - Some of them talk a lot. East Asians impart a certain willowy strength and grace. You can taste it in the blood. Even when they're born here and raised on whatever it is the North Americans eat, they still taste the same way...... Then she straightened up and said - Show me your wrist..... Opal did. The older woman pushed up her sleeve and examined the skin.... Good, good - she said. Firm and supple. Now the eyes..... She lifted Opal's chin and carefully took ocular inventory, obviously impressed by the clarity and focus. .... Then she questioned her in German, both Hoch Deutsch and Platt Deutsch. Opal passed that test too. The lessons were going well. Soon they'd assign her to a team. Although she couldn't breed yet, not officially anyway, she could still kill.
A troublesome, anti-fracking politician would be first. Not him. His wife. But he'd get the message. Needs a more photogenic one if he wants to be senator anyway. Serves her right. Good for her. At least she'll be on the news.
They discussed upcoming lessons, diction, elocution and all that. Then Opal went in to catatonically stare at the fish. They had a really big tank. Zombies like to stare at fish.
After she left the one hundred and sixty seven year old Russian, zombie emigre reached into a planter, pulled out a bottle of vodka and took a long, stiff drink.
Then a bird crapped on her head... She sighed and drank some more...
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The spare, fit scientist took Opal to be inspected by a formidable matron in a palatial penthouse atop a meticulously preserved pre-war apartment tower. At this time we cannot reveal the location. They may have stayed in Philadelphia, or traveled a short distance up to Gotham, or down to Baltimore. We might be in Boston, too, for that matter. Since, as discussed earlier, we only pretend this is fiction, security is of the utmost.
They parked in a clean, crisp, underground garage... all smooth, polished concrete and creamy gray paint, amidst a candy box of vintage limousines plus the occasional Duesenburg or two. A liveried flunky opened the door, addressed the spare, fit woman by name (prefaced by her academic degree) and lead them to a somewhat small, private elevator carpeted in plush Aubusson and paneled in antique, gold smoked mirror. Of course all trim and fittings were of finest, heavy bronze... No brass... Too garish. The flunky went with them, as he was the pilot of the contraption, since it lacked the accordion-like arrangement of illuminated buttons we've all learned to expect.
The conveyance silently ascended. Six minutes later they arrived at the fifty first floor and followed the liveried flunky out into a marble beaux arts foyer, through two tall doors opening on a large bright salon. Zombies have no aversion to sunlight, you know. A stately, older woman, seated on a chintz divan appraised them as they drew near. The spare, fit woman nodded. The stately matron nodded back. Opal just took it all in. Then the seated woman addressed the flunky and said - Did anyone else witness their arrival?..... No, Madam - he said. I sent them away, other garage personnel, I mean, as the car approached..... And is the driver still down there? - she asked..... Yes, Madam - he said. Still in the car.... She reached into a small, beaded bag at her side, drew out a polished, chromium pistol, gave it to the young flunky and said - I want you to go down, shoot the driver, then step into one of the janitor's closets and shoot yourself. Aim for the head, behind your ear. It should be painless..... He nodded.... Thank you, Bainbridge - she said..... He nodded once more and left. They heard the door close, as he rode down..... Will he do it? - asked the spare woman...... Of course he will. You know how things are here. Now, please, sit down.... They did, though the scientist woman appeared a bit concerned, as they made small talk. Suppose she too was superfluous? But they needed her to insure optimal fertility, so til then she was safe.... maybe.
The matron turned her gaze toward Opal and said - So, this is the one. And I am to play Madam Alverez to her Gigi. Well, I've done it before. I'm up to the task...... Then she paused for a moment and whispered - It's over. He's done it..... You mean the flunky? - said the spare woman..... The matron nodded..... Little Opal found her voice and quietly asked - Please, lady, how do you know?..... The matron reached over, patted her hand and said - Telepathy, my dear. Tell me. Do you know German?...... Opal shook her head...... No, of course you don't - said the teacher..... Languages, my dear. Tomorrow we start with languages.....
So they did. The training of a Zombie Queen had begun...
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The spare, fit scientist took Opal to be inspected by a formidable matron in a palatial penthouse atop a meticulously preserved pre-war apartment tower. At this time we cannot reveal the location. They may have stayed in Philadelphia, or traveled a short distance up to Gotham, or down to Baltimore. We might be in Boston, too, for that matter. Since, as discussed earlier, we only pretend this is fiction, security is of the utmost.
They parked in a clean, crisp, underground garage... all smooth, polished concrete and creamy gray paint, amidst a candy box of vintage limousines plus the occasional Duesenburg or two. A liveried flunky opened the door, addressed the spare, fit woman by name (prefaced by her academic degree) and lead them to a somewhat small, private elevator carpeted in plush Aubusson and paneled in antique, gold smoked mirror. Of course all trim and fittings were of finest, heavy bronze... No brass... Too garish. The flunky went with them, as he was the pilot of the contraption, since it lacked the accordion-like arrangement of illuminated buttons we've all learned to expect.
The conveyance silently ascended. Six minutes later they arrived at the fifty first floor and followed the liveried flunky out into a marble beaux arts foyer, through two tall doors opening on a large bright salon. Zombies have no aversion to sunlight, you know. A stately, older woman, seated on a chintz divan appraised them as they drew near. The spare, fit woman nodded. The stately matron nodded back. Opal just took it all in. Then the seated woman addressed the flunky and said - Did anyone else witness their arrival?..... No, Madam - he said. I sent them away, other garage personnel, I mean, as the car approached..... And is the driver still down there? - she asked..... Yes, Madam - he said. Still in the car.... She reached into a small, beaded bag at her side, drew out a polished, chromium pistol, gave it to the young flunky and said - I want you to go down, shoot the driver, then step into one of the janitor's closets and shoot yourself. Aim for the head, behind your ear. It should be painless..... He nodded.... Thank you, Bainbridge - she said..... He nodded once more and left. They heard the door close, as he rode down..... Will he do it? - asked the spare woman...... Of course he will. You know how things are here. Now, please, sit down.... They did, though the scientist woman appeared a bit concerned, as they made small talk. Suppose she too was superfluous? But they needed her to insure optimal fertility, so til then she was safe.... maybe.
The matron turned her gaze toward Opal and said - So, this is the one. And I am to play Madam Alverez to her Gigi. Well, I've done it before. I'm up to the task...... Then she paused for a moment and whispered - It's over. He's done it..... You mean the flunky? - said the spare woman..... The matron nodded..... Little Opal found her voice and quietly asked - Please, lady, how do you know?..... The matron reached over, patted her hand and said - Telepathy, my dear. Tell me. Do you know German?...... Opal shook her head...... No, of course you don't - said the teacher..... Languages, my dear. Tomorrow we start with languages.....
So they did. The training of a Zombie Queen had begun...
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A bigger fish always comes by. Lars and Uther thought they had her (Opal, I mean), but she got snatched up by that spare, fit, scientist bitch. That's how it is. And them what got the power don't care what you know. What the hell are you gonna do about it? When I started this 'blog' almost four years ago, the very first line was - First of all we must agree that what comes next is fiction.... And apparently there's no argument. I tell you about the life-eaters lightly sprinkled over most big cities and it's 'fairy tales.' I tell you 'bout Doctor Franklin's more-than-top-secret compound under The Philadelphia Navy Yard and it's 'comic book time.' The elferinos and elferinas are true. The Jersey Pine Barren witchie-folk are true. Ditto the mole-people and the ghouls and, now we got the zombies, primarily the non-decomposing intelligent variety. Twitter.com/Syfy <~~~( conveniently clickable link) knows. Go see. Go ask. But the vast majority of people in The Twitter.com/#vampirewonderland (and we're ALL in that) think it's merely a pixilated entertainment. What pawns. A few of you know. Small groups of midnight wanderers have been turning up outside 'the townhouse' and Baylah's 'piano bar' and along the preternatural, cobbled warrens of Society Hill. They've seen them... Tomas (before his demise) and Sarah and Luna.... Remember Mister Muggs, the accidentally 'vampire-ized' one hundred and eighty five pound manic chimp? He was a good one, rest his soul. And the Russian, billionaire, vampire, oligarch, Grigori Usipov (in a brand new body and everything) is still out there. Some of you know what his ebony jet, The Baba Yaga, looks like. But please don't get too close. His Siberian Tiger Pits are no place to die.
'The World is so full of a number of things... I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings'... Robert Louis Stevenson said that... Trouble is, there already are kings.
Zombies fight vampires and three castes of Lycanthropes fight each other. Vampire Wonderland is an oozing pustule of truth... Just keep squeezing.
But ponder this... How easy it is to control minions of night-folk... Vampires, zombies, lucid wanderers... who cares?... They kill those deserving of death and preserve those worthy of life... No 'high tech.'... Simple, direct and absolute.
You've heard stories... planted snippets of convenient 'truth.' Unwitting aliens are behind it... They're just a natural side-bar to human evolution, or (my favorite)--- no one really knows.
Well.... somebody does.
Explore... google Vampire Wonderland by Billy Kravitz... and add any intriguing term you like... lucid wanderers... Grigori Usipov... Jersey Pine Barrens... elferinos... cherubs... mer-folk... After more than 800,000 words the possibilities are endless. 'Links in a chain... May no man know its source'... That's also a quote...
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The spare, fit woman outlined her plan. If they wanted success, there wasn't any other alternative. She sipped her ice water, eyed the more or less collegiate crowd in the place and in a quiet, though authoritative voice began....
I take the girl. She lives with me. I 'feed her.' I control her. Supply the necessary supplements and any other additives. When she requires human flesh... living human flesh, I mean, she will get it. Certain strains seem to afford a more salubrious effect. ....
Uther said - You think I don't know these things?
You, my friend, are a medieval Cretin. Why don't you go sack a city? You're can destroy things, but lack the finesse to create, shall we say, more evolved replacements. - said the woman.
Uther blanched. Lars had to bite his lip to keep from laughing out loud. Opal didn't understand any of it, or tried not to. She read the paper menu folded next to the napkin holder and asked if she might have a Strawberry Ricki, a sweet, nectary beverage from the nineteen fifties, apparently making a comeback. The woman motioned to a server. Four minutes later she had one, good and cold in a tall, narrow, frosted glass.... Lars said - give me a taste... And three minutes later he had one too.
While they savored the syrupy concoction, Uther said - Why the attack? Why go after me? ..... The woman 'lasered' into him with her eyes, but didn't say a word.
Lars said - What kind is best? The people, I mean... for the flesh. Who's on the menu? Tell me.
It varies. - she said. Polynesian Islanders provide a certain stamina, so do Tuareg tribesmen. Some swear by the Icelandic regimen. Others prefer certain, old Jewish clans from The Caucus. I believe in mixing... a bit of this.. a bit of that...
And your success rate? - he said.
The woman indicated Uther and said - Ask him. He knows.
Lars looked.... Uther said - She has two fertile females and one fertile male. Proven fertiles, I mean. A lot of people make claims. She does not. what she says is true.
Well, - she went. Permit me to 'up' you from Cretin to barbarian..... (apparently they shared a 'past' or something... non-decomposing zombies and humans 'couple' all the time, though nothing ever comes of it).
Lars asked - And what will you give us? What's she worth to you?
The spare, fit scientist said - We could kill you now and take her. Do you think I came alone?..... She turned to face the room and raised her glass. Nine stalwarts scattered among the tables returned the gesture. Half looked zombie. One might have been a vampire. It's difficult to tell.
So ten minutes later, Opal , a bit teary eyed, was bundled into the back of a sleek, black, panel van with a talkative zombie hairdresser, from Detroit, a non-decomposing one, naturally, though from the look of his purple tinged nails in need of a good meal.... As they sped away he said - Don't worry. They'll let you see your friends.....
They're not my friends - she said.
He just shrugged and read his OK magazine. In the corned was a big, lidless, red and white Igloo cooler. Like the kind tailgaters use for beer. Inside was a trussed up little midget steeped in what was probably three dozen bottles of A1 Steak Sauce. Opal eyed him curiously.
The midget went - Hello.
Opal nodded......
My 'dinner,' My feeding. He's for me. But I'll go 'sharesies.' You want some? I don't mind. That's how I am. My mama raised me right.
Opal said - Are you sure?
Hairdresser said - Absolutely, have a bite.....
So she tore into a white, flabby, clammy, upper arm. (the 'dinner' was resting on his side)
And the main course began to scream - No! No! No! You said I'd be dead! You said I'd be dead! Where's the drugs?! Where's the drugs?! Where's the drugs?!
Oh, shut up, you dumb bitch you! Don't you know drugs are illegal? - said the hairdresser. Then he gleefully knelt down for a big mouthful of tushie....
Oh! So good...so good... so good - he went.
And Opal giggled, as blood dribbled down her itty, bitty chin.
How nice to see her smile...
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