Long Haired Zombie-Killing Freak #4

The rain cleared all the blood off the roof, and some early-morning carnivore finished off the remaining brains. I was grateful to my multi-legged and winged neighbors for their speedy disposal service. More, since they didn’t try to munch on my tent while they scarfed up the cerebellum puree just a few feet from my domicile.

I pushed more of my body out into the world, like a homeless man born from a nylon vagina. Scratching my nuts, I took a look around. Yeah. No sign of the pre-slumber violence.

“Oh! You rickety son of a bitch!” I growled at my lumbar region. It was tight and protesting.

I flexed my knees, and threw a few kicks around at no target in particular. My lower back let go with a chorus of pops, and I sighed with relief. Those noises were followed by a singular snarl from my tummy. I’d had beer for dinner the night before, and it seemed more nutrient-dense consumables were required.

When you live with other people, in my case, a curmudgeonly older couple, you don’t just hop downstairs with your meat and two veg akimbo. Unfortunate, really, how our silly conventions survive things like zombie apocalypses (or is that apocalypsii?). Not that I’m advocating nudity in every situation, but pre-coffee dangling ought to be acceptable.

“Whatever.” I commented to the blackbirds and carnivorous squirrels, and snagged some clothes out of the tent.

Combat boots. I knew I’d end up doing some walking. My trusty ol’ katana, so I wouldn’t have to come back up here after breakfast—Taurus, 1911-style .45 pistol, and two extra clips for the same reason.

I’d do the Vodka and twig dental treatment after breakfast. No one, not even zombies, should have to encounter my morning breath. Although, if it were deadly all by itself, I’d be more than happy to breathe on my enemies instead of performing Battle Royale Zumba for them. Aerobic exercise with weapons sucks, even if it does leave you with a smashing physique.

Dressed? Yar! Got coffee? Nar! Got food? Nar!

Coffee. Food. Without them I’d start pillaging at random. I went downstairs with a will, and swung into the bar like a great ape, or Daniel Craig in his first outing as “James Bond”.

“Shirley! Marvin! What’s for breakfast? Please, tell me we have coffee today!” I looked around, wondering why no one replied. “There are small children starving in Reston! A donation of coffee would do wonders for their morale!”

I found it worrisome they didn’t respond with some kind of biting sarcasm, grumble, or any noise made by a hold north of their necks. For a moment, I really regretted the katana in my belt. They’re phenomenal cutting tools if you have room to move around, but not so efficient in close quarters. I really should have brought a tomahawk, instead.

All things being equal, the Taurus 1911 pistol on my hip would do fine, provided I didn’t let an attacker get closer than five feet away. The mess might be less than I’d get with the blade, but not by much.

Cleave the head from a body, and all the blood tries to leave at once, even if it is as gelatinous as zombie blood. Blow a hole through a zombie’s head, and you’ve got a decent window of opportunity to keep the mess to a minimum… aside from the spray of blood and brains that gets on everything, even goes around corners… just drag the newly-ventilated body outside.

Why me? The moment I thought about blood outside, on the sidewalk, the B-52’s song “Love Shack” started playing in my head, but with very different lyrics.

“Blood on the sidewaaaalk; Blood on the front poooorch; The Death Shack is a little old place where we can re-kill you…” Yep. As usual, my filk failed. I would never be a poet or a songwriter. My talents were more practical than artistic.

I had to get myself back on track.

Attention Deficit Disorder can be a complete bitch. Then again, it might have been the lack of coffee. I was missing two important people, and it didn’t leave me feeling fresh and secure. Time to get cracking!

“Marvin!” I yelled out. Better to let whomever/whatever know I’m coming.

I removed the pistol from the holster and chambered a round. The kitchen door was closest, and I decided it was as good a place to start looking as any. I didn’t see anything unusual through the window, but that doesn’t mean shit. You can hide a platoon in a kitchen and never see them through the window.

I’ll admit I would have been less surprised by the platoon than I was by the horse.

(Hey, read what came after the prequel! Follow me on twitter @crawford4033.)

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