A Million Reasons (Draft)

There exist about a million reasons
When taken as a whole they paint a picture so complete
It could make the Mona Lisa smile
And when they're taken apart . . .
Fractured, fractal patterns of organized chaos
All beautiful and terrifying
A kaleidoscopic melange
A yin with its yang
Shining a light in the dark that exists within the light
Drawing in as the proverbial moth to the flame
Seeming not to notice that
An angel cannot fly with burned wings
And a man cannot climb
Under the weight of a million reasons
All collected in perpetuity
A million reasons
With a million, million justifications
A million reasons
Why?
A million reasons
Who?
A million reasons
What?
A million reasons
When?
A million reasons
Where?
A million reasons
how.
It is true what's been said before
Razors pain and rivers are damp
Acids stain and drugs cause cramp
Guns aren't lawful and nooses give
It still isn't enough, just to live
The truth hasn't set anyone free
There is no ascension to any mountaintop
Because among a million reasons
With a million million justifications
The literal one in a million speaks softly

There are no beautiful suicides

The Road to Recovery

-1-

"I really don't know why I'm here, you know." Said Charles Greene,

"It's been weeks. Honestly, Doctor Mattel, I don't think there's any reason to continue this charade."

"Now Charles, we've been over this." Said the man named Doctor Mattel, looking up from an open manila folder, over black rimmed glasses that were perched on the tip of his nose. His stubble looked scratchy and at the point where it was difficult to tell if he was growing a full beard or was just too exhausted or lazy to shave. The circles under his eyes betrayed that it was the latter.

"Yes, we have Doctor Mattel. And I am completely aware that I need to forgive myself for what happened. I understand the logic and the science behind it."

"Indeed you do, Charles. And yet I don't believe you've done any such thing. Forgive yourself, I mean. I think you're telling me what you think I want to hear. I can't imagine that discontinuing your treatment now would be of any use to you; and worse than that, it would be irresponsible of me as your Doctor."

The two of them moved smoothly through the conversation, betraying the fact that they'd had it many times before. Charles rolled his eyes and looked at the Doctor again, his eyes suddenly hooded, dark and intense.

"Doctor Mattel, what do you think you can do for me in here? I watched my fiancé butchered by Zombies in front of me."

"Now Charles, you know that they're not 'zombies.'" Doctor Mattel interrupted.

"I don't give a fuck what you want to call them," Charles answered, his voice slightly raised in frustration.

"Bath Salt addicts if you like, I don't know what they really were, I just know what I saw." he continued.

"I watched him eaten to death by those things. They pulled him off of me in the middle of fucking. Not just any fucking, no, no! This was hot, sweaty honeymoon fucking! They dragged him to a corner, and they ripped his flesh from his body and they ate it. Right in front of me."

Doctor Mattel no longer had a response, instead scribbling furious notes into the open file folder in his lap. Charles' voice was haunted, but unwavering as he relived the nightmare.

"They never touched me. They looked up at me, each of them, one at a time, but none of them touched me. They just ate him, in front of me. Until there was nothing left. They left him there, his intestines spilled out in front of him, broken bones jagged and sticking out through his skin. His eyes were open, but he just stared at me. Then they left, one by one. They never touched me. They never made a move toward me." his eyes were wide, and far away; frozen in horror. Then, they suddenly cleared and he looked up at the Doctor again. A background in psychology was not needed to understand that Charles relived this moment over and over in his dreams.

"And it's been weeks. And I don't understand why they didn't come after me now any more than I did then. Everything I told the police is still true."

"I know, Charles," Doctor Mattel said.

"Your story hasn't wavered since you were brought in. We-" he stopped, correcting himself.

"I believe you." he said soothingly.

"But we can't ignore how a trauma like that can affect you. But after several weeks, it's been determined that you are no longer a danger to yourself or anyone else. I want to be honest, Charles that I opposed and voted against this decision, but I was overruled."



"What decision?" Charles asked.



"I came here today to tell you that we're ready to move your treatment to an 'outpatient' status. You can go home today."

Charles didn't move. His face betrayed no expression.

"Did you hear me Charles?"

"Yes. I heard."

"Do you have anything to say?" Doctor Mattel prodded.

Charles looked up at him, tears beginning to stream down his face.

"While I've been in here it's been a dream, Doctor. I could never be sure it really happened as long as you kept questioning what I saw and what really happened. Now I have to figure out how to live without him." his voice broke and he began to sob unashamedly.

"That's perfectly healthy, Charles," Doctor Mattel said gently.

"That tells me you're on the road to recovery."

When recounting the story to others, Charles would recall that everything beyond the initial conversation that day passed in a blur. He was allowed to put his own clothes back on, he was allowed to rest in his room while the discharge papers were processed and his continued course of treatment was agreed to and signed by him; like some sort of contract. The entire process took the better part of a day and when he left the hospital with pills in hand, he'd never felt more alone.

He took the taxi provided by the hospital as far as his neighborhood, but got out to walk the last few blocks. A knot of anxiety had begun building in his stomach as soon as Doctor Mattel had told him he'd be going home. What would he find there? What would be left of the horrific scene he'd been dragged out of? What would happen when he walked in? All of these things stacked up inside him until he reached the front door of his building and collapsed on the steps/ He clutched his stomach and doubled over in pain. He'd expected to see yellow tape that boldly proclaimed "Police Line: Do Not Cross" or blood on the street, or the door that had been broken open to allow the creatures entrance. He'd not been prepared to see . . . nothing; the streets clear as if the entire thing had never happened. The rewriting of his history continued as he entered the building, noticing that nothing had changed there either. Soon, he was face to face with his own front door. He stood before it for a long while, willing it to change in appearance. He'd read something in his childhood to the effect that it was "dangerous business stepping out one's front door," and he smiled wryly realizing the ironic truth of the statement. Putting all he was into making it appear as it had that fateful night. In his mind's eye he could see the splintered wood of the frame and the blood smeared on its surface; today, though, he saw an ordinary door; an ordinary door with a lock that had been changed.

"Shit!" he howled, realizing that he didn't live there anymore. The locks had likely been changed as soon as he'd been taken away.

"And why shouldn't they be?" he said to himself,

"It's not like anyone had any reason to expect I'd be back."

He tried futilely to open the lock again before howling in rage, and passive aggressively breaking the key in the lock. Once again calm, he turned and walked from the building as if he believed for himself that nothing had happened. Behind him, at the door of a residence he no longer resided in; laid a bag of pills he knew he couldn't stomach.

-2-

Charles passed the next several weeks in a blur. News of the so called "Zombie Outbreak" became more and more prevalent, until it was finally something he couldn't escape from. He laughed in mock humor whenever someone with an official sounding title stared directly into television cameras to state very carefully that no one was calling the "things" Zombies, while the screen split to show camera footage of bodies in various states of decay moving through the streets attacking people. The video footage was always taken from grainy cell phone cameras and lacked so much detail that the supposed "Zombie Outbreak" could be mistaken for Big Foot sightings. Walking the street at night had become a nightly display of courage for most. As for Charles, he preferred to darkness. He enjoyed watching the parasites crawl out of the holes in which they slept away their days and wondered that he should feel more at home among the dregs and the undead than he should among the living. Such thoughts occupied his mind, offering just enough distraction from reality that he could avoid the horror behind his eyes.

"Chuck?" a female voice interrupted his reverie, and startled him into anger.

"Dammit Marcy! I told you not to sneak up on me!" he snapped.

"Jesus, Chuck, sorry." Marcy said defensively,

"What the hell happened to you?" she asked.

"What do you mean?" he snapped irritably.

"You look like shit, man. What happened? Hey, wait . . . aren't those the same clothes you were wearing last week?"

"Who the fuck knows, man." he said, laughing.

"You see what's going down out there?" he poked a thumb at the street behind her, just outside the entrance to the alley where he now stood. The girl stood in the street, illuminated in the glow of a street lamp, while Charles retreated into the shadows.

"Everyone's seen it, Chuck." she said, her tone soothing as if trying to calm the man,

"No one believes it."

"Well, they goddamn better well start!" he snapped, angrier than before. He accentuated his anger by pounding a fist into a nearby brick wall. Marcy could see that he'd left a smear of his blood in the wake of his fist. Blood that she now saw dripping to the ground.

"Fuck!" She exclaimed,

"Fuck! Fuck you Charles! Fuck!" she was frantic now, backing away from him.

"What? Marcy, get the fuck back here. Where are you going?" he came out of the alley, wincing as the light hit his face.

"You know that blood draws them out. You know that the smell of blood makes us change." she said, her face ashen.

"No, not 'us,'" he said,

"Them. It makes them change. If you were one of them you'd already be eating me." there was no humor in his voice, yet his face twisted in an obscene smile. 

"I don't care, Chuck." She spat,

"You want to get yourself eaten that's fine, but leave me alone."

"They won't eat me, Marcy." Charles said, suddenly calm and nearly whispering,

"They don't want me. I don't know why." He shook his head, as if to clear it and then looked at her again, clear-eyed.

"Do you have what I need?" he asked, simply.

"Fucking weirdo." Marcy said, producing a simple brown bag,

"I've got your stuff." she said, handing it to him,

"It's the usual deal."



Charles handed her a wadded up ball of bills and snatched the bag from her, grunting a thank you. Marcy looked at him with a cold sympathy.



"I gotta get home, Chuck. Patty will be waiting. She asked me to grab a couple things from the store on my way, so I gotta jet."



"Marcy, do you remember what it used to be like?" He asked, softly.



"You mean before ... it ... happened? Yeah, I remember."



"I can't remember anymore. What was it like?"



Marcy pulled a phone from her pocket and quickly typed a text message while she spoke.



"What do you mean? The world or us?"



"Us. All of us. You, me, Patty, Franklin..." he answered, trailing off.



"C'mon Chuck." she answered with a softer, friendlier tone.

"We've always been besties, you know that."



"Yeah, I know. It just, it seems so far away from here."



"That's because it is." she said, her voice laden with compassion.

"You lose Franklin ... that was a big deal. It literally changed everything. It changed you."



"But you're still here." He said with a smile,

"You're still my best friend."



"And I always will be." she said, closing the gap between them to peck his cheek.

"Marcy, it's all over. Isn't it?" he asked,

"Everything's changing and it's never going to be how it was again."

Her face became a mask of fear and resignation.

"No, Chuck. It's never going to be like that again. Look, I really do have to go."



He grunted something at her and waved her away in acquiescence. He'd pulled the contents of the brown bag out and was inspecting them carefully. He held the small bag of pills up to the light and was counting them.



"Tell me you'll be okay?" she called over her shoulder.



"I'll be fine." he said back, walking in the opposite direction.



"Where are you going?" she asked,

"Maybe we'll meet up later?"



"It's Friday night Marcy. I'm going to observe the American tradition of getting fucked and fucked up."



"That's my boy!" she said grinning.



He waved at her one last time and stuffed his hands in his pockets, looking at the ground as he walked, unconsciously fingering the pills he still held in his hand. 

-3-

Hours later, Charles stood in the midst of a throng of very hot, very sweaty people in various states of undress all moving and gyrating in dance to very loud, bass driven music.  Clearly out of place as the only person who wasn't dancing, he struggled to make his way through the densely packed flesh to the bar. Nearly falling into the bar as he finally arrived.

"Easy there!" the comment was accompanied by a strong hand closing around his forearm. There was strength behind it that Charles was instantly attracted to.

"Thanks," he said, looking up.
"Almost wiped out there." He locked eyes with his rescuer and felt immediately at ease at the soft blue/gray that was scanning him for injury.

"Are you hurt, um ..." he trailed off, waiting for a name.

"Charles, and no. I'm fine. It's just uh, it's been a while."

"Sherman." the man said, offering his hand. Charles shook it and felt his attraction to the man deepen at the firm grip.

"Thank you Sherman." he said with a smile,

"What are you drinking?"

"House Mead." he said, accepting the unspoken offer.

"Sounds great." Charles said, taking position next to the man. He flagged down the bartender and ordered the two drinks.

"So it's been a while, eh?" Sherman said, sipping his Mead.

"Yeah. A while to say the least."

"So what brings you out after so much time? Just trying to 'get back out there?'"

"You could say that," Charles said,

"I'm not even sure it’s a good idea. It hasn't been all that long since I lost-" he stopped abruptly.

"Lost what?" Sherman asked.

"It doesn't matter." Charles waved it away.

"The point is that I'm here, doing this again. Whatever this is."



"Indeed," Sherman said through a sip of his Mead.
"What is this?"

"Flirting." Charles said abruptly, and bluntly.

"Really terrible flirting."

"I don't know. I don't think it's such a bad attempt. I'm here sharing a drink aren't I?" Sherman smiled.

The smile did something to Charles. Something he hadn't felt in a long time. He felt all his stress melt away and he saw genuine affection behind the other man's beard and gorgeous blue/gray eyes. His eyes misted and he blinked to keep from crying.

"Thank you." he breathed.

"For what?" Sherman asked.

"For sharing the drink." Charles smiled, opening his eyes again.

"And for helping me realize something."

"What's that?" Sherman prompted. His amiable and laid back demeanor made it clear that he was hoping to make something happen with Charles while still holding an attitude of distant non-expectation. He'd moved to face Charles with his whole body, his legs becoming more relaxed and therefore slightly open at the thigh. Charles notices all of this and turned his body to match, allowing the body language between the two of them to drive the desire he was sure the other man felt. He took a sip of his mead.

"Unusual to have Mead in a place like this, isn't it?"

"It's the best kept secret in town." Sherman said. The music stopped as he said it, increasing the volume of his voice ten-fold. Charles smiled and waited to speak again until the next song started up.

"It is delicious." he conceded over the new thrumming bass that seemed to be the same as the previous thrumming bass.

"So uh, Charles," Sherman said,

"Where was this flirting going to go?"

Charles looked at him and smiled.

"I think we both know where that's going to end up." He finished the Mead and ordered another. When it arrived he produced the bag full of pills and swallowed a handful. The bag's contents were nearly gone with only a few remaining, he offered these to Sherman.

"I never mix booze and pills." Sherman declined.
"Don't want to end up like Marilyn."

"Unless you do." Charles said wryly.

"I like you Sherman, and I haven't liked anyone in a really long time."

"I like you to, Charles." Sherman said, moving in closer and putting a lingering hand on Charles' arm.

"What are those pills?"

"They help me take the edge off in large crowds."

"I bet! You swallowed at least a dozen of them."

"Two dozen actually." he held up the bag, which had only four pills remaining.

"Gotta save something for the afterglow." he winked at Sherman.

"Like I was saying Sherman, I like you. I think we have a connection. Ya know?"

"Well, I think there's some attraction there, sure." Sherman said, moving his hand from Charles' arm down to his thigh and around to his buttock.

"I mean beyond that. Sherman, I'm going to level with you about something."

"Ooh! Mysterious!" Sherman said, leaning in even closer. The two men were now close enough that they could kiss if they wanted to. Charles took full advantage of Sherman's forward nature and grabbed the sides of his face and kissed him furiously. The kiss lasted for minutes, the two of them fighting for control of it. Charles attacked with all the ferocity of a starving man given food for the first time in days. Sherman was more reserved, allowing Charles to lead, but remaining steady in his resolve, keeping the kiss going in the way he wanted and only for as long as he wanted. When they finally broke apart he looked at Charles, smiling once again.

"You kiss like you've never kissed anyone before."

"Like I said," Charles replied,

"It's been a long time."

Sherman looked him up and down, deciding to see where Charles was willing to take things. He leaned back, putting some distance between them but staying close enough that they could still touch.

"What were you going to say?" he asked.

"I was going to be honest about something."

"What's that?"

"You're my first." Charles began."

"No I'm not." Sherman scoffed.

"No one who swallows pills like that and kisses like that is a virgin at anything!"

"I didn't mean my first ever. I mean you're my first in a long time. See, I had this thing happen to me a while back. I won't bore you with the details but it was bad. Really bad. I spent some time in the hospital and only got out a few weeks ago."

"What happened?" Sherman asked, suddenly cautious.

"Well, I had just gotten married. We didn't have much money so we went home and had our honeymoon at home in our own bed. We were," he stumbled over his words.

"Uh, we were fucking and that's when it happened."

"When what happened?"

"They came in all at once, just broke the door down."

"Oh my god! What happened?"

"They pulled him off of me and held him in the corner while I watched. They left me alone. I never figured out why they left me alone. But they took him away from me and made me watch while they did it. And this is the part I need to be honest with you about. It messed me up pretty bad. I spent some time in the hospital, just to get my head right. They let me out a few weeks back; deemed me "not a threat to myself or anyone else."

He paused here, and looked up at Sherman, gauging the other man's response. For his part,
Sherman still sat looking at him, completely calm and listening intently.

"That's awful!" Sherman said, taking the cue that he should say something.

"And this was only weeks ago? Are you sure you're ready for anything at all with anyone else?"

"I'm more than sure. I wasn't when I came in here, but I am now, more than ever. Sherman, I think you were meant to save me." he put on his best smile for the other man and moved in closer, putting one arm around Sherman's shoulders and the other arm in his lap, blatantly groping the generous bulge he found there.

"Will you take me to your place so we can finish what we started?"

Sherman smiled halfheartedly.

"Look, it really sounds like you've been through a lot and you leveled with me so let me level with you. I'm not looking for anything serious. I'm here to hook up. Nothing more and nothing less. Hell, I've sucked 3 dicks in the back," he gestured to a door dividing the front of the club from the back,

"Just tonight. I'm not really sure I'm what you're looking for."



"No, no. You are." Charles soothed.

"You're exactly what I'm looking for. I promise this isn't going to last any longer than tonight. What do you say?" he groped Sherman again and nuzzled his neck. When he broke away the look of desire on Sherman's face was now as obvious as what the hand in his lap was doing.

"I say you've convinced Me." he said, grabbing Charles by the arm and heading for the door.

It was a short distance to Sherman's apartment. The Club was his regular spot and he walked there to avoid drinking and driving. Within ten minutes they were walking through his front door and within fifteen they were naked in his bed.

"You really don't waste any time do you?" Sherman said breathlessly.

"No. I really don't." Charles replied with a smile.

"Last chance, you sure you want to help me do this?"

Sherman smiled,

"I couldn't stop now if I wanted to."

"That's what I wanted to hear." Charles said. He pushed Sherman down on the bed and straddled him. He used his hips to lock Sherman into place and braced himself on his shoulders.

"See, I knew you were the one who would save Me." he said.

"Consider yourself rescued." Sherman said, yielding to Charles' strength.

"Now, let's get down to how you're going doing it."

"I don't think I need any instruction there." Sherman said, with confidence.

"Not everything is what it seems." Charles said. He got off the bed and walked to his pants, crumpled on the floor nearby.

"Wait? Are you going? I thought we were just getting started."

"I'm not going anywhere. I just need to be sure of something first." Charles said. He produced the baggie of pills from his pocket and held them up.

"These pills ... I wasn't lying. They're to help me take the edge off. I took more than enough to make sure. If this works the way I think it will then I'll be saved before you can do anything else. If it doesn't work the way I think it will then you'll save me by calling 9-1-1 and giving the paramedics these last four to identify what I took."

"What the fuck!?" Sherman exclaimed,

"What the fuck are you doing?"

Charles produced a butterfly knife from his other pocket, as if in answer. He deftly opened it with one hand and drew the blade down his left arm from elbow to wrist. It was a surface wound only, not enough to be lethal, but enough to make sure that blood would flow.

"What the fuck are you doing? You psycho!" Sherman screamed. He was off the bed in a single, smooth movement and grabbing for a phone in his own pants' pocket.

"Now," Charles said simply,

"Save me." He lay on the bed, silently, as the blood dripped from his arm onto the sheets where it spread as the fabric absorbed the liquid. He closed his eyes; suddenly afraid to witness what he knew would happen next.

"Save me, Sherman."



Sherman was staring into space, his demeanor suddenly changed. He was no longer panicked and looked at the cell phone in his hand, dumbly. He shook his head as if trying to clear it before dropping it. Charles heard the clatter of the phone on the floor and smiled. With his eyes closed he was unable to see what happened next but his ears registered the sudden, guttural growl that came from his would be lover.

"I knew it." Charles said.

He laid perfectly still, his heart beating in his chest, though he didn't know if it was the adrenaline of the situation or if it was the drugs he'd overdosed on, finally ready to take his life.

"You can eat me, like you ate him," Charles said,

"But I won't be here for It." he laughed.

He felt Sherman move closer to him and felt his breath near the wound on his arm. A clot was beginning to form, slowing the flow of blood. Sherman sniffed at the wound, and licked at the blood; growling all the time. Then, without ceremony, he moved away from Charles, heading slowly for the door. Charles opened his eyes and looked.

"Where are you going?" he called after Sherman. The other man looked back at him with a snarl. Charles could see the dead eyes and understood that all life had left the other man.

"Just like before." he said, dejected.

"Why won't you take me?" he cried, sobbing. The tears flowed and he howled in rage and pain. Sherman watched him expressionlessly until the sound stopped. Then, he turned and with no further fuss, left the apartment.

Charles looked after him, then at his bleeding arm. He lay back on the bed, naked and calm.

"It doesn't matter," he said to himself as he lay there staring at the ceiling, expressionless and calm. He thought he could hear the faint sound of sirens nearby and he smiled, knowing that they weren't for him. With a final, peaceful breath, he allowed his eyes to close once again.

"You still saved me."

From the Ashes

From the debris and
From the ashes
The Phoenix will rise
Though not the same as before
Tarnished feathers
Burned at the tips
Create a permanent reminder of
Horrors that can't be unseen
But now looked upon with the
Proverbial bird's eye view
A change of perspective
To offer peace
In a milieu of emotion.

Through newly acquired wisdom
The mundane will fall away
In the sunrise of a new world
Burnished eyes
Grim with determination
Take flight to the unknown
Soaring away into joy
Leaving behind all concept of "down"
It cannot be known from where this admiration springs
For the Phoenix flies beyond its reach
With knowledge of the universe
A gift imparted to those left behind
The greatest lesson ever learned

Wings are not needed to soar into joy.

Weep Not for Roads Untravelled

-1-

"Officer? ... O-officer?"

"Yes? How can I help you?"

The voices couldn't have been more opposite. The first, asking for the officer's help was frantic, and gave an almost nasal whine to the words; the second, a deeper voice with a gravelly quality, oozed confidence. 

"My name's Jonny. Jonny Kalamata ... like the Olives. I, uh ... I need some help I think." 

"What sort of help?" the officer asked, his tag gleamed the name Ford and he held his hands close to the buckle of his belt as Jonny approached him. 

"Well, that's just it. I can't really explain, it's more like I have to show you." and he stepped into the light. Officer Ford could see clearly that he wore a black t-shirt that was sticking to his wiry, muscular frame; the boy was clearly soaked.

"That's close enough," Ford said, easing one hand to the flashlight in his belt. 

"What's that all over your shirt?"

"It's part of the reason I need help. See I was with my ex and-"

"Is that blood on your shirt?" Ford asked, shining the light on the young man. 

"Yes sir, it is." Jonny said.

"I think you'd better just stand right there and start at the beginning, son." Ford said, gently moving his other hand to his firearm.

"Yes sir." Jonny said, almost dutifully, and began talking almost immediately.

I broke up with my girlfriend about six months ago. It wasn't anything bad, just time to move on, ya know? Well, we tried to be friends and still hang out but that wasn't going to well. I went over to her house on a Monday night, right after the break up and had dinner. That's when it really started. Dinner was pretty normal, I guess. Spaghetti, but I didn't eat much because I had this weird paranoia that she was going to poison me. Anyway, we ate dinner and then sat down to watch the news; just like we did when we were together. The news was filled with all these stories about zombies in North Carolina. I thought it was just the bath salts thing happening again, but she was always scared of zombies and watching the tv that night she was white as a sheet.

"Didn't you live in North Carlina?" I asked her.

"Yeah for just under a year." she said, still ashen.

"I wonder what caused it," I said, kind of absently.

"Mind if I get a drink?" 

"No. Not at all." she said.

I walked into the kitchen and made myself a mojito. 

"Would you like a drink?" I asked, and because I wasn't paying attention I cut my hand open on the lime I was putting in the drink.

"Ow! Shit!" I wasn't really hurt, mind you, I was just more like, pissed off because I'd been stupid. And because blood was dripping on my ex's floor. 

 "You have any paper towels?" I yelled. No answer though. I didn't care, really, I was used to her not talking to me. I found the paper towels, made my drink and got back to the news. She was still white as a sheet when I sat down.

"You okay?" I asked. I was feeling awkward so I was ready to use this as an excuse to leave. She didn't answer me though. She actually didn't move besides her eyes blinking every so often while she watched the news. 

"I bet this is all a hoax." I said. It just seemed too surreal, ya know? Zombies? In North Carolina of all places? What the fuck? Anyway, it was around then that I noticed a sort of growling. I looked over at my ex, and she had turned and was looking at my hand where the cut was, and the growling was coming from her.

Before I knew it she lunged at me and she was on top of me. I was surprised because we were broken up and I didn't expect her to come on to me. Then she got really close to my face and that's when I noticed something was wrong. Her eyes weren't right, they were all sort of white and glazed over, and her mouth, she almost seemed feral. I looked at he TV and saw dozens of other people, dragging themselves all over the street. Some were crawling and some were growling like my ex, but all of them looked scarier than shit! I didn't know what to do so I shoved my knee into her chest, like right between her tits and pushed her back hard. She flew backwards into the television and the screen went dark and the room got quiet.  I still didn't know what to do, but I didn't really get time to make a plan. I didn't even have time to ask her if she was okay. She pulled herself up and looked at me. Still growling and still angrier than hell. I walked backwards into the ktchen. Not taking my eyes off her. She followed me, her face a grimace, and I really couldn't tell you she was the same person I'd dated for the last few years. 

When I got to the kitchen I grabbed her cast iron skillet off the stove and waited. I let her get close and then I hit her. As hard as I could across the face with the skillet. Her head flew back far as she was knocked into the wall. But she didn't stop. She kept coming at me and I stood there letting her get close and hitting her every time. Her face was covered in blood and I now for a fact her nose and cheeks were broken. Her face was sinking in a little bit and I just kept hitting her. Over and over. But she just kept coming. I didn't know what to do. So I just kept hitting her. 

That's not the really messed up part, though. 

The really messed up part happened about an hour later when she was still coming at me and I was still hitting her. By that point I had gotten the point that it wasn't going to end and that I would have to try something else in order to stop her. I looked around the kitchen and found what I was looking for, the knife block. I reached over and grabbed a carving knife. The next time she got close to me, I grabbed at her hair with my free hand and yanked her back. She was growling at me and snapping her jaws, but before she could do anything I pulled the knife across her throat and watched the blood spill out. I remember a sort of laughing sound. I laughed out loud, I think, when there were bubbles in the blood because she was still growling at me. She never really stopped trying to get at me, but when I threw her on the floor a few moments later she had stopped moving and the blood was just pooling on the floor under her.

-2-

"Now wait just a minute son," Officer Ford interjected.

"Are you trying to tell me that you killed someone? That this happened six months ago and that for some reason tonight you're covered in blood and you need police assistance."

Jonny scratched his head and looked at Officer Ford sheepishly.

"That's about the size of it, I suppose." he said. 

"She wasn't really dead though. I mean, she kept coming at me."

Officer Ford scratched his chin.

"It's true, things have been kind of up in the air since these Zombies showed up. Let's stick with tonight. How did you get covered in blood tonight?"

"Officer Ford, you'd better come with me for that one."

"I don't think so son, I think you'd better just tell me right now."

"I don't really know where to begin." Jonny said, and launched into more of his tale.

I felt bad leaving her there, but I couldn't just take her with me either. I watched her twitch for about an hour before she stopped moving. The creepy part, though, is that she didn't die. She should have. I mean, I sliced her throat and everything. But she didn't. The creepier part was that I felt so detached from it. She came at me like a zombie and I dropped her. The woman I'd loved for years and I dropped her like that, like it was nothing. I watched her bleed out, twitch until all the blood was gone and I just stood there like it was nothing. I couldn't tell you then and I can't tell you now if that was because of the adrenaline of having no choice, or if it was because I had genuinely come to hate that woman for what she'd done to me in our "relationship." It didn't really matter though, she was dead and that's really all I cared about. She was dead and I was standing.

I stepped around the blood, being careful not to get my shoes in it and noticed that when I moved her eyes moved with me. I got a bit closer to her and waited. She moved incredibly fast but incredibly clumsy. Her arm snaked out and her hand wrapped around my ankle. I didn't think, I brought the knife down hard and sliced into it. The knife wasn't sharp like you see in the movies, so I brought it down again. And again. Over and over, hacking and hacking until her arm came off. Then I backed away again, she followed me with those dead eyes and I watched her. 

I left her there. I didn't really know what else to do. I went back to the couch where the news was on and I finished my drink. The news was full of stories about these zombies. The whole thing was surreal. I looked at my clothes and realized I was covered in blood. I walked to the bathroom to clean myself off and catch my breath. What else was I going to do? I wasn't gone for more than five minutes but it was that five minutes that really counted.

When I went back downstairs, still covered in blood but none of it on my skin anymore I heard a sort of sickening crunching sound. After what had already happened I couldn't imagine things getting worse, that is until I went downstairs. The sounds were all I had to guide me as I walked into the kitchen, as slowly as I could. The crunching was louder and more defined and there was also a crying sound, but what was most disturbing, was the absence of other sounds. The growling had stopped, there were no sounds of movement and when I rounded the corner into the kitchen I understood why.

While I had been upstairs, the kids . . . my ex's two kids had gotten up and made their way down the stairs. More than anything else that happened that night or since then, I wish I could save them. They are 8 and 5 and I loved them like they were my own. I mean, I stayed as long as I did mostly because of them, but that . . . that's another story. The important thing is the sight that greeted me because it will stay with me until I die. The youngest was laying on the ground in the pool of blood, curled up next to what used to be his mother in a sickening parody of cuddling. She silently ate his face, tearing the flesh from his skull with her teeth and using her tongue to lap up the blood. Her eyes were empty and her silence betrayed that there was nothing left inside her of this boy's mother. She silently and ravenously ate him. The whimpering came from the corner where the other boy cowered. I called to him but he didn't respond, whether in shock or frightened beyond belief.

-3-

"Are you trying to get arrested son?" Officer Ford once again interjected.

"No sir. I told you I need help. You asked for the details."

"Son, you're telling me a story that happened six months ago. A story that, by rights, I should arrest you for. The thing is, though, the story, if you're telling the truth, seems like just wrong place wrong time. No matter what, though, I'm going to have to take you in." he approached Jonny with his handcuffs out.

"Wait!" Jonny exclaimed,

"Don't you want to know what happened tonight? How I got covered in blood?"

"Son, I've asked you twice to tell me that and you gave me this cock and bull nonsense about zombies from six months ago. Now, I'm no doctor, but I'm pretty sure that it doesn't take blood longer than six months to dry."

"You're right, sir, it doesn't. I tried to tell you that I need to show you but you wouldn't let me. That's why I told you the story. I figured that you'd either see that I needed police help or that you'd think I was crazy and want to follow me to the bodies."

"Bodies? What bodies?"

"I told you. My ex. And the baby she killed. They're just around the corner and I need help."

Officer Ford considered the other man for a moment before deciding. He drew his firearm and pointed it at Jonny's chest. Jonny reflexively put his hands in the air.

"Lead on, boy. But you keep those eyes in front and no funny business."

"No sir, officer." Jonny said, dutifully.

He began walking and, true to his word, after rounding the corner and walking less than two blocks a gray/blue house clearly became their destination. Jonny walked up to the front door and pulled a key from his pocket. He deftly opened the door, as if he'd lived there for years. Officer Ford brought up the rear, pausing slightly before entering behind Jonny.

The first thing that happened was the wretching. He hadn't been prepared for the stench that made its way through the house and into his nostrils. Doubling over, he vomited on a large area rug that was in the living room. To his right he noticed the television, broken as Jonny had described. Glancing to the kitchen, he thought he smelled the faint metallic odor of blood. Forcing himself up and toward the kitchen he realized that Jonny was no longer in his line of sight. He trained his gun toward the room in front of him, and as he approached, he identified the source of the smell.

Sprawled on the floor, covered in dried blood and quite obviously decomposing, was the body of a woman. Jonny's ex, Officer Ford assumed. Remarkably, she moved as he entered the room, her head straining to get closer to him. He swallowed back a wretch along with bile and more vomit and without thinking fired one shot into the creature's head. 

"Whoa!" Jonny said, appearing in a nearby doorway.

"Was that really necessary?"

"I don't know what's going on here, son, but you need to come out of there nice and easy and we'll get this sorted out."

"There's nothing to sort out." Jonny said, taking a step out of the doorway.

"No?" 

"No sir. See, that night, the end of the story was that I realized they wouldn't eat me. I don't even think they knew why because they kept getting close, but even when I gave up and decided to let them, all they did was get close enough to sniff me, run their teeth against my skin but they never bit, not once."

"They?" Officer Ford asked.

It was then that Jonny came out of the door fully. Behind him came a small form, a shock of red hair on his head. The boy had deadened, empty eyes and from his throat came a guttural growl.

"She only got to eat one of them. I wouldn't let her get the other. The problem was, he was already gone. I'm not really sure what caused all this. I just knew that with his mother gone I would have to look after him."

"What did you do?" Officer Ford breathed. 

"I've been feeding him. I didn't really know what else to do." 

"Son, you need to get down on your knees and put your head on your hands." 

Jonny complied, getting on his knees.

"Don't you want to see the bodies?" Jonny asked.

"Could get you a promotion I bet, taking out a scumbag like me."

"You stay right there." 

Jonny moved so swiftly that Officer Ford couldn't have seen it coming if he'd been fully prepared. Jonny threw one hand out from behind his head and from his jacket sleeve a small piece of metal glinted in the overhead light. The knife caught Officer Ford in the belly and stuck there. He immediately dropped the gun and fell forward, within reaching distance of the animated corpse on the floor. 

"Just a one inch blade. I just had to stop you shooting me. The rest will come in time. See, I couldn't leave him here. Not with her. I couldn't seem to kill her so I did the next best thing. I brought him food and let him eat."

Jonny moved the boy close enough to Officer Ford, then backed away as the boy and his undead mother devoured the man. Jonny winced slightly at the screams but he'd long since been desensitized to the sounds of death. He watched with pride until there was nothing left of Officer Ford but bone, then the cold panic hit him again. The feeling that accompanied the realization that he didn't know what to do. He ushered the boy back into the doorway where he'd been hidden and said softly,

"I'll be right back." before shutting the door on him. 

Then retrieving his knife and tucking it once more into his sleeve he walked back out into the night.

"I wonder who can help me now?" he said to himself. 

In the distance he saw headlights heading toward him. With a smile he moved into the middle of the road and waited.

After My House was Robbed

From the minute we're born
Our life as a statistic begins
255 babies born every minute and
Every step of our development from that point on
Is programmed and categorized
For easy comparison and reference
Apgar score, head circumference
Height, weight
How fast we grow . . . or how slow
From the minute we're born
We either fit in or we don't
We're either normal or abnormal
And every minute after realizing this
Is spent avoiding statistics
"I don't want to be a statistic" we shout, while
57 million Americans have mental Health disorders
      (and there are 55 Million registered republicans)
How quick can we say
"I'm not crazy" when
1 out of 2 people abuse alcohol
Let's drink to not being the one with the problem!
4 out of 5 of us do drugs
Well, pass the dutchie because I'm. Number. Four.
1 out 5 children witness domestic violence
So maybe that's why I still shake when someone wants to fight
3 million homes will be robbed
1 out of every 6 women will be raped
      (1 out of 10 men)
216 people will die while this poem is being read

The question is, Does that matter?

How many sunrises will be seen?
How many sunsets?
How many first kisses will be enjoyed and
How many last kisses will linger in memory?
How many job interviews will be nailed and
How many pink slips doled out?
When will success happen and
When will its relevance be questioned
How many books will be read?
How many poems written?
How much love will be fallen into and
How many dances will be danced?
     (In the rain?)

From the minute we're born
Our life as a statistic begins
And we remain one until we die
This is the way of things
Birth followed by death
The part in the middle?
That's called life and
Life is now and
Life  . . .
Is still to come.

A Walk Up the Midway

-1-

She stood before the mirror; soft light from overused dimming bulbs that lined her reflection creating radiant beauty while lacking all function for the task at hand. She patted her face with powder, creating a cloud that gave the illusion of an otherworldly origin. The analogy was fitting for the setting, though she paid it no mind; her ritual was practiced with ease and grace borne of habit. She bent low and pulled dark stockings over her feet and up shaped calves onto her thighs where she clipped them to a garter, hidden under a black skirt. She stood before the mirror, topless, taking in her body's shape and allowing time to appreciate the curves that had taken so long for her to accept. She knew now that her acceptance didn't matter, not here, in this place; which was ironic since this very fact made it easier to appreciate. The image in the second mirror, behind her, was more difficult. Thanks to the juxtaposition of the companion mirror made her back visible and was a necessity, though it made her uncomfortable. She did not appreciate what she saw. Damaged, scarred flesh, made her shudder and curse her misfortune as she always did. She knew the scars were a necessary evil and to some, their symmetrical pattern would appear artistic, maybe even beautiful. To her mind, though, they were a reminder of the hardships that had led her here, to this place; and what had created the scarring she so despised. After a sigh she picked up her bodice and slipped her arms through it easily. She pulled it around her breasts tightly and began to fasten silver clasps in a regular pattern. With each gesture, the bodice tightened and she inhaled sharply in slight pain. Her back became more rigid as small wires inserted themselves into her skin at strategic points along her spine; these were the cause of the scarring, she knew, but she had no choice. Completing her task she stood before the mirror once more and gave herself a winning stage smile, spreading six arms before the mirror as if she were presenting a new car on a game show.

"Timothy!" the sharp voice cut the boy like a knife and he immediately blushes and quickly retracted his head from the tent, where he'd been watching.

"Timothy Clark Duncan! What in sam hell are you doing there?" Tim cursed silently to himself as he joined the fuming woman several feet from the tent.

"I'm sorry Ma," he said, "I was just watching."

"I know what you were watching, young man and you know God will strike you blind for peeping!" his mother said judgmentally. Tim ran a hand through his mop of dark hair with one hand while shoving his other into his pocket. He was handsome for his sixteen years, looking closer to twenty, with only his eyes and his smile betraying his innocence. 

"I'd rather be blind than a virgin." he quipped.

"Keep talking smart. You'll see. I bet all them monsters down in Charlotte were smart too. Look what's happening to them." In response Tim rolled his eyes.

Mother and son resumed their walk and Tim took in the sights and smells almost gleefully. He'd never been to a circus before, and had been pleasantly surprised when his mother had agreed to the trip. The midway was a bustle of activity and everything Tim had hoped it would be. A juggling clown on a unicycle rode in front of them and was rewarded with an awed stare from Tim. In spite of this, though, he wasn't deterred from his destination.

The sign read "World's Greatest Freaks!" followed by "100% Authentic! 100% Alive! 100% Creepy!" painted on the image of a ribbon wrapping around the rest of the text. Tim felt his heart begin pumping as they reached the entrance.

"Honestly Tim, I don't know why you want to go in there, those poor people."

"It's all fake, ma. Don't worry. I just saw Spider-Girl putting on fake arms." 

"I'll just bet that's what you saw." his mother said reprovingly.

"Jesus ma! Would you let it go?" he said, and instantly regretted it.

"Don't you dare take the Lord's name in vain! Now, I raise you better'n that, didn't I? Brought you to this place and that's the thanks you have?"

"I'm sorry. I'm just excited." he said.

"Well, excited about what?" his mother asked impatiently.

"That." Tim said, pointing.

The sign that read "World's Greatest Freaks" was centered above 4 painted portraits, each about ten feet tall.  The first was a smiling woman with six arms and read "The only living human arachnid! SPIDER-GIRL!" Next to this was a normal enough looking man, painted in a profile shot, wearing a black suit with a bowler hat on his head. His sign read "What cruel twist of fate can make a man become what he became? John Smith." Tim, wondered at this for a moment but shook his head, assuming there would be some gimmick. The third sign had been painted black with a banner that simply read "Removed by order of the state of Louisiana! Write your Congressman!" The fourth, though, was what had Tim's attention. The image was a man with the palest of pale skin, which appeared to be decaying; the eyes were glassy and white, lifeless and his clothes were torn and there were pieces of his body that had been worn down almost to bone. His mother gasped at seeing it but there seemed to be little surprise in her reaction. The sign read "FIRST APPEARANCE! GENUINE! CAPTURED IN CHARLOTTE! THE ONLY UNDEAD SPECIMEN IN EXISTENCE!" Tim didn't care that they hadn't bothered to name it, he intended to see it for himself, nonetheless.

"My God!" his mother breathed, "How awful!"

"If by awful, you mean amazing," Tim replied, "I agree."

-2-

"Step right up, step right up my young man!" the voice was boisterous and attached to a man who looked to be the inverse of a stereotypical ringmaster. He wore a black tuxedo, complete with tophat and tails on his jacket, his shirt was blood red with a white tie, and over his feet he wore red and white spats. His plump face was red and his bushy mustache was sculpted at the ends, rising into a curl on each side.

"Who are you supposed to be, Ringling?" Tim asked, incredulously. He made a mental note to point out on his blog that this man's appearance was so out of date that it passed nostalgic and served to take away from the ambiance of the attraction.

"If you like, good sir." Ringling replied with a smile, "We don't stand on ceremony here." 

"Whatever," Tim said, then before he could finish,

"Timothy! You're being rude!" his mother said with a smack on his head. 

"It's quite alright, madam! The boy is right to bring skepticism into the tent with him. A show like ours hasn't been seen in years and, as you can see some aspects of it have fallen before the more sensitive appetites of the modern world." he said, gesturing to the third sign on the panel before them.

"Look," Tim said, losing patience and waiting to get inside, "I already know this is all fake. There's no way you could get away with putting "genuine" freaks on display in a sideshow. Not these days. You'd get sued! It's not PC!"

"Quite so!" Ringling said with a chuckle, "Quite so, indeed. And yet, here we are. I assure you all of the attractions are guaranteed."

"Or our money back, right?" Tim scoffed.

"Not exactly. You see, you've already paid to enter and the entry fee is non-refundable. Our guarantee is something different entirely."

"Oh?" this from Tim's mother, she had moved closer to Ringling, and if Tim didn't know better, he'd think she was flirting.

"Indeed madam!" Ringling said with a flourish. "Why, if you aren't one hundred per cent assured of the bona fides of the attractions we will grant ownership of the entire show to your good selves."

Tim scoffed again, "Come on! That's hardly worth anything! If they're fake, why would we want them?"

Ringling was still undaunted, "As I pointed out, young sir, you have already paid the entry fee." he gestured to the tent. Tim admitted he had a a point. Even if the attractions were fake, a person could make money taking the act on the road.

"There's a sucker born every minute." he said walking into the tent. 

Tim blinked hard in an attempt to force his eyes to adjust to the darkness, though it didn't help. As soon as the tent flap closed all the light as well as the sounds from the Midway had vanished, and this unsettled Tim, though he assumed it was part of the show.  

"I shall be your guide on this tour of the grotesque," Ringling's voice came, more somber than before, "Please don't move until directed to do so. This is a safety precaution for yourselves. 

As if on cue, soft lights came up and Tim was able to see his mother next to him, as well as Ringling standing before a stage, cordoned off with a velvet rope, similar to a museum exhibit. Behind the rope, Tim could make out a velvet chair next to a simple wooden table. The table held several items, a pipe, a carafe of what Tim assumed was Brandy, a book of matches, and a lipstick. On a nearby wall there was a mirror, though there wasn't enough light to see a reflection.

"What we have here is the sitting area for John Smith." 

"Yeah, what's the deal with him?" Tim asked, "He isn't scary or a freak at all. He's just some guy in a bowler hat."

From further into the tent, Tim thought he could hear a low growl, and abruptly remembered why he'd been so eager. He felt fear for a moment, and wondered if the undead specimen was as genuine as promised. 

"Please, hold all your questions until the end, young sir." Ringling admonished. 

"John Smith was found north of the American border and welcomed the chance to make a home here with us. It seems that the residents where he'd come from were a bit unsettled by his countenance." Tim though Ringling had chuckled at the end of that sentence. 

As if on cue, a man appeared. He was clearly the man that had been pictured outside, he walked up to the chair and sat down, though he appeared to carefully position his back so that it wasn't pressed into the chair. He reached for the pipe and matches and deftly lit it and began puffing away.

"What's the lipstick for? Is he some kind of transvestite?" Tim asked, straining to make the normal character seem a bit weirder than he appeared.

"Certainly not!" came the appalled reply. John stood up, grabbing the lipstick from the table and began walking toward the mirror. He arrived, still facing the observers, and bent toward the mirror, backward. His back moved at an unnatural angle as he tilted toward the mirror, though what appeared as the reflection was anything but the back of his head. A blonde woman, reminiscent of Marilyn Monroe in her looks (though quite obviously not the famous actress) appeared in the mirror and began applying the lipstick.

"Oh my!" Tim's mother cried out in surprise.

"Come on! That's just a trick with the mirror! Anyone who took theater in high school knows how to do that!" Tim didn't bother to hide his disdain over the obvious forgery.

"Young man," John himself spoke now, "I appreciate a skeptical mind indeed, though I must protest at your lack of faith. Perhaps you'd like a closer look?" 

John moved up to the velvet rope, close enough that Tim could reach out and touch him. He locked eyes with the young man and began to slowly turn. The move was practiced, and he paused for just a few seconds in profile view and then completed his turn. Tim took an involuntary step back and inhaled sharply. The blonde woman from the mirror stood before him, lipstick freshly applied. She leaned over, and Tim noticed the curve of her breast in spite of himself, and swallowed hard.

"How did . . . " he stammered, "Uh, how did you do that?" 

"We didn't do anything, sugar." the woman stated, her voice soft and with a hint of sultry seduction.

"What happened to you?" Tim's mother asked.

The woman looked at Ringling, "Now, I just hate that question, don't you?" she said, "Nothing 'happened' this is how I was born."

"You were born as two people? Or as the front of two people?" Tim asked narrowing his eyes.

"Yes." came John's male voice.

John sauntered back to the chair, the female face remaining visible, and sat down, a bit more daintily than before. Tim winced at the motion, wondering how the being's knees were able to bend so flexibly in either direction. 

"It's some kind of trick." Tim said, though his voice lacked conviction.

"I assure you there is no trick. Shall we continue to the next, ahem, exhibit?" Ringling asked. His question was answered by another low growl and what sounded like a small scream. Tim looked past Ringling into the tent and took a hesitant step forward.

"What's next?" he asked, "Spider-Girl?" 

"Quite." Ringling said, ushering his charges forward.

As the trio moved forward, the lights dimmed once more, preventing Tim from looking back at John Smith and his curious "twin." He felt disoriented again as he was veiled in a darkness that was somehow thicker than any other darkness Tim could think of. his disorientation passed as pale light returned, slightly to his right, and he looked at what he knew to be the "lair" of Spider-Girl. He thought breifly of watching the woman prepare for the show and his disappointment that she was a fake subsided when he recalled her full breasts and curved hips. Before his thoughts had a chance to turn too erotic, however, Ringling spoke again.

"What you've surmised is correct, young sir. We have arrived at the Web of Spider-Girl. Now, she is not an arachnid per se, of course."

"Right," Tim said, "Let me guess. Some type of human-spider hybrid?" 

"Nothing so droll, I assure you," Ringling said, his tone indicating that he was beginning to lose patience with the boy, "No, Spider-Girl was involved in horrific accident a number of years ago. There was damage to her nervous system and she lost much of the mobility of her arms and legs. She joined our family, originally, as "The Living Dead Girl" but the effects of her appearance on the crowd was simply too catastrophic. Through a series of bizarre accidents we discovered that a prosthetic allows her to regain 100% use of her legs."

"So you admit she's a fake?" Tim asked, suspicious, "I thought you guaranteed everything was genuine."

"You'll now, I'm sure, that the chief characteristic of spiders is that they have 8 limbs. I'm sure you were expecting that Spider-Girl will as well. There are, however, other characteristics of the spider. We'll let you decide, young sir, if Spider-Girl can indeed live up to her name."

From the back of the web, Tim's eyes caught movement, and he saw Spider-Girl emerge. She did have the requisite 8 limbs, though Tim had to admit he was surprised to see her using all of them. She fairly crawled on her web, almost as a real spider would have. As she got closer, Tim was distracted by the light glinting from the web. The material was thick, but appeared fragile. No doubt it was some type of fiberglass, but it did seem odd that it bore her weight.

"She can use all 8 limbs," he began, "I'll grant you that but what-" 

He was cut off by a roar and what was unmistakably a scream this time, and he jumped back, startled.

"Pay of no mind, young sir, I'll tend to it while Spider-Girl regales you with her talents." Ringling said, disappearing into the darkness so quickly it was like he'd vanished.

"Your legs are impressive." Tim said, conversationally.

"I've never had any complaints," the arachnis replied, "You don't believe I'm genuine, I take it."

"Well, I mean, come on. How can you be?" Tim said. Spider-Girl moved closer and his mother drew back, not bothering to mask her fear. Tim knew this was due to her great fear of spiders.

"You heard the story of my accident. The legs may be prostheses but I assure you, I'm quite the Spider." her voice dripped with confidence in what she was saying. There was no question she believed every word.

"You see, when I was "The Living Dead Girl" the crowd reaction was fierce. Children screamed. Women cried. Men fainted." she said, the memory clearly drawing menace from her. Tim, was hypnotized by her gaze as she spoke.

"One day, a little girl screamed and wouldn't stop. I laid still, not wanting to scare her any further, but her mother, so appalled by my, began hitting me with her handbag. My benefactor," she gestured to where Ringling had disappeared, "Did his best to stop it. In the end, though, it was a good thing. Because I learned how to do this." she leaned in, mere inches from Tim's face, and he leaned back, so hypnotized was he, that he welcomed what appeared to be a kiss. At the last moment, however, Spider-Girl opened her mouth and a thick substance shot out and sealed itself over Tim's mouth. He reflexively reached up and pulled it away. It was sticky, but pliable and after a moment he was completely free. For her part, Spider-Girl crawled back to the top of her web.

"What the hell?" Tim's mother smacked his arm reprovingly as he swore. "What is this stuff? Spider's web?" the only response he got was the shrug of six arms.

"Ah, I see, Spider-Girl has let you in on her true nature." Ringling said, suddenly reappearing. His face was ashen, and sweat beaded his brow. 

"She caught me in her web, if that's what you mean." Tim said, then, "What's wrong with you, you look like you've seen a ghost."

"Nothing like that, young sir. It's been tended to and we are now ready to continue our tour. Shall we proceed?"

-3-

"Finally!" Tim exclaimed, no longer to contain his excitement. The other "exhibits had been cool enough, and he was intrigued about what a woman with six arms could do, but that didn't change the fact that what he'd really come here for was  the undead specimen they would now see. 

"Has the young sir not been happy with what we've seen so far?"

"Why do you keep calling me 'young sir'?" Tim asked, evading the question. The truth was he was convinced that nothing was being faked, but he could never let Ringling know that after being so certain it was. After all, for all he knew it could have been and was just far more elaborate than he had at first guessed. Either way, he had no intention of challenging the authenticity. If he lost the challenge he'd lose face in a public setting and if he won the challenge he'd win a Circus he didn't really want.

"My apologies. My intent is not to offend; we simply stand on a certain  . . . propriety."

"You can call me Tim." Tim offered carefully.

"No, young sir, I don't believe I can." Ringling said after a pause.

"Whatever." Tim rolled his eyes.

"Before we go any further, sir, madam; I must warn you that this next, er, specimen, is quite violent. You will need to stay back for your own safety."

"Is it safe?" Tim's mother asked.

Ringling met her gaze, his face still ashen. By way of reply he made a sweeping gesture.

"Shall we continue?" this time, instead of leading them on; he dropped behind them, ushering them forward. 

"He didn't answer my question." she murmured, moving forward.

"What's that smell?" Tim asked as they entered the next room. They were once again shrouded in blackness and a faint metallic smell had touched his nostrils.

"That is the smell of iron." Ringling said, "Now remember, stand perfectly still where you are and-" he was interrupted by a low growl. 

"What's that?" Tim's mother asked.

The growling increased in intensity and volume. It seemed urgent, feral, as if the source was a threatened animal backed into a corner. Tim stood still, and began shaking, suddenly afraid. He wasn't sure what was going but he knew that he wished the lights would come back up. He recalled, with the most vivid of mental images, the painting of the undead specimen he'd seen right before entering. He recalled the other times he'd heard the growl and later what he'd thought was a scream. Then, Ringling had disappeared and . . . . the thought clicked in his mind.

"Wait, is that-" 

His mother's scream was preceded by a guttural roar. Tim cried out in terror,

"NO!" 

But it was no use. Her scream was long and loud, and eventually dwindled to a wail that sounded wet and strangled. The metallic smell from before became stronger and Tim sobbed, knowing what had happened.

"You asshole!" he screamed, at no one in particular. He wasn't sure where Ringling was due to the darkness, but he knew their guide could hear him, "You killed her!"

"I am sorry to stand on semantics, young sir." Ringling said, his voice barely above a whisper, "but I assure you I did not kill your mother."

As if on cue, the lights came up and Tim saw his mother's body, limp and lifeless; hanging over the velvet rope before the undead creature they'd come to see. The creature's mouth dripped with her blood and it's lifeless gaze turned to Tim as it growled once more. It was bound by chains, unable to move its arms and had limited motion from legs that were chained to the floor. Tim forced himself to look at his mother's body; at the damage that had been done. 

"That smell you said was iron? That was blood wasn't it?" Tim asked, softly.

"It is accurate to say that it was iron, young sir. Though I believe what you are referring to is the high concentration of iron in human blood that gives it a metallic odor."

"I'll kill you." Tim said. Either to the pathetic, chained, undead creature before him; or to Ringling, he wasn't sure.

He started at his mother's form once again and committed her wounds to memory. She'd likely strayed just close enough to the velvet rope for the creature to lunge. The bite was on her neck and her entire throat was torn out. She would have died in seconds from blood loss and oxygen deprivation, Tim knew that much to be certain. Her blood dripped from the gaping hole in her throat and onto the floor creating a pool beneath her. He breathed sharply as her finger twitched but sobbed in grief and anger as he realized he must have imagined this.

"I am sorry, young sir." Ringling said, moving between Tim and his mothers form. Tim eyes him suspiciously as the undead creature loomed behind him. He observed silently, waiting, willing the thing to lunge again. To destroy the demented tour guide that had led his mother to oblivion, but the creature only growled.

"You're sorry?" Tim said, anger overtaking him, "Sorry!?" he lunged himself, pushing Ringling back toward the velvet rope. The man stumbled and fell into the creature with a cry of alarm. The creature leaned over him menacingly, blood and saliva dripping from its open mouth as if it were taking stock of what the man was. Then, without ceremony, it stood and looked at Tim, snarling again. Ringling scurried to safety and stood before Tim.

"Young sir, I'll have to ask you to leave the premises." 

"Oh I will," Tim warned, "And I'll be back with the police." 

Ringling was on him in a flash, so fast that Tim barely had time to register the glint of metal that he next felt pressed to his throat.

"Listen to me, you sniveling shit," Ringling said, his voice suddenly a stark contrast to what it had been before, "You'll leave this place now or you'll become food just like your bitch of a mother. Savvy?" 

"I'll kill you." Tim responded, his voice choked as Ringling's hand closed around his throat.

"You'll leave us alone you bastard." Ringling chided, digging the knife in deeper. Tim winced as the blade broke the skin on his throat and he felt a trickle of blood down his neck. The undead creature jerked against its bonds, straining to break free at the smell of new blood.

"Or you'll kill me," Tim said, "Either way, one of us is dying today." and he brought his knee sharply into Ringling's groin causing the older man to jerk his arm upward, slashing Tim's cheek from chin to eye. Blood spurted from the wound and soaked half of Tim's face instantly. Ringling for his part doubled over, clutching his injured crotch. He wasn't felled for long; he fell and rolled into Tim's braced legs the motion causing Tim to stumble and trip.

Directly into the monster.

As it had done to his mother before him, the creature sank its teeth into Tim's flesh at the junction of neck and shoulder. His vision blurred and he let out a strangled cry as he fell to the floor. He thought he could see his mother, just out of the corner of his eye. Had she fallen from the rope? How had that happened? Was she crawling away? Blackness surrounded him again and as he lost himself within it, he faintly wondered what was left to see in this den of horrors.

Ringling stood over the boy, watching in fascination as gouts of blood gathered in a pool at the boys feet. He moved closer, to draw the boy closer to the undead creature, pausing long enough for the chained beast to move away from him. A second growl joined the first, guttural moans, and he heaved a sigh as the lifeless body of the young man's mother crawled toward him, a grotesque analogy of a newborn rooting for the breast.

"I'm sorry madam." he said, his voice once again proper, "But we've got no more space for new attractions." and he brought his knife down into the back of her head sharply, burying it through hair and skull into the brain underneath. He pressed it into her cranium as firmly as he could until she'd stopped convulsing and then pulled it out in one smooth, deft motion.

He turned his attention back to the boy and stopped cold. Blood was dripping from the gash he'd opened in the boy's face, but impossibly; the bite wound was getting smaller! Ringling watched, mouth agape as the hole in the boys neck slowly, steadily closed. Where the wound was spilling blood only a moment ago, there was now only fresh, pale flesh. Ringling kicked the boy experimentally, and was satisfied when he didn't move.

"Seems dead enough, anyway." he murmured, bringing his knife to bear.

In a move as sudden as it was unexpected, Tim swept his leg into Ringling's ankles causing the man to fall on his back, hard. He gasped, trying to recover the wind that was knocked out of him but before he could move, Tim stood over him holding a knife that had been Ringling's only a moment earlier.

"Victims." Tim said. He shoved the knife between the eyes of the undead creature that had killed his mother, and pulled it out again not bothering to watch the creature fall to the floor. He slowly knelt down next to Ringling,

"Aren't we all?" he asked, slicing the man's throat.

He watched silently as the blood poured out of Ringling; though it was the man's eyes that he watched closely. He gurgled and struggled for oxygen that would never come, and reached out toward Tim in a supplicating gesture. Tim didn't respond. He simply stood there watching until Ringling's eyes faded into nothing and his breath stopped. Satisfied, he dropped the knife and found his way out of the tent. He never looked back, never registered the glances of other circus goers that gasped in concern or gave him a wide berth as he walked by them, covered in blood. Some of it was his own, coming from the gash in his face, and he was thankful for that; it would be far easier if he could convince people that the blood was from his own injury; at least he could distract them from the fact that he'd just killed a man. He knew that the sheer amounts of blood didn't add up, but he forced himself to keep a steady pace; strolling up the midway as if nothing had happened. There would be plenty of time to figure things out later.

He hoped.

In Thy Image

All I can do is pray
The words, they bite; with the sting of repressed fury and sadness and emotion that one can't know what to do with and so they do the only thing they can do; the only thing that makes sense.
They look for order in chaos and for peace in war and for divinity in humanity
All I can do is pray
It tastes sour in my mouth as I ask angrily
Pray to whom? A God that could have prevented this? A God who looks upon his creations and allows such things to happen? Would this be the same God who allowed a Policeman to rush a child out of a crowded building while eyewitnesses talk about the bullet holes that can be seen in her back.
All I can do is pray?
What's the point? The ecumenical messiah is nowhere to be found during tragedy, so often hiding behind "mysterious ways" and "divine plans." Gone is the reputation for infinite compassion and love; replaced by everlasting vanity and narcissism. This is the God from whom you seek solace.
All I can do is pray.
To a God that hold his children in such ill regard that He will stand by and watch as they destroy themselves? How does this act of faith over logic help you? When fortune favors the foolish you declare divine intervention; yet when tragedy strikes you bend to his will.
All I can do is pray.
The ultimate in abusive behavior patterns, you thank him equally for the good and the bad begging him not to leave you and to save you from yourself. As you kneel on bended knee begging him not to let countless thousands suffer and die in impunity you reveal your true self
All you can do is pray.
The ultimate in manipulation, you convince everyone that you're doing something while you in fact do nothing. Putting empty platitudes over actions and true aid. Perhaps you don't know what do or how to react. Or perhaps it is true that your God created man in his own image.

A Stroll Down Memory Lane

-1-

There is something going on in the world lately.  Some days I can feel it in the air like electricity; all the hair on my arms stands up and I can feel something behind me, just over my shoulder.  Simple paranoia?  Almost certainly.  Still, it has the faint aroma of a memory, something I can't quite place but something I'm sure is real and something that actually happened.  In the end, I would remember everything, but in those early days it was just a voice, something that was from a nightmare I'd had long ago and far away.

The reports came out of Florida first.  Isolated instances of cannibalism, believed to be drug induced.  It reached me in Charlotte but I didn’t think much of it, the world was a fucked up place and I was just doing my best to keep my head low and take care of me and mine.  My day job was in a cubible, attached to a desk handling calls day in and day out for people who didn’t know the difference between a computer a modem and their own assholes.  Most days I took my calls, did a lot of bullshitting online and even managed some blogging (maybe you've read some?).  Some days, though; some days you just don’t forget.  The day the world went to shit?  Yeah, that’s not one I’m going to forget anytime soon.  

Keeping my head low, as usual, I didn’t know what was happening until hours after the news hit.  I was strapped to my desk as usual but the day was slow.  No calls coming in and so I was taking full advantage of the lull to catch up on my online activities. Facebook, Google Reader and the like had me occupied for hours, and I suppose the headphones in my ears kept me oblivious.  Google and Facebook are powerful forces though, and soon enough the news hit me:

“Public Panics as ‘Zombie’ Apocalypse Arrives in Charlotte”

Intrigued by any Zombie news I could find thanks to the “Bath Salts” stories coming out of Florida; I clicked on the link.  My blood ran cold as I read the story.  No less than a dozen attacks in Charlotte.  No one knew the cause and this wasn’t something that was the result of bath salts or any other drug.  The article linked to a video that immediately caused my stomach to churn in revulsion.  There were only three in the video but they were moving slowly, and even on the grainy cell phone video their ghastly palor was visible.  The closest to the three was what had triggered my gag reflex, however.  He had a young boy, quite literally in a death grip with his arms bent in an unnatural angle.  The boy was screaming and before I could process the reality or validity of the video and its source, the boy’s arm was pulled from his body and the thing that’d pulled it free began munching on it like it was a chicken leg, fresh blood dripping onto his clothes.  There was something about the image . . . something that caused me to feel cold on the inside and hot on the outside; it was almost there in the forefront of my mind, I could feel it coming out of the dark, I just couldn't see it yet.

"Steven?"

I jerked my head around in shock.  No one called me that, or at least hadn't in years.  In fact my mother had been the only person to call me that.  I was Steve to everyone else.  On the screen in front of me the horrors continued, the . . . thing . . . that had ripped apart the boy was gone.  In it's place were more of the monstrous creatures.  On of them, a black beard dripping with blood was standing over a woman with arms raised in a protective position. Creating a paradox of motion, he brought the flat of his fist down against her defenses in a manor that was sickeningly slow and somehow swift enough that it couldn't be deflected.  In a surprisingly smooth motion she rolled onto her stomach and began swiftly crawling away from the blood stained, bearded monster.  I leaned in closer to the screen.

"Steven?"

The voice was male, and very deep.  It had a tonal quality that was somewhat ethereal and, as much as what was happening on the screen it made my blood run cold, though it was non threatening.

"Come on, Steven we have to go now."

It was authoritative but somewhat gentle; and in that moment the horrors on the screen faded and the walls of my office melted around me, revealing stark whiteness punctuated only by a shadow.

"Steven?"

It came from the shadow, which was vaguely human in shape, but otherwise nondescript.  It was familiar somehow even though it was a shadow.  It said my name again in it's authoritative, deep cadence and I suddenly felt afraid.  I retreated from the form shaking uncontrollably.

"I gotta get outta here!" I screamed.

"Steve, we have to to go. NOW!"

In the office again, roused from my reverie, I saw that the cubicles were empty and people were quietly rushing out.  I looked into the face of Ethyl Mertz--who we mercilessly teased for the connected to I Love Lucy even though she spelled it differently--and a faint dawning came over me that I'd had a waking nightmare.

"Ethyl," I started, "What's up?"

"We're going, Steve. We've all been sent home for the day."

"What? Why?"

In response, Ethyl only rolled her eyes and gestured impatiently at the computer monitor nearby.  On the screen a woman walked on a turned in ankle.  Upon closer scrutiny it became obvious the that foot was broken and bone protruded between ankle and tibia.  The woman appeared not to care, her eyes were vacant. She dragged behind her a smaller form that caused my blood to run cold once again.  I idly wondered if I was in any physical danger from all of the apparent changes in my blood's temperature today.  I then immediately chastised myself that the blood itself likely remained unchanged and some other phenomenon such as adrenaline secretion must be responsible.  The bundle she dragged behind her by a tiny arm was a toddler, no more than three years of age, gurgling and growling menacingly.  I'd thought the horrors on the screen had been part of the waking dream.  I could see now they weren't.  Looking up at Ethyl, I asked the only question I could think of,

"Is that a baby?"

Rolling her eyes she gave a "come on" motion and headed for the exit.

-2-

I know I should have been more concerned about the apparently animated and/or reanimated corpses walking the street.  It would have been logical to be in shock.  Perhaps I was; who knows? I'm not a doctor.  The "shoulds" of the situation couldn't change the reality no matter how much I wanted them too.  The world around me was not what was in my mind right now.  That waking nightmare back at the office occupied my concentration.  Hours had passed and yet I remained locked away, in my apartment, watching the smoke of a cigarette dance before my eyes, it was delicate in it's simplicity; like the silken strands of a spider's web.  The quarter inch ash protruding from the end of the cigarette betrayed that I hadn't, in fact, been smoking it; just as the lit cherry popping off the burned out end and landing on my left thigh, burning betrayed my lack of focus.  My flesh blistered and I didn't move.  Instead I couldn't stop thinking about the voice calling my name.  I couldn't place its familiarity nor could I understand why I was reacting in the manner I was.  I was terrified.  I didn't want to sleep for fear that the silhouette would appear again--which was preposterously irrational since it had appeared the first time when I was awake.  

Shaking my head violently, as if to clear it, I stood and jogged in place for ten seconds.  Then, I stopped because jogging in place is one of the most foolish things I could think to do at that moment.

"Just need a distraction." I mumbled.  

Falling back into my chair while grabbing the remote control in a fluid motion; the television was on by the time I was sitting.  I didn't pay attention to the channel that was one, knowing already what I'd see.

". . . again, we are urging all viewers to stay inside, lock all your doors and windows and to not allow any visitors--even those who are friends or family--until the state of emergency has been lifted."

"State of emergency?" I asked the television.

"For those just tuning in, we're showing you now amateur footage from a viewer in Mount Airy provided by our affiliate in the north, and the WFMY-2 News team.  We must warn you, however, this footage is graphic and not suitable for younger viewers."

They appeared on the screen, then.  This time I was prepared and properly desensitized.  They moved with no organization or regard for anything in their way.  If there was a car they moved around it, a person, they ate them.  What was more shocking in this video as compared to the previous one; was the clothing they wore.  Many of them sported white lab coats and appeared to be physicians or scientists of some sort.  Others wore hospital gowns, opened in the back and short enough to reveal genitalia.  It was the last article of clothing though, that caught my attention.  There weren't many of them and the ones I saw were layered in blood, making their appearance all the more shocking.  A select few of these animated corpses wore straight jackets.  That familiar feeling of blood running cold came again and I was alarmed at how familiar it was, this cold blooded feeling; but it was merely a trifle to the straight jacketed dead I now saw methodically moving toward the screen.  My forehead was beaded in sweat and I gasped audibly as the focus on the camera shifted blurring out the dead and bringing the background to stark relief.  It was only a sign, but that's all that was needed.  It read "Whitney Payne Cooper Memorial Hospital" and it's sudden appearance transfixed me as if I'd been hypnotized.  One of the straight jacketed demons stumbled into the sign, causing the Whitney Payne Cooper Memorial Hospital to become "Bloomington Asylum."  This image shocked me to my core and I fell instantly to my knees shivering, emitting a blood curdling scream. 

"Steven, please stop screaming."

As if under a hypnotic trance I stopped and looked over my shoulder, wide eyed.

"Did I hear my name?" I asked feebly.

"Steven, please stop screaming.  We'll never make any progress this way."

The familiar surroundings of my apartment seemed to be just behind me as I turned to face the voice. The same silhouette from my earlier "episode" was there, seemingly more substantial, but the voice was the same, authoritative male voice from before.

"Who are you?" I asked, my voice small with fear.

"Come now Steven, I'm Vincent. Don't you remember me?" 

"Vincent?" I asked, "I don't know any Vincent."

I tried to stand, only to realize that I couldn't move my arms.

"What the fuck?" I screamed, looking down to see that I was bound in a straight jacket.

"Steven, I must insist that you calm down.  Now, you wouldn't like to spend the night in the quiet room, would you?"

The reference of the padded cell called the "quiet room" stilled me.  I didn't know how I knew what all of this meant.  Why was I in a straight jacket? What the hell was happening?

"I must be dreaming." I said.

"The dreams, yes. Let's start there." Vincent said.  I still couldn't see anything but a shadow, but the entire room was dominated by his presence.  Behind me, bathed in  shadows, lay the memory of my life, of sanity.

"Tell me the dream again." Vincent pressed.

I began speaking.  Mechanically, as if I were reciting something written down and then committed to memory.

"Once upon a time there was a little blonde haired boy who loved nothing more than to run and jump and laugh and play. The little blonde haired boy lived in a small house, full of toys that were all broken.  Every day when he came home from school the little blonde haired boy ran excitedly to the door and rushed in ready to play; play was never what awaited however. The blonde haired boy's evil mother awaited everyday and she stopped him in his tracks with a glare of disapproval and made him sit on a very uncomfortable wooden stool in the middle of the kitchen while she occupied herself with other, more selfish vices. For someone that loves to run and jump and laugh and play, sitting in one place is never easy and it wasn't for the little blonde haired boy either. He wished that he was somewhere else.  Somewhere people would let him run and jump and laugh and play and she never made him just sit still, except for when he was really naughty." 

Vincent held up a shadowy hand, "Stop there Steven. Do you always have the same dream?"

Paying no attention, my mechanical narrative continued.

"The weekend was the worst of all of the horrible things that happened. The little blonde haired boy tried to occupy himself with running, jumping, laughing and playing while the others in the house attempted to occupy themselves with various distractions because it was on the weekends that his father had all day and all night to drink. The little blonde haired boy was the least safe from the others because he was the only other boy. It was important for his father to have him around at all times. This particular day, a Saturday, things were worse than ever before. His father started the day with drinking. In the early afternoon he was already not himself and the shouting had begun with the little blonde haired boy's mother. The sound of loud music punctuated the little blonde haired boy's play while his father and mother shouted to be heard. His mother cried over his father's words, fear and anger coming from her form; and the next events happened so fast but the little blonde haired boy would remember them forever. His father reached for his wife and she pulled away in fear, causing a look of outrage and fury on his father's face. "Come here!" he shouted over the music. The little blonde haired boy buried his face in a pillow, but not deeply enough because he saw everything that happened next."

Vincent, making no more attempts to stop the recitation, had changed topics and encouraged me.  From the outside it was difficult to tell if this was an interrogation or a therapy session--the only clue as to which, being the straight jacket.  A thumping sound could be heard from far away and a woman's voice came faintly . . . .

"Steve!"

"Is someone calling me?" I asked, in the same mechanical monotone?

"Steve!" the voice was a bit louder now.

"Steven, you have to go back now." Vincent said.

Just like that it was over.  I was in my apartment.  The apocalypse in front of the asylum was on the television and I could move my arms.  My face was inexplicably wet, informing me that I'd been crying during my monotoned recitation.  I moved my arms around, enjoying the full range of the motion.  On the television a body lay in the street, an animated corpse leaned over it, scooping entrails into its mouth.  My stomach rumbled letting me know I was hungry but before I could think about the inappropriate nature of the stimulus I heard my name again, followed by a feverish knocking.

"Let me in goddammit!" and I did, ignoring all the warnings of the news, I opened the door to allow Ethyl Mertz to spill inside.  Her hair was disheveled and her eyes wild as she turned around and deadbolted and locked the door.

"Escape! We need to escape." she gasped.

"Escape?" I asked, bewildered.

"Just get me out of here." she said.

-3-

"It's just awful out there." Ethyl said, swirling ice in the now empty glass she held.  I'd given her a glass of bourbon on the rocks to help with her nerves, and it seemed to have not helped.

"It's not much better in here." I muttered, glancing at where I'd been on the floor in a straight jacket mere moments earlier.  I shook my head and directed my attention to Ethyl.  The television was on, but muted, and positioned behind her as if providing a thought cloud for her terror.  

"I couldn't get home," she was saying, "The highways are congested from people getting the fuck out of town.  Those . . . things . . . are everywhere. Whatever is going on, it spread fast."

"Just calm down, Ethyl. Calm down. We'll get it figured out."

"Okay," she said, "Sure. Yeah. So, I need a bit of a distraction.  What's going on here? You said it isn't much better here?"

"That I did." I said with a sigh.  Then, mostly for my own need to get everything straight in my head, I told her everything.  I related the waking nightmares I'd been having, the mysterious Vincent shadow and the story of the dream I'd just recounted in a monotone voice.  She listened, though occasionally her eye glanced at the television when the news interrupted their coverage for new video of the disaster that had come to our town.

"What's weird about all of this," I concluded, "Is that I never knew my parents.  I grew up in an orphanage."

Ethyl, completely distracted now took my hand and said, "Steve, it sounds like repressed memory."

I scoffed, but she persisted.

"No! Seriously! I saw it on Oprah years ago, back when she was still classy. She had this doctor on talking about it, even hypnotized some audience member."

"Yeah, but it's the end of the world, apparently, so it doesn't make much sense to dredge up the past now. Best to just leave it alone."

"Yeah," she agreed, "Not much to be done when hell's outside your front door. But, what if you just thougt about it? Is there anything else you remember? Maybe you can think about it while we get some stuff packed up. Do you still have your beater pick up?"

The tendrils of memory began at the edge of my consciousness, stirred by both her words and the recitation to Vincent in the nightmare, but I said nothing of those things, answering her question, 

"Yes. I do. It's out back so we should get everything piled by the back door here and then we can head out from the patio and get into the truck." I walked to the sliding glass patio door and looked out, there didn't seem to be any of the monsters on the patio or nearby.

"Let's get to it. I'll start grabbing food." she said, heading to the kitchen. 

"I'll get my camping gear, at least we'll have some survival gear." I said to her retreating back.

"Steven." came Vincent't insistent voice.

"Aw shit." I lamented, "Not now. I can't be going crazy during the goddamn apocalypse."

"Steven, you need to tell me what happened next. What did you see?"

I couldn't handle it anymore, the world ending and here I was going insane (apparently), but I was surprisingly conscious through the whole process. What did that mean, if anything? Was I doomed to just get worse and worse as time went on with no hope for help? I began reciting my mechanical reverie as requested though it felt more like a compulsion than a choice on my part.

"The little blonde haired boy's father leaned in close to his mother as if to kiss her, but she gave him a look of angry fear and pushed him away. His father grabbed her and pulled her in close and began to kiss her. His mother screamed and pushed him away. As she struggled against him he grabbed the back of her neck but she still escaped his reach. The little blonde haired boy screamed again and buried his face in a pillow, but again it wasn't tightly enough. His father screamed at him to shut up; and the little blonde haired boy looked at him in terror with tears streaming down his face. His mother looked at him and ran for the stairs. His father reached out and snatched the back of her hair and she fell backward. He balled up a fist and punched her in the face. She rolled and got up on her knees but he kicked her in the stomach. She crawled between his legs and ran up the stairs to the safety of a locked bedroom. His father, now purely absorbed by the ale and adrenaline looked up from the bottom of the stairs and shouted "I'm coming to kill you." and as he began to climb the stairs he looked at the little blonde haired boy and smiled an evil smile, "I'm doing this for you," he said and then disappeared up the steps."

"What happened next, Steven?" Vincent prodded, his voice urgent, as if commanding me to continue.

I continued, "With the sounds of violence coming from the upper level of the house the little blonde haired boy sat and cried, not knowing what to do. He went to the bottom of the steps and looked up, immediately wishing he hadn't. He saw his mother, with his father's head wrapped around her neck, shoving her head into the wall, over and over again, until the wall gave way and there was only a hole where her head had been. She hung limply in his arms and the little blonde haired boy wondered again, what to do. His father threw her to the ground and kicked her violently and she fell down the stairs, rolling head over heels, landing at the little blonde haired boy's feet. He screamed, running to the back of the small house to hide. That's where they found him hours later."

"What happened to the blonde boy's father?" Vincent said; I made a brief observation that he was no longer a shadow, but rather had gained a form that was far more familiar to me. Once again my blood ran cold.

"The police took him away." I said.

"Did they?" Vincent asked, his tone for the first time showing emotion. He was chiding me.

"And the mother?" he asked me.

"Steve, I think we'd better go." Ethyl called from the other room, "I see some of these things outside your gate. We have to figure out a way past them to the truck!"

"He killed her." I said quietly, "The little blonde haired boy was me. This happened 25 years ago, but I can remember it like it happened just last night. It haunts me."

"Wrong! Steven, try again!" I jumped at the ferociousness of his tone, "Hell came to your house that night Steven and no one saved you, now tell me again what happened!" His eyes were aflame with intensity.

"He screamed, running to the back of the small house to hide." I said, my voice small.

"And?!?!?"

"Steve! They're pushing at your fence! We have to GO! NOW!" Ethyl cried out.

"And it's time to go." I said, darting past him into the other room.  Ethyl stood, two cloth bags in her hand, filled with canned goods.

"What happened to your camping gear?" she asked.

"No time." I said with finality.

"It didn't happen that way Steven. You know it didn't. Now you must listen to me because I'm your only hope for survival." Vincent called after me.

"No!" I cried out, "No I won't listen."

"Steve?" Ethyl asked softly, "You okay?"

"You found it in the back of the house didn't you? The hammer. You found it and you went to save her. Isn't that right, Steven?" Vincent prodded me.

I gripped the sides of my head shaking it furiously back and forth.

"No. No no no no. NO!" I screamed, retreating to the kitchen.

"You found him standing over her." Vincent said, his voice soft again.

"Steve," this from Ethyl, following me in the kitchen. I looked past her to the patio beyond and I could see the fence shaking from the things on the other side. Some demons come to call and take me away.

"And you went to him and he looked at you and what did you do? What did you do Steven?"

"I hit him with the hammer." I said.

"Steve, just come on back now," Ethyl said, "You just come on back because I need you here. I need you to help me."

"Ethyl?" I asked, confused.

"That's right Steve, it's Ethyl." she said, putting a cautious arm around my shoulders.

"Then what?" Vincent asked.

The mechanical recitation came again, "I hit him over and over. He shook a lot at first and there was blood. So much blood. But then he stopped moving and I just sat there laughing because it was over. I waited there for a long time but no one came. No one ever did."

"And then what? Vincent was next to me now and I wondered if Ethyl could see him too.

"I got scared he would come back. I wanted him to go away so I made him go away." my voice was small again, pitiful in a way.

"My god Steve, what did you do?" Ethyl breathed. I looked at her, not really seeing her.

"I made him go away. I ate him. Every bit. I ate all of him until he was gone." I said with a laugh. It had been so simple, now that I remembered it. The lifeless eyes of my mother looked on as I ate the corpse next to me.

"No one ever came until after I was done. And that was good because he was gone then and I knew he wouldn't come back. 

"My god," Ethyl breathed, "That must have been days!"

"How did you know?" this was directed at Vincent, who I could see clearly now.

 

 "Because I am made of you," he said softly, and for the first time I saw him clearly and shock overtook me completely as I realized it was like looking in a mirror.  "I live inside you, just a shadow of memory until today. Now Steven you must listen to me." then he leaned in and whispered to me.

"No!" I recoiled, horrified at his words, "I can't do it again. Never again! They sent me away for it, they shocked me! They . . . hurt me!" 

"Steven!" Vincent shouted, while Ethyl looked on in horror, "Steven! I'll protect you, now you must do this to fool THEM!" he said gesturing at the patio where the fence had fallen away and a half dozed of the undead were now beating at the glass of my patio.

"You'll p-protect me?" I asked pitifully of Vincent.

"Steve, stop. Whatever you're doing stop. Just think." Ethyl said.

"I'm sorry." I said, "It's too late."

Before she could react I grabbed a meat mallet from a drawer she'd left open and hit her with it. Vincent smiled and gave encouraging motions. I hit her over and over and it happened just like before. She shook a loot and there was blood (my god the blood!) and then it was over and she was still.

"Now, you know what you must do." Vincent said.

"I can't." I sobbed, throwing my body over Ethyl's still and lifeless form. The creatures at the door were frantic now, probably at the smell of the blood.

"Then let me." Vincent said kneeling down with me.

He was with me then, and I could remember everything. Vincent was me and I was him. I felt myself bound as if I were in a straight jacket again as Vincent took over.  He lapped at the blood first and then began tearing at her flesh with his hands and bringing chunks to his mouth.  I whirled my head around (or was it Vincent's head? Who was I?) as the glass of the door shattered and six zombies tumbled over each other in their effort to get to Ethyl's corpse.  As Vincent ate frantically, hoping to fool them, make them think he was one of them, I assumed; two of them grabbed him (me?) from behind and dragged him off of Ethyl while the other four began to gorge themselves on her remains. Vincent struggled, licking blood from his lips and groaning as if he were one of them, covered in blood and absolutely crazed. The two that held him (me?) dropped him by the shattered door and joined their fellows in devouring the corpse.

In my head I heard Vincent laughing.

"Get to your truck, fool!" He chided me, "This is your escape."

"But the food . . ." I said with a glance at Ethyl's body and the bags of canned goods near her. I sickeningly realized that I didn't know which of them I meant when I had said it.

"Forget the food. There's plenty more." Vincent said.

Heeding his words I bolted through the door frame, now devoid of glass and ran for my beat up pick up. It started on the first turn of the key and it's diesel engine roared to life. I checked the mirrors and noted that I had a full tank of gas and there were no more of the undead in my path. Tires squealed as I sped away from the horrors behind me and the memories. I didn't lay off the gas for twenty miles. I'm not sure if I hit anything, or anyone, but the truck was still going and I wasn't stopping. As the miles ticked away between where I was and where I'd been, Vincent retreated once again to the shadows until he was once again gone completely. Once I stopped shaking I was nearly able to convince myself that none of it had happened and that it had all been part of the shock of watching the dead walking around eating people. Maybe it was. Still, there was a nagging question in the back of my mind.

Why was there a straightjacket in the passenger seat?