HAPPY HALLOWEEN

October 30, 2015 at 9:12 pm Leave a comment

On the eve of this horror holiday, I thought I would offer a zombie treat.

This story was published in the now defunct Blood, Blade, & Thruster in their Winter 2006/2007 issue.  Included in this issue was an interview published with Piers Anthony.  This association caused my writing career to soar.  JUST KIDDING.  I should have saved that for April 1st.  Anyway, I hope you enjoy the story, and if you have a moment during your busy life, LET ME KNOW, my ego would appreciate the response.

THE RELUCTANT ZOMBIE

As Norman stumbled through the dank Haitian swamp, he groaned, “Willard, it feels so unnatural walking around with my arms outstretched, but I can’t seem to put them down.  “I have an image to uphold.”

Willard, who was shuffling along, shook his head and sighed, “Of course it’s unnatural, you’re a zombie, damn it.  And your image is history.”

Norman complained, “I didn’t ask to be a zombie.”  With some difficulty, he swiveled his neck and surveyed the Haitian countryside.

Norman took in the landscape surrounding him.  He walked through a village.  It was nothing more than a few huts of mud and straw along a dusty road.  Chickens pecked in the brush along the roadside.  Chickens!  For some reason their presence made him uncomfortable.  “I really don’t want to be a zombie,” Norman muttered.  He was a forty-year-old college professor, a dark-haired trim man who always dressed well.  Now he was walking around covered in grime and dressed in rags.

Willard said, “If you didn’t want to become a zombie, you shouldn’t have run over the old voodoo woman’s chickens with your jeep.  Was she ever pissed?  She’s also the one that converted me into a zombie, but that’s another story.”

Norman looked at Willard and could not guess what he once looked like.  Willard was pale, gaunt and dressed in rags.  His age made undeterminable by his zombie state.

“As soon as you angered her she began making one of her little dolls.  She cackled while she worked.  That is never a good sign.  The doll is where your soul now resides.”

“I can’t believe this is happening to me, Willard.  I came to Haiti to do research on Haitian religions.  I am, or was, a respected and well-published anthropologist.  Now look at me.  I’m wearing rags and walking around like a…, like a …

“Zombie!” asked Willard

“Just because I ran over a few chickens?”

“Um, Norman, they looked like chickens, but they weren’t.  Nothing around the voodoo woman’s house is what it appears.  They were once her enemies.  She changed them into chickens and you freed them from pecking for insects along the road for the rest of their lives.  You ended their suffering.  So naturally, in her anger, she turned you into a zombie.  I am assigned to train all novice zombies.  To instruct how to attack people teach them what are the best parts to eat.”

Norman made a face at this remark.

“Now what?” asked Willard?

Norman sighed, “I’m a vegetarian.  But I will eat dairy.”

Willard said with disgust, “There are no vegetarian zombies.  And attacking the dairy section of a store is not going to do much for the zombie image.”

Norman grumbled, “Oh, I wouldn’t want to do anything to detract from the zombie image.  Give me a break.”

As the two zombies were arguing, Willard happened to glance over to the voodoo woman’s house.  There she stood in the doorway.  Willard could tell she was not happy.

She hobbled toward Willard and Norman, a waddling mass adorned with bones and beads.  Her crown of thick dreadlocks made her appear as if some multi-legged beast was sitting on her head.

The old voodoo woman shouted at Norman, “I knew you be a trouble maker, with your fancy jeep and running over people’s property.”

Norman mumbled, “Sorry about the chickens.”

“You sorry all right.  You be good and sorry real soon.”

The old woman produced her Norman doll, lifted the doll skyward, and began chanting in a low rumbling voice.

Norman’s soul returned to his body.  He felt like his old self.  He laughed with relief, then glance up.  Willard stumbled toward him, arms raised.

“Willard old buddy, we’re friends – right?”

Willard only growled and roared.

Norman looked desperately for an escape.  On either side of him, zombies with ash-gray complexions staggered in his direction.  He was surrounded.

The old voodoo woman said, “Here be my ‘children’, and they be hungry.”  She cackled as the circle of zombies grew smaller and smaller around Norman.

From beyond the wall of the living dead, Norman pleaded, “Please, make me a chicken!”

THE END

Those that observe ‘Mischief Night, please be kind.

Here are some links where you may purchase my work.

Melange Books

http://www.melange-books.com/authors/walttrizna/index.html

Barnes & Noble.com

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/walt-trizna?store=book&keyword=walt+trizna

 

Amazon.com

http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=walt+trizna

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