Date of the Dead Read online



  Date of the Dead

  Copyright 2013 by John Debellis

  The Date

  I remember the day like it was yesterday, or possibly like it was the day before yesterday, or maybe earlier today. Time has lost its relevance. We were walking along the street, well truth be told I was being dragged by what remained of my hair, when the frenzied individual suddenly stopped. I don’t think he meant to stop, but we’ll never know; the truck that hit him ran over his head. The trucker kept driving--well, that’s not entirely true either; he stopped, saw that the guy was dead, then ran over a few more people, well not really people, they were zombies.

  Yes, I said zombies. And I mean zombies--the annoying creatures with diets that vary between live humans and other live humans. I never had any contact with zombies prior to that day, but it seems to me that chewing on, swallowing, and digesting, without acid reflux, no matter how late (at night) or how many people (of all races) they’ve eaten, although impressive, doesn’t make a good first impression—a lasting one, yes. Maybe I’m being judgmental, or even a bit prejudice, which comes from my upbringing. My parents didn’t like people who used organic kale in their salads, or wore self-winding watches, or had too many calcium deposits, but I didn’t have time to ponder that thought, I had my blind date to rescue. Well, not really rescue--it was more a matter of survival. I know we didn’t really hit it off, especially when she turned her back on me, and like a donkey, kicked over the table, disgusted that none of the punches she threw had landed on my face. She had just told me I had the personality of a melted bingo chip (which I don’t understand to this day) and a face that looked inside out.

  I was about to apologize for letting her say “hello” first, when I heard groans, off key trumpets, and whiny guitars, then glass shattering and saw several ill-mannered maniacs.

  Their stomachs were ripped open, which I didn’t think was a fashion statement, and they started munching on patrons (some happy to get out of paying the check).

  My date, Laura Lee, (that’s the name I later saw on her Wisconsin substitute psychiatrist license), was about to smother me with the desert menu when she noticed the commotion-- an approaching cannibalistic Mariachi band, and yelled to me, almost poking my eye out with her finger, “Are those flesh eating things your idea of a romantic evening?”

  Before she could blind me, I screamed, “This isn’t a Mexican restaurant, I’d never hire a Mariachi band. If it were Italian I might have hired a couple of violinists, but we’re in a diner.”

  She stopped, shook her head, actually understanding my logic, then ran towards the kitchen, her 7-inch spiked heel landing in my mouth and halfway down my throat. By that time the diner was a mad house, people running in every direction, waitresses following, trying to prevent them from running out on their bills. I had finally started breathing after the heel had left my windpipe, when a narcissistic zombie grabbed my hair and dove out the window and started up the street, I guess looking for a quiet place to dine alone. That’s when the truck shortened the zombie’s dead-span and I went looking for my date.

  By then the diner had been almost abandoned, most of the patrons gone or partially digested, resting in pieces. I had seen enough zombie movies to know you needed to kill their brains in order to kill them. I kept wondering if that applied to zombies who (when alive) read Sara Palin’s book. I grabbed a large knife from behind the counter, almost stopped to clean it, when I remembered that zombies aren’t germ-a-phoebes, mainly because they probably died from a germ or a virus. I stealthily walked into the kitchen, didn’t see a creature, nor hear any off key instruments. I hoped my date was alive; she was deadly enough, as a zombie she could probably eat her way through the entire male population, clothes, helmets, combat boots, automatic weapons, and armored vehicles without breaking a tooth. I didn’t know her, name as yet, so I shouted, “Hey you, my date, are you here?” I yelled it several times when I finally heard a noise from inside a kitchen cabinet. I stepped back when I realized it was a muted trumpet.

  Then I heard a voice what may have been a voice. As I crept closer I was sure it was a voice, an annoyed voice that said, “Let me out of here so I can kick you in the balls or punch in your dumb ass face.”

  It was my date. I walked over to the cabinet, opened the door and quickly moved far enough away from her, so she couldn’t land a punch or kick. When she climbed out, she did neither, except throw the damaged trumpet toward my groin. I was surprised she didn’t spit, or shout anything nasty. The zombie attack had somehow changed her. She looked at me and softly said, “I don’t want to kill you any longer.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really, because you’d only come back as a zombie and try to eat me, you misogynist middle to lower class, left wing liberal, food stamp-collecting fraud.”

  I ignored her remarks figuring they were just a lucky guess. “I think we should try to get out here and find some place safe within walking distance, flagging a cab now would be impossible, especially since it has started to rain,” I suggested.