Getting back to the punkers:
On the other side of the gate is a zombie. A BIG fat zombie with grey features and a
pirate’s beard. It is attacking the gate with stab-hunger, trying to get in to eat them.
“That one’s too vicious. Shoot it, fuzzy,” Judas tells Glimey, “Shoot it in the brain with
your gun.”
You can only kill zombies in the brain. Their bodies are already dead, but the brains are
still living. You see, brains are the rebels of the body and won’t conform to dying like the other
parts—who are slaves to the fascist human soul, doing whatever it demands without an
argument. But brains fight the system. After the soul goes away, the body belongs to them.
“Bloody all right!” Glimey plucks the gun from the ground, electrifying his blood cells
with exhaling ecstacy, and sloppily empties the weapon into the pirate fortic. The second bullet
kills it, but Glimey gets carried away and uses every round.
“You should conserve bullets in zombie country,” says the gatekeeper.
Judas goes to the corpse. “Odd. You believe this? This is the first zombie I’ve seen in
weeks besides your friend. They all have been heading west. This one, I guess, was too
cannibalistic to go with the others.”
“Why do the zombies go west?” Dyke asks.
“They have to,” Judas turns with the rusty wind blowing his metallic particles forward.
Then he lifts his mask, revealing a pale rubbery face with large blue veins breathing outward.
“The corpses are going to waltz.”
“What bloody faggot shit you meaning to?” Thad asks, trying to act interested and mean
at the same time.
“The waltz of the corpses. The fall of zombie existence. The tale people have been
speaking of for centuries, passing the story generation to generation, but nobody thought it
would ever come true. Actually, it’s a complete mystery to the world. No one knows what it
really is. I don’t think the zombies even know.”
“All you know is that they’re heading west, bloody old faggot,” Thaddaeus yells. “You
don’t even know if it’s a waltz or just a bloody tampon up your ass. They could just be avoiding
the cold weather like snowbirds.”
“No, oh no,” Judas says with sticker-of-used-condoms-in-your-mouth beneath his voice.
“I’ve been alive for centuries. Sure it made me bitter, but it also made me wise. And I know for
a fact that zombies don’t go away for weather or anything.”
He shakes his head. We urge to leave, but he starts up again. “They would’ve taken over
too if it wasn’t for Krellians like myself. We are the only beings that are immune to the
Forticulus disease and the only beings that fortics won’t attack. Anyway, I have been searching
all over the valley for days and haven’t found any zombies anywhere. They all went west. To
waltz.” And then he states the old rhyme: “Once a storm of fire passes by, the waltz of the
corpses will be nigh.”
“Lets get out of here,” Glimey says. “This guy’s getting queer.”
“Yeah,” Dyke replies.
They get up and walk back to the van. Judas is somewhat offended, but he lets them go.
He’s tired and bored of talking anyway.
“Oi, by the way,” Thaddaeus screams back to the Krellian, “don’t call them zombies. It’s
racist.”
The three struggle into the van and remember what they came out there for.
“What the hell are we gonna do now?” Glimey blurts.
“I don’t know,” Dyke says. “We’re down to our last bag of weed and there’s no one left
to buy beer for us now that Pud’s gone.”
“I know what I want,” Thaddaeus says, staring straight, dreaming up a skinhead wish.
“What’s that?” Glimey plays with his pick.
“I’m starting to have a strange craving for vodka.”
They look at him. Glimey smiles, but Dyke twitches and asks, “What exactly are you
talking about?
Thad starts the van, yelling, “Glimey, load your gun. We’re gonna kick some Jesus ass.”
And they roar-drive out of town down St. Jesus Christ Drive, screaming and hollering
skinhead anthems, and pass a very tiny penis that is getting eaten by peppermint ants.
"Electric Jesus Corpse" by Carlton Mellick III, Copyright 1999
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