The Happy Zombie Sunrise Home

Chapter 7 - Clio

In the midst of my strenuous worrying, the phone rang.

“Grandma?” said a tremulous voice. It sounded very far away.

“Okie?” I said. “Speak louder!  Where on earth are you?”

“Grandma—“ There was a gulp. I did hope she would not start to cry, and my hope was fulfilled. That girl has a tough strain in her, I am proud to say. “Grandma, I’m in a sort of like the woods, or maybe a forest – a lot of trees -- near Scranton because we had to stop and refuel, but then I needed to recharge my phone and the generator is in this kind of log shack thing – so I’m in there, and a zom’s trying to get in the door!”

“Oh for heaven’s sakes,” I said. “What next?” This was no time to ask her why she had been so silly. Phones should be recharged before travel, not during it, because these days you never know. But it does not create a good impression on children to ask the why they have been so silly, as I know from sad experience. My poor son Norman, now shredded and partially masticated, would simply respond with a sullen look when told he had been silly, even when he was technically grown up.

In retrospect, it was not the most tactful thing for me to have said to him at his wedding reception, although without doubt appropriate enough. Anyone with a head on her shoulders could tell that marriage was going to be a train wreck. Sumatra had selected the most outrageous dress for the occasion; she had removed the white satin bolero jacket, revealing a strapless top, out of which she was threatening to burst every time she shook hands with one of the guests. As for the cake-cutting moment – it involved leaning over – I had to hide my eyes. Unlike every male person in the room: there was a palpable swaying forward, as if Sumatra was a vacuum cleaner. There is absolutely no point however in arguing with a man in love about his silliness when large breasts are part of the bargain. It only makes them scowl.

“Where’s your Z-Line driver?” I asked.  Those men are trained in the combative physical arts, or so it promises in the promotional literature. And they carry stun guns. What is the point of paying good money for something that is not delivered? Since I had been thinking about the  fashion choices of Sumatra – locked, for the moment, in the back of the Z-Liner vehicle, I assumed – it occurred to me to ask Okie what she herself was wearing. But I did not. A dead grandchild properly clad was not to be preferred to an indecorously outfitted one still alive.

“He’s back at the van, where it’s being refueled,” said Okie. “He can’t hear me, it’s too far away! I called!”  She gave a little shriek. “It’s turning the handle, it’s rattling the door, it’s doing that moaning thing! Others will hear that, they’ll all come, they’ll pile up against the door, and then…”

“Did you get a look at it?” I said. “Out the window? How decayed is it? Fresh, or” – how to put this – “tenderized?” This is important information, I have found, as it has a bearing on tactics.

“Yeah, I snuck a peek out the window,” she said. “Not such a bright move – it saw me. It’d be drooling if it had anything to drool with. But yeah, it’s kind of falling apart. It’s got that unhinged clacking jaw feature. And it has a Smokey the Bear badge on!” She gave a little giggle; with luck, I thought, this would not mean the onset of hysteria.

“How many doors?” I said. “In the shack.” Simplest solutions first, is my motto.

“Only one, and yeah, there’s a window but it has a board across it and anyway it’s right beside the door. The one it’s trying to get in.”

“Weapons?” I said. “Edged tools? An axe, a shovel?”

“There aren’t any,” she said. “I totally looked.”