I’m no blushing bride when it comes to a good snog sesh, but someone’s stank ass breath can really kill the vibe.
This gaping maw throws an absolute rancid gush of air at me, landing like a wet sock across my cheek. I am not breathing that. Not chill, dude. Their little liver-purple tongue is worming suggestively at me and I’m just imagining it probe down my throat and getting stuck in my windpipe like a loogie. Or even twisting up through my nasal cavities to my brain. They were prolly into that. Zombies are not good kissers. Fucking Brody, man.
Brody Palak is now online.
I’d got like 4 months into the second quarantine when the notification came through. Brody’s a fully solid dude. Met in high school and taught me how to skate before I’d heard of a helmet. Two guys just owning the younger kids at the rink in matching leotards for a lark. For sure best thing about Brody though was that he was 2 blocks from my doomsday shelter.
Barricaded myself at the Maccas after work; frozen meat lair all to myself. All the other guys on shift wanted to go home to their families or whatever. They didn’t even think about how the smell of the oil would mask our scent from the zombos. No weird dudes coming after my McBrain meal, that’s for sure.
I was going mental, man. That ‘no climbing’ sign was obliterated by like day 3. Stuffing myself up into these little plastic chutes and frictioning up the fattest electrical charge with no one to zap. I was like Napoleon Bonaparte on his second exile missing his first the way I missed quarantine numero uno. One of the greats.
I’d started writing poetry about him. In, like, a metal way. That was after I realised the joint I’d been watering for 3 months wasn’t even growing (total bummer) and had to huff on my dirt roach. Also made me munch on all of the last McDonaldland Cookies till I threw up on the baby changing table, but at least those were perishables.
But Brody was online. Wack how the electricity went down but not the internet. Luckily my charger was portable and sunpowered. Not that anyone was posting anymore, but at least there were endless cat vids. I shot Brody a text. No reply. Not a bro move.
I couldn’t keep up the one sided bants much longer. Just one arm slung around the Ronnie McDonnie statue, ‘Hey, dude. I’m good, dude. Shit weather, ay? Acid rain and shit?’ Actual slog. I was so out of there, zombies be damned. At least I’d have my boy with me. Sorry to Ronnie. Had to take one of his arms for defensive measures. He was not happy with me. But it was like, you’re a statue man, grow up.
I totally forgot what Outside was like until I was outside. But Outside was plain wrong. It was like being in open waters and sharks all around an empty shipwreck, all teeth and shit. Never know when they’re gonna look at you and fancy a snack. There’s this huge EOFY Toyota cars dealership across the street, no Toyotas in it though. Everyone going Mad Max out bush just to run out of gas and die. But no cars for me. Just have to hoof it. No problemo for pre-quarantine me. But McDonald chicken had nowhere near enough protein. I’d been dutifully bulking forever and somehow forgot there was a step 2.
Which just meant I’d have to pace myself. Sneaky as. These zombies were so easy to juke, drooling on themselves. It was like oh shit there’s the shark and the shark was just repeatedly walking into a wall. Even tempted to help the dude, clearly zonked out his mind. This one’s got jorts on, dad sandals too. You know when they strap down one toe as if that’s the wild one you gotta watch out for. And they’re, you know, hideous, but I respect it. But then its neck drags around towards you, the chin tucking in unnaturally and you see the eyes laminated over. His mouth’s been snared at one corner like a discount Joker, Werthers-yellow molars poking out the side of his cheek. Real freaky. Still reckon the sandals are the deadliest part though. Brody would love that. Zombo with the dad kicks. Laughing his scratchy, jackal laugh.
I think of the Spartans as I speed march outta there. Head down. What gnarly gravel. No eye contact. Zombo in a Bintang, Brodie! Zombo with the chunky goth boots. The devil wears Nike, bro. I take a breather in the church. Dunno why there’s like 50 of them in the one suburb. It’s got those archaic spires tryna cut a way into heaven, like looking up from under a cliff. There’s a flaking Jesus nailed up there. Yeesh. Chrissos were not happy with all these copycats rising from the dead. Cramping on the guy’s style.
I go straight for their holy water, start blessing my hoarse ass throat. I think I can taste blood. Not so holy. There’s a sign above the fountain saying ‘Saint Peter’s House of God – Bible study next Miraculous Monday!’ Not sticking around long. Two more churches are between me and Brody. Brody hated church. Said one year he stuck a ciggy in the dono box. Classic Brody. Apparently some old lady a couple pews down screeched like a kettle when she was chucking her twenty in.
Brody’s mum’s car is just up ahead. Honda Civic with its front tires gone so it’s got its butt in the air. On the back window it’s got those white family stick figures, little doodle boy kicking his dumbass soccer ball. The mum’s got a wine glass the size of her. My dad hates them. Says they block your view when you’re reversing. He would say that. All tactical. Probably up the mountains Mad Maxing. There were cement borders blocking all that off now. No going home. Have to learn to live by yourself – stay safe, no knocking up girls. Just like uni. Easy.
I kick Brody’s mum’s car. Eat shit, Dad. There’s zombie dudes staring at me and I’m like fuck it. Start dead sprinting for Brody’s. Running for the touchdown like my knees aren’t tryna buckle under me with all my shrivelled gains failing to match my normal speed. Just gotta keep going. Wishing I had more holy water to scull. By the time I reach Brody’s place my entire back is drenched.
I wheeze my way up the external stairway, rickety rails creaking. Crumple over at the top. Like zombies can’t climb or something. I’m at his doorstep rubbing my shoes on the welcome mat like a fuckwit, ready to sell them viagra or something. Uber Eats for fresh noggin meat.
So I try the handle. Unlocked. Weird. Not a red flag at all.
“Hello?” I call. Can’t rag on horror characters anymore, fuck my life.
That’s when the wall of meat lunges forward to lean in for the kiss. I stumble back onto the porch, ready to square up. We start up this impromptu tango of stale and fresh limbs. Zombie versus Man. I give him a good shove and he staggers. I got that Ronald McDonald arm, ready to swing a fatality. The guy’s middle aged with balding issues to match the flesh-rot issues. His eyes are rolling in his head with his movements, but they look kinda familiar. I’m tryna take a good gander, swatting one of his grubby mitts away. But then something hits the concrete, and we’re both looking down. A bloated, purple finger is just laying there.
I’m like, “Shit dude, my bad. That your digit?”
I try to grab it for him, but he goes at the same time as me and we bump heads. I give him some space, hands up. He takes the lump and tries to reattach it. Not working. I realise it’s his ring finger, wedding band on there, and then I realise it’s Mr Palak. Brody’s dad. He’s ignoring me now, mushing his septic skin against his knuckle still.
I dip past him into the house, just flinging doors wide. It stinks like something flies would love. I’m all FBI, tryna hunt down a surprise party. I’m muttering ‘ta-dah’ with each door. Total nutter. Brody’s nowhere.
And then, on his un-made bed (dirty lad) he’s got his laptop, tattoo stickers all over. I wake the trackpad and sure enough it lights up. Whaddaya know. Maybe Mr Palak tripped a backup gen. I flop down on his bed, springs squeaking, immediately stuck in the dip in the middle of the mattress. Such ass.
I’m whaling on the pillows when Mr Palak slumps back in the doorway. Groaning. And I’m like, ‘fark just go on and gobble me mate, make a day of it. Rip my face off already.’ But he just sits next to me. Actual pussy. But then he’s got me giggling like I’m 5. Higher pitch than I think I’m capable of. Zombo dad, man. There’s gotta be a Yo Mama joke in there. I grab my phone and start recording him. Nudging him to stand up again.
I’m gonna teach a zombie to skate if it’s the last thing I do.
Zoe Petersen is an emerging writer and artist living on Dharawal Country. Her work gravitates toward the comical and fantastical across all forms of fiction. She was featured as both an author and editor in TIDE Anthology’s Volume 12 Issue 2, proofread for BlueRookies’ comics and has been involved in voluntary work for Spineless Wonders and The South Coast Writers Centre.