Not Everything Brainless is Dead Read online

  Tiny cracks crawled through the wall as the barrage of gunfire and zombies continued, before long it had endured all it could endure. The dam did not collapse so much as it simply disintegrated as the horde of cadavers came crashing through. Corpse after corpse piled at their feet as more zombies came barreling through the ruptured dam. Soon, a mountain of dead zombies had formed at their feet—geology at its finest.

  One industrious zombie actually managed to lunge out from the mess of cadavers and go straight for one of Dr. Malevolent’s lackeys; the poor guy threw his arms up in defense as the creature crashed into him. This bear of a zombie then clamped its jaws around the lackey’s arm and tore at his flesh like a nice juicy salmon. The attack left a sizeable wound in his forearm, and the bone showed through like the creamy filling of a strawberry pastry.

  The lackey shoved the zombie back into the pile of cadavers, where it blended in perfectly. He then attempted to conceal what had just transpired by cupping his hand over the wound and whistling nonchalantly. He gazed down and, between the ghastly sight and sheer blood loss, found himself quite dizzy. Of course, zombification was playing its part as well. He would have been in great pain if not from shock of it all. The zombie outbreak hadn’t even sunk in yet and already people had lost chunks of flesh to the mangy beasts.

  The lackey held his wounded arm close to his chest and gave everyone else a woozy smile, hoping they would not notice his newfound state or the zombie that lay dead with a piece of his arm still in its mouth. For a short time, he considered grabbing the hunk of flesh and trying to reattach it to his arm like a missing puzzle piece, but soon he abandoned this plan due to a lack of the necessary medical knowledge.

  This poor lackey and his fast approaching fate would weigh on even the stoutest of hearts as the color bled from his skin and his lips faded to blue. Fret not, for the sole purpose of his existence was to be zombie fodder. Just as nobody mourns for a dog’s chew toy, do not mourn for his noble sacrifice, because as they say, “You can’t start zombie apocalypse without first busting a few skulls.”

  Captain Rescue took notice of Dr. Malevolent’s wounded lackey and, with a wild-eyed look, subtlety nudged Freight to take notice. His eyes and face were trying to convey a message to the hulking police officer. A message that Captain Rescue felt he could not convey aloud. If one did not know any better, it would have been something like “Where’s the bathroom in this place I really have to pee.” or “Is your sister single?” Unable to translate Captain Rescue’s unique language, Freight simply shrugged.

  Finally, the hero turned his attention to the wounded fellow, “What’s that?” he asked, pointing at the bloody arm.

  Drunk with blood loss, the lackey replied, “That? Nothing… I’ve had it since I was born. It’s a birth defect, yeah.”

  Dr. Malevolent tapped her lips for a few moments and then smacked them, “So, you’re trying to tell me that the gushing wound in your arm has absolutely nothing to do with the zombie lying there with piece of flesh in its mouth that looks like it would fit in that hole perfectly?”

  “Well… uh…” the lackey fell over unconscious.

  Captain Rescue threw his arms into the air and yelled, “Now what!”

  “Is he dead?” Dr. Malevolent said, poking him with her foot.

  “The real question is, ‘Is he undead?’”

  Before they could discuss the matter any further, a single shotgun blast resonated out.

  “PROBLEM SOLVED!” bellowed Freight as he shot once more for good measure.

  “Was the second one really necessary?” asked Dr. Malevolent.

  “YOU CAN NEVER BE TOO CAREFUL.”

  They all found much wisdom in Freight’s words and remained quiet for a few moments. Then, Captain Rescue screeched loudly and fired at a zombie that had apparently gone unnoticed, taking its arm clean off.

  Stubbs said not a word as he wiggled the stump around.

  “Oh jeez, sorry. You do kinda blend in, don’t you?” Captain Rescue said as he grabbed Stubbs’ severed arm from the ground. He then held the shoulder in one hand, the arm in the other, and simply tried to force the two back together like a kid who had broken his favorite toy and was trying desperately to fix it. However, he forgot to apply superglue, so the entire exercise was in vain.

  Eventually, Stubbs grabbed his arm back from Captain Rescue and began slapping the hero across the face repeatedly before easily popping it back into place. He wiggled it around to assure that everything worked properly, slapped Captain Rescue a few more times, and then simply thanked him for trying. To avoid a situation like this occurring again, Stubbs grabbed a Kevlar vest from a nearby locker and adorned it. To complete the snazzy ensemble, he snatched up a riot helmet and shoved it over his head. Now, perhaps, he would be able to survive any further crossfire that came his way, unless they somehow ran into a herd of zombies also in full riot gear.

  Wait a second! How did those half-retarded primates take advantage of sophisticated weaponry so easily? Most of them, obviously, had no weapons training at all. Their newfound sharpshooting skills were simply a side effect of any zombie apocalypse. Everyone involved who had not succumbed to zombieism could now use every weapon known to man—and quite proficiently. Clearly, military prowess was something every person had seated deeply in his or her subconscious, and at the onset of impending doom, it switched on and made a fighter out of anyone; with the exception of Captain Rescue, who resorted to whacking zombies with the butt of his rifle because he could not, for the life of him, figure out which end fired the bullets.

  With the battle commenced, a giant mountain of zombies now blocked the wall and made getting out the same way they got in nearly impossible, and no amount of force would get them past the door without a key, which Freight did not have. Sadly, as he said, nobody at the station trusted the psychopath to that many guns at any given time, a very wise decision on their part. Who knew when he would sneak in there in the dead of night and borrow a grenade launcher to clear those pesky ducks loitering at the nearby pond?

  So here they were, stuck between the proverbial rock (giant hill of dead zombies) and hard place (steel armory door). Captain Rescue decided to take a direct route to the outside world. He threw his arms into the air, roared, and sprinted for the nearest wall, which he collided with in much the same fashion as he collided with the back door of the getaway van. A cringe of pain covered everyone else’s face as the hero smacked into the wall and fell over backwards, cracking the floor tiles underneath him.

  He rose from the ground, stars still orbiting his head. After the room stopped spinning, he focused his eyes onto the wall, pointed, and called it out.

  “Get the better of me will you?” he said, anger permeating from the tip of his finger. “I’ll teach you who is boss, you piece of junk!”

  Captain Rescue swaggered over to the wall, fist raised high into the air. He stood there, making a series of circles with his fist as he held it high over his head, preparing to give it a taste of its own medicine, and almost falling backwards from the momentum. Then, he lunged forward, fist leading the charge. Surprisingly, or unsurprisingly if you consider the state of walls in this city, his fist pierced right through. He continued to stumble forward as paper-thin drywall fell on top of him. The wall, it appeared, had the last laugh.

  Chapter 9: There’s a New Sheriff in Town

  After trekking back through the grotesque birthday party of human remains that the police station had fallen to, the little band of misfits found their way back out—again. The quick demolition of walls greatly expedited their journey and allowed them to make a beeline for the entrance. Once outside, Captain Rescue made sure to lock The Rescue Machine securely. If a zombie hijacker somehow stole it, as unlikely as that sounded, he would be devastated.

  The van was right where they left it and had not grown legs and walked away or been carried off to the zombie queen that existed solely for this metaphor. As for the area just surrounding the van, it appeared clear of
any unwanted predators, the kind that waited in the shadows to strike for the jugular. No, not tigers. Well, maybe zombie tigers. There is really no telling what dangers awaited the heroes if these zombies somehow made their way into a zoo.

  Before anyone could advise him against it, Boris had made it way halfway across the parking lot screaming at the top of his lungs, “Hold on Charlie! I’m comin’ for ya, buddy!” He had become suddenly delirious, brought on by the intense affection he felt for his inorganic better half. Boris desperately wanted to be reunited with Charlie before the suit succumbed to the wrath of the zombies, and that wrath, no doubt, would be magnified tenfold once the zombies realized just how inedible a plush costume really was.

  Despite the area appearing clear but a moment ago, zombies had leapt out of the woodwork and were closing in on Boris as he climbed into the van. How were they able to accomplish such a feat, who knew? Maybe mastering the space-time continuum was something zombies did in their spare time and now they had the ability to teleport at free will. Only they had taken it too far and were warping around all willy-nilly, thanklessly abusing the gift given to them by their creators. This blatant abandonment of the traditional zombie shuffle only brought shame to their ancestors and made a mockery of everything zombies stood for.

  Suddenly, a slew of unearthly howls echoed through the parking lot. Zombies were quite loud when they wanted to be. Dozens of the creatures now fled from the van at full shuffle. It appeared as though something spooked them. Weird, since zombies did not technically feel real fear, or at least nobody thought they did. Regardless, something just scattered the zombies worse than a Swine Flu scare at the supermarket. The cause of their scatter was perhaps even more terrifying than the blight known as pigfluenza could ever be. Atop the van stood a rabbit over eight feet tall (including ears) with a big bushy tail. Even more, this newfound zombie repellant practically glowed blue. As luck would have it, zombies feared nothing more than oversized blue bunnies named Charlie.

  Interestingly, Boris had entered the vehicle no more than fifteen seconds prior. The speed at which he adorned the suit would have made Superman and his favorite telephone booth ripe with envy. The man of steel and his mistress had fostered quite the loving relationship and to have another costumed crusader suddenly come out of nowhere with a speed change like that would have left them quite perturbed. So much so, that the son of Krypton would hang up his cape and turn to a life less frightening, perhaps as an accountant. A new sheriff had come to town, Charlie the Bright Blue Bunny Rabbit, and he was fresh out of bubblegum. The undead spread out in every possible direction, hands flailing high above their heads. As previously learned, the zombies were only just in working condition, and fleeing this quickly caused a great deal of them to lose integrity and, piece by piece, fall to shambles. Zombies had good reason to shuffle wherever they went.

  Charlie, or Boris as he was formerly known, who was formally known as Cecil DeWitt, signaled to all around that hope remained and the time for dismay had not yet come. Ironically, the time for dismay had come. Most of the people with enough mental capacity to truly appreciate this beacon had already been torn apart. Either that or they jumped from their rooftops in dismay (where they learned ten feet later they needed to work on their suicide techniques) and then been torn apart. Either way—lots of people, lots of tearing apart. It was safe to say that this beacon of hope had shown up a little late to the party.

  Whenever Boris became Charlie, his personality changed to reflect it. Nobody really knew who Cecil DeWitt really was, since Boris was just another of his monikers. His real identity had been long lost under mountains of mental fortifications and a lifetime of role-playing. But, if the man had to choose, Charlie would have certainly been his favorite personality. It probably had something to do with the pointy rabbit ears or the bushy tail. Whatever his reasoning, Charlie was a force to be reckoned with—and the zombies knew it.

  “What are you chumps doin’ standing around? We have a world to save,” the rabbit said without giving anyone the opportunity to explain why it was not every day you saw a bunch of zombies flee from an enormous bunny rabbit. “Let’s get to that bank so we can figure out who’s behind this crap.”

  “Wait one second,” Dr. Malevolent said, “I may not be an expert on furries or zombies, but it sure seemed like they were scared of you.”

  Charlie shrugged, “I’m not exactly surprised, I am a force to be reckoned with.”

  “Oh, get over yourself, you’re just crazy—not comfortable in your own skin so you have to put on someone, or something, else’s.”

  “If we’re going to psychoanalyze anyone, let’s do you.”

  Charlie looked then to Captain Rescue, “… or you.”

  He glanced at Freight, “Okay, you seem crazy too.”

  Freight threw up his hands, taken aback but the outlandish accusation.

  Dr. Malevolent shook her head, “Our collective mental illnesses aside, we’re veering off course. Zombies are scared of you, we can exploit this.”

  Freight stepped away from the ground, “HOLD ON A SECOND, I’M NOT PUTTING ON ONE OF THOSE COSTUMES. YOU CAN’T MAKE ME.”

  “That won’t be a problem,” the bunny replied, “There’s no place in this city to buy, or loot, them.”

  “That settles it then,” Dr. Malevolent said, “We have to stick together and you have to lead the way. I guess we’ll just hope the zombies see you first and don’t find our delectable flesh more appealing.”

  “WELL, IF THAT HAPPENS TO BE THE CASE, I’LL DO MY THING.”

  Dr. Malevolent patted him on the back, “I’m afraid to see what happens if you’re not allowed to do your thing.”

  “IT FRIGHTENS ME TOO, DON’T WORRY.”

  “Let’s get crackin’ then, lead the way Charlie,” Dr. Malevolent said with a hint of sarcasm. She still planned to get ahold of the blue monstrosity and to torch it after she had exploited it to avoid being eaten.

  Captain Rescue placed his hand upon Charlie’s plush shoulder, “Man, you don’t know how nice it is to have someone else lead these half-wits for once,” Under the blue bunny head and unknown to the hero, Charlie just rolled his eyes in return.

  As the newly appointed group leader set off, Freight stared him down, his fingers tightening around his shotgun. From the age of two, Freight had crowned himself the badassest of badasses, and he did not take kindly to this new badass coming out of nowhere to usurp his crown right out from under him. Therefore, he made a mental note to super glue it to his head. That way, if a thief ever pried his crown from him again, they would discover a ring of unsightly flesh lining the underside. Perhaps that would deter any further dastardly crown thieves.

  After dwelling on Charlie for a few moments, an epiphany hit Freight. With Charlie leading everyone into danger, he now had free reign to be the gun-toting zombie blower-upper without a care in the world, which was fine and dandy with him. However, Charlie’s suit did appear to have a rather unwanted effect on the zombies—making them flee for their unlives. Nevertheless, he would make do, even if he had to plunge head first into poor decisions to quench his blood thirst.

  Lost in his thoughts, Freight slammed into Charlie, who had come to abrupt halt. He glanced over the bunny’s shoulder, and between his floppy ears, to see a zombie loitering on the sidewalk with its back turned to Charlie and head hung low. Freight slid his shotgun from underneath his belt, ready to jump into action if the need arose.

  Charlie picked up a pebble from the ground and tossed it at the zombie. The creature shuffled around, surely preparing to lunge at whomever just disturbed it. The zombie’s head slowly rose as it emitted a ghastly moan. Its eyes soon locked with Charlie and its moan quieted before it could come to some kind of finale. The zombie began to shake violently and then simply collapsed and rolled into the street, motionless.

  “Well,” Charlie said, looking at the lifeless corpse, “that was easy.”

  With an enormous zombie repellent like Charlie, the grou
p was able to traverse the city streets quickly, any obstacles scared away. As another zombie collapsed before the wrath of the bunny rabbit, Captain Rescue called Stubbs out, “Hey zombie, I’ll race you to the end of the block.”

  “Race?” the zombie replied, “I can barely walk.”

  “Oh, so you’re gonna chicken out on me then, are ya?”

  Stubbs pointed to a golf cart, which someone had conveniently left running on the side of the road when the shit hit the fan, “My chariot awaits.” The original owner, once zombified, had probably gone off in search of food on foot, since zombies did not likely retain the knowledge of operating a golf cart. Not that they should have been expected to, most zombies had a hard enough time retaining the knowledge of distinguishing between food and hazards, let alone the operation of any sort of vehicle.

  “Wait a second, I’m not going to race a golf cart on foot.”

  “Oh, who’s scared now?”

  “Oh, you worthless corpse, you’re on.”

  Stubbs climbed into the golf cart pulled it to side of the road, where Captain Rescue stood. The hero walked to the front of the tiny vehicle and aligned his feet with its front wheels, giving himself an inch or so head start. As Stubbs revved the golf cart’s engine, Captain Rescue scoffed at the zombie and then made a revving noise of his own. Charlie, Freight, and Dr. Malevolent all stood back, curious to see just how badly this went.

  “I’ll do the countdown,” Captain Rescue said.

  “All right,” the zombie replied, fully aware that he would probably try to pull some funny business and cheat.

  Captain Rescue bent over, stretching his legs and then his back as a string of pops followed suit. He let out a quick, sharp exhale, throwing an arm into the air before beginning his countdown. “On 1! Three! Two!” The hero sprinted off before finishing. He looked back laughing and then shouted to the golf cart, “One!”