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Over the summer, I wrote three fan fictions, a format that I
seldom work in because the material is someone else's intellectual property. I respect their copyrights and wouldn't want
to step on any toes. That being said, I cannot
deny their influences on my work. There
are so many worlds I have played in, and these fan fictions are humble homages
to some of the dreamers who have influenced me and my work, both in fiction and
music.
I originally intended these stories to be giveaways for our
AFTER THE HAPPILY EVER AFTER kickstarter stretch goals, but we didn't make the
5K we were shooting for. I didn't want to
bury the tales, they are far too personal to collect dust next to the monsters
on my wall. I love to celebrate holidays,
and since the end of December hosts merriment for many cultures, what better
time than now to open Pandora's Box and let the misshapen, woeful ghosts out.
Maybe this can be a new wintertime tradition for all the
good little creatures that read my work…
This first story is based on characters from George A.
Romero's 1978 zombie masterpiece DAWN OF THE DEAD.
This film constantly reminds me of why it's important. It sadistically points its decayed finger at
society, mocking consumerism, material wealth, class warfare, religion, and how
mass media influences viewers. The film
is so crucial to the way I view the world that a future essay is in order,
maybe featured in a side project TRANSMUNDANE PRESS is secretly working on, code name CC, for all the eagle-eyes out there.
If you're not familiar with the flicker, take time to watch.
You'll still understand the story
without a screening, but the emotional impact might be muted. If you do know and love this movie, I hope I've
added a worthy page to the film's events.
This is a love letter to Mr. Romero and his wonderful zombie
films, especially the new, misunderstood ones.
Thank you, sir. Your voice has
changed my life.
FLYBOY
Stephen
fought to keep his hands off the controls as the landing skids hovered above
the orange and white helipad. Though
logging countless flight hours, teaching his pregnant girlfriend how to fly the
stolen WGON traffic chopper was his first stab at instruction.
The
lessons had run smoothly. Fran, a former
TV newsroom producer, proved a quick study and mastered taking off and flying, but
she still struggled with landing. She
refused to give up, and, despite a case of jitters unusual for the strong-willed
woman, pushed for another shot before sunset.
Her
natural talent didn't ease his frayed nerves.
Anything could go wrong. The
couple and two other survivors had claimed and fortified an indoor shopping
center when the world fell apart. If the
shipping trucks they'd used to blockade the entrances fell and the dead overran
their sanctuary, the bird was their only means of escape. If they damaged the craft during lessons,…
Pushing
the dark thoughts aside, Stephen focused on his student. The loud blades drowned out the cockpit's ambient
sounds, but Stephen swore that he could hear her heart pounding. The fearless and independent woman he loved
was sweating in spite of the chilly winter air.
"You
got this, Francine," he said, placing a hand on her knee.
She
adjusted, pulling her leg away.
Fran,
brow furrowed, tightened her grip on the collective-pitch lever, her eyes
aflame as she lowered the craft.
Christ, she's beautiful.
"OK,"
he said, "n-now easy. Easy."
Fran
wasn't even with the ground, so he motioned with a brown-gloved hand. She tweaked the stick, over-correcting. Fear washed over her face, but she bit her
lip and adjusted.
"Stabilize
it," he said as she straightened out.
"That's right."
"Down. Down."
The
chopper rested a shade off the large, encircled H in the center of the pad—not bad
for her second attempt.
"That's
it. You got it."
She
blinked her eyes, her accomplishment not yet sinking in.
"Hon?"
Fran
looked shocked. A tuff of blond hair
poking from underneath her white beret bounced as she drew a sharp breath.
"I
did it," she exclaimed, throwing her arms around his neck.
All
the flying lesson heebie-jeebies eased from Stephen's shoulders. He squeezed her tight. She smelled wonderful. Lavender and menthol, a fancy cream from the
apothecary on the mall's bottom floor.
God, it feels good to hold her again.
"Did
you feel that?" she asked.
He
shook his head.
She
pulled away and rubbed her hand against her tummy. "The baby just kicked."
"Looks
like she's proud of you, too."
"You
really think it's a girl?"
"I
do. Besides, it's better to think of her
as a person and not an it—there's
plenty of its down there."
Fran's
smile faded, and he realized that in all the exhilaration she'd lost reality,
if just for the moment. Stephen couldn’t
fault her. They had everything. Anything they could ever desire, no matter
how frivolous, waited for them downstairs.
With all your wishes are granted, when you have every material
possession you could dream of, it's easy to ignore the horde of rotting, hungry
creatures banging on the shatter-proof glass doors, demanding their slice of
the American Dream—your still-human, still-living flesh.
Truth told,
he'd also been caught up in the excitement.
The
hardest part of forgetting about the undead was remembering how close they
were.
"Let's
cut the engine," he said. "The
ammo and canned goods we stocked today put extra pressure on the fuel."
"How
much is left?"
"Not
much."
Worry
crossed Fran's face.
Where would they go anyway?
Only a
third of a tank remained. No one had
transmitted on the television or their wireless receiver for weeks. For all Stephen knew, they were the last
people alive on earth.
She
killed the motor.
Overhead,
the blades slowed, ceasing their deafening whir.
Stephen
heard their groans, a wretched concerto that filled the Pennsylvania afternoon,
vocalizing their inexhaustible hunger.
They didn't speak a language comprehensible to the living, but they all
wanted the same thing—food.
Fran
cleared her throat.
"We
should be getting in," she said.
"It'll be dark soon."
"Right
behind you. I need some fresh air."
Fran
frowned. "I'd hardly call their
stink fresh, but I understand."
"You
did good today. You got it now."
"Well,
I have a great teacher."
She
pecked his lips. Stephen leaned in for a
deeper kiss, but Fran pulled away, hopped out of the cockpit, and headed for
the ladder leading into the small office-turned-apartment the couple shared
with Peter, a former SWAT member who had helped them secure the mall three weeks
after civilization collapsed.
They
were different people then, before the hedonistic lifestyle that the mall
offered had drained out their souls.
Fran
gave a small wave before descending the ladder.
Steve
waved back.
A few
weeks ago, he'd proposed marriage to her in the mall's Italian restaurant
during the couple's first real date since the dead reanimated. They'd both dressed up, and Peter, playing
chef and waiter, cooked veal parmesan and popped a bottle of their most
expensive champagne. Laughter flowed as
easily as the bubbly during the meal; however, when Fran saw the matching wedding
bands, the mood soured.
"We
can't, Stephen. Not now," she had
said. "It wouldn't be real."
She
didn't even try on the ring.
Her
refusal had crushed Stephen and placed another pressure on their
relationship. They'd been bickering more
than ever, fighting over the television's white noise. There would never be another transmission,
but at least Stephen could decide if it stayed on or not, the chaotic dancing
ants the only thing left in the world a man could control.
Not
that he wanted to control Fran.
She'd had
enough of that from her Marine Corps ex-husband, George. Marrying between combat deployments, Vietnam
had unsettled her once gentle high school sweetheart, and the honeymoon ended a
few months following his honorable discharge.
Wounded, he returned from battle to Philadelphia a hero but abusive, refusing
to let her have friends or dress how she wanted. His evenings were spent in front of the
kitchen radio, drinking beer and smoking unfiltered cigarettes while Fran
tended to WGON, isolating herself in work.
Stephen,
a casual friend who always admired her from afar, noticed the bruises, and
after several prying attempts, she opened up to him. Fran never showed an inch of weakness or
self-pity. After George beat her hard
enough to break a rib, she left the soldier, never once turning to anyone for
help. Her indomitable strength won
Stephen's heart, and their conversations became more playful, intimate. A year before the dead walked, he finally swallowed
his butterflies and invited her to a poker game at Roger's house.
She
accepted, and he realized that he could fly without the helicopter.
Roger
DiMarco, a member of Philadelphia's SWAT team, and Stephen went back to grade
school at West Catholic. Always the class
clown, Roger excelled at pulling Stephen into his mischievous hijinks, no
matter how much hot water it meant. They
were often in trouble, and the nuns would smack their knuckles with rulers
hoping to knock the devil out of the boys.
It didn't work, and the two stayed close after graduation.
Over
drinks, Stephen confessed his attraction to Fran, and Roger became determined
to play cupid, insisting that he bring her over for cards. When Stephen and Fran arrived at his house,
Roger pushed them towards each other, playing Motown records and feeding them
bottomless whiskey sours. By the time
Stephen had lost count of how far he was up or down, Roger turned up the stereo
and excused himself for a walk to the store for potato chips and more beer,
making a point to let the blossoming couple know with a wink that he would be
gone over an hour.
Stephen
mustered the courage to ask for a dance during "I Second That Emotion"
by Diana Ross and the Supremes. They
were kissing by the song's end, leaving Roger's apartment together before he
returned from the store.
Stephen
cherished the magical memory.
Fucking Roger.
Roger had
gotten infected while moving the shipping trucks in front of the main entrances. Showing off as usual, Roger dropped his tool
bag, and a few of those bastards took chunks out of his arm and leg. They were secure, but the bites were fatal. Even with everything that the second floor
pharmacy offered—pain pills, antibiotics, morphine—they were unable to stop the
turn and only slowed the infection. The afternoon
before his death, Roger proclaimed that he wasn't coming back, that he would
try not to become one of those things.
Stephen
couldn't watch his best friend die. As an
eye-patched scientist on TV suggested they nuke big cities to cut the dead's numbers,
Roger died.
Peter
waited until Roger reanimated before shooting him.
They
buried him by the water fountain, among the plastic ferns and umbrella palms.
Fucking Roger.
Stephen
finished securing the helicopter and patted the side of the craft. She'd made him a fortune as a traffic
reporter before saving his life when he stole it to escape Philly. While fleeing, parts of town were already dark. The last lights in the skyscrapers winked off
as they headed west.
Shadows
stretched, the setting sun promised a cold night ahead. Temperature didn't matter to the dead. They only cared about their next meal.
How many
now gathered outside the mall?
Stephen
wandered to the edge overlooking the northern parking lot. Below, thousands of shambling fiends shuffled
aimlessly between the few remaining abandoned cars. With outstretched arms and vacant stares,
they clogged the main entrances.
Dressed
in the moment of their deaths, the creatures came from all walks of life. One pushed a shopping cart, as if anxious to
make the big sale in time. A softball
player wore his catcher's mitt, ready for a foul ball that would never come. Still trying to score in death, the disco
swinger in his leisure suite followed a nurse in white scrubs. A nun, indistinguishable from the ones he'd
given so much grief to in youth, ready to even the score with her black gums
and rotting teeth.
The
creatures didn't notice him.
It
didn’t matter if anyone was inside. They
were after the place, even though they had no use for anything in the stores.
Really,
they didn't need to eat, either. They
were dead, what did they need food for?
But
that didn't stop them.
They
just kept piling against the entrances, banging and clawing, pushing and
groaning.
"It's
ours," Stephen growled. "We
took it. It's ours."
***
Fran
rested plates in front of Stephen and Peter before taking a spot at the table
and taking a sip of chardonnay from a crystal wineglass. Stephen raised a bourbon filled tumbler and
toasted Peter and Fran.
"This
looks wonderful," Stephen said as he cut into a rare filet. Before taking over the mall, strip steaks
were a celebratory treat. Thanks to the
Brown Derby on the second floor, they ate them several times a week. Fran's versatile cooking skills kept their
meals interesting, but, honestly, steak wasn't special anymore. Not wanting a fight, Stephen kept silent and
poked at his vegetables, hating how normal his isolation among the trio had
become.
"Woman,
you do amazing things with macaroni," Peter said. "Grandma would have called it
sinful."
Fran
giggled, covering her mouth.
"We
still have a lot of meat," she said, "but the frozen veggies are
wearing thin."
Stephen
swallowed a mouthful of sautéed squash.
"Time to start a garden.
There's plenty of potting soil and seeds in the department store. Peter and I can build plots on the promenades
upstairs."
"I'm
game for a new project." Peter
sipped his bourbon. "Been feeling
lazy the past few days. Something like
this might just wake me up."
Stephen
nodded.
The music
stopped, and he rose to switch albums on the record player. Flipping through the LPs, nothing struck his
fancy. He tired of the usual songs, the
soundtrack to the end of the world. In
the days before the radio transmissions ceased, frantic voices offering no
solutions or hope had replaced music.
The final messages ended without proper conclusion or fanfare. They were debating if the reanimated bodies
were cannibalistic or not when it all stopped, as if they never existed in the
first place.
Maybe the world before was nothing more than
a dream.
"I'm
going to grab some more records," Stephen said.
"Your
dinner will get cold," Fran said.
"It's
fine. I'll heat it up in the
microwave."
Fran's
glare betrayed her silence. Stephen
couldn't look at her as he took off into the mall.
***
The
fountain in the heart of the mall churned but did not calm his emptiness. The elevator clock rang eight-thirty, its echoing
chimes cut through the whimsical piped music broadcasting within the deserted shopping
center.
Stephen
sat on a bench across from Roger's final resting place, sipping twelve-year-old
scotch from a silver flask. The liquor
burned his throat, but at least it let him feel something.
"You
had no choice, didn't you?" he asked the grave. "You fought it and still returned as one
of them."
He
glanced over at the record store wedged between the gun shop and arcade, but
he'd lost the will to search through their extensive collection. Besides, it would all still be there the
following morning.
And
the morning after that…
He
took another swill.
Maybe
he could invite Fran to a few laps at the rink.
Even this far into the pregnancy, she loved skating and glided over the
ice. He, on the other hand, skidded on
the blades like one of the awkward corpses outside, falling on his ass while
she elegantly circled. No matter how
often they went, he couldn't catch the hang of it. Never mocking, she'd offer a mitten and help
him up. He loathed the embarrassment but
loved her company. The last time they
were on the ice, they shot up mannequins with weapons and ammunition from the
gun shop. His aim had improved, but
target practice wasn't as fun as skating.
Nothing
was.
They
hadn't gone the past few weeks. Really,
they hadn't done much of anything together.
They shared a bed, but he woke up and fell asleep alone.
How can you be so close to someone and yet
so far?
He
splashed scotch over Roger's grave and drank.
"I
love her, man. But I'm losing
her." Tears welled, and he brushed
them away. "I wish you could tell
me what I should do, offer some of your shitty advice. You always had the answers. I would have never taken the chopper if you
hadn't insisted, and now we have everything."
Except for what we need.
"Attention,
shoppers," the canned female voice announced over the music. "Are our deals getting you hot? Cool off with a double helping of pistachio
gelato at Scoops, Monroeville Mall's premier confectioner and ice cream
parlor."
Peter
was right.
There
is no more room in Hell.
***
Buzzing from the liquor, Stephen returned to their apartment after ten and found Peter
washing dishes, his large stature dwarfing the kitchen area they had
constructed while transforming the office into a living room.
"You
get us some new tunes, flyboy?"
"Sorry,"
said Stephen. "I got sidetracked
and spent some time with Roger."
Peter's
attention never left the sink.
"I
miss him, too, man. Why don't we get
that garden started early tomorrow?"
Stephen
smiled.
He'd
met Peter after he and Fran stole the helicopter from WGON and flew to a police
dock on the Delaware River in order to rendezvous with Roger. A group of cops also running had killed
everyone at the dock and were loading up a skiff to head upriver in search of a
deserted island. They would have killed
the couple, too, but Roger, in uniform, arrived with Peter and evened the odds.
At
first, Stephen didn't know what to make of the newcomer and worried about how
the extra weight would affect their fuel.
Fran took to him almost instantly.
At a refueling station past Johnstown, Stephen and Peter butted heads
after Stephen nearly shot him while aiming at a decaying redneck. A simple mistake, but the friction lingered
until the group started taking over the mall.
Now Stephen considered Peter one of his best friends. The two had even robbed the mall's bank
together—not that anyone else cared.
Stephen
poured bourbon into a tumbler and sat at the dinner table. Peter, drying his hands, joined him and
followed suit. They clinked glasses.
"She's
almost due," Peter said.
"Can
you handle it?"
"I
know what to do. Doesn't mean I've ever
done the procedure before."
"Will
she live through it?"
Peter
took a long pull from his glass. "I
don't know, flyboy."
Imagining
a life without Fran was impossible. The
chopper, the apartment, the entire fucking mall—everything he'd worked for and
accomplished had been for her. She gave his
world meaning, and their current rocky situation frightened him more than the
hungry mobs surrounding their citadel.
If she
died during childbirth—Christ, the thought—how long would they have before she
attacked them?
Would
he even be able to raise a baby alone?
"Don't
think about it too much," Peter said.
"We still have time. We'll
deal when it happens."
"Yeah. Sure."
After drinks, Stephen stopped in the doorway of the room he
shared with Fran. Wrapped up in a blue
comforter, Fran's chest rose and fell with her soft snoring. An ashtray and Baby and Child Care, a softcover from the bookstore beside the
bank, rested on his side of the bed. He
moved them to the nightstand and dimmed the lamp, kissing her forehead before
he returned to the living room.
Peter, sitting in front of the shortwave radio, cleaned a
revolver.
"How long has it been since you've checked?"
Stephen asked, motioning to the television.
"Man, you know nothing's coming on that thing."
Stephen flipped the power button, and the screen brightened
with salt and pepper anarchy.
Dead air.
Temples throbbing from the alcohol wearing off, he sat on
the comfortable red sofa and watched the static.
"Get some rest, flyboy. We got a lot of work tomorrow."
"Yeah…the garden."
Stretching out, his eyes closed. A few hours till dawn.
Tomorrow I'll talk to
Fran, make things right.
Things have to be
better than today.
The shortwave radio crackled.
--XXX--
Thanks for reading, lovers. I do not any of the images or characters from the film and mean no disrespect to whoever does. This story is meant for entertainment purposes only and is dedicated to Mr. George A. Romero and the cast of DAWN OF THE DEAD, especially Mr. David Emge.
Remember, this story is just the first of three ghosts who will visit you this Christmas. Do you dare stay awake and be haunted?
Want to read more zombie fiction that I wrote? CLICK HERE to check out my current novel-in-progress, BROTHERS IN SOLITUDE.
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