Zombie ChowA Chapter by Venompen
The diet of the non-homicidal zombie.
"So," I asked my old friend, "how long have you been a zombie?" I had been wondering what happened to him for a while. He'd disappeared two years ago.
"About two years," he said, confirming my thoughts. "I'd have sent you guys an e-mail, but I was afraid I'd be hunted down and killed. Its a good thing you still had my e-mail address, or you'd still be hanging around." He was shifting aside containers in the refrigerator. "I'd have found you eventually I guess. I kinda live here now." I wondered what we'd be eating... liver perhaps. Maybe someone's intestines. I was certain I'd have to choke down some gray matter when Tucker slid a plate in front of me. "Bon Appetit!" He said, brightly. I forced myself to look down at my plate. Instead of a pile of bloody entrails, I was looking at two slices of cold pepperoni pizza, a couple of bread sticks, and two AAA batteries. I looked at him quizzically.
"What's with the batteries?" I asked, selecting the least bizarre of the questions bouncing around inside my head. Honestly, I was wondering why we weren't making a buffet out of some guy's head... not that I was complaining.
"Think of them like vitamins." Said my old friend, fishing around in the cupboard.
"I wasn't aware I wasn't getting my recommended daily allowance of battery acid." I asked, confused. I took a big bite of the cold pizza, relishing the familiar taste.
"Brains you goofball," he said, twisting open a bottle of bargain brand soda. "This guy I know, we call him Doc, has been studying us zombies for a few years. One of the first things he told me was that zombies, for some weird reason, need electricity to survive. Brains are full of the stuff." He popped one of the batteries into his mouth and swallowed it like a pill, washing it down with a glass of fizzy brown liquid.
"So why do zombies need electricity?" I asked.
"Haven't the foggiest." he said, biting into a slice of pizza. "You should ask Doc if you want to know things. I pretty much stopped listening after he told me how to live brain free."
"What happened to being a vegan?" I asked him. He used to be one of those obnoxious, holier than thou vegans, but the meal he was munching now would get him locked up by the Vegan Police. "And how did you get pizza here? Is there a place with suicidal delivery guys?" His smile faded, replaced by an out of place, solemn expression.
"Life is too short for bean sprouts and tofu," he said after a short while. "If I had stayed dead, do you know what would have been my last meal? A block of one hundred percent organic, unseasoned, unflavored tofu. It tasted slightly better than fertilizer."
"You've tasted fertilizer?" I asked, smirking.
"Its a figure of speech," he snapped. "The point is that I almost died, and I've hardly experienced life."
I thought about what he said. About how I'd been living before I got bit. My life had certainly been spiced up by random zombie encounters, but other than that I had been living a simple, boring, clock-in clock-out lifestyle. Every day blended into the next. I wasn't particularly unhappy, but I wondered what exactly I was living for.
"The old subway tunnel," he said, breaking the silence and derailing my train of thought.
"What?" I asked dumbly.
"Where I got the pizza, remember? The old subway tunnel. IMC zombies patrol it heavily to keep the feral ones out, which makes it safe for human ones to deliver supplies. You know, like food, groceries, clothes and junk."
"Wait, isn't IMC the company that runs the zombie hot-line?" I asked. "The Infection Management Company right?" I was halfway through my last bread stick.
"That's them. They keep the sane zombie's safe, and eradicate the feral ones. They're also sponsoring our search for a cure." He said.
"So all that money that people donate because they think they'll kill us is really used to help us?" I asked.
"Pretty much. If it weren't for them, we'd all be dead by now, feral or not." his expression was deadly serious. I washed down my batteries with the lukewarm fizz. "So," I asked, rising from the table. "Where do i find Doc?"
© 2011 Venompen
Los Alamos, NM
AboutI do not review your work unless you review mine. I hold this policy because, thanks to all the quick and easy poetry on this site, noone spares a second for a story author such as myself. If you've.. more..