The Beginning

The Beginning

A Chapter by Tory Steller

S**t happens


Waking up stiff and sore, Rupert had no idea where he was. The pink surroundings were foreign to tired eyes. The daylight shining through the curtains, coupled with the alarm clock mounted on the dresser informed him it was a few ticks past noon. He yawned himself awake, but as he tried stretching, he found his right arm did not respond, acting as dead weight.

He looked beside him to find the sleeping clown lying atop the limb, cuddling his chest, snoring quietly, and completely devoid of clothing. Nearly having a heart attack at the sight, he fought the urge to jump out of bed and run away. Instead, he cautiously removed his palm from her ample rump, and slowly slid his arm from underneath her hip.

Slipping out of bed and sneaking out silently was no challenging feat for him, but locating his pants proved to be a more difficult objective. Pacing through his friend's house in nothing but his boxers had not been on his to-do list last night.

Neither had sleeping with her; the thought alone made his stomach churn. Whatever happened in that bedroom would probably haunt him for the rest of his life in every aspect except for his dreams. That was where all those nasty images belonged; locked in his head to be played out as fantasies. Not to be experienced in reality, and especially not with Rapture.

Choosing not to deal with the complicated mess until later, he distracted himself by returning to the hunt for his clothing. He discovered his pants discarded rather shrewdly atop the plant in the corner, and silently applauded his own achievement. Hurriedly tugging them up his legs, his anxiety melted away once he was decent.

Before beginning the search for his shirt, he heard something give a scratching knock. He froze, fearing his plan to escape without a farewell had been blown. The sound repeated long enough for him to pinpoint its origin. He exhaled another silent sigh, relieved to find that the noise came from outside his friend's house. After another quick yet unsuccessful search for his shirt, he walked over to answer the door.

Looking through the peephole revealed old Mrs. Simmons standing outside on the porch, wobbling slightly on her heels. Underneath an obvious auburn wig, her face looked wrinkled and leathery like a mask, and just as detached from the rest of her head.

Her lips were thin to the point of invisibility, and her nose was wide and bulbous. It looked like what the word kumquat instinctively made him envision, despite never having seen one, and had no trouble holding up the thickest pair of glasses the mime had ever seen. She looked drunk the way she swayed from side to side. His head shook at the concept of intoxicated elderly women.

Feeling naked with his chest exposed, he slowly opened the door halfway, hiding behind it. Wafting in with the cold air came the overwhelming stench of cat litter and old people. He plugged his nose as he outstretched his other arm to greet the old lady with a handshake. Instead of meeting the gesture with her own hand, she claimed a nice chunk of his arm in her teeth with a slimy crunch.

In shock, he pulled his bloody arm out of the old woman's mouth and took a moment to study the wound before the pain set in. Wide-eyed, he gave a noiseless scream to express his agony. Seeing her trying to get a second bite of him, he lifted his bare foot in self-defense and booted the flesh-craving cougar down the stairs.

He watched her wrinkled body topple over the edge of the porch, listened to bones breaking on the stone steps below, and looked on as her probable corpse crumpled into a heap of human parts atop the concrete. He observed her motionless body until he was certain she was never getting up again. Guilt pinched the insides of his gut, making him nauseous.

Regardless of the old lady treating his arm like tapioca, he could not help but feel mortified by his actions. There was no valid excuse for what he had done; killing a crazy, most likely senile geriatric. Woefully, he stepped outside to check if she was still alive. Although he was highly doubtful, it would ease some of his regret if there was a pulse.

As revolting as the scene of someone's grandmother collapsing into a bag of putty was to witness, it paled in comparison to watching her snap her brittle bones back into place, each righted joint giving off a sickening popping sound, and rising from the incident as if it never happened.

He refused to believe what he was seeing. His brain short-circuited itself trying to rationalize what was happening with a logical explanation, failing miserably. Completely spooked, he stood stupefied until he saw she was steadily on her feet, approaching with soulless eyes and a broken jaw hanging open.

Seeing this grotesqueness shuffle closer, the mime turned tail, nearly tripping over his own feet to get away. He returned to the security of his friend's home, slamming the door shut behind him. Running to the bathroom, he fought off the urge to vomit.

He glanced up, catching a glimpse of his terrified face in the mirror; wet with sweat, full of tears and looking frantic. In a play or movie, his expression might have been comical, but this was reality, where being frightened was only a hindrance. He had to figure out what the hell was going on. His mind was still full of doubts about what had just happened to him; it was utterly impossible. Of course, the bleeding of his right arm contradicted that belief.

Concerned he might stain the floor with the blood trickling down to his elbow, he tore off as much toilet paper as possible from the roll and wrapped the leaking part of his arm up tightly.

He wiped away the tears, took a deep breath to calm down, and nearly choked on air when the bathroom door received a soft knock that mimicked the one before. His head instantly filled with horrific images: an army of grannies ready to chomp him to bits.

The only exit was a window too small to crawl out of, and with the door blocked by whatever monster awaited him on the other side, he felt hopelessly cornered. He contemplated just sitting on the toilet until help arrived, but his thoughts turned to his helpless friend still snoozing in her bed. She would be doomed if the evil outside grew impatient and chose to attack her instead. Hiding was just as useless as running in this scenario. The only option that remained was fighting his way to freedom.

Although, even that task seemed impossible, unless toilet tissue turned out to be a zombie's secret weakness. The bathroom contained nothing worthy of weaponization. His right arm gushed blood while his left hand kept pressure on the wound. The scratchy knock came again, sounding angry and impatient. Resigned to his fate, his injured arm reached for the knob as he prepared himself for whatever waited on the other side.

With his foot braced to be extended, he snatched the door open and nearly kicked Rapture in the stomach, which sat in clear view, uncovered and smooth. Instinctively, he averted his eyes away from his friend's nakedness, and stepped to the side of the door to allow her access to the room.

“Chill out, I have on a bra. See?” She directed his eyes with her finger and he noticed that she was indeed wearing a purple bra, as well as matching jogging pants. He must have missed them in his panic, and relaxed a little knowing that she was clothed, having only her belly exposed.

She tossed him the t-shirt that had been missing all morning before stepping in front of the mirror. Her hair had tangled up slightly from sweat, and she reached into a drawer for a comb. He looked his zebra-striped top over, taking note of all the lipstick smears staining the collar.

“I woke up because I thought I heard the door slam. Did anyone come by to�"Whoa! What the hell happened to you?” she questioned with concern, noticing the blood-soaked tissue wrapped tightly around his forearm. She threw the comb down to examine his injury.

“Did you get bit by a dog or something?” He shook his head and mimicked someone shaking with a cane. “You're saying some old person gave you that nasty gash in your arm?” He nodded and pointed outside the window to Mrs. Simmons' house. Understanding what he meant, she found it impossible to keep a straight face and started giggling hard enough for tears to roll down her cheeks.

The mime sulked as he dressed himself, not amused by her unhinged hoots and howls. His sulking worsened when he spotted several, more prominent purplish marks right on the front of his shirt, covering his abdomen and chest.

“Dude, have you gone insane?” she asked after finally regaining control of her diaphragm. “There is no way sweet old Mrs. Simmons cut you. Remember the last time you came over? She baked you cookies in an embarrassingly desperate attempt to get a piece of you.” Shaking his head frantically, he pointed to the hole in his arm and gnashed his teeth together, causing her to laugh even harder.

“Okay, you've definitely gone bonkers, buddy. The lady has false-teeth! Not to mention a bum jaw. I don't even think she can make her teeth touch, let alone bite anybody. She could never do that kind of damage.” She hoped to disperse her friend's preposterous delusions, but seeing the disappointment in his eyes, she decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.

“Fine, let's pretend you aren't acting crazy, since your blood is making a mess in my bathroom. So, if that feeble old woman bit into you like a tootsie pop… what did you do?” With a prideful smirk, he smashed his left fist into his right palm and nodded.

“What the hell do you mean you hit her? Is she okay? Where is she?” Now it was Rapture who was panicking. If her friend had killed her neighbor she was going to punch his lights out. Before he could explain, she ran to the front door and whipped it open, only to find the three little kittens from last night weakly meowing up at her.

They looked as if something had mauled them; their ears and paws looked gnawed on and scratched up. The littlest kitten had missing patches of fur in a few places, and another had a tiny trail of blood behind it. “Oh my god!” Her shout sounded louder than a police siren.

Hearing the shriek, he sprinted to the front of the house, ready to protect her with his life, but was delightfully surprised to find the harmless kittens lying on the porch. However, his relief rotted away with worry once he noticed their tufts of fur matted with fresh blood.

“I think the same thing that got you roughed them up too. They look freaking awful!” she stated with a twang of grief. “Too bad I despise kittens. Get the hell off my porch ya' stinky fuzz-balls!” She shook her fist at the injured creatures and slammed the door on their innocent whiskers.

A fuss of hissing erupted on the other side, and the door could be heard getting scratched and scraped upon. A few loud bangs later and the wood was splintered, a rather large chunk was broken off the door, and the three cats landed inside the room. Both the clown and mime looked down in awe at the scene.

The tiny trio started slowly shambling forward on broken paws, mouths wide and fangs ready to feast. Backing away from the disgusting hairballs, she looked around for a promising object to defend herself from the menaces.

Rupert had a better idea. He ran up beside her and kicked all three kittens through the freshly created hole, effectively punting them out the house and over the porch steps. She was stricken speechless by his bravery, as well as his brutality.

“Alright, that was pretty cruel,” she admitted once the momentary shock passed her by. “I might hate cats, but I'd never kick them out my house like that, even if they were being vicious mutant b******s. You probably just killed them!”

He slapped his forehead in defeat. She just would not understand until she saw for herself. As if his thinking prompted it, the rest of the door was knocked off its hinges, and Mrs. Simmons returned to the house.

“What the hell!” the clown shouted in outrage. “What is wrong with you, lady? How am I supposed to explain away a missing door? Gah! My dad is gonna kill me!” Mrs. Simmons completely ignored the irate girl. Her dead eyes stayed locked on her previous entrée.

Thoughts of grabbing his friend's hand and retreating out of the side door flashed through his mind. He might have acted on them had she not lost her temper first. She collared the elderly woman, and lifted her off the ground so they were nose to nose.

“You better freaking reimburse me! For the door, and the constant harassment your pets cause! If you don't, I swear I'll freaking sue…you…” Rapture's threat died down at the end, because nearly concealed by the falling wig, beneath the thick lenses of the old lady’s reading glasses, she saw nothing. Her eyes were completely hollow, void of intelligence or a soul. And in the time it took this revelation to resonate in the clown girl's mind, the less-than-human being opened its maw, ready to consume her.

As Rapture screamed, Rupert summoned up all the courage and strength he could muster and charged forward with a raised fist. Knuckles squished against undead flesh, and he knocked the old lady's block off, literally separating the head with a gurgled pop.

Down it tumbled, flying out the doorway, bouncing off the porch, landing with the kittens, bereft of its auburn dignity, and leaving the body to collapse to the floor. She looked on in silent horror as the old lady's corpse hit the carpet, staining it with blackened blood. Her eyes darted over to her friend. He grinned like a maniac and gave her a thumbs up.

“Are you insane? What the hell did you just do?” He was beginning to get annoyed by her thick-headed ignorance. Desperate to drag her back into reality, he directed her attention to the corpse still continuing to clamber about the floor despite being decapitated.

“Oh! Wow… that's… rather bizarre. She's like a zombie or… something.” He nodded his astonished agreement at her side, aware of how strangely calm the two of them were being about the impossible situation. Then it dawned on him that they were both in shock, and they should probably dispose of the headless woman instead of standing there, staring in silence.

She killed the quiet moment, exclaiming, “Holy hell! That means those mutant kittens were trying to eat me! Wow, that's a scary thought. Like… nightmare scary. Thank you so much for saving me from becoming zombie cat chow! You are the bestest friend ever!” She rushed over and hugged him tightly, and he found solace in both her embrace, and the return of her senses.

And then she ruined that brief breath of comfort by asking, “Wait a minute, so she really did bite you, right?” He nodded as best he could with her currently choking the life out of him, and she squealed, “Oh no! Does that mean you're gonna turn into a zombie too… like in the movies?”

Taking a moment to contemplate her words, disturbing images popped up in the mime's head. He pictured himself as one of the walking dead, feeding on his friend's entrails, and became light-headed for his trouble. His eyes fluttered for a few seconds, and then suddenly, he fainted in her arms.

© 2017 Tory Steller

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Added on August 24, 2017
Last Updated on August 24, 2017
Tags: Romance, Zombies, Death, Clown, Mime


Tory Steller
Tory Steller

Harper Woods, MI

My name is Tory. My dream is to become a famous writer. I love creating new and imaginative stories, poems and other literary works, and debating interesting topics. I'm really friendly, a little weir.. more..

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