Chapter 13.
I am in Phoenix, the Radisson. Spike Grindstone is in room 390. The zombie fun has just begun, and if you recall, I was about to save Spike Grindstone from himself. Which is never an easy chore, as we are each our own worst enemy.
I race up the stairs, and run smack into the Neanderthal dad that was in the lobby a little while ago. Quick recap. The pigeon convention has been called off. I can't get a hold of anybody because the phones are down. All I really want to do is get a hold of Dodge, because he's one of those guys who does nothing but drone on and on about the end of the world, and how ready he is for it to happen.
Dodge lives way out in the desert, on a hundred acres of dirt. But he does have a water well, and five years of canned goods stored away. He must be in hog heaven right now. I'm not, though. That little chat I had with the plump tart behind the counter downstairs makes me acutely aware of how topsy-turvy the world will become.
If you really, really, want to know how the zombies will take over the world, just do this. Picture every moron you ever had to deal with in life. Ex-boyfriends, ex-girlfriends, your 7th period social studies teacher, that kid with the salami breath that always insisted that Captain Kirk could beat the snot out of Piccard (Piccard is a diplomat, he would never resort to fisticuffs). Picture the cop who gave you a speeding ticket, the neighbor with the loud bass playing at all hours, the neighbor with the loud motorcycle, the neighbor that would only return your wave once every ten times you wave. But that one time you don't wave, they're waving frantically, and when you wave back? They give you a dirty look.
Now picture all these people in your living room. The doors and windows are boarded up, and everyone you ever knew and loved is now a zombie and trying to break in to share their love for you with little bitty love nibbles. Makes you just want to run off and forget the whole thing, don’t it?
And that's why I feel right now like a crumb bum. I feel like I can run off and reinvent myself, but first let me make sure Ma and Sissy are OK. Let me make sure Spike Grindstone doesn't shoot his brains out. Let me look in on Dodge, because he's a bit paranoid. And Riley. Riley, who is up in Vegas. The girl who I moved across the country for, just to see a glimpse of her dancing up on stage with all them feathers. For the love of all things sacred, let me profess my love for her before the world turns upside down. (So now you know why I went to Vegas. Label me a stalker, go ahead).
I nearly run into the Neanderthal. He's lollygagging up the stairs with an empty ice bucket. I slow up behind him. I look at his giant butt as he walks up the stairs, dragging his knuckles. He senses I'm in a rush, so naturally, he slows way the hell down. We get to the third floor, long hallway. I see the ice machine, half way down the hall. Of course, the rooms start at 300 and go one at a time down to room 399 at the opposite end of the hallway.
"Thank my lucky stars!" I think, "Spike Grindstone isn't at the very end of the hall. He's just at the near end of the hall. Lady Luck, thank you for standing beside me."
Speaking of standing beside, when we get to the top of the stairs, the Neanderthal doesn't let me pass. He starts speeding up. Looks straight ahead, Fred Flintstone profile, hairy neck. I slow down, he slows down. He looks at me from the corner of his eyes. The hallway is narrow too. I don't say, "Excuse me," because I don't have any balls.
I walk faster, he picks up his pace. We do this until we reach the ice machine, which is on my side of the hallway, and he cuts over, doesn't say excuse me. Just snorts. Looks down at the ice machine like it's a vending machine, and he can't figure out if he wants H5, the Snickers Bar, or G12, the Starburst.
Finally, finally, after much contemplation, he reaches down and starts filling up his ice bucket. Only he doesn't stand back up. Oh no. Much too unnatural a position for his sloping shoulders and crooked back. He stands there like a silver back gorilla, his rear nearly touching the opposite wall. His ice tray fills; he looks at me and says, "Problem?"
"No," I say.
"Then what the hell you doing there?" He has one in turned eye, and it looks like he's talking to his crooked nose.
"I need to get through, but your ice bucket filling abilities fascinate me."
"Oh?" he says, standing straight up, folding his arms. "Down in the lobby, I don't recall you being a paying customer, pal."
He starts breathing fast.
"What?" I say. I feel my left ball drop. "What is your problem?" My right ball drops.
"I ought to throw you outta here," he says. Then he reaches down, and starts topping off his ice bucket. And he laughs.
"Go right ahead. Call security, numb nuts. I happen to be friends with a pretty important person down the hall."
"Oh yeah? Well, let's go find out who that is."
I start to raise my fists. It's been a while since I've been in a fist fight. I try to strike a pose like that fighting leprechaun mascot from the Celtics. He picks me up by my shirt and starts twisting it around my neck as he dragged me down the hall.
"This way? Right, you little twerp? Can't let a man on vacation walk up a flight a stairs without making him rush, rush, rush? Which room? Which. Room?"
I can't breathe, so instead of letting me go, he drags me to each door, asking "Here? Here? Here?" until we make it to room 390.
"Here?"
I nod furiously. He bangs on the door furiously. His banging echoes down the empty corridor.
"We'll see who's so important," he bangs on the door again.
Room 389 across the hall opens their door. A bald old head cranes out, looks at the Neanderthal, and hesitates before biting his lower lip and slinking back behind his door. He leaves it ajar a moment. It opens slightly. I hear an old battle axe from behind the door telling him to, "Not get involved in other people's affairs."
The Neanderthal begins to squeeze my neck like he's squeezing out the last dregs of a tube of toothpaste. I'm about to pass out, when I see down the hall a stout figure in grey sweats walking towards us. The Neanderthal lets up his grip. Now he's acting like the school bully, waiting for the hall monitor to pass by so he can resume the milk money shakedown.
The stout figure looks like Spike Grindstone, he's got a hood up though, so I’m not sure. The Neanderthal stands still as the hooded figure walks past. He walks around the Neanderthal, and briefly looks at me. It's Spike! Spike Grindstone. He gives me a wink, just like he did all those times in Spike Grindstone's Punch-out.
He goes down to the end of the hall, and pretends to open another door. Only he doesn't pretend, he goes into room 399. Closes the door behind him. The Neanderthal goes back to banging on room 390...dammit, was it 390 that broad downstairs called, or 399? I forget.
I mention this to the Neanderthal. He pauses for a minute. I'm guessing that he's mentally sizing up the guy who just walked by. "Yeah," he says to no one, "I can take him." It's easy to read the mind of a Neanderthal, I think to myself.
He approaches room 399 assuredly, really starts wrenching my shirt in anticipation, and bangs on the door. We hear the deadbolt unhinge, and through the security chain, Spike asks, "What is it?"
The Neanderthal shoves me nearly through the door, "Do you know this bum?"
Spike undoes the chain, opens the door. He's massive. The Neanderthal shrinks behind me. The grip on my shirt is released. Now I know how Potsy felt every time Fonzie saved him. Or was it Richie Cunningham? It doesn't matter, what matters is Spike Grindstone says, "Yeah, I know this bum, so what?"
The Neanderthal thinks, then backs up, makes some space between him and Grindstone.
"Hit him, Spike!" I blurt out.
Spike just stares at me.
The Neanderthal says with a voice that has gained some courage, "Yeah, Spike, hit me, you rapist, you little sh-"
Spike cocks back and like a jackhammer, boom boom boom! All right jabs. The Neanderthal drops like a brick. Out cold. Spike looks at me, and I duck because he has a real fierce look.
"Look at you ducking like I would hit a friend," he says and lead
s me into the room. "Wait a sec," he goes back out in the hall, and grabs the half spilled ice bucket.
Spike sits on his bed. The room is larger than what I could ever hope to afford. He's got two queen sized beds, each one with its own picture above it. A nightstand, a little round wooden table with two upholstered chairs. Thick curtains that close all the way. AC. The remote control for the TV is bolted to the nightstand between the beds, and Spike fiddles with it as he lies down and soaks his right hand in the ice.
"I think I'm developing arthritis, my joints ache pretty bad these days. Strangely enough, not after I work out. Tomorrow, however, I will ache."
"Spike...Spike...you can't kill yourself, you have too much to live for. I'm so glad I'm not too late." It's an awkward segue into suicide.
"No, that's silly. I got to thinking, who would feed my birds back home? It would not be right until I got all my affairs settled. Speaking of which, do you think you can feed my birds back home?"
"Sure, I mean, no? It doesn't make sense. This is all crazy. Zombies. Look at them," I say. We both watch the news. It's repeating footage of a young Asian news anchor going up to interview a zombie. He's got a hard hat on, and greenish skin and bloodshot eyes that glare yellow under the bright camera lights.
The zombie looks like he's about to say something into the mike, when he knocks it out of the way and takes a bite out of her. She starts screaming, and the camera shakes, then it pans down as the zombie is feasting away. It's a shame. She had such a pretty face too. Now it's all chewed up. Then she gets up, and instead of the camera guy running way, he just follows her with the camera, and there's a close up of her half eaten face, her hands grabbing for the camera. Then the camera falls, and we watch three pairs of feet dancing. Then the camera man is on the ground, and he's fighting off the news anchor and the zombie with the hard hat she was trying to interview.
You would think that's the end of the segment, but it's not. The camera man dies, and then he turns into a zombie. He picks up the camera, and goes shambling up to the news van. We watch as the camera shakes, and is steady, and then shakes, steady, over and over with each foot step. Out of focus, in focus, gets snowy, turns clear. We see his hand reach out, all bloody with a fresh bite mark, and he opens the van side door. Inside is a guy with headphones on watching the same exact thing we're watching on five different little televisions. He turns around with the earphones and screams. That's when the clip ends.
"Unbelievable," Spike says. "You hungry?"
We order up some burgers for room service. I offer to pay, but Spike refuses. His phone rings, and he says, "I have to take this."
“The phones work!” I say.
I stand there a bit, then he motions for me to go outside and wait. I look through the peephole, and I see the Neanderthal lying down, rubbing at his face.
I go out and try to help the dummy up. He smacks my hands away and tries to say something, but the only thing coming out of his mouth are teeth. Ten doors down, door 389 opens up. The old guy peers out the door, the hallway lights glisten off his chrome dome.
"Hey buddy," he says. "You want maybe I should call security?"
"No, it's alright," I say.
"Not you, jackass. You. Down on the floor. I can call security on these thugs."
I start walking towards the old guy, and he slams the door shut. I walk back to Spike's room. I listen in, his conversation is muffled.
So I try to make small talk with the Neanderthal. "So where you visiting from?"
He says, "California," only it sounds more like "Cahhhiiifoooh-meah" and some more teeth pop out.
"Oh, that's a nice place, I hear."
Down the hallway, there's some people gathered. It's real weird looking. Spike opens his door, and says, "It's ok, you can come in now. But not you, turkey, you're down for the count, right?"
The Neanderthal nods: Yes.
"Hey Spike," I say. "Does anyone know you're staying here?"
"No, why?"
"Because I think there's some fans coming this way."
Spike steps out into the hallway, and he and I peer down at the group of people. It's almost like a parade. A very strange, hotel hallway parade. And they're moaning, this deep, hurt gravelly sound. Unearthly, almost. As if they were talking into a fast moving fan. Like Ozzy Osborne, when he says, "I. Am. Ironman."
I mention this to Spike, and he starts playing air guitar, "Da da dah dah dah. dadadada da da da!"
The door to room 389 opens and the old guy says, rather triumphantly, "OK, you hooligans, security said they're coming up."
"No they ain't," Spike says.
The old guy's bluff is called, and he looks down at the parade of people, knocking on each door as they go by.
Spike taps my arm, "Phones are down again. However, if we move fast, I got a private jet waiting for us at the airport to take us home."
I am so glad I know Mr. Grindstone, it's like knowing a movie star, only one that can box.
The old guy turns our way and clears his throat, "You better scram, you punks!"
The moans are really loud at the end of the hall, and there's this off smell. Like that smell from a dirty deli, or a butcher shop that just shovels bits of meat into a grate on the floor behind the counter, and squirts a little water hose. Going through the motions and not really cleaning anything. But the smell comes right back through the grate in no time. As it is now.
The Neanderthal crawls to his feet behind us, spitting out teeth on his way up, his mouth bleeding real bad. Me and Spike help as he staggers, and we all three walk towards the old guy to get a better look at what is happening down the hall.
The old guy says, "Not another step!"
We ignore him; he actually ignores himself as he follows our gaze down the hall. His old lady comes to the door. She has curlers in her hair, and her liver spotted body is barely covered in a ratty blue bath towel.
"What's going on here?" she says. She sniffs the air, "Eww. What is that? One of you gentleman needs a shower."
Spike speaks up, "I would normally take such a statement as an insult directed at yours truly. Alas, it is the party down the hall that reeks."
Down at around room 375 a young guy opens his door and starts going towards the ice machine that sits around room 350. He slows down as he approaches the machine, and he's peering at the group. He starts filling his ice bucket. The group approaches. He throws his bucket at them and takes off, slamming the door shut to his room. The hoard of people shamble after him.
"Hey Spike," I say, "You don't think things can turn bad that quickly, do you?"
"What turn bad?" says the old guy.
I say, "Haven't you been watching the news? We got zombies now."
"Zombies!" his wife says.
"See, Margie. I asked to watch the news. But oh no, not while we're on vacation. No reprieve from Wheel of Fortune, eh? That stays on! Well, see where Pat Sajak got us now!"
As the group moves towards us, there is without a shadow of a doubt, no denying that these are zombies. What's sad is the plump girl from downstairs is leading the parade. Right towards us. Her and her zombie friends.
Spike starts thinking fast, and shoves everybody into the old people's room. The Neanderthal starts screaming something about his family downstairs, but his teeth start popping out, so we just assume he's lost his head.
Spike shuts him up with a right hook. Down he goes.
The old woman faints.
The old man just whistles, "Hooligans."
"Lock the door!" Spike tells me.
I lock it, and I bolt the chain, and I turn the deadbolt for good measure. Then I read the sign next to the door.
"Hey, look at this Spike, maybe the cops will come, says here occupancy cannot exceed any more than twenty people."
"Quit joking around. Does it show the fire exit?" Spike asks.
"Sure, but it's down the hall, by your room."
"Can we make it?"
I look out the peep hole. The plum
p girl with all the answers is staring at me; her face is distorted into a ghoulish bloated mess by the fish eyed peep hole.
"No way, it's like Occupy hallway, but with zombies," I say.
"Such matters call for sharp thinking and fast action," Spike says.
Me, Spike, and the old man all look at each other and shrug.
"Maybe we should brainstorm?" I ask.
They nod in agreement. We sit silent for twenty minutes, and listen to the zombies scratch at the door. At times, it sounds like the door will give in. At other times, it sounds like they're gone. But looking out the peephole reveals the hall is just as filled as before. And as soon as any of us look out there, they start banging down the door again.
We all agree not to look out the peep hole.
"Maybe we should wake her up?" Spike says, pointing to the old woman, fainted on the bed, her robe open, and her saggy boobs sliding down her body.
"No way," says the old man. "If she wakes up, she'll have us running down the hall, charging headfirst into those things. I'm too old for this malarkey."
Spike agrees with him, and then they start swapping arthritis stories.
The Neanderthal starts stirring, and he groans as he gets up. At the same time, the old woman who fainted wakes up too. And she's moaning.
"Oh no," the old guy mutters. "Hello Margie, how was your nap?"
She sits up on the bed; her droopy breasts hang down, long and pointy.
"Your wife always this modest?" I ask.
The old guy goes over to her, covers up her breasts, thankfully. "Margie, you feeling OK? Maybe I should get your medicine?"
She swats his hand away, and rocks to the side.
"Young man," the old guy says to me, "be a sport and get me her medicine in there," he points to the bathroom.
I walk past the Neanderthal who tries to grab me.
"Oh please, sucker," I say. "You want my friend to knock out more teeth?"
I turn on the bathroom light, and there's nylons hanging off the shower curtain rod. There's a big white bra hanging off there too, and granny panties. And a pair of the old guy's boxers. And two glasses, one with ‘Ralphie’ and the other with ‘Cookie’ written on masking tape in green marker. The hand writing is pretty elegant. The ‘Cookie’ glass has a set of false teeth in them.
I bring out the teeth in the jar, along with a bottle of medicine that has 'Nitroglycerin' written on it. 'Margie Staples, hold one capsule under tongue as needed.'
The Neanderthal tries to impede my way again as I get out of the bathroom and walk towards the old couple.
"Here you go, Cookie" I hand the glass jar to the old man. "Hey Ralphie, I thought she might need her chompers."
"Oh, thank you," says Ralphie (that's the old guy). "Margie? Margie? Do you need your pills?"
She just sits up and tries to kiss the guy, she's got her tongue all wiggling, and he's fending her off.
"Man," Spike Grindstone says, "Old people really got strange priorities. Zombies outside, and your old lady wants to get freaky!"
That's when reality starts to sink in. Actually, that's when the Neanderthal tries to sink his teeth into Spike. Only, all his teeth have dripped out of his mouth. I have a Columbo moment, as Spike turns around and busts the Neanderthal in the head.
"Don't get freaky with me, fool! I'll kill you!"
"Hey Spike," I say. "I think that's what happened before. We came in the room, see. You knocked this guy out. Only, you didn't knock him out. You killed him."
Spike is punching the Neanderthal, who's pawing at Spike and every so often he opens his mouth wide, just like Margie is trying to do to Ralphie. Ralphie's fighting Margie off as well, only without as much zest as Spike is with the Neanderthal.
"Yeah,” I continue, “but given the circumstances, you being amped up with the zombies outside and all, killing him is definitely justifiable. And at the same time, we thought Margie fainted. Only she must have had a heart attack, because I think Nitroglycerin is used to treat heart ailments. That right, Ralphie?"
Ralphie is fending off his wife's posthumous adulations.
"You’re a real Sherlock Holmes, punk!" Ralphie says.
I feel mighty proud. My moment in the sun is fleeting. Margie grabs her teeth from the cup, shoves them in her mouth, then she takes a big chunk out of Ralphie's bald head. Right on the scalp, he starts bleeding profusely, denuded skull poking through. Poor guy.
Spike, however, has destroyed the Neanderthal. His jaw is hanging off his face, Spike snaps his neck, and then goes to take a bite out of the zombie's ear.
"No wait, Spike! Wait!" I say, grabbing at his sweatshirt hood.
"What?"
"I wouldn't do that, we don't know quite what we're dealing with here."
"You know, you're right, I'm sorry." He walks over to the Margie, "I must have lost my head."
Margie is done eating her husband's face, and is creaking towards me. Spike pushes me out of the way, and lands a one two that nearly decapitates Margie. She goes flying, her robe opens up, her saggy boobs hang listlessly as she crumples up dead (again).
Ralphie comes to, only he's a zombie, so he comes to in that sort of way.
"In these trying times," Spike says, "we have to stay focused." He slams his elbow into the old man's forehead, caving in his skull.
We wait it out in the room, eating the old couple's Wheat Thins, and drinking Ensure milkshakes. Sirens come and go outside, and we flick the lights on and off to no avail. The zombie vigil is still going strong, and some of them start clawing at the door. It is impossible to sleep. We stack up the three dead people like cord wood in the tub, and the lights go out around 3am. With the lights, went the AC. Spike breaks open one of the two windows that faced out to the front parking lot.
Morning. Outside looks like just another day. Only less people outside. But then again, this is Phoenix in the summer, so people normally were not outside anyhow.
"Spike, maybe we can tie a bunch a sheets together, like they do in those jail house movies, you know? Make a ladder, and climb out. Grab a car, drive to the airport?"
"No, I think I saw on Mythbusters how it doesn't work. We should just stay put until help arrives."
"Spike, you're forgetting Hurricane Katrina. We gotta help ourselves now."
We make the rope and tie it to the round table. Spike makes me go first, and it makes sense. I'm two hundred pounds lighter than him. He's a real chivalrous guy. I make it down OK, the streets are empty. Spike shimmies down, too. There's a green taxi by the front lobby, door wide open. A Prius.
We sneak our way towards the Prius. Nothing. No people. No zombies. We borrow the Prius. We make our way out the street and down several side roads before we hit I-10. And strangely enough, traffic.
That's how it went back then. One night, zombie mania. Zombie panic. Zombie everything. The next, "These damn zombies are so dragging down the economy/starting racial riots/causing my cat to puke up more hairballs than usual."
People are so fickle with their priorities on what to worry over. One minute it's not getting eaten, the next it's trying to place blame on who left the cap off the toothpaste. The zombie apocalypse is a bi-polar married couple, dealing with trifling spats one minute, contemplating murdering each other the next, then planning vacations to exotic Phoenix.
So that is it. Spike's plane is waiting at the airport. The pilot asks us if we know anything about all this zombie talk. It’s like those flash mobs that started popping up right before the zombies came about. A thousand people rushing a Banana Republic one minute, gone the next.
I try not to make sense of it, and neither should you. Just go with the flow. Like this next chapter, I wake up in the middle of the jungle, alone. I have to figure out how to get down to that village to see what's what. Just go with the flow of the river.