Two.
Barbara had display cases of various zombie parts – “Trophies”, she called them. There were eyes, fingers, parts of genitals (human and animal), tongues, teeth, one nose, ears, flaps of skin, balls of hair, a 12 inch long finger nail, blood with bits inside, a constipated intestine, etc. All were in glass jars of yellow liquid. I asked her what this strange liquid was, but she refused to tell me and stormed out of the room.
An hour later she would came back and tell me that it was a secret – that only her and the “Church” knew.
I asked her what this “Church” was, but she ran out of the room again, flailing her arms. When she returned thirty seconds later, she was carrying a large photo album. She held my hand like a child and walked me to the living room where we both sat on the carpet, legs crossed.
Depressing music from India played from somewhere.
She held the heavy photo album up and blew on the cover, but no dust flew off.
There were many black and white pictures inside, of bushes and open fields and bonfires and cemeteries and butterflies. Barbara said that they were pictures of zombies, and that I could see them if I looked closely enough. I had to look closely because a lot of times zombies like to hide, for strategic reasons.
I stared at a picture of a bush intensely and thought I could see a neck, but I could have been daydreaming. These peculiar pictures were taken while in the field by her ex sidekick, Toshiba, a 19-year-old college student, majoring in Art.
Toshiba vanished many years ago.
The story goes they were both on the hunt, in the murky woods of Wailupe Valley, in Aina Haina.
One rainy night, Toshiba heard a bleeping noise and, against Barbara’s wishes, crawled out of the tent to explore the strange sound. She never returned. The following morning, Barbara found a dead lamb dangling from a tree, wearing Toshiba’s clothes.
Out of rage and confusion, Barbara beat up the animal corpse and cursed at the heavens with her fists pumping in the air, exclaiming, “Damn you, zombie! Damn you to hell! Your life force shall not have been in vain, Toshiba! I shall eradicate them all in a mean manner until the day I am called The Eradicator! This is damn upsetting me. You, zombie, are a turd. You damn lousy guy!”
The strange thing is that lambs are not common in Aina Haina.
Upon telling this dismal story, Barbara began to weep.
I hugged her again. Her tears were cold on my shoulder. She held Toshiba’s picture and spoke to it.
“I will run to you, I will run to you, I will run to you, I will run to you, I will run to you, I will run to you, I will run to you, I will run to you, I will run to you, I will run to you, I will run to you, I will run to you, I will run to you, I will run to you, I will run to you, I will run to you, I will run to you, I will run to you, I will run to you, I will run to you, I will run to you. You will run to me.” She said it through many languages. Her crying twisted the words. I hugged her.
Still, she did not hug back. Instead, she rose suddenly and got milk from the refrigerator and offered some to me. Remembering my Catholic upbringing and not wanting to be rude, I accepted. But it was already too late, for she had spat inside, explaining that it would “put some meat on my chest, and hair on my bones.”
She sounded like my mother.
Barbara said that there were many things a zombie hunter (and sidekick) had to learn before entering the hunt, like trust. A leap of faith would be needed; an open mind. She hugged me and told me to drink the milk carton with her spit inside. Because it was now magical.
I did.
Fortunately, I had held my breath.
Barbara said that she lied to me. She said that the only magic inside the milk was vitamin D, and that she was impressed I did not vomit.
I had gained her trust.
That night, I cried myself to sleep.
Three.
Barbara said she had something amazing to show me; but I could tell no one. I assured her that I could be trusted, and she drove me Makiki.
We parked in front of a one-level apartment structure. Kids played jump rope nearby.
“This woman’s insane,” Barbara said. “As a licensed psychologist – which I am not – I advise you to say nothing to her.”
We stood outside of a door that was covered with pictures of women in hospitals, giving birth and screaming. Barbara knocked on the door and told me again – quite seriously – that I could tell no one who we were about to meet.
The door opened, revealing a frail, middle-aged woman in flower-designed bra and panties. I tried not to look.
Her face lit up when she saw Barbara and they hugged and jumped up and down, giggling.
This woman’s apartment was dim; when I closed the door, it was practically pitch-black inside.
She fixed her hair.
“You have to excuse my appearance. As you can see, I’ve been sick.”
Barbara examined her arms.
“Gun wounds, again?”
“They had weapons. I forgot that they could go off even if you don’t know how to use your hands. You should have seen them. They’re horny. They had red eyes.”
“Were they dark red?”
“I don’t remember. I’m colorblind.”
“How did you protect yourself?”
“I killed them in the face.”
“You always use violence. If ever we should tussle, I should have a raw duck dangle around my neck.” She put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I don’t want to make your innards weep.”
“Don’t worry about me. If I die, to heaven I shall go for my heavenly deeds.”
“Heaven does not transform assholes into angels.”
“Even angels have assholes. Now excuse me while I kiss the sky.”
She lit candles and I could tell immediately that she had been drinking much, for there were empty bottles of vodka all over the floor and in holes in the wall. Some were tied to strings and dangled from the ceiling. Did this woman have a violent streak? I grew nervous. Alcoholics can never be trusted. They do sudden things that boggle the mind and madden the mouth. If ever I was allowed to speak, I had to be careful of what I said.
As she guided us into the kitchen, we passed by what I can only assume to have been a bedroom transformed into a storage room – full of stained computer boxes and toddler clothes. I could have sworn I saw a figure inside, standing between two towers of Macintosh G4 boxes. I wanted to investigate, but I was too afraid to stop walking.
Four.
There was a special smell to the apartment, best described as a daunting combination of alcohol and soy sauce and cat.
On the hallway walls were old black and white, blown up pictures of strange men and women in groups – pictures taken in the woods, cemeteries, and lakes. All carried guns and whips and wooden stakes – all gathered in front of the camera, showing off their kill, which were all impaled horizontally and displayed like boars about to be roasted. Only these prizes were not about to be eaten (as far as I could tell) and they were certainly not boars.
They were human.
I made no visible reaction in seeing all of this, although my innards were complaining.
Before I stepped into the kitchen, I asked if I could use the restroom. There, I sat on the toilet to stitch together my thoughts. What was happening? Were these people cannibals? Were they crazy? Or worse…crazy cannibals?
Barbara was arguing with the woman – I could hear them throw things made of glass and other heavy objects.
Then…
…silence…
…followed by weeping apologies.
They began to laugh and clap their hands. Barbara began to sing to her.
“Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday, dear Mommy. Happy birthday to you. Hurray! Yessm! Blow it out, blow it out! Yessm!”
It was good to hear such happiness.
I sobbed in my hands and then wrapped my arms around my knees, rocking myself on that cold toilet.
r />
Barbara called after me.
“Raym! Raym! Eat cake! Yessm!”
I sniffed and cleared my throat.
“I’ll be out in a second, thank you, ma’am!”
They began clapping and cheering. I wasn’t sure if it was for me or not.
For years I always thought my life was speeding towards a dead end, where I would indisputably crash and burn.
As I sat on that toilet and stared at a bird chirping on the windowsill, I realized that life had such wonders to offer – that my pathetic life was what I made of it. There was a goal for every soul: A purpose. No, I wasn’t a churchgoing person (not since my Catholic School days in the sticks of Greenville, Florida), but I did and still do believe in a higher power. You can call it God or Vishnu or Ra or Master. I call it The Universe – the thing that is in everything and everyone and is always around us. And it wants to help humans. Wants us to be happy. Wants us to feel like we have a purpose in life.
Studies have shown that the number one reason most relationships fail, is because the lover does not feel wanted – useful.
Barbara had a purpose. One she felt strongly about.
Her story – her zombie adventures – this future escapade I was about to undertake – had to be documented. It was something I was meant to write, even if no one were ever to read it.
I was doing this for the both of us.
End of sample.
Purchase the full book to see what happens next. Thank you for reading!
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