Tardy Zombies

Note: This story was written in 2009, which is why the dates might not match to this year.  Feel free to substitute while reading...or just enjoy.


Like all good zombie stories, this one starts during a bike ride.

It was late and my daughter and I were riding north on Greenwood Avenue, leaving Blue Island Illinois.  Yes, Blue Island, where zombie stories always seem to begin.  Unsure what it is about Blue Island that attracts zombies, but there you have it.

“It’s getting dark,” she said, as she kicked her back tire to get the firefly lighted tire caps to start blinking.

“Yes,” I said.  I waved her alongside my right.  “We need to hurry home or the goblins and ghouls will get us.”

She laughed. A real laugh, not one of those ominous, foreshadowy laughs. “Don’t be silly, Daddy.  Ghouls and goblins only come out on Halloween and it’s already November.  A week late.”

“Then we need to be worried about werewolves and wampires.”

“Nope,” she explained.  “They also only attack on Halloween.”

“Ghosts?” I offered.

“Halloween,” she said shortly, panting from the bike ride now.

“Then Zombies?” I tried.

“A week late.”

“Exactly a week late,” I offered. “It’s Saturday evening and last Saturday night was Halloween.”

“That’s right!” she exclaimed. “It was last Saturday night.”  Then, after a pause, “But still a week late for zombies.”

We rode silently for a couple blocks. As we passed the corner of Greenwood and Gruenwald, we saw a small boy standing by the street signpost.  The boy was not much larger than my eleven-year old daughter.  Though a boy standing outside in a residential neighborhood is nothing out of the ordinary, this boy seemed odd to me.  Perhaps it was the way he was standing or that he was simply just standing there.

“There’s a boy,” I said, unsure why I even mentioned it.

My daughter responded, with the words in my head, “An odd boy.”

We pulled our bikes over to him to see if he needed help when, by the dusk light and the streetlight, we noticed that he was pale blue all over.

I asked my daughter, “Halloween costume?”

She rolled her eyes at me, not an easy trick in the fading light, but she’s an expert at the eye roll. “Halloween is over, Dad. A week ago.”

Trying to make my point, I added, “A week isn’t a long time-”

She cut me off.  “A week is forever, Dad.”

But back to the light blue boy.  He did not look well.

I addressed him now, “Are you OK? Are you lost? Or in costume?”  I noticed a slight smell of chlorine. The chlorine smell was either a nice touch to his drowned boy costume … or something more.

My daughter, now also concerned, said, “He might speak Spanish.”  This part of Blue Island is predominantly a Spanish neighborhood. 

Oh, I should point out a few things for those of you who do not know about Blue Island. It’s an old Midwestern factory town – like most factory towns, now without the factory – tucked away just south of Chicago. The downtown area is a single main street with lots of antique stores in old painted or marble buildings.  The street we were on, Greenwood, heading North back to the city as I mentioned, also looks very old-fashioned.  Nicely painted Victorian-style houses, well kept up, along a tree-lined street.  In early November, the streets are covered with oak and maple leaves.  Very pleasant place for a bike ride, but also the perfect setting for a zombie story … which is probably why they all seem to happen here.

But back to the boy.

My daughter had just asked him if we has feeling well, in Spanish. “Es usted sano?”

His response was not a Spanish word. 

“Brai-ains….” He said it just as you would imagine a boy zombie to say the word “brains.”

“Excuse me,” I said.  In my head, I was still thinking he was in costume.

He repeated his one word response, “Brai-ains….” And then added more in the voice of a normal twelve-year old boy, but still a little zombie-like, “I’m ho-ongry.  Can I eat your brai-ains?”

My daughter responded quickly, but simply and with some compassion, “No.”

Now I know what you, the reader, is thinking: It’s getting dark.  We’re on bicycles on a somewhat secluded street.  And we’re having a casual conversation with a brain-eating zombie.  We should just high tail it out of there.

I’m getting a little worried, but both my daughter and the boy zombie are acting like there is nothing unusual about this event. She realized it was a zombie and was unafraid.  I thought it was a boy in a zombie costume, and am a little creeped out.

My daughter continued, “No. Sorry. You can’t. If you wanted brains, you needed to come on Halloween.”

The boy gave my daughter a very odd look.  He tilted his head and gave her a look a lot like the ones she gives me when I am, in her opinion, completely wrong.

He repeated her words back slowly, “Come … on … Halloween?”

“Yes,” she said. “Halloween.”

The boy started moving towards us.  My daughter rolled her bicycle backwards a little, keeping the same distance away.  I moved mine between her and the zombie.

'Why are we even staying here to have this conversation?' I wondered.  'Are we crazy?'

Then I noticed something that did not make me feel less afraid.  Coming down the side street towards us was a large collection of other zombies.  Men, women, a small girl zombie on a scooter, a Goth teenage girl zombie in black and pink clothing (which was both appropriate and also ironic … I bet she was hoping for vampire), as well as a zombie dressed like a clown. 

In a soft voice, I said to my daughter, “Hey, honey, I think we should get away from here fast.”  I pointed to the mob of zombies heading down the street towards us.

That’s when she did something very unexpected.  She told the boy zombie, “You stay right here.”  To my surprise, the boy zombie nodded his head up and down twice and then leaned back up against the signpost.  He did mutter softly, “Ho-ongry for brai-ains.”

Then she rode her bicycle right towards the other zombies!

Of course I followed quickly, but she had moved so fast and I never expected her to go towards the zombies, so she caught me off guard.

I yelled, “What are you doing?!?”

She yelled back, “I got this!”

Of course I rode off after her.

Again, some scene setting:  The sun has gone down, so the sky is still somewhat light, but the streetlights are brighter, in a kind of eerie way.  It’s an old-fashioned looking street, with gingerbread painted houses, somewhat spooky now in the fading light. There are lots of crunching leaves on the road, some moving slightly from the wind, but no other movement on the street, except, of course, for the zombies staggering towards us and my daughter riding her bicycle towards them.

She skidded to a stop about twenty feet from the lead zombie, which was the one dressed like a clown.

She yelled at them in her bossiest ‘do as I say’ voice, which all eleven-year old girls seem to have, “Stop right there!”  Of course they did.  No one could deny that voice.

Then, very clearly, taking full charge, she asked, “Who is the lead zombie here?”

They all looked at each other, exactly as you’d expect a mob of zombies to do when they’re asked to pick a leader.  They had no leader.  They were a mob of zombies.

She continued, “OK, then, fine.”  She addressed them all.  “Why are you here?”

Though a little confused, one of them, a thin, small man in a business suit answered her question unsurely, “We want brains to eat?”

A few of the other zombies nodded in agreement.  The clown zombie said to the thin businessman zombie, “Good answer.”

But my daughter was not pleased.  “Of course you want brains to eat.  You are zombies.” The zombies hung their heads.

The clown zombie muttered, “It was still a good answer.”

My daughter addressed the thin businessman zombie.  “Why are you here tonight?”

Now the thin businessman zombie was a little surer of himself, “It is Halloween.”

My daughter responded quickly and matter-of-factly. “No, it is not.” She looked at me and rolled her eyes, adding, “What is wrong with everybody?” She then spoke directly to the thin businessman zombie, “Halloween was last week.”

The thin businessman zombie looked at his watch.  He tapped it.  A little more surely, he said, “It is Halloween.”

My daughter was firm, “No.”  She spoke more slowly and showed her disappointment, “It is not Halloween. Halloween was last Saturday.”

The thin businessman zombie looked at his watch again. Now he was not as sure. “Not Halloween?”  The other zombies were now looking at him and not at my daughter.  He explained, slowly and uncertainly, “Spring forward, fall back.”

Now I was confused.  “What?” I asked him. During all of this, I realized I had rolled my bike pretty close to him. “What are you talking about?”

He repeated with no confidence, “Spring forward, fall back.” I could tell he was looking for me to support him. One man to another, who understood what it was like being chastised by an eleven-year old girl.

And then the light went on.  (Not an actual light.  I mean, I understood what he was talking about.).  Last week was daylight savings.  Everyone was supposed to set their clocks back an hour, which is why it was getting dark so early tonight.

But then the light then went off.  What did daylight savings have to do with zombies and Halloween?

My daughter, however, understood.  “You are supposed set your watch back an hour,” she explained.  “Not a week.”

The thin businessman zombie asked hopelessly, “Not a week?”

My daughter responded in a teacher-like fashion, “Nope. Not a week.”

The thin businessman zombie then asked sadly, “No brains tonight?”

In the same voice as above, my daughter said, “Nope. No brains tonight.”

And just like that, all the zombies turned around and started staggering down the street away from us.  The Goth teenage zombie cuffed the thin businessman zombie as she walked past him, muttering, “Talentless loser.”

The boy zombie was the saddest of them all.  He was rubbing his stomach as he wobbled down the street.  We could hear him all the way saying, “Ho-ongry for brai-ains. Ho-ongry for brai-ains. Ho-ongry for…”

My daughter and I watched them stagger off into the darkness. 

I was wondering where they went, but my daughter wasn’t.  She was wondering about something else.

“Why is there always a clown zombie?” she asked.

--

THE END … UNTIL NEXT HALLOWEEN.