What the Keck!? Zombies of the Caribbean

What the KECK!? Zombies of the Caribbean

Written with significant malice of forethought by

William Bebb

Cover Art Designer Hadden Smith IV

Proofing & Copy Editing by Monty 'Danger' Hyman

This tale is deadicated to everyone that wrote and begged me, like a bunch of smelly hobos standing on a shadow filled downtown street corner, for a new Keck story.

It's your fault.

This story is a Hands on Productions & Publication, copyright 2013. All rights reserved. Any distribution of this novel without the expressed written permission of the author is illegal, rude, crude, and subject to U.S. and international laws; that do not include decapitation of violators but should. This story is purely a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents described are solely the result of the author's overactive imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual real companies, products, events or people; living, murderously insane, dead or undead, is a coincidence. So don’t get your panties in a wad if you see a name you recognize and find it offensive; it’s just a coincidence.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

handsonpp@aol.com

You can visit the Hands On Productions & Publications website for updates and more information at

www.sites.google.com/site/hoppublications

Other works of fine literature by this author include

Valley of Death, Zombie Trailer Park (Keck)

Zombies of All Hallows Evil (Keck)

Zombies & Other Unpleasant Things (A bit of Keck)

Chronicles of the Undead, Volume One: The Emperor of Bayonne Prison

The Tiniest Invaders; Book One, Coexistence

The Tiniest Invaders; Book Two, The Meandering Menace

Upcoming Novels:

Chronicles of the Undead Book II; Twisto's Town (Expected by Spring 2014)

The Tiniest Invaders; Book III Conclusion (2014)

KECK Legacy (Coming eventually)

Table of Malcontents

CHAPTER_ONE_Once_upon_a_time

CHAPTER_TWO_Come_Sail_Away

CHAPTER_THREE_Cruising_for_a_bruising

CHAPTER_FOUR_Remain_Calm

CHAPTER_FIVE_Poseidon_Adventure

CHAPTER_SIX_JAWS

CHAPTER_SEVEN_SOS_or_SOL

CHAPTER_EIGHT_Walking_the_plank

CHAPTER_NINE_Dead_man's_chest

CHAPTER_TEN_Happily_ever_after

Afterword, plus the complete novella The Fall of Bayonne

PREFACE

Hello again.

At first I was going to dedicate this story to George Romero. He is the undeniable father of the modern undead stories that have both entertained and simultaneously scared the crap out of people for decades. But I changed my mind because as much as I respect Mr. Romero, he was not the one who insisted on another Keck story- it was the readers and as sappy as this may seem, I do appreciate them.

There was NO PLAN on my part whatsoever to continue past the first two books, but due to the reader's requests (pretty scary demands actually) I put my well worn thinking cap back on and created What the Keck? Zombies of the Caribbean.

As many of you may know Valley of Death Zombie Trailer Park was my first attempt at creating (cough, cough) fine literature. It was followed by Zombies of All Hallows Evil and both stories centered on a few relatively average folk that lived in Albuquerque, New Mexico, and chronicled how they struggled with the undead and insane victims of an accidentally created very nasty man-made virus called Keck. It was named after a supervisor named Stephen Keck at Beaumont Biochemical who unwittingly unleashed zombies upon the world. When I first started contemplating What The Keck!? ZOTC it was my doubtful hope that this would be the last installment in this series. I write that not because I hate the characters, but because (like a fool) I grew to like them too much. Besides this affection I have for them, there's also the question of how much misfortune can possibly befall them without snapping the reader's suspension of disbelief which I believe is needed to create a relatively credible undead horror/adventure story.

Many readers have sent me emails. (I read them all and always try to answer when not busily beating up defenseless keyboards) One of the letters suggested that for the horror to be more meaningful a truly sad ending is needed. I must admit there is a validity to this belief. I may not like it but understand and accept the point. Sometimes bad things happen to good people. It's true enough in life and though it saddens me to report this, you should know that death will not spare at least one of the characters you may have grown to like. (I liked those who die and the others who get seriously hurt, at any rate)

I suggest that if the idea of a less than happy ending bothers you, perhaps you shouldn't read this story. Ignore its existence and just keep saying, There was no new story. Josey, his family, and the others that survived the first two books all lived happily ever after. (Just a suggestion)

Who else should NOT read this novel?

* Anyone who wants oodles of undead gore and violence on each and every page should give What the Keck a pass. There is a significant amount of back story and relatively zombie free story for a good part of the beginning.

Does anything interesting happen? Some of you might quite reasonably ask.

I'd say that depends on whether or not you enjoyed the characters from the first two books when they weren't fighting the undead and homicidal infected zombies. If you want zombie battling, and only that then once more I'm going to suggest you pass on this story. I'm being as honest and straightforward as I can be. There will be zombies, but first quite a bit happens that explains what the characters have been up to over the last few years since that infamous Halloween and the events described in All Hallows Evil, what the government wants with Carl, the terrorists and their horrific plan that involves Keck and the end of the world. Plus there's a section where Carl stands on Josey's testicles for an extended period of time (laughing like a loon) while Josey screams and yells for him to get off.

* This is a gore and violence warning: I do not create stories about puppies chasing butterflies around a sunny meadow or anything else sweet, warm, and fuzzy. Granted, I sometimes do enjoy reading stories like that (Usually while taking bubble baths) but there's most likely nothing or very little like that contained herein. Stories about the undead tend to be messy, violent, and yes even a tad gross on occasion. Someday, when I'm through with my blood and guts obsession, I may try and write a warm fuzzy zombie tale. But this story contains only a very little bit of the warm fuzzy stuff like that.

* This is the first time I've had to include the following warning and I'm a bit excited about it. If you're a believer that all homosexuals are the purest sweetest people on the planet and that not even one would ever do anything bad, you should probably skip this novel as well. I don't paint all homosexuals as being like one of the principle characters in the following story, but neither do I believe all of them are as wonderful and purely harmless as a fresh snowfall as some may wish them to be.

* For those of you needing yet another reason not to read this story... I am illiterate. I know this must be true because I'm reminded in nasty emails and online reviews every time I publish something. Sure, I can string together a fairly fun-filled horror romp, but if bad grammar is a pet peeve of yours you REALLY shouldn't get this book. It's possible that sometime in the future I will be able to afford a full time staff of copy editors and proof readers, other than Monty Hyman, whose sole function (in their pathetic persnickety excuses for lives) will be to place commas in every location where needed in my stories, excise extraneous ones, and fix my great many grammatical and spelling errors, but sadly that day has not yet arrived.

My job is to spin tales and I do so mainly for my own amusement.

Okay, I'm done with trying to talk you out of reading my story. Thanks,

-Bill

CHAPTER ONE: Once upon a time

(Before the worst vacation ever)

Time heals all wounds, or so the famous and rather optimistic adage goes. Aside from those who suffered decapitation and never seemed to heal (for some reason) almost all the residents of the midsize southwestern city of Albuquerque, New Mexico, would have argued the validity of that particular saying. Almost four years earlier a plague of nightmarish speed, gruesome aspect, and monumental proportions transformed a great deal of the normally relatively peaceful easy going town folk into murderous creatures. Wives attacked husbands and vice versa. Children, many of whom were wearing various Halloween costumes, viciously assaulted and ate the living flesh from everyone that they could reach. In short, if it was alive and not yet infected the Keckites attacked it. The term Keckite was eventually adopted by the medical community in the aftermath of the Halloween events, after it was used throughout the media.

A cure for the Keck Virus was discovered from a blood test given to a teenager named Carl, but researchers could never synthetically recreate a version of it in the lab. As a result Carl Autry, adopted son of Bo Autry, was brought to a hospital on a weekly basis to have blood taken and refined into the antiviral component needed to arrest and reverse the disturbing symptoms of the Keck Virus.

Some members of the government strongly lobbied to have Carl taken into protective custody. They'd wanted to do this ever since that fateful Halloween. Their argument was persuasive. It basically boiled down to three issues. First, the antiviral medicine created from Carl's unique autoimmune system had a refrigerated viability and effectiveness of no more than ninety days. Second, was the possibility that he could get hurt or killed while out and about in regular life. It was believed that if he were kept in a secure facility unforeseen dangers would be greatly reduced. The third factor was that occasional outbreaks of Keck had continued in spite of a wide variety of intense and very expensive government programs designed to eradicate the virus.

Billions of dollars were spent treating the huge contaminated underwater aquifers that provided drinking water throughout many southwestern states. It seemed that the Keck Virus, unlike the antiviral medication, was capable of surviving for an unknown and potentially endless length of time. Specially filtered water brought up from the aquifers had been free of the virus, but infrequent outbreaks still occurred when untreated and contaminated water was sometimes used. Those outbreaks were minimized and the Keckites nearly all responded well when treated with the 'Carl Cure' as the antiviral medication was unofficially referred to.

The worst outbreak happened at a remote Indian reservation located in the mountains of northeastern Arizona, but that's another story. One that the government managed to keep out of the news despite the deaths of several dozen Native Americans, as well as many tourists. But, again, that's another story.

When Bo first learned that some federal government officials wanted to take Carl into protective custody he asked the young man what he thought about the idea.

You come too? Was Carl's only question.

I can't. I've got a duty to the people here. Besides, if I went what would happen to Billy? It doesn't sound that bad. I bet they'd treat you like a king. And, we could visit you sometimes, Bo suggested.

It was just a few months after the horrific events that nearly tore Albuquerque apart when the issue of taking him into protective custody came up. Bo Autry was still adjusting to having Carl living with him and Billy and wasn't certain if things would work out. The challenges of raising Billy by himself were daunting enough without Carl's oftentimes unpredictable and bizarre behavior and he simply had no idea what would be best. Bo liked having Carl around, although sometimes the young man's mental issues and behavior problems could be annoying.

Carl's face was horror struck at the idea of leaving his new adoptive family. To his mind it felt like Bo was trying to get rid of him and the tears that streamed down his face made his choking and stuttered words impossible to understand at first. It took a few minutes to calm him down to a point where terrified government officials, that had originally suggested the idea, could finally understand what Carl was saying. In addition to feeling like Bo wanted to get rid of him, Carl said, Rather die than go.

The last thing that Bo or the government bureaucrats wanted was Carl to become depressed or suicidal: Although Bo's reason was less selfish than theirs. He genuinely cared about the young man's welfare and actually grew to love him over the following years.

No one who had been infected with the Keck Virus and then cured came back from the dead. That fear had been one of the government's biggest concerns during the aftermath of the 'Albuquerque Apocalypse'. However, a sizable percentage of the Keckites that were cured did have serious problems. A great many of them eventually committed suicide as a result of horrible nightmares and fragmented memories of what they'd done under the effects of the Keck Virus. Various psychiatric and psychological therapies, in concert with anti-depression medications, were used with different degrees of success on those who struggled to return to their normal lives. One of the main factors regarding a patient's ability to cope was simply having a reason to try. In cases where nearly entire families had died the suicide rate was highest. But if a patient had people in need of them they nearly always returned to a relatively normal life.

Carl Autry's activities were monitored by a squad of field agents and neither he nor Bo had any idea this was the case. The agency charged with this duty had a half dozen people that worked in two person teams. Those in charge took special precautions to insure Carl never noticed them. The agents were all in their early twenties and instructed not to intervene unless the subject was in a situation where the threat of eminent danger was obvious.

Eventually a decision was made that Carl would remain part of the Autry family and all talk of placing him into protective custody came to an end- at least until some most disturbing developments were discovered.

The recent incidents that had government officials worried involved various bits of intercepted intelligence. Some messages from suspected terrorist cells included the name Carl Autry. Plus, a young man from Yemen had been caught crossing the border from Mexico into the United States along with a sizable group of Hispanics. The man had three thousand dollars cash, a gun, and a photograph of Carl Autry with his address in Albuquerque scribbled in Arabic on the back of the photo. The Yemeni had been sent to a secure facility for interrogation but was extremely uncooperative and most of the time only smiled when asked questions.

There had been talk of sending the suspect to Guantanamo Bay for enhanced interrogation but some federal politicians opposed the idea on humanitarian grounds. One prominent liberal senator from California thoroughly hated and fought the plan saying, There's no point. He's been caught and there's no longer any threat. We can all calm down. The worst has passed.

*****

The gentle late afternoon breeze coming out of the west was warm, but Bo's skin felt more than cool. It was almost clammy as he stood silently and stared down at the simple tombstone with the brightly colorful, fragrant, fresh flowers recently placed in a small vase at its base. He held the old dried out flowers in one hand as his eyes slid over the name and words etched on the simple piece of stone- Cheryl Autry, Beloved Mother & Wife.

The Meadows Cemetery wasn't a particularly sad looking place, and Bo wasn't the only one visiting that late afternoon. The paths that winded through the hedges of sweet scented flowers and passed by a small fish pond were being used by many other visitors. Since the infamous Halloween where so many innocents been killed several new cemeteries were established. The Meadows was the final resting place for a great many of them.

Bo heard someone crying not very far away but didn't turn to look. He'd shed enough tears himself to know it was a very private thing. There was a constant nagging doubt in his mind that Cheryl's marble tombstone wasn't big enough. Even at the funeral, he believed that the simple stone could never stand as a testament to the woman he'd loved. He sometimes found himself looking at websites that specialized in creating more elaborate and beautiful monuments before realizing that it was a pointless exercise.

Cheryl was gone. Bo realized he failed her as a husband and was doing a mediocre (at best) job of being a dad to her son.

Billy got a B in Chemistry on his last report card. He's a lot better than I ever was at that kind of stuff, Bo said quietly while standing in front of the tombstone. He sniffled softly, and continued, I'm still going to the meetings, and I haven't had a drink in almost two years. Sometimes I feel like I'll go crazy without one, but... I don't know. Shaking his head slowly, he sat down cross-legged at the foot of the grave, shut his eyes, and sighed wearily. He'd had a very bad day and felt shaky.

Bo tried to employ the visualization technique his stress counselor always suggested whenever he tried to talk about his problems. He imagined himself sitting on a sun drenched white sand beach while watching the waves rolling in as seagulls floated effortlessly on the breeze. The brilliant blue sky was unmarred by even the slightest hint of clouds and ‘Beach Bum Bo’ leaned back against the sand. His back was warmed by the tiny granules of sand that had been roasting in the brilliant sunlight. He smiled both on the beach and at the graveside and could even hear the waves faintly crashing against the shore.

‘Beach Bum Bo’ seemed to drift up out of his relaxed body and realized just how chubby he'd gotten and how noticeable his graying hair had become. He didn't feel ancient, but having recently turned forty years old certainly didn't make him feel very young. Plus, he had been put on administrative leave that very day for doing something he shouldn't have done.

Growing old sucks, he thought. It had gotten harder to do many of the things he used to take for granted. The bulge around his waist sometimes made him think of his old partner Willie Dunn. Poor pathetic idiot. I don't know exactly what he deserved to get out of life, but I don't think he got it. Of course, neither did Billy, Carl, Cheryl, or me.

The biggest problem Bo had been having, before the trouble at work that day, was getting a good night's sleep. He could take the pills that his doctor gave him a prescription for, but aside from curtailing dreams there were many other side effects that Bo considered every bit as annoying as the nightmares themselves. Splitting headaches, irritability, and the inability to focus might be acceptable for some people but while serving as a Major in the Sheriff's Department such side effects could cost someone their lives and he only used the pills as a last resort. He wondered if he'd been taking the pills whether he'd have been put on administrative leave.

But even without the pills, the relaxation visualizations usually worked to relieve stress even if just temporarily.

On the beach he was drifting lightly on the breeze while his chubby body luxuriated in the brightly sunlit sand below. Part of his relaxed mind reminded him to quit screwing around and go pick up Carl, but those thoughts were pushed away for the moment.

A figure appeared in the waves and approached the beach. The free floating version of Bo whizzed over for a closer look. Her eyes sparkled and the smile she wore was almost as appealing as her naked deeply suntanned body. Cheryl was giggling softly and even in this fantasy relaxation technique situation, Bo couldn't help hoping they were at a nude beach. The cop part of his psyche was so engrained that the genuine fear that she might get arrested for public indecency was a real concern.

The Bo spirit floated happily around her, much as a puppy might follow a child.

She's so beautiful and she's alive, he realized in spite of the morose and practical part of his mind that whispered despondently, She's gone. You're all alone, and always will be until the day you die.

Bo despised that voice. It was so certain and unwavering in its opinions that as time passed he felt a growing acceptance that it was right. But as Cheryl crossed the sand and approached the snoozing chubby Bo on the beach, the doubting whispers dropped in volume as if they'd been turned down with a TV remote control.

Her waist long blonde hair was slicked back from the water as she came to a stop beside Bo. She knelt down beside his head and leaned over him. The floating version of Bo wanted to return to its body, but somehow it didn't seem able to do it. As her hands stroked his hairy chest the hue of her skin began to slowly shift toward a greenish gray. The smooth skin started rupturing in spots along her arms and hands.

The free floating version of Bo felt an overpowering sucking sensation as it was then quickly yanked back into his body. He opened his eyes and focused upon the peace sign necklace hanging around her rotted and torn open neck. Her fingernails tore at the cheeks of his chubby middle-aged face while she savagely bit and chewed into his neck. ‘Beach Bum Bo’ was unable to move. The pain of his face being shredded and his neck being torn open was oddly muted. It was as if he'd been injected with an overdose of the drugs his dentist used to dull the pain during his visits. His eyes were the only part of his body he could seemingly control. Bo stared at his undead wife and felt the tears running down his mutilated face, and was briefly and uncomfortably reminded of the man he'd found at the trailer park a few years earlier; Charlie Farro.

Dreams of that man with his face peeled from his skull yet somehow still alive came to him with disturbing regularity. Usually the dreams of Farro came after Bo would sometimes read from a photocopy of the hermit's diary. Most of the diary entries consisted of rants about how society was only a cesspool that grew more rancid and putrid with each passing year. It was an opinion Bo hated to admit that he shared.

His phone chirped and as he opened his eyes and stared at the fresh flowers at the base of Cheryl's tombstone, he absently wiped away the tears that had been running unchecked down his face. He stood up, rested his hand on the granite stone, and sighed before whispering, Bye, honey, I'll be back soon.

Walking in an unsteady, shaky, slow, way down the path toward the cemetery parking lot Bo felt old. It wasn't a new feeling. Nearly every morning he'd wake up and stare at the bedside clock and watch the numbers for awhile as they advanced and the alarm annoyingly continued to make a grating repetitive chirping sound. In addition to nightmares he was feeling like everything in his life, and the whole world for that matter, was rapidly turning to shit.

Every Sunday, he took Billy and Carl to church but he usually just sat in the pew thinking about anything except what the minister was saying. He liked the man of God, but his sermons were at best a redundant thing. Bo knew for himself just how screwed up and sinful the world was. He saw it every day in a wide variety of ways in his duties with the sheriff's department.

Bo used to be indifferent to homosexuals but once they started pushing for marriage rights and parading around demanding them, he felt it was yet another sign that the world was spinning out of control even faster. Things got worse when, a week earlier, the sheriff assigned Bo to protect an ultra liberal big shot actor visiting town from New York.

The Pimpetus of Lust, who's original name was the less exotic Zachary Jones before he had it legally changed, came down to Albuquerque for a week-long series of rallies promoting gay marriage. And though Bo personally opposed what the guy stood for, he did his job... and ended up being put on administrative leave for his trouble.

No one interfered with Zachary during his visit, but when the Pimpetus of Lust kept making romantic passes at Bo it took every bit of self control for the deputy to keep from beating him to death. If he'd listened when Bo had repeatedly said, Thanks, but I'm not interested, maybe it wouldn't have been such an annoying assignment. But the actor seemed to think Bo was playing hard to get, or perhaps he simply enjoyed pissing the deputy off. Zachary only stopped when they'd been alone and Bo made it undeniably clear he wasn't interested. He broke Zach's wrist, after the hand attached to it reached down and stroked Bo's crotch.

An hour before visiting the cemetery, Bo was put on administrative leave for two weeks. He'd explained what happened to Sheriff Guiteriz, and still been forced to apologize to the Pimpetus of Lust then Bo was sanctioned.

The world's changing, Bo, for better or worse, and we've got to roll with it the sheriff said earlier when they'd been alone in his office. Personally, I think I'd probably have done the same thing you did or maybe my revolver might have accidentally misfired and shot the crazy horny fucker in the head. BUT, we have to accept that the world's changing.

"I hate it. Everything up is turning into down. Right is wrong, wrong is right, and royally screwed up is becoming more ‘okay’ every day. The whole frigging idea of changing what marriage means is just... dog-shit stupid. I mean, you could redefine water to include fire but that doesn't mean you should wash your hands in a damn bonfire.

You know it's a matter of time before marijuana gets legalized everywhere, and then why not a little cocaine? Why not Meth? What's his name... Yugo Wallace, that little twerp kid who's parents cooked all that Meth crap got out on parole just last week. It feels like everything's slipping. You know what I mean? We've even got lawyers suing us for being too rough in arresting the scum of the earth.

And now the sick bastards are trying to redefine marriage. What's next? Why do we even bother trying to enforce laws anymore?" Bo asked in obvious frustration as he sat in the sheriff's office earlier that day.

Guiteriz leaned back in his chair, glanced at the calendar, and asked, It was your anniversary, wasn't it? Today, this morning, when you broke the sicko’s wrist, it was your wedding anniversary.

Bo nodded and sipped from the cup of coffee that the sheriff had poured for him.

Oh, God, I'm really sorry, Bo. I should have remembered that. Heck, you should have reminded me. Getting felt up by some pervert on your anniversary is... pretty screwed up.

Bo stared at the empty cup and didn't answer for several seconds before looking over at the sheriff and tried to change the subject. You're really not going to run for reelection next year?

That's not official. But, yeah, I think I'm ready to hang up my spurs- so to speak. I only stayed after the Halloween nightmare because the governor practically begged me to.

Neither law enforcement official spoke for a moment. The quiet click of the second hand of the clock hanging on the wall was the only sound in the office until Guiteriz sighed heavily and sat up straight in his chair. He offered Bo a cigar, but the deputy only shook his head. The sheriff lit one and puffed on it meditatively before saying, "I like being sheriff, but sometimes... it's a fairly crappy job. We don't make the laws, we only enforce them. Maybe not the stupid ones, but most of the real laws: Those we do try and enforce.

Take prostitution, for example... unless they're turning tricks out in public or at the damn mall, I don't give a shit about arresting them. If they're over eighteen and want to earn a living that way as far as I'm concerned I don't give a crap anymore. We've got enough real criminals to deal with."

Bo appeared visibly stunned.

The sheriff laughed before elaborating. "I hate stupid laws. The enforcement of them wastes everyone's time, pisses away our limited financial resources, squanders manpower, and ties up courts... and for what? Just to arrest a person who sells something that is freely given away by others. It just never made sense to me. Some nasty disease riddled slut goes around having sex for free and that's legal and okay. BUT if she wants money for doing the same thing then suddenly it's a crime. I may be sheriff, but that still doesn't make any sense to me. It never has and I doubt it ever will.

We should be paying attention to real crime... rapists, burglars, robbers, molester scum bags, drug dealers, and murderers."

What about what happened to Stephen Keck? Bo asked uncertainly.

Guiteriz blew a smoke ring toward the ceiling and then smiled. I'll tell you the God's honest truth, son. I haven't lost a moment’s sleep over what we did to that piece of shit, and promise that I never will. That arrogant, stupid, son of a bitch damn near brought about the end of the whole world and led to a lot of innocent people dying... including your Cheryl.

Bo nodded.

I won't be retiring until next year, the sheriff said then tapped the ashes into an ashtray on his desk. It was one he'd kept as a souvenir when he'd stayed at the Stardust Casino in his younger days. Some visitors to the sheriff's office thought it was funny that Guiteriz had actually stolen it.

Bo tilted his head back and sighed softly.

You know what you should do? Take some vacation time. You could go with the boys somewhere and relax. I'd rather you do that and try to get some rest rather than mope around town, Guiteriz suggested.

Bo smiled slightly and nodded, saying, That actually sounds like a good idea.

"I'm just chock full of 'em. That's why I'm the sheriff. Guiteriz said smiling then saw Bo unbuckling his gun belt and held up a hand in a stop gesture. You're on leave, not... you just hang onto that. And when you get back from vacation we'll talk about your decision to run for sheriff."

Bo had been cinching the gun belt back on when Guiteriz said the last part, and looked up in shocked confusion. Me? You think I should run for sheriff?

Guiteriz smiled as he set the smoldering remains of the cigar in the ashtray. It's a really cool job. You even have your very own reserved parking space with your name on it.

Bo's phone chirped again as he got his car started and drove out of the cemetery parking lot. Yeah, I know. I'm coming, he muttered and drove toward the university to pick up Carl.

*****

Your bold strokes of colors illustrate that you have a great fearless zeal for art. Although the subject matter... um... is perhaps a bit disconcerting, the middle aged woman dressed in jeans, tie dyed shirt and paint splattered smock said as she critiqued the largest student in her classroom at the college. Though she was over a foot and a half shorter than the young man, he stood in respectful if not somewhat confused silence.

The bright green you chose for the entrails spilling out through the um... subject is an interesting choice. Could you tell me and the rest of the class how you chose that particular color? She asked while giving a snickering boy at the next easel a warning glance.

Green is nice, Carl explained simply while standing proudly next to the painting he'd worked on for over a month.

The subject matter would probably fit more appropriately into any of dozens of graphic novels that dealt with undead stories than a traditional introductory art class. The background, or negative space as the instructor wanted the students to refer to it, was much less detailed than the naked undead woman that was the main subject. It consisted mostly of brightly colored burning buildings and a somewhat psychotic looking mutt of a dog that was clawing at the fallen form of someone wearing what appeared to be a clown's outfit. But a few of the naked undead woman's bright green painted lengths of intestines hanging from her torn open midsection ended in shapes that could easily be interpreted as phallic.

Tell me something, Carl. Have you ever seen the works of James Ensor?

Dunno... maybe.

There are some striking similarities in this work to what Mr. Ensor created in Belgium.

Didn't copy him. Never met him, Carl said with a hint of anger in his voice.

She patted his big arm saying, I didn't think that you did copy him. It's a remarkably unique looking painting that you've created, Carl. You should be very proud of yourself. Then, turning to the rest of the class, she asked, Now, do any of you have any questions?

Why are there dicks hanging out of her guts? A young man asked with a sly grin on his stubble covered face. He was the same one that had snickered earlier and Carl didn't like him very much.

Those are guts... not dicks, Carl angrily pointed out.

It is very subjective, Carl. All art is. People always interpret things according to their own interests or viewpoints, the instructor said soothingly then added. You see guts, as you so um... bluntly put it. Mr. Pinkman sees penises.

Carl nodded and seemed to accept this explanation as the instructor went to the next easel to talk with another student, though he did give Pinkman a dirty look.

Other than Pinkman, most of the students seemed more open to having Carl attending the class as a special non credited activity. Art was something that the young man enjoyed greatly, although there were occasional problems.

Since the events on Halloween, Carl had been searching for his purpose in life. It was a hard thing to discover. His ability to read was apparently not improving beyond that of a fourth grader and his style of sometimes stumbling speech was a source of nearly constant embarrassment. He sometimes resorted to very limited responses or statements. It was rare that he'd say more than yes or no when asked a question.

His best, or at least, most enjoyed area of academic interest was art. He loved working with paint and found it much easier to express his feelings with a brush rather than words. In his family life he felt loved and accepted. There had been problems but overall it had been a very good experience. Bo, Billy, the dog George (aka Boris), Josey, Maria, and their daughter Adele were the closest thing he'd ever consciously felt to being cared for but he deeply yearned for more.

Before that fateful Halloween, Carl had often considered women to be mysterious pretty things: Sometimes mocking and mean things when he'd tried to talk to them. But over the years, he'd grown increasingly interested in them from a sexual point of view. His limited understanding of the way regular people think, especially women, had left him even more confused and frustrated every time he'd tried to develop a relationship.

Maria had been patient and offered some advice to Carl that was more practical than either Bo or Josey's. Both of them had said basically the same thing. Always try and be a gentleman. Open doors for women and try not to say anything stupid. But Maria laughed when Carl shared their advice with her. Unless you want to be a butler or a doorman, that's not nearly enough, she explained. Her advice covered a wide variety of areas but a couple of them made a lot of sense. Always listen attentively when a girl that you like talks and try to find someone that shares the same interests he had.

Carl's main interests were toys and video games, but he found it very hard to find a woman who also shared those interests. A few times he had plunged in anyway even when he hadn't been the slightest bit interested in what he overheard them talking about. The results had been... mixed to put it charitably.

One of his first attempts had been direct if nothing else. A girl he'd seen running at the college track looked nice. He decided to show his interest by chasing after her. When the girl saw Carl's huge shadow closing in on her from behind, she glanced over a shoulder and spotted the grinning giant of a man stomping along after her. She screamed and sprinted across the field.

Carl didn't know much about women, but knew enough to realize that if a girl runs away screaming she wasn't particularly interested in him. What was ironic was the girl's name when Bo and Carl had been served with a Peace Bond summons to appear in court. Miss. Regina Fleeman petitioned the court to demand that Carl leave her alone from then on and stay at least fifty feet away from her at all times.

The only good thing about the Regina experience had been her truthful bluntness. Some girls actually seemed interested in him, but they thus far all seemed to be playing nasty games or Carl would be too much like himself and end up ruining things.

He gradually realized, despite Maria's advice about being himself, if he wanted a girlfriend he'd have to be someone else. Who exactly he should be was still a mystery. A few months after he started taking non academic courses at the university Carl had his first and last date because he hadn't yet learned not to be himself. Her name was Cynthia and she had been sweet but too strict and unforgiving when it came to his natural personality. She drove him to a Chinese buffet restaurant and they had a good lunch together. At least he thought it was a good lunch. But since that day she hadn't spoken to him.

He suspected the problem happened as they left the restaurant. Cynthia paused to tie her shoes and used her key fob remote to unlock the car. Carl jumped into the passenger seat and did something he usually did after eating. It was something that Bo and Billy sometimes thought was funny. He thought she might find it humorous too. Before she got in the car he leaned over to one side and let fly a long rumbling fart. Carl knew it was a good one because it instantly made his eyes water as he tried not to giggle.

But when Cynthia opened the driver side door and started to say something the foul aroma apparently displeased her greatly. Her eyes opened wide as she got a good whiff. Carl laughed his typical boisterous somewhat obnoxious laugh and then watched as Cynthia turned and began vomiting up her lunch in the restaurant's parking lot. He laughed so hard he began seeing spots and couldn't catch his breath for almost a minute.

But as if that weren't unpleasant enough, the waiter that had served them soft drinks came running outside screaming, I don't want your stinking pennies! He then threw the forty-eight small coins as hard as he could on the hood of her car and stormed angrily back inside.

Carl had always seen Bo leave a tip whenever they went to a restaurant and had dug all the change out of his pockets and left them on the table as a tip when she'd gone to pay the bill. He didn't know she'd added the tip to the credit card receipt. Later, Carl realized she wasn't the right girl for him. She had no sense of humor: A great sense of smell but absolutely no sense of humor.

When the art class concluded, a girl with long blonde hair and piercingly intense blue eyes actually asked Carl if he'd like to go for a walk in the park. He would have happily crawled across a desert of broken glass if she'd asked him to. He'd seen her in art class a few times and been wondering how to approach a girl as pretty as she was. He'd even imagined what he might say. Um...so Tina, do you like playing video games?

At first things seemed to be going okay, but Tina didn't talk much as they walked. She had been preoccupied looking for something, but Carl hadn't noticed. He was just happy to be with a real girl. At least he was until the girl's previously inattentive boyfriend spotted them crossing the college's grassy park.

When the boyfriend spotted them he ran over and confronted Carl. What's your malfunction!? This is my woman!

Huh? Carl asked in utter bewilderment.

Listen, dumb ass, Tina is my woman. If I see you and her together again I'll beat you like a dog. Understand?

Carl watched in confusion as the girl hurried over to stand behind her boyfriend. She was grinning mischievously as other students headed over to see if there was going to be a fight. But Carl had grown angry when the guy said something about beating dogs. Though the freshman football player was nearly as large as Carl, he backed up a few steps when the big man growled, Don't hit dogs.

Some of the college kids apparently agreed with this statement. They whispered to each other and nodded as they watched the confrontation continue to unfold. But some other players from his team hurried over shouting, Get him, Vinny!

The football player, Vinny Zappulla, who was not well known for deep thinking, answered with, Why is that, retard? Afraid I'll fuck your mama?

Carl struggled to control his anger and actually managed to keep things cool, until he started to turn away. He took a single step when Vinny was not satisfied with having won a battle of wits with someone he considered nothing but a retard. He kicked Carl in the ass and started to say, Just stay away from her, or I'll- But no one learned what his promised threat was before Carl spun around punched Vinny in the face, fracturing the young man's nose.

A year earlier, the coach of the college football team listened to Mark Lanie's suggestion, and investigated how difficult it would be to recruit Carl. It would have required considerable hoop jumping because of the young man's lack of education, so before attempting it he'd invited Carl to attend tryouts. If he had any potential whatsoever the coach would have jumped through whatever hoops necessary to get him on the team. But the tryouts went bizarrely and monumentally badly. Carl was certainly large and muscular enough to play but lacked several important things that went far beyond an education.

The coach had Carl get down in a classic three point stance and charge forward. Each time the young man squatted down and waited for the coach to say, Hike, he'd start giggling. And each time he'd charge forward the coach would shove the badly off balance Carl onto his back. When the coach yelled for him to quit giggling it only made the young man laugh even harder every time he was knocked on his butt.

Carl was more confused than normal as the afternoon wore on. Each time he'd return to the three point stance the coach seemed more and more upset with him. And each time he landed on his butt the coach would growl down at him, Are you mad?

Carl would shake his head each time and hurry to get back in position. This went on for a little over an hour before a voice in the back of the young man's head whispered, Maybe he wants me to get mad.

It seemed like an incredibly goofy idea.

It's just a game. Why would he want me to get mad? Doesn't make any sense, Carl wondered while getting back into yet another three point stance. He decided to test the weird goofy theory.

After the coach knocked him down again and yelled, Are you mad!?

Carl grinned up at him and shouted, Heck yeah! I’m really mad now!

The coach could tell he wasn't getting the young man truly angry. He called for one of the other players to take over. It just happened to be the nastiest talking player on the team and the coach's only instructions were, Piss this idiot off for me.

That turned out to be a bad idea.

Carl had three general emotional states of being. These consisted of Jovial, Extremely Angry, and Murderously Pissed Off. The extremely angry level could easily lead to serious injury because Carl had almost no control over himself when pushed that far. Murderous was a mental state he'd last slipped into on Halloween a few years earlier.

When the player tasked with pissing off Carl squared off against the young man, he began by asking a series of off-color personal questions that would upset anyone. Carl stopped giggling and started breathing harder. It became more difficult for him to keep his composure and control with each passing second. When the player/tormentor asked if Carl was so retarded that he still needed to wear giant diapers like a big baby 'Jovial Carl' skipped straight past Extremely Angry and turned loose 'Murderous Carl'. Or as he often thought of that particular usually deeply buried part of his personality, 'Mr. Hurt Ya'.

The coach heard a crackle of arm bones being snapped a split second before Carl lifted and threw his screaming tormentor over the goal post, shouting over and over part of something he’d recently been subjected to, "YOUR Mama!"

There was definite potential for him to become a football star, but only if Carl could ever somehow gain better self control.

The fight in the park went on for several minutes. Not because Mr. Zappulla was a great fighter, but because some of his teammates saw a giant young man tossing him repeatedly across the park. (They were all freshmen that hadn't seen Carl easily snapping bones and tossing a lineman over the goal post the prior year) It took half of the first string offensive squad piling into and on top of Carl before the battle was finally more or less over. But, when one of the players produced a knife there was a fairly loud strident electronic beep noise.

Hold up, guys. I gotta call unnecessary roughness if you're gonna play with knives, A chubby young man said, while climbing from behind the steering wheel of a gaudy looking golf cart.

There was a chorus of angry voices that tried defending their actions, but the man from the cart walked over while waving his hand dismissively. (as if shooing away some pesky flies) You kids go beat up some cheerleaders or just go play with yourselves, the chubby young man said while squatting down to check on the barely conscious Carl.

What? Carl asked after being splashed with some water from a bottle.

Easy does it, Hoss. Do you recognize me?

Carl sat up and his eyes widened before he smiled and said, Lanie?

Yep, Mark Lanie said while helping Carl get to his shaky feet. How's everyone's favorite hero doing? Aside from picking fights with the football team?

There was uh... a girl, Carl explained while staggering toward the golf cart.

Lanie shook his head while taking Carl's arm and guided the much taller, muscular, and younger man. Girls can be a lot more dangerous than zombies and sometimes even a bit cuter.

Carl nodded in agreement as he collapsed into the cart's passenger seat.

Mark Lanie had been instrumental in blowing the lid off the cover-up of zombies rampaging across Albuquerque a few years earlier and was the best known student at the college, though his grades were still mediocre at best. He'd made enough money by writing a book called How Marijuana Saved the World to finish his academic studies with a bit left over for such extravagances as his golf cart. Its bright neon purple paint job and glowing underside lights was his favorite mode of transportation across campus.

Aside from Billy, Lanie was the closest thing Carl had to a friend. Sometimes they'd go see movies together or play video games, but Bo hadn't seemed impressed with Carl's choice of a friend. He'd warned Lanie not to get Carl into trouble, and also made it clear he didn't want him being exposed to marijuana.

She wanted to go... for a walk, Carl explained as Mark drove the cart across the parking lot.

And let me guess. Some big muscle head told you she was his girl, Mark said, while steering around a lemon yellow colored Smart Car puttering along at the posted fifteen mile per hour speed limit. He saw the big guy sitting next to him nodding and sighed. Listen Carl, you're a real honest to God hero. You should be able to have any girl you want.

Carl didn't respond. He simply gazed longingly at the other college kids walking along sidewalks and goofing off in small groups.

Mark parked the cart near the campus security office and said, I was a lot like you, Carl. Girls looked at me like I was some kind of gross looking bug. Heck, I've been published and made a few bucks, but even I can't have any girl I want. And besides, trust me, there are a lot of girls out there that you shouldn't want anything to do with.

Carl nodded and looked over at Mark before saying in a miserable tone of voice, I... just want a girl... to be a friend.

Mark spotted the sheriff's department cruiser pulling into the parking lot and said, Be careful what you wish for. I read somewhere that a guy chases a girl until she catches him. Understand?

Carl shook his head as he climbed out of the cart but did say, Thanks for lift... and stuff.

No problemo, mi muy gran amigo. Just do me a favor and stop picking fights with the football team, Mark said, before waving briefly at Major Bo Autry who was climbing out of the cruiser, and drove his cart back toward campus.

*****

Maria usually enjoyed trying to teach her young daughter but, just like her mother, Adele could sometimes be stubborn. She toddled into the kitchen and looked out the window at the backyard where her swing set and sandbox beckoned enticingly. When Maria asked what she was doing, Adele turned looked up at her mother and announced, The big yellow bird is dumb. She’d watched the public television program's characters rambling on about the alphabet for most of the last hour and had more than her fill of it.

Yes, but it's educational. Now, march back in the living room and watch some more while I finish making dinner. Daddy will be home soon, Maria said while checking the chicken roasting in the oven. It needed another half hour or so before it would be ready. She dropped the temperature dial a few settings.

Momma, come play, Adele suggested hopefully instead of marching off as instructed.

Maria smiled down at her after confirming dinner would be ready by the time Josey should be home. When they went to the living room, she shut off the TV and together they went over a set of flash cards that had all the letters of the alphabet printed on them. It was a sometimes mind numbing process, but Maria tried to make it fun. She often changed the word for the letters instead of using the same ones every time. Adele laughed a few times as they went through the cards, but when they got to Z she objected to her mother's use of the word Zebra.

Daddy says Z is for zombie, the little girl said then made a growling noise like Josey had made. The sound made Maria cringe inwardly while she tried to remember to tell her husband to knock off the zombie crap.

Yes, but zebras are nicer. They're like striped horses and they don't bite.

Adele nodded and then asked, What is a zombie? Do they have stripes too?

Maria sighed inwardly and wished Josey was there so she could hit him. Zombies are monsters, but there aren't any real ones. They're like vampires and chupacabras, not real, just make believe.

Adele yawned and snuggled closer to her mom whispering, Love you.

Maria kissed her daughter tenderly on top of her head and said, Love you, too, my sweet little churro head. She waited patiently until Adele started softly snoring before carrying her to the playpen and lowering her down amongst the blanket and stuffed animals then returned to the kitchen.

She prepared three churros, two medium sized and one small and was frying what Josey called the Mexican doughnut sticks in a pan when the phone rang. She used the wireless earpiece and was still talking several minutes later when Josey came in and gave her a hug. Okay, we'll talk about it. He's home. Talk to you later, she said and flipped off the phone.

New boyfriend? Josey asked while opening a bottle of beer.

My cousin. She's working for a cruise ship that runs all over the Caribbean. And guess what?

Mmm chicken sure smells good, he answered, pointedly ignoring the question.

She looked at him bending over the stove and sniffing the cooking food. She fought down a temptation to swat his butt. He had a bad habit of ignoring questions that he didn't like. But, instead of assaulting the off duty deputy, she rubbed his shoulders and spent the next several minutes explaining how her cousin had gotten some discounted boarding passes so they could take a cruise. She finished up by saying, We never had a honeymoon, you know. Wouldn't it be relaxing to lay around the pool, get a tan, and visit all those ports of call?

Haiti? Really, cruise ships actually go there? I thought it was more like a ghetto island, Josey said with a chuckle then finished off his beer.

First of all, that's kind of a racist thing to say. Plus, the ship's called The Haitian Princess and it goes everywhere not just there: The Bahamas, Cozumel, Puerto Rico, and even Cartagena. Remember, you were the one who said we'd take a vacation sometime?

Josey appeared doubtful as he stood up and announced, I'd like to take a shower and change clothes. Police work isn't all sitting around eating doughnuts. And besides, I don't even know where Cartagena is.

She saw Josey kick off his shoes and start toward the hallway and followed. After pausing to confirm that Adele was still snoozing, she continued following. It's a beautiful port city in Columbia.

He chuckled while stripping out of his deputies’ uniform. Oh yeah, I think I heard about that place on Miami Vice. Isn't Columbia the homeland of cocaine?

I'm sure they won't be serving that stuff on the ship's buffet. My cousin says she has discount passes that cover almost all the cost. But they're only good until the end of the month, and you promised me a vacation. Think about it. They have fireworks on the Fourth of July too, so we wouldn't even miss that.

I was thinking more of Las Vegas for a vacation, Josey said while finishing stripping down and heading for the shower.

Maria grumbled under her breath as she picked up his clothes and tossed them into a laundry basket. It was a relatively simple feat that she had come to realize her husband was apparently incapable of learning.

He turned on the water and asked, What was that you said?

Las Vegas is not what I had in mind for a vacation. Besides the ship has a casino, a spa, pools, water slides, shops, a movie theater, and it would be fun for all of us, Maria said as Josey tested the water temperature before entering the shower.

I'll think about it, was his only answer before climbing into the shower.

She sighed and went back to check on Adele and dinner.

What if we get seasick? I've heard of cruises where everyone's puking up their guts for the whole trip. That wouldn't happen in Vegas, Josey pointed out as he and his family sat down to dinner.

No one ever throws up in Las Vegas? Maria asked in barely contained disbelief.

I didn't say that, but I've heard horror stories of cruise ships where things go bad. There are engine problems that could leave us adrift and that germ thing where everyone gets diarrhea and pukes everywhere. I'm not opposed to taking a vacation but a cruise ship? Besides, we're not a couple of old farts, Josey astutely pointed out.

Farts, Adele interjected while scooping up some of her corn niblets onto her small spoon.

Maria gave Josey a dirty look and then told her daughter, Don't say that word.

The little girl looked up at her daddy in confusion then turned toward her mom. Daddy said it, she pointed out with admirable and unassailable logic.

Daddy shouldn't say it either, Maria responded.

Bad daddy, Adele scolded after looking contemplative for a few moments.

Josey nodded and said, Mommy's right. I shouldn't say that word. He then looked at Maria and said, What about Addy? What would she do on a cruise? Play Bingo with all the old far- um... old people.

They have child care on board. She could play and have fun while we have some time together. I bet we could find some things to do, just the two of us. Think about it, Josey. There would be romantic sunsets and the stars would be easier to see at sea than in any city. We could be together watching the stars and sipping wine. It's romantic.

Josey continued to eat dinner and Adele tried to pronounce romantic. But it came out sounding more like, Romatuck.

After he swallowed a bite of chicken, Josey said, Hey, I'm as romatuck as anyone. Just how long are these cruises?

It would be ten days, and the ship will be docking in Galveston soon,