Me…And the Undead

ME… AND THE

UNDEAD

Frank Omar

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© Copyright 2011 Frank Omar.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

Printed in the United States of America.

isbn: 978-1-4669-0309-8 (sc)

isbn: 978-1-4669-0307-4 (hc)

isbn: 978-1-4669-0308-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011919753

Trafford rev. 11/03/2011

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Contents

1

2

3

4

5

Check out these other books by Frank Omar

Pervert’s Love Story

Dark Crossing to the Black Temple

This book is dedicated to Noushafreen

Miles apart

Together forever

Regardless if we like it or not

Love.

Marriage.

Divorce.

Apocalypse.

It’s complicated.

nasty—adj. (nastier, nastiest) 1 unpleasant or disgusting. 2 spiteful, violent, or bad-tempered. 3 dangerous or serious.—noun. a creature from the bowels of hell first seen during the apocalypse.

Happiness through violence

Life itself is a death sentence

1

At the end of the world you weren’t supposed to live, or so Case thought. He hadn’t really been a lucky man, but so few were nowadays.

That goddamned crying, he whispered to himself. He heard it from the floor above. I just can’t take it anymore.

The periodic crying would shake him from time to time. The whining sounded like it was a baby, but he thought it was only him and Luna alone in the whole condo. Case was seemingly the only one who could hear it. It often came at odd times during the day, never following a pattern. During the early RAI educational programs, while he showered, or even during his favorite show Paperissimo. Case was often alone, but not really. The sinister howling would travel its terrible way down from the sixth floor. Sometimes on his balcony, he could hear it clearer than ever. The droning was definitely female; the cry sounded more like the pouting of a child who didn’t get what they wanted for Christmas.

Today, however, Case had more important activities to attend to. He, of course, being the husband in a rather lackluster marriage, was responsible for all the fuckin’ donkeywork. It was Case who had to go out and get the groceries; it was Case who had to check for mail; and it was poor, pitiful Case who had to go down the goddamned hill and back up again.

-UP THE HILL, DOWN THE HILL-

Rome, Italy.

Their home address was Via Giacinto dei Vecchi Pieralice. It took the lazy American two and a half years to memorize it, and pronounce every fuckin’ syllable correctly. Not that it really mattered nowadays. Goddamned Armageddon had fucked up his whole life. He was quasi-married, although unhappily; at one time in his life, Case loved telling all his friends how much of an angel his wife was. The way she’d arch her eyebrows as he fucked up yet another thing, the way she’d berate him relentlessly as he failed to understand her complex, fragile states, and the absolute mess of an apartment that waited for him, and only him, to clean up after a hard day’s work; it all made him feel like he chose the best woman in the world so many years ago.

And yet the dumb bastard stayed. Case thought that maybe Luna would change like magic. POOF! Be gone, bitch! Well, it had been close to seven fuckin’ years of blissful pain, and the shrew still refused to clean pots and pans.

Case never complained. Instead, he believed himself the better man. He had made a commitment to that deceiver; that liar; that fuckin’ goddamn ruiner. Casey boy just didn’t know how to express himself. Perhaps it was better to be seen and not heard. At least he had someone during the chaos that had engulfed nearly all the planet.

Case had to get ready—again. As if Luna didn’t have enough vodka and wine in the fridge, she need a little bit more. Oh, it was fine with her to sacrifice her husband. Sure, it was fine to dangle a piece of meat to those decomposing motherfuckers outside. No problem whatsoever. Case didn’t mind dipping his toes in the pool full of sharks. No, the poor schmuck only wanted to please her. To make sure her needs were satisfied. They had past problems, but every couple did, right? Why should he still be repenting for past sins? Case figured all that mattered in their strained relationship were Luna’s poor, poor feelings.

Luna was very good at turning small issues into galactic proportions. She didn’t need the liquor, no, she just wanted to boss her donkey around. He might as well have changed his name to Assman, or something along those lines.

Case would usually go to the Carrefore down the hill across the intersection where he lived. Only problem for the shithead was that he lived on the fifth floor, and the rundown, always-low-on-goods supermarket was almost half a kilometer away; all along the way were those… things. Nobody knew what they were, that is if anyone was still around. Casey knew the bitey bastards meant business.

Case’s supermarket runs were scheduled for once a week. Usually Monday mornings around seven. For some unknown reason, this was when the path would always be the clearest. However, today wasn’t Monday. It was Friday. Come Monday, he’d have to go again. Case never questioned his dear Luna. At her request, he shut up and got ready.

He covered every inch of his body. Casey boy was a little dense, but not stupid. All fashion aside, Case would wear two pairs of jeans, socks, gloves, long-sleeved T-shirts, and even two facemasks. He never took a chance; ending up like one of those creepy walkers outside was worse than death itself.

Case had no weapons per se. He wished he had a gun, but, of course, that would’ve made things so much fuckin’ easier, wouldn’t it? He had dull kitchenware, which was just useless. He had used a plastic broom handle for a while, but it snapped in half during a confrontation with Maria, his old porter. So, he ended up using an oven tray to knock those freaky bastards back. He always carried his trusty North Face backpack everywhere he went. It had been with him through the thick and thin, and had been a more responsible friend to him than his ex-wife.

Lastly were his boots. They looked like they belonged to Alice Cooper, or Marilyn Manson. They made Case tall, tall enough to make him stick out in a crowd. Who cared? Even if they grabbed a hold of him, they couldn’t bite through all the layers.

The hardest part before leaving was deciding on whether to say goodbye or not. Did she care? Did that sniveling, weaseling bitch care? She most certainly cared enough to ask him to risk his life yet again. For vodka. Absolut only. He bit the bullet, and acted his part.

I’m going, Case said, but she didn’t take much notice. Case’s voice was bass. When he spoke, there was a deep hum underscoring each word he pronounced.

See if they’ve got Absolut. If not, get cranberry Finlandia.

Case wanted to scream at the request. A year after the apocalypse, and he was still taking drink orders. Real easy trying to pick and choose while those goddamned things chased him around the store.

I’ll see what I can do.

Luna got behind him as he turned the deadbolt and got into a sprinter’s dash. This was the happy couple’s protocol. Unlock until he got to the floor below, then fasten back up. They could have used the balcony, but if he made one mistake climbing down, he’d break his neck on the tumble down. Just imagining laying there in the pavement and being encircled by those nasties, then being eaten alive while not being able to move was daunting to Case.

Boom!

He took off as he always had. He ran down so fast it was like he was training for the dead Olympics. He skipped over stairs in order to get down faster. He had the oven tray in his mitts, and was ready to whack at anything that moved. In no time at all, perhaps his quickest yet, he made it to the bottom of the stairs. Now the long hallway, past the porter’s station, a sharp right, and then he’d be outside. Everything was going according to plan. As he passed by the porter’s door, he saw Maria salivating like a wild dog. Her round, ruddy face was devoid of all life; her eyes were as milky as runny ice-cream. She had a gaping hole in her left cheek. Dried blood had stained her white top, and her reading glasses hung between her sloppy breasts and tapped the glass as she punched weakly.

Case would’ve liked to have said, Hello, but the faster he got back, the sooner the trip would be over with. Rome was boiling during the middle of the summer, but Case no longer kept track of the date. It was hot outside, a real killer. Weather forecasts would have put it around ninety-five degrees Fahrenheit, but the news agencies hadn’t worked in months. Besides the scorching weather, Casey was dressed like an asshole. It didn’t matter, though. He was ready to cheat death, not have a holiday at the beach. He hadn’t met another live person in months, and sincerely doubted that there were others.

Via Giacinto dei Vecchi Pieralice was littered with trash, wrecked Fiats, broken-down Vespas, and a stream of elderly bodies surrounded the numerous coffee bars in the area. Case never understood why so many old people lived in his neighborhood. These poor souls were merely dead, not undead like the savages roaming the streets. Case had no idea why they were different, nor did it interest him much.

He had a personal rule of never stopping, not even to look at the details in their horrible faces. They all looked the same to him anyways: white skin, ash-colored eyes, decomposition of all sorts, and the stringent, piss and shit smell that wafted off their carrion. He remembered an old walker, not even a month ago, who must have been incontinent at the time of his death. As he gave chase, Case saw the foul old man shit himself in the middle of the street. A long string of brown, sinewy mass ejected from his anus and dragged along the ground until it broke off at the nearest curb. That didn’t stir any emotion out of Case. He was jaded at their disgusting behaviors.

At the intersection, there had been bumper to bumper traffic. More bodies, some so far gone they were nearly skeletal, were haphazardly strewn about like names in a hat. It was awful, but Case kept it together. He jumped from hood to hood until he reached the other side without a scratch. So far, so good, he thought to himself. Now to get down the hill.

To his right had been a school field where kids used to play basketball on the hard concrete, or soccer on the pitch further down. Before he even realized it, his body threw itself behind a medium-sized Fiat 500. The field was full of teenagers bumping into each other like blind, retarded children. Thank God for the fence, his mind screamed. He got low and crawled down the sidewalk hoping not to attract any stares. Sweat was pouring out of him like a leaky faucet. He felt the cold wetness on his neck, back, and chest. Whatever. He had to get his precious ex-wife’s fuckin’ alcohol.

He managed to avoid them, but it was taking a lot out of him. There was yet another intersection he’d have to crawl through on his hands and knees. It was covered in annoying, sharp little rocks and bits of glass. What a fuckin’ bitch it was gonna be to carry all those bottles back. Case wasn’t looking forward to it.

After his exhausting crawl, he stood up cautiously while wiping the soot off himself, gaped around the supermarket entrance, and saw no movement. He crept towards the busted red doors of the crappy Carrefore and slipped inside unnoticed.

-SUPERMARKET-

Although it wasn’t very large by any stretch of the imagination, there were plenty of hiding spots where those nasties could hide. By the entrance were a pair of registers with wads of euros of all values sticking out and covering most of the floor. Money didn’t fit in too well in this new world. To Case’s right was a single aisle full of baking goods, cookies, or biscuits as they called them in Europe, spices, and some rotted fresh produce at the far end. The floor was streaked with bloodied footprints; there were handprints along the back walls as if once part of a struggle. The lights in the Carrefore were switched off, but the light from outside trickled in through partially opened windows. This place had been in disuse for nearly a year, but the low hum of the refrigerators still vibrated throughout the dead supermarket.

Case saw the fruitcakes at the end of the aisle and wondered if he had ever actually eaten one of them in all his life. Italians loved the poorly made, mass-produced Panettone that came in jumbo boxes.

Case turned to his left and ventured past the browning vegetables. He didn’t even gave them a once-over; he remembered the time he was leafing through some broccoli and found a family of inch-long maggots living alongside his favorite vegetable. The adjoining aisle was full of baby food of various types all with their proper Italian names—salmone, cavallo, coniglio, and struzzo. Case was so accustomed to the language now that he could instantly translate these repulsive food flavors. What fucking baby eats ostrich? he asked himself. They didn’t interest him much; it just brought up old feelings he didn’t want to deal with at the moment.

The bad vegetable selection irritated him; there hadn’t been fresh veggies anywhere in months. The cauliflower was brown and crawling, the onions had grown stems and were the length of small plants; Case wouldn’t have been surprised if it got up and started chasing him around the store. The garlic was off-putting; black mold had powdered most of the selection, and the carrots were as mushy as pudding.

Next to the veggies were black mounds that used to be fruits. Swarms of creepy crawlers scuttled about competing for whatever morsels they could manage. Case figured even the bugs had a right to live, hadn’t they?

Disgusted, he crept on slowly. His feet barely touched the slippery floor as he made his way past hundreds of spoiled dairy products that were slowly congealing away in open fridges. The milk in one liter bottles was as chunky as ice-cream. The once white shelves were stained with varying types of black and green mold, and frost had built up in the corners looking like a small animal had shat across the entire dairy fridge. Case wondered what this place’s last day must have been like. Behind some yogurt was a blue hand that had been severed at the wrist. Somebody had probably gotten bitten and tried to fight off the infection. Frozen droplets of blood the size of peas traced in a neat row across from the bread to the dairy shelves. Case checked the crackers; most were still good. He grabbed a bag of the breadsticks he liked, and quietly stuffed it into his trusty North Face. He was becoming quite the pro at sneaking.

Next was the pasta aisle. Seven shelves from top to bottom still full of every kind of pasta imaginable—penne, bucatini, farfalle, and traditional spaghetti. Case hated premade pasta sauces like Barilla, or crappy store brands. One of the reasons why Case came over in the first place was to learn how to cook Italian cuisine. He’d learned a few authentic recipes, important dishes like penne arrabiata, spaghetti Bolognese, and even made a decent carbonara. He was finally improving until the goddamn world had to stop.

Finally! he thought. He came across liquors and wines opposite the pasta. Case hated to admit it, but he loved Chiantis. Red wines always tasted better; maybe their bitterness gave him more of a transcendent feeling. His particular favorite was called La Cacciatore, but sadly it wasn’t in stock here. His wife would settle for anything, including boxed cooking wine. It held little importance as long as she was drinking something that would produce even the slightest buzz. Living in Italy gave them the luxury of having both fine, and cheap, varieties of wine. Case never touched the twenty-five euro bottles of Ferrari until the world went kaput. Now, he wouldn’t drink anything less. The shape of the bottles was longer than normal; sleeker bodies gave them a more attractive appeal.

With two stowed away, Case now began the search for Absolut. Nothing. Not a goddamned thing. He’d never hear the end of it if he returned empty-handed. Nothing but flavored vodka, which Case knew Luna hated. Lemon, lime, peach, strawberry; there was also Tennessee Whiskey for forty euros. He could already picture the imaginary argument the second he’d get home—What the fuck? and This is bullshit, you know whiskey makes me fat. followed by You don’t do anything nice for me. Casey boy wanted no part in that, no siree Bob.

He poked his head over the meat counter. The nasties could be anywhere. Case inspected the floor, but it was eerily clean. Rotten meat expanded in the windows, and a half-carcass of a pig seemed to have fused to the wall. The strange smell came at him in waves. Flies were buzzing around the dead meat ferociously. The slicer on the counter was messy with what looked like green bile. It wasn’t just horrible, it was vomit-inducing. He took baby steps into the stockroom past the small deli. In heavy containers were huge portions of expired mozzarella; Italy’s white gold was now a wasted resource. There were so many that Case almost cursed himself for never checking before. The collected stench choked him. He closed the stockroom doors; behind him, however, was exactly what he wanted—crates full of Absolut and other assorted northern European alcohol. He shot a quick glance behind himself; the coast was clear. He pocketed two of the stout containers because any more would make the love of his life forget just how hard it was to get them.

She’ll swallow them both within a day’s time. If ya brought anymore, you’d sign yer own death certificate.

The voice was sinister as if an unhinged anger resided in every syllable. Case didn’t know where it came from, but it was right. He couldn’t bring home more. He’d have to come right back.

Mission completed. The bitch would have her precious sleeping juice. That was Luna’s reason, she claimed, for why she always had a drink in her hands. Oh, shit, he said out loud. Case almost forgot about a proper mixer. Cola Light, or Coke Zero were the only choices Luna would have accepted. She mixed with nothing else. He’d have to backtrack to the bread. Just past the meat counter, Case heard a simple crash. He wasn’t alone. He froze up against a wall of tortilla shells, and stole the smallest of peeks around the tight corner. Standing there staring at the Cokes was that same old man who had shat in the street and alerted the neighborhood. The nasty was completely nude, and feces caked his entire bottom. When the old monster motioned around limply, his ass cheeks squeezed out short bursts one after another. Case tried to fight off the laughter; a tear streamed down his face as the old Italian looked confused as to why his body was making such noises. Case weighed his options—should he sneak attack and risk exposing himself? Or should he shuffle his way out somehow?

Motherfucker! Case said angrily to himself.

He’d rather face his ex-wife’s spiteful wrath than to be turned into one of those brain-dead creatures.

Case tiptoed past the empty space, down a clear aisle, and sidestepped out the entrance like a secret agent. Whew! he thought until he remembered the hundred or so little fuckers smacking into one another across the fence. He went down hard and covered himself as best he could. The four glass bottles rattled noisily, and Case realized he had messed up royally. He sensed the tiny, putrid steps of the children make their way up to the flimsy barrier. One by one, their little damaged hands slapped the fence causing a ruckus—exactly what Case was trying to avoid. A mob of them came from all areas of the playground in search of new meat. Low grunts filled their decomposing lungs in wild anticipation of something new. The wretched cacophony of grumbling moans chilled Case’s very soul.

He threw caution to the wind and low crawled as best he could, but the annoying bottles kept rolling around in his bag as if they wanted to be detected. The undead children looked in his direction, but couldn’t pinpoint the source of the noise exactly. Halfway back and dog-tired, Case had to pause for a breather. He panted wildly as the uncaring sun tortured him while on the scorching asphalt. He was gasping and swallowing hard with every breath. He was coming down with heat exhaustion—he was simply wearing too much protective clothing. The layers were thick with soot and sweat; minuscule holes tore themselves open along the overhang of his favorite, long-sleeved shirt. A thick, wet patch that resembled a smiley face appeared on his chest. His nipples were eyes, and bellybutton was its cute little nose. Case hadn’t been this exhausted in years.

Yet, as he lay there, he heard a shifting coming closer. He rolled over onto his back and saw the old man in broad daylight. The nasty’s face was covered in lime-sized holes showing off both rows of teeth. He looked like someone went to town on his head with a hole puncher. He was bald except for a strange tuft that covered the sides of his head just above his ears. The old man’s balls hung out of his scrotum and dragged against the gravel; bits of whatever were getting inside him and going to places Case didn’t want to know about. The two seemed to smile devilishly at each other until the nasty lunged right for him. Out of instinct, he blocked the monster, knocked it off balance, and sent the villain down.

Case arose as if his feet had torn through the ground and pulled himself up using nothing but the power of survival. Fuck it! He ran the rest of the way back to the intersection. He hopped across sunroofs all over again dodging greedy palms without digits. The wild children, however, managed to chew through one of the weaker sides of the enclosure. Skin and bone stuck to portions of the ripped wire fencing like dirty teeth that had never been flossed. The groups ran in excited fervor over the prospect of food.

Not today. Case was too quick; his will to live too strong. He bounced between objects like a professional free runner. Midway through the myriad of destroyed, motionless cars, Case got cornered. Now he was nervous. He stood atop a roofless BMW seven series and rubbed his dirty soles over the exposed leather seats. He watched a legion of them close in; if it weren’t for that goddamned fuck of a wife, Casey boy wouldn’t have been in this mess. The bitch. She was probably at home watching from the balcony laughing until it hurt.

Oh, goddamn!

An idea rushed to him. Case took a step back and ran full-force over the tops of their heads. They were as hard as cement; he rebounded from nasty to nasty until he was safely across, but the fun wasn’t over yet. He still had to get back inside his flat. As he ran the last few feet towards the front door, he yanked out his keychain, stuffed the right one into the lock, opened, then withdrew all in one fluid motion. It was extraordinary, almost Olympic… . all for fuckin’ vodka. It seemed too great an effort for so small a cause.

Closing the door in the nick of time, Case huffed and puffed his way back up the stairs. The elevator never worked in this building, even before the end of the world.

He got back to apartment sixteen, gave the secret knock, and set about cleaning the kitchen.

-THEY COME OUT AT NIGHT… MOSTLY-

Case’s life for the last year had been routine. He’d risk life and limb about two to three times a week on other needless things, but usually groceries. For reasons beyond him, his flat still received running water and electricity. When he wasn’t off gallivanting with nasties, Case would be at home sleeping or watching one of his hundreds of DVDs he had amassed since moving to Rome almost five years prior. Some were his, but most were his neighbor’s. Feeling adventurous in the early days after the end of the world, Case searched each of his dead neighbor’s apartments one by one except for the sixth floor above.

About a year ago there were breaking news flashes all over the place, but Case and his ex despised network news, especially the RAI. So, the news fell on deaf ears for more than a few days until the moaning started up in the summer. It had been some random long weekend, special day, yatta-yatta bullshit when Casey needn’t come to work. So he busted out the old barbeque and decided Saturday would be grill day. As much as he thought his shrew of a wife abhorred him, it was Luna who had bought him his favorite toy. It was one of those simple, run-of-the-mill barbeques a person could put together in less than thirty minutes. Red, barely two-foot tall, and sported four aluminum legs, Case’s barbeque meant the world to him; fragile, but nonetheless effective. Often he wondered if she had purchased it for his pleasure, or to just give him something to do.

On this particularly scorching Saturday afternoon, Case had managed to get a thick hunk of Florentine steak, and a smaller, yet comparable, piece for his lovely ex. He was assembling his coal around the grill plate, spread gasoline about in short bursts, and ignited an instant flint to get the fire going. While performing his special barbeque ritual on his balcony, Case could overlook the commercial office across the street; it was a view worth dying for. At night, the moon would blossom like a developing camellia white above their apartment, and during the day Case enjoyed observing people carry on about their busy lives. It was a characteristic he’d shared with his own father, but Case was too young to remember. Regardless, it was a picturesque moment, perhaps one of their last since the final days.

Luna had started off the day bitching about the toilet seat or something, Casey boy couldn’t remember. She had gotten really testy at him out of the blue. She stepped out onto the balcony and waved her perfectly manicured index finger at him. She called him ten types of asshole. A simple mistake that had happened before, but her reaction was scary. In the middle of her reprimand, an ATAC bus swerved and collided with the local pastry shop. Case’s balcony shook; glass exploded from the shop’s windows like a bomb had gone off, horrible green fumes polluted the sky, and angry Italian grandmothers wanted to give their testimoniale to anyone who would listen. Soon the street was filled with onlookers and passersby. Che successo? echoed from every lip. A small fire built up and billowed just across the street where they lived; Case hadn’t even set his own fire before he called it quits.

Luna, are you watching this? He flicked two fingers to come over and have a look.

What the fuck, Henry? I was talking to you. Don’t you change the subject and tune me out.

Gently, he took her by the wrist and showed her the smoldering fire.

Didn’t you hear it go boom!

Are you calling me stupid?

Case had set himself up. He talked to Luna, but concentrated on the massive wreckage. It was like she was a puppet without a voice. She pushed his hip to get back his attention.

Yes, dear?

You mean you haven’t been paying attention?

That night around one in the morning, Case wandered back out onto the balcony to get another look at the scene. He went through the kitchen, unlocked the balcony door, then stepped out into the brisk Roman night. It was still, not a voice nor a caw could be heard. He put both hands on the railing and peered down below in the direction of the pastry shop. Oddly enough, the bus which had gone up in flames was