The Rapping

It was around 8 o’ clock AM when Sergeant First Class (SFC) Ernest Palmer heard the rapping at his front door. He had started his morning just like any other, and now he was seated at his kitchen table enjoying his breakfast bowl of cereal. He would not answer the door. In fact, the rapping did not stir him at all.

The reason he left the door unanswered was not because of his nature. You see, Mr. Palmer is a malcontent. He is disturbed by the slightest irritant and is never concerned about what others want. On any other day, before today, SFC Palmer would have let the visitor keep knocking just the same; but the reason he did not answer the door this time has nothing to do with Mr. Palmer’s nature.

Today, in between the wee hours of 1 AM and 5 AM, Ernest Palmer killed 10 men.

He stepped out of the pub around about midnight and took his habitual drunken stroll to the chicken-coop he called home, 511 Bleak Street. He couldn’t make out what was what and who was who, everything seemed to be toppling over. He just felt the need to be home, away from his peckerhead “pals” from the bar.

“All they ever talk about is their f*ckin’ grandkids or their sh*tty left knee,” thought Palmer, to himself, as he rambled towards his front lawn. “No one talks about their service. No one ever talks about the war.”

He thought they were too soft in their old age. Nearing his 50s, Palmer felt he could still do some damage in a war. Often times he reminisced the days when what he said mattered, when he had assisted command of his platoon, when he held his military-issue high-powered rifle in hand and burst-fired upon the enemy.

As he stumbled onto his front porch, Palmer cocked his head to his favored rocking chair, just beside the screen door. It had been knocked over, and standing hunched over beside it was his fat-f*ck neighbor, Donny Wemerowitz.

“Donny, get the f*ck off my lawn!”

Although Donny had really been standing on Palmer’s porch--not the lawn--the statement should have nonetheless encouraged Donny to leave. But Donny did nothing. He stood so still and dumb like a moron.

“I don’t wanna be seein’ ya at this hour. I told you before the—“ The more words Palmer tried to fit in his sentences, the more he slurred his speech and caught himself tongue-tied. Finally he managed:

“GET!”

Donny tried to touch Palmer.

SFC Palmer never wanted to be touched without his approval. Even in a drunken stupor—especially in a drunken stupor—Palmer never let himself be touched without recompense. He slapped Donny’s face without thinking. It would have probably been the fastest thing Donny had seen in his life…if he were alive.

Donny was dead. But he could still move and eat. That’s about all he could do now. Donny was a zombie.

After being attacked by his dog, Donny bit back. And he bit deep. He ate his dog's intestines and heart and liver. Imagine a jelly filled donut. The fruity jelly is inserted via a hole in the side of the donut. Now imagine the dog as the donut. Except Donny wasn't putting in the jelly, he was taking it out. He ate nearly all of his dog's internal organs and left the carved-out carcass in the living room; but he wasn't satisfied with his meal.

In life, Donny liked to eat out. He was on Palmer's porch because he was looking for more food. So were the other 9 men Palmer killed that night. Palmer was almost certain that the ones he killed were infected. Almost certain. “Had I killed any pure humans,” he justified to himself, “I had probably just put them out of their misery before their misery came to meet ‘em.

Donny’s head began to tear off as Palmer continued assaulting him. Donny was gushy, and easy to sock. Palmer didn’t think he’d hit that hard, and, for the most part, he was right. Being undead, Donny just fell apart easily.

Not realizing that he’d just put down a zombie, Palmer began to panic about what would happen to him if ‘they’ figured out he murdered Donny. So, being drunk and having no good idea of what to do with the body, Palmer got his shovel and attempted to bury Donny in Donny’s backyard.

“I don’t want his stench in my yard,” thought Palmer. “Maybe they’ll pin this on the b*tch he’s married to.”

As he dug he sobered up. And he met others; other zombies. It didn’t take long for him to match these deadheads in his neighborhood with the zombies in the old horror flicks he caught on basic cable. Palmer wasn’t dumb, and he never appreciated being prejudiced as ignorant. But that’s another story.

Ernest Palmer killed 10 men then went to sleep for 2 hours.

--Back to the door, and the Ernest Palmer at present, enjoying his breakfast cereal--

The rapping continued, but Palmer waited until he emptied his bowl, slurping the milk at the bottom.

When he finished, he pushed the bowl aside and reached for his hunting rifle that rested against the table. Taking a few smooth steps he stood 8 feet in front of the doorway; the rapping continued. He armed his rifle and raised it so he could put his eye down the sight, just like the old days.

It took time for him. He was trying to guess where the knocking party was standing behind the door. How tall was he? How wide? Where was his head?

The bullet exploded from the barrel and left a wicked hole in the front door. Palmer rushed forward and unlocked the deadbolt. He nudged the door and it swayed open forward.

Bulls-eye. He smirked.

"That's another one for the fire," he joked to himself.