The Real World

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The Start of Something New

“Jeremy’s Books & Desk Papers”. This message was scrawled into a grey plastic box and placed upon my college dorm bed. I have no idea who Jeremy is, but I bet it’s one of my roommate’s donut idiot friends. Well, that was a bit redundant- donut already means idiot. That’s like saying “Completely destroyed” or “BFF’s forever!”. Not that I would ever say BFF’s forever, that was something for girls who would later grow up to blow the whole football team. Fucking ignorant sluts.

As I kept bitching about the state of sloots in this country, I happened to hear a noise coming out of the box. “Huh…thought I heard something…” I mumbled. I reached over to grab my iPod and the noise occurred again. My heart raced a bit and I could feel the increased pulsing going my chest. A bit wary, I grabbed the nearest blunt object, a flashlight, and started approaching the box cautiously.

I started removing the box lid slowly, but I didn’t get too far before I heard a shrieking bark and shut the box lid back down in surprise. After a few moments to collect my nerves, I flipped the lid off quickly and saw a puppy sitting in the box. “You gotta be joking Jeremy. Is this some sort of joke?” The puppy, a pug, looked over at me with its huge eyes and started panting. “Great, now I’m gonna need to call animal control before I contract rabies from this flea bitten shit” I said.

I rummaged through my desk to find my phone and while I was doing so, the pug started barking at the door. “Shut up god damn it!” I yelled. The dog, immune to my curses, continued to bark. To appease the dumb animal, I went over to the door to see what was out there that was so interesting to the dog. I grabbed my flashlight and put the lid back on the box so the barks would be a bit more muffled.

As I went toward the door, I passed by the mirror in my room mounted on the side of my closet. I gave myself a quick glance and did a swift groom over. My light brown hair was getting a bit shaggy and pretty soon I’de need to use hair gel to get my hair into that messy bed hair look I liked. When you have too much hair and you wake up from last night’s shower, your hair kind of just slants to one direction.

I opened the door and looked around. Nothing unusual, just asbestos in the ceiling and puke on the floor from one of the frat “bros” who took one too many shots of Everclear. Or whatever they take shots of it. I never went into a bar before and I’ve never hung out with any “bros” before, so I assume they take shots of the hardest liquor out there.

I hope they did, that way their livers would short circuit faster and they can go die at the age of 40. I can picture the headlines in the newspaper: “Randall Doucheface has passed away at the age of 40. Life achievements: Slipping roofies into underage girls’ drinks and living off rich parents money.”

As I was about to head back in, a red trail caught my eye. The trail was smeared against the floor and was leading into the room to the left of me. At first I dismissed it, but then I realized that if that red trail was what I thought it was, it could be pretty bad for me if I was just sitting in my room while muchacha in the other room got diced to bits.

I gripped the flashlight in my right hand and followed the red trail warily. As soon as a creak squealed out of the door, the door was flung open and I was tackled to the floor by a unknown assailant.

Now, to say this door breaking perpetrator was ugly was a understatement. It was missing an eye in one of its sockets and had more broken teeth than Mike Tyson. Or maybe it was the other way around, maybe prince charming over here was just born with more fucked up teeth then non-fucked up teeth and to him the fucked up teeth functioned as regular teeth. Whatever the case was, it still had me pinned down to the ground and I felt that every moment I spent analyzing his facial features was deducting from my chances of performing a escapade.

I swung the flashlight that I was still gripping in my right hand against handsome’s face and the two objects collided. You would expect a hard-object-on-hard-object noise, like a fist to the wall, but what I got was the noise of your shoe hitting mud. The blow didn’t seem to deter the creature that much, in fact, I think it just made it more angrier. Which is hard to say cuz it could have already been mad. Its lack of emotional display would impress me if I wasn’t actually scared shitless right now.

I was pretty sure I was gonna die right here. Lifetime achievements: Got to eighteen years of age, no loss of virginity somehow at the age of eighteen, average grades of As and Bs, and a lucky find of $100 on a street corner one day. This has been one useful life. I didn’t believe in reincarnation, so this was all that I got.
Before the creature could sink its teeth into my jugular vein, it was blindsided by something. Something quick, I didn’t even see it in my peripheral vision. As the creature was slammed into the wall, I picked myself up and looked at my would-be savior. The hero was…me.

Well, it wasn’t me as in the sense that it was genetically identical to me and had my name and everything, but he looked no older than me. His hair was a similar style, but it was a deeper brown and he had an abnormal cowlick that shot throughout his hair. It was strange, yet somehow I could never picture him without it if I saw him again. Before I could even thank my would-be savior, he took my flashlight from the ground and slugged me across the head.

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.