The Dead Walk the Suburbs by Robert Dorman
© 2004
“Jim, you sure this will work?”
“Yes, dumb ass, I worked for the electric company for 8 years, I think I know how turn off the power.”
“I don’t know…”
“Look, it’s very simple, I cut the power off for these ten square blocks, and we hit the houses before the rich folk know what happened.”
“But why is it so quiet, Jim? None of the other neighborhoods have been this quiet. I don’t like it.”
“Will you just shut the fuck up? It’s quiet because it’s the middle of the fucking night. This is the perfect situation. Either nobody is home, or they’re asleep and defenseless. We’ll hit the biggest and best houses, and we’ll be set for a good while. You let me do the worrying. You just do what I tell you.”
“Ok, Jim.”
The streetlights lining the street suddenly cut out as Jim finished his work. Jim climbed down from the power lines, and hopped into the van with Buddy. Jim hated Buddy arguing with him. He didn’t bring Buddy along for his smarts. He brought him for his muscle and loyalty, the most valuable commodity in his business. It doesn’t help to have a criminal genius as a partner if he’ll stab you in the back the first chance he gets. Buddy and him have been partner for three years, and zero slip-ups yet. A couple of close-calls, but no arrests, a first in Jim’s long criminal history. Buddy, while not smart, has been the best partner Jim’s ever had.
“Buddy, drive”, said Jim.
“Oh, sorry Jim”, said Buddy, as he put the old Chevy van into gear, and started a slow drive down the block.
As they entered their fifth house, both Jim and even not-the-sharpest-knife-in-the-drawer Buddy was realizing something wasn’t right. Every house was getting increasingly and increasingly disturbing. There was food uneaten on the dinner table, and each house smelled bad, like rotting meat. There were also blood stains, throughout the houses. However, Jim wanted his take, so they continued on.
“Buddy, you keep that weapon ready”, said Jim, as he drew his .45 Magnum, the only weapon he trusted, the weapon Dirty Harry used, readying himself for anything.
Buddy nodded assent, and took the Louisville Slugger “Special” off his shoulder. What made it “Special” were the 3 inch nails hammered through the top of it. The sight of it in the hand of 6’5, 300 pound Buddy Polanski usually froze any attempted “heroes”, who thought of foiling the two burglars. He then started murmuring something in a low, haunting voice.
“Buddy, what the hell are you saying?” said Jim.
“I’m singing, Jim” said Buddy. “I’m nervous, I sing when I get nervous.”
“Well shut the fuck up, Buddy, this ain’t American Idol” said Jim.
“Sorry, Jim”, said Buddy.
Jim felt sorry for snapping at Buddy, because honestly, he felt nervous too. This was a first for him. He’s had some strange things happen while on the job, but nothing as strange as this. This all reminded him all too much of one of those trashy horror novels, like the ones by Stephen King his wife eats up so much. Having only flashlights to light their way didn’t help on the sphincter factor. Also, this house seemed more ominous that the previous four. Buddy and Jim looked around the first floor, but found only blood stains.
“Buddy, you go upstairs, I’ll go down”, said Jim. “And if you find something – swing first, ask questions later.”
“Gotcha, Jim”, said Buddy, as he stepped quietly up the stairs, or at least as quietly as his massive frame would allow.
Jim walked over to the basement door, keeping his gun forward, his finger on the trigger. He pulled open the door, shining his flashlight down the narrow staircase. All he could see was stairs, the basement floor, and a cavern of darkness surrounding the small cone of light the flashlight provided. He cautiously crept down the stairs, hearing only the creaking of the stairs, his breathing, and the beating of his own heart. As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he calmed himself down, taking deep breaths. He quickly swept the room, seeing only a water heater, a sink, and a rusty bathtub.
That doesn’t make sense, thought Jim, and he quickly scanned back over the room, focusing on the bathtub. Jim quickly realized that it wasn’t rusty, that it was covered in blood. Jim then realized that there was a bloody trail originating in the middle of the floor leading to the bathtub. Looking over the floor more carefully, Jim noticed a splatter of blood in all directions from the origin. Dreading what’s in the tub, Jim slowly walked over to the edge, trying to avoid the larger bloodstains, and peered in.
Buddy explored the upstairs, which was noticeably absent of the gore that had patterned the first floor. He was nervous, and began unconsciously singing again. This was the first time he had seen Jim noticeably upset during a job. That was what really scared him. Buddy realized that he wasn’t the smartest guy, but knew his muscle, size, and intimidation factor was very useful in this business. However, Jim was the first person that he enjoyed working for. Jim yelled at him a lot, but he told him the truth. He didn’t hide things from him, and Buddy realized that they were good with each other. Strong and solid Buddy worked well with smaller and smarter Jim. Buddy suddenly halted when he heard a small noise coming from behind the only closed door remaining. He walked towards the door holding the Slugger high with one hand, and the flashlight at the door, as he opened the door. Before he could swing the Slugger with enough force to crush bone and rip flesh, something jumped out of the darkness behind the door and bit strong and solid Buddy.
Jim peered over the edge of the bathtub, hoping what he expected to be there wasn’t there, that by some fluke, that the blood would be unaccompanied by its former owner. He was unlucky. He looked down into the tub to see the dead body of a young man, wearing the remnants of a t-shirt and jeans. There was no doubt that the man was dead, as his body had multiple bite and scratch marks, as if he had been mauled by a pack of dogs. That was when the body twitched. Jim jumped back, rethinking his previous assumption that the man was dead. Jim, although with the intention of robbing the place when first entering the house, now was thinking of perhaps helping this man stay alive.
However, this thought was soon gone, as the man/body jerked up and snapped at him, missing his hand by inches, his teeth clacking together audibly with the force of the bite. Jim fell backward, dropping his gun and knocking it into the corner, behind the water heater. He was left with the flashlight, holding it on the man/body who shambled towards Jim, frozen with terror.
The man/body lunged forward, going for Jim’s neck, when out of nowhere the Louisville Slugger “Special” crushed the skull of the man, spilling the remnants of his brain on the concrete floor. Jim looked up to see the big smile of Buddy Polanski, as he pried the Slugger from the bits and pieces of the man’s brain and skull.
“I’ve never been so happy to see you in my life, Buddy”, said Jim as he scrambled to his feet and retrieved his Magnum. He tucked the Magnum into his waistband.
A small yip was heard from within Buddy’s jacket. Jim looked at him.
“Buddy, what is that noise?” asked Jim. Buddy unzipped his jacket to reveal a small dog, which scrambled up Buddy’s considerable chest to then lick his face.
“I found him upstairs,” said Buddy. “His name is Scrappy.”
Jim normally would have argued, but considering what just happened, he let it slide. Instead, he turned to look at the recently brained corpse. Buddy took this signal, slid the puppy back into his jacket and zipped it up. He joined Jim next to the corpse. Jim related everything he saw up to the bludgeoning. Buddy then chimed in with the first successful semi-intellectual attempt.
“I think it’s a zombie” said Buddy.
“That’s just stupid,” said Jim. “This is just some lunatic.”
“You said it was dead, and then it came alive again and tried to bite you,” said Buddy.
“Yeah,” said Jim. “But zombies don’t exist.”
“Jim, all I watch are George Romero movies,” said Buddy. “If I know one thing, it’s that that dead guy was a zombie. It had bite marks and scratch marks and craved human flesh. That’s trademark zombie behavior. Also, I found another dead body upstairs with the dog, with a spoon fork thing through its eye.”
“You mean a spork?” said Jim.
“I guess,” said Buddy.
“Who’s George Romero?” asked Jim.
“He a movie director, Jim,” said Buddy. “He directed the horror classics “Night of the Living Dead”, “Dawn of the Dead”, and “Day of the Dead.”
“Oh,” said Jim, surprised by Buddy’s interest in zombie movies. “You’re a regular Steven Spielberg, aren’t ya Buddy?”
“Actually, Spielberg is an overrated director,” said Buddy. “He provides entertainment, but his films provide little substance.”
“Whatever, Buddy,” said Jim. “Zombie or no zombie, that thing is dead. We need to am-scray.” They went back up the stairs, with Buddy leading the way.
“Uh, Jim, that was definitely a zombie,” said Buddy, as he looked out the first floor window.
“Why do you say that, Buddy?” asked Jim.
“Because all his friends are outside,” said Buddy. Jim turned to look and now believed what Buddy had been saying. Outside, shambling in a massive horde, were a group of partially decayed people, seemingly the former owners of the houses that him and Buddy has been burglarizing.
“Buddy, what do we do?” asked Jim, ceding control to the one of them who seemingly had prior knowledge of the situation.
“Just be quiet,” said Buddy. “They won’t come at us unless they see or hear us. We’re pretty well hidden in the house. We just have to wait ‘til they wander off, then we’ll run to the van and drive off.” However, Scrappy decided at that moment to have his voice heard. He let out a string of yips. Buddy quickly silenced him, pushing him back but the damage was done. One of the zombies turned to the noise and let out an enormous yelling moan. The rest of the zombies turned to the disturbance, and seeing fresh meat, all let out loud groans and turned, starting to shamble towards the house.
“Oh shit,” said Jim.
“Out the back,” said Buddy. They turned and ran out the back, with Scrappy yipping the entire way.
They ran directly into a group of about ten zombies. Jim immediately drew his Magnum and fired into the closest one’s chest. A huge chunk of flesh flew out the back of the walking dead man, but otherwise, he was unaffected.
“Headshots, Jim, headshots,” yelled Buddy as he connected his Slugger into the head of the closest zombie. Its head basically exploded, with its body falling uselessly to the ground. Jim quickly sighted the already injured zombie and blew its “fucking head off.” He went from zombie to zombie quickly destroying the half of the pack. However, at this moment, his choice of gun was coming back to bite him. With only six bullets, he quickly ran out of ammo, with the other half of the zombies left. Buddy, having taken out three already, was currently fighting a zombie with who the Slugger had embedded in his head, but was still alive. This left Jim with one zombie shambling towards him.
He looked at his now useless gun and threw it at the zombie. The zombie took the impact with little effect, and jumped on Jim, mauling his neck. Buddy having successfully killed and pried his bat from the head of the now dead body. He turned to see his friend being eaten, and Buddy went berserk.
“JIM!” yelled Buddy. He started swinging his bat with all the considerable force he had. He quickly destroyed all the zombies in the back of the house. Overcome with grief and rage, Buddy charged back into the house, utterly annihilating every zombie in his way. He quickly emptied the house. He charged into the front yard, quickly crushing every zombie in his way. However, their overwhelming numbers, well over a hundred, began to overwhelm Buddy. A loud chopping noise suddenly was heard overhead.
The National Guard helicopter circled the large crowd of undead. It settled at the end of the street. Within a few seconds, it opened up with its minigun, shredding the horde of zombies. Heads exploded, bodies fell, broken, and Buddy, seeing the gunfire, turned his back, and was hit several times, falling to the ground.
“Uprising quelled,” said the gunman through the radio. The helicopter rose, circled the dead bodies, checking for survivors. Satisfied, it flew back to base, a ground team on its way to clean up any stragglers. Scrappy crawled out of Buddy’s jacket, yipping at the passing helicopter. A battery operated radio, played “The Monster Mash” in the background.