The Zombies’ Halloween
written by: Lisa H. Owens
@LisaHOwens
Moms held Robbie’s stump and Pops held his partial hand as the trio walked toward one of the few houses on the block that was still standing. It was located at the end of Elm Street in their old neighborhood. Everything had been different since the day the world went bonkers, and trick-or-treating was no exception. It was all tricks and no treats.
They stopped at the end of the dilapidated home’s driveway and Robbie adjusted his cowboy hat and mask. It was the same ensemble he’d worn on the final normal Halloween, albeit a little worse for the wear. He lurched down the driveway and flailed his way up the short set of steps leading to the porch, drawing up just shy of a bunch of junk barring the doorway. His bulging goody-bag weighed heavy on his decaying arm and he rested it on the stoop while using his partial hand to squeak the horn of a mangled tricycle wedged in the junk heap.
“Twick or tweeeet,” he garbled through the mask’s wet mouth hole, tooting the horn until a speakeasy window slid open and Mr. Smith’s craggy face peered out, his eyes sifting through the junk to find the source of the annoying racket.
“Ahem. Why Robbie, is that you?” he cleared his throat and looked beyond the masked cowboy to the edge of the driveway where the boy’s parents stood in the shadows. They flung their arms up in a sloppy wave and Mr. Smith’s tense expression softened.
“Thought I was the only one left on the street,” he muttered, his voice raspy, the result of months of disuse.
“Wait here, my boy,” he slid the speakeasy window shut.
Robbie heaved deep breaths through cracks in the rigid plastic of his mask and Moms and Pops drew closer, their soft moans turning feral as their excitement mounted.
One after another, the click of bolts and locks being opened and whir of boobie-traps being defused resounded from beyond the barrier before Mr. Smith emerged from behind the solid steel door. Like an eel, he slipped between the stacks of miscellaneous objects barring passage, and held a single Hershey’s Chocolate Kiss out for Robbie. It was a noble gesture that Mr. Smith presented the piece of candy in a precious serving dish, part of dearly departed Mrs. Smith’s set of seldom-used good china.
“I was saving this for a special occasion, my b…” the bowl shattered on the stoop as the snarling trio were upon him in an instant, ripping him apart and shoving his bits into the soiled goody-bag.
Robbie left the foil-wrapped candy untouched as they turned to lurch to the lair they called home. He dragged the overflowing goody-bag on the ground, leaving a trail of gore in its wake.
They paused to lighten Robbie’s load, sampling great, dripping globs of the Halloween bootie, and Pops rubbed his sated belly.
He hacked out a string of words along with a generous wad of dark sludge, “That was delightful, Son.”
Moms just looked disgusted. “Jesus, Phil, wipe your mouth. You have something right there,” she garbled through a hole in her neck as she touched one peeling finger to the spot where Pops’ lip used to be. She daintily dampened the finger on her festering tongue, dabbing at the speck of dried intestine and they continued homeward, toppling head (leaking-brain-membranes) over heels down the gulch leading to the dark woods fronting their lair.
Moms and Pops arose on fractured legs, each taking hold of what little remained at the end of Robbie’s wrists, helping him stand while guffawing at their own clumsiness. Then they lurched onward to the Zen environment of their cave.
Moms reminded them to remove their dirty feet before entering, and for good luck, each member of the Zombie family rubbed the “Lair Sweet Lair” sign as they passed by. The sign was a treasure. An original work of art created by a master woodcarver’s hands, which were kept in a container labeled “not for consumption.”
The Zombies were suited to the undead life—more successful than they’d ever been when things were normal. The family enjoyed being comfortable, and agreed that nothing screamed COMFORT like a dank den filled with writhing, rotting, moaning snacks.
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