The Making of Zombie Wars Read online

  “Translate,” Esko ordered Bega and continued to mutter a relentless stream of lippy Bosnian consonants, spit particles catching morning sunlight as they hovered above the table. When he stopped, Bega uttered: “Me and my wife had face-to-face conversation.”

  He stopped as if waiting for Joshua to say or acknowledge something, which was beyond Joshua’s abilities at the moment. The two of them looked horribly at home in Kimmy’s kitchen. Think, thought, thoughtful, thoughtless, thinker—the scattered ashes of the entire family.

  “Maybe better to say heart-to-heart conversation,” Bega went on. “I believe it is very unacceptable that you”—he pointed at Joshua—“are putting your dick inside my woman. We were in the war together.” Confusingly, Bega pointed at Esko and himself. “We survived together in hell.”

  He enunciated the words with little emotion, as though he translated threats every day of his life, as though he’d never drunk with or seen Joshua. Esko produced another bunch of consonants, stroking the cat all along. He didn’t look upset; his face was serene; occasionally, he sucked on his teeth, as if bored. There was a dime-shaped scar on his forehead Joshua hadn’t noticed before, right above his left eyebrow. Bushy was revving his little pleasure engine, apparently in the middle of an extended orgasm. When Esko stopped talking, Bega nodded and smiled, as if content that he already possessed the exact words. Joshua stared at him in disbelief, unable to utter the obvious question. Idea: he could charge out of the kitchen, through the living room, then shout for help from the porch. What would he say to the neighborhood, though? Help! The husband of the woman I slept with wants to punish me!?

  “I am considering slicing your”—Bega paused to relish the precision of his translation—“prick off and putting it in your mouth until you choke.”

  The minuscule portion of Joshua’s mind that was not paralyzed with mortal fear thought that that was a rather powerful translation. Bega shrugged and grinned, as though to suggest that one day they would all be laughing it up when recollecting in tranquillity this comic scene. Clearly, he did not see his trespassing presence as a betrayal. Speaking of betrayal: Bushy was kneading the top of Esko’s knee, his eyes slits of pleasure. Right over there, by the coffee machine, there was a collection of very sharp knives of all sizes. The big one was top-of-the-line Psycho quality. Joshua couldn’t move; his body had deserted him.

  “However,” Bega continued, “in this country to do such things is not very acceptable.”

  Without letting go of Bushy, the man put his enormously large hand gently on the table, shaping it as a gun pointed in Joshua’s direction. Oh Lord, don’t chasten me and make me a disposable character in your spec script!

  “Maybe I will just shoot your knees,” Bega went on, “so that you must never walk again and touch my wife or any other woman.”

  That was not me. That was not me at all. It was someone else. Saying it would increase his chances, even if infinitesimally. But there was no way for Joshua to actually utter anything. He wasn’t able to open his mouth, even if an incipient word gurgled in his throat. All of his inner passageways were crumbling like mine shafts in one of those Indiana Jones movies.

  “Understand?” Esko asked.

  “Understand?” Bega repeated.

  “Understand,” Joshua finally spoke up.

  “Very good,” Bega said and sighed—there was nothing else that could be done about any of this. Esko lifted Bushy to face him and smiled at his friend the fluffy cat. He grasped Bushy’s head with his enormous thick-fingered hand and wrung his neck in one swift move. Bushy attempted a yelp but then went perfectly limp within a blink. Esko laid him down on the table, stroked his head one more time, and stood up.

  “Ay!” Bega said, nodding, as if now everything made sense.

  Only then did Joshua realize that his towel had dropped to the floor and he was naked. Good news: his penis was still there, as were his knees, if trembling.

  “He was in Special Police. Little crazy,” Bega said. “Sorry about that.”

  He flicked his cigarette into the sink where it hissed, and he followed Esko out, glancing back at Josh before failing to close the door behind him. No sound was available for hearing. No rewind for comprehending.

  The Lord had installed a huge hook for a light fixture right above the table—Joshua could climb on the table, attach the belt, and jump off, thereby stretching to the point of snapping his neck. He leaned against the counter and poured himself coffee with his violently trembling hands, spilling it and burning his navel area. All the knives had black handles; knives always had black handles: why is that? He couldn’t sit down; in fact, he couldn’t make it to the chair, as his legs were so drained of blood that there was no way to control them, even if his knees were somewhat operational. The kitchen smelled of the man’s homicidal perspiration, of Bega’s smoke and cologne, of Bushy’s death, of Kimmy’s lavender-and-papaya conditioner in Joshua’s hair. He tried to put the cup on the counter but missed by some distance and it exploded against the floor. Bushy’s eyes were glassy with mortal surprise, his neck perpendicular to his spine. There had been life there, and now there wasn’t. Everything in this house belonged to Kimmy; everything now perished. As the coffee spread into a puddle, Joshua looked outside: perhaps everything in the world was about to be taken down as well, like a spent stage set.

  Out on the sidewalk, Bega was caught mid-step in watching something with a concerned frown. Joshua wanted to see; he moved shakily along the counter, along the wall, then stepped out on the porch.

  Bare-chested and barefoot, indifferent to the cold, his hair in two pigtails, all the nipple studs and tattoos in place, wearing Joshua’s stars-and-stripes shorts, there stood Stagger. There stood Stagger, pressing the tip of his long samurai sword against the spot between Esko’s eyes. The Bosnian had his hands at his thighs, the right one still gun-shaped. There stood Stagger facing him.

  “Want me to cut him, Jonjo?” Stagger hollered. “Say a word, I’ll slice the motherfucker!”

  Esko was ninja-still, his muscles tight as violin strings, staring Stagger down. The barbed-wire choker on Esko’s neck looked much thicker now. He said something to Bega, giving him some sort of order, so Bega moved gingerly toward his red Honda, keeping an eye on Stagger and Esko all along, as if loath to miss anything. All the movement within Joshua’s frame of vision was perfectly coordinated, as if they’d all rehearsed it before. Esko spread his feet a bit, finding a better position for some inescapably forthcoming move. Everything was rushing forward, except for Joshua, who stood still, like a rock in a stream.

  “Don’t move or I’ll cut you, motherfucker! Jonjo, just say a word! I’m here for you, baby!”

  Bega got into the car, turned it on, and opened the passenger door. Two plush dice dangled from the rearview mirror. Joshua, stark naked, leaned against the wall, feeling the cold on his buttocks. There was a yellow rocking chair on the porch he hadn’t noticed before. The obese mailman was waddling along Magnolia, happily protected by his earphones from the Lord’s wrath and the myriad evils of the world. A man attached to a Great Dane progressed toward a vanishing point. The car engine was roaring, Bega now brandishing sunglasses. Some kind of a wan bird hovered obliviously at the empty feeder Joshua had never seen before. Please, Lord, let my soul slip free!

  “Say cut him, Josh, and I’ll cut him!” Stagger bellowed.

  But before Joshua could choose what to say, he said: “Don’t.”

  “Just say it, Joshua! Say the word!”

  “Don’t,” Joshua said, a breath louder.

  “What? Can’t hear you!”

  “Don’t cut him,” Joshua said again.

  Stagger looked at him as if it had never occurred to him that Joshua might not want Esko cut.

  “You don’t want me to cut him?” he asked, glancing at Joshua in disbelief. “Jonjo?”

  And then, as if snapping his fingers, Esko hits Stagger’s hands at the hilt with the blade of his left palm, the sword dropping w
ith a clang like a fork. Stagger looks perfectly surprised, even a bit offended, as if their play suddenly turned serious. Esko grabs Stagger’s right arm and keeps it stretched, pushing its wrist backward, until Stagger is bent downward on his knees. It all looks rehearsed, even when Esko thrusts the wrist farther and Joshua hears it crack, and then still farther until Stagger shrieks like a hanged dog. At which moment Bega winces. Esko releases the arm for Stagger to fall on the ground and gather it against his stomach. No word is said. A long time ago, Joshua had a voice and a throat it came from, but now it’s all gone, which he knows because nothing comes out as he, again, says: “Don’t.” Esko squats to punch Stagger in the nose, which commences bleeding. Stagger shuts his eyes in pain then opens them defiantly to stare at him, the pain converted on his face into hatred. Bega honks. Esko stands up. Stagger, his nose an exploded red sun, moves with his unbroken hand toward the sword. Esko stomps on his forearm. Stagger thrashes like a severed tentacle. Esko kicks him in the head. Bega honks again. The Great Dane and its man are watching it all as if it were happening on the screen. It’s a lovely April day.

  Joshua drops down into the rocking chair, sitting on his testicles in the process, but unable to adjust his position for comfort.

  “Don’t,” he says. “Please.”

  INT. BASEMENT LAB — NIGHT

  A naked, wriggling zombie is tied to an operating table, belts around his neck, wrists, and legs. His eyes roll back and his ROAR is ear-piercing. Major Klopstock and Cadet stand above him, both in surgical gowns and gloves, an array of shining scalpels on a tray within their reach.

  MAJOR KLOPSTOCK

  You sure you’re ready for this?

  Cadet nods without a word. Major K pulls up his surgical mask, as does Cadet. Only their worried eyes are visible now. Major K grabs the biggest scalpel, looks at Cadet one more time — he nods — and then makes a deep cut down the middle of the zombie’s abdomen. A mass of rot and pus erupts from the incision. Cadet retches. Major K puts the scalpel away, then plunges his hands inside the zombie, who is oblivious to the undertaking, steadily roaring and eye-rolling as his intestines SLOSH in his rotten abdomen.

  MAJOR K

  Come on, Mr. Liver, talk to me.

  Major K moves his hand inside the zombie and then finally pulls out the liver and shows it to Cadet: the liver is a very sickly yellow, but it somehow looks alive. Cadet cuts around it until it is detached from the body. Major K pulls down his mask. Cadet shakes his head. Major K nods.

  MAJOR K

  All right, then. No kissing for me today.

  He bites into the liver.

  As we unshuffle our mortal coils, each and every one of us will sooner or later reach the point of looking back at our lives to appreciate the few good decisions we might have made, small as they seemed at the time. Indeed, a sperm of future pride was already swimming toward the egg of Joshua’s ego, for—as the mailman waddled away shaking his sizable rump to the rhythm of his inner music, as Stagger squirmed in pain on the pavement—Joshua unexpectedly gained a presence of mind and did everything as if he’d been drilled for such a contingency. He cleaned up the mess, hid the sword behind the washing machine, slipped on a (clean) pair of underwear, stuffed Bushy in the New Balance duffel bag, improvised a sling for Stagger’s broken arm and took him in a cab to the hospital—all before anyone could get around to calling the police. Stagger didn’t want to deal with the law, let alone the order, and neither did Joshua. Without belief, no good thing could ever happen; Joshua did believe there was a way to conceal this morning’s shenanigans from Kimmy.

  In the ER waiting room, Joshua put the cat-heavy duffel bag on the floor and tucked it under a chair. It felt disrespectful, but Bushy was too dead to incur respect. Last night’s residual drunks were sleeping off their alcohol poisoning in impossible postures on seats so uncomfortable they must’ve been designed to discourage sitting. A rail-thin guy in full Bulls regalia was interrogating the water cooler (“Whaddya want? What da fuck ya want? Whaddya want?”), which refused to cooperate. It was too difficult for Stagger to sit with Joshua’s sling, so he stood, cradling his arm against his chest. Still in his green Crocs and Joshua’s shorts, he shot threatening glances at the interrogator, his pigtails like ropes over his ears. The damaged areas of his face merged into one enormous bruise centered around his mouth, like makeup gone terribly wrong. Joshua could tell that Stagger wouldn’t mind fighting the stick man, who was focused on the cooler releasing defiantly an occasional bubble. He tried to kick the blue water bottle as if it were a head, but the Bulls sweatpants fallen halfway down his ass prevented him from connecting with it.

  “What happened to my sword?” Stagger asked. His lips were swollen, as big as slugs, and he was slurring his words.

  “Don’t worry about it right now,” Joshua said. “I put it away.”

  “You should’ve let me cut him.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Stagger leaned over a trash bin and released a string of bloody saliva into it.

  “I’ll need my sword back,” Stagger said.

  “First get your arm back.”

  “I’ll be fine. I just feel naked without my sword.”

  “You’ll get your sword back. You’d still be naked with it, though.”

  “You should’ve been strong, Jonjo. You should’ve let me cut him.”

  An elderly, well-dressed couple sat on the edge of their seats, ready to be attended to. The woman’s left foot was broken, as evidenced by a baroque hematoma, with which her navy blue blazer perfectly rhymed. The man was calmly reading The New York Times, while the woman, holding one of her shoes like a Cinderella, was transfixed with the endless replay of Saddam’s statue being pulled down on the silent TV. The way the man and woman occupied their space together conjured up for Joshua their—most probably—Gold Coast living room: the exorbitantly expensive third-rate Cubist paintings on the walls; the exotic thingies on the mantelpiece; the crystal decanters on a silver tray: sherry for the ladies, scotch for the gentlemen. Script Idea #135: A terminally ill woman goes on a road trip to California with her husband, who suffers from Alzheimer’s. They took the trip fifty years before for their honeymoon. She remembers everything, he remembers nothing. Halfway there, she realizes that he thinks she is his mistress. Title: The End of the Past.

  “I used to be married, you know,” Stagger said. A security guard with hams for arms and a dildoid baton moved in to caution the Bulls guy, who was not high enough to ignore him, so he promptly sat down and shut up.

  “Did you?” Joshua said. The security guard stood over the Bulls guy, his hand on the dildo. Joshua would’ve enjoyed bearing witness to a beating; more bone breaking would’ve certainly complied with the spirit of the day. The Saddam loop was interrupted by insanely happy people in bright-colored clothes jumping up and down in slow motion against a blindingly white background. Such unabated joy could be available only to those who deemed themselves indestructible and immortal. No slow-motion jumping for Bernie, or the woman with a broken foot.

  “Cindy now vegetates somewhere in Naperville. Married to her high school sweetheart. Which she was banging through Desert Storm.”

  “She was in Desert Storm?”

  “No, man. I was. Pay attention.”

  “Right,” Joshua said. “I knew that.”

  * * *

  A poster on the wall of the triage room pictured the skeleton and muscles of a skinless human being. You could never see deposits of fat on those perfect specimens, let alone goiters. No one had yet provided painkillers for Stagger, so each time he moved, he winced in excruciating pain. Yet he couldn’t lie still on the gurney: the currents of his enormous energy ran through his body; his wiry landscape positively vibrated with it. A skinned Stagger would look much like the skeleton-and-muscle boy on the wall.

  “So what was your ex-wife like?” Joshua asked. After he let Stagger down in the trenches, he was obliged to show interest in his bizarre life. If Joshua had let him cut Es
ko, it’d be the Bosnian who’d be here now staring at the edited cadaver on the wall.

  “Cindy was a fruitcake. She had nightmares about vampires. Vampires sucking her blood.” With his beaten lips he pronounced fruitcake as furcakh.

  “Vampires? Why vampires?”

  “Fuck me if I know. She read some book and it messed her up. She wrote to me, almost every day. First page, worried about hubby being blown to bits. Second page, gossip. The rest, vampires.”

  It was hard to imagine what Cindy would’ve been like, what kind of person would’ve married Stagger. It was hard to imagine Stagger in any form or shape other than what he was at this moment, whatever the moment. In that respect he was not unlike a vampire.

  A leather-faced male nurse came in with the New Balance duffel bag.

  “Is this yours?” he asked.

  The nurse wore short-sleeved scrubs, exposing hairy forearms and chest, a stethoscope around his neck like a pet snake. In the olden, John Wayne days, before the democratic joys of painkilling, nurses used to hold the patients down for surgery, pouring whiskey into their throats when not providing hardwood sticks to gnaw on and stave off pain. Joshua took the bag from him and thanked him with a nod. There was no place to put it, other than at the foot of Stagger’s gurney. A Zen master was once asked what the most valuable thing in the world was and he said: “A dead cat’s head.” Because you couldn’t put a price on it.

  The same nurse had cleaned up Stagger’s face not so long ago, but he looked at it again with an expression of concerned expertise. “You okay?” he asked Stagger, who nodded. The nurse nodded too and left. Women never nodded like that. Joshua had never seen Kimiko nod wordlessly. She smiled, she glared, she rolled her eyes and sucked in her lips, she raised her chin and contracted her nostrils, but nod she did not.