Dead Men (and Women) Walking (22 page)

now sole property

of the dead

By Brian
Rosenberger

Screams wake Rose from her
slumber. She sits up, disoriented, looks at the clock. 9 o’clock.
Jumping Jesus. She overslept. The noise again, like a cheese grater
on her ears. Not screams at all, just the neighbor’s dogs. Shut up,
she bellows. A hush falls over the neighborhood. The dogs, twin
Dobermans with a taste for stray squirrels, cats and small fingers,
now cowered, return to beneath the porch, tails tucked, eyes
watchful for the source of the roar.

Rose yawns, no time to screw
around. She’s already late. Rose works as a housekeeping supervisor
assistant at a local hospital. She rarely gets a Sunday off and
aims to make the most of this one. She steps out of her cloths and
into the shower in one smooth motion, the toothbrush in one hand,
the other reaching for the soap.

The bathroom is still steamy
by the time Rose is fully dressed save for her shoes. She dashes to
the kitchen, two slices of bread in the toaster and a tall glass of
chocolate milk to wash it down. She’s already wolfed down a banana
before the toast is ready. Strawberry jam applied to the toast, she
gives it a glance. Almost artistic. One bite and the masterpiece is
half gone. Between mouthfuls, she retrieves the paper from the
lawn, one eye watchful for disobedient hounds. Rose leafs through
the paper, ignoring the boldfaced headlines proclaiming National
Emergency. “Just some other reason to raise taxes,” she reasons,
annoyed. She bypasses the employment section, sports, business, and
the classifieds.

She pulls out the TV listing
for later perusal, then finally grasps her own personal Holy Grail,
the ads. Rose devours the ads like a fat man at a Chinese buffet.
Nothing escapes her notice. All 2-for-1 deals are filed in the
folds of her brain. She scans the recesses of her memory for
coupons already clipped. She is preparing for the forthcoming
battle and she will not be denied. She finishes her milk, a
chocolate mustache disappearing with one swipe of her forearm. My
shoes, Rose thinks. Where are my shoes?

She emerges from the
bedroom, purse in hand and fully sneakered. She yells goodbye to
her husband Duane, already slouched in his chair in front of the
TV, waiting for today’s football games to begin. She’s out the door
before Duane can reply.

Rose squeezes into the rusty
Toyota pickup. The truck groans. Rose is fat. She knows it. She
doesn’t need a scale; every movement reminds her. But she’s used to
it. As she grew into adulthood, her weight grew with her. The
family doctor encourages exercise. Rose complies, walking to The
Ice Cream Castle at least twice a week, six full blocks from her
house. She rewards herself with a jumbo vanilla shake, forgoing the
whipped cream; it gives her gas.

Her husband is no picture of
health either, unless it’s the typical “before” picture. 300 pounds
if an ounce and most of it in his gut, Duane’s only exercise today
will be lumbering from his chair to the fridge, to refill on beer
and snacks. If he’s feeling really energetic, he’ll waddle to the
door for pizza, Chinese, Mexican, or whatever nationality he’s
craving for delivery.

A news broadcast crackles
from the dashboard speaker as Rose turns the ignition
key.

"that the dead may be..."

She twists the dial.
Highway to Hell
. Now,
that’s more like it.

"Maybe I have time to stop
for doughnuts," she thinks to herself. That might be cutting it a
little close. She’ll have at least an hour of driving ahead of her,
traffic notwithstanding. "Damn churchgoers," mumbling to herself,
"Why can't they worship in front of the TV. Like Duane." She snorts
laughter at her own joke.

As she zooms past the
doughnut shop exit, the nearly forgotten fragments of a dream
derail her train of thought. Muffins. She had been dreaming about
muffins: all types of muffins: blueberry muffins, chocolate
muffins, muffins filled with fruits, spices, nuts, and liqueurs.
Their only commonality, they’re all delicious.

But the muffins were chasing
her, on tiny muffin legs. The muffins had teeth, much too large for
their muffin bodies. She remembers kicking one; it bled cream. The
pastries were fast. In her dream, she manages to barricade herself
behind a door. The muffins whisper, "We won't hurt you. We're
yummy. We think you’re yummy too. Let us in and we can be yummy
together." The muffins squeeze through the slit of the keyhole,
through the cracks. They smell so good.

She doesn’t remember the
rest of the dream thanks to those damn dogs. Just as well. Her
stomach grumbles.

Minutes and miles pass in
smooth cadence to Rose's thoughts, which ping pong between the
fantasy of a soap opera hunk (who looks curiously like Dr. Rex up
on the fifth floor), his stomach smooth and smelling like
peppermints, and sweaty anticipation of the multitude of bargains
that await. The intoxication of Red Tag stickers, clearance items,
and the all-important End-of- Summer sale sends her head reeling.
She grips the wheel, knuckles cracking, and begins to hum.
Restless, she spins the radio dial, finding mostly static. Finally,
a voice, breaking, cracking, almost in tears, “… the end is here,
brothers and sisters, the end is…” “The end is here…for you.” Rose
thinks to herself, smiling as she snaps the radio off, better to
drive in silence than listen to that ear pollution.

She surveys the landscape,
still hardly any traffic. A WGON news van speeds past her in the
passing lane. Men armed with guns and beer cans form a single file
parade in a field; squirrels, rabbits, and street signs beware.
Probably members of the National Guard playing soldier. Men and
their war games. Off to the left is the meat-processing plant.
Funny, for years it was just a slaughterhouse. Now with all the new
development, it has a name change. Too bad they can't change the
smell. Protestors usually gather outside the gates. They harass the
passing motorists with signs, coupled with moronic, but energetic
paroxysms of chanting, but today only their signs are present,
leaning against the chain-link fence, useless like their
owners.

“
Too lazy to even take
their crap home,” Rose muses to herself as she pulls at a stray
strand of hair. “Either that or the plant is giving out free
breakfast samples and the veg heads are all in line.
Processed chicken parts equals Genocide
my ample ass. Wait till they find out tofu causes
cancer and impotence. That will really give them something to
protest.” Rose winks at the reflection of herself in the
mirror.

The mall dominates the
horizon. Whoever invented shopping malls deserves to be on a stamp.
Hell, maybe even their own national holiday. Rose takes a hard
right, just clipping the curb. The truck wobbles. She has arrived,
in nearly record time too. The promised land awaits.

“
Everyone must still be
sleeping; the lot is nearly empty, save for a dozen or so cars.”
Rose compliments herself for her foresight, brilliant planning, and
excellent driving ability allowing for her arrival at the stores
before all the other mall-oholics show up.

Just after 10 A.M., she
feels that she owns the place. Squeezing out of the truck (again
groans), Rose walks the 30 yards to the glass-paneled doorway,
panting after yard #15. She notices some teenagers squatting near
the corner building. Hungover probably, she thinks. Dope fiends,
strung out on that new drug. What was it. Oh yeah. Liquid Funeral.
It sounds more like a perfume those emanciated goth bitches would
wear. WGON had a big expose all about it. In her day, cheap wine
was all you needed to get high, not eating glue or snorting
chemicals. Kids these days. Goddamn idiots. Rose pushes on the
metal bar and enters the shimmering cathedral of consumerism,
greeted by soothing electronic music. It makes her feel like she’s
on hold. The plaza rings hollow in response to the sugary refrains,
the only sound except the squeak of her tennis shoes upon the hard
concrete floor.

She walks past the Eyeglass
Shack, past Underwear Unlimited, past the Piercing Pagoda. Some of
the stores had yet to open; their gates were still shuttered. The
mall was unusually empty today; a few early risers, the usual
assortment of geriatric mall walkers judging by their stumbling
gait but none of the hardcore shoppers she usually encountered. Not
that Rose was complaining. The playing field was wide open and Rose
considers herself the home team.

Having already exceeded her
normal exercise routine which consisted mainly of household labor
and unregimented snacking, Rose was still hungry. Burger City lay
just around the corner. As she approached, she noticed a crowd
formed just outside the entrance.

"Does the line start here?"
she queries a haggard-looking gentleman standing near the end.
Receiving no audible reply, she takes her place behind Mr.
I-Forgot-To Wash. Looking down, she notices the man’s suit is slit
down the backside, both the pants and jacket.

"Fashion." But looking at
his shoes, what she took for grey socks was in fact pale, grey
flesh. The hygiene of some people. She was hesitant, weighing her
options: to stand in line behind this stinking homeless person, or
to make tracks for the Doughnut Hole at the other end of the mall,
when her decision was made for her. The bum slowly turned around,
revealing a face that belonged in the grave. The rot and the stench
were bad enough but this poor bastard must have been in some type
of horrible industrial accident as part of his face was missing.
Flies and other insects were having a picnic with the surviving
scraps. What looked like bone peeked through like an unexpected
guest. The guy needs a closed casket funeral, not a cheeseburger
with fries on the side. Better make that a formaldehyde shake with
extra preservative. Supersize.

Rose turns to leave, sensing
that Graveyard Face was surely getting ready to hit her up for
change. She moves every bit as fast as her plus-sized figure would
allow, avoiding the bum's grimy reach. The Doughnut Hole it would
have to be. An even dozen just to put that poor bastard's face out
of her mind.

She passes the electronics
store where most of the TV's are broadcasting snow, save one. That
set, bargain-priced at $179.00, framed the face of the midday
anchor at WGON. Rose thought of her as Barbie Bitch because of her
resemblance to the doll and her constant complaints. The regular
news people must be on special assignment. Barbie was rattling on,
something about "… every dead body that is not exterminated becomes
one of them." Must be some type of new pest control problem. Rose
made a note to have Duane fumigate. She did not tolerate
roaches.

Out of the corner of her
eye, Rose sees two things. The first is that she has made a new
friend as the bum from Burger City is shambling slowly towards her.
The curse of having a friendly face and a Rubenesque figure. The
other item, much higher on Rose's scale of importance, a table
staffed by two small girls, girls in uniform. Light bulbs of
recognition firework within Rose's head. Girl Scouts, and by
implication, Girl Scout cookies. Rose loves Girl Scout Cookies.
Thin Mints are a particular weakness. She beelines for the table,
with Graveyard Face all but forgotten.

Rose steps to the table,
summons a smile, when she is struck by the immediate realization
that something is wrong. She forgot to stop at the bank; she
doesn't have any cash with her. A check it will have to be. She
digs into the abyss of her purse, extricating both her checkbook
and a pen.

“
8 boxes of thin mints
please and who should I make the check out to?”

The girls could do with some
sun. Pale as chalk, Rose notes. They stare at her with empty, bored
eyes. Rose, one eye on the girls, the other on the cookies, is
taken completely off guard as the nearest girl lunges forward,
sinking her teeth into Rose's checkbook. What the hell? The other
girl grabs at Rose's free hand but Rose is used to the pleading
clasp of hospital invalids. She avoids the girl and jiggles
backward when her movement is halted. She spins, her nostrils
recognizing her barrier before her eyes. Graveyard Face is back.
This time Rose has no time for politeness. She's been at the mall
for approximately twenty minutes and has yet to purchase
anything.

Rose drops her purse from
the crook of her arm into her hand. Given its contents of various
bottles of perfume, a hammer in case of emergency, candies of
various sizes and tastes, and just under eleven bucks in small
change, the purse is a most formidable accessory. Much like
Mjölnir, the fabled hammer of Thor, the Norse God of Thunder, only
those worthy are capable of hefting Rose's purse. Assuming the
coiled stance of a major league hitter pursuing a homerun, Rose
smacks Graveyard Face right in the not-so-sweet spot. Bugs and
flesh fly. Rose winds up on the advancing scouts, smashing each in
turn, lawsuits be damned. The girls drop like rocks. A double for
the home team.

All this commotion has
gathered a crowd. Rose suddenly realizes the mall walkers have
worse problems than arthritis or weak bladders. It's like a Leper
convention, grinning skulls, jigsaw puzzles of skin, faces as green
as a b/w film re-colored. It's a veritable pukefest.

Rose straight-arms the
nearest shopper, acquiring momentum, as she zigzags through the
festering crowd. Rose bulldozes through them like a fullback with
diarrhea headed for the nearest bathroom. They rise unblinking and
unfeeling, like store mannequins. She clotheslines a security
guard, his face already rouged with rot, knocking both his shoes
and feet off. Rose is too busy to notice. Fuck shopping; she just
wants out of here and perhaps some dessert.