Get Zombie: 8-Book Set (68 page)

Natalie
comes walking out from the bedroom in a pink bathrobe. She glides
past me and opens the refrigerator, pulls on the crisper (where you
would keep your fruits & vegetables) and takes out a bottle of
red wine.

Instantly,
I know what the night holds for me. My heart races. Hurray! I haven’t
pleasured a woman in almost 5 years. Ho-hum. I wonder if I’ve
still got it?

She
holds the bottle up and asks the obvious:

“Thirsty?”

“I…”

She
takes my hand and we sit on the carpet, next to a large, sliding
door, overlooking the Honolulu city lights. The moon shines in. The
floor is very furry, and feels good under my shy feet, which I try to
hide by sitting on. Natalie pours our glasses full and she begins to
tell me a story, of how her father back home used to own a mannequin
factory. Every night, when he came home, he would take Natalie into
the basement and force her to videotape him arguing with a different
mannequin each night: Some days it would be a female, redheaded
mannequin; other days a skinny male. He even brought fake children
over. He lit candles thick as thighs all over the place, and even
glued birthday candles to his arms and legs and fastened one large
fat candle to his forehead. Then he would light each one and dance
around while naked and singing “Pieces of Me” by Ashley
Simpson.

“I
love this song so much right now.”

Once,
because it was a special day, on her 20th birthday, he danced around
with a lit candle shoved up between his buttocks as his gift to her.
He kept asking her to stop crying. “It doesn’t hurt, it
doesn’t hurt,” he said. According to him, what he was
doing was normal because his mother used to do the same thing when he
was her age.

Natalie
would cry while videotaping these strange events. Her father would
always tell her, “It’s because of you and your mother
that I’m doing this. My family has made me into a monster, and
its name is Whale. I am Whale The Monster. Pity me for I have a soul
of glass.”

He
would cry, she tells me. After he argued with these dummies about
political issues and the weather, he would fall before Natalie’s
feet with his face in his hands, and weep. More than on one occasion
did he urinate accidentally, looking up at her with a pathetic
expression, moaning, “Not my fault! Not my fault!”

Then
he would stand and wipe away the sniffles, his face changing back to
its familiar, sane self.

“Off,
Natalie. Off.”

I
sit, staring down into my wine, at my wavy reflection. I can’t
bear to look at her. I feel embarrassed being here. She says that
it’s okay to feel weird, and then she puts her hand on my knee.
Something deep inside me tingles.

I
decide to look into her eyes, to show how strong I am and try to
impress her.

“Where
is he now?”

“Dad?
I don’t know. One day he just vanished – POOF! Left my
mum and me all alone. I had to take care of her all by my lonesome.
Boyfriends got so fed up with me. I’d always have to tell them,
‘Sorry, but I gotta be home by this time or that. My mum needs
me.’”

She
stands up and faces the moon.

“I
must’ve had about…50 boyfriends. And they all couldn’t
handle the fact that my mum was my
life
.”

“Where’s
your mum now?”

“In
hell, for all I care.”

“What??
I thought you loved your mum.”

“She
was my life.”

Natalie
put her sweaty hand against the glass, eyes deep in the moon.

“My
mother turned into some kind of demonic whale – all adults do
at some point in their lives. This is my theory.”

I
down the rest of my wine.

“Yessm.
Adults can be assholes. I never want to grow up.”

“Let’s
stay young together!”

She
laughs and jumps down in front of me, holding my hands.

“Let’s
never grow up.”

My
head begins to spin, and the words come out slurred:

“Yessssm…”

Her
face moves up and down. Her mouth opens and her tongue flaps in a
crazy way.

“Yalalalalalalala!”

She
darts up and dances around the room, her hands cutting the air in
little ax-like movements, the fat under her arms jiggling.

“Yalalalalalalala!”

I
lay back and curl into the fetal position. She looks down on me and
takes my arms, pulls me up, and carries me like a baby, over her
shoulder, into her bedroom.

A
ringing sound wakes me up. My eyes hurt. It’s still dark out.
My tongue is heavy. I look around the room to find mannequins all
over the place. An alarm clock nearby SHRIEKS and BOUNCES on a table.
I reach out – head pounding – and slap it silent. It
falls to the ground and I don’t bother to pick it up. I find a
candy bar with a ribbon tied around it on my pillow. My name is on
the ribbon. Milkyway. My favorite. I eat it quickly and I am full and
happy.

On
average, every chocolate bar contains at least three insect legs. But
I don’t care. What sane person does? And where’s Natalie?
I make myself still, eyes half open, and listen for any signs of
life.

There’s
a light “pounding,” what sounds like feet moving around.
She must be dancing again. I get to my feet and massage my head. The
dummies in the room all seem to be staring right at me. Many of them
have no legs. Some torsos poke out from under the bed, arms bent at
painful angles. They’re all bald, with painted lips.

I
open the door and walk down the hallway, into the living room.

Natalie
is on the floor in front of the fireplace, wrestling with a male
mannequin. She sees me and yells out, “Help, Rubs! He’s
trying to kill me!”

I
run up to the thing and pick it up by its neck.

The
thing FIGHTS BACK, and HITS me in the belly.

I
go “Oomph!” and screech out and fall to the ground next
to Natalie. The bald mannequin stands, slowly, with the crackling of
wood burning louder, and reels its head up as the shadows of flames
dance across its face. It opens its white eyes and looks down on me
and I go “Waaaaahhh!” and run away, but Natalie grabs at
my foot and I fall hard on my right hip. She crawls after me and
begs, “No, no, don’t leave ME! BLAHHHHH!”

I
take her hands and drag her away, both of us shrieking into the
hallway as the thing runs after us in a wrong way – as if it
had no knees. I throw her into the bedroom and I slam the door and
lean against it. The mannequin HAMMERS on the door, yelling garbled
sentences.

“Flabberhwregjdkj865lkja!exesandohhhhs!”

It’s
in an insane nut rage.

Natalie
flies onto the bed and throws a fit, fists pounding (and bouncing).

“Whywhywhywhywhywhy?”

I
scream at her through all the noise.

“What
goes on here? Oh, God!”

She
sits up and stares at me as if she’s just seen a ghost.

“I
knocked him unconscious! It’s not supposed to be this way!
Believe me, Rubs!”

The
thing on the other side SHRIEKS.

“Weeeeeeeeeeeee!”

Natalie
puts her hands to her ears and yells.

“Ooooooooooooooo!”

I
shut my eyes.

“Waaaaaaaaaaaaaah!”

The
mannequin BANGS against the door again, making lusty moaning sounds.

Natalie
cries out something long in German that I don’t understand.

“Noch
etwas butter, bitte!”

She
reaches under the bed and slides out a long, white box. She slaps the
cover off and pulls out a large snake. She drapes it over her
shoulder and holds it up in triumph and SCREAMS, running toward me. I
jump out of the way and the mannequin kicks the door open. I fall
into a pile of dummies and watch in horror as Natalie bullwhips the
giant snake onto the mannequin, who cries out in terror and falls to
the ground like a mad fish out of water.

Natalie
jumps down by me and we hold each other, crying, watching as the
snake wraps around the mannequin and squeeeeeeeezes the great
embrace, biting the left side of the mannequin’s face –
from scalp to chin.

There’s
a SNAP…

…and
the man goes limp with a sigh.

The
snake proceeds to swallow his arm.

Natalie
stands and picks up the long, white box. She takes out some red roses
and sprinkles petals over the snake, which looks up to her and falls
asleep. She scoops it up and puts it back into its box.

I
walk to the door and look down on the mannequin.

The
bite mark on its face is a bright, blue lump. The white paint has
been smeared, same with the paint on his arm, which the snake had
gobbled – now covered in wetness.

In
the hallway, the closet door is open.

There
are open cans of white paint, and ten used brushes. I look into the
bedroom and see the discarded “mannequins” and then I
look back to the dead man at my toes.

A
sudden shudder torpedoes down my stomach.

I
slowly step back from the bedroom.

Natalie
says, with her back to me: “I think there’s something
wrong with me. I blame my parents. I blame my father. It’s all
his fault. They painted me this way.”

I’m
already backing away down the hallway. She turns around with tears in
her eyes. For a second, I want to help her, to hold her in my arms
and say everything’s all right.

I
run through the living room. She walks after me, crying and
screaming, kicking holes in the walls.

I
jet out the front door and the next thing I know I’m outside,
under the blinding moon, walking on the side of the road with my
heart pounding in my head.

“Windows”

IT’S
TWO IN THE morning. As I walk down the hill, a car pulls up and the
woman inside offers to give me a ride. She looks cute (or I guess I
should say beautiful, since she’s older), so I accept her offer
and get in the car. We drive down the mountain and talk about
Natalie. At first, I’m calm, cool, and collected…but as
I get deeper into the tale, I lose it and start crying. I could have
been seriously injured.

The
lady driving me home is Polly.

She
had been spying on Natalie the whole night. Polly was her pal, but
because Natalie tried to slaughter her, she ended their friendship.

As
we drive up to the Jack in The Box drive-though, I ask if she would
tell me her story, and she agrees.

They
had been pals since age 6. But four days ago, that all changed.
Spending a night at Natalie’s house, Polly woke up standing in
the kitchen with no recollection of how she got there. Did she
sleepwalk? Last she remembered she was sleeping on the living room
couch while Natalie snored in the bedroom.

Her
lips hurt, and there were little black curly hairs in her mouth. Her
head spun. The living room floor was covered in empty wine bottles
and batteries and half-eaten bananas and stuffed animal dolls and so
many clean socks. She went over to Natalie’s room and peeked
inside. And that’s when she first saw Natalie & The
Mannequins.

She
was painting someone white – someone who was sitting on the
edge of the bed and seemed to be in a deep sleep.

The
person was bald and nude – a female by the obvious details
Polly could see. Hair was all over the bed. Natalie wore a pink
bathrobe, humming while she colored the poor soul a thick white.

Whatever
it was looked like plain white paint. The can on the ground had a
plain white label. Natalie raised the lady’s stiff arms and
they stayed in the air, like a zombie’s. Natalie dipped her
brush into the heavy liquid.

There
was a puddle at Polly’s feet: White, the same substance in the
can.

Something
distant MOANED.

Polly
leaned against the hallway wall, startled. The groan was soft. Polly
crouched and looked into the room. Natalie brushed the stranger’s
face with the back of her hand.

“Shhhh.
Shhhh, child, shhhh.”

The
woman had her eyes WIDE OPEN, arms still levitated at shoulder-level.
Her lips bubbled.

“Oooooooooooh…”

“Shhh,
child, shhhhhhhh. Child.”

“OOOOOOOOO!”

“Child!
SHH!”

“O!”

“Shhh!”

Natalie
raced her hand between the woman’s thighs and rubbed her to
silence. The woman’s eyes shut, arms still up.

Natalie
tilted her head as she worked. She pulled her hand out, soaked.

Polly
wanted to vomit – it took all her will power to keep the garlic
bread at bay. Her knees shook.

She
couldn’t move– watching as her dear friend continued to
paint this stranger white. Why was she doing this?

Natalie
used a remote to turn on the radio, and classical music played,
softly. Natalie reached down somewhere and brought up a little pink
zipper bag. She opened it and took out a syringe, a pink lighter, a
spoon, a little bag of green grass and a little bag of white sand,
and an empty soda can.

She
put some white on the spoon along with some clear liquid from between
the mannequin’s legs and heated it with the pink lighter. She
sipped it all up with the syringe and injected the hot mess into the
soft underside of the mannequin’s armpits.

Natalie
held the empty green can of apple iced tea.

She
took out a pen and poked a hole in the center of the can. She put
some green over the center hole and put her mouth to the can and lit
up the green and inhaled…coughed…and then exhaled into
the mannequin’s face, laughing. Then she kissed her on the
white lips and smoked some more…coughed some more…and
giggled some more.

Polly
could see more in the room:

Under
the bed were more white things, sleeping in the shadows. She saw
white faces – frozen in mid-scream, and they were extreme –
almost comical expressions. Against the walls were more of these
“mannequins”, except these were broken – lower
halves missing – hands clawed, reaching for air. She looked
deeper into the room and saw all the painted legs, leaning against a
wall.