Authors: Raymund Hensley
Sweat Zombies (7 page)
Depressing music from India played from somewhere.
She held the heavy photo album up and blew on the cover,
but no dust flew off.
There were many black and white pictures inside, of
bushes and open fields and bonfires and cemeteries and butterflies.
Barbara said that they were pictures of zombies, and that I could see
them if I looked closely enough. I had to look closely because a lot
of times zombies like to hide, for strategic reasons.
I stared at a picture of a bush intensely and thought I
could see a neck, but I could have been daydreaming. These peculiar
pictures were taken while in the field by her ex sidekick, Toshiba, a
19-year-old college student, majoring in Art.
Toshiba vanished many years ago.
The story goes they were both on the hunt, in the murky
woods of Wailupe Valley, in Aina Haina.
One rainy night, Toshiba heard a bleeping noise and,
against Barbara’s wishes, crawled out of the tent to explore
the strange sound. She never returned. The following morning, Barbara
found a dead lamb dangling from a tree, wearing Toshiba’s
clothes.
Out of rage and confusion, Barbara beat up the animal
corpse and cursed at the heavens with her fists pumping in the air,
exclaiming, “Damn you, zombie! Damn you to hell! Your life
force shall not have been in vain, Toshiba! I shall eradicate them
all in a mean manner until the day I am called The Eradicator! This
is damn upsetting me. You, zombie, are a turd. You damn lousy guy!”
The strange thing is that lambs are not common in Aina
Haina.
Upon telling this dismal story, Barbara began to weep.
I hugged her again. Her tears were cold on my shoulder.
She held Toshiba’s picture and spoke to it.
“
I will run to you, I will run to you, I will run
to you, I will run to you, I will run to you, I will run to you, I
will run to you, I will run to you, I will run to you, I will run to
you, I will run to you, I will run to you, I will run to you, I will
run to you, I will run to you, I will run to you, I will run to you,
I will run to you, I will run to you, I will run to you, I will run
to you. You will run to me.” She said it through many
languages. Her crying twisted the words. I hugged her.
Still, she did not hug back. Instead, she rose suddenly
and got milk from the refrigerator and offered some to me.
Remembering my Catholic upbringing and not wanting to be rude, I
accepted. But it was already too late, for she had spat inside,
explaining that it would “put some meat on my chest, and hair
on my bones.”
She sounded like my mother.
Barbara said that there were many things a zombie hunter
(and sidekick) had to learn before entering the hunt, like
trust
.
A leap of faith would be needed; an open mind. She hugged me and told
me to drink the milk carton with her spit inside. Because it was now
magical.
I did.
Fortunately, I had held my breath.
Barbara said that she lied to me. She said that the only
magic inside the milk was vitamin D, and that she was impressed I did
not vomit.
I had gained her trust.
That night, I cried myself to sleep.
Three.
B
arbara said
she
had something amazing to show me; but I could tell no one. I assured
her that I could be trusted, and she drove me Makiki.
We parked in front of a one-level apartment structure.
Kids played jump rope nearby.
“
This woman’s insane,” Barbara said.
“As a licensed psychologist – which I am not – I
advise you to say nothing to her.”
We stood outside of a door that was covered with
pictures of women in hospitals, giving birth and screaming. Barbara
knocked on the door and told me again – quite seriously –
that I could tell no one who we were about to meet.
The door opened, revealing a frail, middle-aged woman in
flower-designed bra and panties. I tried not to look.
Her face lit up when she saw Barbara and they hugged and
jumped up and down, giggling.
This woman’s apartment was dim; when I closed the
door, it was practically pitch-black inside.
She fixed her hair.
“
You have to excuse my appearance. As you can see,
I’ve been sick.”
Barbara examined her arms.
“
Gun wounds, again?”
“
They had weapons. I forgot that they could go off
even if you don’t know how to use your hands. You should have
seen them. They’re horny. They had red eyes.”
“
Were they dark red?”
“
I don’t remember. I’m colorblind.”
“
How did you protect yourself?”
“
I killed them in the face.”
“
You always use violence. If ever we should
tussle, I should have a raw duck dangle around my neck.” She
put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I don’t want to
make your innards weep.”
“
Don’t worry about me. If I die, to heaven I
shall go for my heavenly deeds.”
“
Heaven does not transform assholes into angels.”
“
Even angels have assholes. Now excuse me while I
kiss the sky.”
She lit candles and I could tell immediately that she
had been drinking much, for there were empty bottles of vodka all
over the floor and in holes in the wall. Some were tied to strings
and dangled from the ceiling. Did this woman have a violent streak? I
grew nervous. Alcoholics can never be trusted. They do sudden things
that boggle the mind and madden the mouth. If ever I was allowed to
speak, I had to be careful of what I said.
As she guided us into the kitchen, we passed by what I
can only assume to have been a bedroom transformed into a storage
room – full of stained computer boxes and toddler clothes. I
could have sworn I saw a figure inside, standing between two towers
of Macintosh G4 boxes. I wanted to investigate, but I was too afraid
to stop walking.
Four.
T
here was a special
smell to the
apartment, best described as a daunting combination of alcohol and
soy sauce and cat.
On
the hallway walls were old black and white, blown up pictures of
strange men and women in groups – pictures taken in the woods,
cemeteries, and lakes. All carried guns and whips and wooden stakes –
all gathered in front of the camera, showing off their kill, which
were all impaled horizontally and displayed like boars about to be
roasted. Only these prizes were not about to be eaten (as far as I
could tell) and they were certainly not boars.
They were
human
.
I made no visible reaction in seeing all of this,
although my innards were complaining.
Before I stepped into the kitchen, I asked if I could
use the restroom. There, I sat on the toilet to stitch together my
thoughts. What was happening? Were these people cannibals? Were they
crazy? Or worse…crazy cannibals?
Barbara was arguing with the woman – I could hear
them throw things made of glass and other heavy objects.
Then…
…
silence…
…
followed by weeping apologies.
They began to laugh and clap their hands. Barbara began
to sing to her.
“
Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you.
Happy birthday, dear Mommy. Happy birthday to you. Hurray! Yessm!
Blow it out, blow it out! Yessm!”
It was good to hear such happiness.
I sobbed in my hands and then wrapped my arms around my
knees, rocking myself on that cold toilet.
Barbara called after me.
“
Raym! Raym! Eat cake! Yessm!”
I sniffed and cleared my throat.
“
I’ll be out in a second, thank you, ma’am!”
They began clapping and cheering. I wasn’t sure if
it was for me or not.
For
years I always thought my life was speeding towards a dead end, where
I would indisputably crash and burn.
As
I sat on that toilet and stared at a bird chirping on the windowsill,
I realized that life had such wonders to offer – that my
pathetic life was what I made of it. There was a
goal
for every
soul
: A
purpose. No, I wasn’t a churchgoing person (not since my
Catholic School days in the sticks of Greenville, Florida), but I did
and still do believe in a higher power. You can call it God or Vishnu
or Ra or Master. I call it The Universe – the thing that is in
everything and everyone and is always around us. And it wants to help
humans. Wants us to be happy. Wants us to feel like we have a purpose
in life.
Studies have shown that the number one reason most
relationships fail, is because the lover does not feel wanted –
useful
.
Barbara had a purpose. One she felt strongly about.
Her story – her zombie adventures – this
future escapade I was about to undertake – had to be
documented. It was something I was meant to write, even if no one
were ever to read it.
I was doing this for the both of us.
End
of sample.
Purchase
the full book to see what happens next. Thank you for reading!
ALSO BY
Raymund
Hensley
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Mannequins
A moving comedy, Aloha
Mannequins exposes the more interesting face of Honolulu, Hawaii.
From Mannequin Pornography to insane dolphin activists that wear
full-body dolphin suits, Aloha Mannequins will open the eyes of any
“outsider”.
“Aloha
Mannequins is a very funny story of eerie
inner
circles of Hawaii. Great story, great humor!”
-Sterling
Knight, www.macabremenace.com
The
Zombie Hunter’s Bible
Hunters young & old
have now relied on Raym C. Hensley’s humorous hunting guide for
vital information. Easy to understand, friendly and inspiring, The
Zombie Hunter’s Bible will empower you with all the knowledge
you’ll need toward capturing – and understanding –
the walking dead.
“The
attention to detail is mind-boggling!”
-Staci
Wilson, About.com
How I
met Barbara the Zombie Hunter
Yes, there are zombies,
even in Hawaii. A foolish writer learns this the hard way from a
strange (and beautiful) woman who claims to be a hunter of the living
dead.
Filipino
Vampire
A popular monster from
the Philippines, known as an aswang, terrorizes the island of Oahu.
The Filipino vampire leaves its legs behind and flies around
rooftops, searching for children to steal and eat. Trapped in the
aswang's trailer home, it's up to one little girl to put a stop to
the beast's reign of panic.
“A
unique tale by a fresh voice in horror.”
-Tracey
Fleming, The Written Universe
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