“Nasty little buggers, aren’t they?” said the man who had just saved my life.
Being careful to avoid getting the muck all over him, Singer gingerly wrapped the fingers of his free hand around the shaft of the arrow lodged in the zombie’s face. He tugged, using his foot against the thing for stability, while using the crossbow in his other hand for counterbalance. A couple of tugs, and the arrow came loose, but not without a very thick, meaty sound for punctuation.
In one smooth, fluid motion he flicked the arrow’s tip away from us. The brains and gore that had collected on it were removed with ease; it spattered against the wall, I noticed.
Singer set the crossbow down, leaning it against the fallen shopping cart, and dug into his back pocket for a moment. He pulled out a relatively clean rag and began to wipe off any residue of undead that may have stuck around.
While he cleaned, I admired his crossbow from where I stood. It was huge; a relic from the days of burly men with big beards, who wore helmets with horns on them, who drank heavily of mead, and who fancied themselves with a wench or two every now and then. These men would use weapons such as this crossbow, whether for sport or for protection. They would cheer when one of their fellows became a man, and would cause a mighty ruckus if one of their own said an unkind word toward one of their sisters.
By sheer physical appearance, Singer did not look like the kind of man who could pick up a crossbow as if picking up a watch to put on his wrist. However, once he was done cleaning the arrow and had picked up the weapon again, all doubt was removed that this was the proper accessory for the man; where by itself it seemed a large, hefty contraption, in Singer’s hand it seemed an extension of his very own arm.
And there I stood, machete in hand, looking as if I were compensating for something.
As he replaced the now recycled arrow into the quiver strapped to his back, he looked at me and said, “Geez, kid. Cat got your tongue?”
I shook my head fervently.
“Oh, good.” He stepped forward, offering his hand to shake, and introduced himself.
I remember grasping his hand weakly and returning the introduction. His handshake was strong, but not obnoxiously so, and to help cover the wince when he squeezed my hand, I nodded to the faceless spaceman.
“Thanks for that,” I said.
He released his grip after a moment and a final squeeze, and turned in the direction of the that in question. “Oh, him?” he said, stepping back to the spaceman and kneeling by the dead thing’s foot. “This was one of the runts of their kind.”
Before I could respond with anything vocal, he surprised me by grabbing the zombie’s motionless foot and giving it a quick wiggle. To top it off, he took on a goofy voice and said something to the extent of, “Isn’t that right? Who’s a little runt? Who is? That’s right! You! That’s who!”
I couldn’t move, the image in front of me – the archer almost tickling the spaceman’s foot – gave me such pause that it’s a wonder I ever got to moving again. What did get me going, though, was the quick snap sound that came from the area of the corpse’s ankle. Singer stood up quickly, and even though the weird angle between us concealed most of the view, I knew: in his pinched fingers was an amputated foot. From a dead-again spaceman.
He turned his head toward me, offered an innocent grin, and said, “Whoops.”
Tossing the dead foot into the same corner he had whipped the arrow earlier, he turned the rest of his body toward me and proceeded to wipe his hands on his jeans. “Now then,” he said, “where were we?”
I looked back at the dead thing wrapped in tin foil. “You were calling him a runt before you took off his foot.”
Singer snorted. “Too bad it wasn’t the thing’s hand.” He snorted again and shook his head.
I guess the look on my face helped convey the utter confusion going through my head, because he immediately amended by saying, “You know… so you could say, ‘You gotta hand it to those zombies…’ No?”
Answering in the most politic way I could imagine, I quickly shook my head.
The man in front of me took on a pensive look and brought his hand to his face, taking on a very thoughtful expression. “Hm, no…” he said after a moment. “I guess that really doesn’t work. I mean, they’re giving their hand to you, so…”
He fell silent, then immediately shrugged it off and looked at me as if he had forgotten I was in the room. “Ah well,” he said. “So, kid… what’s your story?”
I told him.
“Hm, good story,” he said as he nodded at the way I concluded it. “You should tell other people about that, sometime.”
I thanked him, telling him I’d think about it.
“So,” I said, changing subjects and working my way back to one in particular, “what did you mean when you called that one” – I nodded back at the motionless spaceman – “a runt?”
In case it needs to be spelled out, for continuity purposes, at that point Singer and I were sitting down. We were several feet away from the fallen zombie, and all we could see were its shiny shoes – well, one of them, anyway. The smell wasn’t as bad this far from it, so it seemed a good place to sit and swap back stories.
Without looking toward where I was nodding this time, he simply let out a breath and said, “Kid, the things I’ve seen these past few weeks… that little guy right there doesn’t even compare. Hey, that almost rhymed a bit, there.”
He mused a little about his inadvertent bit of poetry, and I finally had to ask: “Are they all dressed like spacemen?”
At odd periods during our sitting down and discussing things, he had taken to inspecting the crossbow and ensuring everything was in working order. He would nod and listen, very rarely looking up; it was even rarer for him to look me in the eye when he did.
This was such a rarity, when he looked up from his inspection and gave me a cool look, right in the eyes. “Seriously?”
Yeah, it did seem like a silly question. Think of the conspiracies that could revolve around this one dead-again zombie. It would give a new spin on what had changed things so drastically, spark more intriguing questions, and-
“Why was it dressed like a spaceman, then?”
Singer snorted, which I came to find he did a lot; get used to it, boys and girls. “Hell,” he said, “why are you dressed up like some kind of combat hero from an unpublished comic book?”
I had to give him the point. While I figured myself to be prepared for some of the moderately extreme circumstances that I might come across, I could see how, to the casual observer, I looked quite the character. Most of my outfit was made of leather, due to the tough quality of the material – hey, it helped when that spaceman tried to make a meal of my arm, back there. I also wore boots and leather gloves; I had a utility belt around my waist and a machete-carrying-thing strapped across my back. The night-vision goggles were perched on my forehead, since there was adequate lighting at the front of Murray’s Mart, but even so…
Encompass all of that in a nice matte black, and you can somewhat see where he was coming from.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “The outfit’s badass. Definitely dressed for the occasion, which was probably what Mr Space Invader there happened to be at the time.”
Time had taken on such a sporadic character as of late that I completely forgot that only a few weeks had passed since the Day Everything Changed. Here we were, toward the end of November; the day in question happened right around Halloween. Ironic, isn’t it? I would say more apropos. Either way, it was messed up, and now here we are…
“Well then,” Singer said, breaking a silence that had somehow crept up on us, “I’m hungry. You hungry?”
I didn’t know, to be quite honest, and if my stomach hadn’t growled in response, I would have probably sat there and starved to death.
The man across from me grinned at my stomach’s affirmation and proceeded to stand back up. Putting his hands together and rubbing them excitedly, he looked around with a smile and said, “Let’s rustle up some grub!”
Being careful to avoid getting the muck all over him, Singer gingerly wrapped the fingers of his free hand around the shaft of the arrow lodged in the zombie’s face. He tugged, using his foot against the thing for stability, while using the crossbow in his other hand for counterbalance. A couple of tugs, and the arrow came loose, but not without a very thick, meaty sound for punctuation.
In one smooth, fluid motion he flicked the arrow’s tip away from us. The brains and gore that had collected on it were removed with ease; it spattered against the wall, I noticed.
Singer set the crossbow down, leaning it against the fallen shopping cart, and dug into his back pocket for a moment. He pulled out a relatively clean rag and began to wipe off any residue of undead that may have stuck around.
While he cleaned, I admired his crossbow from where I stood. It was huge; a relic from the days of burly men with big beards, who wore helmets with horns on them, who drank heavily of mead, and who fancied themselves with a wench or two every now and then. These men would use weapons such as this crossbow, whether for sport or for protection. They would cheer when one of their fellows became a man, and would cause a mighty ruckus if one of their own said an unkind word toward one of their sisters.
By sheer physical appearance, Singer did not look like the kind of man who could pick up a crossbow as if picking up a watch to put on his wrist. However, once he was done cleaning the arrow and had picked up the weapon again, all doubt was removed that this was the proper accessory for the man; where by itself it seemed a large, hefty contraption, in Singer’s hand it seemed an extension of his very own arm.
And there I stood, machete in hand, looking as if I were compensating for something.
As he replaced the now recycled arrow into the quiver strapped to his back, he looked at me and said, “Geez, kid. Cat got your tongue?”
I shook my head fervently.
“Oh, good.” He stepped forward, offering his hand to shake, and introduced himself.
I remember grasping his hand weakly and returning the introduction. His handshake was strong, but not obnoxiously so, and to help cover the wince when he squeezed my hand, I nodded to the faceless spaceman.
“Thanks for that,” I said.
He released his grip after a moment and a final squeeze, and turned in the direction of the that in question. “Oh, him?” he said, stepping back to the spaceman and kneeling by the dead thing’s foot. “This was one of the runts of their kind.”
Before I could respond with anything vocal, he surprised me by grabbing the zombie’s motionless foot and giving it a quick wiggle. To top it off, he took on a goofy voice and said something to the extent of, “Isn’t that right? Who’s a little runt? Who is? That’s right! You! That’s who!”
I couldn’t move, the image in front of me – the archer almost tickling the spaceman’s foot – gave me such pause that it’s a wonder I ever got to moving again. What did get me going, though, was the quick snap sound that came from the area of the corpse’s ankle. Singer stood up quickly, and even though the weird angle between us concealed most of the view, I knew: in his pinched fingers was an amputated foot. From a dead-again spaceman.
He turned his head toward me, offered an innocent grin, and said, “Whoops.”
Tossing the dead foot into the same corner he had whipped the arrow earlier, he turned the rest of his body toward me and proceeded to wipe his hands on his jeans. “Now then,” he said, “where were we?”
I looked back at the dead thing wrapped in tin foil. “You were calling him a runt before you took off his foot.”
Singer snorted. “Too bad it wasn’t the thing’s hand.” He snorted again and shook his head.
I guess the look on my face helped convey the utter confusion going through my head, because he immediately amended by saying, “You know… so you could say, ‘You gotta hand it to those zombies…’ No?”
Answering in the most politic way I could imagine, I quickly shook my head.
The man in front of me took on a pensive look and brought his hand to his face, taking on a very thoughtful expression. “Hm, no…” he said after a moment. “I guess that really doesn’t work. I mean, they’re giving their hand to you, so…”
He fell silent, then immediately shrugged it off and looked at me as if he had forgotten I was in the room. “Ah well,” he said. “So, kid… what’s your story?”
I told him.
“Hm, good story,” he said as he nodded at the way I concluded it. “You should tell other people about that, sometime.”
I thanked him, telling him I’d think about it.
“So,” I said, changing subjects and working my way back to one in particular, “what did you mean when you called that one” – I nodded back at the motionless spaceman – “a runt?”
In case it needs to be spelled out, for continuity purposes, at that point Singer and I were sitting down. We were several feet away from the fallen zombie, and all we could see were its shiny shoes – well, one of them, anyway. The smell wasn’t as bad this far from it, so it seemed a good place to sit and swap back stories.
Without looking toward where I was nodding this time, he simply let out a breath and said, “Kid, the things I’ve seen these past few weeks… that little guy right there doesn’t even compare. Hey, that almost rhymed a bit, there.”
He mused a little about his inadvertent bit of poetry, and I finally had to ask: “Are they all dressed like spacemen?”
At odd periods during our sitting down and discussing things, he had taken to inspecting the crossbow and ensuring everything was in working order. He would nod and listen, very rarely looking up; it was even rarer for him to look me in the eye when he did.
This was such a rarity, when he looked up from his inspection and gave me a cool look, right in the eyes. “Seriously?”
Yeah, it did seem like a silly question. Think of the conspiracies that could revolve around this one dead-again zombie. It would give a new spin on what had changed things so drastically, spark more intriguing questions, and-
“Why was it dressed like a spaceman, then?”
Singer snorted, which I came to find he did a lot; get used to it, boys and girls. “Hell,” he said, “why are you dressed up like some kind of combat hero from an unpublished comic book?”
I had to give him the point. While I figured myself to be prepared for some of the moderately extreme circumstances that I might come across, I could see how, to the casual observer, I looked quite the character. Most of my outfit was made of leather, due to the tough quality of the material – hey, it helped when that spaceman tried to make a meal of my arm, back there. I also wore boots and leather gloves; I had a utility belt around my waist and a machete-carrying-thing strapped across my back. The night-vision goggles were perched on my forehead, since there was adequate lighting at the front of Murray’s Mart, but even so…
Encompass all of that in a nice matte black, and you can somewhat see where he was coming from.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “The outfit’s badass. Definitely dressed for the occasion, which was probably what Mr Space Invader there happened to be at the time.”
Time had taken on such a sporadic character as of late that I completely forgot that only a few weeks had passed since the Day Everything Changed. Here we were, toward the end of November; the day in question happened right around Halloween. Ironic, isn’t it? I would say more apropos. Either way, it was messed up, and now here we are…
“Well then,” Singer said, breaking a silence that had somehow crept up on us, “I’m hungry. You hungry?”
I didn’t know, to be quite honest, and if my stomach hadn’t growled in response, I would have probably sat there and starved to death.
The man across from me grinned at my stomach’s affirmation and proceeded to stand back up. Putting his hands together and rubbing them excitedly, he looked around with a smile and said, “Let’s rustle up some grub!”
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