Gruesomely Grimm Zombie Tales Part 10

They went in, and there was a little hallway and a lovely little living room. There was a cozy bedroom and a kitchen with a little pantry stocked with food. There was everything they could ever need. In the back yard was an even greater surprise. Whoever had lived here had started a fabulous garden. There was a greenhouse with solar panels mounted on top, and to complete there fortune, a hand-pumped well was in place to supply them with all the water they would ever need.

"See?" Sh.e.l.ly said. "Isn't it nice?"

"Yes indeed," Mike agreed. "If only it lasts and is enough to keep out the walking dead, we shall live happy and contented."

"We'll see about that." Sh.e.l.ly gave the garden one last glance before they returned inside. Then they had something to eat and went to bed.

All seemed to go well for a week or two. Every morning and evening, Mike would go out to the brick wall that encircled their property and use a spear he'd fashioned to take care of the zombies that might gather. In the afternoon he would tend to the garden.

"Mike," Sh.e.l.ly said over lunch one day, "this little house is too cramped. Also, the walking dead seem to be getting more and more numerous. Now I know why the former residents left. Perhaps we should live in one of those luxury high-rises. You need to go back to that p.a.w.n shop and tell the radio to upgrade us."

"Sh.e.l.ly, my sweet potato," Mike said, "this little home is so much more than we ever had before the apocalypse. It's cozy and clean. Why on earth would we want to live in a high-rise?"

"Don't sa.s.s me Mike," Sh.e.l.ly snapped. "Just get your a.s.s in gear. Go to the p.a.w.n shop and tell that radio we deserve better."

"No, Sh.e.l.ly," Mike protested. "Whatever force is at work here, it just gave us a dream house in the suburbs. I don't think we should press our luck. It might run out."

"Move it!" Sh.e.l.ly demanded. "Do you really think it matters at this point? I'm sure some rich sn.o.b has been chomped leaving behind a perfectly good luxury penthouse."

Mike felt awful, but he did as his wife demanded. As he peered over the wall to ensure that the coast was clear, he said to himself, "It's not right." But he went.

As he snuck down the street, he encountered a few more zombies than last time. It was gruesome enough, but the worst part was when he had to bury his machete in the skull of a zombie barely old enough to have its first grown-up teeth.

Even after what he'd already experienced, he was still a little amazed to discover the p.a.w.n shop. He opened the security gate and went inside. Everything looked as it had before. Sitting on a shelf of useless appliances was the radio.

"Hey," Mike said nervously, "you're not going to believe this."

"What does she want?" the voice didn't sound the least bit surprised.

"Dude," Mike sighed, "now she wants to live in a luxury high-rise. She's talking penthouse suite."

"Just go home," the voice replied. "She's waiting at the revolving door."

When Mike left the p.a.w.n shop, he was stunned to see that he was in the heart of downtown. Buildings of gla.s.s and steel towered above him on all sides. There was a lot of garbage being blown in the wind, but he saw very few zombies staggering about. He retraced his route, and sure enough, he came to a tower with a revolving door.

"Get in here before they see you," Sh.e.l.ly was beckoning from a revolving door.

Mike followed his wife inside. He entered the huge lobby and quickly wedged a bench in the door to secure it before looking around. When he did finally take in his surroundings, he was blown away. The floors were marble and there were paintings and sculptures everywhere he looked. It was an opulence that he never even dared to imagine.

Of course there was a a bit of a drawback: the walk up forty-seven floors to the top level. It took even longer because Sh.e.l.ly had to stop every second or third floor to catch her breath. Eventually they reached the top and their suite occupying the entirety.

It was almost too much, and Mike actually found himself wondering what sort of person required such a place. The walls were all covered with exquisite works of art that were undoubtedly originals. The sinks, while useless now, all had fixtures of gold. The table and chairs in the dining room were an exotic wood. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, reflecting the sunlight in dazzling prisms that danced around the room. The bedroom was incredible, and the bed so grand that it would hold him and his beloved Sh.e.l.ly no matter how she sprawled out. The cabinets were full of food and there was a stair to the roof of the building where a lush garden grew with a variety of vegetables as well as fruit tress. There was even a coop full of plump pigeons that would supply meat and eggs. Additionally there was a pool that could easily be converted to catch rain water. Every need they could imagine, as well as many they couldn't, was provided for.

"Well," Sh.e.l.ly beamed, "isn't it lovely?"

"Oh yes," agreed Mike. "A few modifications and we will never need to venture out from the safety of our new home. We can live happily for the rest of our lives."

"We'll see about that." Sh.e.l.ly lifted a fold of belly and scratched. "Let's sleep on it and see how I feel in the morning."

The next morning Sh.e.l.ly woke up first. She looked out one window and saw Lake Michigan stretch out in the distance. She looked out the other and saw...buildings. Some of them towered above them like sentinels. Others were just tall enough to obscure the horizon. Mike was beginning to stir when she elbowed him in the ribs sharply.

"Mike, wake up and tell me what you see," Sh.e.l.ly demanded. "We could be set above everything else and live like kings. Nothing should block my view or look down on me."

"What the heck are you prattling on about?" Mike asked, momentarily forgetting himself. This earned him another elbow in the ribs.

"Don't sa.s.s," Sh.e.l.ly grunted. "You need to tell that radio I don't care for anything blocking my view. I should be looking down on everything."

"Sh.e.l.ly, my love punkin," Mike protested, "we have the best we could ever imagine and more. Why do we need more than this? I like it up here."

"Well," Sh.e.l.ly retorted, "just because your dreams are small and limited, doesn't mean mine are. Get your skinny a.s.s out of bed and hustle on over to that p.a.w.n shop."

"But, Sh.e.l.ly-" Mike began.

"I want to be higher!" Sh.e.l.ly interrupted. "You tell that useless box of circuits I want to be above all I see!"

"I can't tell it that," Mike protested.

"Why not?"

"It just seems...greedy."

"How can I be greedy?" Sh.e.l.ly countered. "I'm not taking anything from anybody. If we don't use it...who will? n.o.body, that's who! And then it'll all go to waste."

"But-"

"Now get going!" She shoved him from the bed.

This isn't right, it's not right at all, he thought. And he didn't want to...but he went.

During his walk down the stairs he went over and over in his mind a way out of the situation but he was stuck. When he reached the lobby, he knew this wasn't gonna be easy. Already, a few zombies had gathered outside. A few were pressed against the giant windows.

He drew his machete and pulled the bench free of the revolving door. As he exited to the street, a couple of zombies were propelled into the lobby and began wandering about. Mike didn't worry about them. If things worked out like last time, he'd be someplace else.

He had to bring his blade down a few times, and even though he knew these things weren't people anymore, it was still difficult. He ran until he reached the p.a.w.n shop, opening the grate and ducking inside.

"I just want to go on record as saying that I don't want to be here," Mike sighed as he approached.

"Well, what does she want?" the voice from the radio spoke.

"Yeah," Mike hesitated, "she wants to be above everything. She doesn't like that anything looks down on us."

"Go home, said the voice. "It's already done."

When Mike went home, he wasn't really all that surprised to discover that he was just a stone's throw from the Sears Tower. This building overlooked every building in Chicago. There was nothing taller. And waving from the lobby was his beloved Sh.e.l.ly. Of course it took them a whole day to make it to the top. And as high up as they were, they could look down on the entire city. It wasn't actually set up as living quarters, but Mike figured he had nothing but time. He'd see to it that he gave her a place fit for a king.

As the sun began to set, they looked down on the whole of the city. Sh.e.l.ly pointed out the building that had been their home earlier and how small it looked. And, of course, they couldn't even make out the old slum.

"Well, Sh.e.l.ly," Mike said, "now you're on top of the world."

"That's right," Sh.e.l.ly agreed.

They stood in silence for awhile. Mostly because they both had to catch their breath from climbing all those stairs.

"Now that we can look down on everything," Mike finally broke the silence, "I think we can leave well enough alone. There is no more need to wish for something greater."

"No, Mike," Sh.e.l.ly said, and she looked very upset. "Already I'm having regrets. I've thought this over and we should be living in the seat of power. We should live in the White House. From there, survivors will surely look to us for what to do...how to rebuild. I'll be president of the United States and the people will look to me."

"Sh.e.l.ly, my cuddle bug," Mike said, "why do you want to be president?"

"Mike," Sh.e.l.ly stomped one large foot, "you go tell that radio that I want to live in the White House, and that I want to be president."

"Good Lord, woman," Mike groaned, "that thing can't make you presidemt. I can't tell it to do any such a thing, I just can't. The president comes from a vote by the people. You can't simply say you're president and have it be so. You just can't."

"Fiddlesticks." Sh.e.l.ly dismissed her husband with a wave of her hand. "If that radio can put us here and do all it's done so far...then I'm guessing that making me president will be a snap. I want to be president and that's that. Now get going. It'll be morning by the time you get down all those stairs.

So he had to go. But on the way in that dark stairwell, he was frightened. This won't end well, he thought. He could not understand why his wife would want to be president. And surely, the radio had to be getting sick of all this.

When he reached the lobby, he saw dozens of those zombies out there. He took a deep breath and steeled himself for what he would have to do. With a feeble war cry, he charged out, swinging his machete left and right. He did his best to not think of the zombies as having once been regular people. Breaking clear of the little cl.u.s.ter, he ran to the p.a.w.n shop.

"I'm so sorry," Mike said as he closed the grate and walked over to the shelf where the radio sat.

"What does she want now?" the voice asked.

"She wants to be president," Mike said meekly, "Just go home," the voice replied. "She already is."

So the husband went home and when he rounded the corner, he wasn't at all surprised to see the black wrought-iron fence that protected the White House from onlookers-or zombies-coming close. What was surprising were the soldiers in place behind a mound of sandbags and a detachment of men in dark suits.

When they spotted him, they began waving him over emphatically. Mike broke into a run and slipped through a security gate where he was quickly ushered to the Oval Office. The doors opened and there sat his beloved wife behind a desk that he'd seen in so many photographs. The desk that had seen a little boy use it to hide and a chubby girl sit on it while pleasuring herself with a cigar. Now, there was his wife sitting behind it in a navy blue suit and red tie. In one hand she held an ink pen that probably cost more than their rent back in the slum.

Mike didn't know what to say as he stepped in and looked around. Somehow it looked a little smaller in person than it did when he saw it on television or movies. Mike stepped away from the secret service agent and approached his wife.

"Well," he said, looking around incredulously, "It looks like you're the president now."

"That's right," she said. "I'm president."

He stood there and took a good look at her. When he'd been looking for a while, he said, "Well, Sh.e.l.ly, now that you're president, suppose we let well enough alone."

"Mike," she said, "what are you standing there for? Yes, yes, I'm president, but now I want to be pope too, so go to that radio of yours."

"Sh.e.l.ly, my b.u.t.tered biscuit," Mike said, "what won't you be asking for next! You can't get to be pope, let's not even get into the part about us not being Catholic or how the college of cardinals do their whole wonky selection process with different colored smoke. I'm pretty sure a voice on the radio can't make you the pope."

"Mike," Sh.e.l.ly said, glaring from behind the desk in what her husband imagined to be a very presidential way. "I want to be pope, so do as you're told. I insist on becoming pope before the sun sets on this day."

"No, Sh.e.l.ly," Mike tried to sound firm. "I can't tell the voice to do this, it's too much. A radio can't make you pope."

"That's a load of c.r.a.p," Sh.e.l.ly said. "The media has done far more and far worse. If it can make me president, then it can make me pope. Do as you're told. I'm the president and you're only my husband, so you better get a move on."

Mike glanced around at the secret service agents who all stood stone-faced behind their dark gla.s.ses. He'd get no help or support here. He was afraid, but he dropped his head and trudged out the door. An escort brought him as far as the security gate. A throng of zombies clutched the fence and made zombie noises. At last, the machinegun nest opened fire, shredding a clump of animated corpses. Seeing a very small opening, Mike ran. He didn't slow down until he was safely inside the p.a.w.n shop.

"Yes?" the voice on the radio said and the man strained to catch his breath.

"Umm...well..." Mike struggled to voice the request. "She wants to be pope," he said in a rush.

"Just go home," the voice on the radio said. "She already is."

So, Mike left the p.a.w.n shop, pulling the grate closed on his way. He looked around confused by his surroundings. He decided to do as he had the past couple days and just retrace his steps. It took him a moment to recognize the big building at the head of a huge open courtyard with a single obelisk in the center.

"The Vatican?" Mike looked around in awe.

He had to run across the cobblestone yard to the grand entrance, avoiding the slow moving zombies the entire time. He barely made it through the giant double doors that allowed him into the infamous cathedral. The enormous chamber was lit by thousands of candles ranging in sizes he didn't even know existed in wax. A retinue of strangely dressed guards stood on either side of a majestic throne that sat on a dias. An ornate wooden carving took up the entire back wall of the grand auditorium just off the cathedral proper.

"Well, Sh.e.l.ly," Mike barely spoke above a whisper as he walked down the aisle to his wife, "you'd better be satisfied now. You can't get to be anything better than pope."

"I'll see about that," Sh.e.l.ly said, and they both went to bed. But she wasn't happy, her ambition wouldn't let her sleep, and she kept wondering what more she could get to be.

Mike slept soundly having been up the past couple of days straight. Not to mention all the running from zombies and climbing stairs. He slept as his wife tossed about beside him unable to close her eyes. Her mind raced with possibilities, each more fantastic than the last. As the sun peeked up over the horizon and began to illuminate the world, she walked through the famed Sistine Chapel and her eyes gazed on the glorious ceiling. She dashed back to the sleeping quarters and woke her still exhausted husband.

"Ha!" she cried triumphantly, "Why can't it be that I make life from nothing? Get up, Mike!" she said, poking him with one fat finger.

"What is it?" Mike sat up. "Are the zombies inside?"

"Wake up and go see that radio of yours," Sh.e.l.ly insisted. "I want to be like G.o.d."

Mike was still groggy, but her words. .h.i.t him like a bolt. He tumbled out of bed in his surprise. Certain he'd misheard, he rubbed his eyes and asked, "Dearest, what did you just say?"

"Mike, if I can't create life," she whined, "it'll be more than I can bear. If I can't do this thing, I'll never have another moment's peace." She gave him a glare that made the gooseb.u.mps rise up on his flesh. "Get going now. I want to be like G.o.d."

"Sh.e.l.ly, my precious puddin'," Mike fell to his knees, "the radio can't do that. Sure, he might pull off president and pope, but please, please think this over and be happy with pope."

At that she grew angry; her hair flew wildly about her head. She ripped away her nightgown standing in her gelatinous glory and kicked him. "Don't sa.s.s me!" she snapped. "I won't tolerate it for another second. Get your a.s.s in gear!"

Mike struggled into his clothes and ran for the exit. What he saw filled him with dread. Zombies were packed in shoulder to shoulder. Drawing his machete, he waded into the undead mob. He felt hands tear at him and teeth pull at his flesh. Yet, somehow he made it to the p.a.w.n shop. He stumbled through the door and pulled the security gate closed.

Blood trickled and seeped from countless wounds as he made his way to the radio. He tried to speak but was barely able to moan.

"What is it now?" the radio asked.

"She wants to be like G.o.d...to create," Mike managed.

"Just go home; she's back in the slum already."

Mike threw open the gate and fell out onto the sidewalk. A moment later, he rose and returned home.

Sh.e.l.ly walks the streets to this day, biting and infecting every living soul she encounters...creating.