Oh No! Zombies!

Oh No! Zombies!

  A. M. Harding

  Copyright 2011 by A. M. Harding

  License Notes

  Thank you for your support.

  ***

  The windows of the small bar on Brunswick Street had been completely covered from the inside with newspapers and broken down cardboard boxes. Hand-painted signs had been haphazardly placed in view of passers-by, one jokingly offered booze in exchange for bullets. A poor exchange, in my opinion, you were going to need those bullets if this were really the zombie apocalypse; but alcohol would certainly be a valuable currency - when fiat currency wasn’t worth anything anymore - I agreed with that much. Mock public service announcement posters, tie-ins from a recent game release, had been filled in by the Mana Bar’s proprietor. Under the heading “nearest emergency assembly point”, he had written Your looking at it, and I raised an eyebrow at the grammatical error.

  The bouncer was dressed as Simon Pegg’s character from the movie Shaun of the Dead, complete with name tag and miniature cricket bat. He waved to me as I approached, recognising me as a regular. Today was the Brisbane Zombie Walk, a fundraising event for the Brain Foundation of Australia that saw thousands of people turn out in their best zombie and zombie hunter costumes to march, walk, or shamble across the heart of the city. A couple of years ago, Brisbane had set the unofficial record for zombie walkers with an impressive five thousand shamblers.

  I was wishing that I’d dressed as a zombie hunter, rather than the standard jeans and t-shirt I always wore. I had some ideas for a good costume, based on some things I already owned, but the notice had just been too short. I’d never heard of the Zombie Walk until the Mana Bar held an event promoting it a few weeks earlier, and even then I hadn’t been paying much attention to dates. Besides, I was here to meet some friends; it was simple coincidence that their visit happened to coincide with the zombie walk.

  The door to the Mana Bar was uncharacteristically closed. Aside from the mock zombie proofing, it was probably the warmest day so far this spring; and after walking all the way up from Fortitude Valley station, I would be grateful for the air conditioning trapped inside. The door had a large glass window set in it, and stuck to the inside foot-high letters requested help, proclaiming the venue to be a safe house. It wouldn’t be much of a safe house, I mused, once the zombie walkers arrived.

  Inside was cool, dark, morgue-like; the thin black curtains drawn across the covered windows. There were no lights, at least none that were used when customers were welcome, behind the bar the flat glow of a fluorescent bulb leaked through the open door to the tiny backroom. Most of the illumination came from the five massive TV screens mounted on the walls behind their protective shields of plexiglass.

  On the left, a pair of zombies were playing Street Fighter with specially designed two-player controller sticks that simulated old-school arcade games. The other screens offered House of the Dead: Overkill and Dead Rising 2, both appropriately zombie-themed options. It was Sunday, it was still early, the other games sitting idle. One of the consoles had shut down from the inactivity, the screen muted black.

  My friends were gathered under the wall-mounted display cases, crowded with gaming paraphernalia from Mario to Zelda to World of Warcraft, the only place to sit that wasn’t directly in front of one of the screens. Noel and his wife were up from Sydney; they wouldn’t have a Mana Bar of their own until next year, so the bar was a great meeting place for fans of video games. The tiny bar had just a few of those small, high tables for people to rest their drinks on and someone had pulled two of them together, half of the stools currently bellied up to the pair of tables.

  Eventually, the zombies started to trickle in. They came in groups of three or four, covered in pale makeup and fake blood. Apart from the standard torn clothing, splattered and dripped with various red syrupy concoctions, there was a zombie Spider-Man, a zombie cave man, zombie fairy, zombies wearing Umbrella Corp lab coats, even a zombie Lady Gaga.

  A shorn-headed zombie hunter arrived in the company of a zombie in a pretty, albeit blood-splattered, dress. He was wearing a black PVC apron that finished his outfit perfectly; complemented with a fake-cigar and blood-splattered toy chainsaw. Another last-minute hunter was dressed for the office, silken red tie loosened, wielding a bright orange shotgun that fired foam slugs.

  The bar seemed to fill up in a blink, one moment there were a handful of zombies ordering drinks; the next, the line for service stretched raggedly from the bar to the door. One of the zombies was wearing a bloodied toga about their waist, his upper body concealed within a papier-mâché Red Pyramid mask. The giant mask muffled his voice, but I heard him complaining that he felt grossly under-dressed whenever he took it off.

  In no time, it was standing room only. Crossing the narrow bar to use the toilets meant squeezing between a pair of stools and gently pushing past several groups of people. Patronising the Mana Bar quickly broke down conventional traditions of personal space; many of the regulars were of the habit of standing awkwardly close to the people they were talking to, even when the bar was quiet.

  It was getting crowded and noisy and we agreed it was time to make a break for it. We were just a tiny sea of people in street clothes, awash in a miniature red ocean of zombies. The Mana Bar opened at lunch time, so most of the group had eaten early before coming out for drinks; now that it was approaching six, my friends were starting to get hungry. We waded through the zombie crowd, trying to cross the few feet to the door as politely as possible. It was still sunny outside when we broke through and out into the fresh air.