Zombie Kong, Page 2

  “Sorry, I’m… I’m having a hard time with this.”

  Jake didn’t say anything. He just stood there, looking at his mother with concern rooting its way into his features. He was trying to be a big boy, trying not to cry, but his mother had never looked so worried. So upset. So saddened. Never. Not once. Not even on the day that Aunt Margie died. That was a bad day, but this was worse. Way worse. He wasn’t having any fun––none whatsoever. Nothing here was making him happy, and it was a Saturday. Weekends were supposed to be nothing but fun, not like this. Not scary.

  At once, Candice stood tall. She snatched Jake’s hand and started walking. Together they marched along the sidewalk and onto the road, ignoring the sirens blaring, the people weeping, and the dead bodies littering the area around them. They walked past a woman that had fallen to her knees and a man that was openly crying. They moved their way through a cloud of smoke and past a blue pick-up truck that had a huge dent in the hood. The dent seemed to be full of implication, much like the flat tires, the broken windshield, and the young man strapped into his seat, impaled with glass.

  Candice tugged on Jake’s hand, encouraging the boy to turn his head away from the truck. She didn’t want him to observe such a catastrophe, even though tragedy could be easily witnessed from every direction.

  They kept walking.

  Jake could see that his mother was taking him into a greasy spoon that had a faded billboard attached to a brick wall above a dirty strip of windows. The billboard had the words––

  -THE LUNCH ROOM-

  Putting smiles on faces since 1968!

  ––stenciled across its front.

  Candice pulled the door open and trudged past a PLEASE WAIT TO BE SEATED notice with Jake in hand. They moved down an aisle that had a row of vacant booths on each side and sat next to a window, facing each other in an empty cubicle that had nothing cluttering the table.

  She opened her purse, pulled out her phone, and made her call again. Nothing.

  Broken dishes peppered the floor. Half-eaten meals sat abandoned on tables gathering flies. Someone had left a purse sitting in the booth next to them, along with an iPod and a pair of cheap sunglasses. On a different table a twenty-dollar bill, folded in the middle, had been tossed atop an empty plate. There were no waitresses to be found, no cooks, no hungry customers, no people standing behind the counter eager to serve food. Aside from Jake and Candice, there was only one other person in the restaurant: a stiff-jointed man with a chiseled face and razor short hair. He might have been thirty-five years old, give or take a year.

  Standing motionlessly in the center of the room, beneath a ceiling fan that spun wobbly-circles above him, the man looked a little bit like a shorthaired version of Jack Nicholson back in the 1970s. Specifically, when Jack played the role of Randle Patrick McMurphy in the film One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, except that the man in the restaurant wasn’t wearing a white hospital shirt; he was wearing a referee’s jersey, covered in dust. And he didn’t seem cheerfully zealous. He seemed downright weird.

  It took Candice a moment to remember the sports store across the street and grasp the fact that the people working there wore the referee jersey as part of their uniform. The store, Athlete’s Delight, had always done excellent business as far as she could tell. She had assumed it always would. Of course, that was before––

  Slowly, as if he was in a trance, the man cocked his head towards them. He looked at Jake. Then Candice. “What do we have here?” he said.

  Technically it was a question, but he wasn’t asking it to anyone in particular. He just said it––quietly, almost emotionlessly, with his eyes locked on the empty space between them. He mumbled something under his breath after speaking, and then he stumbled forward. In some ways he looked like he was suffering the effects of a voodoo curse.

  A moment of silence came, followed by Jake leaning across the table, whispering, “That man’s acting funny, Mom. Look at him. Look at his hands. Do you see what he’s doing with his hands?”

  Candice looked over her shoulder. Once again her thumb found its way between her teeth.

  Meaner than a pit-bull with blood on its snout, the man was opening his hands slowly then snapping them into fists, then opening them once again, and snapping them into fists––repeating the motion, over and over. If the oddball look sheet-rocked across his vacuous face wasn’t reason for concern, the way he was moving his hands definitely was. The guy had toys in the attic; it wouldn’t have surprised Candice if he pulled his pants to his knees and sang Happy Birthday in French while doing a jig.

  “Mom,” Jake said. “Do you think––”

  “Quiet. Don’t look at him. Just… ignore him for now.”

  “But––”

  “Hush!”

  Jake nodded and his eyes found the table but he felt no comfort knowing his mother was ignoring something that needed to be addressed. The smell of lunacy was in the air, only she didn’t recognize it, or perhaps she didn’t care. He wanted to tell her that the man was not in touch with things, only he could not find the words.

  Candice considered leaving the restaurant but needed a moment to think, and the relative tranquility of room was the most she could hope for.

  Help. She needed help. And she needed to do something smart, but what? What could she do? Her husband Dale had phoned her from inside the gorilla’s belly and he wanted her to do WHAT exactly? What was she supposed to do about this little situation, phone the police? Without a doubt, the police were already well aware of the fact that there was a giant gorilla smashing the shit out of the town, so that was one phone call she didn’t have to make.

  She needed a cigarette.

  Or better yet, a joint… a big fat one. One grown by Snoop Dogg, rolled by Ziggy Marley, and endorsed by Cheech and his good buddy Chong.

  “Oh God,” she muttered. “I don’t know what to do about this.”

  She looked out the window.

  On the far side of the street most of the buildings had been knocked down. Athlete’s Delight, she realized, had been replaced with a pile of rubble that had a flattened car squashed into it.

  The man spoke again: “What do we have here? Who do you think you are?”

  Candice found herself wishing there was a waitress in the house so she could order a cup of coffee and look at the menu. She turned towards the counter. As luck would have it, a pot of joe was sitting right there, and it looked like it had been freshly brewed, too. She turned towards Jake. “Would you like something to drink? A chocolate milk, maybe? Coke?”

  Jake nodded. “Okay, Mom.”

  “Which?”

  “Huh?”

  “Which? Coke?”

  “Coke.”

  “Okay. I’ll get you a––”

  “No, wait. Chocolate milk. I want chocolate milk.”

  “Okay. Chocolate milk it is. Stay right here and I’ll fetch us some drinks. Then we’ll figure out what to do.” Candice forced a smile.

  Jake tried to do the same but failed.

  After plunking her phone and her purse on the table, she stood up and started walking, avoiding the man standing at the center of the restaurant. As she was making her way behind the counter she heard the man say, “What are you doing?”

  She didn’t respond.

  His hands opened slowly and snapped shut.

  She was getting a bad feeling, a scary feeling. A feeling of imminent doom.

  Two modern-looking refrigerators with glass doors sat together like wide-shouldered soldiers. Inside the unit on the left, there was an entire shelf dedicated to milk, chocolate milk, and cream.

  She opened the appropriate door, reached inside, and liberated a liter of chocolate milk. The container had a cartoon-drawn, brown-colored cow licking its lips with its eyebrows raised, suggesting the milk it produced was ten times more delicious than the milk from any other cow.

  As she sat the carton on the counter the man spoke again. His eerie voice was enough to make her skin crawl:
“You’re not allowed back there. Get away from there!”

  The man was suddenly coming at her with a noticeable amount of aggression in his awkward movement. His head was still cocked sideways in an outlandish predatory gesture, but more disturbing were his eyes. Chicken-eyes, red-rimmed––frightful and filled with the promise of pain; they were lit up like hateful firestorms.

  Before Candice knew it would happen, she snatched the container of milk from the counter and held it up defensively; it was a knee-jerk reaction, not a game plan. She found herself backing away while scanning the restaurant for a weapon more threatening than a cold beverage.

  Within seconds the man was behind the counter with her, getting close, reaching for her milk.

  God damn, what the hell was he trying to do?

  “You’re not allowed back here!” he announced. Lines materialized in his forehead as he slapped the container across the restaurant. The container soared, turning circles, leaving a splattering of bubbly chocolate in its wake.

  Candice managed to say: “What––?” before his hands––both of them––wrapped around her neck.

  He began choking her.

  She backed into a corner, struggling to free herself. The bulk of her thoughts centered around a common theme: Why are you doing this? Why would you do this? Why is this happening? Why do you want to hurt me? Why are you attacking me?

  Why, why, why?

  Then a new thought came: How can I make this stop?

  Overwhelmed, she looked towards the counter, searching for a weapon––a knife, preferably.

  Her eyes widened.

  There was a knife––two of them, in fact––but they were too far away to be useful. There was a spoon, however, and it was well within her grasp.

  She reached her hand out and her fingers tickled the spoon’s long handle. As her fingers were making contact with the would-be weapon the man shook her violently and the entire world seemed to fade out of focus. The man’s hard-looking face and undersized eyes grew faint. The room darkened. The air thinned. She would soon pass out.

  The man said, “Did you see what happened? You should have done something! I know you! You’re the reason things are like this!”

  “I don’t––”

  There was a scream––

  Jake was screaming, standing on the other side of the counter with his eyes the size of beer coasters and his mouth wide open.

  Beyond the screams, Candice could hear the clatter of gunfire mingled with the sound of the beast’s roar. Little stars began appearing in the darkness of her eyes. Jake’s words of protest shrank into mumbles. Her body felt weak, worse than the moment before. She wanted to tell Jake to get away from the man, not to worry about the gunfire or the monster on the street. She wanted to tell him that things would be okay. But things might not be okay. What would happen to Jake if the man successfully choked her to death? And… was that his objective? Did he plan on killing her because of the things that were happening outside, or stranger yet, over a glass of chocolate milk? Really? Why would anyone want to do a thing like that? Comprehending the situation was like trying to inhale a baseball.

  The knife. She needed the knife.

  Wrong.

  There were two knives, neither one close enough to grab. What was that other thing she was trying to snag from the counter, a fork?

  No… a spoon. A long-handled spoon.

  She whacked the counter with the palm of her hand and shifted her body’s weight. The man tumbled back a step and for a moment his grip weakened. Then his teeth pressed together and his face seemed to age a dozen years. He was squeezing hard now, as if he was trying to make her head pop from her neck.

  Candice wrapped her fingers around the oval end of the spoon and lifted it from the counter. She had it. She had a weapon. The handle end of the spoon seemed like the world’s dullest blade but that was okay. It wasn’t meant for carving a Christmas turkey at the White House; it was meant for serving up a big old pile of whoop-ass right here in The Lunch Room.

  Putting smiles on faces since 1968!

  As she lifted the weapon she noticed the man’s nametag. It said: KIRBY.

  A muffled grunt came. She thought––Well, Kirby... I’ve got a little somethin’ for ya––and a second later she slammed the spoon into the man’s face, just below his temple. She could only assume it passed through his nasal cavity, and bone, and whatever muscles were in that general area.

  The man fell away from her––stumbling, tripping, staggering like a drunken barfly at closing time. Mouth opening and closing, nose running; his eyes glossed over. And with that came the screams, and the blood, and a look that was one part shock, one part terror, and three parts pain.

  Coughing. Coughing. Candice was free of his grip and coughing… but she was breathing again, and not a moment too soon. With less than an athlete’s agility, she snailed her way over the counter, took Jake by the hand, and made for the door.

  “You corpse-fucker!” Kirby managed to shriek, pivoting towards her with blood parading down his face. His hands clenched together… again, and again. His fingernails were biting his palms.

  Once Candice and Jake were outside, they felt the ground shake beneath them, as if a miniature earthquake were taking place.

  It was no earthquake, they soon realized. But it was something.

  Something big.

  Candice saw it first: Zombie Kong.

  The monster was less than ten feet away.

  And looking directly at the boy.

  DALE

  Once I was inside the small intestine, I thought I was going to die.

  If you can imagine yourself wrapped head-to-toe in cold, rancid deli meat, you might be able to comprehend that moment of my life. Kong’s intestine was clinging to my body like a wetsuit made of liver. There was no free space––none, aside from a little bit of room around my neck.

  I opened my mouth––perhaps to scream, perhaps to breathe… I honestly don’t know––and that’s when chunks of wet slop pushed onto my tongue.

  In a desperate attempt to eject the foul tasting filth, I coughed and spat, but every moment my mouth was open, things became worse for me. My mouth was becoming packed full. My nose was, too. With my elbows bent, I pushed my hands away from my chest, trying to create a pocket of freedom. It wasn’t working. I began to swallow, and suffocate. I realized that I was being eaten; I had been eaten. The fact that I was still alive was nothing short of a miracle, and if things didn’t soon change I would pay the ultimate price.

  Which is one of the reasons I believe God was with me that day.

  Growing up, I had never believed in God. But now I do.

  God is the resurrection; He brings us eternal life.

  You see, as I was pushing my hands away from my body, I felt a hard object touching my fingers, and before I had a chance to comprehend what the object was, I found myself reunited with my keys.

  Blunt as they were, I decided to cut myself free.

  Freedom, it seemed, was in the palm of my hand.

  Jesus, as it is so often said, saves.

  KIRBY

  The gunfire and the screaming mingled with the sound of a siren blaring. The woman had turned her head away from the sharpest of the sounds before latching onto the boy’s hand and rushing down the street, through the dust and the smoke, away from Zombie Kong, dragging the child along at a speed that could not be comfortable for either of them. In return, Zombie Kong pounded both fists against his chest, raised his head away from his lumbering shoulders, and roared. His left hand swung wide, inadvertently swatting the restaurant with his knuckles, causing the walls to shake and the large windows near the front door to shatter. Glass collapsed to the floor and sprayed into the building, some landing near Kirby’s feet, as the monster trudged away.

  Kirby dismissed the broken glass and the chaos on the street, for his thoughts were elsewhere: on that bitch who stabbed him!

  Carefully, delicately, he took hold of the spoon. Hol
ding his breath in his throat, he pulled the handle from his face. Once the task was completed he released the spoon, allowing it to fall to the floor by his feet. Touching the fresh wound with shaky fingers, he smudged a line of sweaty blood along his tender skin; a gasp escaped. His nose began bleeding and tears rolled from his eyes.

  That corpse-fucker, he thought. That dry-cunt-slut is going to die.

  How do you like those tomatoes?

  Looking towards the broken window, Kirby paused. Then he began to laugh, but it was a cold laugh, devoid of happiness, almost emotionless in its tone.

  Tonight the world would fear Zombie Kong, but tonight that BITCH would fear him!

  He walked towards the table the bitch-woman and the boy had occupied. He picked up the bitch’s phone, which had been left unguarded. He squeezed it like he hated it and flung it across the room before picking up her purse. Looking inside, he found her keys and her wallet. Inside her wallet he found her driver’s license, which let him know that the bitch-woman had a name: Candice Wanglund. Apparently Candice lived at 726 Mower Street, a mere three blocks away.

  Oh, this was good. He had been waiting for years to deliver a little payback for all those times he had been lied to, and laughed at, and picked on. Ever since the third grade, bitches like Candice had been getting the best of him, making him feel stupid, making him feel like an outcast. Only back then they weren’t bitch-women, they were bitch-girls––bitch-girls that grew up to be bitches… like Candice… the bitch. He was sick of it. If only they knew how nice he could be, how sweet, how goddamn pleasant. But bitch-women like this Candice cunt never want to see the good side of people; they only wanted to see the bad. They only wanted to push you down, point fingers at you, treat you like a second-class citizen. Bitches only want to hurt people. Nice people. Nice people like him.