Barry Newton's Awakening

Barry Newton’s Awakening—George Davis

  The long, dark tunnel had no light at its end. Barry Newton walked, hand on the wall of the underground passage. “Wow, it’s pitch-black in here. Where am I?” 

  As Barry moved slowly along the path, his vision sweeping side to side in the black abyss, and his mouth was as dry as a parched desert. 

  The last thing I remember, he thought to himself. I was crossing the street, going to the barbershop for my monthly haircut. I vaguely remember seeing a stretch limo, a Lincoln I believe, barreling down the street, its speed way above the limit. 

  Crash. Now I recall. I was hit by that vehicle. I must have died, or else. Why wouldn’t I be aware of my own death? 

  A Voodoo princess, Kara Mobamba, living in Portland was praying over a dead animal, shaking a stick of some kind, chanting a bunch of gibberish. 

  Barry said, ‘wait, something is happening to me. I am now leaving this tunnel and headed toward a place with tall buildings. I believe I am in Portland on Congress Street about where W.T. Grant’s store occupied this space.’

  Two ladies staring at me. “What the…is that a ghost, Myrtle?” 

  “I don’t know. He looks like he’s been dead for months, maybe years. Let’s get outta here, Esther.” The two ran down Congress Street toward the west end. 

  Barry, bewildered said, ‘What’s happening to me? Am I a member of the walking dead? Am I—no, I don’t want to say it. However, I can’t stop thinking. I am a—zombie. Nevertheless, thank God, I am not hungry for human brains. I wouldn’t turn down a nice thick, juicy sirloin about now.’ 

  Barry saw two men coming up Congress Street, dragging their feet in a slow sauntering way. When they got close to him, the taller of the two spoke, “Are you one of us?” 

  He replied, “What is one of us?” 

  “We are members of the walking dead, zombies,” the other man said. 

  “I don’t think I’m a zombie. I don’t fit the common conception of one.” 

  “What do you call common conception?” They said, in unison. 

  “The thought of eating someone’s brain is revolting. And, I don’t drag my feet.” 

  "But you are dead, aren’t you?” 

  “I guess so. I don’t really know for sure.” 

  “Trust me, you’re dead,” one of the men said. 

  Barry said to himself, “So, what’s next?” 

  The two men reading his thoughts said, “listen friend, you will come to the realization you are dead, and then that witch Mobamba will pray over a dead chicken, and you will become, one of us. And when you do, let me suggest to you the best brains are down on the waterfront. Those guys’s brains are superb.” 

  “I told you, I don’t like eating something you think with.” 

  “Oh, but you will. And when you do, let me warn you. Don’t eat the brains of a politician, they  are weak and mushy with no nutritional value whatever.” 

  “Thanks, I’ll remember that if I ever turn into a zombie.”  

  “Turn into one, you say? You are one. You just haven’t grasped it yet. You will, my friend.”

  “I hope not. I tried pig’s brains once, and I threw up for two days after.”

  “Trust me, you will find that the only way you can survive is if you eat human brains. Without them, you will die.” 

  “Too late. I am already dead. You can’t kill a dead person. They are already dead.” The two men laughed. Their cackle was more like a witch’s chortle. 

  “Well, whatever. We’re on our way down to Commercial Street for our midnight snack. You can join us if you wish.” 

  “No thank you. I'll stay right here.” 

  “What’ll you do when the sun comes up? You can’t exist in the sunlight.” 

Barry said, “Oh really? What do you think, I’m a vampire or something?” 

  The two zombies headed down the hill toward the waterfront. Barry strolled down Congress Street. Looking in a store window, Barry saw, for the first time, what he looked like. His thin body showed wear and loose skin hung from his face in wrinkled folds. He stepped back in horror. “That can’t be me,” he thought. “I don’t look like that.” However, he reasoned he had decayed. 

  Barry kept hearing some kind of drumming, and a human voice chanting gibberish. He looked up and down Congress Street, but could not see where the voice and drumming were coming from.

  “How’d I get out here in the first place? Oh, I remember. I was put into a large cement tomb at the cemetery, my family crypt. That was the dark tunnel I found myself walking through. I heard chanting, and drums, and then there was light, and I found myself up on Congress Street.

  Before Barry got to Monument Square, he met another undead person. This one was in a blue serge suit coat and vest that showed lots of wear and tear.

  “Hello,” the stranger said.

  “Hello yourself. I suppose you are on your way down to the waterfront to meet up with some of your buddies,” Barry said.

  “I am. Do you want to join me?”

  “If you are going down there to eat brains. No.”

  “You are a zombie, aren’t you?”

  “No. I am Barry Newton, used-car salesman.”

  “I bet you don’t sell many cars.” He laughed that echoing cackle that zombies emit from their mouths.

  “I sell, or sold more cars than any other salesman in Portland. I won several trips to different ports in the Caribbean.”

  “Well, good for you. I’m hungry. I’m heading down to Commercial Street. The offer still stands. You can join me, and we can shuffle on down together.”

  “No thanks.”

  “Suit yourself. But, I can tell you, the only brains you’ll get up here are college students. And, believe me, they taste awful; full of all that learning and living on all those dry noodles in a package.”

  “I’ll stay here until I am clearly, and convincingly sure, I am really dead. I haven’t felt dead, but all indications are I certainly am deceased.”

  Barry walked around the monument, remembering he had collected postcards before he died. He had one of Monument Square in 1918 when there was a booth there urging people to buy war bonds. 

  He thought. I lived a good life, had most of all I wanted. My bucket list nearly completed. The one place I wanted most to have visited, the Alamo, was not accomplished. 

  “Hello,” Barry turned to see another, he hesitantly calls a zombie. “What’s your name?” 

  “Barry Newton, or at least, it was when I was alive.” 

  “My name is Henry Washington Veazy. My friends call me Hank. How long have you been dead?” 

  “I don’t know for sure. Maybe six months, a year. I don’t know.” 

  “Well, it is of no matter now. You’re here, and you’re one of us.” 

  “What do you mean, one of us?” 

  “You’re in the society of the undead, or zombies as some prefer to be called.” 

  “I’m not really sure I’m a zombie. I don’t walk with a shuffle, and I certainly won’t feed on human brains.” 

  “That’s what you say.now, but wait until that old witch down the street starts chanting, and you will join the ranks of the undead, my friend.” 

  “I already heard her drumming and chanting.” 

  “Well, she will continue until you become what she wants you to become, a zombie.” 

  “Barry, wake up, Barry.” 

  “I won’t eat brains—huh; Ma?” 

  “You were having a nightmare, son. Besides it’s time to get up. You’ll be late to work.” 

  “Thank you, Ma.” He hugged his mother so hard she let out a scream. “You are hurting me, Barry.” 

  “Sorry Ma. I’m just so glad it was all a dream.” 

  “Come downstairs and have your breakfast now.” 

  The table was all set with scrambled eggs, bacon and toast. “Boys am I glad you don’t serve brains, Ma.”  

  “Actually son, we’re having pig’s brains for supper. Your father loves them, says he grew up on that delicacy, as he calls it.”

  “I’ll be late coming home tonight, Ma. I’m going to the diner for supper.”

  On the sign in front of the diner, Barry noticed the special of the day: TODAY’S SPECIAL: FRIED PIG’S BRAINS WITH MASHED AND CORN, ROLL AND BEVERAGE $7.95

Barry asked himself, ‘was it all a dream? or am I dead, and this is my punishment?’ I can only say, if you hear drums and incantations. Run for your life.