Sentient Zom

Long before the Zombie Cataclysm wreaked its havoc on the world, there were living humans all over the Southern California coastline. Now, instead of surgically augmented girls trying to get an even tan, or blonde, bronze, surfer boys looking for that perfect wave... You got Zoms aimlessly wandering the sand and surf searching for a delectable human on which to gorge.

And on a 400 foot yacht, once owned by a rich social influencer, called: The Magnus Opioid, two New Zoms fished a body out of the water off the side of the boat on which they currently reside, but that they could've never been able to afford to live in in their past lives.

A New Zom is an evolved breed of sentient Zombie that after a few weeks of wandering around eating human flesh had what had been come to be called: An Epiphany, wherein, as though awaking from a coma, the mindless flesh eater regains himself (or herself as the case may be), all memory, personality, wants, fears, neuroses would come back as if they had never left them, as if they had never died.

Two New Zoms, Curtis Satterly and Gregorio Montez reside in The Magnus Opioid (that they call the Mag Op) docked uncomfortably close to a large pier on what used to be called Newport Beach, but what Curt and Goyo have rechristened: Deadport Beach!

Curt was the Assistant Manger of the CVS in Orange and for a hypochondriac always dealing with folks that were at different stages of colds, viruses and flu bugs was a bit of a... Challenge. Goyo's big claim to fame was that he was a minor league relief pitcher for the Sugarland Skeeters in Texas for two seasons fresh out of college, but was never called up. Goyo limped back to live in his Mom's basement in Garden Grove, until the fateful day when his Madre tried to eat him. He escaped that time, but within months some huge Zom took a bite out of his pitching arm and he ended up a Zom a week later.

Curt and Goyo were lucky to have found each other, as sentient Zoms comprised only about three percent of all Zoms currently walking, crawling, and limping around the planet, rapidly running out of food (aka LIVE HUMANS, or what Curt and Goyo have nicknamed: Pumpers, since their hearts still pump blood).

Speaking of which, Goyo snapped to the fact that the body that they had been painstakingly pulling up from the side of the boat was MOVING!

The body in question was that of a very soggy twelve year old that, since his parents tried to consume him two years ago, has simply gone by the name: Targ (short for... well, more on that later).

“Curt, I think this kid's alive.”

“Alive?! Damn! Let's get him down below. Maybe he'll die on the way.”

Later the boy began coughing up sea water in the lower state room, as he turned over on his side.

“Aw, Francis Ford Crappola! And I could've gone for some fresh meat right about now.”

“Do you want we should throw him back in, and wait until he drowns?”

“We can't do that. Humans are rare, and getting more so. And only WE got the mental capacity to NOT try to totally exterminate our food source. Besides, look at how young he is. If we can get a girl Pumper we can use them as breeding stock!”

“Hmmmmn.... Tenderloin baby! That would be worth waiting nine months for.”

“NINE months?! What are you talkin'? Goyo, we still have to find the girl. And who knows if this Pumper can even get it up yet!”

“I can get it up!” said the water logged voice coming from a very pissed off Targ.

Curt and Goyo looked down to see the gleam of a chrome plated Glock pointed right at them.

“Do you truly think that thing's going to function too well after having been soaked in salt water?” Curt asked.

“You wanna find out, Dead Head?” Targ said as he moved the point of the gun back and forth between the duo.

“Uuuuh... Not really, kiddo.” Curt responded.

“You guys are two of those new breed Zoms I've heard some about. That think they're human.”

“Oh, we don't think we're human.” Goyo said. “We just think LIKE humans.”

“But, tell me, uuuuuh?” Curt began.

“Call me, Targ.”

“Oh, that's an unusual name. I'm Curt, this is Goyo.”

“Like the refried beans?!”

“Yeah, and spelled the same way too.” Goyo said smiling with what was left of his teeth.

“And how is it a kid your age is still alive years after this mess all started?” Curt queried.

“My Dad was one of those weird survivalist types they used to always make fun of on CNN, at least until that night some cameraman went Zom and ate Don Lemon live on the air.”

“I remember that.” Goyo said, turning to Curt. “He screamed like a little girl, that guy. Funny stuff.”

“But why did you almost drown yourself off the side of the Mag Op?”

“The what?”

“Magnus Opioid, we call it the Mag Op for short.” said Goyo.

“Oh, THAT's what was painted on her stern. It's pretty faded now. It looks like the ship's called: The Mop D.”

“Hey, maybe we should call her that from now on?”

“Shut-up, Goyo!”

“How did you two manage to get on board? Zoms can't swim. They tend to sink.”

“Evidently so do little gun toting boys.”

“I got a cramp, piss off!”

“Yeah, one thing we never get anymore is cramps. A muscle might fall off, but it doesn't cramp up.” Goyo said, recalling a time when was an athlete.

“So why did you risk a watery grave to get on board the Mag Op?”

“Or maybe the Mop D, now.”

“Goyo, zip it!” Curt turned his attention back to Targ. “Us? We found an inflatable raft and used it to get here.”

“We mostly live off of fish. As long as we catch and eat them while they're still alive... Well, it's better than nuthin'”

“Yeah, but every meal is sushi. That's why we were so excited when we thought you were dead. I mean, freshly dead.”

“Yeah, you would've been a taste treat. Bummer you're still alive.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, Goyo. Breathing's kind of a habit I picked up since I was nine and this crap first hit the fan.”

“But, again, why did you try to swim out here?”

“I thought this boat was Zombie Free.” Targ said as he twirled the Glock in his small hand before holstering it. “How was I supposed to know, the Walter White and Jesse Pinkman of the Zombie set were squatting on it!”

“Why did I know this brat would be a Breaking Bad fan.” Curt said to Goyo with a nod.

“I wasn't, my Dad was, and when all you got are old DVD's and a DVD player? Well, let's just say I binged a few old shows before our generator went out.”

“Hurrah for you!” Curt sniped.

“Just so you won't worry, me and Curt don't eat live humans anymore. I mean if they die on their own, like you were supposed to, we'll go for it, but we don't kill humans to eat them.”

“Yeah, but I didn't I hear you say something about eating my baby?” Targ said flatly to Goyo, then turned to look at Curt. “If I could get it up, that is, right?”

“Hey, we're sentient Zoms. We know the importance of planning ahead.” Curt said.

“Oh, really, what were you in the before time? A stock broker?”

Goyo started to laugh a hitching, donkey laugh, as Curt fumed at him.

“Not exactly.” Curt said, sheepishly.

Targ pricked up his ears as he heard a noise outside.

“What the hell was that?” Targ said drawing his gun.

“Sounds like Zoms.” Goyo offered.

“But Zoms have never tried to get on the Mag Op before.”

Goyo turned from Curt and looked at Targ, as he addressed Curt. “There's never been anything ALIVE on the ship before.”

“The Beaner's right. They smell me.”

“Was your Dad a survivalist AND a racist?” Goyo said.

“But, wait, you said it yourself: Zoms can't swim!” Curt exclaimed.

“Jeez, HOW have you two dorks survived?! Well, I mean your dead, but... Look, haven't you ever seen what Zoms do in open water? They're like Army Ants. They start falling in and their bodies act as a bridge for the others to get across. And since you idiots never even cast off the bow line or the stern line, we're tethered to the dock! All they got to do is bridge maybe forty yards!”

“How long will it take them to do that?” asked Curt.

The sound of glass breaking on the upper decks ripped the trios ears.

“How does now sound?” Goyo said.

“Why didn't you two EVER cast off the boat?!”

“Cuz neither one of us knows how to pilot a boat, do you?”

Targ answered by simply cocking his head and smirking at them, as pounding on the cabin door began to echo through the entire state room.

“You guys have any more guns? Cuz you're right my Glock right now is a pearl handled water pistol!”

“Are you kidding? That closet is filled with them.” Goyo said.

“Yeah, apparently the guy who owned the boat was real big on his 2^nd Amendment Rights to bear NUMEROUS arms.” Curt chimed in. “Why? Can you really handle a gun?”

“Cuz we can't.” Goyo added. “Couldn't when we were alive, and it's gotten worse with less fingers.”

“Goyo, don't make it sound like we're falling apart in front of the kid!”

“But we ARE falling apart, even if the kid turned his back!”

The door began to crack as the hinges began to loosen.

“Uuuuuh, but you CAN shoot, right?” Curt asked pleadingly.

“Dude, Targ is short for Targeter. You asked how I managed to stay alive all this time? Show me what you got.”

This was a quotidian task for the boy known as Targeter, born Zavender Wolcott Brkusic (yes, the New Zoms would have a LOT of fun with him once he made the mistake of revealing that to them). The former owner of the Magnus Opioid had stocked it with fine wine, Cuban cigars, and a half dozen AR-15 automatic rifles.

Targ had them lined up, loaded, and Curt and Goyo at the ready to reload each of them in turn as the Zoms came pouring in that day. The easy part would be shooting them all through the forehead, the hard part would come later when the newly formed trio had to throw all the bodies overboard (upwards of 120).

Later that night, Curt and Goyo agreed to become STRICT pescatarians, as Targ released the bow line and stern line, hoisted the anchor and began piloting the Mop D (Goyo insisted on the name change) into open water. They would grow to have each others backs in ways only soldiers or brothers would ever understand, as the boy grew and got stronger and the New Zoms rotted away growing progressively weaker, in this bleak, ravaged world they found some hope in each other, and in the Pumpers and Sentient Zoms they would encounter and ally themselves with along the way.