Zombro

Nice day, isn’t it? Was what I meant to say, but it came out as, “angranhooo.”

My neighbors replied in dull groans. I think they were saying hello back, but we can’t really understand each other. At the very least, their replies were groans like mine, not wails or jaw snapping that made their teeth clack.

Being part of this crowd isn’t all that bad though. Everyone sways with each other, shuffling through the streets without a care in the world. Most of the time we like to stick to our own little areas. Unless something interesting, like music or fireworks, catches our attention. Then we all kinda gravitate in that direction.

A few locals gathered in the parking lot of the post office across the street. The wind blew, picking up an old plastic shopping bag. This caught the attention of the loiterers who slowly chased down the urban tumble weed. It felt good seeing civic minded folk cleaning up the neighborhood.

Something darted into the apartment building some dozens of yards down the street from the post office. It was bigger than a dog, and higher off the ground. I got a whiff of a peculiar smell. A fresh smell. I shambled my way toward the derelict condominium, and about twenty minutes later—I made it. Rigor mortis is a bitch for fast twitch muscles. Good for persistent tension, not so much for cardio.

None of us had seen the inside of the building because a makeshift barricade blocked the stairway. But not today. The stop sign and plywood barricade had fallen to the side. Curious, came out as, “uhhng.” I stepped up into the abandoned corridor.

The whole city likes to be outside when the weather is nice. The air has been so clean these past years. Ever since everyone stopped driving cars, the summers are more comfortable and the winters feel cleaner, if still cold.

Winter makes us locals tired and sluggish. The cold makes our joints stiff and impossible to move until the temperature gets above freezing. Winter is also when we get the most tourists, and oh boy, they can be rude.

They tear through the streets, clearing out the supermarkets, and all without a “thanks” or a “pardon me.”

We’d like to say hello to the tourists, try to make them feel welcome, and make them a meal, but who can go out in sub-zero temps? Once I saw some strangers really beat the crap out of one of our locals. But all I could do was lie there, frozen in place, watching. He didn’t seem to mind. He got up after the first thaw and went for a walk as if nothing had happened.

Summer is obviously when everybody tries to stay most active, working to get that perfect summer-bod. Ugh, but there’s so much running involved.

Being summer, the building was stuffy and hot, but I wasn’t the only one exploring the old apartment. The first floor had about a dozen locals checking out the place. A few were coming out of apartment units, while others were knocking at doors or admiring the art prints in cheap picture frames.

The second floor was the same story, though with fewer locals, and there were only two locals on the third floor.

The fourth floor it is then. “Huungh,” I growled.

Finally alone on the fourth floor, I could explore the units without bother. Most of the doors were locked but some open units let me glimpse the lives of their last resident’s. Apparently most folk don’t care for comfort. A couple mattresses were left intact, but others were gutted to allow access to the springs and wire innards. Couches, chars, and tables were torn apart and turned into splinters and planks piled into corners or closets. Empty tin cans sat around black scorch marks on the floor. It seems silly to start a fire indoors, but you have to do what you have to do to keep warm.

Something thudded in the unit next door. What was that?

There was a light coming from one of the ajar doors down the hall. Something coming from the room smelled great. Kinda like when you pass an Indian restaurant when there were still Indian restaurants. I rounded the doorway into the apartment.

A young man crouched over a small red school bag in the far corner of the small apartment. A crappy incandescent army/navy surplus flashlights rested base down on the counter top, shining it’s light on the ceiling. He was stuffing the bag with label less canned goods, and old plastic bottles, still filled with clear water. One of the cans slipped from his grasp and fell to the floor. “Shit,” he whispered. He reached down but recoiled and hissed when his hand was just above the can.

Oh hey. Need any help? “Aruugh.” I tried to sound as friendly as possible.

“Aahhh!” A young man let out a yelp. He turned in my direction, cradling his right arm. Wet blood on his shirt reflected the light of the old explosion proof flashlight, highlighting his sinuous form.

He was so thin that I might have mistaken him for one of the locals. But he wasn’t. He was warm and fresh. I salivated, somehow my long dead glands did their job. Are you ok? “Ungh ah.” I slowly approached him, trying not to startle the young man more than he already was.

“Oh god. Oh god, oh god, oh god,” he said. He looked around the room, trying to find what, I have no idea. With a grimace he slung his bag over one shoulder and tried pulling the boards from the nearest window. He started with the lowest board, pulling at it with his one good hand before nearly falling over. Then he tried the highest board he could reach. Maybe he thought his body weight could leverage the screws from the window frame. The only thing he managed to knock loose was dust.

Whoa. Hey guy, that’s not safe. We’re on the fourth floor. Calm down. “Angugh ounghaur.” My steps felt more laborious than ever before.

The silence between each foot fall was filled with the quiet sobbing of the young man and punctuated with his desperate angry outbursts directed at the window.

By now two of my neighbors filled the doorway into the apartment. You smell that too? “maahng.”

Tears welled up in the young man’s eyes and his grimace curled into a snarl. He dropped his bleeding arm, dropped his bag, and drew a short knife with his undamaged hand.

Whoa, there’s no need for that. I walked towards him; arms raised in what I hoped was a calming gesture. I was in the middle of the room halfway between him and the others. I tried picking up the pace.

Once I was in arms reach, he swung his knife, back and forth, stabbing when he could, grunting and crying with every movement.

Christ! Stop stabbing me! “Urahngroh.” My arms were ribboned, small cuts crisscrossing my already withered flesh. But they didn’t hurt. Each cut seemed closer to a freckle than a wound.

The young man stepped back, but he bumped into the boarded window behind him.

I took another step, to hold him, stop his flailing, but he fought my embrace and I fell on him. Woops. You ok? “Ughrga.”

His bleeding arm was pinned to his chest. The knife slipped from his hand. He pushed and pushed but was too skinny to do more than that. I heard the footsteps of my neighbors walking into the apartment. There were more than two now, maybe five or six.

I grabbed at his wrist to stop him from swinging his feeble arm. Thanks rigor mortis. I held it as if my own arm were iron.

Stop squirming, damnit. “Unranghrah.”

He kept moving, lifting his hips, trying to push my off with kicks that didn’t land. He pushed at my chest with his ruined arm, but it folded at an unnatural spot in the middle of his forearm. Then he tried wrenching his pinned arm. It snapped. Bone stabbed through the thin skin of his forearm and blood fountained onto us. The young man howled, letting out a lungful of air on a singular agonized noise.

Doing my best parody of a pushup, I got onto my hands and knees, hovering over the man. My brown-yellow salivation dripped onto his face and my jaw began to snap. Yes, it was rude, but I couldn’t help myself. My tongue lulled out of my mouth and I snapped my teeth, severing my newly wettened tongue. It fell on the young man’s face and flopped onto the floor.

With my other hand, I tried to shut him up, but I ended up pushing my fingers into his mouth. He did stop screaming, but he gagged and retched instead.

The young man’s head was pushed to the side, cheek hard against the floor with decayed claws pushing through to the wood.

Tellya what, Imma smell ya. “Hieyan.” I lowered my face to his neck, the smell coming from him was undeniable. Buried under all the sweat and dirt, deeper than his hair and skin. The muscle and bone contained it still. In his head. Yes his head held the prize.

My neighbors caught up from the other end of the room. They curled down and started biting into the young man’s feet and legs. This was too much for him to take, and he passed out.

Finally relaxed, “Heialnrah.” I placed my hands on the sides of his head curled my fingers, digging the tips into his face. I pulled and jerked, peeling the flesh from his skull. The cheeks came away easily being flabby tissue of mostly skin. They were ok, if stubbly. His ear came away with a quick jerk, but it was chewy and difficult to get pulped up and swallowed.

It didn’t take long for most of his skull to be exposed. Small bits of flesh clung to the bone and his eye hung from the socket by the optic nerve. The side that was on the floor was left mostly unruined.

I pushed my fingers past the stem of his eyeball, hooking them into the ocular socket. I pulled, strained and struggled. I wriggled my fingers for better purchase, then got fingers on my other hand in there. As if it were the most difficult book in the world I cramped the center of my back to open his head cavity. Then there was creaking. Cracking. Small pops. Further and further I tightened and pulled.

SNAP!

A quarter of his skull lay open. I looked down at the steaming mass of grey matter turning pink in front of my eyes. I plunged my hand into his head and slurped up his still warm brain. Each fold and wrinkle unfurled in my mouth, releasing the salty umami flavors on the remainder of my tongue. It felt like jellified thick spaghetti sliding down my throat.

Sorry pal. Without a tongue it sounded like, “ahng urangk.” I reached back into his skull and scooped up another handful of slimy pink mass.