From around the corner, towards the kitchen area, I heard a bit of shuffling and I pressed myself against the wall, waiting for whatever was going to come round to see who had entered the door with its little ringing bell. Stupid bell. It was not going to improve my mood if I had to kill a zombie Joe. It would make me downright depressed. And if it was Bruce…well, I probably wouldn’t kill him, but I might hit him. Just to make a point. I could be in an alcohol soaked stupor right now, but noooooo…Bruce had to come to my party, make me break a bottle on him, get glass in my feet and end up here. Not to get a pizza, which I really needed, but to defend the planet from poorly done voodoo and zombie pizzeria staff. Dammit, my brain fired again, That was Bruce at my party wearing his own shirt. Not just some guy. Dammit.. Oh, yeah. I was going to beat the crap out of somebody today.
The shuffling got louder and then there was a thumping sound and footsteps and the sound of something being dragged. All coming closer. Just as a bit of white t-shirt peeked around the corner I swung the end of the umbrella in a sharp rap shot, hoping to hit in the head or throat area. I didn’t wait to see what I was hitting. That’s how you end up like Joe.
“Fuck! What did you do that for?’
For those of you lucky enough not to know, zombies seldom, if ever, speak in complete sentences. Usually it’s only one or two words like ‘Brains!’ or ‘No brains?’ Happily, this sentence eliminated the possibility that it was a zombie, but not that they deserved the head trauma.
“Where’s Joe? What the hell’s going on here?”
“Dammit! That really hurt, bitch! What the hell?”
“It was meant to hurt. And don’t change the subject. Come out here where I can see you. If I have to come to you, I’m going to be pissed.”
The white thing turned out to be a small woman dressed all in what was once a white dress, but was now smeared in what had to be blood and Goddess knows what else. At least I think it was a woman. The hair was gray and short, the skin brown and wrinkled, the head bleeding red, the expression annoyed, but not surprised, and the whole about five foot two and maybe one hundred pounds soaking wet.
“I think I’m going to need stitches!” A small brown hand was pressed into a wound on her forehead.
“Great. Then we should probably speed this up.” I waved my umbrella for emphasis. “First: What the hell is in the fountain? Second: Where is Joe and maybe Bruce? Third, and this one is important and your answer could result in me letting you get stitches or leaving you here with something a little more serious than that: Where is my FUCKING PIZZA!”
A slightly clever look took up residence in the wrinkled brown face. I probably should have worried about that more than I did at the time. “First: Plutonium and hemlock. Second: Joe is on the floor behind me. I don’t know any Bruce. Third, and I will answer you the same way you asked: NO PIZZA! And you should probably look behind you.”