A. L. Kaplan

Tag: undead

  • LITTLE SQUIRT

    Chocolate, gooey caramel. My mouth almost waters. If only I could still taste that luscious candy, but the reanimated can’t do that. It wouldn’t be bad if I got out more. I mean, Grandma is great and all. She brought me back to half-life after I was killed. It’s just not the same without other kids to play with. Halloween is the only day I can go outside without freaking the living. Believe me, you don’t want the pitchfork and torch brigade chasing you.

    “Trick or Treat.” I hold out my sack with the other children.

    A lady hands me a handful of candy. “Great Costume.”

    I thank her and hurry toward the next house. Two little girls sob at the curb. Halloween should be fun, not sad.

    “Are you ok?”

    The bunny points a gloved paw at three disappearing teens. Her ears bounce with each sniffle. “They…took… our…candy.”

    I hate bullies. “Here, take mine.”

    Big, round, adoring eyes look up at me. Being undead has its perks. I track the thieves faster than a bloodhound.

    “That candy isn’t yours.”

    They laugh and tower around me. “Get lost or get pounded, squirt.”

    “Squirt, is it.” I take a deep breath and squirt them with inky old blood.

    A moment of stunned silence, then they clench their fists. I point down. They stare as skeletal hands reach up and pull them into the ground. Half-buried, they shriek and struggle.

    “Don’t steal, especially from little kids on Halloween. I’ll be watching.”

  • Undeadwood

    Leafy greens covered the trees around Mike. He shifted the gas filled backpack, hoping it would be sufficient. The blowtorch and chainsaw were standard equipment since the zombie apocalypse. Somewhere in here was a whole forest of mobile undead trees. Ravenous, leafless, oh, and of course brainless, the zombie trees struck without warning. Last night they grabbed the best damned dog Mike ever had. He was going to destroy them.

    A strange sound drifted with the wind, rising and falling with the lilting sound of a song bird. Mike followed the sound, keeping alert for the telltale creaking and moaning that the undead trees made, and a sharp eye for leafless trees. If this led to his death, so be it. The song grew more distinct and he began to catch odd lyrics about a brook tripping and falling and praying larks. Beyond a stand of bamboo, in a wide clearing, Mike spied a nun perched on a large rock.

    “Come closer, Mike. I assure you I am very much alive and unafflicted with zombieism.”

    “How…”

    “Do I know your name?” she said, with a big grin. “Rover, of course. My name is Sister Mary Margaret. No time to talk. I’ll lull the trees. The rest is up to you.”

    She picked up her ukulele and began strumming the melody to “My Guy.” Those zombies never stood a chance. A sharp wind cleared the smoke from the smoldering deadwood. With a wave, Sister Mary Margaret flew away carrying her ukulele.