Johnny America


Af­ter the Zom­bies Came: Day 12


Suzanne had found the yel­low Buick lift­ed above her head on bulky hy­draulic jacks, its dirty oil fil­ter dropped on­to the con­crete floor be­neath the en­gine. She un­latched the small tri­an­gu­lar vent win­dow and pushed the glass open with her palm. She was cruis­ing at 55. Puls­es of icy air tapped against the scabs on her fore­arm as the win­dow shook with tur­bu­lence. Suzanne nudged with win­dow and it found a steady an­gle. The air rush­ing over chrome trim whis­tled a per­fect B‑flat. She thought of Rick of Rick­’s Amer­i­can Au­to, who’d marked her arm as he lunged for her brain. He must’ve been at­tacked and turned while reach­ing in­to the Sky­lark, she’d rea­soned weeks ago and told her­self again. She imag­ined Rick­’s zomb­i­fi­ca­tion and death a dozenth, thir­teenth time. She’d beat his skull to frag­ments with a stain­less steel ratch­et and she still felt queasy about her bru­tal­i­ty. She’d smashed and smashed through brain and bone un­til she split the back of Rick­’s skull and the ratch­et clicked against the con­crete slab of the garage. She’d looked in­to the pud­dle of mat­ted hair and blood and spit where the zom­bie’s face used to be, where a hu­man’s face used to be. The Sky­lark crest­ed a large hill and Suzanne spot­ted a tat­tered pair hitch­ing across the val­ley. She pressed her run­ning shoe hard against the ac­cel­er­a­tor and thought about her sec­ond kill, us­ing a shot­gun, so much eas­i­er than the first. She re­mem­bered walk­ing in­to the wood-pan­eled of­fice of Rick­’s Amer­i­can Au­to still dizzy from Rick­’s at­tack. Be­hind the glass of a pic­ture frame Rick stood in front of a race track lean­ing proud­ly against the Buick, a small tro­phy in his hand. She’d erased this man in the pic­ture, or what was left of him, this man hand­some in a blue me­chan­ic’s jack­et. She’d vom­it­ed on a cat­a­log of muf­flers and ex­haust sys­tem ac­ces­sories. She liked ve­hic­u­lar slaugh­ter so much bet­ter. It was­n’t a guar­an­teed kill, she mused, but it was was rel­a­tive­ly safe. Speed­ing to­ward the pair Suzanne took men­tal note of age, sex, and race. A black woman: tall, young. Mid­dle-aged white man: plump but not quite fat. An ac­coun­tant, per­haps. The ac­coun­tant turned his head to­ward the au­to­mo­bile while Suzanne squealed with glee. There was­n’t time for them to avoid the Sky­lark; Suzanne bar­reled through them. She imag­ined their necks snap­ping as they rolled over the wind­shield but had no in­cli­na­tion to check. Look­ing at the still bod­ies in her re­view mir­ror she thought about tak­ing a nap.

Filed under Zombies, of or Relating to on September 15th, 2007

Care to Share?

Consider posting a note of comment on this item:


Previous Post


Next Post


Join our Irregular Mailing List

For very occasional ramblings, word about new print ephemera, and of course exciting investment opportunities.