Phin’s Manuscript-
The first glare of morning reflected from the sheet-metal walls of Alfredton's compound as we drove up in Dubs flatbed. By local legend Dub and Nguen had met by chance on this hilltop while retreating from zombie hordes in the opening weeks of the plague. Together they defended the spot through the bloody peak of zombie depredations, constructing defenses as other survivors trickled in.
It was their dual immunity from the zombiefication virus that had directly led to Dub's charcoal grill discovery. The tale goes that, after the town defenses were completed, these two very different men put in long hours attempting to analyze the commonality of their survival.
Finally they determined what they had in common: a hatred of communists and the shared conviction that grilled meats required charcoal, not propane. Dub had grilled nearly every species in the region with various condiments, and Nguen had long used the technique in his 'authentic Vietnamese' recipes. Thus was born Mr. Donahue’s dezombiefication program.
Legend or not, the compound was now an impressive edifice. Nearly a mile of reinforced sheet metal fence surrounded the low hill; metal buildings for miles around had been stripped in the construction. Hundreds of motor homes and trailers made a small town protected by the fence. It was all that we knew remained of civilization.
Mr. Nguen and his eldest daughter June were waiting for us outside the gate. Mr. Nguen had his AK-47 slung, demolition tools in hand, and a knapsack at his feet. Unlike their nighttime game hunting excursions using spotlights and dogs, this daylight expedition was more about hunting salvage.
“Morning, Hop Sing,” Dub called as we pulled up. “Just load that stuff in the toolbox.”
“Do ngu,” Nguen responded with a smile.
“Good morning, ma'am,” said Dub, nodding to June. “What's in the basket, Little Red Riding Hood?”
Did I detect a leer in his banter? In my naiveté had I been missing something about Dub? With a simpering giggle June passed the basket into the cab. After a brief farewell speech to his eldest daughter, Nguen handed me his rifle and climbed in.
“Where we go today?”
“Well, I thought we might go all the way into Little Rock," said Dub. He slapped a phone book on the dashboard. “Got a few addresses for liquor outlets and ammo.” He floored the accelerator and we departed in a cloud of dust.
“Good. We stop at Outlet Mall again, please?” Nguen settled his rifle muzzle-down between his knees. “Kids need new shoes, new clothes.”
“Sure.” Dub laughed. “You sure it ain't for that pack of dogs we saw last time?”
“Kids need clothes,” Nguen said, “but if we see dog . . .” he patted the rifle stock and laughed along with Dub. The rest of our journey was accompanied by small talk and two six-packs. Considering the quality of the beverage, I refused offers to share. Fumble-fingered freak I might be, but such swill would never cross my lips.
Our expedition was successful on all counts. We returned with a truckload of goods and half-a-dozen dog carcasses dangling from the deployed stake sides of the truck. The two men celebrated our triumph on the long, weaving drive home with more beer. My own dark contemplations made such rejoicing impossible. I truly regretted failing to find a suitable bock or even ale with which to dull my racing mind.
Nguen's Vietnam Grille and Tearoom-
Troubled, Nguen looked up from the manuscript. Disturbing as the tale was, what bothered Nguen more was that he felt he was missing something. He found himself more disturbed at seeing June fawning over the drunken Dub. Even as he opened his mouth to chide her, another calculating thought stopped the words.
June was a spinster, which he'd believed was because she'd inherited her mother's pickiness and grandmother's ugliness. It now seemed possible to Nguen there was another reason. Dub had always been a hero to the kids, especially the older ones who still remembered the fighting. June had evidently been saving herself for Dub, and was now taking advantage of Dub's moody visit to the bar.
Dub was a stupid asshole, but maybe, thought Nguen, just maybe this southern-fried shithead could be the man who finally got her out of Nguen's house. He slid another six beers into Dub's reach and returned to reading.
He still had the feeling something important was there.
Phin’s Manuscript-
Jubilation from the hunt soon transformed to despair in the lab. Dub had been confident that his newest dezombiefication experiment would have positive results. Using the modified milking machines of the converted dairy barn, he'd treated the heavily duct taped zombies a highly concentrated essence of charcoal grilled beef via simultaneous rectal and oral injection.
For further exposure he'd pumped in smoke from burning charcoal, venison, and scorching barbeque sauce. This combined several previous techniques into a veritable grilled meat assault upon the restrained zombie subjects.
The results were gruesomely negative. For the first time since my dezombiefication I was assailed by horror and doubt. We were destroying lives uselessly and I could no longer participate. My feelings must have showed.
“Aw hell, Phin, cheer up.” Dub clapped me on the shoulder. “That's why they call it fishin', not catchin', right?” He seemed to think the hillbilly homily should comfort me.
Dub accepted my withdrawal from the program without comment or even notice. He threw himself into hunting zombies for the next round of experiments. Thanks to local scarcity, he was forced to range further than ever before, often being gone overnight.
At the same time my relationship with Missy changed polarity from repulsion to attraction. Missy practiced ever-less-subtle methods to 'accidently' bump into me and check my 'condition.' Hourly would come a tap on the door of my tiny room, 'just to see if everything was okay,' she would say.
As for me, my respect for Dub melted even as reciprocal feelings for the lovely Missy stiffened. I sincerely regretted my inability to drink the putrid pilsner they called beer locally. How I wished I could throw myself in a sea of Ayinger's or Spaten and drown, however temporarily, my troubled thoughts. I think tomorrow I will . . . another knock at the door . . .
My God, she is beautiful.
Nguen's Vietnam Grille and Tearoom-
The manuscript ended there, but Nguen was now sure he was onto something. He tucked the manuscript into a lockbox under the bar just to be safe, rose to see June comforting Dub to her bosom. The rest of the place was now dark and empty.
“Dub!”
June jumped guiltily from Dub's lap at her father's exclamation.
“Do not worry, my blossoming flower,” Nguen said in Vietnamese. “Please go prepare a room for our guest? He will be staying with us for some time.” He winked. “You will have your chance.” Her happy smile was a bittersweet reminder of her mother.
“Hold on, Hop Sing,” Dub said, turning to face Nguen, “ain't no need to be talking to her like that.”
“No worry.” Nguen squinted ferociously. “Should I worry?”
“Damn right you should worry,” Dub responded without hesitation. “The question is, should I?”
“No worry, friend.” Nguen grinned and fished two more beers from the cooler. “Maybe no more worries, ever.” The two men clinked bottles and chugged. Nguen then cleared the forest of bottles to one side and placed a tall, dark bottle on the bar. “Dub, you ever use beer in experiments?”
“That's one of the first things I checked.” Dub shook his head. “I wasted a hell of a lot of good beer on those trials.”
“What beer? European import? Like this?” Nguen pointed at the blue and gold label of Ayinger Winterbock.
“Hell, no. I used real beer, Pabst. It's all hops, barley, and yeast anyway. What's the difference?”
Of course, thought Nguen, the man would know what was used to make beer. He served up two more beers and leaned comfortably on the bar.
“My grandfather make ruou, rice wine, for many years. The damned communists say 'no more drinking ruou,' but people not stop, so grandfather make ruou in hills, sneak it into Saigon through old Ho-Chi-Min trails.”
“Your granddaddy was a bootlegger? Damn if you ain't more hillbilly than me, Hop Sing. But where's that come in?”
“In making rice wine. To begin, rice put in cabinet with koji mold. When rice good and moldy is seigiku, added to fermentation. Better flavor, ruou keep longer, good for you. Mold.”
“Riiight. Good for you, maybe. Now, how in the hell's this tie in with that bastard Phin?”
“Mold. Phin beer snob, yes? Only drink expensive imports?”
“Oh, hell, I know where you're goin', now! Them German brewers, they use the same barrels and vats and same moldy shit for a hundred years, right?”
“And age in keg for months. Now you see.”
“Mold! The mold couldn't save the poor bastards by itself, but looks like it helps somehow.” Dub stood up and began pacing, weaving in drunken excitement. “So maybe a double treatment, rice wine and barbeque?” He spun to Nguen. “How fast can you make that ruou stuff? Oh, man, we're gonna be so rich!”
Alfred Nguen felt a deep satisfaction watching Dub spin grandiose plans of fame and riches. The bumpkin would get what he desired, Nguen would see to it. The world would get the cure, Nguen would see to that, too, but not just from the zombie virus. He would make sure the world was cured from damned Communism as well.
Emperor, he thought. Emperor Nguen sounded good.
The End
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