Outside Alfredton, Arkansas-
Heavy clouds covered what sliver of moon had risen. A dirty red F-150 eased to a stop in the driveway, its various lights the only illumination. The driver sat in the idling truck, loading a shotgun as he examined the area. Finally he cut the engine and stepped out, shotgun in hand. He was big, over six feet tall and 300 lbs, and wore overalls, t-shirt, and John Deere cap like a uniform. Straining his senses to their utmost, he moved toward the mobile home.
Crackle of summer-dried grass was his only warning as zombies lunged out of the night. Somehow the big man had sensed his peril and backed into the light near the open door of his pickup, stopped against the pickup’s fender. Teeth bared in predator fury he raised the stainless steel Winchester 1200 to his shoulder, pumped a 3” magnum slug shell into the chamber. Swinging the muzzle to the first zombie, he noted the metallic glimmer of silver duct tape on the lurching figure.
“Missy, ya dumb bitch,” he muttered.
The 12-gauge thundered seven times, each shot felling a zombie in a spray of gore, each muzzle flash revealing more zombies closing in. Shotgun now empty, he clubbed aside two more attackers and clambered into the cab. The next wave filled the open door with snapping jaws and clawing hands as he fumbled the key into the ignition.
With boot and gun barrel he fended off the slavering undead, started the motor and dropped the shifter into drive. A final thrust left the shotgun barrel imbedded in a zombie skull when the truck jerked into motion; the gun was yanked from his grip. Cursing the loss, he backhanded the final clinging attacker clear of the door, floored the accelerator, and sped toward the distant lights of town.
Nguen's Vietnam Grille and Tearoom-
It was five minutes to closing when Dub Donahue banged into Nguen's Vietnam Grille and Tearoom. Scattering sawdust with his ostrich-hide cowboy boots, he staggered to the bar and collapsed on his favorite stool. Dining and conversation stopped as all eyes turned to Dub. Here in Alfredton, the last human town in Arkansas and maybe the world, anything the famous zombie hunter did was important.
“Hoowee!” he announced, unsnapping one side of his overalls. “It’s Miller time!”
Mr. Nguen stepped out of his office, nodded his bartender aside and moved behind the bar himself. If Alfredton had a hero in Dub, Alfred Nguen was the town leader. Little happened that Nguen wasn’t involved in, and nothing happened that he didn’t know about. The slightly built Vietnamese reached into the cooler as he waved his family back to work. Quiet, speculative talk resumed among the diners.
“Whew!” Nguen crinkled his nose as he slid a house-brew long neck across the bar. Dub was covered with dried blood and goo from John Deere cap to cowboy boots and stank like a summertime slaughterhouse. “What happen to you, do ngu?”
“My goddam wife ran off with her zombie lover. How’s that for a Jerry Springer moment?” Dub reached inside the bib of his size 3X coveralls and pulled out a thick stack of worse-for-wear paper. He dropped it on the bar beside the black, leather-bound journal already there. Idly, Dub spun the book around but couldn’t make anything of the Vietnamese on the cover. “What’s this, Hop Sing?”
Mr. Nguen stepped out of his office, nodded his bartender aside and moved behind the bar himself. If Alfredton had a hero in Dub, Alfred Nguen was the town leader. Little happened that Nguen wasn’t involved in, and nothing happened that he didn’t know about. The slightly built Vietnamese reached into the cooler as he waved his family back to work. Quiet, speculative talk resumed among the diners.
“Whew!” Nguen crinkled his nose as he slid a house-brew long neck across the bar. Dub was covered with dried blood and goo from John Deere cap to cowboy boots and stank like a summertime slaughterhouse. “What happen to you, do ngu?”
“My goddam wife ran off with her zombie lover. How’s that for a Jerry Springer moment?” Dub reached inside the bib of his size 3X coveralls and pulled out a thick stack of worse-for-wear paper. He dropped it on the bar beside the black, leather-bound journal already there. Idly, Dub spun the book around but couldn’t make anything of the Vietnamese on the cover. “What’s this, Hop Sing?”
“My business plan for World Domination, stupid,” Nguen said in Vietnamese. “New menu, do ngu,” he repeated in partial English.
Dub shrugged and up-ended the beer as Nguen picked up the top page from the stack, a short note in a very feminine hand.
“Dear Dub,
I can no longer live this lie and have found another who will love and satisfy cherish me and so when you read this I will be gone. It is better this way and I only took my stuff and what I deserve so do not come after me!
Your wife EX-wife, Missy”
Covering his amusement with concern as any good bartender can, Nguen dropped the note in the trash and pulled up six more beers. “You kill them?”
Dub drained the next bottle before he looked down at his clothes. “What, this?” He spat into the sawdust. “They turned all the test zombies loose before they took off. I had a little trouble getting off my property.” His eyes blazed in anger. “Took me two weeks to catch ‘em all, and now they’re gone! And lost my best shotgun, dammit.”
“Going after them?” The thought worried Nguen. No way do deny it; Dub was still a good part of the Nguen family’s influence. If the do ngu redneck ran off and got himself killed, Nguen’s plans for world domination could be set back.
“Hell, no! Ain’t wastin’ my time.” Dub leaned over and winked, continued more quietly. “Not that I wouldn’t shoot ‘em both if I ever saw ‘em again.” He grabbed another bottle.
“What rest of this?” Nguen picked up the rest of the papers. “Who write in crayon?”
Dub snorted as he raised the next beer. “Crayons was all that wife-stealin' zombie bastard could write with. Go ahead, read it.”
Phin’s Manuscript:
There he sat, corn-cob pipe in hand, brow furrowed over a massive tome. As always, I was impressed with Mr. Duane Wayne “Dub” Donahue's demeanor. I knew the present circumstances weighed even heavier on those broad shoulders than on me, your humble narrator, Mr. Phineas Whindbotham. Events that would have a lesser man . . .
"Goddammit, Phin! Would ya please not follow me around like that?” Dub ripped a page from the yellowed Granger catalog and hung the book back on the outhouse wall. “A fella needs a little privacy sometimes. Now go on so's I can finish the paperwork on this job.”
Genius needs space. I moved back toward Mr. Donahue's rustic home. My very life is owed to the genius of Dub Donahue. Despite the handicap of his educational shortcomings, he deduced a direct relationship between resistance to the world-wide zombie plague of 2012 A.D. and the consumption of charcoal-grilled meat. More impressively, he designed and executed a series of experiments to determine if the disease could be affected by various applications of this foodstuff. While to date I was his only example of successful dezombiefication, Mr. Donahue remained undeterred.
Since my dezombification I have helped where my limited abilities allow while chronicling Dub Donahue's work for posterity, a future that will likely exist solely because of this man's efforts. Dub was trying to save the world, and I felt it my duty to record his exploits.
I stumbled my way through the defunct vehicles dotting the overgrown property and climbed the rickety steps. Here was the heart of Mr. Donahue's small kingdom, the double-wide, two bedroom, bath-and-three-quarter KingsRow trailer home.
If Dub was the king of his domain, the reubenesque Missy was his queen. I found the freshly blonde Missy laboring in the kitchenette, preparing ingredients for the next round of experiments. Generous curves rolled from her artless yet undeniably provocative jean shorts and tube top. I'd often heard her remark, “If my Daisy Dukes don't get 'em, my double D's will.” Truly, this was a woman matching in every way the greatness of Dub Donahue. Then Missy saw me and screamed.
“Dub!” Another shrill scream followed. Sadly, she had not yet accepted me fully into her graces. “Dub, dammit!” Missy grabbed a butcher's knife and brandished it, causing interesting reciprocal body motions. “Get back, freak!” I'd learned there is little to do when such a mood comes to Missy. I retreated with the best smile I could muster. In moments Dub burst into the trailer, shotgun in one brawny hand, zombie zapper in the other. I raised my hands.
With a single glance Dub understood the situation, but typical to his character he made sure Missy felt cared for first. “What the hell is it now, Missy?”
“Like you give a shit,” Missy sneered, “but I already told you to keep that damn zombie thing away from me.”
“Don't start that crap again,” Dub retorted. He tossed the pump shotgun on the dilapidated leather couch/recliner combo and finished securing his overalls. “That damn zombie thing is gonna make you rich, so get over it.”
“Rich?!” Missy's voice rose to piercing new heights of shrillness. “You mean like that time you was selling lakefront property on our stock pond? That kinda rich?” She turned back to the bubbling pots, traded the knife for a ladle, and stirred with zest. “Or maybe you mean that time you wanted to sell lawyer insurance down at the state prison? That kinda rich? Huh?” I stared at the back of Dub's shaggy head, willing him to turn away and not say something inflammatory.
“Well, hell, I must be doing somethin' right,” Dub snarled, dropped the zapper and cupped his hands before him, “cause it sure looks to me like you ain't missed no meals.”
Missy's wordless screech shivered the windows in their frames. I quickly retired to my humble quarters before things escalated to the inevitable brawl. Just as the great people of the world can reach unusual heights, so can they plumb uncommon depths.
Instead of blows and crashes I heard Dub slam out the main door, yelling something featuring the word 'bitch.' Relieved, I went about my evening toilet, disrobing in preparation to donning another outfit of t-shirt and bib overalls. I'd found the simple yet durable ensemble was easy for my fumbling fingers. When the door of my room banged open I was literally caught with my nether regions hanging out. It was Missy, armed with Dub's shotgun.
“That's it, freak!” Butt on the swell of her hip, she closed her eyes and fired the 12-gauge. She flinched at the deafening report, but racked the action and fired again, and yet again. I should have feared for my life, perhaps cried out for mercy, but all I could do was admire her voluptuous strength. The shotgun clicked emptily on the fourth try.
She finally opened her eyes, squinting in the smoke, dust, and drifting bits of pink insulation. Her anger seemed to be gone, spent in the moments of violence. I watched her face as she looked at the three jagged holes spaced within inches around me, holes blown through the trailer's wall by the buckshot. Her gaze went to my face and I smiled as reassuringly as I could. Then she looked down, below my waist.
“Oh, my God,” she gasped. She looked away as color rose to show through layers of Mary Kay cosmetics, but quickly looked back. “Is that . . . are you . . . did I do that?”
I shook my head. Missy stare went back and forth between my face and loins several more times.
“Is it . . . “ she struggled for the right word, “. . . like that all the time?” At my nod she became flustered, realized she still had the shotgun pointed in my direction. “Sorry,” she murmured and backed out of my room, apologizing with each step. Her eyes, however, sent me a lingering, unapologetic message.
It was part of my curse. As the first surviving recipient of dezombification, my mind was mostly clear but the process had left me lacking fine dexterity and the power of speech. Until this moment I regarded the permanent tumescence of a certain private part as an undesired side effect. Missy's reaction triggered a tectonic change in the landscape of my self regard.
Dub stumbled in after midnight with drunken stealth and the couple made up in their typical head-board-banging fashion. My evolving thoughts and feelings were the only truly different part of that night. Dawn colors were barely beginning to burn the over the eastern Arkansas hills when Dub arose. His fist thudded on my door as he passed.
“Let's go, Phin. Hop Sing is waiting. Got some huntin' to do today.”
Hop Sing was Alfred Nguen, another survivor and owner/manager of Nguen's Vietnam Grille and Tearoom. The left-handed Mr. Nguen was also Dub's favorite hunting companion. This partly had to do with one of Dub's many hunting homilies, 'righty driver, lefty rider'.
Despite their long-standing relationship, Dub always called Mr. Nguen 'Hop Sing' and Mr. Nguen responded with 'do ngu.' Apparently neither man knew he was being insulted.
I was quite ready to accompany them, in the heartfelt hope I could acquire a worthy ale to help drown my confused emotions.
Nguen's Vietnam Grille and Tearoom
Nguen looked up from the manuscript. “Hey, what this mean, you insult me?”
“Huh?” Dub turned back from his dramatic recap of some adventure to Rose and April, two of Nguen's working daughters. “Oh, yeah, that.” He strove to look innocent. “Phin was crazy or something, 'cause Hop Sing was a famous Chinese chef. On TV.” He frowned. “What about you?”
“Ah.” Nguen summoned up his best poker face. “No insult. Just trouble saying name. Do ngu. Here, more beer.” He shooed his daughters away, speaking to them in his native tongue. “Finish closing for me, please? We have important business here.”
“Do ngu,” Rose whispered with a grin and tapped her temple as they returned to the kitchen.
"Yeah, stupid,” April whispered back in agreement.
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