It wasn’t Paul’s usual haunt. Most people wouldn’t have even realized it was a bar, tucked away within the maze of streets in the South End’s waterfront. Generally, it was locals only, a place for the lobstermen to pause for a beer before they went home, or a meeting place for one of the numerous informal clubs that had been banished from the center of Portsmouth. It didn’t even have a proper name, just a brass plaque on the white door, which simply read “The Bar.”

Old smoke and stale beer mixed with the musty sea-salt air of the dank dark interior as Paul escorted me in. The few regulars, engaged in a game of cards, looked up with distrust until they saw Paul and his friend Sid escorting me to the weathered worn bar. The barkeep and owner looked me over with a keen eye.

“Hogan,” Paul said slapping me on the back and guiding me to a bar stool, “Meet Robbie Bane, newspaper reporter extraordinaire and the answer to all your problems.”

“All of them?” Hogan regarded me with a scowl. Paul’s grin grew wider.

“Well—most of them.”

“You still haven’t told me what this problem is.” I said.

“You didn’t tell him?” Hogan said as Sid leaned back on the bar.

“Didn’t want to scare him.” Sid shrugged.

“Scare me?” I asked. “What’s this about?”

“Zombies.” Hogan said glancing at the clock. I stared at him a long moment and then looked at Paul.

“Not zombies.” Paul shrugged. “Well, just one….”

“One zombie is enough.” I said flatly.

“I coulda told you that.” Sid said, “He nearly took my head off when I tried to get him out of here for Hogan.”

“That’s the truth. Broke two tables, too.” Hogan said nodding, still eyeing the clock. “And he refuses to leave at closing time…”

“So where is he?” I asked. Several of the customers looked close to death as they nursed their beers and took long drags on their cigarettes, but on the whole they were far too lively to qualify as zombies.

“He’s coming.” Hogan said as the clock ticked on, “Or maybe he’s finally gone to his final rest….”

The bell on the door jangled, and a figure shuffled in.

“Or not.” Hogan said in undisguised disgust as a foul odor filled the air with the sense of decay.

Slowly and purposely the figure shambled forward, as slippery mud from the Piscataqua River bottom slopped off onto the floor. The ruins of a wet blue uniform were draped over its skeletal frame like seaweed on the rocks. It smelled far worse than it looked.

The mix of fishermen and shipyard workers, being made of sterner stuff, ignored the eyeless horror as it slogged forward. Paul stepped aside to make room for it, as if it had an assigned seat at the bar. Its slippery yellow-gray skin, dripping with brine, quivered as it made the most unexpected statement I had ever heard from something so utterly unnatural.

“Give me a beer.”

Hogan, holding his nose and turning on a fan, complied. Cautiously, I circled behind the sitting horror as it took the bottle and began to drink.

“So, was I right, or was I right?” Paul said, nudging me.

“Um…” I said thoughtfully. In all my travels, I had never seen such a strange sight.

“Come on. Say it,” Paul said, glancing at Sid. “I’ve got a bet riding on this.”

“And I’ve got a bar being bled dry here!” Hogan said as the patter of liquid under the creature’s stool increased. The beer was escaping from one of the many holes that had rotted out of its decaying frame. “Look at this! He’s draining out all over the floor again!”

“Well, it is living impaired,” I admitted. “How long has this been going on?”

“Two weeks.” Sid said, “Every night at nine, like clockwork, he comes out of the river and drinks. And drinks.”

“Like a fish,” Paul added, “Until dawn.”

“I’m good for it. Another one.” It slurred in a vaguely Southern accent. Hogan complied.

“Two weeks?” I said, dumbfounded. “Haven’t you done something…?”

“Done lots of things,” Sid said. Hogan tries to lock up, it won’t go. I try to throw it out, it throws me out.”

“The police?” I asked as the thing polished off another beer.

“How long do you think this place would stay open if the health department knew I had a zombie in here?” Hogan said. “You’re the smart one. Do something!”

“Like what?” I asked.

“Interview it?” Paul suggested. “You’re the only reporter here.”

“Great, just great!” Hogan groaned throwing his hands up in despair. “Now this place will be on the front page of that fishwrapper!”

“Somehow, I doubt they’d ever let the story see print,” I said, moving somewhat closer. “Excuse me…” The eyeless horror’s head swiveled toward me in an unnatural way.

“Yeah? Can’t you see I’m drinking?” it slurred before turning back to its bottle.

“Yes, I’m a reporter with the local paper...” I said, catching a whiff of an even more repugnant odor that nearly took my breath away. “I was wondering if I could do a story…”

“Loose lips sink ships.” It uttered through lips that were barely left. I pondered that for a moment as it nursed its beer.

“I’ll buy the next round.” I offered, “For an interview—about you. And just about you. To send back—to the folks back home, you know.” The thing paused.

“About me?” Its mush-like brains were trying to ferment out an answer.

“Kept in the strictest confidence and reviewed by the shipyard commander,” I said, laying it on as thick as I dared and motioning to Hogan to pass another beer to me. “You do look like an interesting subject to write about, mister—ah… I didn’t catch your name.” The sudden inquiry, and the additional beer seemed to perk the horror up.

“Apprentice Seaman Virgil Baggs, U.S. Navy.” It said in a loud proud voice, before it took the beer and greedily guzzled it down. “From Anthrax, Alabama.”

“That could explain his looks.” Sid muttered.

“Never seen a Navy guy look that bad.” Paul agreed. “Suppose he’s radioactive?” Sid stepped back at that suggestion. I ignored them and waved to Hogan for another beer.

“So—You’re a long way from home, taking a night out on the town before you sail?” I asked.

“Yeah,” it warmed up to the topic. “I’ve been standin’ watch for darned near forever. I mean—the deck was icy, cause’a this darned cold weather, and I slipped and fell…” It rubbed the back of its head where a large hole threatened to spill the oozing contents of its cranium out.

“And did anyone relieve you?” I asked. It stared blankly at its beer.

“Nah, nah—no one ever came,” it said, thumping the bar. “Darn it, I want to kill some Japs before this war is over, y’know!”

“Japs?” Paul said puzzled. “He’s said he was off to war, but….” I scowled at Paul.

“You forgot to ask which war.” I observed, turning back to Virgil. “So, which boat are you on?”

“Oh, no—I can’t tell you that,” it said, holding a disintegrating finger up to its vanishing lips, “Naval secret!”

“And the fact that you’re AWOL?” I said. It glared at me with its empty eyes.

“Well shoot! No one’s been out to relieve me!” it said indignantly, lurching up from its stool, “Can’t I get a little time off for a beer before we ship out?”

“Of course, of course.” I said, calming it down, “But, if you ask me, whoever’s in charge of your boat has a lot of explaining to do. And the only way to do that, is to get the newspapers involved right?” It sat there for long moments in silence.

Then I passed over another beer.

And then it spilled its guts.

* * *

After watching the undead thing stagger back into the murky depths of the river, heading in the general direction of the Navy yard, I returned to the paper to see if I could dig up any information about this unfortunate soul.

I knew just the person to ask.

“A zombie. In the South End?” Edsel, the overworked production manager of the paper said with narrowed eyes. I nodded. “You expect me to believe that?”

“Yes.” I said. Edsel took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes in frustration. “Look, you’ve seen stranger things.”

“Don’t remind me,” Edsel said, leading me toward the aptly named morgue where moldering old issues of the paper were stored in an arcane organizational system understood only Edsel and a few others. “Why the heck is it rising from the river now?”

“I don’t know,” I shrugged, “Maybe all of the visitors here for the Russo-Japanese Treaty Centennial disturbed it. Him. Who knows?” Edsel grunted in agreement.

“Or maybe it’s because we have a weird reporter like you mucking things up for the rest of us?” Edsel observed.

“Or Halloween.”

“Whatever. Here we are, 1940’s,” Edsel said, pausing in front of some filing cabinets with flaking green paint. “It might take a while.”

“Well, he’s only been waiting 60 years.” I said. “Now it sounds like he died in December 1942.”

“Uh huh,” Edsel said, opening up one of the drawers, which groaned in protest. “And does our zombie have a name too?”

“Virgil Baggs,” I said, looking through my notes.

“Wait a minute,” Edsel stopped. “Virgil Baggs, from the U.S.S. Grenadier?”

“Yes. How did you know?” I asked, surprised.

“He was the only deserter from the Shipyard that they never caught,” Edsel said, diving into the papers and expertly plucking out the one we sought. “ ‘Authorities are still searching for Apprentice Seaman Virgil Baggs, 22, who vanished last Tuesday night while standing watch on the Grenadier…,’” He read from the cracked and yellowing paper.

“But he didn’t desert,” I said. “It sounds like he slipped on some ice, cracked his head on the deck, and fell into the river.” That much I had managed to piece together from the increasingly drunken slurs of the undead thing that had once been Virgil Baggs.

“Case solved,” Edsel said. “You should write a story about this. Halloween is coming up.” I shook my head.

“No, no—he keeps showing up at that bar. We have to stop him from doing that.”

“Great. We can summon some undead MPs to haul him away,” Edsel said.

“I was thinking of finding his former commander,” I said, pacing in the small room. “Tell him he can go and rest in peace.”

“The man’s in his 80s by now, if he’s alive,” Edsel observed. “If he survived the sinking of the Grenadier in 1943.”

“It sank?” I said, surprised as always about Edsel’s nearly encyclopedic knowledge of the region’s nautical history.

“The Japanese got it, so I doubt there were many survivors,” Edsel said, refiling the article into the ancient archives. “Any other ideas about how to make him rest in peace?”

“Possibly. Perhaps a relative could help.” I said. Alas, a search of the Internet revealed that the tiny town of Anthrax, Alabama, had been wiped off the map by the recent hurricane. Of the Baggs clan, there was no mention.

“So now what?” Edsel asked, leaning back.

“Well, we should do something,” I said.

“Not my problem.”

“Think of how the tourist trade will plummet if they find out a zombie is wandering the waterfront,” I said. “Then there’s the mass media circus we could call in….” Edsel stared at the ceiling, mentally calculating and weighing the options.

“Ah, all right,” Edsel said, giving me a resigned look, “Short of blowing him up – and I’ve seen enough horror movies to know how well that doesn’t work – how do we get him to stop dropping by that bar?”

“Give him something he wants,” I figured.

“Then what else can you think that your zombie would want?” Edsel asked. “Besides more beer?”

“He wants to kill some Japs…”

“That’s not politically correct. Not to mention it would attract more attention than telling the world ‘Hey we’ve got a drunk zombie wandering through Prescott Park on the way to the bar,’” Edsel dryly observed getting up. “Nah, think harder while I come up with the perfect solution.”

“Perfect solution?” I asked as Edsel went to another filing cabinet filled with old forms of every sort.

“Near-perfect solution,” Edsel said, pulling out some yellowed papers and heading back to his computer to begin scanning the old documents. “If it was perfect, you would’ve thought this up.”

* * *

That evening, Edsel and I showed up at the bar, dressed in clothing more appropriate for the 1940s than the 21st century. The motley group of regulars had moved away from the bar to see if our performance would do the trick.

At the appointed hour, we saw the figure staggering down the street, dripping wet from its long walk across the bottom of the river. The light evening breeze mercifully dispelled the unhealthy odors that the approaching thing brought with it.

Edsel stepped forward to meet the approaching thing. “My money’s on the zombie,” Paul whispered. I stayed quiet, pacing to one side to see if I could take a few photos of the bizarre scene. Which was stranger was anyone’s guess—the sight of the undead creature, or the equally disturbing sight of Edsel dressed sharply in a Navy uniform we had borrowed from the local production of “South Pacific.”

“Apprentice Seaman Virgil Baggs!” Edsel snapped in a commanding voice he reserved for breaking in new people at the paper. “Atten-shun!” The creature paused and its eyeless sockets seemed to widen at the sight of Edsel. Its slouching skeletal frame stiffened with cracking sounds as it drew itself ramrod straight, easily outdoing Edsel.

“Yes sir!” it croaked, to everyone’s amazement.

“Son, we’ve been looking everywhere for you!” Edsel said drawing closer.

“I’ve been at my post sir!” Virgil croaked, strangely shuddering. Whether it was because of its decaying frame or in fright was anyone’s guess.

“Of course. At ease,” Edsel said, sensing the tension building. Virgil almost collapsed as he relaxed. “As the Admiral of the Submarine Service, I’m here to give you your DD-214 papers.” Virgil looked at Edsel and the envelope he was offering with puzzlement.

“My what?” Virgil slurred.

“Your honorable discharge papers,” Edsel said, laying it on thick. “For your faithful service to the country, not deserting your post, and going beyond the call of duty.” A few snickers from the crowd punctuated the last remark, “ You are hereby discharged from the United States Navy.” Dumbly, Virgil took the envelope filled with a copy of a DD-214 form Edsel had made out to him.

“Three cheers!” I shouted, trying to make it as believable as possible. With a little work we managed to muster a convincing set of cheers out of the assembled group, most of who assumed I had said “three beers.”

“What do I do now?” Virgil asked, still as dazed as a zombie could be.

“Head home, son,” Edsel said, looking around. “At this hour, the trains aren’t running though….”

“I’ll walk I guess.” Virgil slurred, turning and heading back toward Prescott Park, “I really wanted to git some Japs…”

“Maybe you could join the Marines when you get back home and see your folks,” Paul said as our little crowd followed the zombie back through the park and past the gardens.

“Maybe,” Virgil said, as he headed past the old Sheafe warehouse, and began to walk down the gentle slope into the icy cold waters of the Piscataqua. He paused for a moment, then turned and saluted us all. “Thanks for everything suh!” Virgil slurred, before turning back and slowly walking and vanishing down into the swirling eddies of the dark river waters.

We stood there for a few minutes in silence, watching the reflection of the shipyard lights on the waves of the Piscataqua before Edsel gave up the pretense that he was an officer, and slumped, perhaps more so than Virgil had.

“Think it worked?” he asked me.

“Looks like it did,” Paul said as Sid prodded him for the winnings of his lost wager.

“Good,” Edsel said after a pause. “I think I need a drink after pulling that off.”

“On the house,” Hogan said quietly, as if Virgil might still be in earshot. Our little group repaired to the bar for the evening.

That was the last that was ever seen of the zombie Virgil Baggs. In Portsmouth, New Hampshire, at least. It is a story that will be lost to the ages, I’m afraid, since the respectable daily newspaper that I work for would never consider publishing such a bizarre tale of an undead sailor haunting an obscure bar for a drink night after night.

Edsel though, insisted that I write it down, and forward it to the proper authorities, just in case.

By his calculations, at the rate Virgil is traveling as he staggers under the waters, it’s very likely that he may shuffle ashore somewhere near Mobile, Alabama, in late 2074 on his way home to his vanished hometown of Anthrax.

Slow Morning

by John A. McColley

I wake up to a faint, distant buzzing in my ears. A fly strafes my head and I swat at it. My hand rises slowly, but the stiffness in my limbs is my biggest concern as my hand collides with something on its way to my face. I open my eyes, but the darkness is complete. Wherever I am this time, at least there aren't any holes in the walls. I've been waking up in strange places for months, since I lost my job at The Rusty Nail.

I poke around the low ceiling with my hands, looking for a light switch or which side the wall is on. Strange thing: the ceiling's padded, covered with some slippery fabric. I keep feeling around, find a wall. I reach the other way to find the edge of the bed, but run into another wall. I gasp, and the air is foul, like a high school chemistry lab closet. I gag, cry out, but the sound that comes out of my mouth is muffled. I realize that I can't open my mouth, that it's been filled with cotton or some kind of cloth. I pound on the ceiling. That sound is strange, almost muffled, too. I reach over my head, looking for a door latch or light I'm sure won't be there now. More fabric. This is one hell of a joke.

My first thought is the guys down at Daniel Street Tavern. I really made a fool of myself a few nights ago, trying to do Karaoke. But no, that's normal. They're cool with that. What is it they say? "We don't care who you are." Then who? Do I owe someone money? Is this one of those stupid camera shows?

"Come on, joke's over! Let me out!" I try to yell, but there's something holding my lips closed and it comes out as a pained moan. I keep on pounding, pounding, scratching, sometimes working with my knees, sometimes with my elbows. I don't really feel the pain; adrenaline, I guess. I hear wood splinter, feel pieces of it fall onto my chest, pull it away.

Something falls on my face. I wipe it away, rolling it between my fingers to figure out what it is. Dirt? They didn't. You didn't! I think at them, whoever “they” are that put me here. Sickos. I panic now, pulling more dirt down on top of me, shoving it to the side, and down by my feet. The cramped space gets smaller. The buzz I heard before is back, behind the scratching and the patter of the dirt on itself as it falls. The fly must be sitting right beside my ear.

I force my way up between broken boards, pushing the dirt down into the coffin, wriggling forward, upward, like a worm through the dense, clay-filled soil. Somehow, the buzzing continues. The fly seems as intent on living as I. I push. I pull. I press the soil behind me to give me more room to move. Finally, white light pours down on me from above. A grassy hole the width of one hand seems like the gates of Heaven. I writhe forward, hear a pop somewhere, but still feel no pain. I start pushing the soil up and out rather than trying to push it down past me. The tunnel is pretty much full back there, anyway.

I reach one arm out, pull myself up a little, and manage to work the other arm out. I push, but my right arm doesn't want to move that way, and I reach around for something to pull myself up with. I connect with something solid, find an edge and pull. I move up a few inches, but the stone falls forward, sending a thump through the earth. I feel it in my chest. I grab grass, and dig into the soil for purchase, inching out of the hole like a butterfly from its chrysalis. Free.

I look around. I’m in the graveyard at the end of Peverly Hill Road. All around me, there are other holes in the ground, piles of dirt, hands reaching for the sky. I go to one of the sets of hands. The nails are chipped, but were once painted red. I reach down, kneeling for balance, and grab one hand. It grips back. The other wraps around mine. I pull back. Once again I hear a tearing sound and a moan. I fall back; the light is harsh on my eyes despite the low ceiling of clouds. At least the other is free. We can figure out who did this to us, together. I sit up, looking down at the hand in my hands. My eyes run quickly up the forearm to the—oh god!

The arm ends after the elbow. The other arm reaches out, as though searching. A mass of blonde hair, like sunrise, peaks over the edge of the hole. I shake the hand out of mine, pushing it, finally with my other hand. I try to scramble backward, but my right arm is still useless. It bumps into my side as I walk. I'll have to get to the hospital and have it looked at before I go looking for the ones who did this to me.

I get to my feet and shuffle to the entrance of the cemetery. There are no cars on the road. I cross to the baseball field, then follow Islington toward town. I pass the West End Studio Theatre, where one of my friends has done some shows, and a Store Two Four where they make some decent coffee, especially at three in the morning when you really need the caffeine just to find your way home. It's at this intersection, where I’m usually in fear for my life, that I realize I haven't seen a single car in motion. There are a few parked here and there, some at weird angles. It strikes me odd that no one's rushing to work, or to pick up the kids, or whatever. That fly is still buzzing around me, starting to really get on my nerves. I haven't seen it, but my neck is so stiff, I'm not surprised. I can barely turn my head.

Other people are walking. A lot of other people. Most of them are headed the same way I am, but I don't feel like talking to anybody who's not going to help me find Jake. I'm sure it was him. Thinks I owe him for getting me that crummy job when I first got to town. He always gives me hell when he sees me, and he's got a mean streak, especially when he's drunk. Could be that he found me already passed out and dragged me down to the cemetery. He's bigger than me. He could probably do it by himself.

I swing my arm to scare away the fly, but it doesn't seem to notice. It follows me all the way to the center of town, where I take a left, and a right, not looking at the street signs, but knowing I was on State, anyway. Molly Malone's stood up on the left. It's Jake's daytime hangout when he's not slinging coffee at Breaking New Grounds. That's where I'll find him, and punch him out, even if it meant a broken nose for me. Bury me? I don't care how drunk I'd been or what I'd said. I guy could get hurt that way!

I climb the granite stairs with some difficulty. What did I do last night? Run a marathon? Help someone move into a third floor walk-up? I try the door, but either I'm not getting the latch right, or it's locked. Someone screams on the other side of the door. Another voice joins her. This one's male, familiar. Jake! I charge the door from the other side of the landing. The door rattles, its glass cracks. I hit it again, feeling the shudder go through my body, but it's more of a note left at the door by a stranger than an express-mailed package that requires a signature. I ignore it.

The fourth time, the door is splintering. Someone yells from inside. That voice... Jake? Didn't I want to talk to him about something? Why is the door locked, anyway? All I want is some food, and something in there smells wonderful. Again. Again I barrel into the door, towards the food. It's dark inside, somehow comforting. The woman in front of me runs up the stairs. To the left, an open door leads to a dark room with empty tables and empty chairs. Between the stairs and the open door, someone hides behind a podium with a cash register and reservations book atop it. It's no one I recognize, and though they smell like they might be one of the cooks, I head up.

I take a hard left at the top of the stairs, moving into the upstairs dining area and the pub. I turn, looking over the railing back down to the cook on the first floor, heavy frying pan over his head. He charges, and I realize it's Jake. I put out my hand to stop him. My stiff fingers clutch his heavy shirt. His skin feels strangely hot on the backs of my fingers. Is it some kind of fever? Is he sick? Is the town sick? Is that why there's no one on the streets on the way to work?

The metal pan strikes me in the head. I reel, letting go of Jake, pushing him away, and grabbing for anything to break my fall. I stumble back into the wall, hearing something else fall nearby, and then pick myself up. My eyes aren't focusing that good now, but I don't see Jake. I walk along the wall, my shoulder bouncing off it. I hear more grinding sounds just below my right ear. The fly returns, buzzing by as though in duet with it. I hold my left arm out to catch the railing. I look over. Jake is down there, head at a weird angle. I shake my head. Too bad about Jake. He was a good guy most of the time. Wasn't he?

Who? I smell food and move to the door of the dining area. The door is closed, but I push on it and it swings open. There's a loud sound somewhere, and something hot hits me in the chest and neck, pushing me back toward the railing. Can't a guy get a meal in this town?

I shake it off and go through the door. There's a waitress and another person in there. I think I recognize them both, but their names don't come to mind.

"Oh my god! Is that Richard? He's been dead for a week! They said on the radio only people who died in the last three days were coming back! Shoot him again!" The woman screams and picks up a straight-backed chair as though in the middle of a barroom brawl.

The other raises the long object in his hands toward me and I lurch toward him. I stumble into him. He stumbles backward, against one of the chairs, into the window, through the window. Glass shatters. Something explodes. Everyone screams, only I'm still not screaming too good with my mouth wired shut. The woman takes her chance and charges me, but I'm in motion, now. The chair smashes into my right arm while I swing with my left. There is a tearing sound. She stumbles back, head impacting the edge of the bar. Blood pools around her, hot and rich and smelling like something I can't place. My stomach growls. It reminds me of the fly that woke me.

I make my way to the kitchen, take up a knife and cut at the thread keeping my mouth closed. I heave a sigh of relief and work the muscles there for a few seconds. Then I look around for sandwich makings.

Back out in the bar area, I draw myself some black and tan, slowly. I'm good at slowly, now. I sit down at one of the tables away from the window. The sun seems way too bright today. I don't know what it is.

By the clock on the wall, it's only 10 a.m., but it's been such a long day. I never got a chance to eat breakfast, and my stomach is complaining. That thought leads another into my mind. There's something else I haven't done all day. I search my suit, realizing that I am missing my right arm. Well, I guess I wasn't really missing it that much. I've got nothing on me. I search the waitress. My arm is on the floor beside a broken chair at her feet. Strange. Her pockets produce the goods, and I pick up a pack of matches from a bowl at the corner of the bar.

Sweetbreads for Johnny

by Michael Hunter

The Portsmouth and Winnacunnet high school football players slammed into each other with a grunt and hit the ground. More players piled on. Kitty leaped in the air, shaking her pompons.

“Yay,” she shouted.

“Not now,” one of the other cheerleaders hissed. “The sacked our quarterback.”

“Is that bad?” Kitty asked. She didn’t know what was going on in the game, but she was determined to learn.

Johnny sauntered over, looking huge in his uniform and pads. “Coach is going to put me in,” he told Kitty.

“Ooh, that’s good.”

The boy leaned in close and rubbed his hand across her bare back.

“Johnny—”

“You are my girl now, aren’t you?” He pressed his lips against hers, but she pushed him away.

“That’s all you wanted to do last night and that’s all you want to do now.”

“So?” he said, trying to touch her again.

Kitty brushed off his caress. “Stop it. My mom’s here.”

“How about later—on the bus?”

“My mom’s giving me a ride home.” Someone called Johnny’s name. He turned and trotted toward the field. Kitty sighed.

“Why can’t I find someone who wants me for my brains?” she said to herself. Johnny turned and called to her from the field. “I’ll see you at the Halloween dance tonight.”

“’kay,” she shouted back. She would meet him there. She would meet him, but she would to ask him the question— why did he really want to date her? If he didn’t answer right, it was over.

Eddy laid the dust pan down and swept the pile of dirt into it. He dumped it into the trash can. A plume of dust billowed up. Eddy surveyed the room in the dim light. It was just one of the many rooms under the Athenaeum, and he had many more to go. Who would guess this old museum had so much cellar beneath it. He was pretty certain the cellar extended out beyond the walls of the upper building, maybe even under the street.

Eddy would have been happy to spend his afternoons playing X-box and drinking Coke, but his mother had other ideas. She knew the old ladies who ran the Atheneum and had signed him up without asking. Dust the storage containers, sweep the floor, but don’t change the location of anything. He must have found 15 mouse nests tucked away down here. He cleaned them up—turds and all. The old ladies better appreciate that.

A grandfather clock stood against the back wall, tall and ornate. Eddy dusted it off and then began to wrestle it to one side. The ladies wanted him to sweep under everything. The old fussbudgets. He wrapped his arms around the clock and began to rock it out of the way when there was a “snick” sound. A small door in the side of the clock head had opened slightly. It was carved so well into the woodwork that it would be invisible if he pushed it closed. Instead, he opened it. There was something inside and he pulled it out. It was a triangular piece of wood with bone or ivory inlaid in a pattern. Some foreign writing ran around the edges. Eddy guessed it was Latin, but it was tough to be sure. Friggy might know. He was taking Latin. Eddy slipped the odd thing into his pocket. He would ask Friggy about it later when he saw him at the Halloween dance.

The last bit of dirt took only a minute to sweep up and he was done for the afternoon. Eddy stopped to ask a question on the way out.

“Mrs. Struthers, where did that clock come from? The one at the back of room C?”

“The clock?” She stopped for a moment, a pensive expression on her face. “Oh – that clock was owned by John and Marie Hontvet.” She peered at him, looking for a reaction. He had none. “You’ve heard of the Smuttynose Murders?”

Eddy shook his head no.

“Well, there were two murders out on the Isles of Shoals and a man was hanged for them. It happened over a hundred years ago.” She dropped her voice and moved her head closer. “But some believe it was actually their neighbor who did it—Mrs. Hontvet, the owner of the clock.” Eddy’s eyes widened and Mrs Struthers nodded. “They said she was involved in witchcraft, that she was casting spells on the town. They swore she could raise the dead.”

“Really?”

“Yes, and one year after the murders she turned up dead herself—drowned in her night clothes. There was no investigation. She’s buried in the North Cemetery.”

“And she’s still there?”

“Of course, she couldn’t raise herself. She’s dead as a doorknob,” Mrs. Struthers smiled. “Goodnight Eddy.”

“Goodnight, Mrs. Struthers.”

Portsmouth High had beaten Winnacunnet. Spirits were high on the bus. It had looked bad for a while, Winnacunnet had led by two points in the last quarter, but then Portsmouth pulled a touchdown and won the day. Everyone was there, the team, the cheerleaders, a lot of friends. They were laughing and throwing Cheetos as they rolled down Ocean Boulevard toward home. The road paralleled the coast and Johnny could see the ocean crashing against boulders below. He wanted to take part in the fun the others were having, but things were bothering him. His parents were on him about his grades. They didn’t seem to understand how hard it was juggling football and homework. And Kitty was acting funny lately. All girls wanted to do was talk about their feelings. I feel this and I feel that. How do you feel? He knew what he wanted to feel. Kit looked darned good in that cheerleader skirt. He wished she was with him.

The bus rolled slightly into the oncoming lane and then swerved back. Johnny glanced down the aisle at the driver. Something wasn’t right. As he watched, the driver shook his head and slapped himself lightly in the face. Johnny stood up and began to make his way forward.

They were at the turn-off to Atlantic Avenue when it happened. Instead of slowing down, the driver continued straight at high speed. The bus crashed through the rail and sailed out into space. It tumbled as it fell. The passengers experienced weightlessness as the world tuned upside down. Then the bus hit the black boulders at the edge of the sea, crushing the roof and the passengers along with it. Seconds later, there was an explosion.

Five fire trucks answered the call, but there was little for them to do, and it made no difference to the kids inside the bus. There was some discussion on where to take the bodies. They would need to be laid out for identification. Grieving relatives would be coming to find their loved ones. After a short debate, a solution was found and the removal of the bodies began.

The music was thumping. Orange pumpkin lights were strung on the walls and ceiling. The Halloween dance was in full swing at Portsmouth High.

Eddy saw his friends. “Jack, Friggy, how’re you doing?”

“Good. Jack danced with Kristen and he looked like a dork.”

“At least I asked someone. You’ll stand here all night with sweaty armpits.”

“My pits aren’t sweating at all. I’m going to dance. I’m just waiting for a good song. Look, there’s Kitty.”

Kitty stood alone, sipping punch, glancing about as though she were waiting for someone.

“Eddy, you know her a little bit, why don’t you ask her to dance?”

Eddy looked over. Kitty lived down the street. They had played together when they were small and she had grown up nicely. She looked great.

“Kitty’s dating Johnny Cross,” Eddy said. “He’s got arms like a gorilla and I don’t want them wrapped around my neck. I think I’ll pass.”

Kitty glanced about the room. Where was Johnny? None of the boys from the team were there or the cheerleaders either. Maybe they went to a drinking party before the dance. She could see some other girls were waiting for their boyfriends.

Johnny knew she didn’t want him drinking. If he came in drunk and started pawing at her, she would walk away. Maybe she would dance with one of those goofy boys over there. They were looking at her again. She recognized one of them as Eddy Thompson. He was kind of nice.

A chaperone walked out the doorway and into the hall, on patrol for off-color antics. There was movement down the hallway. It was a fireman walking into the cafeteria, carrying something large. She opened a door to investigate and stepped inside. The smell of charred flesh and bowels was overwhelming. She had to cover her mouth to suppress a gag. There were at least a dozen bodies laid out and the firemen were carrying in more.

“What is this?” she gasped through the smell.

“Bad accident,” one of the firemen replied. “Laying out the bodies for identification.”

“Here, in the cafeteria? You can’t do this here. It’s not sanitary and there’s a school dance going on a few doors down.”

“The school superintendent gave us the key. We saw the gym was full so we put them in here.” He didn’t seem bothered by the smell.

Eddy pulled the wood and bone item out of his pocket. ““Hey, Friggy, I’ve got something for you to look at. It’s got some kind of writing on it. Is that Latin?”

Friggy took the triangular talisman and squinted at it in the orange light. “Yeah, looks like it.”

“Can you read it?”

Friggy thought for a moment and then he began to read it out loud. were six lines, two on each edge of the triangle and he paused when he was done. None of them spoke. There was something about the sound of the words that was disconcerting. A flash of lightning lit up the windows and thunder crashed.

They jumped in surprise. “I didn’t know it was supposed to rain,” said Jack.

“Wasn’t a cloud in the sky.” They glanced at each other and then up at the windows.

“What do those words mean in English?” Eddy asked.

Friggy peered at the writing. “Near as I can tell it says,

Judge thine brother, no mercy give. Condemn a man, the dead shall live.

Eternal life to those at rest. Endless strife at my behest.

Destroy them whole, end in pain. Lifeless soul to consume thy brain.”

The chaperone saw one of the bodies twitch. She looked in disbelief. It twitched again.

A fireman saw it, too, and he shouted to the others. “We got a live one here. Call in the medics.” They gathered around the survivor. It was a miracle anyone was alive. The bodies appeared so mangled and charred. Then another one moved and another.

“What’s going on?” said a fireman. “They can’t all be alive.”

The accident victims began to sit up. Their movements were jerky and uncoordinated, but soon some of them were standing.

Something inside Johnny’s damaged brain flicked on. His eyes opened as a handful of synapses began to fire in a basic part of his brain. There was a craving. He couldn’t identify it yet—not enough of his brain had booted up—but there was a remnant of a memory there. The memory said he was supposed to be at the school dance. His uncoordinated body climbed to its feet and he moved forward, heading for his destination.

“What the heck does all that mean?” Eddy asked, nervously.

“I don’t know,” Friggy said, handing the talisman back to Eddy. He looked across the room “But I’m going to ask Kitty to dance. She’s looking good and she’s all alone.” He began to move in her direction when the doors opened and kids began to pour in. They were in costume, elaborately made up with charred faces and crushed bodies. They lumbered forward in character. Some of the other kids “oohed” and “ahhhed.”

“They look so real,” one girl said.

“Johnny!” Kitty said, with delight. “So that’s why you were late. You were all getting made up!” She hugged him. “God, your makeup smells awful.” She inspected his costume. Half of his face looked burnt and part of his shirt, too. His head was dented and one shoulder looked a bit crushed. The left eye pointed off in an odd direction. “Whoever worked on you did a fantastic job.” She took his hand and spoke seriously. “Listen, we need to talk, and I want to do it privately. Come with me.” She led him out a back door. They stood in the parking lot among the cars. Johnny waited, staring blankly. His craving was stronger now but he still couldn’t identify it. This girl in front of him had a familiarity and perhaps the answer would come from her.

“We’ve been dating for a month now and it’s a lot of fun. I like being with you.” Johnny made a sound, half grunt, half groan. Kitty looked at him. She thought it was weird, but at least he was listening. He was looking at her so patiently. Maybe there was a chance.

Inside the gymnasium there was a slow dance on. Some of the girls had found their boyfriends among the late arrivals and they were clinched up tight on the dance floor. The boys were a little stiff in their costumes, but at least they were there. Other members of the football team were wandering about, groaning, confused by their unidentified craving. Suddenly, a scream cut through the music. It came from the dance floor. The doors to the gymnasium burst open and firemen ran in. The lights were flicked on. The scream came again and everyone turned toward the source. One of the football players stood looking down at his midsection. Something had fallen out. It looked like an endless string of sausages trailing out of his belly and they were draped over his girlfriend’s hands. She screamed again, frozen, unable to put the things down.

“Everybody get out,” shouted a fireman. “They are real. These are real zombies. Get out as quickly as you can.”

There were more screams and shouts as everyone scrambled for the exits. Eddy was knocked down and something flew from his pocket. Zombies turned in confusion, their small amount of brain matter unable to comprehend what was happening. There had been a command to get out. Everyone was running for the doors. The zombies followed.

The coffee was hot at Breaking New Grounds. Folks outside, nibbling scones and sipping the evening blend. It was a perfect place to watch the Halloween parade. They heard the music first, the Jumbo Circus Peanuts on their horns. It wouldn’t be a parade without the Peanuts. The column came down Congress Street.

“Oh look,” said one patron, “a group of zombies are marching.”

“Great costumes,” said his girlfriend.

The zombies broke from the parade walking clumsily, moving just like real ones. There was a smell here and it drew them. Perhaps this was the thing to satisfy their craving. The zombies stumbled among the tables. One of them stopped, staring. It watched a man drink his coffee and it groaned.

“Looking sharp,” said the patron. “You like Columbian?” The zombie grabbed the man’s cup away and dumped it on his own upturned face. A bit sloshed into his mouth.

“Hey, what the heck?” the man shouted. “I paid three bucks for that.” He stood up and punched the zombie. To his surprise, it’s jaw popped off and swung by strings of flesh. The creature felt it’s face in confusion it’s tongue wagging in the newly opened space.

“Holy cow, look at that. It’s real,” the man exclaimed. “They all are.”

His girlfriend stood up in fright. “Let’s get out of here before they eat our brains.”

Something clicked inside the zombie’s barely functioning mind. One of the woman’s words filled in a blank spot and the creature finally understood it’s craving.

“Brains,” it roared. “Eat brains.” It lunged for the woman.

The walking dead nearby heard the word it all clicked into place. They understood their craving. A chain reaction swept through the creatures as they came to an understanding of their basic need. The area erupted in chaos. The creatures attacked. Parade watchers scrambled and fought for their lives. They ran and the zombies pursued, spreading out over the area. Down at the Rusty Hammer, the window crashed in as two zombies slammed through it. “Brains,” they groaned, brushing their way through the sharp glass.

Two bikers were relaxing over a beer. At the sound of the breaking glass, they jumped up from their seats. One of them pulled a pistol from inside his vest.

“Zombies,” he said. “the real thing.” He pointed his gun and shot a zombie in the head. It collapsed. More were coming and he shot a second one.

“And there’s another,” he said, aiming, but before he could shoot, his friend gripped his arm.

“No—not that one.”

“Why not?”

“It’s a goth.”

“Oh—I thought it looked dead.”

Eddy got up from the floor of the gymnasium. He had been knocked down in the confusion and his head hurt. There was broken glass and strewn across the floor and the string lights had been pulled down somehow. He had an idea what happened—it was that talisman. Somehow the Latin inscription had turned their football team and cheerleaders into zombies. He felt his pocket, but the talisman was gone. He looked down at the floor and began to search.

Kitty and Johnny were still out in the back parking lot talking. Kitty hadn’t allowed Johnny to say much. She had a lot of things pent up inside that needed to be said and it was best to get them all out at once. He only had to answer one question.

“Now you know how I feel,” Kitty said, holding his hands. “What I need to know from you is why you care about me. Why do you want to be with me? What is it in me that attracts you?” There, it was out. He had listened so patiently. She didn’t know he had it in him and her feelings for him had already increased because of it. She was almost certain she loved this boy. If only he would give the right answer.

The few brain cells that were left in Johnny’s head had been working hard for a half hour, trying to pin down this strange new craving. There was something about this girl—something inside her. Several synapses fired that hadn’t functioned before and it all fell into place. His eyes lit up. “Brains,” he said.

“What?” Kitty asked.

“Brains.”

“Oh, Johnny.”

The zombie opened his mouth and lunged forward, clamping his mouth on her neck. His toothless mouth gummed the flesh.

“Oh Johnny, yes! I love you. I love you,” she wailed. Then she shoved him back and looked into his eyes. “Not so hard. A small hickey—not a big one.”

Johnny grunted.

The bikers were retreating. The zombies were pressing in. There was a gunshot and another monster fell.

“I’m down to my last clip,” shouted the biker. Zombies pressed in from another direction and several more people were herded in with them. One of them was a goofy looking high school kid.

“Where the heck did these things come from?” asked the biker in frustration.

“I know,” the kid replied. “It was this.” He held up a triangular thing with fancy writing on it. “It’s a talisman and the inscription brought them to life. I can’t figure out how to use it, though.”

“I got an idea,” the biker said. He grabbed the talisman, threw it to the ground and crushed it under his boot. They all looked up at the zombies, expectantly. Nothing happened. The zombies kept coming.

“You broke it,” the kid said, “and now we’ll never stop them.”

“Had to try something. Looks like we’re gonna die.”

“Wait,” the kid gripped his arm, “I have an idea.” He pointed to a sign in front of the Lindberg’s Crossing restaurant: “Tonight’s Special: Sweet Breads.”

“What the heck is that?”

“Cow brains—it’s what they eat.”

The small party of people went inside and began cooking as much of the meat as they could fit on the grill. The roof vent did its work. All over downtown Portsmouth, zombie’s stopped as they caught the aroma of the sweet breads. They were drawn to it. Before long, the dead creatures were lumbering toward the restaurant. They found their way in and feasted on cow brains. The unholy aberrations never comprehended their existence. They never comprehended the barricaded doors or the flames that licked up around them. Eddy, the bikers and their small group watched as the building went up in flames.

“I’d guess that’s the end of them,” the biker said.

Eddy nodded. “We can only hope.”

The parking lot behind Portsmouth High appeared deserted of people. There were still cars there. A casual passer might have noticed the soft voices floating out of one minivan.

“Oh, Johnny.”

“Brains—brains.”

There Goes the Neighborhood

by Chase Robinson

How long does it take for a neighborhood to change? I’m an old-timer, and I don’t go out much any more. Mostly for dog food. The neighbors wonder what time I get up. They don’t know I don’t go to sleep. I’m watching.

This is how it started. The street used to be full of kids riding bikes without helmets, dogs running loose, neighbors saying hey, cars parked every which way.

Not now. Kids are  mini-Terminators with helmets, arm pads and knee pads. Dogs are on retractable leashes, invisible fence ready to execute them if they breach it.

I’m afraid, I’m very afraid. That’s why I watch. From my attic, from where they can’t see me.

Now. Whole streets blocked off and little green turtles with those damn orange flags standing sentry in front of almost every house. I never see who puts them there. One moment I see a new neighbor, and the instant I look away, there’s five more. They drive not Chevys, but Saabs, Beemers, Volvos. The Volvo drivers, they worry me, the way they look straight ahead, they’d never see me crossing the street.

I’m afraid, I’m very afraid. That’s why I watch. That’s why I don’t sleep.

I pull back from the window. Now I know. I saw that movie. But this is daytime. And they dress so nice. They couldn’t be zombies. I thought they were something else, something called Yuppies. But now I know. They’re Yombies. And they are everywhere.

Now. Yombies walk past old-timers, heads straight forward, arms stretched out, pushing little Yombies in strollers without as much as a glance. Every once in a while a Yombie will turn and look at an old-timer and even speak. Weeks later the old-timer disappears and his house is up for sale and is immediately sold to another Yombie. And out comes that damn turtle.

They have dogs that don’t bark, cats that are not scared of dogs, and they park their cars in a straight line. They have “brunch” and don’t invite the old-timers because this is when they morph. A neighbor of mine who is an old-timer was mistakenly invited to one and now he doesn’t know me.

I’m afraid, I’m very afraid. That’s why I don’t go out much anymore. Only for dog food. And my dogs go with me.