Rants of the Dead

Groans filled our ears and decaying fingernails clawed at our door.

But we’re protected.

Mainly thanks to the safe room my father—excuse me, stepfather—installed in the west wing of the manor. Who knew that privilege could protect you against a horde of flesh-eating zombies?

For one, we didn't even know this room existed. He only revealed it to us five minutes before we entered. Clearly, it was a safe bunker for him to curse our names in peace, while listening to smooth jazz. I hated my stepfather and his pompous collection of fake Steve Harvey-suits and his aged, slicked-back gray hair, desperately wanting to be a silver fox but ignoring his true calling as a man with the face of an armadillo.

Dante was a man of ideas, and no execution. Luckily for him, money and personal circumstances can often temporarily fill in for human flaws. What my mother, or any of his friends, saw in him is a bigger mystery than what led to the current outbreak.

To make matters worse, it wasn’t just me and him. My stepbrother, Cal, was also in the picture—and just as annoying. I don’t know what I hated more: his newly blonde hair, the crescent moon earrings, or his multiple personalities, all of which are based on whatever song he's currently listening to. “Maybe, we should call the police,” my step brother said, with all seriousness.

“Hmm,” Dante pondered. “Maybe.”

I was surrounded by idiots somehow more brain-dead than the creatures outside. “They’re probably dead,” I chimed in.

The groans began to grow outside. It was becoming restless.

Hungry.

“Now what?” Cal hissed. “Do we just stay here?” He began swiping sweat from his oversized forehead, which had the width of a microwave. This nightmare was starting to get to him. And it was getting to me too. But one of the perks of being a Scorpio is, I’m good at burying my emotions.

“I think it’s time we take a peek. Shall we?” my stepfather said as he rose to his feet for the first time in hours.

In his hand was a tablet with footage from every camera around the house. One of the cameras showed the front yard. Every so often a neighbor could be seen running for their lives. Maybe if they had on running shoes they would have survived. Boat shoes are not good for a zombie apocalypse.

“We can’t stay here forever.” My brother shivered as the words left his mouth. “We’re going to need to eat.”

“Maybe if we didn’t order takeout all the time we would have rations.” I said under my breath. “That reminds me, we forgot to let the butler inside,” a bit of remorse in my father’s voice.

On a different camera, the butler, now a recruit in the army of the undead, was still in the kitchen. It was as if he was loyal to tending to the cutlery, even in death. You know, I once caught him stealing from Dante's bedroom. I assured him he was fine and pointed him to the finer jewelry. He was pretty underpaid, so that felt like a bonus.

“Someone is at the front door,” Cal said, leaning forward and blocking our view of the only source of reality television.

We quickly brushed him aside and set our eyes back on the front yard. Mr. Locket was furiously banging on the door. He was a short, bald, often angry man with a lingering stare. Before the outbreak, he had started a community watch service, which was odd because the community felt he was the creepy one.

“Let me in!” He protested. “Debra is dead!”

“Who is Debra again?” Dante questioned, genuinely. Cal and I shared a glance. We turned back to him and shook our heads in unison. Our family never remembered much about our neighbors.

On another camera, in our living room, we could see the zombies heading in Mr. Locket’s direction. His shouting had piqued their interest and teased their bellies.

Dante clicked on the tablet, cutting on a microphone that was connected to the front door. Clearing his throat, he said, “Mr. Locket, I’m so sorry about Debra, you know how we felt about her.” It was a very convincing lie, which was the only thing my stepfather was well-versed in. “I’m unlocking the door now, hurry upstairs.”

You would think me and Cal would be disturbed by this sacrifice. But honestly, the way I see it, Mr. Locket was actually serving his community for once in his life.

The door shuddered from the loud banging.

I turned to the door, for the first time acknowledging the sounds from outside the room. The groans had turned to more of a crying—begging even. As I stepped towards the door I could feel the eyes of my ‘family’ behind me.

“What do you think you’re doing, dear?” questioned my stepfather.

I decided to answer him with my actions. I opened the door and greeted the undead with a smile.

Standing before me, with sunken eyes and peeling skin, was my very own mother. Yet her makeup was still intact as she had only recently been bitten. Even in this new form, she looked amazing.

Who knew ‘Black don’t crack’ extended to the dead?

A boubou was wrapped softly around her body. It belonged to her mother, who sewed it together during her youth in Senegal. She always told me that the times she watched her mother sew were the most peaceful moments of her life.

Cal and Dante fled to the corner of the room. Once there, my stepfather made sure to keep Cal in front of him like a human shield. I guess it was his turn to be the man of the house. You know, honestly, I’ve never seen two men more afraid of a woman.

Meanwhile, I stepped deeper into the room, letting her enter as she pleased, since technically, this was her house too. I watched as she lifted her cold, dead hands toward my warm, freckled face.

Looking into her eyes, I couldn't say for sure if she still remembered me.

But it felt good to know that even after death, I could continue walking this earth with the person I cared about most.