Free Zombie Tales: Primrose Court Apt. 205 by Robert Decoteau Page B

almost a full hour early
every morning, but I didn’t mind. I became something of a teacher’s
pet, helping to set up different projects and staple handouts
together.
    One February morning when I was ten, my
father and I were working our way down our little mountain in his
old Ford Econoline van and we hit a patch of ice. The rear of the
van slipped over the embankment and we tumbled nearly 200 feet down
into a ravine. All of the windows shattered and I could hear the
glass tinkling as the van crunched, rolled, and crunched some more.
Finally, we came to a stop upside down.
    Dad’s legs were pinned under the steering
column. One of his femurs was broken and protruded from a hole in
his blood soaked jeans. I managed to undo my seatbelt and crawl out
of the wreckage. Once my father regained consciousness, he
instructed me to go for help. He told me we were two miles from
Route 27, there should be morning traffic. Just follow the road
down the hill and flag down the first car I see.
    It took me nearly an hour to get out of the
ravine and almost another hour to get to the highway. My father was
dead and cold before I finally got a car to stop. The autopsy
report cited blood loss, shock, and hypothermia as cause of death.
I had the Chicken Pocks on the day of the funeral.
    My screen saver popped up and I blinked,
realizing that I had been sitting at my computer with my hands
poised over the keyboard, not working. There was shouting from down
in the courtyard. I went to investigate. From my dining room
window, I had a perfect view of the scene unfolding below. I stayed
back a few steps, slightly behind the curtain to avoid being
noticed.
    Just as I had suspected I saw Mr. and Mrs.
Grimly facing off. I glanced at my watch, 10:13. I flipped through
my notebook to the “Grimly” page and recorded the incident. I would
note the duration of the argument and the number of times profanity
was used, English and Spanish.
    “Why do you doing this every time?” Mrs.
Grimly demanded in her shill voice, “I tol’ you it is jus’ a job,
jus’ work, Charlie. Now get out of the way so I don’t be late
again.”
    “But, baby, we talked about this,” Her
husband responded calmly. He always seemed to keep his cool. “I
have a lot of money, I have enough that you don’t have to work
anymore.”
    “I know, Charlie,” said the Hispanic woman,
“but I need to work, I always take care of myself.”
    I flipped back a few pages in my log, this
was the seventh such argument this month; twice in their apartment
right above me, once on the third floor landing, and three times on
the stairs. This was the first time they had made it as far as the
courtyard.
    Mr. Grimly was a rather rotund fellow with a
perspiration problem. His marriage to the striking, young brunet
was not at all stable. At first glance, one might think that Mr.
Grimly had married high above his station, but a few moments in the
company of the young woman would dispel that notion. She was
obviously very high maintenance and shallow, not to mention, the
vulgarities that she spewed detracted greatly from her beauty. In
the end, I counted it as a wash. They may not be the perfect
couple, but they were equal in their unpleasantness.
    “Charlie... Charlie!” The wife bellowed,
“Awe, forget it, I’m going to be late.”
    “Baby, please, just give me a few minutes to
talk,” Mr. Grimly pleaded,
    “We’ve been over this a dozen time!” his
spouse shrilled, “I’m sick of this chit, Charlie, you know who I am
when we get marry.”
    “Baby, please, don’t make a scene.”
    At least the portly man was sensible enough
to consider his neighbors and keep his voice down. His wife was
yelling at the top of her lungs in Spanish. I couldn’t tell you
what she was ranting about, the only Spanish I know are the major
swear words, and she was using them a lot.
    “Mari, honey, I can’t understand you,” Grimly
whispered to his wife.
    “Charlie, stop treating me like I’m sun