Free Zombie, Illinois by Scott Kenemore Page B

other stick to my right hand, I bob and sway in front of the zombie like a boxer waiting for the right moment to strike. It lowers its arms and leans in, like it’s smelling me.
    Gross.
    I jump forward and jam the drumstick hard into its remaining eye. The zombie staggers back again, blinded.
    Once the stick is secure I step back and Karate-kick the butt end as hard as I can, driving it even deeper. This seems to do the trick. The tattooed giant falls to its knees and then plops unceremoniously onto its side. It moans once, and then ceases to function.
    I lean against the side of my Jeep and try to catch my breath. I feel like I’ve just run a series of wind sprints.
    Before I can even start thinking about how I just killed a zombie—how I just killed a zombie!!! —I hear a loud shuddering noise and flinch. The doors of the freight elevator behind me are opening up. Two smiling porters with Trump Tower embroidered on their uniforms exit the elevator. They are pushing a small dumpster on wheels.
    One of them is talking: “And so she’s putting her pants on outside my door, and then my mother comes around the corner and before I can say anything she . . . holy hell!”
    The porters freeze. They are confronted by an exhausted young woman and a dead body with drumsticks driven into in its eye sockets.
    â€œShit . . .” one of them says, and runs back into the elevator. The other pulls out a cell phone and starts dialing. “Are you okay, miss?” he asks as he hastily dials.
    â€œOkay?” I answer distantly. Then I kind of think about it.
    â€œYeah, I’m okay. I’m pretty fucking awesome, actually. I just killed a zombie.”
    â€œYou did that?” the porter asks, gesturing to the crumpled body.
    I nod.
    He frowns and goes back to his phone. He cancels one call, and then places another. Three numbers long.
    That’s when I decide maybe the next thing I should do is get out of there.

Ben Bennington
    The next part is like a dream. (I think because it involves a lot of running but never escaping what you’re running from.)
    I leave my rusty sledgehammer buried in the zombie’s breast and run.
    Zombie.
    Yes, “zombie.” For so I know it to be.
    When people see a zombie, there seem to be three typical reactions. There are those who, instinctively, feel themselves qualified to attack—to start fighting the zombie with whatever’s handy—and this is what they do. There are those who instantly retreat to a safe place and start battening down the hatches. And then there are those who simply go mad and start running, anywhere and for no reason.
    I’d like to think I would be in the camp retaining enough sense to at least run for cover, or with a purpose in mind.. .but no. I just run. I run down the dark Chicago streets as fast as I can.
    Something primal kicks in and I want to find someone who’ll take care of me. A policeman. Mom or Dad. Any type of authority figure.
    But I’m not seeing anybody. The streets are dark and empty. Holy fuck.
    I notice that I’m saying “Jesus Christ” over and over under my breath as I run. Is it a prayer or a curse? I have no idea. I just keep saying it.
    A few moments later I find myself in Palmer Square Park. I’m hardly registering locations or navigation points as I flee in cowardly terror, but some part of me remembers that this large green space has a name. Palmer Square is a friendly area where you can normally count on finding joggers and kids playing soccer. At worst, you get a couple of gruff, smelly homeless guys minding their own business.
    In the orange glow of the streetlights ringing the park, I make out a furtive group of figures huddled together. I stop and look more closely. Two are naked. One is half-naked and has what appears to be the broken arm of an embalming apparatus dangling from the side of his chest. Two are dressed nicely, wearing a tuxedo and Sunday dress,