She put her feet on the coffee table and gazed above her blue toenail polish. “It’s a zombie movie. I don’t know the name of this one. I don’t think we’ve seen it. You’re missing it.”
“I’m making a sandwich—be there in a minute.” Ron hurried back to finish up before the guts started to fly. He tightened the lid on the mayo, gathered the provolone and ham, and stuck them in the fridge. Before he closed the door, he plucked out a bottle of Yellow Jacket Porter from the top shelf, but needed something to open it with. “What’s happening?” He opened a drawer, fumbled through measuring spoons, and carefully parted knives until spotting the onyx handle of the bottle opener.
“The zombies are wandering out of a cemetery and are walking the streets.”
“Zombies don’t walk, honey. Zombies shamble, or lurch, or something.” Ron opened the pantry door and scanned the choice of chips to go with his sandwich. After sampling a bag of corn chips and deciding they were stale, he opened a new bag of sour cream and green onion potato chips. “Are the zombies eating anybody yet?”
“No—hey, this looks like it was filmed downtown.”
“Downtown, here in Killeen? Why would they come to this town to film a zombie movie? This is small town Texas. Zombies on the beach would’ve had more appeal. It can’t be our downtown. Must be some other place. Downtowns in most cities look alike.”
He opened the bag of chips and crunched one down, then popped open the beer and chased the chip with a gulp. He folded the top of the chip bag and clamped on a clothespin to keep it fresh before placing it back in the pantry.
“I can’t hear you. I’m trying to listen. I don’t think it’s a movie.”
Ron stepped into the living room with beer and plate in hand. He stopped next to Leah and took another chug of beer. “That’s Channel Ten News. See, that’s Meg Gallo. Did you change the station?”
“No. Those zombies are coming out of Memory Gardens Cemetery. You know, by that big Baptist church. There was some audio in the beginning but now it’s out. Meg looks scared.”
Ron sat on the couch next to Leah and set his beer on the coffee table.
So much for watching a good horror movie, he thought.
The camera panned away from Meg, the reporter.
“Hey look, some homeless guy just walked out of the alley and those zombies over there are about to get him.” He took a bite from the sandwich. With his mouth half full, he said, “Wow, look at that. They’re on him like a swarm of locusts.”
The video feed abruptly stopped. The screen stared back with obsidian emptiness.
“Oh, my God. What’s happening? Ron, what should we do?”
“Uh, find another channel to watch?” Ron drank more beer and belched.
Leah shoved his shoulder. “I’m serious. You just saw what happened. What’s going on? What are we going to do?”
“You bought that? You thought that was real?” Ron chuckled.
“What else am I supposed to think? It was on the news.”
“I’ll give you a hint. What’s today?”
“Tuesday.”
“No, the date?”
“The first.”
“And, what month is it?”
“April.”
“Annnnnd, what is April first famous for?”
The tension gripping Leah’s face relaxed. “Oh, April Fool’s Day.”
“That’s right. The dead return to life—April Fool’s.” Ron made a victorious smirk.
“But that didn’t look like a joke. It looked so real.”
“Do you remember one year when the news did the fake story that the Liberty Bell was getting a sponsor and was going to be renamed the Taco Bell Liberty Bell? What we just watched was the same type of thing. That news story looked like a prank gone south. They were having audio problems and probably pulled the plug from the live feed and the station wasn’t prepared for it. The zombies looked real enough, but when that guy conveniently stepped out of the alley to become dinner, it looked like a set up to me. They needed a better script.” Ron picked up the remote and changed the channel. “Pulp Fiction. I love this movie. Let’s watch it.”
Leah mindlessly reached in the bag and picked out some popcorn. She mechanically chewed the kernels, seemingly oblivious to what was on the television screen.
Chapter 1
“Rico, don’t you think you’ve had enough tonight? Why don’t you go home to your wife?”
James Connors, better known as Pop, the owner of Pop’s Lounge, leaned on an elbow and smiled with one eye half closed. He had a tint of genuine concern in his voice, like always. Running a bar for the last forty years in downtown Killeen had taught him many life lessons on the power of suggestion. Taking into account the customer’s level of inebriation was essential.
Rico’s expression didn’t change as he continued to stare through the short, red haired proprietor. Four empty shot glasses set in a neat row on the bar in front of him as he held onto the last shot he had finished some five minutes before. The empty glass reminded him of how he felt as he gripped it tightly in one hand.
“Rico… Hey, big guy. Whatever’s eating at you, let it go.”
No response.
Rico looked away from the barkeep and stared into the distance.
“You’re sitting here in your police uniform getting shit faced. What if this gets back to your chief? You don’t want to jeopardize your job.”
The officer’s cheeks puffed out like a bullfrog, widening his mouth as whiskey from his stomach rose to irritate his throat. “I’m off duty. Give me another.”
“You’ve had five shots in the last hour. I can’t give you anymore. It’s my legal duty as a bartender to stop serving a patron if I think they’re showing signs of inebriation.”
“Fuck the law.”
“Can’t do that, buddy. Now you’re talking about my ass. I can’t let you get snookered to the point you leave out of here and hurt someone on the road. I’d get fined and shut down if that happens.”
Rico closed his eyes, adrift on a skiff through time and space. The bar chatter and music blended into an eerie silence. He had been alone before in life, but he had never felt this alone. Each passing second bled out an ounce of his will to live. The whiskey didn’t replace what he’d lost, as he hoped. His trusted friend that eased the pain had finally let him down. He shifted the glass to the other hand and mindlessly tapped the side with a finger.
“She’s not home,” he finally said.
“Who? Oh, your wife?”
“Not home. Says she can’t live with me anymore. Blames it on my drinking.” Rico turned his gaze to Pop for the first time since he sat down. It had been hard to look other people in the eye these days, thinking maybe if he didn’t engage them personally, then they couldn’t see him. Because if they saw him for whom he was, he would be forced to acknowledge the problem. Pop’s Irish grin melted a dam of bitter emotions. “I blame my drinking on my job. Fuck my job. Fuck the law. Fuck life.”
The old man nodded. His green eyes sparkled under time-marred eyelids. “You’re not the first cop to sit at my bar and drown his sorrows. I get that the job is tough. Day after day dealing with the worst society has to offer. Long hours, low pay, not knowing if the next guy you pull over for running a red light will whip out a gun and blow your head off. It sounds to me that you’ve just lost focus.”
“Focus?”
“Sure, think back to why you took the job some . . . how long ago was it?”
“I finished the Academy when I was twenty-two. That was eight years ago. Hmm,” Rico grimaced. “Eight years sounds like such a long time. Right now, it feels more like it was yesterday. I wish it were yesterday. I’d have done things differently.”