Life is Unfair Part 1: Billy Baxter
Is there anything more unfair than a zombie bite? Take the case of poor Billy Baxter, who was just doing chores as his mom had asked him.
“Did you take the garbage out, Billy?” Silence. “Billy?”
“No, Mom.”
“Turn off your game and take the garbage outside, please, or that’s the end of your screen time.”
Parents are brutal. Billy paused the screen, removed his headphones and hauled himself off the sofa with a long-suffering sigh. Like the obedient, if somewhat reluctant son that he was, Billy collected the garbage from beneath the kitchen sink and from the wastepaper basket in the main floor bathroom, consolidating them in a black plastic garbage bag. Shuffling to the side door, he stuffed the sack into the aluminum garbage can in the garage. Billy poked the automatic door opener and dragged the bin out into the darkness, metal shrieking down the asphalt driveway. But just as Billy was about to deposit the bin curbside, he was startled by rustling in the hedges beside him. His first thought was a raccoon hurrying to be the first trash panda to dive into this freshly delivered bounty. Billy hated raccoons. They gave him the heebie-jeebies. But it wasn’t a raccoon. What staggered out of the bushes made Billy wish for a raccoon. Even a rabid raccoon would have been better. They have vaccines for rabies.
With a scream, Billy tore free of his attacker. Reflexes honed from hours of gaming, he squirmed away from the cold, grasping fingers.
“Billy, are you okay?” his mom called from the garage. But Billy wasn’t okay. While he had escaped death’s clutches, it was only for a moment.
“Close the garage, Mom!” Billy sprinted up the driveway.
Mom’s reflexes weren’t as sharp, and she was a bit slow to hit the automatic garage door button. She hesitated; maternal instincts refusing to allow her to press the button until her son reached safety. Demonstrating no appreciation for lag time, Mrs. Baxter didn’t hit the button until Billy crossed the threshold separating driveway from garage.
With the belated poke of her finger, the motor hummed to life, the chain rattling, and then, ever so slowly, the garage door rumbled down its track. But by this time Billy’s shambling pursuer was already in the garage.
“Shut the door, Mom.” Shoving his mother into the house, Billy slammed the door shut. On the other side of the door, a thump and a frustrated groan as Billy’s undead pursuer found itself trapped in the Baxter’s garage. There was a crash as the ambulatory corpse staggered away from the locked door, banging around like a meat-bag pinball, rebounding off Mom’s car into a shelf, knocking over a case of tinned cat food and triggering the car alarm.
Billy was sobbing, and so was his mom. And not just because of the aftereffects of fear.
“Billy, you’re bleeding.” They could both see the bloody bite mark where infectious teeth had torn through the flesh of Billy’s forearm. If only Billy had ignored his mom’s request and stayed inside to play his video games. Is that fair?
Life is Unfair Part 2: Janey Doyle
And what about little Janey Doyle, who was only trying to save a kitten stuck up in a tree? If she were twelve years old like her big sister Nancy, Janey could have just stood on tiptoe and reached right up to pluck the mewling kitten out of the fork where the lowest branch diverged from the trunk. But Janey was only six and not yet tall enough to perform heroic feats. Janey would never grow to be as tall as Nancy; never grow to be twelve; never get to perform big-kid feats.
What she lacked in stature and years, Janey made up for in resourcefulness. Finding a plastic bucket in the sandbox, she turned it upside down to stand on. When the extra height of the bucket proved insufficient for the task, Janey pulled two cushions off her parents’ lawn chairs, piling them atop each other at the base of the tree, and set the upside-down bucket on top of them both. The plastic bucket wobbled precariously under little Janey’s feet, but undaunted, she stretched up, reaching for the kitten cooing, “Here, kitty, kitty.”
Anyone watching the six-year-old girl trying to balance on two cushions and a plastic pail would have expected her to fall. Maybe it would have turned out better for Janey if she had. But Janey didn’t fall. Straining with all her might, Janey’s fingers closed around the soft fur of the kitten and through her fingertips felt the thrumming rumble of its purr. She lifted it free of its perch in the tree.
But even as Janey’s foot rocked from teetering bucket to firm ground, the kitten in her hands let out a warning hiss. “Bad kitty,” is what Janey was about to say, but before the words left her lips, a shadow fell across them both. With a yowl of fear, the kitten leapt out of Janey’s hands. Turning, Janey found a zombie had discovered her while she was engrossed in her rescue mission. A less courageous girl would have run to save herself, but Janey possessed the heart of a hero. Seeing the kitten cowering under the lawn chair, Janey threw herself at the monster with no regard for her own safety.
“Leave my kitty alone,” she shrieked.
What chance has a six-year-old against the undead? Well, you’d be surprised! Just as she didn’t fall off that bucket, Janey did not let that zombie eat her or the kitten. Beating furiously at her attacker, Janey knocked it backward. The shambling corpse fell, tripping over the cushions and bucket behind it. Seizing the moment, little Janey snatched up the kitten and ran for safety. A testament to her courage and fighting spirit. But sadly, also to the spirit of self-sacrifice because in her brief but determined battle, little Janey received not one but three bites. None of them deep, all superficial. But the zombie virus is fatal in any dose. There is nothing fair about zombie bites.
Life is Unfair Part 3: Sisters Suck
Me? I just let the zombie in so it would bite my sister, Carol.
Carol can be a real bitch, okay? Don’t believe she deserved to become zombie chow? Did you know that when I was five, she used to come into my room at night after lights out and whisper in my ear that I was adopted? That our mom and dad had only taken me in because they felt sorry for me when they saw my own parents didn’t want me. When I inevitably cried, Carol hushed me, warning that she’d overheard Mom and Dad discussing whether they wanted to keep me. She told me that if they found out that I knew they weren’t my actual parents, they’d probably ship me off to an orphanage or maybe sell me to a factory in China where they’d put me to work sewing swooshes onto athletic shoes.
I sobbed into my pillow until I fell asleep and then I dreamt of old Mr. Chow from Golden Wok Buffet standing over me as I tried to force a sewing needle through the rubber soles of a shoe that stank of sweaty socks like the old muddy Asics Tigers that my dad wore for his morning runs.
Then there was that time Mom found a joint in the rec room after Nancy and I had a sleepover. Of course, Carol blamed it on us telling Mom that everyone at school knew I was a pothead who liked to toke up behind the portables with my friends every recess and lunch. Nancy and I didn’t even know where to get pot. The worst we’d ever done was steal a drag off one of the cigarettes that Mom kept hidden in her secret stash in the sock drawer beside her personal massager. It was disgusting and made us never want to smoke anything again. I wondered what our health-nut dad would think about Mom’s concealed contraband, but it never crossed my mind to rat her out. That was so Carol. Anyway, I don’t think Mom believed Carol about the joint, but that didn’t mean I was going to forgive her for trying to frame me. Nancy said Carol was probably just being a bitch because she was PMSing, but that would have meant she was PMSing all the time because Carol’s mean streak didn’t take days off.
“I heard your boyfriend Billy went and infected his whole family,” Carol teased. “Ate his own mom’s face off.”
“Stop it, Carol,” I cried, stomping to my room.
Carol trailed along behind me, arms held out, feet shuffling, mimicking the walk of the undead, singing, “Teresa’s boyfriend’s a zombie.”
“Shut up, Carol,” I shouted, slamming my bedroom door.
“Don’t slam the door, Teresa,” Dad called from behind the newspaper he was reading in the reclining chair in the living room.
It wasn’t fair! First, Billy was not my boyfriend. We’d kissed once at Nancy’s birthday party, but that was just because we were playing a dumb game of spin the bottle, and those were the rules. But also, I thought it was mean to make fun of Billy for infecting his family. Was it his fault that he got bitten? And what’s so funny about the whole Baxter family getting turned? How would Carol like it if it were her? And that’s when I got the idea.
Life is Unfair Part 4: Plans That Backfire
Why is it that in real life villains never seem to get what’s coming to them? In the books I liked to read, the hero always outsmarted the bad guy in the end. Wasn’t that how the world is supposed to work? Well, it never worked out that way for me. Every time I hatched a plan to exact revenge on my evil sister Carol; it always seemed to come back on me, like she was the Road Runner and I was that stupid Wile E. Coyote from that dumb old cartoon.
For example, there was that time Nancy and her family got quarantined for lice. I thought it was the perfect opportunity. I begged Nancy to cut off a lock of her hair before they treated her with that special shampoo. Nancy’s a good friend; she came through saving me a bundle of golden curls in an old jewellery box that we sometimes used when we played dress-up. Running home, I knocked on Carol’s bedroom door to make sure she wasn’t there before letting myself in. Quick as a thief, I crept over to her bed, opened the jewellery box and stuffed Nancy’s contaminated locks under Carol’s pillow.
Well, do you think it worked? Do you think Carol got any lice? No, of course not. But you know who did?
“I think you should just shave Teresa’s hair off,” Carol teased while Mom stood over me in the bathroom, lathering my lice-infested hair with that stinky shampoo.
“Shut up, Carol,” I cried.
“You shut up, bug-brain.”
“Girls,” mom sighed, but instead of sounding angry at Carol for teasing me and being an unrelenting bitch, mom just sounded tired like she had better things to do than discipline her mouthy eldest daughter or shampoo the parasites out of her definitely-not-adopted-youngest-daughter’s hair. Maybe Mom wished she could sneak up to her room to get one of the cigarettes out of her secret stash and smoke it out back when no one was watching. I could imagine her doing that right after she rinsed my hair out. And maybe afterwards, she would treat herself to a personal massage too. How was that fair? I was the one who needed a personal massage. My neck and shoulders were all knotted up with tension from crying over the news that I had lice and not Carol. That personal massager would have felt great on my neck and shoulders. Instead, I had Mom’s fingernails scraping the skin of my scalp raw as if it was my fault the lice had taken up residence there. Personally, I blamed Carol, but I didn’t blame the lice. If I were a louse, I wouldn’t want to live on Carol’s scalp either.
Life is Unfair Part 5: Romance
Seriously, in a neighbourhood filled with flesh-eating walking corpses, my sister Carol was the scariest monster on the block. How scary? Just ask poor Billy Baxter. Well, not now that he’s a zombie, obviously, but before that.
Billy was in Carol’s grade at school, and I guess Billy either wasn’t so bright or had the most horrible taste in girls because he thought my sister was cute. And Billy Baxter got it into his head to ask Carol out on a date. Most guys would have just passed a note that read, “Do U want to go out with me?” At the bottom, it would have two boxes, one marked ‘Yes’ and one marked ‘No’. Once the note was composed, and the response options clearly indicated, it was important that the note pass through the appropriate channels or risk being rejected on principle. The guy would pass the note to one of his friends, who would pass it to one of Carol’s friends, who would pass it giggling to Carol, who would crumple the note up and throw it in her suitor’s face.
But passing notes was not Billy’s style. Before Carol turned him into a video game-playing recluse, Billy harboured romantic aspirations. How romantic? Well, one evening Billy navigated his way past the three slavering zombies terrorizing our cul-de-sac, showing up at our front door with a bouquet of red roses.
“H-hi Mrs. Archer,” Billy stuttered when my mom answered the door. The look on his face suggested that he hadn’t considered the possibility that someone besides his love interest might live here. “Um, is Carol home?”
Mom smiled at the bouquet clutched in Billy’s trembling fingers. “Well, aren’t you sweet,” she said to our discomfited gentleman caller before turning to call for my sister, “Carol, one of your friends is here to see you.”
Carol was less impressed with Billy’s bouquet, throwing it right back in his face and shouting, “I would never go out with a smelly, ugly dork like you, Billy Baxter!”
“That seemed harsh,” Dad commented from his spot on the reclining chair in the living room after Carol slammed the door in Billy’s face.
The next day at school, Carol told everyone how Billy bawled like a baby when she rejected him. I didn’t believe it was true. Maybe Billy was crying when he ran from our house, dodging the slow old shambler who frequented our curb, but I don’t think he was bawling like a baby.
But the kids at school liked Carol’s version better, and they dubbed Billy Baxter ‘Baby Bawler.’ There’s just no coming back from that without moving towns and changing your name. No wonder Billy spent all his time on his living room sofa playing video games after that. It made me sad to think that poor Billy never got the chance to clear his name before staggering off into the afterlife.
But that’s what gave me the idea. Trapped in their house, the reanimated corpses that used to be the Baxter family continued to stumble around on their restless, undead legs. The idea of heartbroken, now dead, Billy Baxter wandering around in there with his decomposing parents got me thinking. Maybe Billy Baxter deserved a date with my sister Carol after all. Maybe undead Billy Baxter was exactly the sort of suitor Carol deserved.
Life is Unfair Part 6: Matchmaker
All someone needed to do was open the Baxters’ front door and lead them down the street to our house. Does it sound risky? I mean, we dodged zombies everyday on our way to and from school. And even though I didn’t own a collection of smelly running shoes, I did inherit my dad’s fleet feet (so much for your adoption theory, Carol). And once the Baxters had staggered their way to our front door, all they needed was for someone to let them in.
It was a perfect plan, not at all like the lice. Would I feel guilty for turning Carol into the walking dead? Why? She was already a monster! One good bite would just make it official. Undead Carol scared me a lot less than living Carol.
It should have been easy. I told Mom to stay in the basement while I prepared a surprise. With the basement door closed, the Baxters wouldn’t even know she was down there.
“Teresa, whatever are you up to?”
“Mom, I told you to stay in the basement,” I shouted from the hallway as our guests shuffled after me through the open door, into the front foyer.
“Honey, are those the Baxters?” While I was distracted, Mrs. Baxter reached for me. I flinched away. But instead of ducking back into the basement and shutting the door, Mom lunged forward crying, “Teresa, look out!”
“Mom, I’m okay,” I insisted, slipping away from Mr. Baxter’s reaching hands.
But Mom was not okay. Billy Baxter’s teeth closed around her bare ankle. Mom shrieked with pain. “Run, Teresa, run!” As if I was going to stand there and become zombie chow.
“Mom!” I cried, scampering up the stairs towards Carol’s room. This was all my sister’s fault. Mr. and Mrs. Baxter set upon my mom, but Billy Baxter, having exacted his pound of flesh, turned his bloody mug my way and stumbled up the steps after me.
“Carol,” I called between my sobs. “There’s someone here to see you!”
While I led Billy Baxter up the stairs, my dad arrived home early from work. Why today? Seeing the front door ajar, he hurried into the house only to discover the Baxters feeding on mom. Shouting, he rushed at them.
“Dad, no!” I yelled over my shoulder. Everyone knows you are not supposed to run toward zombies. Especially not after they have bitten someone you love. It’s already too late. All you’re going to do is provide the virus an opportunity to spread. Dad was a great runner. He could have run away. But he didn’t. Maybe we don’t always act rationally when we’re upset.
The upstairs hallway blurred through the tears streaming from my eyes. It wasn’t fair. This was not how it was supposed to happen! Carol was the one the Baxters were supposed to bite, not my parents.
Billy’s fingers clawed at my pant leg; I kicked them off with a cry and barrelled into Carol’s bedroom door. “Carol, open up,” I demanded. “Let me in!”
“Go away, Teresa.”
“Open the door, you dumb bitch!” I beat my fists against the pressed wood, but Carol wasn’t opening her door. Somehow, I hadn’t pictured the possibility that my stubborn sister wouldn’t answer. In my mind, Carol opened the door wide, like the time Mom called her out to receive Billy’s bouquet. Only this time, instead of flowers, Billy would deliver a different proposal. I envisioned Carol lurching back in fright as Billy staggered into her bedroom to claim the kiss she had denied him in life. Laughing at the poetic irony, I would slam her door closed, leaving the two lovebirds to their eternal privacy. It was all so perfect. Or it should have been. How like Carol to ruin everything.
“Carol,” I called again, panic replacing anguish. Billy’s cold, dead hands closed about me, his teeth clamping down on my neck.
“Get off!” Turning, I shoved what had once been Billy Baxter with all my fury. He stumbled back, heel slipping over the edge of the top stair, the rest of him tumbling after. It might have been comedic, the way he somersaulted down the stairs to crash into the bowling-pin corpses of Mr. and Mrs. Baxter, who were just beginning their ascent, were it not for the fact that somewhere down there both my parents lay dead and infected. If it had not been for the burning pain in my neck and the ooze of blood seeping out of the wound. So unfair!
Then, a minute too late, Carol’s bedroom door swung open, and there stood the monster herself. “What are you on about, you stupid cow?” Carol glared down at me, standing right where Billy Baxter was supposed to have been standing. “Have you been bitten?” Carol’s accusing eyes fixed on my bleeding neck. Then, glancing down to the foot of the stairs where the Baxter family’s limbs tangled as all three scrambled to get up the stairs, “Did you let the zombies in, Teresa?”
It’s all your fault! I wanted to scream, but there she stood, blaming me. After all, I did let in the zombies. And I was foolish enough to let them bite me. I let them bite everyone except the one person who deserved it. The Baxters crawled over each other as they climbed the staircase towards us.
“You’re so stupid,” Carol said. Carol unbitten while the rest of us were doomed to succumb to the virus. Was there no justice? Did only the innocent have to suffer? How did villainous monsters like Carol get off without a scratch? With a growl, I bared my teeth, deciding to take matters into my own jaws. Cursing the Baxters, cursing my sister, and cursing myself for another botched plan, I launched myself at Carol. With a crash, Carol slammed the door right in my face. My head exploded with pain, my nose shattered, my already wet eyes filled with fresh tears of agony as I reeled back right into the Baxters’ embrace. As their fingers closed upon my flesh, as their bloody mouths tore through my clothes, the last thing I saw was Carol’s bedroom door firmly closed, my sister safely inside. And I wondered, is there anything more unfair than a zombie bite?