Zombies Earning Their Hunger by Brian S. Wheeler

  Chapter 8 - One Powerful Thirst

  Leroy Dettmer never feared the zombies. He never needed to hide behind a curtain to watch the zombies march passed his home in the morning. Leroy sat upon his front porch each morning on a wooden chair his own hands had crafted in his tool shop as the zombies limped by his home on their way to some zombie duty.

  He was a brave and strong man. Leroy Dettmer was a man who had never been afraid to tax his muscles to earn a fair, proud living. Thus he despised those zombies as they shambled down the street. Unlike more timid neighbors he knew, Leroy was not afraid when a zombie looked upon his face, one wrinkled and brown from so many days beneath a heated sun to work a hard field. And Leroy was not afraid to let those zombies understand how he felt about them each time one of their tired faces turned to envy him as he sat upon his comfortable, wooden chair upon his shaded and comfortable porch.

  “What the hell do you think you’re looking at?” Leroy shouted at the figure of some slumped woman holding a ridiculously small hammer. That woman was a fool, for she was wrapped in layers of clothing on such an unseasonably, hot autumn. “You might’ve earned a seat in the shade like mine if you’d only spent your time more wisely. That’s what sloth gets you in the end. Don’t you dare look towards Leroy Dettmer’s home and think you’re going to get an ounce of pity.”

  Leroy’s grandson Logan’s young face pressed against the screen door behind him. Leroy glared at the boy his daughter had abandoned into his care. “Boy, how many times do I have to tell you that you’re never to come out onto the porch while those zombies limp through town?”

  Logan bit his lip. His hands hook. His eyes teared.

  Leroy frowned. It would never do any good for Logan to grow up so sensitive and soft. “Well, boy, what’s wrong? Don’t just stand there, all ready to cry. What is it that you need to tell me?”

  “The bugs are back, Papa.”

  “What do you want me to do about them?”

  “There are a lot more of them now.”

  Leroy swore beneath his breath. “Hell, Logan, bugs are like that. It’s what you get for leaving cookie crumbs and candy wrappers all over your room.”

  “But I didn’t leave any cookies in my room.”

  “Don’t get smart with me, boy.” Leroy shook his head. “I let your mother be smart with me too often, and we know how well that turned out.”

  “But the bugs.”

  “Logan, you’re going to have to grow a spine. You hurry right back up to your room and stomp any bug you can find with the sole of your shoe. Don’t stop until you’ve got bug guts all over your floor, lets the other bugs know you mean business. You’re not a little boy anymore, Logan.”

  “I’m only seven, Papa.”

  “Like I said, you’re no longer a little boy. Now, you turn your ass right around and take care of your bug problem on your own.”

  Leroy said nothing else as Logan retreated back into the home. His wife Claire, if only she was still alive, would no doubt scold him for being too rough on the young child. But Claire always had such a difficult time understanding how a man must work and compete to survive in the tough world. He had always worked very hard upon inheriting the farm his father had given him, the farm fathers had passed down for their sons for one generation after another. He had always worked hard, and no matter what Claire implied, the drinking never got in the way of his efforts.

  A thirst for a good nip of whiskey, or better yet, of scotch came to him as he sat upon his front porch and watched the last of the zombies shambled down the street. He nearly forget how a good brandy could linger upon the tongue. Perhaps ugly Ollie Turner had some of the good, strong spirits stocked somewhere in his general store. Perhaps Ollie Turner would recognize that Leroy would only need to wait until the next crop before he could pay for whatever six-pack or bottle that might tempt his tongue. Perhaps Ollie Turner would loan him just a little credit until Leroy found his next windfall.

  “Don’t you dare look at me, you lazy, son-of-a-bitch!” Leroy extended a middle finger at another zombie who paused in the street to catch a breath. “Not my fault your parents didn’t stop to think how they might afford a child before they chose to fornicate! You just pick your ass up off of the asphalt before I plant my boot where the sun don’t shine!”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Leroy noticed something crawl over his boot. It was one of the bugs that must’ve been ailing poor, little Logan. Bugs were a natural part of life when you lived in a town such as Beckmire. Logan needed to learn how to handle them.

  But for that one bug, Leroy lifted a boot, and he took great satisfaction when he smashed his heel and spread those bug guts across the porch.

  Leroy Dettmer certainly deserved a good, stiff drink. Ollie Turner, ugly as that general store shopkeeper was, was also a hard-working man, and so Leroy was confident that Ollie Turner would grant him that little credit he needed to wet his thirst.