Not Everything Brainless is Dead

The Absurd Misadventures of Captain Rescue

Book 1

By Joshua Price

Copyright © 2011 by Joshua Price

Any similarities between the characters in this novel and real persons, living or undead, are completely coincidental. Awesome, but coincidental.

For myself,

I did write it after all.

Table of Contents:

Chapter 01: It is a Beautiful Day for a Robbery

Chapter 02: The Man of the Hour Approaches

Chapter 03: The Big Bad Bunny and the Great Good God

Chapter 04: The Tortoise and the Tortoise

Chapter 05: There’s No Place like Home

Chapter 06: Lessons Your Mother Should Have Taught You

Chapter 07: Like a Freight Train

Chapter 08: Zombies, Gun, & Rabbits

Chapter 09: There’s a New Sheriff in Town

Chapter 10: Dinner and a Show

Chapter 11: Bank Where We Started

Chapter 12: The Zombie Experience

Chapter 13: Well, if the Shoe Fits

Chapter 14: Way of the Sub

Chapter 15: They Do Exist

Chapter 16: That is One Evil Fountain

Chapter 17: Something Wicket This Way Bounces

Chapter 18: The Fourteenth Century Funhouse

Chapter 19: The End of the Beginning

Chapter 1: It is a Beautiful Day for a Robbery

The only thing standing between Dr. Malevolent and her salary was the large brick wall of the bank that held it. This bank, however, went by another name, an ostentatious name: The Bank. Intimidating yes—but it is nothing more than a clever marketing ploy, one that, unremarkably, worked perfectly. Everyone and their mothers flocked to The Bank. Regular Joes put their money in while criminals took it right back out. In retrospect, the founders would have had better luck naming their bank Cletus’s Farm Depot, but then, of course, it would be flocked to by nothing but hillbillies.

The story of how The Bank got its name was one of adventure and deceit. Before settling on its current and exceedingly successful moniker, much deliberation transpired of possible other names. To settle this deadlock, board members were asked to submit their suggestions so it could be put it to a vote. Dozens upon dozens of names found their way into the top hat, most of which were quite terrible. After a lengthy process, they had their winner. Shortly thereafter, they threw the winner out and The Bank was chosen. The other suggestions, like making the B backwards, or stylizing the name like “Banque” or “Baynk”, were collectively deemed lame, not a term the well-dressed businessmen used lightly.

Bank naming semantics aside, the most pressing concern right now, of course, is who is Dr. Malevolent? To answer that simply, she’s not only the most audacious, brilliant criminal mastermind the world has ever known, but she’s also the head of her own criminal organization that employs dozens of hardened criminals, liars, cheats, and a few flat out crazies. Like any good super villain, she is up to her dirty old trick again, refusing to learn any differently.

Right now, her lackeys are in position to breach The Bank, its succulent benefits ripe for the reaping. This, however, was not just a heist with the sole goal of getting rich. As everyone knows, all major criminals need to eat, pay their employees, take their dog to the vet when he eats those things he shouldn’t, spend all that money trying to figure out how to blow up the world, replace all their DVDs with their Blu-ray counterparts, so on and so forth. Since super villains didn’t exactly pay taxes or hold steady jobs, they needed to make ends meet somehow, even if it meant robbing banks or ripping candy from the hands of shrieking babies.

The city’s clock tower rang out, 3:00 in the afternoon, the perfect time for a bank robbery. Dr. Malevolent and her crew had slipped down a dark alley behind the bank and away from the prying eyes of pedestrians, although she wouldn’t be opposed to one or two eyes, after all, any publicity is good publicity, even more so those eyes belonged to possible recuits. With an air of embellished arrogance, the good doctor turned to her lead goon, Boris, and spouted the order, “Place the charges and let’s do this!”

“Sure thing, boss,” he replied through a feigned Russian accent. Boris was, after all, from the great state of Iowa. His parents had given him the birth name of Cecil DeWitt and he, among other things, enjoyed to role-play. On weekends (or weekdays that he felt he just needed to get away from the stresses of super villainy) Boris went by Charlie, a very tall and quite fuzzy blue bunny rabbit on a quest to find his one true love. He was not fussy though, any animal would do; it did not have to be another rabbit. He would have been just as happy with a fox, or a raccoon, or even those cute twins who ran around in a pantomime horse.

Dr. Malevolent glanced over to her second in command, who showed all the signs of being lost in one of his furry fantasies, not that it took mastery in the subtleties of the human face to point them out. Among other things, Boris’ eyes glazed over and his tongue rolled out of his mouth. She reminded him that there were no furry animals within the bank’s vault (that she knew of) and slapped the back of his head. He had other concerns—like the door frame he had lined with nothing less than a metric shit-ton of C5 (C4’s big brother), an amount fit only for a super villain like Boris, who enjoyed things in excess, from explosives to furry animals. However, this much C5 would not only allow them access to the building, but could possibly level a few square blocks of the city in the process. To make the situation truly ironic, the door was unlocked. Not that it would have persuaded Boris from blowing it up anyway.

With a scamper and a skip (they have a flair for this sort of thing), the small group of criminals darted around the corner of the bank. Once in place, everyone slid their fingers into their ears to shield themselves from the forthcoming blast—a blast that had a high chance of liquefying their brains.

“Hit it!” Dr. Malevolent yelled to Boris, who did not budge. Clearly the old finger-in-the-ear trick worked wonders for noise cancellation in this backwards little universe.

“Hit it!” She repeated.

“What?” Boris yelled with his fingers still plugged into his ears. Dr. Malevolent yanked at his hand, plucking it from its humble abode.

With hushed annoyance, Dr. Malevolent practically whispered, “Blow up the damn door.”

She and Boris reinserted their fingers into their ears, and then Boris tried as best he could to press the switch using something other than his hands. He was eventually able to devise a way to nudge it with his elbow, and the ensuing shockwave tore through the city, shattering glass and causing babies in every direction to cry. After the ringing in her and Boris’ ears subsided, Dr. Malevolent and her little gang of lackeys scurried out from around the corner and approached the door, only to find it still standing. What was not standing was the wall, which had been completely decimated by the blast. Dr. Malevolent sighed as she watched a section that had been dangling from the ceiling fall to the floor. The establishment had apparently spent millions to fortify the door, only to leave a paper-mâché wall surrounding it.

Boris did the only thing he could think of as the situation presented itself; he reached to see whether the door was locked and chuckled at the fact that it was not. He shoved it forcefully, causing it to spin around on its hinges and collide with one of Dr. Malevolent’s lackeys.

The evil genius glared at Boris and uttered one word in compliment, “Smooth.”

His lips morphed into a wide smirk and they entered the bank.

Chapter 2: The Man of the Hour Approaches

What would a super villain be without her super hero counterpart? The simple answer to that little riddle is obviously: a lot happier. If super villains dreamed of one thing at night, it would be a life without the incessant battling back and forth with their super hero foil, but that would mean that any super villain would have free reign to do as he or she pleased, something nobody wanted. On top of that, without super villains, super heroes would have to get a real job.

Speaking of extraordinary super heroes, the guest of honor appears to be running a little late. This is probably due to traffic, or maybe he got lost. It’s also possible that he has yet to leave because he’s busy watching scrambled programs on cable television, but fear not, for he is sure to appear just when needed the most, just when the fate of mankind seems to hang in the balance—as any hero does.

In the meantime, a large gaping hole resided rent-free in one of the walls neighboring the bank vault. With work on the doorway completed, masked men poured into the room. Although, because they were masked, there was really no way of telling what they were, and since this was not the time to jump to such blatant conclusions, these masked “men” could have easily been masked women, or zombies, or werewolves, or aliens, or vampires, or even pantomime people with chimpanzees hiding within.

These masked—beings—poured into the vault, bags embroidered with the cliché money symbol upon their face at the ready, but since these bags were round, they did not exactly have faces to begin with. Face just refers to the side with the money symbol. Actually, since round objects do not exactly have sides, this was not correct either. Screw it, the man of the hour has arrived, so this needless rambling can end as abruptly as it began.

Perched on a rooftop’s ledge, a man wearing a black domino mask stood alone with dark mascara around his eyes (this was not normally part of the ensemble, and was probably leftover from lady’s night at the bars). Covering his body was a purple spandex outfit that rode into God-knows-where. This suit came equipped with a pair of glossy black gloves and matching boots, as well as an extremely ornate utility belt that would have made even a certain dark knight jealous. It was mainly just for show; the crime-fighting tools contained within were just too much for him to manage on his own. Rest assured, though, he worked diligently to figure it all out, slaving over the foreign language sections of the user’s manual night after night. To complete this look, a simple black cape extended just past his buttocks with his hands resting triumphantly upon his love handles and his head held heroically upwards ever so slightly.

As the beacon of hope stood atop the ledge, the solitary doorway stories below (looking just as heroic), he came to a sudden realization: he was deathly afraid of heights. This ledge may not have been the wisest of decisions for an observation point. Nevertheless, a hero must do what a hero must do, and this hero must flee from the rooftop before he hurls all over the heads of the bank robbers below—an act that, if anything, would rob him of the element of surprise—one of the few elements he had within his super hero repertoire.

What methods or gadgets would an amazing hero such as this have for descending the six stories from here to the ground? Well, aside from the ever-popular face plant, valiant defenders of truth and justice have a multitude of means in which to scale such great heights, realize they’re deathly afraid of them, and then come screaming back down. The one he is going to demonstrate today is easily, and quite secretly, the most popular. With that, he made a beeline for the stairwell, cape billowing in the wind. That’s right, kids, true heroes use the stairs.

Back at the scene of the crime, the coterie of criminals had begun loading their getaway van with everything held inside the bank vault, including money, jewelry, and vials of strange green liquid that were certainly no good for anyone. From atop its roof, Dr. Malevolent oversaw the loading of the van, which had the words “Getaway Van” painted elegantly upon its sides, and yes, the roof was a particularly odd spot to oversee anything.

Dr. Malevolent did have a flare for the dramatic, either that or she just wanted to give her hard working employees a free peep show. After all, there was an ample amount of leather underneath that simple white lab coat, which framed her voluptuous breasts perfectly. To keep her glistening brown hair out of the way while conquering the world, Dr. Malevolent usually kept in tied in a ponytail.

In her hand, she waved about an inanimate carbon rod, her signature and third-in-command next to Boris. Many villains had something to make them unique. Some had weapons like hers, others had disfiguring scars, and yet others were made unique because of their mental dispositions. These villains felt that society had somehow wronged them and were compelled to strike out against it. However, in the case of signature weapons, most villains usually opted for something more intimidating than a simple rod. Needless to say, it was probably time for an upgrade.

Just before the lackeys loaded the van with the last of the stolen goods, a booming voice echoed out, “Well, what have we here!”

The bank robbers instinctively dropped what they were doing and snapped their heads towards the voice. The source of which was none other than the masked man in purple standing on a pile of rubble near the solitary door. A door that stood as a testament to doors everywhere that if they wanted to succeed and be awesome, all they needed to do was simply believe in themselves (and withstand a metric shit-ton of C5).

Dr. Malevolent snapped back at him, “Why if it isn’t Captain Rescue! What we have here, you two-bit imbecile, is your undoing!”

“We’ll just have to see who undoes who!”

“It’s who undoes ‘whom’, you blabbering idiot.”

“Hey, my job is to save the world, not speak good.”

Dr. Malevolent cringed, “Boys, take care of him.”

The hero cracked his knuckles and then took a single step forward. At precisely that same moment in time, the loose rubble he had been standing on decided to stop cooperating—it was bound to happen eventually. As it slid out from under him, Captain Rescue lost his footing and fell flat on his back. During this tumble, he decided that, in the future, it was best not to make heroic entrances from atop unstable piles of rubble.

Dr. Malevolent’s lackeys swarmed the hero before he had the chance to get back to his feet, leaving him in one dilly of a pickle. Fortunately, the mild-mannered defender was quite a fan of those delightful kosher treats. As six men scrambled to subdue him (a job that could have easily been carried out by just one), his mind drifted to those green wonders and the situation became a little more bearable.

“Look boys, we caught ourselves a little toy!” Dr. Malevolent said, grinning wickedly at Captain Rescue as she knelt down to look him in the eyes. She drew her rod back and slapped him across the jaw.

“Your hair smells pretty,” the hero said in a daze, clearly suffering from a sudden onset of Stockholm syndrome. He spat a little blood from his mouth and then leaned in slightly, almost expecting a kiss. What he found was the rod as it made another pass.

“Tie him up! We’re taking him on a little trip,” Dr. Malevolent ordered as she straightened herself, kicking him in the gut with her boot.

“Perfect! Play right into my hands, why don’t you!” Captain Rescue said, his white teeth sparling as he smiled to the various lackeys, who were busy tying his arms behind his back. They hauled the bound Captain Rescue to the van and tossed him in with the stolen goods. The hero had read somewhere that that whenever faced with a hostage situation to remain pleasant to the captors. He had some serious second thoughts about this idea as his fanny bounced painfully against the cold steel of the van. The back doors closing ominously reinforced these doubts further as he found himself shut in with the crooks. Nevertheless, he continued smiling through the darkness—even if nobody could see.

Chapter 3: The Big Bad Bunny and the Great Good God

Common knowledge suggests that a great hero always has a plan. Great, however, is not a word many would use to describe Captain Rescue. Most days, he is far from it. “Wingin’ it” seems to be the philosophy he practices when approaching the many situations given to him during the course of his crime-fighting career. This philosophy, though crude, has served Captain Rescue well.

Yet, some may argue that his victories are usually attained through acts of sheer luck. But really, who cares how you do it as long as you get the job done. On occasion, however, Captain Rescue does something that requires a modest amount of forethought, such as finding a great use for one of the tools he has yet to discover within his utility belt. Detractors would argue that even chimpanzees have learned rudimentary tool use. That does not mean you would leave one alone with your children. Now, just replace children with world and chimpanzee with Captain Rescue.

For example, one time, just after adorning his crime fighting costume, a little girl tasked the hero with saving her little kitty from the highest branch of the tallest tree. To retrieve the cat, Captain Rescue repeatedly rammed the tree trunk with his parents’ classic ’59 Lincoln, their pride and joy. He was eventually able to topple the tree, and of course, the cat, as well as the car, was crushed underneath its weight. Luckily, after spending six weeks in a full body cast, the cat survived. The car, however, had to be put out of its misery. Anyhow, with as much experience as he has getting it wrong, he is bound to get it right from time to time. This is one of those times.

Somewhere near the vicinity of the bank heist, nestled in a nondescript alleyway, a vehicle lay in wait—The Rescue Machine, the hero’s very own crime fighting juggernaut. A vehicle that had aided the hero in more than a hundred crime fighting endeavors, a vehicle that sat a testament to justice and the battle against evil, a vehicle that could fit practically anywhere because of its three feet by six feet dimensions. Nobody realizes how costly it is to design and produce a vehicle; the hero could not afford anything larger if he wanted it to be as spectacular as possible.

Without warning, the headlights flipped on and the engine revved like an angry beaver. Then, the vehicle burst forth from the alleyway, squealing like a banshee—an angry beaver banshee. All around, commuters slammed on their breaks to avoid hitting this angry beaver banshee as it emerged from its hiding place and almost slammed head first into a brick wall. Angry beaver banshees do have a blatant disregard for the safety of themselves and everyone around them, so nothing less should have been expected.

A few blocks away, the getaway van weaved in and out of traffic as it sped through the downtown streets of the city, spreading anger to all, not because the aging vehicle cut off or bumped against other vehicles, but because it held up traffic everywhere it went. The weight of the stolen goods made the not-so-performance-vehicle—not-so-performance-er. Sparks flew from its chassis as it scraped the asphalt with every bump, creating quite the light show.

Inside, Captain Rescue was bending and twisting into ridiculous positions, attempting to break free of his binds. After some time, he decided he could not do it alone. His breathing slowed as his lungs practically stopped—it’s not like his brain needed the oxygen—and he tried his best to focus, which meant squinting as hard as he could. A calm aura overtook him, as if tapping into an amazingness buried deep within. Amazingness not readily apparent since Captain Rescue had enough trouble proving to people he was not mentally deficient, let alone amazing.

Then suddenly, as if touched by God Himself, or even Herself (you never know), the binds that held Captain Rescue’s hands loosened and simply fell to the ground. The hero looked up to where the sky would have been if a metal roof was not obstructing it and nodded with approval. In his head he imagined God looking back down to him with a giant thumbs up. He almost waved up to God before realizing it would reveal his free hands to the robbers. With this makeshift plan set into motion, the time came for Captain Rescue to rid himself of his half-witted captors, who strangely enough, had about twice the wit he did.

Captain Rescue had just the thing to rid himself of these would-be criminals, a small black aerosol can with a white stripe down the center, perfectly depicting the horror contained within. The label read “Concentrated Skunk Extract”, and next to it was a skunk with its tail raised high into the air, ready to fire. In parenthesis underneath the name were the words “(Now with real skunk extract, not that artificial junk)”. With knowledge of the gruesome fate that awaited the poor pitiful criminals, Captain Rescue slid the canister from his boot and grinned.

However, his preparations did not go unnoticed. One of the lackeys motioned to his buddies to take notice of their seemingly bound hero.

“Stop squirming!” The lackey said sternly to Captain Rescue.

“Sorry, it’s difficult to plan breaking free without moving.”

A pair of lackeys leaned forward to subdue the hero. As their fists beat against his gut, he pressed the top of the canister and dropped the skunk extract to the floor. It rolled around inside the van, unnoticed by the criminals, as a green mist started to mix with the air around them. Captain Rescue grabbed a small respirator from his belt and slipped it into his nose. Its existence had only been revealed to him earlier this evening, and he was not willing to admit the places he tried to put it before he discovered its true use.

While Dr. Malevolent’s lackeys were busy investigating this suspicious green mist, Captain Rescue leapt to his feet with as much grace as his shapely body could muster. He then lifted his foot high into the air and prepared to kick the back of the van open. As before, his eyes narrowed and he took a deep breath, trying to tap every ounce of super hero juju he could muster. Then, just like that ninja he saw on television the other day, Captain Rescue repeatedly placed his foot against the door. However, what transpired next did not quite go as it did in the movie. He kicked and his foot connected with the door—but that was about as far as fate would allow. The force of the impact knocked the hero to his back. He must have drained his pool of super hero awesomeness; either that or his pools were dry from the start, a more likely scenario.

During the commotion, a compartment overhead shook open and a blue blur tumbled out. Captain Rescue was startled to see the head of a bunny rabbit smiling down at him through the green haze. Shortly thereafter, a hand slipped down and fell beside the head. The motion of van as it swayed from side to side made it appear as though the hand was waving to the valiant hero. He giggled like a little school girl at his newfound friend until he realized this bunny was not real.

The hero rose to his feet and rubbed his sore butt; he then rubbed his eyes and wished they made respirators for them as well. On top of the irritated eyes, Captain Rescue started to feel faintly dizzy, and he was sure that he had breathed through his mouth at least a couple times. Even though he was sure the bunny rabbit would have been great to talk to, he resisted the urge to strike up a conversation. Other matters were more pressing. All around him, the green faced criminals had fallen to their knees with skunk-induced nausea.

The hero waded through the sea of sickened criminals, careful not to bump any of them just in case they were primed to blow. He faced the door once more and for a moment thought about kicking it open again. Considering how that went the last time, he was smart to simply lift the latch. He waved back to the bunny, which was sad to see him go, he was sure of it—even if its wide smile and cheerful plastic eyes hid the fact. Just before stepping into the wild grey yonder of the busy street, Captain Rescue smiled in victory over the green criminals.

Dr. Malevolent sighed; a green mist had started to seep in through the air vents, but Boris’ lactose intolerance had given her just the weapon to fight this biological war. She popped open the glove compartment and removed a pair of gas masks. The two (one of whom should probably be watching the road) glanced back at the lackeys, who were on their sides from the skunk-induced coma, and then in unison, slid the gas masks over their faces.

Boris turned around to see what the road was up to just in time to discover he was no longer on it; either that or some wise guy had decided the middle of the street was the perfect place to put a mailbox. The van crashed headfirst into it, sending letters flying everywhere. Dr. Malevolent slid her rod from its custom-made holster and threatened Boris with wide eyes, but she realized it was probably a bad idea to assault the driver of your van, so she simply tapped him on the noggin while maintaining her wild wide eyes, lest he forget.

During the mailbox shenanigans, Captain Rescue was sitting atop the van with his magnetized pants, resting after a bit of arduous crime fighting. Out of nowhere, poor little Sammy’s Christmas card to Santa smacked him in the face. The hero fell to his back and avoided any more letters that might have found their way to him, but as he lay there, his thoughts were only of poor Sammy. More than anything, he hoped that Dr. Malevolent’s antics would not rob the poor kid of his Christmas joy. He imagined a sad Sammy on Christmas morning underneath a bare tree, crying his eyes out. After Captain Rescue finished putting these crooks behind bars, he planned to write a card to Santa Clause to inform him of the mailbox mishap.

After a few minutes of much needed rest, a frantic honking erupted from the side of the van, drawing Captain Rescue’s attention. He peered down to see his trusty steed, The Rescue Machine, driving itself with its high-tech autopilot. As the hero stood there upon the edge of the roof, admiring his vehicle, he could not help but to let his eyes drift to the pavement. The rushing grey asphalt made Captain Rescue increasingly dizzy; he jerked his head up and shook it off. The valiant hero then stood as straight as his pounding heart would allow, closed his eyes, and stepped off the edge of the van. A normal man may have called this a leap of faith. However, since Captain Rescue was not a man of faith, it must just have been an act of sheer foolishness. As he plummeted from the top of the van, a sound rose from the Rescue Machine, a sound that could only be interpreted as the poor vehicle electronically sighing as it attempted to catch Captain Rescue, thus rescuing him from becoming road kill. In a move calculable only by a sophisticated computer, the hero landed safely in the driver’s seat and the chase began.

Chapter 4: The Tortoise and the Tortoise

Head to head, The Rescue Machine and its arch nemesis, The Getaway Van, screeched through the downtown streets of the city at breakneck speeds—or as breakneck as you would expect two veritable tortoises to be. In actuality, The Rescue Machine was not built to fight crime. When designing it (with crayons), Captain Rescue felt that speed and maneuverability were not high on its list of priorities. He had mostly hoped to pick up sexy ladies with it, a rather unsuccessful goal as of late. However, it was certainly not from a lack of trying, as he had the restraining orders to prove it—all of which made out to the “crazy man with that purple suit and weird car.”

And thus, the crazy man with the purple suit and weird car and his nemesis dangerously slammed their weapons of choice into each other, sparks flying in every direction. All the while angry old ladies in their luxury sedans swerved around the two, their fists raised into the air as they made obscene gestures and faces that, if properly harnessed, could wake the dead. This everlasting road war between the two tortoises lasted but a few city blocks. Then, the one hindrance that could halt their adventures reared its ugly head: a red light.

Boris cranked the wheel to the left, aiming for the sidewalk, until Dr. Malevolent screeched, “Stop!”

“What boss? We always do this instead of waiting for red lights,” Boris replied as he came to a stop behind the red light.

Dr. Malevolent pointed at the roadside vendors, “Those men are hardworking individuals, and I’m sure many of them have families to support, bills to pay, and mouths to feed. We’re not going to just parade through them and wreck their entire livelihood to get around a red light a few seconds sooner.”

She huffed, rant complete.

“Wow boss, I had no idea you felt that way. I thought you were a complete misanthrope.”

“Well, I have a soft spot for a few select people. But you’re not one of them, so shut up.”

She did have a soft spot for these roadside vendors. In fact, her father was one of them. Dr. Malevolent had nothing but fond childhood memories of leaving the house and skipping around the block to get a free hot dog from her father while he was at work. But like all fairy tales, this one had to end. Dr. Malevolent’s father died suddenly during her youth, poisoned, she suspected, by a greedy corporation who were upset at her father for stealing business from their cafeteria. Sure, it was entirely possible, and quite likely, that her father died of natural causes, but this fabricated story molded her into a successful criminal she was today.

Captain Rescue pulled up next to his nemesis and, as the two vehicles sat side-by-side, waiting for the light to change, Dr. Malevolent slowly turned her head towards Captain Rescue and made some of the most ridiculous faces imaginable. Their eyes interlocked and an eternal staring contest began. With the battlefield set and the stakes high, the victor would only be determined after the brain of their opponent exploded and rained grey matter across the heavens.

Boris leaned forward from behind Dr. Malevolent, fixating on the hero with the sole purpose of melting the man using only his mind. As luck would have it, Captain Rescue was an all-state staring contest champion, so Boris’ vain attempt at meltification went unnoticed. To further her efforts, Dr. Malevolent unsheathed her inanimate carbon rod and started to beat herself over the head with it. While this almost broke her own concentration, Captain Rescue remained steadfast. Her strategies exhausted, she shrugged and flashed the hero, a plan almost certain to break his concentration, and indeed, she was victorious.

A honking erupted from behind the two vehicles. The other commuters felt that a staring contest, no matter how epic, should not hold up traffic. Confused, Captain Rescue glanced around, he was too enamored with the gift given to him to notice that the getaway van was well—getting away. After enough honking had transpired to break the trance that had befallen the hero, he put the pedal to the metal. However, that is what he normally did to attain the blazing speed of 27 miles per hour. Once The Rescue Machine had caught back up with the getaway van, their struggle continued.

The pursuit lasted for miles as sky rise after sky rise inched by and commuters released their anger in the form of honks and shouts. Inside the van, as all this action morphed quickly to monotony, Boris drifted off—lost in his mind, fantasizing about a hot red fox he had met the weekend before. The two had shared some lovely moments. They laughed and they giggled. They bumped their plush little bottoms together and danced the polka until the wee hours of the morning—a happy-go-lucky pair of larger-than-life animals. The night ended with a moonlit walk along the beach, red and blue hands intertwined—a fantasy to trump all fantasies. However, like all fantasies, this one had to end.

Boris found his thoughts too enthralling to be bothered with the fact that he was drifting into oncoming traffic, and Dr. Malevolent remained oddly calm as the sea of vehicles parted for the getaway van. She believed her status as a super villain (a self-granted status at that) made her all but invincible, although up until now she had been, so you never know. She turned to face Boris, who still had a glazed look of joy over his face—behind each of his eyes, a miniature Charlie and his fox friend beat helplessly upon the lenses. Their inaudible screams persisted as they pointed frantically at the road ahead until throwing their hands up in defeat and wandering into the recesses of Boris’ head.

Dr. Malevolent cleared her throat with the hopes of drawing Boris’ attention. After the first cough had no effect, she did it again—louder than the last time. Still nothing. The final cough spewed mucus all over Boris. The disgusting display pulled the man back into reality and away from his alter ego, Charlie. He rapidly swerved back into his own lane just in time for their little joy ride to come to a crashing end.

Just ahead, a curve approached, and the careening van made no apparent attempt to avoid it. As Boris realized the shenanigans about to transpire, he smiled. The man had two main aspirations in life: one was furry stardom, an aspiration very nearing its zenith. The other dream he had since childhood was to be a stunt car driver, a goal that sat nicely wedged in the back of his mind, unfulfilled. As he approached that curve, the little boy deep within took over, the one who dreamed of sending flaming muscle cars over locomotives. The world around Boris faded away as he gunned the van, which was in no way a muscle car of any kind. Nevertheless, it sure did smash into the curb like one. Time dilated as the force of the impact sent the van rocketing through the air.

As the seconds elapsed, the projectile’s destination became painfully clear—a parked car. That was not even the bad news. One simple fact made a three-ton van crashing head first into a parked vehicle much worse: the parked vehicle just so happened to be a police cruiser. Yet another simple fact made the previous fact exponentially even more terrible: the police cruiser just so happened to be parked outside a police station. Time came to a halt inside the cab as Boris and Dr. Malevolent locked eyes. Boris’ mouth started to form the word “sorry”, but her rod interrupted them before it could find a way out. Then the getaway van ceased its getaway in a spectacular metal-twisting feat. The nose of the van smashed head first into the police cruiser and the back bounced high into the air. The cruiser’s sirens started to wail, assuring the commotion pulled the police officers away from their donut dinners. After spinning around like a giant top, the van finally came to a rest on its side.

The wreck left Dr. Malevolent and Boris squished together against the driver side window miraculously unscathed. She made quite the face at him: part disgusted, part excited, and part happy to be alive. Regardless of her feelings, this was closer than she cared to be to the imbecile right now (or ever). As she became increasingly aware of where they were and what they had crashed into, she started to beat her driver and partner in crime repeatedly with her inanimate carbon rod. Since Dr. Malevolent paled in comparison to Boris, even with her rod in hand, he decided to let her assault him in order to relieve her stress. She even took off her white lab coat in order to attain better movement in her arms. The coat was just for show, anyway. No one in his or her right mind would be foolish to give the woman an actual doctorate. She just ran across the coat one day and decided it looked fashionable.

Attracted by the bright lights and sirens, Captain Rescue was waiting patiently at a turning lane munching on a hot dog he had procured from a roadside vendor just prior to arriving at the scene. Hunger was an injustice greater than any Dr. Malevolent could commit (a statement written in bold in almost any super hero manual, and he has skimmed them all). A look of utmost horror appeared across his face as he cruised into the parking lot. He had missed a tremendously exciting car crash. The price of hunger was high. He looked down at his hotdog. His eyes then traveled to the crash and then back to the hotdog. Eventually he decided that yes, it was worth it.

This outcome to the bank heist was just another failed excursion by the “super” villain and her lackeys. So far, Dr. Malevolent’s criminal career has been less than successful, but when you set your sights on world domination, it was easy to fall short. Like moths to flame, the police officers poured out of the precinct and surrounded the van, guns trained on Dr. Malevolent.

Captain Rescue, never one to miss an opportunity to strut his stuff, hopped out of The Rescue Machine and looked at himself in its side view mirror. Kneeling down and juggling his hot dog between his hands, he brushed his hair and smiled widely, on the lookout for any stowaways between his teeth. After assuring everything was in proper order, and that he was as pretty as he could possibly be (not at all), Captain Rescue thrust his chest out and swaggered over to the police officers.

The hero cleared his throat with a load cough and grinned at the officers, “I see you found the present I left you fine boys!”

“Another job well done, hero!” one of the officers said as he patted Captain Rescue on the shoulder.

Dr. Malevolent’s voice emanated from the cab, “Listen here, copper, that halfwit had nothing to do with our unfortunate luck. My very own halfwit was apparently daydreaming while driving.”

“Would you stop hitting me already?” Boris whined as the police watched him try to push her off.

“Alright, get those sorry criminals outta there,” said one of the cops, “and thanks again, Captain Rescue, for all your hard work!”

“Just doing my part to make the world a better place!” the hero said with his hands firmly on his waist, the hot dog squished between him and his belt.

“Just how do you do it?” One of the police officers asked, obviously a fan.

“Do what?” Captain Rescue replied, clueless.

“Selflessly protecting the innocent and bringing dangerous criminals to justice day in and day out.”

Captain Rescue placed a hand upon his shoulder, smearing the hotdog into the officer’s uniform, “It’s just what I was bred for.”

One of the other police officers grabbed Captain Rescue’s number one fan, and led him to the getaway van. They had work to do. The police hugged the cold steel of the getaway van and prepared to open the back doors, unsure of what awaited them. One brave police officer lifted the latch and pulled open the pair of large metal doors. Inside, still faintly green from skunkification and covered in vomit, the crooks posed little threat to the police officers, unless you considered projectile vomiting a threat. In many ways, it probably was. The police kept their guns on the criminals as they led them out one by one.

“How many times will I have to single handedly bring you simple minded crooks to justice before you finally learn that crime doesn’t pay?” mocked Captain Rescue as he paced back and forth near the van. Dr. Malevolent only rolled her eyes at his act.

The cops ordered the criminal masterminds to vacate the van or they would be promptly filled with lead, a task more easily said than done since the passenger side door towered above the duo’s heads. Inside the cab of the van, she and Boris rested snugly on top of each other. Slowly, Dr. Malevolent glanced down to Boris and shrugged ominously. In her eyes, a faint glimmer of remorse appeared and then disappeared just as quickly.

After taking a deep breath, Dr. Malevolent repurposed Boris’ face as a stepping stool and pressed her heel into it. As the weight bore down, his cheeks collapsed into some amazing fish-lips. This fact not lost to him, he began to mimic a fish opening and closing its mouth in its search for yummy krill. This went on for a few seconds, but since he only had so much patience for fish tales and face massages, he grabbed both of Dr. Malevolent’s feet and launched her out of the cabin. With arms flailing, she tumbled through the air until landing at Captain Rescue’s feet. He smirked down at the super villain, holding his hand out to help her up. With her pride tucked deep within her bosom, she rose to her feet and lifted her hands into the air, surrendering to her higher power.

“Get on your knees and put your hands behind your head!” One of the voices shouted from cluster of police officers. They all had their guns fixed firmly at the criminal ready to make Swiss cheese of her. She did what they asked and the police officers rushed in to surround her.

Unknown to Dr. Malevolent, Freight, a nickname given to the biggest officer on the force, crept up behind her and smacked her in the back of the head with the butt of his gun, rendering her unconscious. Freight used the butt of his gun only because it was far less damaging than his sledgehammer of a fist. This man had won the award for Police Brutality Picture Boy of the Month six times running and despite this, knocking super villains over the head was normal police procedure. These blows were probably the main reason criminals had an inability to turn from a life of crime, though no research has linked the two together—yet.

The police officers carried Dr. Malevolent and led her lackeys into the police station one by one, doing their best to manhandle them along the way. Inside, inundated by a slew of smelly and sick crooks, the front desk began booking everyone. Police officers then led them to a large open cell where they could freely mingle with each other to talk about the fun times they had tonight as well plan for their escape.

Chapter 5: There’s No Place like Home

Captain Rescue suddenly remembered the hotdog still squished between his waist and hand. The meaty treat rose victoriously to his face and he proceeded to make oral love to it, a sight nobody in his or her right mind wanted to see. The experience ushered onto him a euphoric daze, just as any good hotdog should. As the last bite slid down his gullet, he glanced around and saw that he stood alone in the parking lot. Loneliness: the only state worse than hunger—or they were at least tied. Immediately, tears began to well in his eyes. He shivered, wiped them clean, and shuffled towards The Rescue Machine, head hung low.

As he walked, he thought back to his butler and longtime friend, Alfredo, who was still back at his super-secret base. He took Captain Rescue under his wing after his parents died during a scuba diving vacation when a group of dolphins randomly attacked and killed them both. The act was unprecedented and shrouded in mystery. Never before had dolphins killed humans so viciously and without provocation. This left Captain Rescue wielding a lifelong grudge against the creatures. So much so, that he abandoned his former life and had his name legally changed to Captain Rescue, hoping to rescue any other humans from the wrath of the dolphins. When the hero realized that most dolphins were, in fact, quite docile creatures, he turned his focus towards being a super hero.

Obviously, there are many similarities to make between the famous Batman and the not-so-famous Captain Rescue. Hell, he could have very well been Batman had his life taken a different route, a route with a quality education and strict self-discipline, instead of a route with snack foods and 8-bit video games. Captain Rescue and Batman were both the only child of wealthy parents who died when they were young. Both had family butlers that cared for and looked after them during their time of need. And both wanted nothing more to avenge their parents’ deaths. While the world’s greatest detective manufactured his persona to strike fear in the heart of criminals, the world’s worst super hero found his purple spandex suit cheap on the internet.

The man, defeated by loneliness, climbed back into The Rescue Machine and sped off into the sunset. As the glare singed his retinas, he suddenly realized that his super-secret hideout was, in fact, in the other direction. Over a decade ago, when Captain Rescue had finally determined that being a super hero was a full time gig, he went about trying to find the perfect place to build his base of operations. After an exhaustive search one Friday afternoon, the hero finally found just the spot: an unknown cave beneath a urinal cake factory. It was the perfect cover. Hardly anyone that worked there bothered with the place—even if it did offer free tours. In addition, these workers were not in a rush to explore everything the factory grounds had to offer; whether it be the 250 different types of urinal cakes or the hidden underground base of a super hero.

As Captain Rescue neared the urinal cake factory, he turned down a rarely used back road and pressed a large purple button under the dashboard. Noting happened. Perturbed, he tapped the button again. Still, nothing happened. Captain Rescue pulled the vehicle over, pushed the seat as far back as it would go, got to his knees, and started slamming his forehead against the button. It still refused to cooperate. He pressed another button on the dashboard, one that functioned properly. The cockpit to The Rescue Machine released with a rush of air as the pressure normalized. Why the vehicle was even pressurized was anyone’s guess—it would have definitely not been at home on sea or in space, and calling it a street worthy vehicle was a stretch. Captain Rescue hopped out of the hardly worthy vessel and stepped onto the road.

Any witnesses to his imminent actions would have assumed the man was crazy, and in many ways, that was a sure diagnosis. Captain Rescue walked around in the middle of the road, scratching his head to induce brain activity while on the lookout for something. Eventually, he must have found what he sought, because he started to slam his foot against the pavement. Not one to give in easily, the street creaked and groaned, but did little else. This battle, however, had only just begun. Captain Rescue threw it into high gear, stomping with as much force as he could muster, very nearly rupturing a blood vessel. Finally, he ended his asphalt assaults by body slamming against the street. This did the trick and the entire contraption crashed into the ground, sending the hero tumbling into a hidden tunnel beneath the road.

He shook it off and looked upwards towards the street, where The Rescue Machine teetered dangerously. As he lay there, his next thoughts were a vain attempt at remembering whether or not he engaged the parking brake. The answer was a resounding “no” as the vehicle tipped forward and headed down the hill. Captain Rescue rolled to the side just as it whooshed past him, coming to a stop a little ways down the tunnel. The hero picked himself off the ground and jogged after it. Once he reached The Rescue Machine, he kicked its wheel in retaliation for its attempt at flattening him. Captain Rescue then leapt into the cockpit, sealed it shut, and threw the car into gear, breathing a sigh of relief now that the ordeal had passed by.

Without much to look at in this narrow tunnel, Captain Rescue watched the lights that lined the walls. Almost instantly, they had a strobing effect on the hero and he thought for a moment that someone had teleported him into a dance club. He gasped and shut his eyes to keep from having an epileptic seizure, a disorder the internet had convinced him he had—even though dozens of doctors begged to differ. Fortunately, the tunnel was completely straight, or this would have been quite dangerous. That and The Rescue Machine would have beeped angrily at him if he showed any signs what-so-ever of crashing.

After a dangerous few thousand feet, The Rescue Machine beeped at Captain Rescue to signal the end of his journey. A neon sign marked the entrance to The Rescue Base, which read: “Captain Rescue’s hideout. If you can read this and you aren’t Captain Rescue please turn back now.” As Captain Rescue craned his neck to read the sign, the message eluding him to this day, he almost crashed into the side of the tunnel, saved only by a string of beeps from his trusty steed.

After surmounting the neon sign obstacle, the Rescue Garage came into view. Just as the name implied, it was a large room for the storage of vehicles. His armada lined its walls, save The Rescue Machine (which was currently in use). There was The Rescue Boat, The Rescue Plane, The Rescue Chopper, The Rescue Hovercraft, The Rescue Hang Glider, and of course, The Rescue Unicycle. Captain Rescue parked his vehicle in its preordained spot and engaged the parking break.

The cockpit of The Rescue Machine swung open, depressurized once again, and Captain Rescue hopped out. He pressed a button on his utility belt and the security system beeped on, assuring the vehicle’s safety against any carjackers that found their way into his secret garage. His arms flew into the air and Captain Rescue stretched, sore after the tiring seven-minute ride back to his base in addition to the four minutes he spent rolling down hills and being nearly run over.

“Hello, Sir,” a voice echoed from the entrance to the garage. His butler, Alfredo, stood at the ready, platter in hand. On it sat a glass of pink lemonade and some sugar cookies. Captain Rescue cheered with glee, sprinted over to him, snatched up the glass and cookies, and shoved a handful of them into his mouth and chewed away. Crumbs spewed from his lips, and before bothering to swallow, he poured some lemonade down the hatch and nearly choked to death, sugar cookies erupting from his mouth. Alfredo kept the platter steady, sidestepping the moist remains as they flew past. Most of Captain Rescue’s meals went something like that.

“How did the night’s battle against crime go, sir?’

Captain Rescue replied through a mouthful of cookies, his words barely discernable, “Great! I single-handedly put that menace Dr. Malevolent and her right-hand man behind bars, where they belong!”

His butler was no fool, and he knew that the hero was rarely the direct cause of his victories. When faced with a boasting and choking Captain Rescue, Alfredo did the only thing humanely possible—he smiled and nodded. For a man who had spent the greater part of his life keeping an eye on the hero, he did not have the heart to crush the poor man’s spirit with something as earth shattering as reality. That was not to say Alfredo thought that Captain Rescue was a complete mess, he knew that every now and then the hero got something right. Something like skunk extract—it did not directly cause the criminal’s apprehension but was still damned cool.

Captain Rescue shoveled the last few cookies into his mouth and chased them with lemonade; miraculously he did not choke this time around. The two finally made it into The Rescue Base, better known as the bachelor pad as imagined by a 13-year-old boy. Plastered above his cabinets of crime fighting tools were posters spanning the pop culture trends of the last two decades, from music, to movies, to random things that have since fallen to utter obscurity—like Pogs. Then there were his life preservers, since becoming a super hero he had collected these beauties. He very well could not be Captain Rescue without them.

This childlike mentality extended into his bedroom, where a dozen stuffed animals covered a racecar bed. He’d had it since childhood, and when it broke a few years back, he searched far and wide for an exact duplicate. Every night as he slept, he pulled the sheets up to his neck, letting his feet poke out. No amount of arguing would have convinced him to get a bed his size. His was cool and Captain Rescue knew it.

All heroes have a schedule of activities performed daily to keep in tiptop crime fighting shape, and Captain Rescue was no different. He strutted over to the couch and plopped down in front of the television. His nightly dose of mind-numbing television would now commence. Any super hero would tell you that saving the world night after night is a job much easier to stomach with a numb mind. Things were just easier that way.

Thus, with his hunger satiated, he threw his feet onto the nearby coffee table, slid his mask off, and wiped the mascara away. He snatched up the remote, and his finger had almost landed on the power button when he stopped, sighed, and nodded to himself, having a conversation in his head. Captain Rescue leaned over and picked up his utility belt’s user manual. The thing did him well tonight, who knows how well it would do him if he actually figured out how to use it. So, he spent about fifteen minutes thumbing through the Spanish section before getting bored and putting it aside.

Satisfied with himself, Captain Rescue grabbed the remote and flipped on the television. In horror, he discovered only static. Frantically, he scanned through random channels and found only more static. He leapt to his feet and stood there, unsure what to do. Then, the unthinkable happened: a vaguely familiar ringing filled his ears. His eyes darted around suspiciously; perhaps some unknown enemy had infiltrated his super-secret hideout.

The ringing continued.

Perhaps someone had planted a bomb somewhere within these walls.

The ringing continued.

Just before this relentless ringing reduced him to tears, its purpose dawned on him. Someone had a real emergency—it was the rescue phone, his personal hotline for the authorities to use when they needed him, and this is the first time the hero remembered hearing it. The phone continued to ring as he assumed the most heroic stance. He thrust out his chest and raised his chin into the air, straining his neck. To complete the look, he placed his hands firmly upon his waist. The city needed him, and the time had come to answer its call, which was good, because if he dawdled for any longer, the city would call someone who could really help.

Captain Rescue reached for the phone but then stopped with the realization he no longer wore his mask. He grabbed the first thing he could think of, which just so happened to be the nightcap he adorned each time he went to bed. He placed it on his head, pulled it over his face, and answered the phone.

“Hello?” He asked, muffled through the nightcap.

“Captain Rescue! This is Sergeant Pierce. The police station is under attack. We need your help immediately.”

Behind the hero stood Alfredo with a worried look on his face, the situation must have been dire for them to resort to calling Captain Rescue.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” he said into the phone and then hung up.

“Sir,” Alfredo began as he reached forward and pulled the nightcap from Captain Rescue’s head, “for future reference, people over the phone can’t see you.”

Captain Rescue chuckled, “Oh Alfredo, whatever would I do without you.”

“I hazard to guess, sir.”

He patted his butler on the back and darted into the garage with his goal firmly in his mind. He was going to save the world. First, he had to remember where he put his car keys. A jingle tickled Captain Rescue’s ears. He spun around, where Alfredo dangled a set of keys.

Captain Rescue snatched them from the air, “I really would be lost without you.”

“I know.”

Chapter 6: Lessons Your Mother Should Have Taught You

While Captain Rescue was at home enjoying himself, a couple of the police officers were going through the stolen goods from the bank heist. The general theme of the evening seemed to be straight money, but that did not mean other valuables had not found their way into the bags, from jewelry, to family heirlooms, to Monopoly deeds. Amongst these items, a strange glistening vial filled with a faintly green liquid was emblazoned with enough warning labels to make even the bravest think twice before touching it.

Frank and Phil, the two police officers cataloging the stolen goods, had been partners for years now. Frank picked up the green glowing vial and inspected it closely. Creeped out—and rightly so—he gently placed it back down on the table. As Frank turned around to go through other stolen materials, Phil picked up the vial and, without looking at it more closely, unscrewed the top and took a sniff. The sweet aroma tickled his nose hairs and brought a smile to his face.

Curious what kind of magical wonders were contained within the vial, he held it close to his eyes and peered inside. The green liquid bubbled as it mixed with the air. Frank’s partner next did something quite inadvisable: he slid out his tongue and dribbled a tiny amount of the liquid onto it. Apparently, he liked the taste, because he guzzled down the rest with a stupid grin upon his face, fingers covering the warning labels the entire time. Frank had always been the brains of this operation, and he did always have to keep his partner from doing silly and foolish things.

“Did you really just drink that?” Frank inquired, turning around to see his partner holding the empty vial and burping. “Did your mom not teach you anything growing up?”

“It smelled good.”

“Well, you better hope it’s not poisonous or radioactive or something crazy like that, as the warning symbols would imply.”

“Don’t be silly, I’m sure it’s just some food coloring or something.”

“Oh yeah, because they usually put biohazard symbols on food coloring.”

Phil found himself unable to reply, his words drowned within a cough. The green liquid had already made it to his stomach and started reacting with the acid churning inside. He cupped his hand over his mouth, coughed once more, and stumbled backwards. As he pulled his hand away, Phil noticed blood speckling his palm, and then wiped his hand clean on his uniform.

“You okay, Phil?”

“Yeah, I just think I need to—” Phil lurched forward, gripping his stomach with both hands. He tried to groan, to yell, to cry out, but a flurry of coughs cut off every attempt. He fell to his knees, and looked up to his partner for any kind of help or sympathy. Frank looked down in horror at his partner, whose pupils had dilated and eyes had gone gruesomely bloodshot. His coughs had evolved into something else, something even more terrifying—like his body was trying to force an intruder from inside that refused to let go.

“Oh great…” Frank said as he stepped backwards, afraid to catch whatever had taken hold of Phil. “I hope this teaches you not to drink random things you find while on the job, especially if they have a biohazard symbol on the label.”

Phil could barely hear his partner over the pressure building within his skull that blinded him to the outside world. The police officer resorted to painfully slapping himself upside the head to quell the pressure. If he had tried this sort self-therapy before ingesting poisonous liquids, he might have knocked some sense into himself and avoided this whole catastrophe. However, with the damage done, Phil’s thoughts became increasingly muddled as everything within that made him human went on permanent vacation.

Phil slouched over, motionless. His partner stepped forward, leaning in to check if the poor man still lived, but as Phil’s lifeless body twitched, Frank stumbled backwards just as his partner lifted his head once more. His bloodshot eyes had faded to white with no signs of that spark of humanity that had been there just seconds prior. It had vanished and been replaced with nothing more than an empty dead stare. Phil tilted his head to the side, inspecting his former partner with what little instincts remained, and then moaned.

While no expert on the subject, Frank instantly recognized those pale white eyes. He had been exposed to them one way or another since childhood. He had seen dozens of movies about them, read books about them, and even followed a few comics. Hell, he might as well have been an expert. Phil was a zombie and Phil was dead. His brain, never known for firing on all cylinders, was greatly relieved that its prerogatives had been simplified: moan a lot, eat brains, and fear Easter. Frank started to pant nervously as he realized that yes—he did have flesh and that yes—it was human.

He stumbled backwards just as Zombie Phil rose to its feet, looking directly into his eyes. Then, like a baby learning to walk, Zombie Phil took its first steps forward; its toes pointed uncomfortably inward and its arms curled up across its chest. It progressed slowly at first, almost losing its balance repeatedly, but the technique strengthened with each step. Then, as any good zombie should, Phil began to shuffle.

Frank practically had a panic attack as Zombie Phil leaned in towards him, brains spinning within its eyes, ironic that the police officer with no brains would be the first on an unending quest to eat them. Frank did not attempt to reason with the creature or to get through to the human that might have still been buried inside there somewhere. He knew how this ended—how this always ended. He panted heavily as the zombie inched its way towards him, drooling all the while.

Frank’s nerves were getting the better of him; he knew what he had to do. He had to kill this thing before it sunk its teeth into him, but Frank had never felt himself shaking this badly before. He breathed slowly and tried to regain his composure, backing away from the zombie as it shuffled towards him.

Finally, after an epic battle with his nerves, Frank was able to pull his revolver from its holster. He did it: he had won. Now he just needed to put this miserable creature out of its misery. Frank cracked a smile as he unloaded all six shots into the creature’s chest—Phil had always been a terrible partner, and this was just further proof. The creature stumbled backwards and fell over, feet swinging into the air. That was it. He was safe. He turned around and leaned against a nearby table to catch his breath. He had done it. His smile widened—then simply fell away.

Frank suddenly realized the most important part of any zombie movie: you had to shoot the things in the head. His police training and his frazzled nerves had made him forget that simple fact. Frank wheeled around just as Zombie Phil sat up from the floor, blood oozing from its chest wounds. The zombie looked down, slid a finger into one of the holes, and investigated. Its head then shot up, looking straight at his former partner.

Frank went for his ammo pouch, cursing the police department for instituting this damned cowboy week. Why couldn’t it have been assault rifle week, or bazooka week, or high-powered laser week? No, it had to be cowboy week. They had shoved this revolver into his hands, they had given him the ammunition pouch, and then just told him to have fun. The precinct had not even bothered teaching the police officers the basics, and it took Frank nearly an hour to figure out how to reload the stupid relic.

Zombie Phil stumbled to its feet, resuming its advance. Panic swept over Frank. He swung open the cylinder and pulled a handful of bullets from his ammo pouch. With a shaky hand, he tried to load the gun, refusing to take his eyes off the zombie as Frank backed away slowly, trying not to trip over his own feet. The cartridges rained from his hands, clinking as they hit the ground, frazzling his nerves further as he tried to slide them into the slots.

He looked down and groaned at the fact that only two shells had made it into the cylinder. He dove back into the ammo pouch and tried again as his back slammed into the wall. He looked down at the revolver’s cylinder and its four little cartridges sticking out. That would have to do. He slammed it shut and lifted the revolver. With uncontrollably shaky hands, he aimed for the zombie’s head and pulled the trigger. The creature’s head shot back, blood spraying over Frank, and then the head bounced forward, a narrow wound across the side of its head.

He had one last chance at this; the zombie was almost on top of him. He pulled the trigger and a click resonated out. Frank cursed just as Zombie Phil crashed into him, immediately tearing a chunk from his neck, blood squirting all over the zombie. Frank went limp almost immediately. The zombie went to take another bite out of him, but something stopped him. Frank twitched once and then lifted his head, eyes white as snow, and the two police officers’ partnership resumed once more.

Chapter 7: Like a Freight Train

Still unconscious from her blow to the head, Dr. Malevolent found herself awoken by Boris’ vigorous shaking. She opened one eye and looked up to her second in command, who had a worried look upon his face. Her first inclination was to go straight for her rod and bash him upside the head, but she soon realized someone had confiscated it. Therefore, she just used her palm.

“What is it?” she asked with a clear sign of annoyance.

“What is it?!” Boris repeated hurriedly. “Don’t you hear that?”

She sat up and placed her hand behind her ear sarcastically, accentuating her attempt at listening. A gunshot rang out. The patronizing face she had been adorning disappeared entirely and her hand dropped.

“See, boss?” Boris asked.

“Yeah, I hear it. I’m sure it’s nothing. They’re just training or something.”

A few more shots rang out, followed by a voice somewhere nearby yelling, “Kill it! Kill it! Oh God, it bit me! It bit me!”

Dr. Malevolent sat up from the bench and walked over to the bars, “Okay, so maybe it’s not a training exercise—at least we’re safe behind these bars.”

A blood-curdling scream echoed through the war-torn halls of the police station like that of a little girl who had unwittingly wandered into the wrong neighborhood and then viciously devoured the souls of everyone around her. The ever-approaching scream commandeered the attention of those cramped inside the small cell. Dr. Malevolent, who had been formulating a plan for her big escape and return to a life of crime, felt strangely overcome by the wails.

Deep within the woman’s body, possibly somewhere to the right of her spleen, or maybe hiding behind her liver, a small switch flipped into  the on position. It caused the only hurdle that could possibly dissuade her lust for world domination to kick in—motherly instinct. Yes, baby fever had grabbed her by the gonads, or not really, since she did not have any. Rather, it grabbed at the spot where her gonads would be, but found only air and disappointment. Baby fever did not have a thorough understanding of human anatomy.

The criminal mastermind began to worry uncontrollably about whatever little girl was out there within the hail of gunfire and screams. What mother had abandoned their poor little daughter in a place like this? What kind of world are we living in where the safety of a child was so audaciously pushed aside? The super villain clenched her fists in rage. The scream continued its journey down the hall until just outside the room. Dr. Malevolent’s jaw dropped as the source of the scream burst into the room and ran around in circles, crying at the top of his lungs.

Yes, Captain Rescue had arrived. Blood speckled his skin and suit and his eyes were as open as can be. The horrors he had just borne witness to had apparently regressed the poor hero. Mentally, he had become that little diva he always pretended to be as a young child, sneaking into his mother’s room late at night and stealing her oversized clothes, then dancing around with a wooden spoon, singing Aretha Franklin songs.

With lungs unperturbed by the continuous screaming, Captain Rescue frantically stumbled for the ring of keys that hung from a nail on the wall. The living scream unlocked the cell door and scrambled into the cage without taking a moment to breathe. He turned his back to the criminals, locked the cell door, and then turned around only to find Boris’ fist connecting with his face. The hero dropped like a rock. Luckily, the jolt had ceased his incorrigible shriek. Boris had actually done the Captain a favor—who knows how much longer he would have been able to cling to consciousness, he had not breathed in well over five minutes.

Captain Rescue sat straight up, “Zombies! They’re everywhere, they’re going to kill us all, we’re going to be eaten alive! Oh God, oh God, oh God!”

Boris sighed and punched him again.

Captain Rescue’s head whipped backwards and then straightened immediately. “I’ll keep us safe, though, don’t worry!” the hero said ecstatically as he tossed the keys through the cage. They slid across the floor and stopped just inside the hallway.

Boris sighed and punched him yet again.

“Why do you keep doing that?”

Boris raised his fist to the hero, “’Cause you keep doing stupid things, and from my experience, this is the cure.” His fist connected with Captain Rescue’s face once more.

“Did I really hear you say that there were zombies out there,” Dr. Malevolent spoke slowly to Captain Rescue, as a mother would to a child that had consumed too much sugar and had started to run around frantically like a decapitated chicken. This child, however, was just bat-shit crazy.

“Well, uh, they’re trying to eat the ones that aren’t doing the eating.” Captain Rescue said, tracing his words with his hands, assuring he understood the definition of zombie. A look of utmost horror and confusion appeared on Dr. Malevolent’s face, and then she punched the hero, inciting a round of applause by Boris.

By the time the clapping had ended, an eerie silence had blanketed the police station. The cacophony of screeches, groans, and gunfire that had turned the building into the party of the century had finally died down. Either the police officers had put an end to the zombie uprising, or they had all been eaten. Knowing zombies, they had all been eaten. Thus, with Captain Rescue’s mental handicap more than confirmed, the rag-tag group of survivors sat in silence, waiting for some sign from the outside world that everything was okay.

After a few minutes, a squeaking, sloshing sound broke the silence as heavy footsteps traveled towards them from down the hallway. The sound was reminiscent of a wet grizzly that had been synchronized swimming and now wandered about in search of salmon. However, considering they were nowhere near grizzly or salmon territory, chances were the bear in question was actually a ravenous zombie, and the salmon it wanted so badly was human flesh. The sound grew steadily closer, and no one within the jail cell knew whether to ready their anti-bear weapons or their anti-zombie weapons, and then froze in terror at the realization they had neither.

Freight, the large police officer from earlier, stepped through the door. The man was a remarkable sight; a delicious stew of blood and various bits of zombies covered him from head to toe. Judging by the visual evidence, the zombies had simply started to think he was one of them. He certainly looked like the part. His unblinking eyes were wide open and he did not seem to notice the blood flowing over them. Freight’s hands clutched a smoking shotgun, a red ribbon around the barrel.

He was trembling. Not from fear, but from the sheer excitement of having free reign to blast the heads from zombies. He loved guns and he loved to shoot them, so this zombie apocalypse was the perfect environment for him to strut his stuff. His bloodshot eyes made it apparent that the plethora of drugs he pumped into himself regularly to form his chiseled physique had sent him into overdrive and rendered him practically insane. The steroids, his hardcore mental disposition, and the ramped up testosterone found their way into a blender and this was the outcome. His keyboard of life had its caps-lock key pressed and then torn to pieces.

Captain Rescue stepped towards the twitching mass of flesh that had just barged through the door, appointing himself the leader of this rag-tag group of survivors, “Is it safe out there?!”

“NOT IN THE LEAST, A LOT OF THEM GOT OUT!” the twitching mass of flesh replied.

His words were like a tidal force, and after recovering Captain Rescue asked, “Why aren’t you dead?”

“FREIGHT DOESN’T LET A FEW LITTLE ZOMBIES GET IN HIS WAY!”

“Oh jeez,” he said, taking a step back, “you’re going to be fun to listen to.”

Dr. Malevolent stepped toward Freight with her arms crossed and inquired, “How come you’re not one of them… you’re covered in blood.”

Freight shrugged, “I DIDN’T GET BIT.”

Truth be told, Freight was infected. Next time there is a zombie outbreak, he should probably refrain from tearing the throats from zombies using only his teeth. Despite this, deep inside his body, his immune system was doing to the virus what he had just done to a few dozen of the mangy flesh eaters. Right now, that well-oiled machine could have fended off every major disease known to man and a few hundred that were not. In fact, Freight was the closest thing in this world to a real super hero with super powers. He grabbed the keys to the cell and released everyone inside. The time had come for Freight to blow this joint, and they were coming with—mostly as fodder.

Before Freight had even opened the jail cell, Dr. Malevolent was tearing the room apart in search of her inanimate carbon rod. Before she could turn to dismay, she found her sidekick sitting alone on a nearby table. She held it in her hands like a mother reunited with a long lost child, inciting awkward looks from everyone around her. Dr. Malevolent snarled at these naysayers, slid the rod into her holster, and latched it in tight; the thought of being parted from it ever again sent chills down her spine.

They left the cell room and ventured forth into the police station. Freight led the way, followed closely by Captain Rescue, who was simply using the giant man as a meat shield incase anything leapt from the shadows to eat them. Boris and Malevolent continued to bicker, and the hero listened in.

“We have to go back to the bank and see where that stuff came from, I’m sure they have a cure.”

Dr. Malevolent chuckled, “Why should I bother saving the world?”

Captain Rescue replied, “Have to save it to take it over.”

Dr. Malevolent thought about the statement for a moment and then nodded—these were probably the cleverest words he has spoken in years.

They treaded lightly to avoid any unwanted attention. Attention that, if given the chance, would tear them limb from limb and then eat those limbs. Not plain, however, zombies garnished their dismembered bits with an assortment of spices—a little chipotle for that nice spicy zing or maybe some oregano for whatever it was oregano did. Zombies liked to experiment and create new and exciting ways to eat people. The undead had quite the culinary flare if given the opportunity to show it, but the last thing any of the survivors wanted was to be first prize on a zombie cooking show.

Disarray had taken the small world contained within the police station by storm. In the back of the police station, a poor confused zombie that had been looking for something to munch on mistook a power cable for a juicy human intestine and then was quite shocked when it tried to chomp down on it. This left the hallways shifting in and out of utter darkness, the perfect atmosphere for a horror movie—the one where you barely catch a glimpse of something before everything goes black only to find that when the lights came back on, whatever you just caught a glimpse of was nowhere to be seen. Fortunately, the zombies that had not been blown to smithereens by Freight had already left the police station behind. Regardless, they proceeded with caution—unaware of what horrors awaited them around each corner.

The horrors ushered unto the police station had turned it into some kind of grotesque birthday part. The dismembered cadavers of police officers littered the hallways. Intestine streamers draped the walls, as well as confetti in the form of eyeballs, organs, and other unidentifiable parts. A foot rested on the blade of a ceiling fan that spun just slowly enough to keep it from falling off. How it wound up there in the first place, we may never know.

Freight came to a sudden halt and pointed the barrel of his shotgun down the hall—his spider sense had detected a shuffle in the darkness. This time, their eyes were not playing tricks on them. The group of misfits were about to have their first run in with a zombie. Freight lifted his flashlight and shined it into the darkness. He took a few steps forward, searching for whatever he had seen. He found it.

The following revelation surprised them all: it was a zombie, a zombie unlike any Freight had run across thus far, and he would have blown its head off at that moment if not for his police training. The creature stood with its arms high above its head in surrender. The zombie’s decaying body was in shambles and looked like it had literally been through hell. Guts dangled from its stomach like a cat toy. A giant gash sliced into the top of the zombie’s head gave it quite the hair part. Its nose and one of its ears were missing. Somehow, despite all it had been through, the zombie’s sparkling white teeth shined brightly under the flashlight. It started to speak but the only thing to part from its lips just happened to be its tongue.

The zombie reached down, picked its flopping tongue from the floor, and put it back into its mouth. It wiggled its cheeks and pursed its lips as it maneuvered the hunk of flesh back into position. The creature opened its mouth to speak once more, this time everything worked properly.

“Don’t kill me! I’m not like the rest of those things!” the zombie said, its voice sounded as if it had been beaten with a blunt object many times over. The undead creature’s hands, still raised high over its head, trembled as if it was actually scared to die—again.

“You can… talk?” Captain Rescue said before coming to the realization the group had not exactly seen a zombie yet. He turned to look at Freight, “Can any of them talk?”

“I DIDN’T REALLY STOP TO CHAT BEFORE I BLEW THEIR HEADS OF, BUT I DON’T THINK SO.”

Captain Rescue took a moment to regain his composure after being bombarded by his words and said, “Then we’ll just assume that he’s special.” He tilted his head back and motioned towards the zombie behind him, as if everyone needed to be reminded of the topic of conversation.

“So, what’s your story?” He asked it.

“Urghghl,” it said, choking on his tongue. The zombie moved it back to position, “I’m a zombie.”

“Yes, we gathered that from the obvious evidence,” snorted Dr. Malevolent.

“I don’t know much,” the zombie continued as it stuck a finger into its arm and wiggled it around.

“Well, give us some answers you mangy beast or we’ll blow your head off,” she threatened.

“Hey now, the thing didn’t try to eat us, might be worth keeping it around,” Captain Rescue suggested as he leaned in to take a closer look at the zombie.

“Yeah, don’t kill me. I can tell you things.”

Freight held his shotgun to its forehead, “WE’RE WAITING.” The pressure exerted by his voice caused the zombie’s skin to fill like a balloon. It pressed its hands to its face and pushed the air right back out.

“Umm… they made me in a lab,” it replied.

“How on earth would you know that,” Dr. Malevolent asked as she pointed her handgun to its head.

“I just remember things,” the zombie replied as it pushed her pistol aside.

“You’re gonna have to be more specific,” she said as she pushed its hand away and put her gun back in its face, “who are they?”

“The people who made me,” it said, clearly annoyed at having to repeat itself, “if we find the laboratory they build the zombies at we can stop this.”

“How?” She asked as she pushed the pistol closer to it.

“There’s a failsafe in the laboratory.”

“Really? Convenient.”

“Well judging by the carnage so far, I’d say zombies are pretty dangerous, why wouldn’t they want a way to put an end to this.”

“This all seems a little too… convenient. You’re not up to something are you?” Dr. Malevolent said.

“If I were, you’d be able to kill me just as easily as any other zombie.”

A twinkle appeared in Dr. Malevolent’s eyes for a moment, “You have a deal!”

Captain Rescue had spent the entire conversation thinking about one thing and one thing only, “Do you have a name?”

The zombie appeared to be thinking for a few moments then said, “No.”

“Well then, I dub thee Stubbs.”

The zombie simply shrugged and began picking at his protruding intestines.

“Hey!” Captain Rescue said as he slapped Stubbs’ hand away, “Didn’t your mother ever teach you that if you don’t stop picking at it that it will never heal.” With their new zombie companion in tow, they made their way to the entrance of the police station.

“You’ll warn us if any zombies are close right?” Captain Rescue said to Stubbs

“What do you mean?”

“If we get close to any other zombies, you’ll be able to tell us—right?”

“No, what makes you think that?”

“They’re zombies… you’re a zombie. It just makes sense.”

“No it doesn’t, can you sense when other humans are nearby.”

“I’d rather not answer that.”

“I thought so.”

Chapter 8: Zombies, Guns, & Rabbits

Thus, with a stinky zombie in tow (Stubbs had decided retaining control of his bowels was no longer of any concern, for him at least—the others felt otherwise), the group waltzed their way through the police station on the very tips of their toes like the most beautiful ballet dancers at the opening of their big night. Heels had not graced the ground in a while. Someone, possibly Captain Rescue, decided that tiptoeing through a gore-infested police station was the best way in which to keep a low profile. Not to mention that rushing through an environment as dangerous as this would certainly have been ill advised. They could easily trip and sprain an ankle.

They eventually danced their way to the police station’s lobby, through gallons of blood and gore. Once there, they discovered that someone had left the front door ajar and a mysterious wind left it swinging back and forth. Captain Rescue, ever heroic, stepped forth and peered into the world outside. He took a step back and closed the door calmly.

“Gentlemen… and you,” he said, glaring at Dr. Malevolent before going absolutely hysterical, “We’re all going to die!”

The hero pressed his back to the door and looked around the lobby, eyes soon focusing on a desk in the corner. He darted over to it, slid underneath, and curled into a ball, protecting himself from the horrors of the outside world.

“Oh come on, you coward. It can’t be that bad out there,” Dr. Malevolent scoffed before opening the door and peaking outside. “Hmm, we have our work cut out for us.”

“That bad, eh?” Boris said, his fake Russian accent beginning to fade.

“That’s putting it mildly.”

Boris reached forward, opened the door a couple inches, stuck one eye outside, and then hastily shut it. He turned around and faced the rest of the group, “Oh yeah, this’ll be tricky.”

Freight let out a frustrated sigh, pushed Boris and Dr. Malevolent aside, and then kicked the front door open.

If the police station were a birthday party, then the city must have been Mardi-Gras—Mardi-Gras on all kinds of elicit substances after not sleeping for four days and after having just bungee jumped from the empire state building in the dead of winter wearing nothing but a loin cloth. That’s what the city had become. Fires were abundant—cars, trashcans, buildings. Even dogs ran through the streets with their tails on fire, as if there were some arson zombie wandering around deriving great enjoyment out of torturing these innocent animals. They were surprised at just how destructive a few ravenous corpses could really be. But alas, the swarm of locusts that were the undead seemed to have moved on, exemplified by tumbleweed of human hair passing through the streets.

“Okay,” Dr. Malevolent said, kneeling down and looking at the barricaded Captain Rescue, “Come save the world, you idiot.”

That phrase was all he needed to kick himself into gear. The hero climbed out from under the desk and jumped to his feet. If there were worlds to save, kittens to rescue from burning buildings, beavers that needed help building their dam, zombies that needed their faces smashed in, Captain Rescue would be there. He marched to the door leading into this forsaken world and then lunged forward. As expected, he tripped and fell flat on his face.

“Doors really don’t like you very much, do they?” Dr. Malevolent said, laughing as she followed the super hero through, using him as a carpet.

“So, what’s the plan?” One of Dr. Malevolent’s lackeys asked, his appendages would soon be torn and eaten and he wanted to make the best of the little time he had left on this pale blue dot.

“Hey, Stubbs,” Captain Rescue said to their shambling friend, “do you know where to go to fix this mess?”

“Don’t look at me, I’m only about 45 minutes old.”

“We should go back to the bank and take a look around, maybe there’s a clue where to head to press this magical button.” Dr. Malevolent said.

Boris looked at her, “This is all your fault, good goin’ boss.”

She grew red with annoyance and ranted, “How was I supposed to know that the one bank in this god forsaken city I chose to rob would be the one that some super evil corporation was housing its doomsday device, or that they would have left it so easily obtainable. It’s almost like they wanted there to be a zombie apocalypse.”

Dr. Malevolent’s dream beyond all dreams was to drive civilization into anarchy so she could rise up and claim herself overlord of this new dominion. Recently, however, due primarily to lots and lots of zombies, her dream had evolved into something else. Now, her only wish was that when the zombies had their fill, there would be enough semblance of a civilization remaining for her to conquer. Then she would worry about deeming herself overlord, and with any luck, her minions would not try to eat her.

With the next step in their journey decided, they embarked for The Bank, which sat but a few blocks away. Any further than that and their plan might need some revision. The streets, littered with abandoned cars housing only the gutted remains of commuters, made trekking there using anything other than their feet tricky. If only Captain Rescue had remembered to bring his Hovercraft. Nevertheless, clearing the streets would take more effort than any of the super heroes would be capable of managing. Actually, a real super hero could clear the roads quite easily. In fact, a real super hero could just walk around and destroy legions of zombies by simply flicking them with his or her pinky.

“CHARLIE!” Boris had suddenly become hysterical, “I forgot all about him, we have to save him! He’s still in the van!”

Dr. Malevolent began to twitch with rage. She closed her eyes, took a few deep breaths, rediscovered her Zen, and then let out a labored sigh. Dr. Malevolent regretted not torching that damned costume the many times the opportunity had presented itself in the past. She knew all too well of Cecil DeWitt’s unhealthy obsession with his alter ego, Charlie. She overlooked his eccentrics when they spent their time doing productive things like robbing banks and taking over worlds, but if that giant rabbit were to be the harbinger of their deaths, she would be less than thrilled.

Captain Rescue chuckled, “And who is Charlie?”

She said slowly, the anger seeping from her ears, “you’ll see.”

“But… but… but, I’m impatient!”

“Excellent, this will be a good exercise in patience for you.”

“What?! I don’t like to exercise!”

Dr. Malevolent poked his belly, “I can see that, but this isn’t that kind of exercise.”

“What other kind of exercise is there?”

“Shut up!” Boris bellowed, his Russian accent abandoned, “We have to go save him! We have to save Charlie!”

“Go ahead; we’ll be right here waiting for you!” Dr. Malevolent said to her panicked sidekick.

“Sit tight, I’ll be right back,” his voice trailed off as he sprinted down the side of the police station.

“Whoa now, we can’t really let him do that on his own, what if he gets eaten?” Captain Rescue asked.

“Believe me when I say that a henchman with an identity crisis is a burden to all.”

Like a sports car slamming its breaks at a red light, Boris screeched to a halt just before reaching the corner of the police station. He placed his hands on the edge and peered around. To no one’s surprise, the van had not gotten up and walked away during their time in the police station, but zombies now gravitated to it as ants gravitate to yummy morsels left on the ground. If all these zombies suddenly decided they wanted to, they could have easily lifted the van and carried it off to their nest as a prize for their queen. Luckily, zombies are not as smart as ants, nor did their queen have an interest in getaway vans.

“All we have are these pistols,” the ever-astute Captain Rescue said as he pointed repeatedly at the undead and then to his puny little sidearm, which he had pried from the dead hands of a police officer on his way out, “I think we may need bigger guns.”

Freight gripped his shotgun tightly; he had no plans to let these cretins get their hands on his beloved—the only real weapon. Unless you consider Dr. Malevolent’s inanimate carbon rod a weapon—it wasn’t. If anyone could lead these rag-tag zombie slayers to an arsenal of weaponry, it would be Freight. He had been a cop in another life, which meant he knew where the police kept their weapons. Once inside, they could arm up with all sorts of cool gadgets. Where would one find this mythical depository? On the other side of this wall, of course.

“I HAVE A PLAN,” Freight roared.

“Oh lord, I can’t wait to see where this is going,” Dr. Malevolent said as she glanced around the corner to get a good look at the zombies.

Freight faced the wall, lifted his leg, and then kicked a hole through it. He pointed into the opening, and with a cheer yelled, “GUNS!”

“Wow!” Captain Rescue cheered, “You have quite the kick!”

Dr. Malevolent knelt down and inspected the hole, “No he doesn’t, this wall is just made out of what appears to be cardboard.” She looked up at Freight, “You keep your plethora of dangerous weapons in a cardboard room?”

Freight shrugged, “I HAD NO IDEA, THEY DON’T LET ME IN HERE.”

“That’s understandable,” Dr. Malevolent said with a nod before looking towards Boris, who had not been paying attention to the conversation, his head peaking around the corner. “Anything interesting over there?”

“Weird.”

“What is it?”

“As soon as you asked that, the zombies started to shuffle this way. It’s like they heard you.”

Freight shoved his arm into the hole he put into the wall, and then yanked a section of it out, leaving enough room for the group to enter and arm themselves. The city might have spent very little on its walls, but Freight could have burst through many a wall regardless of its consistency. The survivors piled into the armory and prepared themselves for their first real encounter with the smelly cadavers—a smell that grew increasingly rank as the horde streamed around the corner.

“GRAB YOURSELVES A GUN, GET READY. HERE THEY COME.” Freight roared.

Captain Rescue gazed at the wall of weapons. Normally, a super hero would never resort to using firearms, it violated everything they stood for, but hell, those were zombies. So Captain Rescue grabbed the largest assault rifle he could wrap his hands around, even if he had no idea how to operate it. Maybe by the time he and the others finished this little battle, the hero would have figured out which button was the trigger. Dr. Malevolent and Boris both grabbed submachine guns, and slid handguns underneath their belts just to look cool. With that, the battle began.

To put it mildly, the undead are walking, moaning sacks of meat with teeth. This profound lack of intelligence had propelled three of them into the armory at once. Of course, they became stuck, clogging the entrance for any other zombie. Squished together, they snapped their teeth, clawing at the heroes. When this proved ineffective, they turned to each other and argued by means of gnawing. However, this traffic jam would be short lived—the wall had already begun to give way under the immense pressure of a billion mindless zombies trying to burst their way through. The band of super heroes, villains, a crazy cop, and Stubbs all turned zombie hunters stood at the ready with their guns pointed towards the dam, awaiting its rupture.

As they stared at the mess of zombies clawing their way in, a realization suddenly occurred to everyone at the same exact moment: they were wasting ample zombie destruction time just waiting for the wall to cave in, so they opened fire. A few seconds of unrestrained zombie slaughter commenced. The bullet spray ate away at the dam, but it did not give in and flood them. Arms, legs, hands, feet, and heads all went flying through the air in every direction. The fire pierced the thin wall and even took out a few of the zombies that were minding their own business a few hundred feet away. This would send all the zombie rights activists raging.

Tiny cracks crawled through the wall as the barrage of gunfire and zombies continued, before long it had endured all it could endure. The dam did not collapse so much as it simply disintegrated as the horde of cadavers came crashing through. Corpse after corpse piled at their feet as more zombies came barreling through the ruptured dam. Soon, a mountain of dead zombies had formed at their feet—geology at its finest.

One industrious zombie actually managed to lunge out from the mess of cadavers and go straight for one of Dr. Malevolent’s lackeys; the poor guy threw his arms up in defense as the creature crashed into him. This bear of a zombie then clamped its jaws around the lackey’s arm and tore at his flesh like a nice juicy salmon. The attack left a sizeable wound in his forearm, and the bone showed through like the creamy filling of a strawberry pastry.

The lackey shoved the zombie back into the pile of cadavers, where it blended in perfectly. He then attempted to conceal what had just transpired by cupping his hand over the wound and whistling nonchalantly. He gazed down and, between the ghastly sight and sheer blood loss, found himself quite dizzy. Of course, zombification was playing its part as well. He would have been in great pain if not from shock of it all. The zombie outbreak hadn’t even sunk in yet and already people had lost chunks of flesh to the mangy beasts.

The lackey held his wounded arm close to his chest and gave everyone else a woozy smile, hoping they would not notice his newfound state or the zombie that lay dead with a piece of his arm still in its mouth. For a short time, he considered grabbing the hunk of flesh and trying to reattach it to his arm like a missing puzzle piece, but soon he abandoned this plan due to a lack of the necessary medical knowledge.

This poor lackey and his fast approaching fate would weigh on even the stoutest of hearts as the color bled from his skin and his lips faded to blue. Fret not, for the sole purpose of his existence was to be zombie fodder. Just as nobody mourns for a dog’s chew toy, do not mourn for his noble sacrifice, because as they say, “You can’t start zombie apocalypse without first busting a few skulls.”

Captain Rescue took notice of Dr. Malevolent’s wounded lackey and, with a wild-eyed look, subtlety nudged Freight to take notice. His eyes and face were trying to convey a message to the hulking police officer. A message that Captain Rescue felt he could not convey aloud. If one did not know any better, it would have been something like “Where’s the bathroom in this place I really have to pee.” or “Is your sister single?” Unable to translate Captain Rescue’s unique language, Freight simply shrugged.

Finally, the hero turned his attention to the wounded fellow, “What’s that?” he asked, pointing at the bloody arm.

Drunk with blood loss, the lackey replied, “That? Nothing… I’ve had it since I was born. It’s a birth defect, yeah.”

Dr. Malevolent tapped her lips for a few moments and then smacked them, “So, you’re trying to tell me that the gushing wound in your arm has absolutely nothing to do with the zombie lying there with piece of flesh in its mouth that looks like it would fit in that hole perfectly?”

“Well… uh…” the lackey fell over unconscious.

Captain Rescue threw his arms into the air and yelled, “Now what!”

“Is he dead?” Dr. Malevolent said, poking him with her foot.

“The real question is, ‘Is he undead?’”

Before they could discuss the matter any further, a single shotgun blast resonated out.

“PROBLEM SOLVED!” bellowed Freight as he shot once more for good measure.

“Was the second one really necessary?” asked Dr. Malevolent.

“YOU CAN NEVER BE TOO CAREFUL.”

They all found much wisdom in Freight’s words and remained quiet for a few moments. Then, Captain Rescue screeched loudly and fired at a zombie that had apparently gone unnoticed, taking its arm clean off.

Stubbs said not a word as he wiggled the stump around.

“Oh jeez, sorry. You do kinda blend in, don’t you?” Captain Rescue said as he grabbed Stubbs’ severed arm from the ground. He then held the shoulder in one hand, the arm in the other, and simply tried to force the two back together like a kid who had broken his favorite toy and was trying desperately to fix it. However, he forgot to apply superglue, so the entire exercise was in vain.

Eventually, Stubbs grabbed his arm back from Captain Rescue and began slapping the hero across the face repeatedly before easily popping it back into place. He wiggled it around to assure that everything worked properly, slapped Captain Rescue a few more times, and then simply thanked him for trying. To avoid a situation like this occurring again, Stubbs grabbed a Kevlar vest from a nearby locker and adorned it. To complete the snazzy ensemble, he snatched up a riot helmet and shoved it over his head. Now, perhaps, he would be able to survive any further crossfire that came his way, unless they somehow ran into a herd of zombies also in full riot gear.

Wait a second! How did those half-retarded primates take advantage of sophisticated weaponry so easily? Most of them, obviously, had no weapons training at all. Their newfound sharpshooting skills were simply a side effect of any zombie apocalypse. Everyone involved who had not succumbed to zombieism could now use every weapon known to man—and quite proficiently. Clearly, military prowess was something every person had seated deeply in his or her subconscious, and at the onset of impending doom, it switched on and made a fighter out of anyone; with the exception of Captain Rescue, who resorted to whacking zombies with the butt of his rifle because he could not, for the life of him, figure out which end fired the bullets.

With the battle commenced, a giant mountain of zombies now blocked the wall and made getting out the same way they got in nearly impossible, and no amount of force would get them past the door without a key, which Freight did not have. Sadly, as he said, nobody at the station trusted the psychopath to that many guns at any given time, a very wise decision on their part. Who knew when he would sneak in there in the dead of night and borrow a grenade launcher to clear those pesky ducks loitering at the nearby pond?

So here they were, stuck between the proverbial rock (giant hill of dead zombies) and hard place (steel armory door). Captain Rescue decided to take a direct route to the outside world. He threw his arms into the air, roared, and sprinted for the nearest wall, which he collided with in much the same fashion as he collided with the back door of the getaway van. A cringe of pain covered everyone else’s face as the hero smacked into the wall and fell over backwards, cracking the floor tiles underneath him.

He rose from the ground, stars still orbiting his head. After the room stopped spinning, he focused his eyes onto the wall, pointed, and called it out.

“Get the better of me will you?” he said, anger permeating from the tip of his finger. “I’ll teach you who is boss, you piece of junk!”

Captain Rescue swaggered over to the wall, fist raised high into the air. He stood there, making a series of circles with his fist as he held it high over his head, preparing to give it a taste of its own medicine, and almost falling backwards from the momentum. Then, he lunged forward, fist leading the charge. Surprisingly, or unsurprisingly if you consider the state of walls in this city, his fist pierced right through. He continued to stumble forward as paper-thin drywall fell on top of him. The wall, it appeared, had the last laugh.

Chapter 9: There’s a New Sheriff in Town

After trekking back through the grotesque birthday party of human remains that the police station had fallen to, the little band of misfits found their way back out—again. The quick demolition of walls greatly expedited their journey and allowed them to make a beeline for the entrance. Once outside, Captain Rescue made sure to lock The Rescue Machine securely. If a zombie hijacker somehow stole it, as unlikely as that sounded, he would be devastated.

The van was right where they left it and had not grown legs and walked away or been carried off to the zombie queen that existed solely for this metaphor. As for the area just surrounding the van, it appeared clear of any unwanted predators, the kind that waited in the shadows to strike for the jugular. No, not tigers. Well, maybe zombie tigers. There is really no telling what dangers awaited the heroes if these zombies somehow made their way into a zoo.

Before anyone could advise him against it, Boris had made it way halfway across the parking lot screaming at the top of his lungs, “Hold on Charlie! I’m comin’ for ya, buddy!” He had become suddenly delirious, brought on by the intense affection he felt for his inorganic better half. Boris desperately wanted to be reunited with Charlie before the suit succumbed to the wrath of the zombies, and that wrath, no doubt, would be magnified tenfold once the zombies realized just how inedible a plush costume really was.

Despite the area appearing clear but a moment ago, zombies had leapt out of the woodwork and were closing in on Boris as he climbed into the van. How were they able to accomplish such a feat, who knew? Maybe mastering the space-time continuum was something zombies did in their spare time and now they had the ability to teleport at free will. Only they had taken it too far and were warping around all willy-nilly, thanklessly abusing the gift given to them by their creators. This blatant abandonment of the traditional zombie shuffle only brought shame to their ancestors and made a mockery of everything zombies stood for.

Suddenly, a slew of unearthly howls echoed through the parking lot. Zombies were quite loud when they wanted to be. Dozens of the creatures now fled from the van at full shuffle. It appeared as though something spooked them. Weird, since zombies did not technically feel real fear, or at least nobody thought they did. Regardless, something just scattered the zombies worse than a Swine Flu scare at the supermarket. The cause of their scatter was perhaps even more terrifying than the blight known as pigfluenza could ever be. Atop the van stood a rabbit over eight feet tall (including ears) with a big bushy tail. Even more, this newfound zombie repellant practically glowed blue. As luck would have it, zombies feared nothing more than oversized blue bunnies named Charlie.

Interestingly, Boris had entered the vehicle no more than fifteen seconds prior. The speed at which he adorned the suit would have made Superman and his favorite telephone booth ripe with envy. The man of steel and his mistress had fostered quite the loving relationship and to have another costumed crusader suddenly come out of nowhere with a speed change like that would have left them quite perturbed. So much so, that the son of Krypton would hang up his cape and turn to a life less frightening, perhaps as an accountant. A new sheriff had come to town, Charlie the Bright Blue Bunny Rabbit, and he was fresh out of bubblegum. The undead spread out in every possible direction, hands flailing high above their heads. As previously learned, the zombies were only just in working condition, and fleeing this quickly caused a great deal of them to lose integrity and, piece by piece, fall to shambles. Zombies had good reason to shuffle wherever they went.

Charlie, or Boris as he was formerly known, who was formally known as Cecil DeWitt, signaled to all around that hope remained and the time for dismay had not yet come. Ironically, the time for dismay had come. Most of the people with enough mental capacity to truly appreciate this beacon had already been torn apart. Either that or they jumped from their rooftops in dismay (where they learned ten feet later they needed to work on their suicide techniques) and then been torn apart. Either way—lots of people, lots of tearing apart. It was safe to say that this beacon of hope had shown up a little late to the party.

Whenever Boris became Charlie, his personality changed to reflect it. Nobody really knew who Cecil DeWitt really was, since Boris was just another of his monikers. His real identity had been long lost under mountains of mental fortifications and a lifetime of role-playing. But, if the man had to choose, Charlie would have certainly been his favorite personality. It probably had something to do with the pointy rabbit ears or the bushy tail. Whatever his reasoning, Charlie was a force to be reckoned with—and the zombies knew it.

“What are you chumps doin’ standing around? We have a world to save,” the rabbit said without giving anyone the opportunity to explain why it was not every day you saw a bunch of zombies flee from an enormous bunny rabbit. “Let’s get to that bank so we can figure out who’s behind this crap.”

“Wait one second,” Dr. Malevolent said, “I may not be an expert on furries or zombies, but it sure seemed like they were scared of you.”

Charlie shrugged, “I’m not exactly surprised, I am a force to be reckoned with.”

“Oh, get over yourself, you’re just crazy—not comfortable in your own skin so you have to put on someone, or something, else’s.”

“If we’re going to psychoanalyze anyone, let’s do you.”

Charlie looked then to Captain Rescue, “… or you.”

He glanced at Freight, “Okay, you seem crazy too.”

Freight threw up his hands, taken aback but the outlandish accusation.

Dr. Malevolent shook her head, “Our collective mental illnesses aside, we’re veering off course. Zombies are scared of you, we can exploit this.”

Freight stepped away from the ground, “HOLD ON A SECOND, I’M NOT PUTTING ON ONE OF THOSE COSTUMES. YOU CAN’T MAKE ME.”

“That won’t be a problem,” the bunny replied, “There’s no place in this city to buy, or loot, them.”

“That settles it then,” Dr. Malevolent said, “We have to stick together and you have to lead the way. I guess we’ll just hope the zombies see you first and don’t find our delectable flesh more appealing.”

“WELL, IF THAT HAPPENS TO BE THE CASE, I’LL DO MY THING.”

Dr. Malevolent patted him on the back, “I’m afraid to see what happens if you’re not allowed to do your thing.”

“IT FRIGHTENS ME TOO, DON’T WORRY.”

“Let’s get crackin’ then, lead the way Charlie,” Dr. Malevolent said with a hint of sarcasm. She still planned to get ahold of the blue monstrosity and to torch it after she had exploited it to avoid being eaten.

Captain Rescue placed his hand upon Charlie’s plush shoulder, “Man, you don’t know how nice it is to have someone else lead these half-wits for once,” Under the blue bunny head and unknown to the hero, Charlie just rolled his eyes in return.

As the newly appointed group leader set off, Freight stared him down, his fingers tightening around his shotgun. From the age of two, Freight had crowned himself the badassest of badasses, and he did not take kindly to this new badass coming out of nowhere to usurp his crown right out from under him. Therefore, he made a mental note to super glue it to his head. That way, if a thief ever pried his crown from him again, they would discover a ring of unsightly flesh lining the underside. Perhaps that would deter any further dastardly crown thieves.

After dwelling on Charlie for a few moments, an epiphany hit Freight. With Charlie leading everyone into danger, he now had free reign to be the gun-toting zombie blower-upper without a care in the world, which was fine and dandy with him. However, Charlie’s suit did appear to have a rather unwanted effect on the zombies—making them flee for their unlives. Nevertheless, he would make do, even if he had to plunge head first into poor decisions to quench his blood thirst.

Lost in his thoughts, Freight slammed into Charlie, who had come to abrupt halt. He glanced over the bunny’s shoulder, and between his floppy ears, to see a zombie loitering on the sidewalk with its back turned to Charlie and head hung low. Freight slid his shotgun from underneath his belt, ready to jump into action if the need arose.

Charlie picked up a pebble from the ground and tossed it at the zombie. The creature shuffled around, surely preparing to lunge at whomever just disturbed it. The zombie’s head slowly rose as it emitted a ghastly moan. Its eyes soon locked with Charlie            and its moan quieted before it could come to some kind of finale. The zombie began to shake violently and then simply collapsed and rolled into the street, motionless.

“Well,” Charlie said, looking at the lifeless corpse, “that was easy.”

With an enormous zombie repellent like Charlie, the group was able to traverse the city streets quickly, any obstacles scared away. As another zombie collapsed before the wrath of the bunny rabbit, Captain Rescue called Stubbs out, “Hey zombie, I’ll race you to the end of the block.”

“Race?” the zombie replied, “I can barely walk.”

“Oh, so you’re gonna chicken out on me then, are ya?”

Stubbs pointed to a golf cart, which someone had conveniently left running on the side of the road when the shit hit the fan, “My chariot awaits.” The original owner, once zombified, had probably gone off in search of food on foot, since zombies did not likely retain the knowledge of operating a golf cart. Not that they should have been expected to, most zombies had a hard enough time retaining the knowledge of distinguishing between food and hazards, let alone the operation of any sort of vehicle.

“Wait a second, I’m not going to race a golf cart on foot.”

“Oh, who’s scared now?”

“Oh, you worthless corpse, you’re on.”

Stubbs climbed into the golf cart pulled it to side of the road, where Captain Rescue stood. The hero walked to the front of the tiny vehicle and aligned his feet with its front wheels, giving himself an inch or so head start. As Stubbs revved the golf cart’s engine, Captain Rescue scoffed at the zombie and then made a revving noise of his own. Charlie, Freight, and Dr. Malevolent all stood back, curious to see just how badly this went.

“I’ll do the countdown,” Captain Rescue said.

“All right,” the zombie replied, fully aware that he would probably try to pull some funny business and cheat.

Captain Rescue bent over, stretching his legs and then his back as a string of pops followed suit. He let out a quick, sharp exhale, throwing an arm into the air before beginning his countdown. “On 1! Three! Two!” The hero sprinted off before finishing. He looked back laughing and then shouted to the golf cart, “One!”

Stubbs gunned the vehicle just as Captain Rescue swung his head around, seconds too late to notice the subtle ridge where two slabs of sidewalk had ended their close relationship, leaving one heartbroken and sticking into the air. His toe crashed into this hunk of concrete and he went flying through the air, staring down at the sidewalk that had betrayed his trust—to make matters even worse, now it had come back to smack him in the face.

The golf cart rolled past Captain Rescue as he picked himself up from the ground. He limped for a moment, took a deep breath, and then burst into sprint, in almost unbearable agony. He opened his mouth and just started screaming, hoping to expunge the pain from his body and to unintentionally bring every zombie in a two block radius to their doorstep. Proof that the mind had a powerful effect on the body, Captain Rescue felt the pain drain from his body through his mouth.

He began to gain on the golf cart, but as he passed the entrance to a store, a zombie lumbered into the open. Captain Rescue screeched and jumped to his side as Stubbs slammed on the breaks and then backed the golf cart up, pushing the zombie over and popping its head underneath one of the wheels. Captain Rescue stood over to the side, catching his breath.

“Wow,” he said, panting, “you might have just saved my life.”

Stubbs stepped out from the golf cart, “I really just wanted to run something over.”

“And with a golf cart, that takes class,” Captain Rescue laughed as Charlie, Freight, and Dr. Malevolent ran up to the pair. They had been enjoying the show from down the street, out of harm’s way.

“WOW,” Freight said, kneeling down and admiring Stubbs’s handiwork, “VERY NICE. VERY NICE INDEED.”

Charlie grumbled, “If you two are done wasting time, let’s get a move on. I don’t really want to draw any additional attention to ourselves.”

Captain Rescue, still catching his breath, looked at Stubbs, “We never got to finish the race!”

“I don’t mind declaring you winner, I got what I wanted,” the zombie replied as he climbed back into the vehicle.

The group pushed forth with Stubbs piloting the golf cart just like he always wanted. The zombie even created a game where he would run down other zombies, assign them points, and tally them up in his head. He rather enjoyed murdering his brethren, and did not shed a tear as he mowed the hordes down, chuckling as they looked blankly towards the oncoming golf cart right before it plowed into them.

As for big blue Charlie, the moment any zombie caught a glimpse of him, they would start moaning and shuffling off in random directions or simply short circuit and fall over dead again. Since a zombie’s intelligence rivaled that of say—cardboard, they did not react well to being startled, and their panicked shuffling commonly resulted in plummets down open manholes or repeatedly bumping into walls. One could surmise then that, much like a lemming, a zombie would walk off a cliff to its doom without hesitation. Any zombie that did not meet with any of the aforementioned fates met it with Stubbs and his golf cart.

Because of their reaction to him, Charlie began to doubt that the undead had any sort of consciousness in the first place, but in order to come to a proper conclusion, some brave zombologist would need to experiment further to discover what was really going on inside a zombie’s noggin. A possible experiment would be to tie a harness to an armless zombie and hang a brain in front of it just to see how long it would walk before it managed to find a way to dispose of itself.

The survivors made it to the end of a block and Charlie stopped them all. “There’s an awful lot of ruckus coming from around that corner,” he said suspiciously.

Captain Rescue thrust his chest into the air, “I’ll check it out.” He strolled to the building’s corner and peered over the edge. “Yes, that is a lot of zombies.”

“Well, big guy,” Dr. Malevolent said to Charlie, “this is your queue.”

The bunny shook its head, “I don’t think so. I don’t want to push our luck by startling that many zombies at once. Things might get crazy and they could end up eating us anyway.”

“I suppose you bring up a good point.”

Charlie glanced around, trying to determine a good detour to take. Soon, he pointed to a nearby alley. “Let’s go that way.”

“An alleyway?” Captain Rescue asked, “Isn’t that dangerous?”

Traversing the alleyway, under normal societal circumstances, would certainly be ill advised. While zombies seem to enjoy streets and places that previously held a lot of human traffic, much scarier things lurked down dark alleyways. However, considering the state of things most of those dark figures you would never want to run into would have been long since zombified and posed little threat. Furthermore, zombie threat or not, alleys held much more enjoyable and adventurous prospects. Why rob yourself of those wonderful urban spelunking opportunities just because of a few zombies?

Charlie went on to say, “Can’t really be any worse than what’s out here.”

“Your funeral!” Captain Rescue said with an emphasized shrugging.

“You do realize,” Dr. Malevolent added, “that if there’s anything in that ally that could possibly kill us, you’d probably die too.”

“No… impossible, super heroes are immortal. In fact,” he said, looking at her, “so are most super villains.” Captain Rescue laughed and looked at looked at the others, “You guys though…”

“We’re going to have to put this theory of yours to a test someday.”

“Fine by me, I’ve done my research.”

“Yes, I’m sure those comic books of yours are a fool proof learning tool.”

Captain Rescue made childish faces of condemnation at her as they headed towards their detour. If a stereotypical alley existed, the kind pictured when someone imagined running into a dark figure, this would be it. Naturally lit, it would have been quite eerie. However, since the city’s lights were on the fritz, darkness consumed much of the alleyway with only the moon and their flashlights to illuminate it.

As the group digested the alley, Stubbs gunned the golf cart and headed straight for a brick wall while everyone else looked on curiously. At the last second, the zombie dove from the driver’s seat and rolled across the pavement. He casually got to his feet and headed towards the alleyway as the golf cart inched towards the brick wall. The vehicle finally tapped it, scuffing the paintjob, but nothing else happened. A few seconds later, it exploded wondrously into a miniature mushroom cloud. Stubbs paid no attention to the inferno and strolled into the alleyway, his bewildered friends following shortly thereafter.

“Do I even want to ask?” Dr. Malevolent finally said.

“Ask what?” Captain Rescue inquired.

“The golf cart?”

“Yes?” he questioned her.

“How it exploded?”

“They don’t normally do that?”

“No, they don’t.”

“Interesting.”

A little known fact about zombies was that they loved explosions, so Stubbs had actually done them a favor. The undead were drawn to the smoldering golf cart and away from the heroes, who slipped into the alleyway without so much as a stray glance from one of the festering corpses.

At first, it appeared as though condensation coated the entire passage. This seemed unlikely since it had not rained here in weeks. However, upon closure investigation, the source of the wetness turned out to be merely blood, which somehow set their minds at ease. If the alleyway had somehow been the source of some kind of random torrential downpour they would have been quite shocked. The chances of a bloodbath were much higher, considering the state of affairs in this fair city.

As Charlie stared down at the gallons of blood used to paint this alleyway, he could not help but to imagine how difficult removing the stains from his costume would be. No amount of club soda would magically exorcise the blood that now soaked its way into the plush. He had half a mind to take the costume off, but carrying it around seemed troublesome. Not to mention, the man buried within the blue suit could not to kick this much ass without the guise.

The group pressed forth down the alleyway, and soon ran into a zombie with its head buried under the lid of a dumpster; no doubt, this zombie had been homeless prior to its reanimation. A little known fact about zombies was that if left to their own devices for long enough, the mangy beasts will start to take on aspects of their former selves. Firefighter zombies are attracted to fires—a habit that leads to their incineration more often than not. Stripper zombies have an unhealthy fixation with poles. Zombies that drove for a living find their way to the driver’s seat of a vehicle and just sit there with their hands on the wheel. Obese zombies like to wander in the vicinity of fast food restaurants. Children zombies are often seen at playgrounds scrambling up slides and then falling back down. The list goes on.

Charlie motioned for everyone to stop as he discreetly approached the homeless zombie, chuckling quietly under his breath. The creature just continued digging through the trashcan, unaware of the malicious rabbit closing in fast. Charlie crept up behind the zombie and then shoved its shoulders, taking a leap backwards. The creature reeled around, raised its arms into the air, and snarled. Just before lunging forward, it realized what had disturbed it: a giant blue bunny rabbit.

The zombie froze there for a few moments, then turned around and shuffled as fast as it could down the alleyway. It paid no heed to anything in its path, especially not the fire escape or its ladder. The zombie crashed into the rungs, lodging its head between a pair of them. The rest of its body, unaware of this fact, continued shuffling in place, arms flailing about randomly. As the group passed by, laughing, the zombie tried its best to bite them through the ladder’s rungs, but was unsuccessful.

Leaving this hapless undead soul behind, they pressed forth, and any zombies lingering were easily scared off, save one. This zombie apparently assumed that it was Easter, because it reacted to Charlie with undeterred rage. The meaning behind this escaped them all. Perhaps this zombie was some weird fluke, or perhaps zombies in general were growing out of their fear of giant blue bunny rabbits, something all the undead had to do if they wanted to survive in this messed up and crazy world.

Who knew how many zombies it would take for them to overcome their collective fear, but chances are—not many. Unbeknownst to the heroes, zombies all over found the commotion in the alleyway quite alluring. They closed in fast and it would not be long before they found a way around the otherwise insurmountable wall of buildings that engulfed the heroes.

Chapter 10: Dinner and a Show

After finally coming to the end of the long narrow alleyway that had accompanied them for quite some time, everyone kicked the ground in frustration when they realized what awaited them just around the corner—another alleyway of course, albeit significantly less bloody, which only begged the question of what made the other one so ghastly. Simply put, that alleyway just so happened to be the utmost lowest point in the city. All the blood spilled since these zombies took over flowed straight there, and since many of the storm drains throughout the city had—stuff—clogging them, the blood had pooled to a ridiculous degree.

Aside from the significant lack of gore, one major difference separated this alleyway from the last. A building had collapsed and its rubble now blocked their path completely. Unless zombies somehow found a way to overcome entire buildings, then something more sinister must have been afoot. The most obvious culprit was God, who, from the heavens, smote this one building for some unseen purpose, as if The Almighty had orchestrated this entire ordeal for His or Her own benefit. God does work in mysterious ways.

The divine roadblock forced the troupe of zombie slayers to detour into a building nestled amongst the forest of brick that encompassed the alleyway. Once inside, they were astonished to see a quaint home unaffected by zombie carnage. Judging by the smell that wafted up from the furnishings, an old woman had lived here. Now, only the smell remained. At the start of the zombie outbreak, the elderly woman that lived here must have gone wandering without her spectacles. When she met with her first corpse, she probably tried to invite it in for tea and scones. The zombie, no doubt, had little stomach for such things and instead opted for finely aged human flesh.

“Anyone else hungry?” Captain Rescue asked.

The thought of a half-digested corpse brought attention to that ache in their tummies. Why not take the time to satisfy it while in humble surroundings such as these? Therefore, the picnic basket that Charlie had hidden who knows where found its way atop a blanket with equally enigmatic origins. Even more mysterious—this inexplicable picnic basket somehow held sandwiches, drinks, chips, and those small individually wrapped wipes for the ten or so people sitting Indian-style around it.

For some reason, their feasting had much in common with the way zombies feast on human flesh. Apparently manners resided near the bottom of their respective priority lists. Except for Stubbs, who, despite an inability to digest food, was an utmost gentleman and sat with a napkin between his legs to catch the crumbs as they fell from his mouth and the many other holes throughout his body. The group made quick work of the meal, and before long all that remained were the crumbs coating their clothes.

With their newly sated bellies, everyone rose and stood in a tight circle to plan their next course of action—a choice that if chosen poorly would lead to dire circumstances and their inevitable doom. In fact, any choice—good or bad—could easily lead to inevitable doom. They would have to proceed from this point with meticulous planning if they wished to survive the night. The next words spoken would have to be carefully chosen and their meaning clear as glass or lives could be lost.

“LET’S GO KICK SOME ZOMBIE ASS!” Freight bellowed; his carefully chosen and meticulous words sunk their way into everyone’s soul.

They all replied together, “Hurrah!”

Overexcited from his own motivation speech, Freight went into fit of rage and rushed through the door of the quaint little home, ready to mutilate anything waiting on the other side, zombie or not. In his current state, he could have easily tried to pummel the first thing to cross his path, be it a fire hydrant, or a telephone pole. Maybe even a small dog with a scorched tail that somehow survived this long without becoming the condiment to a zombie’s main dish.

Everyone dashed through the Freight shaped hole just in time to see him yelling in gibberish at the moon. From his body language and the tone of his yelling, they surmised that the moon had slept with his sister and then added insult to injury by stealing his record collection. The moon’s transgressions forced Freight into a crusade to yank it from the sky and brutally bludgeon it to death. Anyone could question the validity of this goal, but what there was no question of, however, was the attention drawn by bellowing at the moon. A clamor of footsteps and moans approached from every angle, and the source of which might have certainly been moon-huggers who had come to put an end to Freight’s campaign against their lord and savior—if these moon-huggers had developed a hunger for something other than moon-justice.

Without his knowledge, a mess of smelly zombies had encircled Freight, the anger he felt towards the two-timing, sister abducting, record-stealing moon had blinded him from the undead’s dastardly ways. Before this, the moon had been a trustworthy friend; that trust had evaporated quickly, for not only had it left a cheese shaped impression on his sister’s bottom, it now distracted him from his impending doom. Just when Freight had begun to accept that the moon would not be directly facing these accusations and would rather cruelly ignore him from its seat in the sky, he realized he had bigger fish to fry. He worried, however, that no frying pan existed large enough for this cook off. Freight clenched his fists in rage. Who should he blame for this travesty and where could he find them? They need a brutal bludgeoning.

Oh well, at least he had a shotgun, which was arguably more useful than an oversized frying pan. What followed in the wake of his shotgun was nothing short of art. At the same moment Freight realized the zombies were encroaching, his trusty weapon was already blasting their heads off. All round, one by one, the undead exploded and rained gore. As many know, the act of zombification left the human body more susceptible to spontaneous exploding. Not only when met with sizzling deer slug, but also more exciting objects like shovels, rakes, or the weighted backpack of a college student. As this rhythm of blasts and exploding zombies found its niche, the scene shifted from a slaughter to an elegant dance of zombie gore. Corpse after corpse fell in rhythm, like synchronized swimmers who had swum their last swim.

After the dust and corpses had settled, (which happened in perfect harmony, its own special form of beauty) Freight just stood there, shotgun resting on his shoulder, smirking widely at the art he had just created. He was a badass, and judging by that smirk, he knew it quite well. As the man reeled around to face the other heroes, his shotgun slipped and tumbled from his hands. Freight went into a scramble, diving for his beloved as it tumbled towards the pavement. At the last second, his hands slipped beneath it, rescuing it from the fall.

Freight cradled his shotgun close to his chest, like a mother and her newborn baby, “WHOA COURTNEY, YOU ALMOST WENT FOR A TUMBLE. IT’S OKAY, I’VE GOT YOU NOW.”

The man took the awkwardness of this moment a step further and caressed the red ribbon around the barrel of the shotgun.

Charlie cautiously approached Freight and inquired, “Did I just see what I think I saw?”

“SHE’S REAL AND SHE LOVES ME!”

Charlie did not want to be on the receiving end of Courtney, so he left well enough alone. Dr. Malevolent, also ignoring what had just transpired, surveyed the zombies torn to shreds around her, and then turned to Freight with a warm look in her eyes. “I have a feeling you’re going to have a rough time acclimating back into society once this is all said and done. I guess we’ll have to put you in a plastic baggie filled with dead zombies until you have a chance to acclimate once more with the outside world.”

“I’M NOT A FISH, DAMMIT”

She patted him on the back.

Charlie laughed, “You’ve been saving that for a while haven’t you?”

“You shut up. I was just about to say it, and then the lunatic went all crazy with his shotgun, although I can appreciate a person’s affection or their objects,” she said, caressing her rod in its holster. “Anyway, damage done, I just figured I’d say it anyway.”

A streetlamp flickered above. Its eerie light illuminated the street briefly, reminding everyone of where they were: the middle of a deserted street in the dead of night. A deserted street littered with maimed corpses, however artfully placed. After a few seconds of staring blankly into the darkness, everyone silently decided to loiter elsewhere. In a feat of sheer brilliance, they took a moment and back peddled onto the sidewalk, safe from any road raging corpses during this most frightening of nights.

“We need to make it to that bank, who remembers where it is?” inquired Captain Rescue.

Dr. Malevolent spun around to face him, and then spouted, “You live in this city. You work in this city. You were just there earlier today, and you don’t know where the bank is?” poking his shoulder in rhythm with each emphasized word.

“You know how it goes, you ride along for years, but when you actually have to navigate somewhere everything is so foreign.”

“What do you mean ‘ride along’?

“The Rescue Machine has one of those… those…auto-drive things.”

“No it doesn’t.”

“Yes it does, and besides—how would you know?”

“Nobody’s marketed one yet. And even if they had, I doubt you’d be able to get your grubby mitts on it.”

“Then what about all those times my trusty steed has come to my aid in fierce battle?”

“I don’t know—maybe it’s possessed?”

“Possessed?” Captain Rescue’s face went pale and he started to shiver uncontrollably, “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

“Suit yourself, we better things to do, wouldn’t you agree?”

Charlie slipped into the conversation, “Would you two ninnies pull yourselves together, we are in the middle of a very serious epidemic. The fate of humanity rest could rest solely in our incapable hands.”

Dr. Malevolent laughed heartedly, “Or, the military could have already quarantined us off and are currently sitting somewhere in a tent, with popcorn, giggling.” She waved in random directions and the possible locations for camera drones.

“Now,” Charlie continued, bunny tail wagging away, “as Captain Rescue had inquired: the bank is actually just down the road a little ways. Let’s get there and figure out where to we need to head to put an end to this.”

Captain Rescue rolled his eyes, “lead the way, Bugs.”

“Don’t mock me,” the rabbit started, “if you think you’re man enough, I’ll follow in your lead.”

“I do believe I am.”

Captain Rescue pushed Charlie the Bright Blue Bunny Rabbit aside and marched out in front of him, ready to lead everyone to victory and salvation. This lasted for three harrowing steps before he came to a halt and raised a fist. His head jerked to the left then to the right and then to the left again and then to the right again. This continued for another fifteen or so seconds until someone kicked him in the back.

The hero inched forward; he knew danger lurked just ahead. He could feel it. Either that or the hotdogs he sodomized earlier were not of the best stock. Just then, a corpse shuffled from the shadows. It waddled past Captain Rescue, ignoring him completely. This, understandably, agitated the noble hero. What made him so special? Why should countless innocents get eaten alive by these lifeless masses of flesh while this one just waltzed right past him like he did not even exist? As he gazed at the bleeding and grotesque creature, the anger in his gut burned. For some demented reason, he wanted this zombie to turn and lunge for him—a notion that if pondered on for enough time would prove itself to be quite misled.

The furious passion rising deep within Captain Rescue propelled him forward. He shoved the zombie as a bully would on the playground during recess. The cadaver stumbled backwards, not immediately taking notice of its aggressor. After it came to a stop and righted itself, the zombie slowly fixed its gaze on Captain Rescue. Step by unsteady step the zombie shuffled towards him, eventually coming face to face with the hero. If it had breath to breathe, Captain Rescue would be able to feel it gliding down his neck.

The zombie snarled fiercely and then, in some random subconscious impulse, proceeded to shove the hero back. The force, however, tore what few ligaments remained in the zombie’s arms and caused them to rip from the elbows. The stunned cadaver waved its stumps around curiously, but did not attempt to bite anyone, which would have easily been its best course of action. The poor corpse’s arms twitched uncomfortably down there on the cold pavement. Captain Rescue took a disgusted step backwards, shaking his hands like a teenage girl (or elephant) that had just seen a mouse.

“Just shove the thing aside so we can keep movin’,” Charlie said, interrupting the tender moment Captain Rescue was having with the zombie. The hero, cautious of diseases the thing might have been carrying, pulled a hankie from his utility belt and lightly pushed the zombie aside with utmost care. Charlie had the opposite approach as he shoved Captain Rescue from behind, forcing him to stumble down the sidewalk.

Stubbs gave a sad nod and a smile to the armless corpse, who did not seem to care about his fellow zombie or the big blue bunny rabbit that had just strolled past it. Perhaps he had other things on his mind, such as the cyclist he had eaten a while ago and the bicycle it was excited to ride but now could not because it lacked arms. Perhaps, the reason its mind appeared to have wandered was that it had literally done so a short time ago, leaving a vacant cranium as it went off in search of greener pastures. The drooling zombie turned and watched the heroes as they headed deeper into the city.

Chapter 11: Bank Where We Started

Death and destruction surrounded the heroes. Obviously, they stood out, but Charlie, more than any of the others, stuck out like a giant blue bunny during a zombie outbreak should. As he and his comrades strolled down city sidewalks, buildings engulfed them on both sides; their opened windows carried ominous zombie winds that blew out from the depths of God-knows-where. The whole scene exemplified the current situation quite well—from the corpse lined streets to the car alarms going off to the group of ridiculously dressed madmen strolling through it all.

The Bank lay just ahead, and somehow it made their dire task seem somehow less dire, a refuge of sorts. In actuality, they doubted the bank where this mysterious outbreak originated would offer much refuge at all. At least it would be an exciting pit stop on their adventure. With any luck, this step would lead to another step and that step would lead to yet another step. These steps, when combined together as one, would create some kind of crazy contraption that would lead them upwards to their salvation. Then, ascension complete, they could watch the denizens of the dead below and mock them for trying to extinguish the human flame. This, of course, was in the most metaphorical of senses.

As their destination appeared at the end of the block, they realized just who had found refuge there—certainly not the living. Apparently, zombies realized the important of this place in the creation of their race, which surprised them all, since zombie’s IQ was somewhere between one celled organisms and cardboard. Still, they must have cracked it somehow. Perhaps, an unforeseen force directed them to The Bank, and directed they were, considering the sea of corpses between the heroes and their destination.

“Okay, so we need to get into that bank, but it seems it’s already occupied,” Charlie began, “so here’s the plan. I’m going to run up there, startle them, and then we’ll pick them off as they scatter. Keep your distance, don’t get bit, and stay alert. You’ve seen the movies. They always seem to sneak up on you when you least expect it.”

“GOOD SPEECH,” Freight said.

Charlie couldn’t really tell if the man was being sarcastic or not, so he just said, “Thank you.”

Without missing a beat, Charlie sprinted towards group of zombies, ears flailing about while screaming at the top of his lungs. The miniscule zombie reflection within his plastic eyes grew ever larger. Then, systematically, the zombies turned to face him. What they did not do, however, was flee in terror. In fact, the entire presentation only seemed to irritate. Apparently, the zombies had discovered, and with much haste, that they had nothing to fear at all from giant blue bunny rabbits, a fact many humans still struggle with to this day.

The kink in the plan caught everyone off guard and now a horde of zombies with outstretched arms shuffled in their general direction. The heroes may have disagreed, but the time for panic had not yet come. It would be at least another couple minutes before any of these cadavers came within gnawing distance. A zombie had many defining qualities: its insatiable thirst for brains, their putrid smell, decaying from a fresh corpse to a rotten corpse in mere moments. Nowhere, in any list, would zombies be defined by their speed, unless they were of the infected variety and had not yet died—but then they wouldn’t be zombies in the first place.

Faced with an impenetrable horde, Captain Rescue’s self-perseverance kicked in, he had to find a hiding spot. While everyone else fought for their lives and for the survival of the human race, Captain Rescue scampered off. Little did they know, just as Dr. Malevolent suspected, the human race had just abandoned this little corner of the world and neglected to send in the armed forces, or any force at all. Now, humanity sat underneath a tent watching the heroes, popcorn at the ready.

They paid special attention to Captain Rescue, who had found the perfect disguise to conceal himself—an empty trashcan. As he pulled the lid over his head, he immediately felt much safer, not to mention the sudden craving for cookies. He sat there for a few moments in utter darkness with his eyes shut, picturing chocolate chip cookies in his head. As his mind’s eye wolfed the treats down, the sound of gunfire and exploding zombies begged him to peek outside.

Hesitantly, he lifted the lid; just as expected, the world had come alive with zombie carnage. Delight filled the hero’s eyes. The relative safety of everyone outside the trashcan thrilled Captain Rescue so much that he felt compelled to leap from his hiding spot so he could join in on the action. He launched himself upwards, sending the lid rocketing into the air. In horror, the hero found himself trapped inside, unable to lift his leg high enough to get out.

After thrashing about for a few seconds, the trashcan tipped over and sent him rolling down the street, smashing his face against the pavement along the way. As it careened towards the horde of zombies, he ducked inside, curled into a ball, and prepared to go bowling. Captain Rescue clenched his teeth and squinted as the trashcan slammed into the zombies. Inside, he saw only legs forcefully removed from their torsos. He shook off the impact, crawled out, jumped to his feet, and yelled “Strike!”

The zombies did not take the besting of them at anything (even bowling) lightly. Their reduction to that of bowling pins made matters even worse. Soon they crowded around the hero to even the score, bite by bite. As zombie revenge was not his preferred method of demise (he had that planned out: skydiving without a parachute), Captain Rescue screeched and slipped out from the mess of zombies as they grabbed and bit for him.

When presented with a gift as scrumptious Captain Rescue, zombies would be expected to instantly sink their teeth into him. This is simply a misnomer. Whenever a zombie sinks its teeth into anything, that zombie has spent at least a minute in preparation. Their rotten brains really do work at that speed. Since Captain Rescue popped into their world out of nowhere, the zombies were not given the time necessary time to plan an attack. Therefore, he had the chance to slip away unscathed.

Captain Rescue placed an ample amount of distance between him and the zombies, and then grabbed the pistol he had slipped underneath his utility belt and fired gleefully into the cluster of corpses without a care in the world. Normally, Captain Rescue’s patented way of flinging bullets would have certainly been quite hazardous. However, since the amount of people still living within the city could be counted on one hand, the chances of a bullet finding anything other than a zombie were infinitesimal.

Everyone started to enjoy themselves as their relative safety set in. Freight, most of all, never grew tired of exploding zombies with his beloved Courtney. At one point he even stopped shooting. Instead, he used the butt of his shotgun like a hammer, and just went to town, whooping and hollering like a redneck at the stock car races. With his help, the zombie slayers littered the street and adjoining parking lot with countless corpses. Silence overtook the area, except for the blanket of corpses that squirted bodily fluids like a series of fountains, and Freight, who refused to settle down.

In celebration of his victory, Captain Rescue kissed the barrel his handgun. Considering it still smoldered from pumping out hot lead, he shortly regretted the decision. After vigorously rubbing his lips with his wrist, he surveyed the battlefield—not a pretty sight. Considering zombies were rather putrid and disgusting no matter their condition, that should not have been surprising.

As Captain Rescue surveyed the battlefield, he soon realized that the life had not completely drained from the corpses. Some still crawled around on their hands or hopped around with their tongues, refusing to just give up and die. Zombies clung to their love of human flesh as long as allowed, so the heroes dealt with the remains in the most humane way possible: by vehemently stomping on their heads until they stopped twitching.

Undead menace nullified, the heroes turned their attention towards The Bank, which seemed to be in roughly the same shape they left it in, give or take a few zombie droppings (all that human flesh had to go somewhere). Around the side, the sole super hero of a doorway still stood forever upright amongst the sea of rubble that surrounded it. After all humanity falls to ruin, this sole door will be one of the few remnants remaining of the once great civilization. How great was certain to be debated by whatever grey-skinned aliens happened to discover it.

“Hoorah!” Captain Rescue yelled as he burst through the front doors of The Bank, waving his gun around, ready to unleash a world of hurt on any zombies lying in wait. Luckily, for the living and the dead, the lobby appeared devoid, as the gun Captain Rescue was holding upside down and backwards would have done him little good. After giving the okay, everyone else spilled into the lobby. However, since Captain Rescue’s okay was less than—okay, they were ready for a fight anyway. Despite this, the lobby did, in fact, seem okay.

The heroes needed to discover the origins of the mysterious vial of zombie juice, but worried the secrets they sought would be buried underneath mountains of encrypted computer data they would need a super hacker to crack. Thus, with great trepidation, Captain Rescue approached the nearest computer. He picked it up and began talking into it. Shortly thereafter, Dr. Malevolent informed him that a telephone was not a computer. A cliché “I knew that” followed and he placed the telephone down and approached the real computer. After realizing he could bypass the cryptic curtain of pictures that covered the screen by wiggling the mouse, Captain Rescue threw his hands up in anger at the computer’s request for a password.

Down the hall, a zombie found itself drawn to the hubbub. With its alignment off, the reanimated corpse bumped into a nearby wall as it and headed in their direction. No one seemed to notice as it emerged from the darkened hallway, they all found modern technology and its infinite glories too enthralling. The creature wrapped its arms around the nearest lackey, who assumed Dr. Malevolent had finally reciprocated his lifelong crush. He turned around only to find a zombie biting his lips off. His scream spread from person to person as they all erupted. Except Stubbs, if he tried to open his mouth to scream his tongue would fall out and his jaw would likely unhinge.

The zombie, confused by the whole ordeal, took another bite of the henchman and then joined in on the screaming. Its tongue soon fell out. After a few seconds spent staring vacantly at the others, the zombie realized this charade could not persist for much longer and began to slink away. Without looking, Freight lifted his shotgun and blew the monster’s head off. Then, he aimed his weapon at the twitching henchman on the floor and blew his head off as well. Then, like the director of the worst high school choir in history, Freight brought an end to it all.

Their attention fell back to the computer, which still requested a password. Captain Rescue hoped that during the screaming the computer would have realized the severity of the situation and decided to help them anyway. He slammed his fist against the desk, angry that anything (even a computer) would be so selfish at a time like this. The hero then had the most amazing occurrence: an epiphany on display for all to see in the form of a candle hovering a few inches over his head. His higher power had not felt him worthy of a full-fledged light bulb. Then, like a chicken pecking for sweet kernels left on the keyboard, Captain Rescue typed out the number forty-two and hit enter. Amazingly, the computer allowed them access.

“How on earth did you know that was the password,” Dr. Malevolent asked as she slapped him upside the head.

“I heard somewhere that forty-two was the answer to the ultimate question of life, the universe, and everything.”

“Splendid…”

Thus, they hovered over the computer in search of the data that would bring them back from the brink of destruction. One of the folders on the desktop would surely lead the way to the people responsible. Amongst the array of folders, some of which would have been enticing had civilization remained intact, one named “Records” caught their eyes. Contained inside this folder, a simple notepad file entitled “click me” beckoned their attention. They did as told, and inside a single sentence read, “All records kept on clipboard near computer”. Sure enough, a relatively thick keyboard sat next to the computer.

“Well, someone’s organizational skills were left wanting,” Dr. Malevolent said as she picked up the clipboard and began thumbing through its pages, “this thing is going to take hours to sift through. No wait…”

Captain Rescue grabbed her shoulders and shook her violently, “What is it? The anticipation is killing me!”

“There’s a note up here at the top of the first page, ‘important records kept in the back’.”

She grabbed a hunk of the manuscript and flung it over the top of the clipboard. The primitive device, which had apparently been doing its best not to burst from pressure all these years, finally gave up its fight. The clip holding all the pages down snapped in two and a few hundred leafs of hand written notes spilled onto the floor.

Dr. Malevolent shrugged indifferently, “Good thing nobody needs this junk anymore.” After glancing over the pages for a few seconds, she continued, “Lovely, according to the notes here there’s an entire section of the vault dedicated to dangerous cargo. Oh and here we are, one of the safety deposit boxes contained ‘a peculiar vial of green liquid’.”

Charlie kicked the desk with his fuzzy bunny foot, “It’s a wonder this place didn’t usher in the apocalypse years ago.”

“I should have ripped it off months ago,” she said, sifting through the listed contents.

“Yeah, we see just how well it went down when you finally did.”

“If only I had done some research… I may have been ruling the world instead of saving it.”

Dr. Malevolent grabbed the page of notes with relevant information, folded it up, and put it in her pocket. Their next stop: the vault. Since Dr. Malevolent had just finished emptying it, they did not have to look hard. Captain Rescue made a game out of getting there first and everyone else let him win. If it were not for the giant Victorian Era wheel, they might have missed the bank vault all together. It was certainly worth many of the things that had been kept within, until Dr. Malevolent stole them.

Captain Rescue popped his neck and strutted over to the bank vault. He grabbed the giant wheel and tried his best to turn it, but it refused to grant him entry. After an exhaustive fight, Freight yanked the hero back to keep him from injuring himself. Almost in tears, Captain Rescue fell to his knees and slammed his fists against the thick metal as he pleaded with the door to let him in. Not wanting to rob the hero of this emotional moment, Charlie waited before he approached the man. He finally reminded Captain Rescue of the wall missing from the side of the bank vault—a wall that would allow him and everyone else access into it.

“I knew that,” said the hero.

They left the bank the same way they went in—through the front door—and snuck around the side, avoiding eye contact with the ghastly remains littering the street. Their old friend, the forever solitary and stoic door, greeted them coldly and refused to grand them access by keeping itself locked shut. Dr. Malevolent scolded whoever locked the door, since she distinctly remembered it had been left unlocked. They punished the door’s uncooperativeness by bypassing it entirely through the demolished wall, laughing and mocking it as they passed. The door remained silent and strong, but if one looked closely enough, they would most certainly see sadness in its frames.

The area beyond the devastated wall stored office supplies and paperwork, all of which untouched. During the robbery, Dr. Malevolent felt it worthless since she had no shortage of staplers and printer paper back at her evil headquarters. Her lackeys had pushed aside filling cabinets along the wall to cut a perfectly round hole that led directly to the bank vault. One by one, the entourage squeezed through the tiny hole into the heart of the bank.

All of the safety deposit boxes inside the vault were stacked into a castle, something done by Boris (Charlie) as he emptied each of them into the sacks. Dr. Malevolent took the piece of paper from her pocket, unfolded it, and held it a few inches from her face as she inspected it. It traveled to and from her face as she deciphered it. Eventually, she cried out, “Ahah!” as Sherlock Holmes would after he and Watson had cracked the case.

Dr. Malevolent huffed, walked over to the box, knelt down, and wiped the grime away, convenient that this bank would label their safety deposit boxes. “Acme Corporation,” she read, “Well that figures, those guys are always up to no good.” She reached inside the safety deposit box and felt around, looking for a clue. “I don’t suppose anyone knows where Acme keeps their super-secret doomsday weapons?”

“Actually…” Captain Rescue trailed off as he pulled something from his utility belt. He slid the communicator into his ear. “Hello?” he said tapping on it. After a few seconds, a voice spoke into his ear.

“How can I be of service, sir?”

“Alfredo, would you look up on that thing you have there where to find Acme Corporation.”

“Certainly, sir...” He became quiet as he looked.

Dr. Malevolent piped up, asking, “You didn’t even bother to ask if he was okay?”

“Well, Alfredo can take care of himself. And even if he couldn’t, he wouldn’t have been able to pick up the phone.”

She shrugged indifferently just as Alfredo spoke back up, “Sir, there is only one location listed that’s relatively close to you.”

“Oh, nice, and it only took you a few seconds to find it, how’d you pull that off?”

“I did an internet search, sir.”

“You crafty fellow, you.”

“The Acme location appears to be within,” Alfredo said, pausing for a moment, “The Haunted Forest.”

Captain Rescue’s face went pale and he nearly bit off his lower lip.

“Thanks, Alfredo,” Captain Rescue said distantly, distracted by his dreaded words. He shook it off, “Oh and if anyone rings the doorbell… don’t answer.”

“Certainly, sir. Though, I doubt zombie’s would knock first.”

“Oh good, you know what’s going on.”

“Goodbye, sir.”

Captain Rescue calmly switched off the communicator and slipped it back into his utility belt. He then proceeded to freak out, “It’s in the middle of The Haunted Forest!”

“Oh, the forest? That’s not so bad.” Dr. Malevolent said casually.

“Not so bad? Haven’t you heard of the horrible stories of the things within The Haunted Forest!”

“People like to spread rumors that there are horrible things everywhere in the world.”

“There are horrible things everywhere in the world?!”

“That not what I meant at all.”

“Then why did you say it!”

“You really are stupid, aren’t you?”

Chapter 12: The Zombie Experience

Trashcan by trashcan by telephone booth, Freight checked for zombie occupants, “COME HERE YOU WONDERFUL ZOMBIES, COURNEY AND I HAVE SOMETHING WE’D LIKE TO GIVE YOU.”

Captain Rescue yelled down the street, “Wait for us you lunatic!”

“WHY WAIT WHEN WE CAN KILL… KILL, KILL, KILL, KILL, KILL!”

An awkward look appeared on Captain Rescue’s face, and he stopped dead in his tracks. The hero took a step backwards, putting even more distance between them.

Charlie looked towards everyone else and said, “At least the nut bag is going the right way.”

The way mentioned was the way to the Acme Corporation Research and Development Lab, where this not-so-mild outbreak originated. The lab sat on the outskirts of the city, nestled within The Haunted Forest, and was home to miracles of the most insidious nature, but zombies were not even the beginning. Acme had their hand in hundreds of different endeavors. Their scientists brought dinosaurs back from the dead a good sixty years before those other people, and the hover boards in a certain movie were a design of theirs that a corporate spy blatantly stole. They were the masterminds behind the worst of it all: global warming. That little doozy was Acme’s crowning glory, and they were quite proud of it.

The inner working of Acme will have to wait for another time. Zombies are the issue at hand, as they seem compelled to eat anything that moves and many things that do not. And even if they are just another clever ploy by Acme to rid the planet of the virus known as humanity, someone should probably deal with them, someone like Captain Rescue and company. They may not be the best people for the job, but they were sure to do their best to save the world and everyone living on it. Well actually, Freight’s probably one of the best persons for the job, since he eats and breathes to kill zombies—and most other living organisms. Stubbs, on the other hand, was just in it for the girls.

Freight paid no attention to his allies, who called his name from off in the distance, begging him to slow down. He listened to only two voices: his itchy trigger finger and Courtney, who continuously nagged him about leaving the toilet seat up. This, coupled with his insatiable thirst, led him up and down silent streets. The occasional lumbering zombie met its end for the greater good of retaining Freight’s sanity—a lost cause, most likely. After a few minutes of chasing after the psychopath, he eventually stopped, flung his shotgun over his shoulder, and cracked his neck. Then turned to the others and said, “I’M GOOD.”

Charlie had nearly run out of breath by the time he caught back up to the madman, the sweat burning his eyes. Freight watched in absolute horror as he ripped the plush bunny head from his shoulders. Not only did this decapitation cool the sweating human underneath, it also made the profanities he was about to shout even more impactful. Next, Freight found himself berated by a headless Charlie the Bright Blue Bunny Rabbit; Easter had quickly become his least favorite holiday. From this day forward, he vowed to deface any Easter Bunny effigies he came across.

Eventually, they came to realize another sound accompanied Charlie’s profanity flinging—a soft pounding resonating from somewhere off in the distance. Entranced, they spun in circles in search of its origin. Just before their dizziness caused any irreparable damage, everyone froze like a compass and pointed in the direction of the sound. If they had taken the time to look up, they might have noticed the spotlight traveling back and forth across the sky, signaling to all around the party of the century happening just beneath it.

Captain Rescue leapt to the top of the nearest vehicle and strained his eyes to get a better look. After a few seconds of staring intensely down the street, he noticed the spotlight and pointed its existence out to everyone around by yelling like a lunatic. The spotlight made whatever lay in that direction even more alluring. The fact that Acme lay in the complete opposite direction concerned them not. Saving the world could wait until the time came, if at all. They were convinced that the spotlight had more important than ridding the world of a few zombies.

“It’s a UFO!” Captain Rescue shouted frantically as he hopped up and down on the top of the car, “They’ve come to invade during this time of need!”

“What on Earth are you jabbering on about, that’s not a UFO.” Dr. Malevolent said shortly.

“It is! It’d recognize one if I saw it.”

“But you wouldn’t recognize a spotlight? Because that’s exactly what it is.”

Captain Rescue pulled out his pistol and stuck it to his temple. “I won’t let those tripods get me. I won’t! I’ve seen what they’re capable of.”

“Oh spare me, you buffoon.” Dr. Malevolent snatched the pistol from his hands and clocked him upside the head with it. “Now will you get a hold of yourself? That is not a UFO.”

“Fine! But if the tripods come for us, I’m offering you first.”

“I’m okay with that.”

Gradually, the heroes came to realize the soft pounding in question was actually ear splitting techno music. Apparently, someone felt a zombie uprising meant to party like your life depended on it, and the city held no better place to party than The Human Experience, the premier nightclub. Its neon sign just now rising from the horizon. Only someone had taken duct tape, crossed out the word human, and spray painted zombie in red. Judging by the artistic skill used to paint the word, a zombie had done it; and the ones loitering outside the club gave strength to that assertion.

However, these zombies did not exactly appear to be of the clubbing variety. A red felt rope had corralled them into one large group as they went on about their usual zombie business, which included gnawing at each other, and picking at their festering wounds. They seemed to have little interest in actually getting into the club. In fact, as the group neared, the zombies diverted their attention solely to them. Luckily, the red felt rope succeeded in holding back the horde. Apparently, it originated from the same factory as everyone’s favorite door.

Odder still, a zombie bouncer kept a watchful eye on the club’s entrance. It stood there, arms crossed, looking just as one would expect a bouncer to look. Sure, the top of its head might have been missing (along with a nice hunk of its brain), and sure, most of the skin covering its arms and chest had been flayed off, but it was a bouncer all right. Despite the unsightly appearance, the zombie smiled brightly and waved as everyone strolled down the street.

Charlie, clearly aware of badly a dance club full of zombies could end, yanked Freight’s weapon from between his fingers before the man had a chance to react. Freight watched in horror as his Courtney plummeted into Charlie’s trousers, but before tearing the bunny to shreds in anger, Freight realized the bunny had a point. Even now, his fingers repeatedly pulled at an imaginary trigger, and it took all his strength to cease the muscle memories. The burly man just hoped that Courtney would not have too many unkind words to say about being dropped down a pair of trousers.

Stripped of his significant other, Freight sulked down to a frame of his former self. His hands felt naked despite the gore covering them. Well guys, he thought for a moment as he stared longingly at them. He stopped as the tears welled in his eyes. He just could not find the words to describe his feelings right now. All Freight could think was how fun it would be to wrap his hands around the neck of the next zombie he came across. He then looked at the zombie bouncer’s fast approaching smile and slid both his hands into his pockets for safekeeping.

“Welcome to The Zombie Experience!” The zombie bouncer said excitedly as he beckoned them over.

Charlie, Dr. Malevolent, and Captain Rescue all turned to Stubbs, who said defensively, the club’s techno music making it difficult to hear him, “Don’t look at me! I don’t know what’s going on here!” Stubbs hung his head low and added, “I guess it was stupid to think I was one of a kind.”

Everyone hopped onto the curb and approached the dance club’s entrance. The zombies, of course, grew exceedingly excited. Teasingly, Captain Rescue stepped up to them, stuck his thumbs into his ears, waved his fingers about, and made faces. The bouncer stepped between Captain Rescue and the dead, “Careful, those guys there are feral. They’d eat you right up.”

Dr. Malevolent glared suspiciously at the bouncer, “But you wouldn’t?”

“Human flesh don’t agree with me.”

Her suspicious glare had not faded.

“Give us one reason we should blow you all to smithereens,” Freight commanded of the bouncer. Without Courtney between his fingers, Freight no longer felt the need to scream everything he said to people. The others were quite intrigued by the sound of his voice when it was not being forced down their respective throats.

“These here zombies like loud music, it keeps them entertained. If they’re in here, they’re not out there biting things.”

While everyone else argued about how big of a trap this was, Captain Rescue strolled towards the nightclub, beckoned by the large double doors. The shattered glass, jagged and covered in all sorts of nasty stuff, implied that some sort of tomfoolery happened inside. The hero leaned in and tried to decide what coated the doorway. It sure looked like the nightclub patrons after they had been torn to shreds. On the other hand, this could have been the aftermath of an innocent food fight. Captain Rescue held the door open and ushered the others into the club.

Charlie put his bunny face into the bouncer’s and said simply, “If this is a trap, you will be sorry.” The bouncer simply backed away and held its arms up innocently.

Dr. Malevolent turned to her lackeys, “You guys should really stay out here, if you enter this club chances are a few of you would no doubt be eaten before we leave.” The lackeys nodded at each other. Secretly, they knew that it was only a matter of time before each of them met their end in an excruciating fashion.

Chapter 13: Well, if the Shoe Fits…

Just beyond the double doors, The Zombie Experience greeted them all with a wall. To the right, a door labeled humans awaited their entry, while a hallway to their left was clearly intended for the zombies, as its label and disarrayed state implied. Charlie noticed how fortified the human path appeared, and how easy it would be to trap them all behind it to their doom. The bunny turned around and marched right back outside to confront the zombie bouncer.

“Is there a specific reason this door is reinforced like it is?” At the first sign of anything suspicious, Charlie would be the second one (right after Freight) to blow the heads off every one of these zombies before they could get to his, not that they would find a plush bunny head very appetizing.

“Safety, buddy. These zombies are brainless animals, remember?” The bouncer replied.

Charlie glared at him behind the fake smile of the bunny, and then went back inside without saying another word. Everyone else had simply thrown caution into the wind and walked through the reinforced door. Charlie rolled his eyes and shrugged, then just slammed it shut. Inside the hallway, everyone found the blaring techno music coupled with the darkness dulled their senses almost completely—a state that Captain Rescue found all too familiar, since he barely utilized any of his five senses in the first place. The others found the sensation rather unsettling, since they had grown accustomed to theirs.

After a short journey down the hallway, they discovered just where it led: a room overlooking the dance floor, down below, about one hundred zombies grooved to the music, in the same sense that cornstarch grooved to the music when a glob of it is plopped onto a speaker. Zombies, no doubt, just liked their insides jiggled, and a zombie would find no better place to jiggle than a nightclub. The extreme decibels reacted quite interestingly when passing through a zombie’s insides.

Sitting up here with the common folk, a disc jockey orchestrated the festivities. His goggles, bucket-hat, and long sleeved shirt made it difficult to discern whether the zombie bug had gotten to him. As he opened his mouth to speak, they wished it had.

The still living disc jockey turned to them and said, “Yo yo yo! Sup dawgs!”

“Oh lord, can I shoot him. Please, let me shoot him.” Freight begged Charlie.

“Maybe in a little while, but not right now.”

The man pulled the goggles from his eyes and placed them on his head, “Whoa, bros don’t be like that. I’m just here for your entertainment. Feast your eyes at the mass of zombies jiggling for your pleasure!”

“We’ve seen plenty of them jiggling on our way here as we blew their heads off,” Freight said, cracking his knuckles.

“So, that’s the whole point of this place, to entertain people with zombies?” Charlie questioned, still quite suspicious of the whole shebang.

The disc jockey crossed his arms and nodded to the beats, “Yeah, man, this is entertainment at its finest.”

“I’m not sure I’d go quite that far.”

“Yeah, well, the movie theater’s closed right now, so this is the best you’re gonna get!”

“As long as this isn’t the last stop on our little adventure.”

“Whoa, dude, have some faith in your fellow man.”

“I would if he hadn’t been trying to eat me for the past few hours.”

“Fair enough, bro.”

Charlie opened his mouth to speak once more, but stopped with the realization that his friends had already wandered over to the nearby tables and plopped down, wasting no time in taking their shoes off. He looked at the DJ, whose intelligence probably rivaled that of a zombie, and decided he would be better off not arguing with him. Charlie shook off the frustration and joined everyone else. As he sat down and stared over the dance floor, he discovered that, strangely enough, zombie jiggling was oddly hypnotic. In fact, many of the undead seemed to be somehow enjoying themselves as they did the monster mash. He threw his tired feet onto the balcony’s railing. After a long night spent arduously crime fighting, it only made sense to relax a bit.

As the minutes ticked past, the entranced heroes paid no attention to anything but the jiggling zombies, not to the DJ or his systematic pressing of buttons, or to the clicking of locks as he readied the balcony to be their tomb. Not even to the UFO that landed nearby and deployed an armada of tripods to incinerate them. The UFOs realized that the world had already been ravaged by the undead, so they loaded their tripods up and flew away, hoping to find some other nearby world to enslave.

The DJ found it surprising just how easily these first victims fell into his trap. He thought it would take much longer for anyone to be drawn here, but all it took was a spotlight and some music. Maybe, with these first offerings, his masters would spare his life, and maybe even grant him untold riches. Oh, how he would love those untold riches. He had not considered what to do with all that money once civilization had collapsed. Swim in it, probably.

With the trap set into motion, the entire room started to vibrate as gears cranked into place. The commotion snapped Charlie out of his jiggle induced trance. He leapt to his feet and looked directly at the DJ, who grinned wickedly in return.

“I knew this was a trap!” Charlie exclaimed. His words snapped the others out of their trances and everyone put their shoes back on to avoid stepping in any disgusting piles of zombie goo.

Charlie’s decapitated head lay on the nearby table. He marched to it, picked it up, and slammed it back upon his shoulders. It was go time. His march continued as he headed straight for the DJ, whose smug look evaporated in seconds. The bunny’s large plush fingers wrapped themselves around his neck and hoisted the tiny man from the ground as the cranking of gears continued to echo through the room. A perturbed Charlie then proceeded to bend and twist the DJ into ways unimaginable as the man screamed and groaned. The bunny grabbed a saltshaker from the nearby table and sprinkled it on the human pretzel. He tossed the DJ aside, and in preparation of the party about to go down, pulled Freight’s shotgun from his bunny trousers and handed it to the man.

As Freight held his significant other in his hands once more, he felt as though a vital piece of him had returned to the whole. His shoulders return to their natural and upright position. That look of blood thirst and insanity returned to his eyes. His immune system beat the zombie virus back into submission; it had been getting the better of him. He stood tall, ready to implode some undead.

The cranking continued, and everyone realized the floor would soon become a slide, leading them to a zombie infested dance floor. As their destination became clear, each of their lives flashed before their eyes. Captain Rescue’s life, in particular, played out like a silent movie. Its scratchy and unnaturally fast film replayed important moments in the man’s life. However, the title cards did not match the scenes being played, leaving the viewer confused and, most definitely, quite enraged.

The pretzel sat in its chair laughing at the misfortune it had personally orchestrated. This sucked for the twisted treat, because Freight had never liked being laughed at, and to remedy his insecurities, he snatched up the pretzel and flung it down the slide. It let out a slew of profanities as it bounced towards the hungry zombies. Freight wiped his hands free of the pretzel’s betrayal and awaited his opportunity to follow it down for some much needed zombie carnage. He could see that the opportunity would soon present itself. He and the others could hardly keep their grip, so he released his and allowed himself to slide. At first glance, this act appeared quite heroic, but the truth of the matter was that Freight did not want to share the zombies with any of them. He wanted to blow the head from the first zombie and the last, not to mention every head in between.

The strobe lights made the entire experience a slideshow of zombies shuffling towards them—many of which carried pieces of a human pretzel. One just so happened to be wearing the disc jockeys very own goggles, which it had pried from his head, thinking they looked quite stylish. The blaring techno music fit the slaughter about to transpire nicely. They first thought to avoid the zombies all together, but since the dance floor lacked wiggle-room, they simply shrugged and got to killing.

Captain Rescue, fearing an epileptic seizure from the strobe lights, kept his eyes closed as he felt around the nearby stage for a guitar. After grabbing one, he pretended to play it for a moment, living out his rock star fantasy. Sure, he held it completely wrong, but that did not matter. In fact, this guitar fixation had been for the best, because if he tried to use a gun with his eyes closed, he would have undoubtedly killed one of his friends before he got around to killing any of the zombies. To drive his rocker fantasy home, he began swinging the guitar around blindly, looking for a speaker to smash. His fantasy ended abruptly, and with much heartache, as the guitar found itself embedded in a zombie’s shoulder. He did not let this stop him though, and he continued swinging the guitar without a care in the world. The others gave him a wide berth, not wanting to find that guitar lodged in their shoulders.

Outside, the lackeys sat on the curb, avoiding any rampant bites given by the feral zombies still corralled behind the red felt rope. They may have not been the brightest bunch, but the screams and yells echoing from within the dance club gave the inclination that something was amiss inside The Zombie Experience. The lackeys, forever loyal, knew their boss most likely needed help, and since finding work as an experienced lackey these days often caused more headache than it was worth, one of the men approached the cheerful arm-crossed bouncer. The zombie might have thought it was being friendly by smiling, but in reality, it elicited only disgust. Nobody wanted to see a half decayed corpse smiling at them, they would rather it try to bite their face off.

“What exactly is going on in there?” the lackey asked the bouncer.

He simply shrugged, “I’m sure it’s just some song the DJ put on.”

“You mean a song with gunshots and screams?” the lackey accused as he poked the bouncer. His finger easily pierced the zombie’s muscular chest, though the fibrous tissue had long since fallen to decay. The lackey pulled his finger out of the bouncer’s chest and shook off the little bits of meat that clung to it.

The bouncer covered the leak in his chest with the tip of his finger and said, “If you doubt me, feel free to go check it out.”

The lackey pushed the bouncer inside and swaggered into the dance club like a cowboy entering a saloon. Inside, the gunfire and screams seemed exponentially louder. He turned around and went back outside.

“I’m sure they have the situation under control.”

Frame by frame, the battle for their lives played out like a slideshow. Captain Rescue still recklessly swung around the blood red guitar, and still endangered the lives of those around him more so than any zombie.

Charlie finally grew weary of his shenanigans and knocked the guitar from his hands. He leaned in, screaming into his ear, “You don’t have epilepsy!”

“What?”

“You don’t have epilepsy!” he repeated.

“Epi—what?”

“Epilepsy!”

“I don’t follow!”

“Never mind, just open your eyes.”

Captain Rescue hesitated, but dropped the guitar for a moment and covered his eyes with his hands, soon lifting his eyelids. He pulled his hands away and almost immediately fell to the ground twitching. Charlie let out labored sigh before he resumed blowing the heads from zombies.

As the gore progressed, a nagging inclination arose in the bunny’s gut. The zombies seemed less than responsive. They lunged at open space and tried to bite the air. Then, it suddenly dawned on Charlie—the strobe lights messed with their heads. The confused zombies leapt for open space, where they had just seen a tasty human. Apparently, the strobe light induced slideshow forced a zombie’s deteriorated brain to reset every few frames. This confusion made exterminating them relatively easy, something similar to a game—and everyone likes games, as long as the vicious animals they are playing with do not try to bite them. As the zombies encroached further, the game’s fun began to fade.

Charlie, the most astute of gamers, took notice of their predicament and decided to make for the door rather than become zombie chow, and he urged the others to follow suit. Unfortunately, a sea of zombies jiggled to the music on the way to the entrance. The trip would certainly not be an easy one, but like Moses parting the red sea of zombies, they headed for the door.

Freight asserted himself the leader of this getaway party and as he led the way, most of the zombies met their end with Courtney. The others found solace in his sledgehammer of a fist. Zombie goo coated him, but he didn’t care, not a zombie on the planet could slay this beast (yes, he thought of himself in the third person and as a beast). Assuming a zombie did not outright tear his head from his shoulders, the man had a point.

Charlie sat at the tail end of this pain train. He was just as adapt at killing zombies as Freight, but chose not to make such a spectacle of himself. That left Dr. Malevolent and Captain Rescue sandwiched between the two, she for her protection, as any fine woman would be. Captain Rescue, on the other hand, had to be watched constantly to make sure he did not stroll off when distracted by a turnip.

The only person missing was Stubbs, who had wandered from the tour group, allured by the loud music and his fellow zombies, more notably, the hot cheerleader still in her uniform, clutching her pompoms tightly. After mustering enough courage, he strolled over to her in an attempt to elicit a response. She turned toward him and almost smiled, causing the excitement within him to well, but his heart quickly sank as she meandered past him headed straight for a table. Stubbs sighed as she bent over and begun gnawing on its corner, he then turned towards other prospects within the club, but received only moans and groans in return, and not the good kind.

The doors to the damned dance club flung open, and the heroes rushed through, miraculously still in one piece. Many of the zombies they had just gone through, however, were not—little bits and pieces of them covered their clothes. Charlie, in particular, spent a few moments picking pieces from his plush fur. The zombie bouncer stood dead still with his arms raised high into the sky proclaiming his innocence to all.

“I knew from the start this place had trap written all over it,” Charlie said in disgust as he shook the last bits of zombie from his plush fur.

“I didn’t do anything!” the bouncer said repeatedly.

“Well, I don’t believe you,” Charlie started, “and what are we going to do about that?” He paused for a moment. “Hey, where’s Stubbs? Don’t tell me that he’s a turncoat too.”

Right on cue, Stubbs emerged from the club, a female zombie in his arms. She reeked of prostitution (and many other things), and her attire exemplified her profession perfectly. If she had not been a prostitute in another life, she had been well on her way to becoming one. As Stubbs noticed the tattoo on the small of her back, indicating the identity of her pimp and how to reach him if someone found her wandering, the zombie realized that she probably had been a hooker, or at least a woman with loose morals and a good sense of humor. True to her profession, she appeared more interested in the living than her undead escort, chomping at them as the two approached.

Stubbs then turned to the bouncer, angry that a self-aware zombie like him would be so deceiving and malicious. He slapped the zombie with enough force to tear his hand from its wrist and send it flying. Joining in on the fun, Dr. Malevolent whacked the bouncer once more across the face with her inanimate carbon rod, then wiped the zombie from it and slid it back into its custom-made holster.

After picking his flopping hand from the ground, Stubbs slapped the bouncer with it once more before popping it back into place. To top off this moment, Stubbs turned and kissed the prostitute. She returned his affection by squirming to get away. Stubbs grabbed her shoulders and stared longingly into her eyes. Finally concluding that zombie love was a farfetched and ridiculous notion, he grabbed the prostitute, threw her back into the club, and closed the door behind her.

The bouncer finally lowered his hands and asked, “So, am I dead or can I go?”

Stubbs grabbed a handgun from Freight’s waist and held it to the bouncer’s skull and said in a very gravely and decayed voice, “No,” and pulled the trigger, splattering its brains across the pavement.

Through the darkness, Captain Rescue said, “Whoa, you’re pretty hardcore.”

Chapter 14: Way of the Sub

Everyone marched with rhythm in their steps, the supreme techno beats still resonating through their very souls. With the nightclub behind them, focus turned to the task at hand: making it to some lab in the middle of nowhere to press some magical button that would stop the zombie uprising in one fell swoop. Nobody thought it would really be that simple. In all likelihood, the seemingly easy part would only come after a few dozen ridiculously tricky parts. These latter parts excited them the most. Overcoming great adversity in order to save the world would hopefully lead only to fame and fortune—even if nobody remained to reap the benefits of said fame and fortune because everyone was, in one way or another, dead.

Stopping at the nightclub had lengthened their journey, but not by much. Rather than simply following the city streets to the outskirts of The Haunted Forest, they could now take a shortcut through the subway system. What wondrous prospects awaited the heroes down in those dark recesses? Why, more zombies of course! Those pesky critters do get everywhere, do they not?

The group approached the narrow stairwell that led into the subway station, and Captain Rescue asked casually, “I wonder how many zombies are going to be down here?”

The excitement permeated Freight’s booming words, “THERE’S ONLY ONE WAY TO FIND OUT!”

Everyone cringed as Freight threw himself down the concrete steps and into the subway, but this display of masculinity did not seem to injure him in the least. He leapt to his feet, ready to go to town on anything waiting at the bottom of the stairs. However, Freight’s snarl vanished immediately as he surveyed the underground station. He saw nothing within the subway, living or dead, to shoot at, and the disappointment within his bosom welled, but he maintained his composure. Unlike Freight, the apparent lack of zombies lifted everyone else’s spirits. They had seen enough of the mangy beasts to last the rest of their lives, and even Stubbs could not stand the thought of another half-decayed corpse. He much preferred a quiet stroll through a vacant subway station, so he could recollect on his time short-lived life and his fruitless quest for love.

Charlie meandered through the subway station, taking note of its cleanliness, which rivaled that of hospital operating rooms and showed no signs of any disemboweled humans. The people must have been able to find their way to the surface before meeting any sort of end down here. The bunny watched the dancing shadows cast across the concrete floor by the flickering lights within the ticket booths. He noticed Captain Rescue tinkering with one of the parked subway trains.

The hero pried open the doors and hopped aboard, finding the inside just as vacant as the train station. Not that he gave it much thought—thinking was not his strong suit, after all. Captain Rescue digested the graffiti covered seats as he made his way to the front of the train, where all the interesting buttons were. He sat down in the conductor’s seat as his friends entered the train, trying to make sure he did not do anything stupid.

“You don’t suppose we can get this thing working?” Captain Rescue asked as he fidgeted with the controls. Before anyone could reply, the train came to life and started to inch forward. Apparently, he had pressed the right buttons in the right order and then slid the right lever in the right direction. Dr. Malevolent slapped him across the back of the head, but remained silent. After rubbing the soreness out, he justified his actions, “What, would you rather walk down the subway tracks in darkness? At least this way we can sit back and relax.”

Somehow, assuming nothing would obstruct their journey through the subway, everyone agreed. If they did their best to keep Captain Rescue away from the controls from this point forward, they should be able to get through this without a hitch. Charlie pulled the novice conductor from his seat and took his place. He pressed a series of buttons and then slid the lever forward. The train picked up speed, the giant blue bunny rabbit had apparently grasped the ins and outs of piloting one of these things rather easily.

Captain Rescue stared out the window, entranced by the concrete tunnel as it whizzed past, the lights almost inducing another epileptic seizure. The train made it a few thousand feet and the hero had not looked away once. Just when the others had just begun to accept that this journey would be eventless, save a possible twitching Captain Rescue, the train turned a corner and its headlights illuminated a solo figure just ahead—an instantly recognizable figure—a zombie.

The creature loitered upon the tracks, looking vacantly on as the train closed the gap. Its expression, or lack thereof, persisted as the giant metal wall struck it, spreading green goo across the front of the train. Stubbs thought back to the good old times he had with his golf cart. This, however, was much cooler. Charlie pushed the throttle to its maximum, and they watched, in part disgust and part interest, as the zombie’s remains simply crawled across the window and fell off. Already, they could see more zombies illuminated further down the tracks. By the end of this journey, they would be speckled across the train like bugs.

After a few minutes of indiscriminately smearing zombie guts across the windshield, the shapes scattered through the subway lines were unexpectedly silhouetted by a pair of bright lights coming from the opposite direction. The possibilities rushed everyone’s mind but Captain Rescue’s, whose thoughts were of only gumdrops and sugar plumb fairies. Could it really be? Could someone else have been alive down here? Perhaps some other group of survivors had survived the oncoming apocalypse, or perhaps a ghost train would soon cause Captain Rescue to soil himself. Charlie slowed the throttle just as the other train slowed as well, and everyone approached the nearby windows enthusiastically.

Much like Charlie, they could see someone sitting at the engineer’s seat, but it in no way appeared to be a bunny rabbit. It was a zombie—a zombie like the bouncer and Stubbs, but a zombie. Time came to a halt as the trains aligned. The undead engineer looked on with its dead eyes, and judging by his expression, he lacked the friendliness found in the Bouncer. In fact, he looked quite evil as he pulled on a lever, blasting the train’s horn in their ears.

Furthermore, this engineer appeared to be wearing the traditional uniform, complete with striped hat and overalls, which only brought up more questions than it answered. Subway engineers have never worn such attire. So, how this zombie found such a uniform was a mystery of its own making. Before they could ponder on these and many other matters any further, the engineer whizzed past.

He had been only a taste of what this midnight meat train had to offer. As their self-guided tour continued, the lights within the lead passenger car shone brightly and illuminated the travelers inside, who were just as dead as the engineer, albeit much happier. In fact, they seemed to be having a jolly good time, wearing coned hats upon their dead heads. Confetti swam through the air and many of the zombies had party horns protruding from their cracked and dry lips. The variables in this equation added up to one thing and one thing only: it was somebody’s birthday.

The lucky birthday corpse sat in the center of the festivities, wearing one of the most ridiculous smirks imaginable and clapping exuberantly as it hovered over its cake. A crown sat haphazardly upon its head that hung down over the corpse’s right ear and jostled about as he shook with excitement. The chocolate cake before it could not have been too appetizing since it did not appear to have included human ingredients. Still, it is the thought that counts. Lastly, sitting in the center of the cake were a series of candles that indicated the zombie’s age at 0.01 years.

Stuck to the outside of the train, just beneath the windows, a celebratory message formed with human intestines read, “Happy Birthday Ryan!” This, at first, appeared to be quite ghastly, but considering these zombies seemed of the most docile variety, it is quite likely they had gathered the intestines from their own bodies—they sure did not need them anymore. Stubbs’ waved to the partygoers, who greeted him and the living with waves in return. Then, as quickly as it came, the train left, taking it and its occupants with along for the ride.

“Well, you don’t see that every day,” Dr. Malevolent said.

“Birthday parties? They happen every day!” a confused Captain Rescue exclaimed.

Dr. Malevolent glared at him, “I’m beginning to think you’re doing this on purpose and that you’re a lot smarter than you let on.”

“People are born every day! Birthday parties are not uncommon,” the hero replied, unable to comprehend Dr. Malevolent’s near-compliment.

She almost let loose another snarky remark when two more zombies collided with the front of the train, signaling that her efforts were better suited elsewhere. Dr. Malevolent turned her attention to the oncoming tunnels just as more lights appeared ahead. They were too dim and unfocused to be that of another train, and sure enough, they were not. A station deserted as the one they entered through blurred past and they soon returned to the darkness of the tunnels.

Charlie pressed down on the throttle and the train picked up speed, and along the way, the train continued to catch plenty of zombies. Captain Rescue referred to a nearby map of subway lines to figure out how much longer they would be down here. He had actually never taken the subway before, and found the experience new and unusual. He would have never expected zombies to be part of the subway experience, not realizing that they normally were not.

“Judging by my interpretation of this here map,” Captain Rescue began, the others were positive that whatever he was about to say would be of the utmost hoot, “we should arrive at our destination in about fifteen.”

A wave of disappointment drowned everyone underneath its waters. He unexpectedly nailed it. They stood dumbfounded as more zombies spattered against the train car, making the window grow increasingly opaque. Charlie flipped on the wipers to clear the messy stew of zombie giblets so everyone could clearly see the darkness ahead. He wondered for a moment why an underground train would need windshield wipers (he doubted it rained down here regularly, if at all), but as a couple more zombies exploded against the front of the train, Charlie just chose to be thankful. The last leg of their trip through the subway was uneventful except for the continued bombardment of zombies that had decided the underground tracks were the perfect place to dawdle. They were gravely mistaken.

Before the heroes knew it, their destination station appeared ahead, and of course, it had everything in common with the stations they had already passed by: dimly lit and vacant. Charlie pulled back the throttle, and the train screeched to an abrupt halt. Almost everyone grabbed hold of the grips hanging from the roof. Captain Rescue, instead, took the opportunity to practice the flying ability he noticeably did not have. Before he could do any real damage to himself or the train, the windshield broke his horizontal fall. He remained plastered to the glass for a few seconds before gravity caught up with him as he peeled away from the window and fell flat onto his back.

As the hero picked himself up off the cold steel floor of the train, face imprinted with the metal grating below, the others simply ignored the man and his predicament, eager to make it through the deserted train station and meet with the surface once more. Captain Rescue rose back to his feet and darted off after them, stumbling briefly on the space between the train and its platform. The clamor echoed through the vacant space around him and he worried for a moment that the noise might alert anything hiding in the shadows, but luckily, most of those threats had already found their way to the front of the train during the journey. He should be able to catch back up with the others in relative safety, assuming he did not slip and crack his skull open.

They had actually waited for him, standing at the bottom of the narrow stairwell. It warmed the cockles of his heart, since he had been expecting to find the stairwell closed off, stuck down here to rot. And so, the reunited fellowship cautiously ascended the stairway, half expecting the zombies to have somehow set a trap and to find a few hundred of the smelly cadavers waiting on the surface to eat them, and sure enough, that’s exactly what happened.

Faced with yet another impenetrable flood, Freight raced up the stairwell, ready to face them head on, but the more sensible Charlie grabbed his arm and yanked him back down the stairs and then the bunny shut and locked the gate, holding back the flood temporarily.

Freight grabbed the bunny and lifted him from the ground, “WHY DID YOU DO THAT? I HAD THE SITUATION UNDER CONTROL, I OUGHTA KILL YOU.” Freight looked into the cheerful smile of the bunny rabbit and soon realized that he could not stay mad at it for any longer than a few seconds.

He cooled off and dropped the rabbit, who replied, “I think even THIS SITUATION is not something we could make it through in one piece. Rule 1 of any zombie movie is never to let them surround you. It doesn’t end well.”

With a shrug, Freight admitted that Charlie had a point. He could not be the zombie-blower-upper without a care in the world if he had been reduced to a few billion pieces spread across the stomachs of a few hundred zombies. They had to think of something quick, though, the zombies had smelled their lovely flesh and pressed against the gate to get at them. It would not hold for long.

“How are we going to get out of this?” Dr. Malevolent asked as Captain Rescue approached the gate to get a better look at the zombies.

Charlie thought for a moment and then spoke, “Well, I’m sure there’s a freight elevator somewhere nearby that leads up to the surface, we might be able to avoid the zombies all together.”

Freight spent a moment chuckling at the use of his nickname, and then grew sad that he may not have the opportunity to kill any zombies during this scuffle.

As Charlie went off in search of an elevator, Captain Rescue stared at the zombies, enthralled with their deadness. He reached forward to touch one of them as the creatures slid their fingers through the gaps in the gate.

Dr. Malevolent slapped his hand away, “Are you an idiot? I mean really, what if one of them bit you.”

“I’ve been bitten before. It’s not that bad,” he replied, stepping away from the gate.

“By a zombie?! I think not.”

“Well of course not, but teeth are teeth.”

“I’m pretty sure that getting bitten by a zombie turns you into one of them, though I don’t want to test it out myself.”

“What, how could you possibly know that?”

“Firstly, it’s in every zombie movie ever made. Secondly, how else would there be so many of them so quickly.”

Captain Rescue’s eyes narrowed as he thought if over, “Hmm, I guess I’ll have to remember that. Thanks.”

“Yeah, don’t mention it. I’d hate to see you get yourself killed over something so stupid. I still plan to be the one to kill when the time comes.”

Captain Rescue laughed, “Why don’t you just try and kill me right here right now.”

“Here? Like this? That would be so wrong… like cheating. I have standards, you know. I can’t just kill you indiscriminately; it has to be at the right time and place.”

Captain Rescue nodded that he understood. Super villains could only kill their super hero counterpart after an epic struggle between the two. No self-respecting villain would ever take a cheap shot at any hero at any time and Captain Rescue knew this. Their world was one of great honor and discipline or the entire dichotomy would never work.

“Over here!” Charlie yelled from nearby, he had apparently found that elevator he so desperately sought, and not a second too soon. The gate gave in with a crash as the flood came pouring in.

The heroes made a run for Charlie’s voice as Dr. Malevolent yelled to Freight, “Okay, big guy, do your thing.”

The mountain of man whipped out his shotgun named Courtney and went to town, strategically taking out zombies that would best slow down the horde. Freight would shoot out a kneecap and a zombie would fall and trip the one behind it. It turned out to be a highly viable method of slowing down the flood, since many of the zombies ended up on their faces, forced to climb back to their feet while the heroes put more distance between them.

They made it to Charlie, who held the door of a cargo elevator open and ushered them inside. Captain Rescue, Dr. Malevolent, and Stubbs leapt into the elevator, followed closely by her few remaining enigmatic lackeys, who were only really acknowledged when they needed to die. Freight rushed into the elevator, continuing to take out zombies while Charlie slammed the button that would lead them to the surface. The zombies continued to encroach as the gates slowly closed. The bunny slammed the button a few more times, hoping to expedite the process. The linked gate, much like the one they had used to hold back the flood in the stairwell, eventually closed with the horde visible through the openings.

The first zombies made it to the elevator, grabbing hold of the floor and dangling as it ascended. The heroes pressed themselves to the back of the elevator. In delight, Freight stared at the sharply angled concrete ceiling and the arms and fingers clinging to the elevator for dear unlife. The elevator rose as the ceiling descended, soon the two halves met, chopping arms and fingers off like a butcher’s cleaver, leaving them twitching in the floor of the elevator, globs of congealed blood oozing from the clean wounds left behind.

The elevator reached the surface and the gate lifted. The heroes poked their heads from inside and looked around for zombies, who seemed to have all made their way into the subway and only a few nonconformists lingered here on the surface. In a tight nit group, they left the elevator, steering clear of the severed limbs still twitching on grated floor, heading for the forest. Just before leaving, Dr. Malevolent instructed the elevator to descend, hoping to crush the zombies waiting below.

As the heroes exited the cage, the lingering zombies immediately noticed their presence and started moaning for their friends still in the subway. Freight did his best to quell their screams by blowing their God damn heads off. They crossed the nearby street and without wasting any time, darted for the trees, hoping to lose the undead in the foliage. As the souls of their shoes clattered against the asphalt, more zombies closed in, but they had little chance of catching up before the group made it into the trees.

Within the blink of an eye, they had crossed the street and thick foliage would soon engulf them, but one sole zombie stood camouflaged against the tree line, unknown to the heroes. As they reached the trees, this single zombie made itself known and lunged for Captain Rescue as he narrowly sidestepped it, and then darted into the trees behind the others. They kept running, but Captain Rescue stopped, distracted by this one zombie. He turned around and went to inspect it. As the two stood face to face, this one zombie refused to enter the forest and only stared back at the hero. The others came in behind him, who had stopped their retreat to backtrack and fetch Captain Rescue.

“What are you doing, you idiot, get back here!” Dr. Malevolent barked.

Captain Rescue said not a word as he waved at the snarling zombie. It continued to stand there, refusing to enter the forest and take a bite out of the hero. He just turned to the others and shrugged as they came out of tree cover and approached him. More zombies joined the single one, and they all just stood there at the tree line, growling back at the heroes.

“Well, that’s interesting,” Charlie said as he inspected the zombies, “It’s like an invisible wall is preventing them from coming any closer.”

Dr. Malevolent looked to Stubbs, “Did you feel anything as you came into the forest.”

“I was focusing hard on not letting my legs tear from their sockets to really notice, but there might have been a slight tingle.”

Dr. Malevolent looked deeper into the forest, “Interesting.”

Charlie crossed his bunny arms, “What are you thinking?”

“Well,” Dr. Malevolent began, “if I were to create something as dangerous and unpredictable as a zombie epidemic. I would certainly want some kind of control over them. Even if it was just prohibiting them from coming anywhere near the forest I kept my stronghold in.”

“So basically, you’re saying that whoever created this zombie bug somehow programmed them to stay out of the forest.”

“It sure seems that way.”

Chapter 15: They Do Exist

Captain Rescue and the others turned their backs on the zombie-ridden city and headed into the bug-ridden forest. Stories surfaced regularly of the horrible dangers residing within these wooded walls, from the groups of campers that ventured into it and were never heard from again to the abduction of hikers by little green men. Even more outlandish stories had campers being terrorized by the likes of Bigfoot and The Jersey Devil (even though they were nowhere near Jersey), to more extreme tales of creatures such as The Loch Ness Monster. How it would have been able to survive in a place devoid of any significant bodies of water was of no consequence. One camper even claimed to have seen a Tyrannosaurus Rex. This beast, while more likely than Nessie, would have a difficult time concealing itself from prying eyes, unless it ducked beneath tree cover during the day only to rampage quietly at night.

“Our destination is somewhere in there,” Charlie said to the others as he strained to look through the trees.

Captain Rescue’s frightened words barely made the journey out of his mouth, “But… the forest… death… bad.”

“I think what our feeble minded friend is trying to say is that the forest is a scary place and he might just wet himself at the first signs of any wildlife,” Dr. Malevolent said, translating Captain Rescue.

He nodded frantically, his lip and knees quivering in harmony, “And on top of that, we’re going to get lost, I just know it! It’ll be years before they find our corpses!”

Dr. Malevolent scoffed at him, “My sense of direction is far too keen for us to ever get lost.”

“AND IF WE DO,” Freight interjected, his words cutting through the night like a fully automatic rifle, “I’VE GOT JUST THE THING FOR THAT.”

“And what would that be?” Dr. Malevolent asked, not expecting anything too useful.

Freight held up a compass, “LAB’S TO THE WEST. WITH THIS WE GO WEST.”

“Didn’t we break you of that yelling thing a while ago?” Charlie said to him.

“MOMENTARILY, BUT WITH MY WONDERFUL COURNTEY BACK AT MY SIDE, I’M BACK TO MY OLD SELF AGAIN,”

“Well, okay then,” Charlie said as he took the compass and nodded, “Wow nice, I didn’t think they still made these things. Let me see it.” Freight squinted at him suspiciously, but handed it over anyway.

Charlie took the compass, dropped it to the ground, and then crushed it underneath his foot. Freight appeared just as crushed as Charlie unveiled the GPS he had in his pocket the whole time. Captain Rescue patted him on the back, and Freight returned the hero’s compassion with an elbow to the face. The group then spent the next few minutes huddled around the tiny GPS, pushing and shoving in a war for the best view. Eventually, after a fair amount of zooming in, out, left, right, up, and down, Charlie pinpointed the likely location of the secret laboratory of doom. Locating the structure shouldn’t have been that difficult, since the only signs of civilization within the forest just so happened to be the size of a few football fields.

Thus, with a destination logged into the GPS, the heroes made their way into the forest. In preparation of his trip, Captain Rescue pulled his purple super socks out from under his spandex and yanked them as far up his leg as they’d go, creating a most fashionable look. If he feared one thing more than an epileptic seizure and tripods, it would be Lyme disease, easily his most reasonable fear. After allowing everyone else to precede him, Captain Rescue entered the woods. Instantly the tall trees seemed to surround him from every direction, and he had to concentrate extremely hard not to wet himself—or worse. His eyes darted between the trees he thought were trying to eat him and the ground he convinced himself held monsters that would crawl up his leg and sink their fangs into places very dear to him. In case anything tried to leap from the underbrush, he kept a can of pepper spray at the ready. In all likelihood, pepper spray would only annoy the creatures that lurked with these woods.

Even scarier than the critters hiding underneath rocks were the natural sounds of the forest. While many would find these noises wondrous, Captain Rescue heard only the horrible sounds of death. Every rustle, every chirp, every howl would send his heart running for cover. In actuality, many of the sounds originated from Charlie, who enjoyed tormenting the man almost as much as his stroll through nature. Where Captain Rescue saw ghastly trees trying to wrap their thin branches around him, Charlie saw ancient and majestic beauties. The truth somewhere in the middle.

A shriek shattered Charlie’s serene enjoyment of nature—everyone just assumed Captain Rescue had seen a caterpillar or almost stepped on a toad. But no, he caught a glimpse of something much more fantastic weaving in and out of tree cover, something large, bipedal, and hairy. Unable to muster the words to describe his sighting to the others, he simply mumbled incoherently. The group stopped dead in its tracks and turned to him, irritated. Behind them, Captain Rescue could see more movement in the trees. The tears welled in his eyes. The spit sprinkled from his mouth. He babbled incoherently, spurting words like “keyboard”, “wallet”, and “hurricane”. Captain Rescue’s sighting crossed the wires in his head, leaving him temporarily even more broken. He closed his eyes and prayed as more of the hairy beasts closed in.

As the babbling idiot fell to his knees, Charlie caught a glimpse of one of the hairy beasts. He shoved Captain Rescue aside and, like a blue blur, sprinted off towards the source. Everyone but Stubbs followed in hot pursuit. The zombie stayed behind, unable to sprint. He would certainly fall apart at the seams if he tried. Instead, he just plopped down on a log and twiddled his thumbs. Luckily, being alone in The Haunted Forest was anything but harrowing for the zombie known as Stubbs. Nothing in this forest could come close to harming him, and even if it tried—it would certainly regret the decision shortly thereafter.

Tree after tree flew past Charlie as he and the others chased down the source of the encounter. Deeper and deeper they went, just when one of the hairy beasts came within their grasp, it would disappear and reappear nearby. Finally, their chase ended as the ground beneath their feet vanished. Head over heels they tumbled down a hill, until finally piling on top of each other at the bottom. At first, they assumed the hairy beasts had gotten away. The dozen or so wooden spears pointed at their faces soon proved otherwise.

Ever since Captain Rescue’s was a kid, he held a firm belief that these enigmatic creatures existed, but he never imagined he would have a chance to prove it. His tears and incoherent babbling stemmed from joy more than fear. The beasts now stood before him, seven feet tall, and covered with brown hair. They flicked their spears upwards, and with childlike amazement, he jumped to his feet and stared at the beasts. Then he proceeded to do something rather foolish when faced with potentially hostile animals and poked one their chests with his finger. Captain Rescue giggled with the excitement that they existed—even if they didn’t seem too pleased to make his acquaintance. He whipped a cell phone from his utility belt and snapped a series of blurry pictures. Once developed, they’d of course be indistinguishable from a man in an ape suit or a bear on its hind legs. Finally, Captain Rescue’s senses returned to him and he blurted out a single word: “Bigfoot!”

A group of six of the bipedal apes had intercepted the heroes, led by a gigantic alpha male that towered over the already tall creatures. The leader looked down at the humans, both literally and figuratively, the ape wore its distrust of humanity plainly upon its face. If these people hadn’t been so hilariously dressed, it might have killed them anyway, but he had other orders. Their shaman had instructed the bigfoot to bring any humans found in these woods to him so he could speak to each and every one of them.

Their spears motioned for the adventurers to follow. Captain Rescue, who had suddenly overcome his fear of the forest, stood first in line. He walked behind the bigfoot with boyish excitement, giggling at their muscular buttocks moving up and down. The hairy creatures led the heroes deeper into the forest, but since all the trees looked the same, they could have been going in circles for the bigfoot’s enjoyment.

Captain Rescue finally worked up the courage to speak. “So,” he tried to think of what to say, all he could muster was, “How’s the weather in these parts?”

The alpha male turned its head towards him and only grunted a few words in an unintelligible language. Captain Rescue could tell from the ape’s face that he wasn’t exactly in the mood for conversation. “I see…” he replied

They walked in silence, and the hero kept any additional questions to himself. Not that he really cared, he was happy enough just being here amongst the apes. It was a childhood fantasy of his to meet these creatures and to play board games with them, although as he grew in age, his interest in board games diminished. The bigfoot, however, remained cemented in his psyche as a lifelong dream that he hoped to find one day fulfilled. That day had finally come.

The bigfoot stopped and encircled a nondescript pile of leaves. Captain Rescue’s childlike glee persisted as the bigfoot knelt down and moved the camouflaged hatch aside, revealing a tunnel leading into the ground. The pitch black hole could have easily stretched for miles, but this didn’t stop Captain Rescue from diving right in, unperturbed by anything that could be waiting at the bottom, be it spike-traps, a pit of snakes, or the Loch Ness Monster.

After a short trek through the darkened tunnel, a faint light appeared ahead. Captain Rescue clapped excitedly and sprinted ahead of the others, who just let him run off. Kid’s got to learn, they thought—even if it meant angry spear toting primates impaled him. They watched as the lunatic exited the tunnel at nearly the speed of light. Then, as if he were somehow able to attain the speed of light and his mass had become infinite, he stopped suddenly and fell flat on his face. At first his friends assumed the bigfoot had stopped him, probably with a spear. However, they would soon realize he had simply overloaded with enthusiasm and short-circuited.

They stepped through the tunnel’s threshold in awe. It opened into a large cavern that seemed natural, but had been expanded. This is what caused Captain Rescue’s overload: a sprawling underground city the hairy race of bigfoot called home. Tunnels dug into the cavern’s walls led out in every direction. Throughout the main hall were various makeshift buildings, some of which had a distinct familiarity to them, one was clearly a market, and another a church. Several of the other buildings had less obvious roles, such as homes or storage. They were all composed of materials gathered from the nearby forest. Hundreds of the hairy beasts went about their business, and only gave the newcomers occasional glances—some suspicious, some not. Their escorts left them at the entrance as they went off without saying—or doing—anything more.

“Would you look at that,” Charlie said as he pointed towards a very familiar zombie who had found his way here before any of them.

Off in a corner, Stubbs chatted away with one of the giant hairy beasts in their native tongue. The bigfoot’s sex was difficult to ascertain, but judging by the flirtation and its chest, which simple cloth covered—female was a safe bet, but since nobody really had a clue about the anatomy of bigfoot, they erred on the side of caution. As adorable as the sight was, it made them all a little sick to their stomachs, she did after all look like a bearded woman. Captain Rescue, on the other hand, thought the two were cutest couple since beauty and the beast, although none of them had a clue which was which. Stubbs playfully nudged her shoulder after chuckling at something she said, and then wiped away little bits of himself that had rubbed off. It took a while for Stubbs and his partner to notice their smirking onlookers.

Charlie finally broke the silence. “So, you speak…Bigfootish?”

“Yeah,” the zombie said, “who’d have thought.”

“Interesting, that’s for sure.”

“I wonder what possible reason there could it,” Stubbs said with much emphasis, as if the answer was somehow of great importance to them, like whoever had created the zombies had a plan in store for the bigfoot as well.

“Hah, you’re weird,” Captain Rescue said as he tickled Stubbs’ stomach. The zombie mimicked a laugh for his sake.

Everyone, including Stubbs and his mistress, roamed through the main hall on a self-guided tour. Someone had erected a central column in the very center of the city and painstakingly carved it into a statue. They stood before an impressive depiction of a muscular male holding a large staff above his head. They followed the statue downwards from there, taking in its beauty piece by piece. When they reached the halfway point, they were mildly appalled to see the statue’s groin staring back at them. Charlie had half a mind to cover it up with some kind of makeshift loincloth. However, he decided it best not to incite a cross species conflict.

“Greetings humans… and rabbit,” an aged voice said softly.

They spun around to see an elderly bigfoot with greying hair, holding a wooden staff in its hands. They looked back up to the statue, and then back down to the bigfoot. The group repeated this motion a few times, finally deciding that the two were indeed the same. Their eyes then traveled to the elderly bigfoot’s waste, which a loincloth conveniently graced.

“Yes, that effigy is of me in my glory days.”

“You can speak our language?” Dr. Malevolent asked suspiciously.

“Oh, I can do more than speak your language,’ the shamanistic bigfoot replied as he played the air guitar on his staff like a rock god, inciting applause from Captain Rescue.

“Yeah… uh, okay,” Charlie said, “and how may we help you?”

“I bring age old wisdom and knowledge.” He continued playing more air guitar on his staff.

“Why on Earth are you doing that?”

“I must play to the spirits to appease them so that they may help you and all life.”

“…and they respond well to air guitar?”

“That… or the disco dancing,” said the shaman as he placed the end of his staff firmly on the ground and pounded rhythmically. “The knowledge I bring you is of a horror approaching of undead proportions.”

“If you are referring to all the zombies… the ones like Stubbs over there,” Charlie said as he motioned to the zombie who had his hand around his newfound bigfoot girlfriend, “then you’re about six hours late.”

“Yes—well, we yeti live on the outskirts of the human world and news travels slowly amongst us. Take for instance, we had no knowledge that rabbits as large as you existed.”

Charlie lifted off his head to reveal the human sweating underneath. The shaman stumbled backwards in disbelief, “what strange magic is this?”

“No magic, just a suit,” he said, handing the head to the shaman, who inspected it closely, feeling its fur and poking its eyeballs. He then slipped it over his head—a tight fit, but his chuckles hinted at his satisfaction.

Inspection complete, the shaman gave it back to Charlie and said, “The undead are just the beginning.”

“What are you getting at?” the bunny replied, shoving its head back onto its shoulders.

“A foul wind has overtaken my people, and there is much unrest.”

“Why do you have to speak in riddles?”

The shaman glanced over its shoulder, making sure no one was listening in, “I’m unsure of the full extent of this plight, but something is influencing my brethren, turning them against you and your kind.”

“’Our kind’ don’t even know you exist.”

“I’m afraid that is soon to change.”

The bunny shrugged, “What do you want from us?”

“Nothing at the moment, I’m just warning you. Soon, you may be called on once more.”

“Well jeez,” Charlie said, admittedly bored, “drop me an email if you have figure any of this out.”

“Email?”

“Yeah, never mind.”

The shaman scratched its head, “Well, I must go pray to the spirits so that they may watch over us.”

Charlie tried to keep from laughing underneath the bunny head, “Okay, you do that.”

The shaman headed off, but soon stopped and looked over his shoulder, “I had our cooks prepare you some food, feel free to feast and then rest here for the night if you wish. We set you up some cots in the building nearest the feast.”

The heroes meandered through the underground city for a few minutes, soon discovering the feast that had been laid out for them.

Captain Rescue clapped and sprinted over to the tables, “I’m starved!”

The others followed behind him, curious what kind of food the apes ate and expected them to eat.

“Oh God,” Dr. Malevolent said, almost vomiting. Many of the dishes seemed to include insects and other small critters as their primary ingredient. A large bowl sat in the center of the table filled with slithering maggots, which interested Stubbs immensely.

“Maggots!” his coarse voice said excitedly as he dug his hand into the bowl and pulled out a handful, shoving them into his mouth.

Captain Rescue watched him closely as the maggots slid down his throat, falling out the many holes along what was left of his esophagus. Finally the hero said, “You don’t actually have to eat do you?”

Mouth stuffed, the zombie shook his head, “I sure don’t, but it’s still fun!”

Dr. Malevolent could not stand to look at the creature any longer and turned her attention back to the table. Her second investigation unearthed treats more appealing to her pallet. The bigfoot had laid out a few dishes composed primarily of plant life. Dr. Malevolent had never before considered vegetarianism, but after watching a zombie shovel maggots into its face, she might convert.

As she took a plate of leaves from the table, she glanced at Captain Rescue, who refused to stop staring at the zombie as he ate his maggots. She just rolled her eyes and shoved a handful of leaves into her mouth, somehow pleased with both their taste and texture. She looked next to Freight, and laughed. Within seconds, she had figured out his eating habits. Freight didn’t care what he ate or where it came from as evidenced by the creepy crawlies that he had already chewed to bits.

She noticed Captain Rescue begin to slink away and watched him out of one eye. He hid in a corner and dug into his utility belt, soon pulling out a candy bar and opening its wrapper. As if under the impression that if caught, someone would take it away, Captain Rescue hid it in his hand while discreetly taking bites from it. Dr. Malevolent laughed to herself as an idea popped into her head.

“What are you doing?!” She said with a stern voice, pointing at Captain Rescue.

He slid the candy bar back into his utility belt, “Uh… nothing?”

“No!” Dr. Malevolent continued, trying to keep from laughing, “You had something. What is it?”

Captain Rescue hunkered down, “It was nothing… just a little snack.”

“And you were trying to keep it from the rest of us? With all we’ve been through together?”

Everyone had noticed the ordeal transpiring, and had surrounded the two.

Captain Rescue glanced around in panic, “I’m sorry, I just don’t have enough for the rest of you! I hate plants and bugs!”

“So you thought you’d hide over here in a corner while you gorged yourself?”

“Yes,” he said, frowning.

“You ought to be ashamed.”

“I am! I am!”

She decided to take this a step further, “Now you go to bed right this second and think about what you’ve done.”

Captain Rescue stomped his foot, “Fine, if you insist!”

“I do.”

He snarled at her and stormed off towards the building of cots mentioned by the shaman earlier. Once he was out of sight, she looked at the others and curtsied.

“You’re evil,” Charlie said with his head under his arm as he snacked away.

She nodded, “I am good at what I do.”

“We should all get some sleep, we have to save the world tomorrow.”

“And then next week, I have to take it over.”

“That’s what you say every week.”

“Yes, well, maybe one of these weeks you’ll pull your weight and we’ll finally get it done.”

They continued the discussion as they headed for the cots.

“Don’t you dare try to blame our inability to conquer the world on me, you’re the leader of our little crime syndicate.”

“Well, maybe if you spent less time dressing up as oversized bunnies and more time training, things would be different!”

“Training?! What is there to train for? You’re the one who comes up with all the cockamamie schemes. It’s not my fault they have a tendency to fail.”

They opened the door to the shack to find Captain Rescue sitting in his cot with a candy bar between his lips. He yelped and tried to hide it.

Dr. Malevolent fluffed him off, “Shut up and go to bed.”

He pulled the covers over his face and did as he was told. The others climbed into their respective cots, sleeping in their costumes. That wasn’t to say Charlie didn’t sleep in his costumes every night anyway. He, of course, slept more soundly inside the suit. Captain Rescue too slept in his costume most nights, but that was just because most of the time he didn’t bother changing out of it.

As they slept, they dreamed of zombies, bigfoot, and bigfoot zombies—that and taking over the world, but Dr. Malevolent dreamed of that obsession every night. Freight didn’t sleep, he wouldn’t dare let these apes get the drop on him, so he watched the doorway the entire night, his hand resting upon his shotgun, waiting for something to come in and provoke him to use it.

Dr. Malevolent awoke the next morning with Captain Rescue decreeing that the time had come for the heroes to skedaddle. While the others headed towards the tunnel, Stubbs faced his bigfoot girlfriend and said a few words that translated to something like, “Farewell, my love! I’ve got a world to save.” She seemed utterly heartbroken and buried her face in her hairy hands, and wept—probably for her benefit, since the dangers of relations with a zombie were unknown, and suffice it to say, it would have not been pretty.

As Captain Rescue came through the hole leading out of the bigfoot’s city, he found the forest much less threatening. He breathed in deep, smiled, and let the fresh forest air fill his lungs. He took another breath just as a dragonfly flew into his mouth. The cacophony of coughing that followed did not diminish his newfound respect for nature one bit. That would soon change as a low rumble echoed from off in the distance. Everyone, bigfoot included, looked at each other curiously. Another rumble and Charlie, remembering something he saw during a movie, pulled a glass of water from his bunny pouch and placed it on a nearby tree stump. Another rumble echoed through the forest and the water in the glass shook.

The disturbance grew ever closer and it put everyone, even Freight, on edge. Soon, they could hear the snapping of branches and crushing of leaves. It was practically on top of them and nobody could see a thing. Then, an enormous pink foot with equally enormous talons fell from the treetops and crashed into the ground, knocking everyone off balance. Following the foot, an enormous pink head reached down and grabbed one of Dr. Malevolent’s lackeys between its jaws. All they could make out were the tiny pink arms dangling from the creature’s chest. Just as quickly as it appeared, the enormous pink Tyrannosaurus Rex ran off into the forest with its prize screaming in its mouth.

“Well… that was interesting,” Captain Rescue said as the pounding of the dinosaur’s feet faded away.

“I don’t know what’s more fascinating, a dinosaur or that it’s pink.” Charlie poked around in the footprint it left.

Since the hero’s couldn’t solve the case of the pink Tyrannosaurus Rex by standing around, they waved goodbye to their gracious bigfoot hosts and returned to their journey. Their city might have been on the brink of destruction, but the birds were chirping and the sun was shining. With arms locked together, they skipped happily through the jungle—long forgotten were the undead massing just a few miles behind them.

Chapter 16: That is One Evil Fountain

Captain Rescue stared into the bright midday sky, watching birds chirp as they swam through the air, reveling in their beauty. Ahead, the hero noticed an ominous pink haze covering the land. He watched inquisitively as a bird neared this aura, under the impression that no evil could come from anything so pink and lovely, but as the bird passed within the aura’s threshold, horrors unfurled. A puff of black smoke enveloped the innocent little birdy, and Captain Rescue watched as the cloud dissipated and a pink version of the bird emerged.

The hero thought nothing of it at first. Just a pretty pink bird in a pretty pink sky, but as this bird left the haze and neared one of its regular colored cousins the tiny bird went into a fit of rage and flew high into the sky before diving bombing the poor thing. Captain Rescue watched in absolute horror as the two birds crashed together and plummeted to the ground. In an intense crash, they smacked the forest floor. The regular bird lay motionless on the ground while its pink counterpart rose to its tiny feet and then proceeded to stomp upon the other bird’s head with its little feet.

Captain Rescue stood there in silence, stupefied by what he had just witnessed. “Did you guys just see that?” he asked the others.

Dr. Malevolent nodded and then spoke, excitement filling her words, “That is probably the most amazing thing I have ever seen. Something that turns cute little forest animals into evil versions of themselves. I must have it.”

Captain Rescue grabbed her shoulders and shook her, “That poor little bird had its skull crushed and this is how you react? You are evil!”

She shoved him away, “Yeah, so? I didn’t really think that was up for discussion.”

He looked away from the super villain, head hung in mourning.

Charlie stared into the pink abyss, “That’s not even the real concern. What happens when we go in there? Will Freight end up crushing all of our skulls?”

“LET’S FIND OUT,” Freight laughed as he grabbed the collar of a nameless lackey and tossed him into the fog. In a panic, the lackey closed his eyes and tried not to breathe as he sprinted towards clean air. Freight vetoed his motion as Courtney stared the man down. The lackey held his breath for as long as he could, and then finally exhaled, gasping for breath. They anxiously awaited a horrific transformation, but nothing happened. No, the aura didn’t turn people into evil pink versions of themselves, as exciting as that would be. Humans were evil enough already—or an equally philosophical statement. Either that, or the strange pink cloud was not powerful enough to change something as large as a human. The group waited a few moments to make sure the lackey stayed his natural color, and then stepped through. Aside from reduced visibility and light-headedness, the heroes seemed like themselves, for better or worse.

Everyone stood at the ready, half expecting a hoard of angry pink critters to come out of the haze and overwhelm them. When that failed to occur, they breathed a sigh of relief in unison. An army of pink wildlife was a threat far more intimidating than any zombie could ever be. No ankle would be safe. Unless, the pink T-Rex commanded this army, in which case nothing, not even ankles, would be safe.

After swimming a ways through the pink fog, the laboratory rose from the horizon—a fortress in the most literal of senses. The foreboding structure rose high into air, its pink aura of pure evil shrouding its heights from view. As the heroes digested the foreboding structure, they could not help but to imagine that it had been plucked from the distant past and plopped here in the middle of The Haunted Forest. They had the creeping sensation that once inside they would find hundreds of confused fourteenth century peasants with no idea where they were or why.

Little did they know, an unseen force had plucked the castle from the fourteenth century and plopped it here. At its origin, hundreds of confused peasants stood around a gigantic crater wondering what on Earth just happened. “Witchcraft!” they cried as they tossed stones, hoping an evil pink witch had created an illusion, but no, the castle had truly vanished. Blame shifted then to an angry and spiteful God, and the peasants turned to rooting out the heretic responsible for this transgression. Random heads rolled, and the butterfly effect created turned the Statue of Liberty into a 400-foot-tall bronze platypus, but as fickle as time tended to be, the past was of little consequence now, since the castle resided comfortably in the twenty-first century.

Just outside its walls, a dolphin statue stood watch over the grounds. Within its stone glimmer, a dastardly twinkle caught their attention for but a moment. The water that normally flowed through the dolphin’s mouth was a bubbling pink liquid instead. The castle’s stone had a beaten, weathered feel, but this statue seemed just recently carved, an ominous sign indeed. But the heroes took no notice of it, distracted by the more apparent threats.

Just as a medieval castle should, this one came equipped with its very own moat. Its depths would undoubtedly send a person straight to hell if they haplessly fell over the edge. That person would most likely be Captain Rescue, the clumsiest of clumsies, a nickname given to him during high school. The hero’s many faults aside, a drawbridge appeared to be the only way to bypass the daunting moat, but of course, someone had raised it. Before the heroes could even consider crossing the gap, they would first have to get around the dozens of nasty laser turrets, which were certainly not of the fourteenth century.

These turrets sat on large pedestals woven through the chain link fence that surrounded the entire castle grounds. They swiveled back and forth, remaining ever watchful, their red eyes blinking rhythmically. A hapless pink hummingbird happened to hover within range of one of the turrets. In an awesome display of their power, one of the futuristic machines fixed itself on the humming bird and fired a single laser burst. They gasped in horror as it hung in the air for a brief moment and fell, black and charred. The little guy picked himself off the ground, coughed out some smoke, and limped away, giving the machine the bird.

As an avid bird lover, one of the lackeys ran up to the turrets in a furious rage screaming, “You bastards!” A few of the turrets rotated in his direction and started to power up. He immediately realized the error of his way, and started to retreat. The turrets, however, did not heed to his surrender, and swiftly vaporized him. Another lackey, friend of the last, yelled “You bastards!” and met the same fate as his friend.

“Well… this is gonna be tricky,” Charlie said, looking at the two smoldering ash piles. The turrets, aware of this fact, fired a warning shot. It flew past their heads and hit a vehicle parked on the side of the only road, leaving a black scorch mark in its wake.

“Now you listen here!” Captain Rescue bellowed as he stomped towards one of the turrets, shaking his finger at it. His aggression and finger shaking continued as four of the turrets fixated on the hero, taunting him to take another step. He played right into their crafty hand and took that single step they’d been waiting for. The Turret’s red lights brightened and ceased their rhythmic blinking.

They charged up with a high-pitched wail, and then fired at Captain Rescue, who squealed like a frightened piglet and leapt backwards, narrowly escaping their vaporizing gaze. As another laser fired, he lost his footing and stumbled into the parked car nearby. The impact broke the side view mirror and left it dangling. The turrets fired again. In a rush, he rolled to the side. The blast hit the reflective surface and shot into the night sky. This caused another candle to appear over Captain Rescue’s head.

He tore the side view mirror from the car, and just as the turret readied another shot, spun around, dropped to his bottom, and held it out. The laser burst erupted from the tip of the turret and milliseconds later blasted the mirror, only to be reflected towards the heavens. Like a kid who spent the greater part of his childhood playing air hockey, Captain Rescue reflected shot after shot of the relentless onslaught off into random directions. Impressively, he only missed a single laser. The hero breathed a sigh of release as it scorched the ground and singed his super pants, coming very close to a place he held dear.

Behind him, everyone else thoroughly enjoyed the show, cheering Captain Rescue on as he flung lasers back in the direction they came. Just like parents cheer for their child at their first little league game. One of the lasers cut through the chain link fence and hit the dolphin statue on the side of its head, leaving a nice gash its statue friends would find most stylish. The statue seemed to let out a most ominous groan, but kept its cool and tried to ignore the annoying humans that were invading the castle. If only Captain Rescue would have thought to aim for the turrets themselves, but that would be giving him too much credit.

Dr. Malevolent finally grew tired of the hero’s incessant laser reflecting. So, she stormed to the other side of the car, placed her foot firmly its door, and grabbed the other mirror. After a short struggle, she pried it off and cut into Captain Rescue’s self-indulgent act. One by one, she reflected lasers back to the turrets, blowing them up. After each explosion, the remaining turrets let out an electronic sigh to mourn the death of their comrades.

Dr. Malevolent blew on her side view mirror like a gunslinger cowboy and tossed it aside. Mimicking her, Captain Rescue jumped to his feet and tossed his mirror aside as well. Everyone walked up to the smoldering fence, half scared to touch it.

“Did anyone remember their wire cutters?” Charlie asked.

“I DON’T NEED NO WIRE CUTTERS!” Freight roared as he kicked the fence down, an act that became less impressive once one considered the weakness of the laser-riddled metal. Freight then grabbed the collar of yet another nameless lackey and shoved him through the newfound hole, assuring the coast was clear for the important people. Since nameless lackey number two was not vaporized, melted, exploded, incinerated, crushed, or spaghettified, the saviors of this world crossed into castle grounds.

However, the coast was not clear, not really. Already, some unknown assailant had taken notice. The moment they crossed through the fence, its gaze fixated upon them. This assailant, however, remained anonymous, hiding in plain sight. The closer they came to the statue, the more its nature became apparent. Beams of light shot from cracks that formed along its body as the mechanisms that drove it switched on. The dolphin collapsed onto its belly, and then rose slowly by its stone flippers, shaking like a wet dog to rid itself of loose debris. Freight beamed with excitement as he gingerly snatched up Courtney and kissed her for good luck.

The stone dorsal fin crumbled away, and an intimidating metal spike took its place, ready to impale anything that got between it and the castle. As the dolphin launched itself into the air, spraying evil pink lemonade everywhere, the heroes almost gave up right then and there. It did back flip after back flip until crashing into the ground, leaving a vast crater in its wake. The robot’s flippers extended into full-length arms and the bottom half of its body split to form makeshift legs. The dolphin then opened its jaws wide and let loose a heavily distorted roar that practically burst their eardrums.

Like a bull with a matador in its sights, the statue stomped on the ground and then commenced its charge. With a wild-eyed smirk, Freight fired at it. The slugs simply crashed into its stone hide and fell to the ground. Betrayal filled his eyes as he stared down at Courtney. The dolphin picked up speed, tearing gaping holes from the ground with each great stride. Freight grabbed hold of his shotgun and dove for cover along with everyone else.

Unlike Freight, the lackeys were blind to the gravity of the situation. They found their cellphones (and tweeting about saving the world) far more enthralling than the two-ton dolphin soon to make Shish Kabob of them. The situation’s gravity tried as it might to pull them into orbit and avoid their fate, but they wouldn’t hear any of it. The dolphin leaned forward, ready to joust. Still nose deep in their cellphones, the lackeys were caught by surprise as the dolphin crashed into them. The joust protruding from its back skewered two while the rest slid their cellphones into their pockets and scattered frantically.

The dolphin stopped and its entire body then undulated, launching the corpses towards the castle. They smacked into the wall, and then remained stuck to the stones for a few seconds before peeling away and falling into the moat. The remaining lackeys, who were still running around frantically, went for cover, but the dolphin was too fast for them. It grabbed another by the ankle and dangled him in the air as he screamed for his mommy. The dolphin looked directly at him then let loose another roar that muffled his screams and plastered his skin back.

The roar subsided and the dolphin opened it jaws wider, revealing the many rows of razor sharp teeth within. The lackey gulped just as the robotic monster snapped his head off. The dolphin tossed the twitching body aside and turned to look at the heroes hiding behind the fountain. It opened its mouth, the lifeless head rolling around amongst its teeth. Then, with a blast of air, the dolphin spit the head towards the heroes. It bounced along the ground and came to a rest at their feet.

“What are we gonna do?!” Captain Rescue whined as he kicked the severed head away.

“IT’S NOT A ZOMBIE,” Freight said, shrugging. “I’M ONLY GOOD WITH ZOBMIES.”

“I’ve got an idea,” Charlie said as he stared down into the moat, its indeterminable depths soon fading to blackness. The bunny lifted head off and set it on the ground, soon doing the same with his plush gauntlets. It was go time. He grabbed a fistful of dirt from the ground and flung it at the dolphin in an attempt to draw its attention. The creature reeled around to face bunny, its piercing howl deafening them in pain once again. The bunny shook it off and threw another clump of dirt at the dolphin. Luckily (or possibly unluckily, depending on the following course of events), the ruse succeeded and the stone dolphin bent over low to align its razor sharp dorsal fin to Charlie.

As it stood there about to charge, the possible outcome of this situation passed through Charlie’s mind. Jousted by a statue would most definitely be an interesting way to go—one for the history books no doubt, and sure, it would be relatively painless. His last thought before the beast charged was that of a giant blue bunny skewered upon its dorsal fin. The image made him chuckle for a moment until he realized that if he did not leap from harm’s way the thought would be painfully realized.

Fate, it seemed, was on his side this day. Charlie dove aside just as the stone beast slid across the ground like a baseball player gliding into third. However, third base just happened to hover in midair over the moat. This fact was news to the dolphin, and it came screeching to a halt inches from going over. The ground beneath started to crumble under its weight. As it slipped, the dolphin dug its flippers into the ground in a vain attempt to hold on. With a few last great roars, the dolphin plummeted to into the moat.

Somewhere beneath the oceans of the distant future, a group of dolphins watched through a time-bending camera as their robot plummeted. Flippers banged against underwater desks. A single dolphin swam over to a computer and pulled up the robot’s schematics. It flicked the monitor with the back of its flipper in disgust and dragged the file to the recycle bin. The dolphin cracked its figurative knuckles and pulled open another file, starting from scratch.

Within a short amount of time, the dolphin had conceptualized Killer Dolphin Mark II. This time, rather than stone, he used a material one-tenth its weight, ten times as strong, and three hundred times as flexible. The dolphin hoped nobody would ask why he had not used this space age material in the first place. Next, he gave the robot a plethora of weaponry for its arsenal. Lastly, he gave it wings—which may make it more conspicuous, but at the same time, it would also make it more awesome with the ability to fly right out of those deep holes it falls into. The dolphin designer nodded at its creation.

Yes, these super intelligent dolphins actually run Acme Corporation from behind closed doors. Only a few select people even know of their existence. To make matters worse, they have been gunning for us for generations now, and anytime the fate of the human race had been in question, they were the reason. They were the architects of the Y2K bug. Even though they knew from the start it would not cause any problems, the dolphins had hoped that during the ensuing chaos the human race would destroy itself. 2012 is the continuation of that plan; though set into motion thousands of years ago, the dolphins are not concerned with concepts like space and time.

Back at the castle, everyone leaned over the moat, watching the dolphin tumble to the depths of the earth. This peering only reminded that they too would have to devise a way to cross. The last thing anyone wanted was to follow it down, where it would certainly want a rematch.

“How are we going to get across this?” Captain Rescue said with a high-pitched whine.

Freight, whose ears felt ironically assaulted, shoved the spandex clad lunatic and pointed at the drawbridge.

“Oh,” Captain Rescue started, “But how are we going to lower it?”

Freight shoved the man once again and pointed at the red switch next to the drawbridge, the one labeled, “Push to lower.”

“Convenient,” Captain Rescue said as he grabbed a lump of dirt tossed it at the switch. Somehow, his aim caused the clump to fly off to the right and smack Dr. Malevolent in the face. At first, Captain Rescue shielded himself from any retaliatory fire, but she was too dumbfounded for anger.

They considered, for a moment, the possibility of a fantastic energy field shielding the switch from any kind of earthborn projectiles. Hesitantly, Freight stuck the barrel of his shotgun out and swung it around in the air. He then turned to the others and shrugged. Charlie grabbed a nearby pebble and tossed it over towards the switch—it seemed unperturbed by any mysterious gravity well from the future. Finally, they decided that Captain Rescue was simply accidentally awesome.

Dr. Malevolent, who had previously proved herself quite coordinated with her skillful use of a side view mirror, picked another pebble from the ground and tossed it at the switch, hitting it dead center. Just when everyone’s hands were just about to meet in applause, the crashing drawbridge startled them. However, their shock paled in comparison to the shock felt by the lackey pancaked underneath it. They paused for a moment in silence for those slain upon these hallowed grounds, and then stepped onto the drawbridge.

After a short jog over the fourteenth century drawbridge, they came to an equally as ancient large wooden door.

“Should we knock?” Captain Rescued asked as he placed his knuckles to the door.

“What on earth… no we shouldn’t knock.” Dr. Malevolent retorted.

“Shouldn’t we let them know we’re here?”

Her jaw dropped, “Firstly, why on earth would you tell the evil corporation you’re coming to put an end to their zombie uprising. Secondly, I’m pretty sure they already know we’re here.”

“And how would they know that?”

“Let’s see. We destroyed a bunch of their super expensive laser turrets. Then we destroyed their scary guard dog stone dolphin. Lastly, I’m pretty sure that everyone in this county heard that drawbridge hit the ground. Oh, and not to mention there’s a camera right there looking at us.” She said pointing to the camera sticking out of the doorframe.

“I’m not convinced.”

“Of course you wouldn’t be convinced.”

Charlie finally put an end to their bickering by pushing the heavy door open with all the force he could muster. They peered inside just as a gust of wind rushed out.

Chapter 17: Something Wicked This Way Bounces

At first glance, the entrance to the fourteenth century castle felt very genuine, but upon closer inspection, they could tell something was amiss. A gaping chasm split this first room in half, and the only way to cross was the steel bridge that spanned it. Along its railings, small dolphins swam through the air, playfully shooting water from their blowholes. The dolphin overlords surely placed this fantastic illusion to lure innocent sailors to their doom. Even from this distance, the sirens had a hypnotizing effect.

To exemplify the dolphin motif further, tapestries hung from the walls depicting the animals doing everything from jousting to feasting to harlotry, all with dolphin flair. Aside from the wall hangings, this half of the room seemed devoid of anything helpful, and only proved how obsessed dolphins were with the past. A few torches hung from the walls, fakes lit through electricity. The dolphin overlords had little use for open flames. They were a fire hazard, after all. Across from the dolphin infused bridge, a vast hallway awaited them, and it was the only way out of this equally vast entryway. Sea blue curtains draped the darkened hallway’s frame and scrunched up dolphins hid within the folds. Telling how deep this rabbit hole went would have to be discovered first hand.

With the room digested, attention turned towards the steel bridge. After the encounter with the killer dolphin, the heroes approached it with utmost caution, unsure of what ridiculous dolphin dangers would spring out of the nothingness to crush their skulls. This hesitation had been rightly placed, for as soon as they stepped forward, a bounce resonated from down the hallway. Panic swept the heroes raced away from the bridge, hoping to send this unknown danger back from where it came.

They were sure that a bouncing dolphin would soon emerge from the hallway to barrage them with heat-seeking missiles. Another bounce and the frightened heroes stumbled backwards. Self-preservation kicked in and Captain went straight for the door, but his feet were a little slow to keep up and he tripped and slammed against it. He regained some semblance of composure, fought back his frazzled nerves, and wrapped his fingers around the handle, only to discover that it refused to open.

“The door’s locked!” Captain Rescue yelled. His exasperated cries echoed out as he pounded helplessly against the wood, boring gashes with his fingernails as he tried to claw his way out.

Bounce after bounce resonated through the vast entryway and the more it repeated the less their frazzled nerves could take. One, however, remained forever stoic—Stubbs. When anything, living or dead, has seen and done the things Stubbs has in his short lifetime of a few hours, they know not fear. In fact, they know little at all. This ignorance of the world and its many dangers was undoubtedly the leading factor in Stubbs’ courage. He just did not know any better, and it is doubtful he would let a few errant bounces get to him anyway. Regardless, as everyone around him cracked, Stubbs started to feel rather left out. To fit in, he slapped his cheeks and let out the most unearthly screech imaginable, distorting space and time all around him. Once finished, Stubbs chased after his tongue, which had departed his mouth along with the scream.

One would think that Stubbs’ shriek would scare off even the meanest of bouncing dolphins, but the noise grew ever closer, and the repetition further degraded on their mental states. That was, if their mental states could degrade any further without their brains becoming inoperable. As the source bounced out of the hallway, they realized their mental states were as degraded as can be. It was a minotaur, a minotaur bouncing on a pogo stick, one a few sizes too small, and even so, it handled the stick like a pro.

Someone had crafted the pogo stick into a magnificent hot pink work of art. Lights on both sides moved up and down hypnotically, and a hoofed tip matched the hoofed rider. Not to mention the dolphin handlebars, squealing like the creatures with each squeeze. Even more magnificent than the pogo stick was the minotaur riding it. He wore only a simple pink loincloth, indicating that it, and whatever it concealed, was of the purest evil. Rippling muscles covered the beast’s body; he used a pogo stick only because his muscles made it difficult to walk. A finely braided beard billowed from its jutting chin, and the golden ring in his nose bounced up and down with each hop.

“You shall not pass!” The beast’s gruff voice bellowed as it positioned itself in the center of the bridge.

“Hold on a sec,” Captain Rescue said to the minotaur as he as the other heroes formed a tight circle.

“Why are we in a huddle?” Dr. Malevolent whispered.

“I dunno, it’s not every day you see a minotaur, may as well cherish it.” As everyone around Captain Rescue gave the hero weary looks, he turned from the huddle and asked the minotaur, “Why can’t we pass?”

“This is private property! You are trespassing!”

“Well, you are trying to bring civilization to its knees, so I think we have permission,” Charlie said to the bouncing beast.

“You shall not pass!” he repeated.

Captain Rescue approached and asked, “So, why the pogo stick?”

“I will go down in history as the pogo sticking minotaur. It will be my trademark.” At his words, Dr. Malevolent caressed her rod in its holster.

Captain Rescue shrugged and pulled a vial from his utility belt. He held it into the air and yelled, “I really don’t want to have to use this, but if you don’t get off the bridge, I’ll be forced to!”

The minotaur bounced silently for a few seconds, thinking the proposal over and then answered, “No.”

“Suit yourself,” Captain Rescue responded as he flung the vial into the air. It dramatically tumbled end over end until shattering against the bridge, spreading oil everywhere. The minotaur tried its best to avoid the slick. However, regardless of its pogo prowess, he found himself unable to keep away from the slippery sludge. The moment the pogo stick’s tip touched the oil slick, the minotaur began to lose its balance, dangerously throwing itself back and forth across the bridge. The beast tried to maintain control, but quickly lost the battle and simply hopped over the edge into the gaping chasm. Captain Rescue turned to everyone else and flexed proudly.

“Never thought I’d say it, but good job,” Dr. Malevolent said patting him on the back. This approval caused him to smile brightly.

Celebrations of defeating the minotaur were cut short as a bounce echoed from the depths of the chasm. Their hearts skipped a beat. Then more bouncing, one after another, over and over. As they peered down, they could see the horned head of the minotaur traveling in and out of the darkness, getting closer each time. Apparently, the chasm was not deep as expected, but it was deep enough. After a series of bounces that seemed to last a lifetime, their anxiety lifted as the beast’s ascension concluded. It was stuck down there.

“Don’t think this is over!” a gruff voice yelled from the chasm.

Dr. Malevolent knelt at the edge and waved to the beast as it bounced in and out of view. Her comrades and she then faced their next insurmountable task: the oil coated bridge. Captain Rescue begged to slide across for the sake of fun. After much trial and error, they convinced him otherwise. Thus, in a single file line, they grabbed hold of the railing and began inching their way across, accompanied by holographic dolphins that mocked their progression, pretending to slip and bump their noggins. Charlie, in particular, could not help but to worry that the oil would permanently affix itself to his plush fur sabatons. However, considering the amount of gunk currently coating them, from dried blood to mud to other substances still unknown to man, the oil would fit in nicely.

As the last person crossed the bridge, the minotaur yelled, “I’ll be here when you get back!” The minotaur’s intimidating first impressions would imply that it’s only goal in life was to protect the castle it calls home. This was simply incorrect. The minotaur was actually a lonely creature that wished nothing more than to make friends with the castle’s newcomers, sit with them by the fire, and reminisce over times of yore. However, after being cooped up inside a medieval castle its entire life, the minotaur’s social skills were left somewhat wanting. The poor beast just did not know how to interact with people. Thus, as the heroes made their way across the bridge, tears welled in his eyes.

At precisely the same moment they stepped from the bridge to the cold stone tiles of the castle, a faint click echoed from somewhere nearby. Freight, who could smell trouble from a mile away, threw his arms to his sides, stopping the others, who looked at him with both curiosity and frustration that he had decided to make a spectacle of himself once again. Freight stuck his nose up and sniffed the air, trying to catch a whiff of the misfortune headed in their direction. The others did the same, but all they could smell was the musky stench of a fourteenth century castle.

Somewhere down the darkened hallway, the heroes could hear a gust of wind rushing in their direction. Then, an enormous tree trunk flew out from the darkness. Instinctively, everyone dropped to their knees and hugged the ground, save Captain Rescue. His instincts had taken the week off, due to boredom. He just stood there with a dumbfounded look on his face as the log sailed towards him.

For a brief moment, Dr. Malevolent considered allowing him to meet his fate, but in a fraction of a second, she decided against it—perhaps she wasn’t so malevolent after all. Her hand flew up from the ground and wrapped itself around the elastic of his underwear. She then yanked him to the ground, almost removing his pants all together. He smiled innocently as he watched the log whoosh past him, hoping he could go on this ride again soon. Dr. Malevolent decided that if she could not kill the man, she would at least punch him in the groin. As he cringed in pain, the weight of letting him survive eased.

The enormous trunk swung back and forth over the heroes’ heads until it finally came to a stop, exhausting its need to show off. They rose to their feet, half expecting something else to fly out from the depths of the castle to decapitate them. No such surprises awaited—for now. To make extra sure, they walked around and systematically stepped on the stone tiles beneath their feet, hoping to trigger any additional traps. At first, they believed this would give them ample preparation time against any of those dastardly booby-traps, but putting yourself intentionally in harm’s way seemed a rather risky thing to do. Either way, they concluded no more pressure plates remained to catch them off guard, and, for the moment, that they were safe. Continuing with their investigation, they checked the area just surrounding the hallway for any indiscriminate holes that could fire indiscriminate arrows through their indiscriminate necks. No such neck high holes appeared anywhere nearby, or holes of any height for that matter.

Therefore, without further ado, they stepped into the hallway. Almost immediately, a click emanated from underneath the stone, followed by the distinct sound of grinding metal. Then, from down the hallway, a rumbling like rolling rapids caught their ears. They looked nervously at each other and then backed out of the hallway together. As the rumbling grew closer, a thick sea of pink flooded into view. After a few more seconds, the composition of the pink sea became readily clear. An evil pink army of converted forest dwelling animals, from squirrels to foxes to raccoons, had come to say hello. A handful of the larger animals had war banners strapped to their backs. Upon each banner, a dolphin leapt through a flaming hoop with a pile of dead humans beneath it.

Charlie immediately grabbed hold of the log that recently tried to kill them all and swung onto it. The others followed suit—some not nearly as elegantly, specifically, Captain Rescue and Stubbs, each for their own unique reasons. Captain Rescue could not quite make the jump up to the log and Stubbs couldn’t do so without tearing his arms from their sockets—again. The others helped the two and then realized just how pressed for room they were atop this log. A couple had to double up, creating a most awkward yearbook photo. To keep the sea of evil pink animals from gnawing their feet off, the heroes grabbed hold of their knees and pulled their legs from the ground.

The army swarmed underneath them, growling and hissing in the most frightening of ways. The minotaur, who had been enjoying the show from the chasm, chuckled without saying a word. At first, the army was less than threatening as it just loitered below them. However, these critters were not all bark. They stacked on each other, inching closer and closer to the log. Just when Captain Rescue had begun yielding to panic, Charlie revealed that he had just the thing to disperse this mob. Like Mary Poppins digging inside her magic carpetbag, Charlie rooted around in his pouch for a few moments then pulled out a rather large plainly wrapped parcel. Everyone looked to him, unsure of what the crazy man was doing.

He opened the package and removed a small animatronic man. Not just any man, though, a 24-inch tall hunter—every forest dwelling animal’s greatest nightmare. He wore a red and blue plaid shirt, overalls, and a hunting cap. In his hands was a generic bolt-action rifle. Charlie flipped him upside down, turned him on by the switch on his bum, and then placed him in the middle of the army. The hunter walked around in circles playing a fuzzy recording.

“You’re gonna look nice on my mantle,” the animatronic hunter said as it raised and lowered its rifle. The army spread and kept its distance, but did not flee in horror. It walked in circles, scaring off the occasional animal. “Deer season is my favorite season.” He then fired his rifle as sparks flew from the tip and it jerked upwards to simulate recoil. This did the trick, and animals fled for cover in every direction. The tiny hunter threw his rifle over his shoulder and said, “Don’t run away, we’re just getting started.” Charlie lifted him from the ground and as he went for his bum to switch him back off, the tiny man begged, “Please, I don’t want to go back into that darkness, let me stay here wi—.”

“He gets a little clingy from time to time.” Charlie added.

Dr. Malevolent had a baffled look on her face. “I’ve got two main concerns. Firstly, what on earth are you doing carrying around a small robotic man?”

“Oh, that’s easy,” Charlie said, “It’s a gift for my uncle, he’s an avid hunter.”

“Okay… okay… fair enough. Secondly, how on earth did you fit that thing in there?” Dr. Malevolent added, pointing at the pouch.

“The thing’s bigger on the inside,” Charlie said.

“How is that even possible?”

“It’s magic.”

“Shut up,” she said like a teenage girl as she stuck her head into the pouch, almost falling into the expansive hole. Once she recovered from her near tumble, she noticed the plethora of random odds and ends that filled the pouch. Among other things, there was a kite, a notebook computer, a bicycle, and a few filled black garbage sacks. She calmly closed the pouch and shrugged. This conundrum, she thought, was better left uninvestigated.

In truth, Charlie had no clue as to the origins of his costume and its enigmatic pouch. Story had it that the bunny suit was passed down by his ancestors from generation to generation, its true origins lost to time. However, Charlie was no fool, and he knew that chances were slim that anyone in the distant past would have been able to create the bright blue bunny suit, or would have even wanted to. Thus, he knew its origins were much more mysterious. Charlie’s thoughts made their way back to reality as everyone jumped down from the log now that the evil pink army had disappeared.

Chapter 18: The Fourteenth Century Funhouse

They made for the hallway. The moment their feet touched its cold stone tiles, not-so-medieval lights switched on one by one along the ceiling. Their hearts sank as they watched the lights flip on for what felt like a millennium. Eventually, they faded from view, revealing just how deep this rabbit hole went. To add insult to injury, dozens upon dozens of heavy fourteenth century wooden doors lined both sides of the hallway, leaving an insurmountable amount of options.

Captain Rescue stomped his feet in a tantrum and whined, “We’re going to be here all year!”

Dr. Malevolent replied, “What, you thought saving the world would be easy? Even I knew otherwise and I’m the one who’s always trying to take it over.”

Before Captain Rescue could let the hamster and its wheel formulate a response, Stubbs snatched a loose pebble from the ground and tossed it into the hallway in an attempt to spring any additional traps. While doing so, the zombie made sure to hold his throwing hand securely to prevent it from flying off with the pebble. Life as the undead certainly was not easy, but Stubbs took to it with grace and charm—and no zombie on earth would disagree, even if it was too busy eating brains to bother.

After some fine bouncing that would have made the friendly neighborhood minotaur jealous, the pebble finally came to a rest a ways down the hall without any signs of unwanted traps. Stubbs looked to everyone else and shrugged. He stepped into the hallway, half-ready for a giant saw to fly out and chop him in two. All remained quiet, and Stubbs breathed a sigh of relief. Rather, he tried to, but then remembered that his lungs were of little use as anything other than punching bags.

Concluding that a ghastly medieval booby trap was not going to obliterate Stubbs, everyone else entered the hallway, tasked with the decision of which doorway to open first and feared what could possibly be behind it. To solve this conundrum, Captain Rescue pulled a coin from his pocket and tossed it into the air. As the coin flipped, the hamster and its wheel, still recovering from the last request, tried hard to communicate with his hand to catch it. Apparently, the two had miscommunicated, because he missed the coin and wound up slapping himself across the face.

As Captain Rescue ran off trying to catch the coin, Stubbs grabbed the knob of the first door on his right and opened it. Inside it, sitting in a rocking chair by a fire, a female minotaur sat knitting a quilt that had on it a depiction of the bouncing minotaur they had already met. The small room she called home had no exits or windows. Satisfied this room was not the one sought, not that they had a clue what they sought in the first place, Stubbs started to close the door just as the female minotaur spoke.

“Excuse me, have you seen my son?” She said, tears in her eyes.

Stubbs looked at the quilt then at her, and stuttered, “Um…actually... I think we did on our way in here.”

“Oh, all right. If you see him again, tell him his mother is worried about him and that he’s late for dinner.” She wiped the tears away and gave a faint smile.

“Certainly, ma’am,” Stubbs closed the door. He regained his composure, turned to the others, “Well, one down,” he said as he peered down the hallway, “a lot to go.”

Captain Rescue took point and grabbed the doorknob of the next door, which light emanated from underneath. The source of which floated a few inches from the ground, a bald glowing creature wearing a flowing white gown. It turned to them and said softly with a wide smile in a high-pitched voice, “I bring you love.”

Captain Rescue, teeth chattering and shaking at the knees, mumbled the following words, “Sorry… we’re not… in the market for love.”

The creature’s aura of light dimmed and sadness filled its eyes, “Oh…”

His fear subsided. “Aww, don’t be sad, I’m sure there are plenty of people out there who are.”

The floating entity brightened, smiled, and waved goodbye as Captain Rescue closed the door and said, “Was that what I think it was?”

“If you mean a deranged elderly man drugged beyond all reason,” Charlie said dryly, “then yes,”

“All righty then.”

They assessed the situation: endless doors and no telling which, if any, was the one that would lead them in the right direction. They decided it would be in their best interest to explore further down the hallway; no way could it go on forever. Coincidentally, the search would not take too long. After but a short jog into the belly of the castle, the heroes felt as though they were getting bigger or that the castle was getting smaller. It seemed the endless hallway wasn’t anything more than an optical illusion put in place to confuse and infuriate anyone who entered the castle.

While everyone else was returning to the properly proportioned section of the hallway, Captain Rescue lingered within this tiny world. While pretending to be King Kong, he thrust his arms into the air and roared furiously, swatting at imaginary miniature planes that flew through the air. He then forced open a nearby tiny door and slid his arm into it, hoping to grab hold of a damsel in distress but found only miniscule screams from within. He gasped and yanked his arm out, then whispered, “Sorry!” to those he had just disturbed.

Freight cracked his knuckles and strutted over to one of the doors, ready to dive headfirst into whatever this castle had to throw at him. With Courtney in one hand, and the doorknob in the other, he effortlessly yanked open the massive door. A normal man would have soiled himself after discovering what lay on the other side, but Freight was no normal man, so his pants remained unsoiled. It was a dragon—the largest, most terrifying dragon ever conceived. The monster’s eyes burned blood red with pure hate. Enormous spikes lined its back all the way down to the tip of its tail, where they culminated into a most vicious weapon. To Freight, it was just a bigger—fire breathing—zombie. Though bound to the ground, upon seeing someone at the doorway, the dragon rose to its feet and spread its mammoth wings, brushing off bits of stone and mortar from the high ceiling as they grazed it.

The dragon crouched low to the ground as the two behemoths stared into each other’s eyes. Then, like a vacuum, the dragon inhaled, pulling everything towards it except Freight, who refused to waver, showing the beast who was boss. After the air in the immediate area found its way into the dragon’s lungs, the winds ceased. The beast then expelled all the air in a mighty roar. The ears of every creature within a hundred miles burst into flames, except for that of Freight and his comrades, theirs were immune to such devilry.

The dragon’s roar subsided, and Captain Rescue had recorded the entire thing, hoping to make a single out of it and strike it big in the music industry. Freight straightened his clothes and fixed his hair, then prepared to give the monster a taste of his own medicine. As he breathed in, his chest expanded to fifteen times its normal size. Just before popping like an overinflated balloon, Freight let out the most animalistic roar capable by human lungs. Comparatively, it was nothing next to the mighty bellow of the dragon. However, the beast knew a badass when it saw one and admitted defeat by hiding its snout within its colossal talons and whimpering. Freight nodded approvingly at the dragon, which had put up a good fight, and closed the door.

Charlie, hoping for an encounter as epic as Freight’s, went to one of the nearby doors and fumbled for the knob, plush gauntlets made most things difficult to open. Eventually, he overcame this hurdle and managed to get the door open, and then kicked its frame in frustration. Charlie couldn’t have conceived a more monumental disappointment than the broom closet before him. A mop sat in the center of the tiny room, and shelves lined the walls. Upon them, someone, perhaps a janitor, had organized the cleaning supplies alphabetically. A glimmer of hope twinkled within the depths of his plastic eyes as he realized what rested on one of the shelves: a golden lamp etched with the most elegant of doodles. Excitement filled Charlie as he dreamed of the possibilities. A lamp could mean one thing and one thing only—a genie. Charlie gingerly snatched the lamp and cradled it close to him, barely able to grasp it with his fuzzy hands. He then rubbed it. What else was one to do when given a magical lamp?

“Leave me alone,” a tiny voice from within the lamp yelled.

Charlie rubbed the lamp more vigorously. After waiting a few seconds for a further reply, and being disappointed when there was not, he slid the lamp to his bunny’s mouth, where his real eyes were, and peered inside. An orange smoke seeping out from within the lamp obscured his vision. He coughed and tried to brush the smoke away, but it continued to gather, eventually coalescing into a humanoid form. The gaseous muscle bound genie hovered in front of Charlie, its arms crossed and an irritated look upon its face. No discernable clothing graced the genie’s gaseous orange body, which dissipated just past its waist, where things would have gotten really interesting. From its hair to its goatee to its nipples, the genie employed various shades of orange.

The genie leaned forward, its face centimeters from Charlie’s, “And what do you want?”

“Why my wishes, of course,”

“I don’t do the wish thing, and even if I did. It only applies to humans, not overgrown rabbits like you.”

“You’re a genie… of course you do this wish thing.”

“I’m sorry, are you trying to tell me, that with all my phenomenal cosmic powers, I am obligated to grant your wishes?”

“Uh yeah… I believe I am.”

The genie backed away from Charlie, floated to the very top of the rather tall hallway, and outstretched its arms. He then started to gyrate, conjuring all sorts of ancient magics. The winds inside the fourteenth century castle picked up and were soon that of a hurricane.

“Don’t think that you can command me!” the genie bellowed. He continued spinning around and around, causing the winds to force everyone against the wall. Grey storm clouds gathered along the ceiling. Lightning struck, and a torrential downpour began, spilling gallons of water on everything. As it soaked his bunny suit to the core, Charlie became increasingly furious at the genie. His saturated bunny hands clenched the lamp, and an idea dawned on him. He threw it to the ground and began stomping on it like a man jumping on a cockroach that refused to give up and die.

The genie, appalled at the treatment of his itty-bitty living space, abruptly ended the hurricane. As quickly as they came, the torrential winds subsided. The only remnant that they had been there was the half-trillion gallons of water left in its wake. The genie then proceeded to conjure a pair of legs just so that he could fall to his knees and hold his wrecked home in his hands. Without saying a word, he held the lamp to his gaseous orange lips and blew into it. The lamp regained some resemblance of its former greatness, but was still bent and twisted. The genie turned its back on everyone and slammed the door as it went back into its closet. The door then blinked out of existence, leaving no trace that it had ever been there.

“Great, you pissed him off. We could have used him to help us save the world,” Dr. Malevolent said as she rung the water from her long brown hair.

“Either way, he still didn’t seem very motivated to help us,” Charlie replied.

“Oh and how would you react if someone stomped on your house?”

“Point taken.”

“Anyway, I think it’s my turn to open one of these doors.”

“Be my guest.”

Dr. Malevolent tapped her chin with her fingers as she surveyed the remaining doors. After a good amount of time transpired—there were still quite a few left—she picked one and opened it. At seeing saw what lay beyond it, she did an arm pump in victory. Inside the room was an enormous spiral staircase with an iron portcullis sealing off the entrance. The staircase wasn’t alone in the room, however. A lemonade stand was in the corner, and behind it was a young boy who wore a bright smile on his face.

“Hello!” he said as Dr. Malevolent entered the room. She then motioned with her hand for everyone else to follow. The boy continued to smile behind the lemonade stand, with his fingers crossed and his hands resting on the wood. There were six small glasses of lemonade already made. The boy knew they were there, but he wasn’t sure if Stubbs would want a glass. Regardless, he didn’t want to be ill prepared for the castle’s guests.

“Come in! Have a drink!” he said cheerfully to the travelers as they entered the room. The offer was accepted and the lemonade was sipped, and actually quite delicious. Captain Rescue, however, would have preferred the pink variety.

“What are you doing here?” Dr. Malevolent asked the boy.

“I am the gatekeeper. If you answer my questions three correctly then you can go up. If not you have to leave, sorry!”

“That’s it then?” she replied, the water still dripping from her white lab coat.

“The questions are quite challenging, don’t be too confident!”

“Well, let’s get started then.”

“Of course, your first question is, ‘What is seven plus twelve?’”

She chuckled a little and asked, “Did you write these questions?”

“I sure did!” the boy said exuberantly, “my teacher says I’m very smart.”

“Well, I’m sure you are and the answer you seek is nineteen.”

“Excellent, you got it right! Are you ready for the next one?”

“Lay it on me, kiddo,” she said very confidently to the boy.

“How many sides does a hexagon have?”

“Six!”

“Right you are again!” the boy’s cheerfulness didn’t falter in the least, “the last question is, ‘How old is the universe?’”

Dr. Malevolent’s jaw dropped, she didn’t have the foggiest clue what the answer was. She remained silent for a few seconds, then said, “I have no idea.”

“Do any of your friends know?! They can answer too!”

Freight blurted out, “13.7 BILLION YEARS, GIVE OR TAKE!” In reaction to everyone’s awestruck faces, he added, “WHAT? I LIKE SPACE.”

The boy began clapping, “Very good, you got all the answers right!” The portcullis sealing off the stairway lifted and the boy wished them well.

“That was super easy,” Captain Rescue said with blatant arrogance.

“Oh yeah? How many did you know?” Dr. Malevolent asked

“Just one, but still!”

“Yeah… exactly.”

They looked up at the spiral staircase before them, it seemed to climb for stories upon stories and scaling it would certainly be no simple task. Therefore, without wasting any more time, they got to it.

Chapter 19: The End of the Beginning

The stairwell had only been their companion for mere moments and already Captain Rescue had started to complain about how boring it was. He kicked the metal railing in frustration. This, of course, sent a streak up pain through his leg, and on top of that, the entire stairwell swayed back and forth. From that point forward, Captain Rescue kept his boredom to himself in the very reasonable fear that he might be flung over the side.

The monotony of the endless spirals set in quickly. At first, they marched with conviction and confidence, but soon that degraded to plodding up the stairs. Everyone acted as if they had been at this journey for hours, when in actuality it had been but four minutes. At this rate, it would not be long before they dropped to their hands and knees to crawl. It was for the best then that something high above wanted to ease their suffering at the hands of boredom. This unseen adversary had sent something tumbling down the staircase. While unable to see it for the moment, everyone could certainly hear it. The seconds passed and the group began to catch glimpses of a blurry brown object rolling down the stairs, visible through the open space between each step. It came closer still, and Charlie finally figured out just what was barreling towards them—a barrel. The man of action, Freight, jumped in front of everyone and stood anchored to the ground. The barrel had half a mind to give up and stop there, but its momentum refused this notion. It crashed into him, shattering into an infinite amount of tiny pieces. It seemed the barrel was no match for Freight, and even the splinters had a hard time finding the courage to pierce his skin.

Charlie leaned over the railing’s edge and looked upwards. He could faintly make out a dark form readying another barrel, this one flaming. Freight commanded everyone to get down low. Since it was a good idea and since nobody in their right mind would question Freight, they got down. The hulking man followed his own advice, got onto his back, and threw his feet high into the air. As the flaming barrel flew overhead, Freight simply kicked it with all his might and sent it flying off the staircase. He also used that very same might to keep it from shattering. He was that good.

After everyone had gotten back to their feet, Charlie, having quiet enough of this malicious barrel-flinger, put a most ingenious plan into action. He opened his bunny pouch and spent a few seconds searching for what he sought—a bunch of bananas and a grappling hook. He stuck the bananas to the grappling hook and leaned over the side of the staircase. As Captain Rescue watched the bunny work, he decided that he too needed a grappling hook and scolded himself for not already having one. With the most precise aim, Charlie fired the grappling hook into the air. After a few seconds, it came falling back down. A very infuriated gorilla followed shortly thereafter, punching the air as it plummeted.

With the coast clear, they were free to scale the staircase in a state of absolute boredom, a state only slightly more enjoyable than dodging flaming barrels. As they neared the summit of the staircase, a simple wooden trapdoor came into view. Freight took point, ready to annihilate whatever lay beyond it, be it a dragon, a zombie, a gorilla, or a combination of the three. Considering what they had already encountered in the past day, anything was possible. To test the waters, he knocked three times and waited to see if anything replied. When nothing did, he grabbed the iron handle and flung it into the air. Freight leapt through the trapdoor and slammed down on the other side. After he and Courtney assured no dragzombrillas (a most ferocious zombie/dragon/gorilla hyrbird) waited on the other side to ambush them, he gave everyone the signal to come up. Charlie grabbed the arm of the last surviving lackey and hoisted him into the broom closet then shut the trapdoor behind him.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Charlie said as he took in the distinctly familiar broom closet, and sure enough, sitting on one of the shelves, a distinctly familiar dented lamp. Dr. Malevolent grabbed Charlie’s arm as he reached forward to pick it up. She was giving him the evil eye, and he knew why. This time around, he’d try not to piss the apparition off.

He rubbed softly, and whispered, “Uh, Mr. Genie, sir, I think we got off on the wrong foot.”

“I don’t have feet. And, thanks to you, I barely have a home.”

“Yes, well, I apologize, but you didn’t really leave me much choice. You were trying to drown my friends and me.”

“That goofy one in the cape is your friend? I thought he was a mental patient.”

“They’re not mutually exclusive.”

Captain Rescue’s frown turned into a smile at Charlie’s words, though he did not exactly understand them. The genie sighed from within its wrecked home then began to seep out from within, coalescing into his humanoid form once more, only this time bright red to match his mood. He floated there before Charlie and the others in absolute silence, arms crossed and looking quite stern.

Finally, the genie said, “Yes? What do you want?”

“Well, obviously, we were hoping you’d help us save the world. If it’s not too much to ask.”

“Save… the world? Why would I ever consider doing a thing like that? And how do you know I can even be trusted.”

“I just have one of those feelings about you.”

“Oh, you have a feeling? About me? How typical.”

“Hey now, don’t get bent out of shape. You just don’t seem like the type to let a few zombies get out of control.”

“Bent out of shape? Let me turn you into a toad, and we’ll see just how ‘bent out of shape’ I am.”

“Oh, are you a witch now too?”

The genie snapped its fingers.

“Ribbit.”

“Not so witty now are we?”

“Ribbit.”

The genie chuckled and then snapped its fingers once more. Charlie dusted himself off as he rose from his hands and knees. As the shock of having been turned into a frog wore off, he noticed how much cleaner his suit had become. He almost wanted to hug the genie.

“No need to thank me,” The genie said, taking notice of Charlie’s excitement. “I am not opposed to random acts of kindness. As long as they’re not wished for.”

“So, will you help us or not. Must be boring trapped inside that tiny lamp.”

The genie grew quiet, as if thinking the world saving proposal over. Finally, he sighed and said, “Okay… okay. You have my… gas.”

“Awesome, with you at our side, things should be exponentially easier.”

The genie laughed. “Don’t think I’m going to make this easy for you meatbags. I mean, I definitely could if I wanted. But I’d much rather just be a relatively impartial observer.”

“I’m sure you’ll warm to us. We are a stand up bunch.”

“I sincerely doubt that,” the genie said unenthusiastically as he took a moment to look at everyone around it.

“Let’s get crackin’ then, Genie. And everyone else”

“I have a name, you know.” The genie said agitatedly.

“Well, I just assumed…”

“Oh, you assumed. I’m the one who’s been around for thousands of years, and you’re the one who gets to assume things. Perfect.”

“So, what is your name?”

“Greg.”

“Really, it’s Greg?”

“It sure is.”

“Care to explain how that came to pass?”

“Not especially, do you care to explain why you parade around in a rabbit outfit?”

Charlie became uncomfortably silent.

“Just what I thought.”

And then there were seven, including the nameless lackey whose death loomed just around the corner. Seven people crammed into one broom closet only begged the question of how they were all able to fit, even if one was incorporeal. The simple fact of the matter was they did not, not in the least. To make matters worse, if there were one thing no one wanted to be stuck in a broom closet with, it would be a zombie. Stubbs, however gentlemanly, was beginning to rub off on everyone around him, in the most literal of senses. This may or may not have been hazardous to his health since there was really no telling how much body mass Stubbs’ could do away with before he simply stopped working.

A close contender for the Would Rather Not Be Stuck in a Broom Closet With contest, Captain Rescue, and judging by the smell, the man had not stepped foot in a shower his entire life—or he too was dead. Yet, one could argue that the night’s activities would have left even the cleanest of persons in a rather unkempt state. Dr. Malevolent had the nagging temptation to grab the nearby mop and give Captain Rescue a good scrubbing. She would have probably done the same to Stubbs, but frankly, she was afraid to touch him. Not to mention, he would probably dissolve.

“Where does this door lead?” Charlie said, looking at Greg.

“Why don’t you open it and find out?”

“Is this how things are going to go from now on?”

“Indubitably.”

Charlie simply rolled his eyes and opened the nearby door, which apparently led into yet another hallway. As he surveyed it, he realized that fortunately this one was significantly shorter and seemed not to abuse doors as the last one did. At first, the hallway revealed no discernable clues where to go on their quest to save the world, but Dr. Malevolent soon noticed a small hint in the form of a sign red sign above the door at the end of the hallway. On it were the words: “Base of Operations, Authorized Dolphins Only”. She nudged Charlie and pointed. He was too busy inspecting each individual door to be bothered by her. She nudged him again, only harder. He spun around and, through the bright smile of the bunny head, glared angrily. Dr. Malevolent shoved him and pointed towards the red sign. After reading what it said, his mannerisms apologized profusely and headed towards it.

“That was a rather conveniently placed broom closet, was it not?” Charlie said to Greg.

“I plead the fifth.”

“Do you even have an understanding of our laws?”

“Just from what I’ve seen on television.”

“You have a television?”

“I did—until you crushed it.”

“I’m sorry, I’ll get you another.”

“Don’t bother, I have to get them specially ordered. Feel free to get me another lamp, though.”

“I sure will,” Charlie chuckled as he grabbed hold of the door handle and tried to open it. Sure enough, it was locked. He looked at Greg, who just shrugged indifferently.

“You can’t expect my help with every issue you run into, you did make it this far without me. Not that I’m admitting I’ve helped at all, but if I had, it’s not something you should grow accustomed to.”

Freight shoved Charlie aside and stood before the door, ready to give it a taste of his medicine. He did not seem to care how large, wooden, or reinforced with space-age steel the dolphin overlords had made it. He was going to kick it down, and no one existed who could convince him otherwise, but someone probably should have tried. He was undoubtedly about to injure himself seriously. Kick after kick collided with the door, which made no apparent signs of giving. After a few dozen tries, Dr. Malevolent kindly pushed him aside.

“You’re going to break something if you carry on like this.” She laid flat against the large door and reached upwards to feel along its frame. As luck would have, a key sat up there.

Charlie looked at the genie.

“Wasn’t me,” the apparition replied.

Dr. Malevolent opened the seemingly ancient door. She shook her head and blinked several times at the room she before her; it did not appear to be as ancient as the door or the rest of the castle, not in the least. In fact, if anywhere, it appeared to have come from the future. The sight shocked Dr. Malevolent so much that she had to walk in and out of the room several times to make sure the fabric of this reality was intact. Sure enough, it did seem intact, not that she would have been able to tell the difference.

The control room seemed to be straight out of a science fiction movie. Holograms and digital displays depicted everything from the Earth to an ant colony in Arizona. They were sure that as soon as they stepped past the door, some space-age security failsafe would surely vaporize them. But alas, their vapors seemed safe. Speaking of vapors, Greg followed behind everyone and watched inquisitively as the humans (and Stubbs) inspected the room. They scratched their heads at many of the buttons and displays, which appeared to be of an indecipherable language. One button, out of all in the room, drew attention to itself—most likely because of its red color. This large red button had a purpose, a large purpose, a zombie exterminating purpose.

A glass barrier shielded the button from any unwanted pressing. Freight whipped out his shotgun and unleashed on it. Apparently, whoever had shielded the button from any unwanted pressing foresaw bullets being just as unwanted, because the glass remained intact. What did not remain intact, however, was the general hue of the room, which now flashed red. Freight had tripped an alarm. Greg’s gaseous red lips formed a smile, he did not exactly wish his newfound comrades harm, but a little danger would at least make things entertaining for him.

Everyone closed their eyes and awaited vaporization. And yet again, their vapors remained theirs. They opened their eyes just in time to see a small device in the corner of the room projecting a point of light. Captain Rescue found it oddly enticing and wandered over to it for a better look. He stuck his hand out and waved it through just as it started to grow. Freight grabbed his cape and yanked him back as the point of light expanded into a rectangular portal, glowing with all sorts of extra-dimensional energy. The portal’s pink color signaled that it was indeed an evil portal. Moreover, within the next few moments, something just as evil would pass through the portal from some unknown plane of existence.

As prophesied, something large passed through the portal a few moments later. Instantly, everyone recognized this newfound dimensional traveler, what they didn’t know, however, was how to react to it. A dolphin towered over them, the creature was big—yes, but the suit it wore made it even bigger. Since, even in the future, dolphins spent the majority of their time in the water, its mechanical suit made it more mobile on land—that and it looked damned cool. The sleek suit encasing the dolphin was a mixture of chrome and black components, fitted over the creature’s body like the plates of medieval armor. A wet suit, quite literally, covered the dolphin, keeping its skin permanently damp. Wires connecting the mechanical legs and arms to its flippers and fluke gave it full control of the suit’s functions and  collection of cables and tubes lined its back.

Evolution had told the sea mammals to stay in the water, but the dolphins, the dolphins said no. Generations of gene splicing had rendered it a freak of nature. Opposable digits sprouted from the tips of the creature’s fins and its warped spine arched its head forward. The dolphin’s flukes appeared rather unchanged, since these awesome exoskeletal suits meant they did not need to be. The dolphin wore a helmet similar to that of fighter pilots, inside was a heads-up-display with all sorts of information about its surroundings, from its targets’ species, to their heartbeat, to where it needed to fire its heat-seeking missiles for optimal damage (anywhere).

The moment he caught a glimpse of the creature, Captain Rescue suddenly remember his parents and their fateful scuba diving vacation. It took his brain an ample amount of time to make the connection, but it eventually did. The dolphin overlords were responsible for his parent’s deaths. How? Why? He really had no idea. For all he knew, they just wanted to be mean. There was no other reason he could have comprehended on his own. But this revelation would spearhead the campaign to rid the planet of the blight known as dolphins once and for all.

The dolphin stepped forward and raised its mechanical arms, revealing the weaponry built into them. To everyone’s surprise, though they should have probably seen it coming, Stubbs approached the dolphin and said, “Master, I have brought those whose goal it is to make trouble for your kind.” The dolphin nodded and Stubbs walked over to stand beside it.

“You dirty zombie!” Dr. Malevolent shouted, “You may have stunk and been falling to pieces, but we thought you were our friend!”

Stubbs chuckled, though with the state of his body, it only distantly resembled one, “You silly human, why would I ever call you or any of your kind ‘friend’ when your end is so close.”

“Oh, this is getting interesting, isn’t it?” Greg said as he floated over to the dolphin to take a closer look.

He watched as the dolphin began to speak in clicks and squeals; its words translated by the speaker mounted into its suit, “Prepare to die, pesky humans!”

Before the heroes could say a word in their defense, the dolphin’s weaponry started to power up, signaled by a high-pitched wail. They sighed and dove for cover just a series of lasers barraged them. Within moments, the machinery that had been protecting them started to explode in their faces. It would not be long before the room literally came down on their heads. Through the chaos, Greg just floated in midair, tickled by lasers as they passed through him.

From behind a counter, Freight grabbed Courtney and fired at the dolphin. An invisible shield protecting it stopped the slugs in their path and they dropped to the ground. He shrugged and held his beloved close, death did not seem so bad—Freight had his fun. As the futuristic machines all around him exploded, a slow acoustic song began to play within his head. He had been saving it for this very occasion, and now he wept—a noble death. Captain Rescue wept as well, but for other reasons. On his knees with his arms wrapped around his head, he balled his eyes out. He still had so much to do, so much to see, so many dolphins to kill.

“Exterminate!” The dolphin said repeatedly as it fired laser after laser.

Freight rose to his feet with his hands in the air. “Take me! I’m ready to pass on from this place!”

Stubbs tapped the dolphin on the shoulder. It turned while continuing to fire arbitrarily. All the lasers missed Freight completely, who remained adamant that his time had come. The dolphin saw a cluster of hydraulic cables in Stubbs’ hand. The zombie tore them loose, spilling fluid all over the dolphin and its super cool armor. Instantly, the suit began to malfunction and the dolphin fell to its metallic knees no longer able to move. Stubbs then leaned forward and bit a chunk of flesh from the dolphin, his first and only time spreading the zombie bug.

“You really had me goin’ for a minute there,” Charlie said as he stepped up to the dolphin.

“I do what I want.” Stubbs said as he kicked the dolphin in the head. The creature then lost consciousness and, a few seconds later, reawaked as none other than a zombie dolphin, chomping randomly at nearby ankles. With the occupant deceased, the suit powered down, including the force field protecting it. Freight then splattered the dolphin’s brains all over the floor. Then, with the butt of his shotgun, he smashed the device that opened the portal that brought the dolphin to this dimension in the first place. This wasn’t exactly an experience he wanted to relive.

“I have to admit, dead thing, that you handled the situation superbly.” Greg said in compliment.

“Why thank you, red thing.”

“Now for this thing,” Captain Rescue said as he approached the red dezombifier button. He tapped lightly on the glass and then started pressing nearby buttons randomly. Luckily for him the glass opened, since his button mashing had an equal chance of vaporizing him and everyone else. He reached inside and pressed the button then exclaimed, “World saved!”

For a moment, there was no apparent effect. Then, the entire castle began to vibrate violently. Anything that wasn’t bolted to the ground started to fall from shelves and topple over. The group grabbed anything within reach to help keep them steady. The rumbling ended abruptly as an enormous shockwave erupted from the castle and spread outward, causing every zombie on the planet to explode systematically in a shower of their own gore, shown in glorious high definition on the remaining monitors in the control room.

Captain Rescue then turned to Stubbs and asked, “Hey, why aren’t you dead?”

“I am dead.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I’m special.”

“Fine, I didn’t even want to know.”

The truth of the matter was that the shockwave did not affect anything already in the castle. Thus, the great zombie extinction spared Stubbs. Just then, the last surviving lackey collapsed. A few moments passed before everyone came to realize that this was purely spontaneous and that nothing in this room caused it. Later, they learned that he suffered a fatal brain aneurism, which had sealed his fate from the get go.

“Well, let’s get outta here now that the world’s saved… I’m pooped,” Captain Rescue said as they left the control room.

“How are you pooped, you barely did anything,” Dr. Malevolent inquired.

“Yeah, but there was some severe mental exhaustion.”

“I’ll buy that, you do barely use that brain of yours.”

“Exactly.”

“Now that you’re done saving the world,” Greg sarcastically said to Charlie as he slid out his lamp, “fix this.”

“I have no idea how to fix an ancient magical lamp.”

“Then buy me another, I’m not really as picky as you’d think.”

“And where am I supposed to find another ancient magical lamp.”

“That’s not my responsibility to figure out, maybe the internet?”

“Yeah… yeah…” Charlie said distantly.

“So uh… how on earth are we going to get out of here?” Captain Rescue asked.

“Just this once…” Greg said as he crossed his arms, blinking with a nod. Instantly, the heroes found themselves just outside castle grounds, laser turrets just out of range. They began to meander back towards civilization, almost at once, felt a rumble reverberated beneath their feet. The heroes shrugged it off at first, thinking that it had only been an aftershock from mass zombie extermination.

As another quake rumbled beneath them, Captain Rescue spoke up, “What’s that?”

“No idea,” Charlie replied.

Captain Rescue dropped to his knees and pressed an ear to the ground, “I hear cheering, maybe our bigfoot friends learned of our triumphant victory over the forces of evil and are now celebrating in our honor. And really, damn right they should, we showed evil who’s boss.” He thought over his words for a moment, and then looked up at Dr. Malevolent, “Well some evil, not all of it.”

She grunted, “Spare me! You’re lucky I didn’t kill you. You could have easily been just another casualty of the undead.”

He hopped to his feet, “Does this mean were friends now?”

“No.”

“Why not? We make a good team!”

“My undying hate for you aside, it’s just not meant to be.”

He nodded, “I guess you’re right, I do love throwing you in jail.”

“And I love tying you up and beating you until you scream for your mommy.”

“Well then,” Captain Rescue said, taking a step away from her, “As soon as this adventure of ours concludes, things go back to the way they were.”

“I can’t wait,” she said before looking at Charlie, “As for you, if I ever see that costume again, I’m burning it.”

Charlie took his bunny head off, just so Dr. Malevolent could see the human frowning underneath.

“Don’t give me that, the suit is a monstrosity. Just learn to be yourself.” She paused for a moment, “No scratch that. Be someone else, anyone else, I don’t care who.”

The heroes trekked towards civilization (or what was left of it) with a great sense of accomplishment. Nevertheless, evil continued to brew, and a heroes’ work is never really done, and neither is a super villains for that matter, but in the meantime life could get back to normal. That is, once they put up a few internet ads to repopulate the city. That way, Dr. Malevolent could continue to pillage, steal, and conquer and Captain Rescue could try his best to protect the innocent and fight evil without accidentally getting himself killed.

The Epic Log, or Epilogue

Somewhere, deep in the seas of the distant future, a group of super intelligent dolphins monitored the situation on holographic displays that transcended time and space. On one, thousands of zombies exploded at once. On another, one of their agents lay dead on the floor of a fourteenth century castle. Needless to say, their plans for wiping out human civilization had gone rather awry, but as the old saying went: can’t keep a good dolphin down.

“Whistle whistle whistlety whistle” (loosely translated to: “this isn’t over!”) one of them yelled as it slammed its fin against the underwater desk. While not a complete success, the dolphins still found their little attempt at human extermination rather fruitful. The thinning of the human flocks would make the odds of their next plan succeeding even higher. The dolphin swam over to another hologram and watched the story unfold further.

Back in the present, a few dolphins stood before an army of bigfoot. They had just spent years training the creatures in the ways of war and convinced them that the humans were their enemies and their only purpose in life was to exterminate each and every one of them. The enormous poster held before the bigfoot showed their goal perfectly. It depicted a few stick figures, one of which labeled “Hooman”, and the other “Bigfut”. Dolphins never really understood the human fascination with proper spelling and art, those two facets of life had no place in their advanced futuristic lifestyle, but, even millions of years in the future, dolphins still enjoyed jumping through flaming hoops.

The dolphins held up another poster with similar stick figures, only this one had the bigfoot towering over the humans, who had an “X” over each of their eyes. As the dolphins lifted the poster into the air, a thunderous roar of applause echoed through the cavern, shaking the very earth. They chanted exuberantly, “Kill all humans! Kill all humans!” The dolphins, movement slightly restricted within their massive armored suits, looked at each other and nodded, operation “bigfoot kill them humans” would soon begin, hopefully it would fare better than operation “zombie them humans”.