CHAPTER 6

“This is my PowerPoint. There are many like it but mine is 7.0”
            -Anonymous Marine,
WESTPAC

Slide number one visual: Painting of Benjamin Franklin looking smug. Quote: “I look upon death to be as necessary to the constitution as sleep. WE SHALL RISE REFRESHED IN THE MORNING.”
     Slide number two visual: Historic photograph from the San Francisco earthquake of 1906 showing the financial district in ruin. Quote: “This great city will rise from the ashes and she will be of even greater stature in the world.”
     “Human history is littered with stories of overcoming adversity, rising above the ruins, conquering our worst fears,” Johnette said, standing off to the side of the screen showing the image of San Francisco. “This is who we are: survivors of the mortal coil.”
     Kyle let loose with a spray of coffee that hit the screen, as well as Johnette and Virgil who was sitting off to Kyle’s right.
     “Sorry,” Kyle said, wiping his mouth with his pajama sleeve. “Really sorry.”
     Since what Kyle referred to as “Z Day plus two,” he had taken to wearing only his pajamas; dark blue sweat pants and a faded yellow t-shirt with “Jesus is coming. Look busy” across the front.
     Johnette, looking like someone who had to endure an obscure relative at a wedding, forced out a smile.
     “Something you object to?” she asked.
     “Uh, well,” Kyle said. “You went from Benjamin Franklin, to the San Francisco Earthquake to Hamlet to metaphorically introduce the fact that the person giving the PowerPoint presentation is dead and subsists on human flesh. Now that – that’s a kickoff.”
     “The much delayed kickoff’s tonight. This is just a preliminary presentation,” Johnette said.
     “My apologies about causing the delay, Johnette,” Kyle said. “I needed a little time to think about things. Things like, ‘Now that I’m trapped on an island with cannibalistic living dead, how shall I interpret dinner invitations?’ Y’know, shit like that.”
     It had been two days since Virgil chewed on Pinkerman (or Z Day plus two) and Kyle hit the deck. He found himself awake in his room later surrounded by Kyle, Johnette, and Pinkerman, whose neck looked fine. Thinking it had all been some acid flashback (thanks 1986) Kyle did what most men would do in this situation – check out the rack on Johnette and begin to formulate questions regarding her availability.
     Virgil quashed any thoughts of Kyle suffering no more than a tequila and weed infused delusion when he removed a portion of Pinkerman’s neck with his hand to reveal the huge gash.
     “It’s like a foam that hardens, but still retains elasticity. You fix boats with it,” Virgil said squeezing the chunk of neck in his hand. “Wanna feel it?”
     “No. Virg. I don’t FUCKING WANT TO FEEL IT!”
     “Ooooo-kay, let’s just chill-“
     “I know this seems impossible to believe,” interrupted Johnette. “You’ve been through a terrible shock. You must feel frightened and – “
     “I’m not frightened. I’m a bit FUCKING FURIOUS AT THE MOMENT! My best friend is a fucking ZOMBIE! He eats HUMAN FLESH! He has no fucking PULSE! Everytime he looks at me I now have to wonder, is it bonding, or is he hungry for the FUCKING KYLE WHITMAN RIBS SPECIAL?”
     Silence. Followed by Pinkerman clearing his throat, which caused an excess of  gurgling sounds.
     “I think you should stop being such a pussy,” Pinkerman said.
     All heads turned to Pinkerman. For reasons Kyle may never be able to explain, Pinkerman’s words provided a certain comfort. Kyle felt a wave of embarrassment wash over him. He turned to Johnette.
     “So…boyfriend?”
     And now, two days later, after many, many, conversation about death, mortality and what humans taste like, Kyle found himself before a PowerPoint on being undead, and how to capitalize on it for the benefit of those fortunate enough to be undead in the Caribbean.
     “Why don’t we go through the presentation to bring you up to speed, Kyle. Then we’ll talk about other strategies and spitball some solutions?” Virgil said.
     Kyle stared at Virgil, then Johnette, the Virgil again.
     “You guys are boning, aren’t you?” he finally said.
     “Oh for god’s sake,” Johnette said, switching off her laptop, which Kyle noted was a PC. “We’ve got a – no scratch that, I’ve got a lot of work before tonight’s meeting.”
     “Marketing genius,” she said to Virgil, motioning at Kyle.
     “Creative genius,” Virgil said. “I never said anything about marketing.”
     Johnette slammed the door behind her.
     “You are, aren’t you?” Kyle said.
     “Duder, why do you gotta stir it up all the time?” Virgil said.
     “So then, zombies can have sex?” Kyle asked.
     So began another couple of hours of debate, philosophizing, and re-bonding. Yes, Virgil told Kyle, they can have sex, but it was different than living sex. It involved a great deal of rubbing and humping which seemed to really work. Kyle asked if Virgil could orgasm from humping furniture.
     “Because you used to go to town on the overstuffed chairs back in the day,” Kyle said. “Just sayin’.”
     They talked about how most folks who become undead (as was the correct nomenclature) also saw a boost in IQ, particularly those less evolved, like Pinkerman.
     “No idea why it happens,” Virgil told Kyle. “We just know it does and that we’re glad for it.”
     “So tell me why again not all undead are sloth like flesh eating brain dead zombies we’ve come to cherish in our cinema?” Kyle asked.
     Once again Virgil explained that they had no earthly (or otherwise) idea why some folks remained the same, some got smarter and some became as dumb as a meth head struck by lightning. The best Virgil could come up with was that Darwinism didn’t stop with living creatures.
     “How do we explain ourselves when we’re alive?” Virgil asked.
     “Oh let’s see,” Kyle replied. “Genetics, nature, nurture, water fluoridation, insecticides, smoking in the third trimester, poverty, wealth – should I keep going?”
     “You’re missing the point,” Virgil said. “Who ARE we? Meat and ideas. How did that come to be? What is our essence and where did it come from?”
     “Y’know, ever since you went up a few ticks in the IQ department, you’ve become a real drag.”
     “Shitheadsayswhat?”
     Kyle smiled. It was still Virg. Just a dead version.
     “What?” Kyle said.
     “Exactly,” Virgil replied.

*****

Located behind the main hotel, which has yet to be renamed though everyone calls it “St. Aggies,” was a small outcropping of bungalows. This was where management resided. Made with aged pink clapboard walls and white shutters, the building looked more like interconnected swimming pool cabanas than executive suites. Designed by a Miami architect, the building failed to meet Jackson’s vision of “Flannery O’Connor gone native.”
     So Jackson ate him and cast about for a new architect.
     Tad Wingo sat in his cabana/office, his face was plastered in his laptop scrutinizing a PowerPoint presentation he was putting together to show the latest projections of tourism to St. Aggies. Tad was the marketing manager for St. Aggies. Before that, a consultant for several GOP senators. Before that, Yale.
     So involved was Tad that he failed to notice the small glowing red dot that appeared on the forehead of Rudy Guliani’s portrait hanging on the wall of Tad’s office. The glowing red dot began to travel down Rudy’s face, passing over the mouth that just couldn’t pronounce the letter “S”, off the portrait, on to the wall, on to the “REMEMBER 9/11” commemorative pencil holder, up Tad’s arm, coming to rest just above his left ear. UV coated window glass tinkled to the carpet and Tad fell face first into his laptop, causing an error sound to continually beep. The undead man died again.
     She quickly disassembled the rifle, just like in the movies, with pieces coming apart and small metal things collapsing closed into a neat package that fit into an REI Ridgeline 65 backpack. Hoisting the pack over her shoulder, she paused to survey the ground around her, searching for any evidence she might have left behind. She had curly black hair and piercing blue eyes that perfected the thousand yard stare. She wore a ribbed dark green tank top, olive cargo shorts and waterproof hiking boots. Everything about her said, “Do not. Fuck with me.” Deciding her trail was covered, she disappeared into the vegetation.
     She reemerged six miles away in a clearing that had two metal huts side by side. The huts were made from salvaged oil derrick siding, “COCK OIL” running sideways in faded orange along one hut. The other a washed out blue with a red rooster on it. A blonde Chihuahua came out of the blue hut to greet the woman. It made a squeaking sound as it walked, the squeaking coming from the small two-wheeled cart that the dog’s rear haunches sat in. There was a sizeable chunk missing from a place just above the dog’s tail, which did not wag.
     “We need to get you oiled,” the woman said to Dog.
     Dog turned it’s head to the right to view the cart, then turned back to the woman nodding.
     “It’s done,” she said. “On to the next one.”
     Dog nodded again thoughtfully.
     “How about Winston. After Churchill?” she asked Dog.
     Dog licked his chops once, then looked up at her, shaking his head a definitive “No.”
     “Maybe before I die, we’ll agree on a name for you?”
     Dog yawned.