Helping Mama

Helping Mama

The periods of lucidity were nearly nonexistent now, mere flashes in the grey nothingness.  As the sun set, the fog lifted and - just like that! - the man known as Ted Lunsford was aware of his surroundings.

The big man found himself seated on the kitchen floor, wearing his usual overalls, white t-shirt and socks, and work boots, and he was chewing something.  He chewed slowly, almost experimentally, rolling the morsel around in his mouth.  He didn't recognize the texture or the flavor, and there were other unknown flavors he couldn't identify.  He was unsure of what to do.  After a moment, he decided that this was Mama's kitchen and he'd never had anything bad to eat in her kitchen, so he should do as he'd been raised.  He finished chewing and then swallowed.

Ted had always been what the kinder folks called "a bit slow" and the rest called other, not so nice things, but even he knew something was terribly wrong.  Mama always kept the farmhouse's kitchen spotless, with everything in its place, the wooden floor scrubbed, and the faded blue curtains at the windows neatly pressed.  Her kitchen wasn't spotless anymore.

The curtains hung in shreds, where they hung at all, and shards of glass littered the counter and floor in front of each shattered windowpane.  The kitchen door hung precariously by one screw and there was a pattern of small holes on both sides of the door frame, as well as on each side of both windows.  The pots and pans that had been neatly hung underneath the windows were scattered haphazardly on the floor.  The strong smell of cordite hung in the fetid air.

And there was blood everywhere. 

It was spattered on the walls and counters, and the front of his overalls was almost completely drenched.  The occasional drop still fell onto the counter and floor from the bodies blocking the window frames, and there was a thick red pool around the jumble of bodies at the kitchen door.  There was another one that spread out from somewhere underneath Mama.  Her right cheek rested in his lap, and one hazel eye stared up at him through a tangle of matted brown hair.  His gaze fell upon the pump action Remington shotgun lying nearby, and he remembered.

"It wuz the Hannsfords, Mama," explained Ted, "the whole clan.  Radio said to boil the water 'fore drinkin' it an' not to eat stuff that growed on top of the ground, but I guess they didn't hear or didn't care, 'cuz they all had the sickness."  He began to sob.

"I tried to stop 'em, Mama, I really did, but there wuz so many of 'em and the shotgun ran outta shells so I had to use it like a club, an' it was real hard to stop 'em like that...".  He took a few gulping breaths, then continued.

"I remembered ever'thing you tol' me from the radio an' tried to keep 'em away from us, but one of 'em snuck around me an'...".  He began to cry again.

"You remember how we bawled so hard at the end of 'Old Yeller', don't you, Mama?" he asked, his voice plaintive, tears carrying flecks of blood down his cheeks and onto his t-shirt.  "I just knew you wouldn't wanna end up like Old Yeller, all mean an' all, and I couldn't think of any other way to help you, an' I knew you wouldn't want any of 'em... any of 'em to... so I... I...".

Tears made clear little channels down the blood-streaked face as he sobbed for a while in silence.

"Mama, I jus' don't... don't know what I'll..., what I'll...".  His voice trailed off.  After a few moments, he gave a low moan as the fog closed back in and Ted Lunsford vanished for good.

The zombie dug out the other eye and resumed its gruesome meal.


Word count: 646