Amazombia Read online

  Chapter 2.

  South of the Equator, or just south, where I currently reside, basically has two seasons year round: wet and dry. We just finished the wet season. So the grass is green, the mosquitoes are out in full force. Hmm, actually, the mosquitoes are always out. They don't care much about seasons, and neither do I for that matter. All I know is: I don't have to walk around wearing a rain coat I made out of old inner tubes for the next six months. I'm happy for that. The rubber tubing really irritates my skin. And the valve stems? Forget it. I keep the stems attached strictly as a fashion statement. Aesthetically, they looked a little odd, but it's difficult enough trying to look fashionable in a raincoat made of inner tubes to begin with...plus, those damn stems would always stick in my lower back whenever I sat down on that creaky guest chair. Again, I'm happy to be done with the whole affair.

  “Where was I?” I ask the old Mexican.

  “You were cutting to the chase, Senor. His OK, take your time.”

  He reaches behind his back. Normally, when a hired killer begins reaching behind his back, it's safe to assume he's reaching for a gun or a knife. I instinctively duck down under my desk. I recommend you do the same (not now, of course, only if you're ever in the same circumstance). But then I remember I drape my raincoat over the squeaky chair this time of year, and he's just pulling one of the stems out his lower back.

  I ask him, "What's your name? I uh...you know, lack of proper introductions and all."

  He speaks in that deep, gravelly voice of his, perfect broken English, "My name his George." He smiles briefly beneath his bushy peppered mustache, showing a wide row of perfectly straight white teeth. Then his face goes back to stone. His lips are down turned, like a big mouth bass. His frown lines are etched very deeply in his leathery skin, and go well past his mouth down to his jaw. His jaw isn't really a jaw; it's just a series of chins that are stuffed into a red checkered flannel shirt. Probably taken from a Canadian up North. The shirt is crisp, though, which is unusual, given all the humidity. The collar is rigid origami, and his big fat head is seeping out of it. He reminds me of one of those old wooden Indian cigar statues, or a ventriloquist dummy, only no eyes. It bothers me that I can't see his eyes. Maybe I have deviled eyes still on the brain. I don't know. I get up, look out my window again.

  "George, like Jorge?" I ask, only I say 'Whore-Hey' instead of 'George.'

  "No, his just George."

  "Well, George, and again, forgive me if I come off rude here, but why are you still here?"

  "The message?"

  "I uh. Yeah, if it’s not urgent, like I said…two weeks?"

  He smiles.

  “You have a portable instant messengers, Si?”

  He’s talking about the crate in the corner. A portable pigeon coop with a retractable antenna with a bright orange flag on it.

  I point to it, “You know how to use that?”

  “No,” he laughs. “Not me.”

  “Well, not me either. I don’t do safari, Senor George. We had a girl, but…”

  One time, true story, by the way, I was fighting off these zombies. Well, not really. There was only one zombie. That's not entirely true either. One of the peasants at the foot of the hill was fighting off the zombie, mano a mano. That’s not true either. It was a woman peasant...but she was built like a man. Peruvian, back as broad as a barn. A real Swiss army knife around here. Now, everything from here on in is true. I was looking out my window; just as I am now...it was like it happened yesterday...

  They are both knee deep in the mud, it is just after the rainy season. That freakish looking zombie has her good. He must have been a tourist in his previous life; Bermuda shorts, big straw hat that keeps falling down in front of his face. Real comical looking. He has taken off his left arm by the shoulder socket and is swinging it at her with his right. He has the reach advantage. She compensates. She is flailing what looks to be a one of those straw baby basket contraptions those Peruvians are always wearing around the farm. Keeps their hands free for picking beans and such. Only I can't tell if a baby is in the basket. I imagine there might be, but I am too far from the action. So I stick my neck out the door, and look up at the stone house of my master. Don't see anybody on lookout. That’s surprising. Normally, we always have at least two lookouts up in the spires.

  I figure the coast is clear, so I begin to jog downhill. Not quite jog. The hill is terraced, with these big four foot tall steps, for agricultural stuff (I'm not a farmer). So I'm stumbling down one step after another. I get down to the Peruvian vs. Zombie matchup. She's swearing under her breath. He's just gurgling. They're always with gurgles or groaning. Real typical. She stops swinging the basket and looks at me. Then the zombie looks at me. I feel like a real interloper, but I always feel that way.

  "Sorry to interrupt," I say. Naturally, I address her, not the zombie. "Is your baby in the basket?"

  She says, confused, "Que?"

  I'm always forgetting my Spanish ain't too good, so I chatter about "El nino" and "baskeetos". Only, by then, the zombie takes the basket from her, throws it nearly clear across the mucky marsh. His left arm goes with it, as does his right arm. So I figure the fight is hers to lose at this point. The problem is, her baby was in the basket, and she's screaming, "Maria! Maria!"

  I'm clueless (in addition to lacking suave, I'm also knee deep in lacking clues. My lucky stars only know how I've made it this far), so I think she's maybe calling out the Hail Mary. I cross myself.

  Miraculously, out in the muck, we hear the wail of a little baby. That muck is real soft and mossy, so I'm sure the baby landed ok. And those wicker baskets? Forget about it. I understand they're safer than any car seat Detroit pushed out the door.

  The zombie hears the wail too, and he turns his head to look, and his head pops off. Not on account of the advanced rigor mortis, but on account of the left hook from the Peruvian mother. Sends his head sailing twenty feet, straw hat goes flying off, his body falls back into the muck with a squish.

  The mother is running off toward the baby. Only she's not really running, more like high stepping through muck. The tall grass hinders her progress too. She falls down a lot. But she steadfastly follows that wail of her baby, and pulls the basket out of the muck just fine. She placates the baby with her massive breast, and starts high stepping back towards me. I hear her cursing under her breath and interspersed she's yelling at me in Spanish, maybe Portuguese. Hard to tell with all her huffing and puffing. She's really giving me the business too, like I understand what she's talking about. I'm shouting out to her, "El nino que pasa?"

  She's cursing and pointing at me. I'm flustered, and reach the dregs down at the bottom of my Spanish vocabulary barrel. "Que pasa, amigo? Amiga? Amiga! El....El nino...que...qu...copacetic? El nina copacetic, Senorita?"

  Just then I feel two strong hands wrap around both of my scrawny arms, and I'm looking at the two tower guards who were on lookout. I didn't take into account that they had three thousand steps to descend if they had it in them to aid the lady.

  Well, they have a firm grip on me and the one on my left says, "El Jefe, he wants to see you, Senor Click-clack." (The stone house help doesn't appreciate me much; they never call me by my real name. Usually it's the ‘Typewriter guy,’ ‘Birdman,’ ‘Mister Big Words,’ ‘El Grande Ass-hola’...which I think means ‘Hello Mr. Big Ass,’ or some variant therein.)

  I start to go with them, when we hear this loud shriek, then cursing. I turn around. The mother has stepped on the head of the zombie. Like a beheaded venomous snake, it's still lethal. She is so busy giving me the evil eye for asking dumb questions before, that she clear forgot about the gaping zombie maw now attached to her foot like a bear trap. She must have stepped right on it. What a shame. She kicks it free, but we all know her fate. She frowns and spits at me as she walks past. I know I'm really in for it now. Now who will pull the drawbridge tractor when it gets stuck in the mud?

  I tell the guards, "Wow. They'll need at least fo
ur guys to replace her." They just pull at my arms and drag me up the hill.

  My mistake was bellyaching too much when the boss would make me take that portable instant messenger with us on safari. The food out there is terrible. He’d eat fresh bananas, I’d eat banana spiders. Boy, they can get a guy sick. The Peruvian girl took my place lugging that portable instant messenger contraption around in the jungle, and I got to stay in the coop. Easy peasy. Only now she passed on due to that mishap by the bridge. The boss was sore with me.

  Oh, I got back into the boss's good graces shortly thereafter. He even gave me a key to the executive bathroom. They got toilet paper in there, the good stuff. Not leaves. Real toilet paper. And I don't abuse the privilege either. No way. I just keep myself regular. You would not believe how important it is to have regularity in the bathroom department when zombies are traipsing around the countryside.

  “You finish daydreaming, Senor?” George wakes me from my stupor.

  “Well,” I say, “to cut to the chase. We don’t have anybody to lug that coop around anymore. So unless you absolutely need to get word out today, I can’t help you. Boss’s orders, you know.”

  "Oh Si," he says. He is grinning, and gets up from the chair. His broad girth fills my little hut. His belt holds two six shooters on either side. He scratches his belly, and casually lets his arms drop to his side. He fondles the holster beneath his right paw. He's looking down at his shoes, ornate brown leather boots. There are little vines and roses etched in the leather. His feet look really tiny, but everything about this guy is an illusion.

  He rocks back and forth on his feet, "Oh, the boss, he has orders for me too." He smiles and emphasizes, "I need to get the word out. El Jefe, he tell me you are at my...disposal? Si?""

  "Disposal?" I croak. Not literally. I mean, I feel like croaking. My throat croaks. I'm having a hard time swallowing too. Next he's going to ask me to leave my little hut.

  "You works for me full time, now. Si? We say adios to your casa, Senor. We take a little trip."

  I gulp, "Trip?"

  "Si."

  "No, no. No, you don't understand, George. I'm uh, I'm not allowed on any trips. You see, I'm a messenger."

  "Si. Now you're my messenger."

  "Cigarettes, George?" I'm in a panic. "I can see you're a smoking man. Cigarettes, I can. I can get you..."

  “You have it wrong, Senor. Our boss have a special job for me,” at this, he runs his finger over his throat. “Our boss need to keep in contact with me, and I know not how to operate the instant messenger. So you take a trip with me, Si?”

  I ignore him, I’m panicked. "Two cartons?" I throw out the figure like a steak to a guard dog. This guard dog ain't biting.

  "Three cartons? Ten? Ten cartons, George!"

  He stops rocking on his feet as he hears the number, then starts rocking again. "Senor," he says heavily, and clears his throat. He taps a finger on his eye, and fidgets uncomfortably.

  “My tattoo”, I say absent minded. My heart sinks. I’ve been a piece of property cooped up in this pigeon coop for so long, I have forgotten what I really am.

  I’m not a messenger. I’m a slave. I am a slave, but I am alive.

  He takes up my typewriter like it's a small play toy, and gestures towards the door with his massive open paw. "You serve me well! Si?"

  I look up at the stone house, and plead, "But, my boss!"

  "Oh no, Senor, you no has to call me that. Just call me George." He lightly prods me towards the door with his gesturing hand again.

  “So just grab a bird and go?”

  He shrugs.

  I wrap my raincoat around my typewriter, and put it in the milk crate. Along with my hub cap hat/soup bowl combo. My pillow is a bag full of coffee beans. I'll probably need those for trading. I put it on top of the crate, a ream of paper, my favorite carrier pigeon ‘Blackie’ and strap on two bungee cords; swing it around as my backpack. I let the rest of the birds out of the coop. I wave my hands wildly goodbye to them. I hate to think who my boss has lined up to take my place in the coop, but it’s not my concern anymore.

  It is bright outside, I squint at the sun. I look back at the big stone house. I stammer, "But but...I only leave my hut to use the royal bathroom these days."

  The old Mexican sniffs at the air and laughs. His laugh echoes down the hill, and up to the stone house, and rings in my ears. "Si, Senor. It smells like you used the bathroom already!"