Get Zombie: 8-Book Set
Read Get Zombie: 8-Book Set Online
Authors: Raymund Hensley
Get Zombie: 8-Book Set
by Raymund
Hensley
Copyright
2014 by Raymund Hensley
https://www.facebook.com/RaymundHensley
All rights
reserved
Cover
design by the author
Without
limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this
publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a
retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means
(electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise),
without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and
the above publisher of this book.
PUBLISHER’S
NOTE
This book
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either
are the product of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
or living dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
MADE IN
THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
CONTENTS
How
I Met Barbara The Zombie Hunter
BOOK
PREVIEW
How I met Barbara the Zombie Hunter
“
The
tongue was engorged with dead blood
and
seemed bestial at best.”
One.
B
arbara was sitting
in her rocking
chair in the dark, nudity abound, covered by parrots. I asked as
politely as I could if it would be possible to take a picture of her
for the book, and she yelled something unintelligible and threw a
bird at me. It occurred to me then that it wouldn’t have
mattered how nice I asked.
She
apologized and said:
“
I
am the best at zombie hunting. I am the Master and Commander of
zombie hunting.”
Barbara
was a 30-year-old French woman who had just gotten her degree in
Graphic Design, from The University of Hawaii at Manoa.
She
had contacted me via my Gmail account, explaining how she had enjoyed
my book
Aloha Mannequins
,
and that I would be perfect to document her exploits as a zombie
hunter here in Honolulu, Hawaii. I was skeptical to say the least,
and didn’t email her back for the next six months. Finally, she
called my home phone and begged that I take the job – that she
would pay me as her sidekick, and that she was lonely.
Thinking that it would be an interesting idea for a
“possible” future book, and being very afraid, I
accepted. It helped that she was a Capricorn. I was always told that
Virgos got along well with that particular astrological sign. Being
more of a student of eastern astrology, I inquired what her Chinese
sign was, but she refused to tell me and hung up each time I asked.
To this day, I am still unsure how she had gotten a hold
of my email address, let alone my phone number.
After she took a shower to cleanse herself of bird mess,
she gave me a grand tour of her Waikiki apartment.
A chicken ran past.
I shrieked, mentally – but not physically, for I
did not want to insult my host.
Her hallway was covered with paintings that to me seemed
to date back as far as the 15
th
century. I asked if they were stolen. She simply laughed and shook
her head, and said
Yes
.
Barbara told me that they were portraits of zombie hunters and that
many are still with us – that they are in hiding for fear of
being ridiculed or arrested.
Many are in mental facilities.
At this point, she stopped walking and put her fingers
to her head, massaging her temples.
“
Mental institutions depress my face,” she
said. “And inflate my hate.”
And then she began to cry. Barbara turned around slowly
and held her arms out to me. Her face was a waterfall. Out of pure
pity, I nodded and walked up and gave her a hug.
She didn’t hug back. I think her eyes were open.
Hours later, I was in her parrot room, helping her cover
a number of cages with black sheets to silence them. She said that
the bird noises sometimes disturbed her – that some days it
sounded like tiny children were being hit with knives. I told her
that the parrots were rather silent and behaved since I had arrived.
She said that she could hear the noises in her
head
.
Two.
B
arbara had display
cases of various
zombie parts – “Trophies”, she called them. There
were
eyes, fingers, parts of genitals (human and
animal), tongues, teeth, one nose, ears, flaps of skin, balls of
hair, a 12 inch long finger nail, blood with bits inside, a
constipated intestine, etc. All were in glass jars of yellow liquid.
I asked her what this strange liquid was, but she refused to tell me
and stormed out of the room.
An
hour later she would came back and tell me that it was a secret –
that only her and the “Church” knew.
I asked her what this “Church” was, but she
ran out of the room again, flailing her arms. When she returned
thirty seconds later, she was carrying a large photo album. She held
my hand like a child and walked me to the living room where we both
sat on the carpet, legs crossed.
Depressing music from India played from somewhere.
She held the heavy photo album up and blew on the cover,
but no dust flew off.
There were many black and white pictures inside, of
bushes and open fields and bonfires and cemeteries and butterflies.
Barbara said that they were pictures of zombies, and that I could see
them if I looked closely enough. I had to look closely because a lot
of times zombies like to hide, for strategic reasons.
I stared at a picture of a bush intensely and thought I
could see a neck, but I could have been daydreaming. These peculiar
pictures were taken while in the field by her ex sidekick, Toshiba, a
19-year-old college student, majoring in Art.
Toshiba vanished many years ago.
The story goes they were both on the hunt, in the murky
woods of Wailupe Valley, in Aina Haina.
One rainy night, Toshiba heard a bleeping noise and,
against Barbara’s wishes, crawled out of the tent to explore
the strange sound. She never returned. The following morning, Barbara
found a dead lamb dangling from a tree, wearing Toshiba’s
clothes.
Out of rage and confusion, Barbara beat up the animal
corpse and cursed at the heavens with her fists pumping in the air,
exclaiming, “Damn you, zombie! Damn you to hell! Your life
force shall not have been in vain, Toshiba! I shall eradicate them
all in a mean manner until the day I am called The Eradicator! This
is damn upsetting me. You, zombie, are a turd. You damn lousy guy!”
The strange thing is that lambs are not common in Aina
Haina.
Upon telling this dismal story, Barbara began to weep.
I hugged her again. Her tears were cold on my shoulder.
She held Toshiba’s picture and spoke to it.
“
I will run to you, I will run to you, I will run
to you, I will run to you, I will run to you, I will run to you, I
will run to you, I will run to you, I will run to you, I will run to
you, I will run to you, I will run to you, I will run to you, I will
run to you, I will run to you, I will run to you, I will run to you,
I will run to you, I will run to you, I will run to you, I will run
to you. You will run to me.” She said it through many
languages. Her crying twisted the words. I hugged her.
Still, she did not hug back. Instead, she rose suddenly
and got milk from the refrigerator and offered some to me.
Remembering my Catholic upbringing and not wanting to be rude, I
accepted. But it was already too late, for she had spat inside,
explaining that it would “put some meat on my chest, and hair
on my bones.”
She sounded like my mother.
Barbara said that there were many things a zombie hunter
(and sidekick) had to learn before entering the hunt, like
trust
.
A leap of faith would be needed; an open mind. She hugged me and told
me to drink the milk carton with her spit inside. Because it was now
magical.
I did.
Fortunately, I had held my breath.
Barbara said that she lied to me. She said that the only
magic inside the milk was vitamin D, and that she was impressed I did
not vomit.
I had gained her trust.
That night, I cried myself to sleep.
Three.
B
arbara said
she
had something amazing to show me; but I could tell no one. I assured
her that I could be trusted, and she drove me Makiki.
We parked in front of a one-level apartment structure.
Kids played jump rope nearby.
“
This woman’s insane,” Barbara said.
“As a licensed psychologist – which I am not – I
advise you to say nothing to her.”
We stood outside of a door that was covered with
pictures of women in hospitals, giving birth and screaming. Barbara
knocked on the door and told me again – quite seriously –
that I could tell no one who we were about to meet.
The door opened, revealing a frail, middle-aged woman in
flower-designed bra and panties. I tried not to look.
Her face lit up when she saw Barbara and they hugged and
jumped up and down, giggling.
This woman’s apartment was dim; when I closed the
door, it was practically pitch-black inside.
She fixed her hair.
“
You have to excuse my appearance. As you can see,
I’ve been sick.”
Barbara examined her arms.
“
Gun wounds, again?”
“
They had weapons. I forgot that they could go off
even if you don’t know how to use your hands. You should have
seen them. They’re horny. They had red eyes.”
“
Were they dark red?”
“
I don’t remember. I’m colorblind.”
“
How did you protect yourself?”
“
I killed them in the face.”
“
You always use violence. If ever we should
tussle, I should have a raw duck dangle around my neck.” She
put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I don’t want to
make your innards weep.”
“
Don’t worry about me. If I die, to heaven I
shall go for my heavenly deeds.”
“
Heaven does not transform assholes into angels.”
“
Even angels have assholes. Now excuse me while I
kiss the sky.”
She lit candles and I could tell immediately that she
had been drinking much, for there were empty bottles of vodka all
over the floor and in holes in the wall. Some were tied to strings
and dangled from the ceiling. Did this woman have a violent streak? I
grew nervous. Alcoholics can never be trusted. They do sudden things
that boggle the mind and madden the mouth. If ever I was allowed to
speak, I had to be careful of what I said.
As she guided us into the kitchen, we passed by what I
can only assume to have been a bedroom transformed into a storage
room – full of stained computer boxes and toddler clothes. I
could have sworn I saw a figure inside, standing between two towers
of Macintosh G4 boxes. I wanted to investigate, but I was too afraid
to stop walking.
Four.
T
here was a special
smell to the
apartment, best described as a daunting combination of alcohol and
soy sauce and cat.
On
the hallway walls were old black and white, blown up pictures of
strange men and women in groups – pictures taken in the woods,
cemeteries, and lakes. All carried guns and whips and wooden stakes –
all gathered in front of the camera, showing off their kill, which
were all impaled horizontally and displayed like boars about to be
roasted. Only these prizes were not about to be eaten (as far as I
could tell) and they were certainly not boars.