One Foot in the Grave: An Almost Zombie Tale (13 page)

The kitten flicks its tail at him. Good grief. The stupid thing’s going to get itself eaten.

Maxx responds in true dog fashion. He yanks me forward at what feels like light-speed.

“Maxx, stop!” I shriek. “Slow down!”

He listens about as well as any other dog does when faced with a cat: not at all. I feel my arm separate from my shoulder at the same time the stitches on my sweatshirt pop. Muscles tear loose and if I could feel pain, I’m pretty sure I’d be on the ground, screaming out my agony. I manage to slow myself down enough to watch the hell hound dash down the sidewalk, the sleeve of my shirt, arm and all, flapping in the wake he creates.

This sucks. I’ve got to get my arm back before cars start slowing down. Luckily it’s my left arm so as long as I stay on the left side of the street, I should be fine. For the first time, I bless the fact that I now have slow moving blood. There are a few drips, but no more than a standard nose-bleed might cause. I continue my walk toward the Big Chicken. I can’t see Maxx anywhere, but that doesn’t mean he’s not around. If he’s left this reality, would my arm go with him? I sure hope so because a stray arm on Cobb Parkway would definitely cause a stir among the locals. The air around me bends and Maxx trots out of the bushes. My arm dangles from his mouth, sleeve still attached. He spits it out at my feet.

“Yuck! That does
not
taste like chicken!”

Twenty-Two:

Everything Does
Not
Taste Like Chicken.

“It’s not supposed to taste like chicken!” I snap, reaching down and picking up my arm before the increasing traffic notices.

Maxx’s ears perk up. “I thought everything tastes like chicken except chicken, which tastes like snake.”

I forget for a moment that we’re standing on a major intersection and I look like a complete idiot, talking to my dog. “People taste like pork,” I reply.

He cocks his head. “How do you know?”

“It’s a joke,” I say. And then, because well, I just can’t help myself, I continue. “But pigs
do
taste like apples.”

Maxx narrows his eyes. I didn’t know dogs could do that, but he manages it. “I do not believe you.”

And here I am, telling him the truth. “It’s true. If the pigs eat apples before they’re killed, then their meat tastes apple-y.”

“Is that why you eat pig brains instead of human ones?”

I pick up the leash that still hangs from his choke chain. “I’m not an animal. I would never eat human brains.”

“Actually, you
are
an animal. Every human being is.” He tugs at the leash. “Can we continue my walk?”

“Ummm…I kind of need to deal with my arm,” I tell him. “I tell you what. Take my arm back to the apartment and grab me another sweatshirt out of the closet. Then we can keep walking. You can do that, can’t you?”

“Yes.”

I give Maxx my arm. He takes it and trots back into the bushes and the air does a weird bendy thing. After he leaves it occurs to me I could have gone with him. Oh, well. Instead, I stand as close to the bushes as I can. The traffic is growing heavier and I don’t need anyone to notice my missing arm.

Thankfully, it doesn’t take him long to reappear. I stare in open-mouthed horror as he emerges from the hollies, a cotton candy pink sweatshirt draped over his back.

“You didn’t…” I gasp.

He did. It’s my ‘Hello Kitty’ sweatshirt. The one I wear only in my apartment. The one I’d never, ever,
ever
wear in public. And now I don’t have a choice. Darn it. I take it, duck down behind one of the bushes lining the sidewalk, and wriggle the torn sweatshirt off. I drop it to the ground and wrestle a knot into the end of the left sleeve of the Hello Kitty hoodie before manipulating it over my head. Geeze, couldn’t Maxx have grabbed a zippered sweatshirt instead?

“I picked it because it has a cat. You like cats.” Maxx peers around the bush, tail wagging ferociously.

He’s pleased with himself and I just don’t have the heart to tell him how I really feel. I’m not a huge cat fan, and the only reason I own the sweatshirt at all is because my mom gave it to me last year. I stand up.

“Thanks, it’s great.” My shoulder throbs just enough to let me know I’m still only mostly undead. I nab Maxx’s leash, somewhat surprised he hasn’t found a way to rid himself of it yet.

“Damn!!” A guy’s voice shrieks at me from a passing car. “You so ugly, Hello Kitty’s sayin’ good-bye!”

The stupid sweatshirt is so bright it can probably be seen from space.

Maxx growls deep in his throat. “That was cruel. Release me at once.” He tugs at the leash. Knowing he could, I appreciate him not taking the other arm off.

“No,” I say. “I’m responsible for you. You can’t go after them.”

“I am a hell hound,” he says, the growls still vibrating through his words. “I can go where I want and do what I wish.”

Okay, the last thing Atlanta needs is a pissed off, bull sized dog roaming the streets and terrorizing the public.

I squat down and face the Rott sized dog. “No, Maxx. You can’t go killing humans just because they’re mean.” I hug him around the neck and bury my face in his ruff. He’s warm. It’s comforting. I take a deep breath in and discover he smells of butter cream and vanilla.

“Are you sure you wish to continue the walk?” He rumbles the question.

I nod and speak into his fur. “We haven’t even made it all the way to the statue yet.”

“At least you are no longer decomposing,” he says.

“That’s true, as far as I know.” I stand up. “Okay, let’s keep walking. I do have church tonight.”

“Ah yes, I had forgotten. The ‘interesting’ church you wish me to attend with you.”

There are more people on the sidewalk now, but they’re still walking in a large half-circle around Maxx and me. I’m not sure if it’s because of me or because of him. I’m also not sure it matters.

“Are you okay?”

I turn away from Maxx to face the girl who asked the question. She’s young, well, younger than me, anyway. Middle school age, maybe. She doesn’t wait for my answer. Instead she holds her hand out for Maxx to sniff. Not sure if he’s up on ‘doggy protocol’, I say ‘I don’t know if he’s friendly to strangers. He’s not mine.”

“You had your face buried in his fur,” she points out. “That’s a pretty good sign.”

“Well, yeah, but I’m familiar,” I say.

Maxx takes matters into his own hands…errr…paws. He licks the hand in front of him. A smile spreads across the girl’s face. “Oh, he’s a cutie-pie! Are you baby-sitting him?”

I want to say ‘No, I’m bull sitting’, because it’d be hilarious, but I take what I believe is the higher road and just nod.

“And you’re sure you’re okay? I heard that guy yell at you. What a jerk.”

It’s nice to meet someone not jaded by reality yet. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Okay, then. Well, take care.” She leans down and pats Maxx on the head. His tail thumps against the ground as she walks away.

“I like her,” Maxx says. “Can we follow her?”

I can see that I have a lot to teach him about manners. And stalking. “No, let’s just get to the Big Chicken.” This walk has never taken so long before. I dig into my pocket, pull my phone out and glance at it. 3:30 p.m. Not nearly late enough to head to church and walking laps around the Big Chicken isn’t my idea of a good time. “Maxx, have you ever eaten chicken before?”

The massive hound shakes his head. “Nacelles fed me before I arrived. You have no need to give me anything.”

“It’s not about need,” I say. “Call it a treat instead.”

“Yummmmm…chicken!” Now he pulls at the leash and somehow, I keep up as he gains speed. We begin to flicker in and out of reality.

I hope no one notices, because that’d be bad.

Twenty-Three:

What Do You Want on
Your
Tombstone?

It’s like my whole body’s blinking really, really fast. All I can do is hang onto the leash and pray since Maxx, in his excitement, shows no signs of slowing down. We’re moving fast enough that it feels like mere minutes before he stops.

I assume it’s still lunch time for most of the world. I don’t even know what KFC serves for lunch…maybe chicken biscuits? It feels like forever since I’ve eaten anything except brains, even though it’s only been days.

“Maxx, you’ll need to stay outside.” I make a huge show of draping his leash over a nearby bush. I doubt anyone’ll mess with him, but I kneel down. “Don’t bite anyone,” I whisper. “I can’t afford a lawsuit.”

“Human flesh is bland,” he answers. “I would not consume it.”

I swallow. I’m pretty sure my arm is not the only human flesh he’s tasted. Part of me is super curious and part of me just doesn’t want to know details like that.

“All right, well, I’ll go get you something and be back in a minute. Just…stay here, okay?” I don’t wait for his assent, but pull open the doors to the restaurant and get in line.

There are a lot more choices than I remember. I opt for a lunch combo. While I hate to waste everything but the chicken, I’m not giving Maxx any soda. He can try the French fries, though. I don’t think they’ll hurt him. It’s potatoes, after all.

“How’d you lose your arm?” A tiny boy asks, tugging on my empty sleeve. I look down. He’s about four, maybe six. I’m no great judge of age, especially in little kids.

“Hush, Marcus, that’s not nice.” I assume the woman at his side is his mother, but it could be his sister. She looks around my age, at any rate.

“I lost it in a vicious dog walking accident,” I say.

The little boy’s eyes get huge. “Honest engine?”

I smile and the woman laughs. “No dear, she’s kidding. She doesn’t want to talk about it. I’m sorry,” she says to me, “he’s just so curious about everything.”

“It’s all right.” The question does make me wonder, though, if someone can fix my arm. I don’t want people to see me as the local one-armed freak.

“Order # 34.”

I walk up to the counter, and take the bag from the cashier. It’s a short walk from there to the soda fountain to get some water. The little boy waves at me as I put the lid on the cup and leave.

Maxx looks up from licking his paw when I squat down and open the bag. “It smells odd.”

“That’s because it’s cooked and seasoned.” I take the sandwich out, dismantle it, and hold the chicken patty out to him. I expect him to act like a typical dog and devour it, but he doesn’t. Instead, he bites a piece off and chews it before swallowing.

“I like it,” Maxx states. “Is chicken available everywhere?”

I nod. “Some people are strict vegetarians, but others just like a variety in their diet, so yeah. Pretty much everywhere serves chicken in one form or another.”

“I approve of Atlanta,” he announces.

I laugh. “Are you ready to explore more?”

Maxx mouths the rest of the chicken from my palm, chews and swallows. “Yes. Where should we go next?”

I think about it. “Can you transport us somewhere you’ve never been?”

He shakes his head. “I must have a point of reference first.”

Well, that makes things a little problematic. With only one arm, I can’t drive and only service pets are allowed on the MARTA system. “We can walk to the Marietta National Cemetery, if you like. It’s not too far from here.”

He ponders for a moment before replying. “I enjoy looking at headstones.”

My knees pop when I get up. “It’s less than two miles away. It shouldn’t take us very long to get there.”

Maxx sneezes and follows me down the street.

The cemetery is a broad expanse of shortly mown grass, with headstones standing in neat rows around four feet apart. Some of the graves have little American flags in small vases set at the base. I’m drawn to the other ones, though; the ones closer to the tree-line, somewhat overgrown and neglected. I glance around before I bend and unclip the leash from Maxx’s collar. It’s definitely not allowed, but I doubt he’ll pee on a headstone or anything. He’s more civilized than that. He immediately snuffles his way over to the oldest tombstones and I follow.

“Isisss, look at this!” Maxx barks. I’ve never heard him do that before.

I turn from where I’m investigating the grave of a young girl. The dates read ‘7 June, 1891 – 24 December, 1896.’ My heart breaks for anyone who loses their child that young, let alone on Christmas Eve. What a nightmare.

“I remember him,” Maxx tells me.

“Uhhh…remember who?” I look, but no-one is close-by.

“The headstone, look at the headstone!”

It’s a weathered, chipped headstone, the carving on it so faint I can barely read it. “William DeHec. Born 1802. Died 1845.” There is nothing special about it. I mean nothing other than the fact that my disguised hell hound remembers him.

“You’ve been wandering around here for one hundred and sixty-eight years?” I ask.

Maxx shakes his head. “I had to track his soul. He was good at avoiding detection. But I was better.”

If I was an escaped soul, I wouldn’t want Maxx and his posse of ‘pest exterminators’ following me around. But I
am
curious about the whole thing. “What’s it like?”

“Hunting for souls?” He sits down with a plop.

“Yeah. I mean, you’ve been all over the world, right?”

“It is not as simple as that,” Maxx says. “I did not ‘travel the world’ in the normal sense. I was hunting.”

I frown. “And that’s different, how?”

“It is difficult to explain. When I hunt, I do not exist in either reality.”

“What do you mean either reality?” The hell hound certainly has a way of making me feel dumb. “I thought this was the only one.”

“There are three realities,” Maxx replies with a sigh. “When is the last time you attended church?”

“A couple of days ago. Why, what does church have to do with it?”

He sneezes. “There is Heaven, Hell, and here. When I hunt, I do not exist in either one of the realities I am familiar with; here and Hell.”

“That’s…confusing.”

The dog snorts and I’m just grateful snot doesn’t accompany the gust of fetid air from his nostrils. “That is reality.”

I blink. Okay, onto the next question. “What was it like, working for demons?”

“Most humans would think Nacelles is a demon.” Maxx says. “It is not as though there is a great distinction.”