To read more from Shea Zellweger, check out his blog.
“Oh,
Mickey,” Mrs. Thornton cut him off, “how many times do I have to tell you my
widdle Fwenchy is a good widdle puppy? Yes you are! You’re a good puppy!” The
string of baby talk which followed as she lifted her missing mongrel into the
air would have put an infant to shame. Mickey held his breath as she raised the
pooch to her face and leaned in to nuzzle its nose with hers. Frenchy gave her
master a nonplussed look, opened her mouth, and unceremoniously removed a
quarter inch from the tip of Mrs. Thornton’s nose. The look of shock and
revulsion which came over the woman’s face would have been comical if it
weren’t for the blood which flowed from her new wound. “Frenchy, that was not
very nice,” she managed to say calmly as she blacked out.
As Mickey and Stacy pulled into the hospital parking lot the next afternoon, flowers and candy in hand, they noticed something was amiss. When they had dropped off Mrs. Thornton the previous day, it had been like any other medical facility. Today, something was different. Mickey couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but he thought it might have something to do with the smoke which was pouring out of the broken windows on the fifth floor. They made their way into the main entrance, and stopped short. If anyone had been walking behind them, there likely would have been a collision, but nobody was walking behind them, so nothing happened. As they stared aghast at the site before them, a hundred pale eyes in sixty green faces turned to stare back at them. There was a pause of indeterminate length as everyone involved in the situation tried to figure out how to respond to this unexpected sight. This pause was finally broken as a noseless ghoul holding a greenish-gray poodle raised a limp finger in their direction and cried “Aaaaaugh!” in a very authoritative manner. Their paralysis broken, Stacy and Mickey bolted for the car, reaching it just as the first zombie exited the building.
Mickey mashed the accelerator to the floor- a foolish gesture, considering he needed to back out of his parking spot before he could begin to drive, but it seemed appropriate at the time. He drove to the parking lot exit, dodging the fastest of the ghouls as he went, until he reached the booth and realized he’d not had his parking validated. This time when he mashed the accelerator to the floor, it made more sense. The tiny car barreled through the gate, snapping its arm easily, and made its way to the road and safety. Or at least, it would have done so, if the owner of this particular parking lot were not a greedy man who also owned the local tow truck and tire companies. Instead of making its way to the road and safety, the car made its way to metal spikes and a sudden stop. When it became clear that the vehicle was not going to budge, Mickey began fiddling randomly with the various controls in the hope that something miraculous would happen. Noticing a button he had never used before, Mickey pressed it with his thumb and hoped silently for an ejector seat. As his mother’s zombie face appeared at his window, the car’s speakers made a beeping noise and a calm female voice said in that strange automated cadence “The current time is: Three. O’Clock. P M.’
He turned to Stacy with a grim smile. “I always hated the Early Bird Specials.”