Aleksandar Hemon - The Making of Zombie Wars

“Say cut him, Josh, and I’ll cut him!” Stagger bellowed.

But before Joshua could choose what to say, he said: “Don’t.”

“Just say it, Joshua! Say the word!”

“Don’t,” Joshua said, a breath louder.

“What? Can’t hear you!”

“Don’t cut him,” Joshua said again.

Stagger looked at him as if it had never occurred to him that Joshua might not want Esko cut.

“You don’t want me to cut him?” he asked, glancing at Joshua in disbelief. “Jonjo?”

And then, as if snapping his fingers, Esko hits Stagger’s hands at the hilt with the blade of his left palm, the sword dropping with a clang like a fork. Stagger looks perfectly surprised, even a bit offended, as if their play suddenly turned serious. Esko grabs Stagger’s right arm and keeps it stretched, pushing its wrist backward, until Stagger is bent downward on his knees. It all looks rehearsed, even when Esko thrusts the wrist farther and Joshua hears it crack, and then still farther until Stagger shrieks like a hanged dog. At which moment Bega winces. Esko releases the arm for Stagger to fall on the ground and gather it against his stomach. No word is said. A long time ago, Joshua had a voice and a throat it came from, but now it’s all gone, which he knows because nothing comes out as he, again, says: “Don’t.” Esko squats to punch Stagger in the nose, which commences bleeding. Stagger shuts his eyes in pain then opens them defiantly to stare at him, the pain converted on his face into hatred. Bega honks. Esko stands up. Stagger, his nose an exploded red sun, moves with his unbroken hand toward the sword. Esko stomps on his forearm. Stagger thrashes like a severed tentacle. Esko kicks him in the head. Bega honks again. The Great Dane and its man are watching it all as if it were happening on the screen. It’s a lovely April day.

Joshua drops down into the rocking chair, sitting on his testicles in the process, but unable to adjust his position for comfort.

“Don’t,” he says. “Please.”

INT. BASEMENT LAB — NIGHT

A naked, wriggling zombie is tied to an operating table, belts around his neck, wrists, and legs. His eyes roll back and his ROAR is ear-piercing. Major Klopstock and Cadet stand above him, both in surgical gowns and gloves, an array of shining scalpels on a tray within their reach.

MAJOR KLOPSTOCK

You sure you’re ready for this?

Cadet nods without a word. Major K pulls up his surgical mask, as does Cadet. Only their worried eyes are visible now. Major K grabs the biggest scalpel, looks at Cadet one more time — he nods — and then makes a deep cut down the middle of the zombie’s abdomen. A mass of rot and pus erupts from the incision. Cadet retches. Major K puts the scalpel away, then plunges his hands inside the zombie, who is oblivious to the undertaking, steadily roaring and eye-rolling as his intestines SLOSH in his rotten abdomen.

MAJOR K

Come on, Mr. Liver, talk to me.

Major K moves his hand inside the zombie and then finally pulls out the liver and shows it to Cadet: the liver is a very sickly yellow, but it somehow looks alive. Cadet cuts around it until it is detached from the body. Major K pulls down his mask. Cadet shakes his head. Major K nods.

MAJOR K

All right, then. No kissing for me today.

He bites into the liver.

As we unshuffle our mortal coils, each and every one of us will sooner or later reach the point of looking back at our lives to appreciate the few good decisions we might have made, small as they seemed at the time. Indeed, a sperm of future pride was already swimming toward the egg of Joshua’s ego, for — as the mailman waddled away shaking his sizable rump to the rhythm of his inner music, as Stagger squirmed in pain on the pavement — Joshua unexpectedly gained a presence of mind and did everything as if he’d been drilled for such a contingency. He cleaned up the mess, hid the sword behind the washing machine, slipped on a (clean) pair of underwear, stuffed Bushy in the New Balance duffel bag, improvised a sling for Stagger’s broken arm and took him in a cab to the hospital — all before anyone could get around to calling the police. Stagger didn’t want to deal with the law, let alone the order, and neither did Joshua. Without belief, no good thing could ever happen; Joshua did believe there was a way to conceal this morning’s shenanigans from Kimmy.

In the ER waiting room, Joshua put the cat-heavy duffel bag on the floor and tucked it under a chair. It felt disrespectful, but Bushy was too dead to incur respect. Last night’s residual drunks were sleeping off their alcohol poisoning in impossible postures on seats so uncomfortable they must’ve been designed to discourage sitting. A rail-thin guy in full Bulls regalia was interrogating the water cooler (“Whaddya want? What da fuck ya want? Whaddya want?”), which refused to cooperate. It was too difficult for Stagger to sit with Joshua’s sling, so he stood, cradling his arm against his chest. Still in his green Crocs and Joshua’s shorts, he shot threatening glances at the interrogator, his pigtails like ropes over his ears. The damaged areas of his face merged into one enormous bruise centered around his mouth, like makeup gone terribly wrong. Joshua could tell that Stagger wouldn’t mind fighting the stick man, who was focused on the cooler releasing defiantly an occasional bubble. He tried to kick the blue water bottle as if it were a head, but the Bulls sweatpants fallen halfway down his ass prevented him from connecting with it.

“What happened to my sword?” Stagger asked. His lips were swollen, as big as slugs, and he was slurring his words.

“Don’t worry about it right now,” Joshua said. “I put it away.”

“You should’ve let me cut him.”

“I’m sorry.”

Stagger leaned over a trash bin and released a string of bloody saliva into it.

“I’ll need my sword back,” Stagger said.

“First get your arm back.”

“I’ll be fine. I just feel naked without my sword.”

“You’ll get your sword back. You’d still be naked with it, though.”

“You should’ve been strong, Jonjo. You should’ve let me cut him.”

An elderly, well-dressed couple sat on the edge of their seats, ready to be attended to. The woman’s left foot was broken, as evidenced by a baroque hematoma, with which her navy blue blazer perfectly rhymed. The man was calmly reading The New York Times , while the woman, holding one of her shoes like a Cinderella, was transfixed with the endless replay of Saddam’s statue being pulled down on the silent TV. The way the man and woman occupied their space together conjured up for Joshua their — most probably — Gold Coast living room: the exorbitantly expensive third-rate Cubist paintings on the walls; the exotic thingies on the mantelpiece; the crystal decanters on a silver tray: sherry for the ladies, scotch for the gentlemen. Script Idea #135: A terminally ill woman goes on a road trip to California with her husband, who suffers from Alzheimer’s. They took the trip fifty years before for their honeymoon. She remembers everything, he remembers nothing. Halfway there, she realizes that he thinks she is his mistress. Title: The End of the Past.

“I used to be married, you know,” Stagger said. A security guard with hams for arms and a dildoid baton moved in to caution the Bulls guy, who was not high enough to ignore him, so he promptly sat down and shut up.

“Did you?” Joshua said. The security guard stood over the Bulls guy, his hand on the dildo. Joshua would’ve enjoyed bearing witness to a beating; more bone breaking would’ve certainly complied with the spirit of the day. The Saddam loop was interrupted by insanely happy people in bright-colored clothes jumping up and down in slow motion against a blindingly white background. Such unabated joy could be available only to those who deemed themselves indestructible and immortal. No slow-motion jumping for Bernie, or the woman with a broken foot.