Read Not Everything Brainless is Dead Online
Authors: Joshua Price
Not Everything Brainless is Dead (4 page)
Any witnesses to his upcoming actions would have assumed the man was crazy, and in many ways, that was a sure diagnosis. Captain Rescue walked around in the middle of the road while scratching his head to induce brain activity. He was on the lookout for something, and eventually, he must have found it, because he started slamming his foot against the pavement relentlessly. The street creaked and groaned, but did little else. This battle, however, had only just begun. Captain Rescue threw it into high gear and stomped the road with all the force he could muster, nearly rupturing a blood vessel. Finally, he concluded his asphalt assaults by diving against the street. This did the trick, and the entire contraption crashed into the ground, sending the hero tumbling into a hidden tunnel beneath the road.
He shook it off and looked up at The Rescue Machine teetering dangerously. As Captain Rescue lay there, he wondered if he engaged the parking brake. The answer was a resounding “no” as the vehicle tipped forward and headed down the hill. With a boyish shriek, Captain Rescue rolled to the side just as The Rescue Machine whooshed past him and came to a stop down the tunnel. The hero picked himself up off the ground and jogged after it; once he reached his beloved steed, he kicked its wheel in retaliation for attempting to flatten him. Captain Rescue breathed a sigh of relief that this ordeal had passed by, and then leapt into the cockpit, sealed it shut, and threw the car into gear.
Without much to look at in this narrow tunnel, Captain Rescue watched the lights lining the walls. Almost instantly, they had a strobing effect, and the hero thought for a moment that someone had teleported him into a dance club. He gasped and shut his eyes to keep from having an epileptic seizure, a disorder the internet had convinced him he had—even though dozens of doctors begged to differ. Fortunately, the tunnel was completely straight, or this would have been quite dangerous. That and The Rescue Machine would have beeped angrily at him if he showed any signs what-so-ever of crashing.
After a dangerous few thousand feet, The Rescue Machine beeped at Captain Rescue to signal the end of his journey. A neon sign that marked the entrance to The Rescue Base read, “Captain Rescue’s hideout. If you can read this and you aren’t Captain Rescue please turn back now.” As Captain Rescue craned his neck to read the sign, whose message eluded him to this day, he almost crashed into the side of the tunnel, saved only by a string of beeps from his trusty steed.
After surmounting the neon sign obstacle, the Rescue Garage came into view. Just as the name implied, it was a large room for the storage of vehicles. His armada lined its walls, save The Rescue Machine (which was currently in use). There was The Rescue Boat, The Rescue Plane, The Rescue Chopper, The Rescue Hovercraft, The Rescue Hang Glider, and of course, The Rescue Unicycle. Captain Rescue parked his vehicle in its preordained spot, and engaged the parking break. The Rescue Machine’s cockpit swung open, depressurized once again, and Captain Rescue hopped out. He pressed a button on his utility belt, and the security system beeped on. Now, the vehicle was safe against any carjackers that found their way into his secret garage.
“Hello, Sir,” a voice echoed from the entrance to the garage.
His butler, Alfredo, stood at the ready, a platter in hand. On it sat a glass of pink lemonade and some sugar cookies. Captain Rescue cheered with glee, sprinted to him, snatched up the glass and cookies, and shoved a handful of them into his mouth and chewed away. Crumbs spewed from his lips, and before bothering to swallow, he poured some lemonade down the hatch and nearly choked to death as sugar cookies erupted from his mouth. Alfredo kept the platter steady, sidestepping the moist remains as they flew past. Most of Captain Rescue’s meals went something like that.
“How did the night’s battle against crime go, sir?’
With his words almost unintelligible, Captain Rescue replied through a mouthful of cookies, “Great! I single-handedly put that menace Dr. Malevolent and her right-hand man behind bars, where they belong!”
His butler was no fool. He knew that the hero was rarely the direct cause of his victories. When faced with a boasting—and choking—Captain Rescue, Alfredo did the only thing humanely possible: he smiled and nodded. For a man who had spent the greater part of his life keeping an eye on the hero, he did not have the heart to crush the poor man’s spirit with something as earth shattering as reality. That was not to say Alfredo thought that Captain Rescue was a complete mess, he knew that every now and then the hero got something right. Something like skunk extract—it did not directly cause the criminal’s apprehension but was still damned cool.
Captain Rescue shoveled the last few cookies into his mouth and then chased them with lemonade. Miraculously, he did not choke this time around. The two finally made it into The Rescue Base; better known as the bachelor pad as imagined by a 13-year-old boy. Plastered above his cabinets of crime fighting tools were posters spanning the pop culture trends of the last two decades, from music, to movies, to random things that have since fallen to utter obscurity—like Pogs. Then there were his life preservers. Since becoming a superhero, he had collected these beauties. He very well could not be Captain Rescue without them.
This childlike mentality extended into his bedroom where a dozen stuffed animals covered a racecar bed. Captain Rescue had one since childhood. When the original broke a few years back, he spent a few weeks searching high and low for an exact replacement, and it was well worth the effort. Every night as he slept, he pulled the sheets up to his neck, letting his feet poke out the bottom. No amount of arguing would have convinced him to get a bed his size. His was cool, and Captain Rescue knew it.
All heroes had activities they performed daily to keep themselves in tiptop crime fighting shape, and Captain Rescue was no different. He strutted over to the couch and plopped down in front of the television. His nightly dose of mind-numbing television would now commence. Any superhero would tell you that saving the world night after night was a job much easier to stomach with a numb mind. Things were just easier that way. Thus, with his hunger satiated, Captain Rescue threw his feet onto the nearby coffee table, slid his mask off, and wiped the mascara away. He snatched up the remote, and his finger had almost landed on the power button when he stopped, sighed, and nodded to himself. Captain Rescue leaned over and picked up his utility belt’s user manual. The thing did him well tonight, who knew how well it would do him if he actually figured out how to use it. So, he spent about fifteen minutes thumbing through the Spanish section before getting bored and putting it aside.
Satisfied, Captain Rescue grabbed the remote and flipped on the television. In horror, he discovered only static. Frantically, he scanned through random channels and found only more static. He leapt to his feet and stood there unsure what to do. Then, the unthinkable happened: a vaguely familiar ringing filled his ears. His eyes darted around suspiciously; perhaps some unknown enemy had infiltrated his super-secret hideout.
The ringing continued.
Perhaps someone had planted a bomb somewhere within these walls.
The ringing continued.
Just before this relentless ringing reduced him to tears, its purpose dawned on him. Someone had a real emergency—it was The Rescue Phone, his personal hotline. The authorities used it when they needed his assistance, and this was only the second time they had ever called. The phone continued to ring as he assumed his most heroic stance. He thrust out his chest and raised his chin into the air, straining his neck. To complete the look, Captain Rescue placed his hands firmly upon his waist. The city needed him, and the time had come to answer its call, which was good, because if he dawdled for any longer, the city would call someone who could really help.
Captain Rescue reached for the phone, but then stopped with the realization that he no longer wore his mask. He grabbed the first thing he could think of, which just so happened to be the nightcap he adorned each time he went to bed. He placed it on his head, pulled it over his face, and answered the phone.
“Hello?” he asked, muffled through the nightcap.
“Captain Rescue! This is Sergeant Pierce. The police station is under attack. We need your help immediately.”
Behind the hero stood Alfredo with a worried look on his face. The situation must have been dire for them to resort to calling Captain Rescue.
“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” he said into the phone before hanging up.
“Sir,” Alfredo began as he reached forward and pulled the nightcap from Captain Rescue’s head, “for future reference, people over the phone can’t see you.”
Captain Rescue chuckled. “Oh Alfredo, whatever would I do without you?”
“I hazard to guess, sir.”
He patted his butler on the back and darted into the garage with his goal firmly in his mind. He was going to save the world, but first, he had to remember where he put his car keys. Before the hero tore apart his underground base, a jingle tickled Captain Rescue’s ears. He spun around, where Alfredo dangled a set of keys.
Captain Rescue snatched them from the air. “I really would be lost without you.”
The butler smiled. “I know.”
Chapter 6: Lessons Your Mother Should Have Taught You
While Captain Rescue was at home enjoying himself, a pair of police officers was going through the stolen goods from the bank heist. The general theme of the evening was straight money, but other valuables found their way into the bag too, from jewelry, to family heirlooms, to Monopoly deeds. Amongst these items was a strange glistening vial filled with a faintly green liquid. Emblazoned upon it were enough warning labels to make even the bravest think twice before touching it.
The two police officers cataloging the stolen goods had been partners for years now. One of them, Frank, picked up the green glowing vial and inspected it closely. Creeped out and rightly so, he gently placed it back down on the table. As Frank turned around to go through other stolen materials, his partner Phil picked up the vial and, without looking at it more closely, unscrewed the top and took a sniff. The sweet aroma tickled his nose hairs and brought a smile to his face.
Curious what kind of magical wonders were contained within the vial, Phil held it close to his eyes and peered inside, where he could see the green liquid bubbling as it mixed with the air. Frank’s partner next did something quite inadvisable: he slid out his tongue and dribbled a tiny amount of the liquid onto it. Apparently, he liked the taste, because he guzzled down the rest with a stupid grin on his face, his fingers covering the warning labels. Frank had always been the brains of this operation, and he did always have to keep his partner from doing silly and foolish things.
“Did you really just drink that?” Frank inquired as he turned around to see his partner holding the empty vial and burping. “Did your mom not teach you anything growing up?”
Phil glanced into the empty vial. “It smelled good.”
His partner snatched the vial out of his hands. “Well, you better hope it’s not poisonous, or radioactive, or something crazy like that.” He pointed at the biohazard symbol. “As these
warning labels
would imply.”
Phil licked the pleasurable taste off his lips. “Don’t be silly, I’m sure it’s just some food coloring or something.”
Frank pointed at the warning labels again. “Oh yeah, because they usually put
these
on food coloring.”
Phil found himself unable to reply, his words drowned within a cough. The green liquid had already made it to his stomach and started reacting with the acid churning inside. He cupped his hand over his mouth, coughed once more, and stumbled backwards. As he pulled his hand away, Phil noticed blood speckling his palm, and then wiped his hand clean on his uniform.
“You okay, Phil?” his partner asked.
“Yeah, I just think I need to—” Phil lurched forward and gripped his stomach with both hands. He tried to groan, to yell, to cry out, but a flurry of coughs cut off every attempt. He fell to his knees and looked up to his partner for any kind of help or sympathy. Frank looked down in horror at his partner, whose pupils had dilated, and eyes had gone gruesomely bloodshot. His coughs had evolved into something else, something even more terrifying—as if his body was trying to force an intruder from inside that refused to let go.
“Oh great…” Frank said as he stepped backwards, afraid to catch whatever had taken hold of Phil. “I hope this teaches you not to drink random things you find while on the job,
especially
if they have a biohazard symbol on the label.”
Phil could barely hear his partner over the pressure building within his skull that blinded him to the outside world. The police officer resorted to painfully slapping himself upside the head to quell the pressure. If he had tried this sort self-therapy before ingesting poisonous liquids, he might have knocked some sense into himself and avoided this whole catastrophe. However, with the damage done, Phil’s thoughts became increasingly muddled as everything within that made him human went on permanent vacation.
As a motionless Phil slouched over, his partner stepped forward and leaned in to check if the poor man still lived, but as Phil’s lifeless body twitched, Frank stumbled backwards. His partner lifted his head once more; his eyes had faded to white with no signs of that spark of humanity that had been there just seconds prior. It had vanished and been replaced with nothing more than an empty dead stare. Phil tilted his head to the side, inspecting his former partner with what little instincts remained, and then moaned.
While no expert on the subject, Frank instantly recognized those pale white eyes. He had been exposed to them one way or another since childhood. He had seen dozens of movies about them, read books about them, and even followed a few comics. Hell, he might as well have been an expert. Phil was a zombie and Phil was dead. His brain, never known for firing on all cylinders, was greatly relieved that its prerogatives had been simplified: moan a lot, eat brains, and fear Easter. Frank started to pant nervously as he realized that yes—he did have flesh and that yes—it was human.
He stumbled backwards just as his former partner rose to his feet looking directly into his eyes. Then, like a baby learning to walk, Zombie Phil took its first steps forward with its toes pointed uncomfortably inward, and its arms curled up across its chest. It progressed slowly at first, almost losing its balance repeatedly, but the technique strengthened with each step. Then, as any good zombie should, Phil began to shuffle.
Frank practically had a panic attack as Zombie Phil leaned in towards him, brains spinning within its white eyes. He did not attempt to reason with the creature, to get through to the human that might have still been buried inside there somewhere. He knew how this ended—how this
always
ended. He panted heavily as the zombie inched its way towards him, drooling all the while.
Frank’s nerves were getting the better of him; he knew what he had to do. He had to kill this thing before it sunk its teeth into him, but Frank had never felt himself shaking this badly before. He breathed slowly and tried to regain his composure, backing away from the zombie as it shuffled towards him. Finally, after an epic battle with his nerves, Frank pulled his revolver from its holster. He did it: he had won. Now he just needed to put this miserable creature out of its misery.
Frank cracked a smile as he unloaded all six shots into the creature’s chest—Phil had always been a terrible partner, and this was just further proof. The creature stumbled backwards and fell over as its feet swung into the air. That was it. He was safe. He turned around and leaned against a nearby table to catch his breath. He had done it. His smile widened, and then simply fell away at the realization of the most important part of any zombie movie: you had to shoot the things in the head. His police training and his frazzled nerves had made him forget that simple fact. Frank wheeled around just as Zombie Phil sat up off the floor, blood oozing from its chest wounds. The zombie looked down, slid a finger into one of the holes, and investigated. Its head then shot up and it looked straight at his former partner.
Frank went for his ammo pouch while cursing the police department for instituting this damned cowboy week. Why couldn’t it have been assault rifle week, or bazooka week, or high-powered laser week? No, it had to be cowboy week. They shoved this revolver into his hands, they gave him the ammunition pouch, and then his superiors simply told him to have fun. The precinct did not even bother teaching the police officers the basics, and it took Frank nearly an hour to figure out how to reload the stupid relic.
Zombie Phil stumbled to its feet, resuming its advance. Panic swept over Frank. He swung open the cylinder and pulled a handful of bullets from his ammo pouch. With a shaky hand, he tried to load the gun. All the while, the police officer refused to take his eyes off the zombie. Frank backed away slowly, trying not to trip over his own feet. As he tried to slide the small cartridges into the slots on the gun, they rained from his hands, clinking as they hit the ground, frazzling his nerves further.
He looked down and groaned at the fact that only two shells made it into the gun. He dove back into the ammo pouch and tried again just as his back slammed into the wall. He looked down at the revolver’s cylinder and its four little cartridges sticking out. That would have to do. He slammed it shut and lifted the revolver. With uncontrollably shaky hands, he aimed for the zombie’s head and pulled the trigger. The creature’s head shot back, blood spraying over Frank, and then its head bounced forward with a narrow wound across the side of its head.
He had one last chance at this; the zombie was almost on top of him. He pulled the trigger, and a click resonated out. Frank cursed just as Zombie Phil crashed into him, immediately tearing a chunk from his neck, blood squirting all over the zombie. Frank went limp almost immediately. As the zombie went to take another bite, something stopped him. Frank twitched once and then lifted his head, eyes white as snow, and then the two police officers’ partnership resumed once more.