The King Is in the House, a Zombie Apocalypse Story by Jennifer Weigel
The zombie apocalypse can take many many forms, some of which are more or less terrifying than others depending on your perspective…
Kayenne had never seen so many of them in one place at one time. She had heard tale of whole cities being overrun in a matter of days, but not here in Cape Girardeau. Surely they were too far on the outskirts. She’d only caught a glimpse of her first sighting less than a day prior, and that was from a lone straggler way off in the distance. But the rumors were true; it did spread quickly, and now she was surrounded.
One shuffled along to her right, sporting the standard greased-back black hair and sideburns, wearing dark sunglasses and a Hawaiian shirt. To her left were two more, dressed to the hilt in their studded white jumpsuits, their red rimmed, weary looking eyes scanning their surroundings. And behind her was yet another, lavishly attired in velvet finery with smoky eyes and full, pouty lips drawn in a smirk of a smile. There were several more off in the distance, awash in their bold-printed shirts and black coifs. And they were closing in.
No one had realized they were zombies at first. They didn’t seem to bother anyone; they weren’t frothing at the mouth or ripping people’s heads open on the hunt for brains. Mostly they just shuffled around, mumbling, “It’s now or never” at pretty much everyone and everything. Every once in awhile, one would wander along strumming a guitar or a ukulele, but most of them just sang and danced.
In fact, when they initially appeared, they hadn’t seemed particularly unusual. Especially since the phenomenon had started on January 8 in Memphis. That was his birthday after all, and the whole town still celebrated. So for all that anyone could tell, it was just another convention that went a little wild. Thus, no one concerned themselves with the growing mobs until it was too late and the zombie apocalypse was well underway.
But after the party crashed and everyone went home, they were still everywhere. Their numbers rapidly increased and, before long, they had spread beyond the Tennessee city. It had taken over the state of origin in no time and had quickly engulfed much of the Southern United States. And now it was spreading north into Kayenne’s hometown, all the way into Missouri and beyond.
Kayenne knew not to get too close. These zombies weren’t inherently deadly like in all of the horror stories – they didn’t openly attack people. Mostly they just flash mobbed unaware bystanders, gesticulating and wildly dancing in the streets with gyrating pelvises swaying to and fro. But they were nonetheless very dangerous, for they were laden with an airborne pathogen that would turn even the most defiant hater of Rock ‘n Roll music into yet another impersonator in their midst in a matter of seconds.
It was an impulsive illness for which there was no cure, and it was spreading across the country at an alarming rate. After the stores selling wigs and Hawaiian shirts were overrun and had long run out of stock, newbies continued to craft creative ways to fashion themselves in his image. They used whatever they could find, even smoothing dark colored mud into their hair to complete the look.
Kayenne pulled her hoodie in tighter around her face and raised her bandana so that her eyes scarcely peeked out over the top. She began to hustle and was readying to break into an all out run, but the group around her edged in closer. They were within arm’s reach now. One of them began to sway and chant “I’m all shook up” and another chimed in. Before long, the growing entourage had all followed suit.
Back in the day, Kayenne might have enjoyed such a show and found the antics of the scene to be entertaining, but no longer. Now it was terrifying. And she was completely boxed in. She knew she needed to get away, to flee to a safer distance, but she couldn’t break free. As the panic set in, her mind kept reeling, returning to Spider Murphy on the tenor saxophone and Little Joe on the slide trombone.
Suddenly, Kayenne burst out, “I sure would be delighted with your company… Come on and do the Jailhouse Rock with me.” The myriad of Elvis impersonators surrounding her joined in to seal the deal, welcoming a new member of the zombie apocalypse into their midst. Kayenne stripped off her hoodie and tied her bandana loosely around her neck like an ascot as she waved to her comrades chanting “Thank you… Thank you very much.”
For more Elvis sightings here on Haunted MTL, check out my musical mayhem from February 2021. Video also available on Haunted MTL YouTube here. And if you really need more alternative zombie apocalypse craziness, you can check out my long-form summer story from 2021.
Feel free to check out more of Jennifer Weigel’s work here on Haunted MTL or on her writing, fine art, and conceptual projects websites.
And if you want to complete the look as I have, you can order your very own wig on Amazon. Just remember, if you buy anything from the link provided we get some $ so as always, the Dark Lord says shop away…
Like I said before, I’m really getting into the spirit of the season this year. So reconsidering The Mourners yet again, and haunting the faith a bit, I decided to share a poem that I wrote thinking about All Hallows Eve as a preview of more things to come this month of October.
On Becoming Hallowed
Holy. Holy. Holy. Light the candle. Chant the hymn.
For now the veil between the living and the dead grows thin.
Fingers held to lips in silence; lies beneath their skin.
Family found, ancestral ghosts return to haunt their kin.
Skeletons in closets, grotesque yearnings trapped within.
A bleached and bony face flashes a slightly knowing grin.
It’s not the shadows but the darkness that we fear therein.
Bless this Church whose saintly bodies live and dwell herein.
Unto Death, they claim to sanctify our souls from sin.
Those familiar faces shame; this fight we cannot win.
Come what may, they betray. Pray/prey and heads will spin.
Forevermore and evermore to nevermore… Amen.
I thought this poem really captured All Hallows Eve, in some of the same sentiments as the movie High Spirits, which I loved almost as much as Beetlejuice back in the day.
And feel free to check out more of Jennifer Weigel’s work here on Haunted MTL or on her writing, fine art, and conceptual projects websites.
So I’ve decided to revisit some of my bereaved Gothic celebrity drawings and resurrect The Mourners, since we’re in the thick of spooky season… And I’m not talking pumpkin spice, though it is nice. Maybe it’s the weather, or maybe it’s the despairing existential angst, but lately I’ve been feeling a bit haunted so I thought I’d take a trip down memory lane with you by posting a bunch of art here. So without further ado…
I wanted to focus on more of the details of the sculptures this time. The craftsmanship of these works still astounds me. When royalty commissioned such works, the artists may have devoted much of their lives to realizing these pieces to fruition. They were very time involved processes.
Here are some more details of hands and clothing that I found interesting. Remember that these sculptures are less than 12 inches tall for the whole of the human form. So they are very intricate for their size.
And feel free to check out more of Jennifer Weigel’s work here on Haunted MTL or on her writing, fine art, and conceptual projects websites.
The gorse bush seemed taken aback. It bristled and exclaimed, “A bush!”
“I am so very sorry, my Lord, I can explain,” the goblin cleric bowed in reverence, eyes glued to the ground. Everything about his body language was submissive and nervous.
“Of all the useless… How is it that I got reincarnated as a bush?!” The shrubbery prickled, growing more and more agitated. “I should have come back as a great King, or an Angel, or a Demon, or a dragon, or something even grander… Hell, I’d have settled for returning as the undead Lich King Tyrant Boss-Man you all came to know and love and revere. But no, that wasn’t in the dice. And now here I am, A Bush!” The spiky leaves trembled and rustled as they spoke, both emphasizing and decrying their verdant stature.
“Well, we were in a rush to revive you, after that run in with the goody-two-shoes 20th level adventurers and the awkward retreat,” the goblin knelt before the bramble-vine. “All of our best clerics, necromancers, and acolytes were tapped for spells or had perished in the great battle. Those of us who got out of the caves were lucky to escape with our lives and make it to this little clearing on the mountainside. And we desperately needed your guidance. We still do…”
“That doesn’t explain why I’m a bush now,” the gorse stretched to its full height, about two-and-a-half feet of thorny rage. “And a Gorse Bush at that! Before too long I’ll have a stand of satyrs piping along with a centaur drum circle, all strumming up some fertility ritual at my feet… er, roots…”
“Well, I’m multi-disciplinary you know.” The goblin spell-caster muttered and meekly shifted to his other foot, bracing for the inevitable, “Sometimes I get the cleric and druid magics confused a little.”
“Confused a little?” the bush growled, “Confused A Little?!” The bush’s rage turned to magic as it burst into flames. “I’m A BUSH!!! That’s not just some modest little cleric-druid spell translation issue!”
The goblin shrunk from the blaze, “But my Lord, you are a mighty bush. The greatest bush, really terrific… The gorsiest, bushiest bush in all of shrub-dom… Other bushes? Losers! We all agree, your Lordship.” The trembling goblin horde in the scrubland shadows at the edge of the small clearing nodded emphatically in response, fearing their bushy leader’s wrath. And rightfully so…
A tongue of flame erupted like a lightning bolt from the gorse and zapped the goblin cleric-druid where he stood, leaving nothing but a smattering of ashes drifting towards the ground. The flame erupted through the goblin horde in a huge explosion that engulfed everything in its wake, leaving a circle of scorched earth covered in a fine layer of sooty ash, smelling a bit like cordite.
The bush sighed and took note of its surroundings, sulking. It waited for some would-be adventurer to wander up the mountainside to find it there, where they could revel in its awkward awesomeness. Seasons came and went, and time seemed to stand still for nigh eternity as the gorse bush seethed beneath its crown of thorny brambles. Perhaps it should have convinced the goblin cleric to transplant it to a more trafficked location first.
If you enjoyed that bit of snarky fantasy, check out Ppppffffttt my previous Poised Potion Poison Potential story.
And feel free to check out more of Jennifer Weigel’s work here on Haunted MTL or on her writing, fine art, and conceptual projects websites.
