Death Role: Post Four, The Puppet Theater

The Puppet Theater

The relationship Emmett had with his puppets and marionettes, the closeness, was unlike anything he’d found with the humans that entered and exited from his life. His friends of wood, fabric and string would never betray him and they always did as they were told. He loved them so much that he rented the apartment above the theater so he could sneak onto the stage and bring them to life every night.

He should have stayed upstairs, safe from the hungry dead, but when he saw the news he could think of only one place to be, with his friends downstairs. And he could hear them calling for him in his mind.

We’re scared, Em, they whispered. Keep us safe, they cried.

So he stumbled down the stairs, his puppets in hand, through the lobby and into the dark, expansive room of the theater. He tried from memory to follow the aisle, but several times his feet found a row of chairs and he fell, dropping the puppets and cursing as he did.

Finally on stage, Emmett sat on a tall wooden stool. A large alligator, appropriately named Al and made of sparkly green fabric, sat on his knee, happily.

“What is a zombie’s favorite meal?” Al asked Emmett in a gravelly voice.

“I don’t know,” Emmett feigned ignorance. “What is a zombie’s favorite meal?”

“A MANwich!” the alligator roared.

“Isn’t that your favorite meal too?” Emmett asked, leaning away from him. This joke was popular with audiences, but no laughs echoed the room as the theater was empty.

He hoped.

Outside, beyond the double doors, he could hear the screams and sirens of the apocalyptic world. He ran through his routines and plays with his collection of created comrades, biding his time and distracting his friends from their fear. But late that night the zombies found his hiding place, his sanctuary.

First there was only one. A single, fresh corpse, blood still leaking slowly from its many wounds. Emmett realized he must have left the front door unlocked. This was the moment that Emmett had been dreading. The moment where he would have to choose between his life or dying with his friends. They would surely be torn to pieces by these blood-covered maniacs even though they were immune, but he couldn’t leave them behind. No, he would die with them. He buried himself under the puppets, their loose clothing covering his terrified form in an attempt to delay his death. The near invisibility was calming for him. But the dead were still making their way down the theater aisles and the puppets began to freak out.

“We’re going to die!” his favorite puppet, Mackey, screamed from above him.

“Mackey, be quiet!” Emmett whispered. “Don’t give away our hiding spot.”

“Don’t eat us!” Selena, the mermaid puppet shrieked, flicking her tail fin about nervously.

“Shhh, Selena. We’ll be alright. The dead can’t sense you,” he reminded her.

But they could hear him. And now they were flooding in the building, toward him like ants to sugar. Maybe this isn’t the best hiding spot, Emmett thought to himself as the zombies crawled up the stairs of the stage and onto the pile of fabric and flesh. The undead clawed through the layers, looking for something warm and beating to put in their mouths.

As they ripped through his skin, Emmett couldn’t find his own voice through the pain and so his friends began again to speak through him.

“The plague! I can feel it coursing through my threads!” Mackey moaned.

“My strings!” a marionette yelled. “They’ve broken my strings. I can’t feel my arms!”

“My fluff is coming out!” Al the Alligator cried.

Their puppet master had no words to soothe them and blood was quickly leaving his body.

“I’m losing strength,” the Paperboy puppet whimpered in his tiny, New York accented voice as Emmett too was weakening.

“Stay calm!” Emmett finally managed to speak before his throat was ripped out. At once, all of their voices fell silent. The comedy routine was now a macabre one as the feasting dead took center stage.

Seattle’s annual zombie walk, significantly different than recent years gone by (no stage, beer garden, food trucks, etc…), returned to its roots as just a walk this year. Becky and I still enjoyed it (having many food choices in The Armory and a close, non-porta-potty bathroom helps). We spent the day with Jasen Mortensen of WatchPlayRead, covered in blood and taking pictures. Below are some of the ones I liked the most.

Every time I see a pic of us from an event I think we should have been bloodier. Next time, I’m dumping it on the ground and rolling in it.

     

     

The Truck Stop

Luke trudged on weary feet and gripped a nail-studded and blood-covered baseball bat in his right hand. He’d finally made it out of the city; the city that had taken his entire family and all of his friends. Others, equally worn and devastated, traveled the road with him toward a dim light on the horizon.

As he grew closer to the light he found its source, a truck stop. It still looked to be functioning too, with semis coming and going at regular intervals. Some fifteen rigs were parked in a large semicircle, effectively enclosing the rest area and protecting it’s visitors from the wandering dead. A small space between two of the colossal machines allowed vehicles in and out.

He walked through the opening and into a cafe set in the middle of the lot. None of the drivers raised their heads to make eye contact, but Luke thought nothing of it since truckers were usually unfriendly.

He propped his weapon against the dirty dining counter, dirty enough to leave him unconcerned about blood transfer from the bat. “You got any coffee?” Luke asked the waitress with hope. Really, anything warm would be appreciated but he needed to find a second wind, even if artificially.

“Coffee’s for the drivers,” the woman said without apology. “You ok with hot lemon water?”

It sounded disgusting, a lie in a cup, but it was better than nothing. “Sure?” Luke replied, fairly certain he didn’t have a choice. She brought him a styrofoam cup filled with the lukewarm, flavored water. After forcing himself to guzzle it, the truck stop no longer felt like a refuge or even an overnight option. He crushed the cup and went back outside to look for the friendliest trucker he could find.

“Is it possible to get a ride out of here?” he asked a man in dirty jeans and a puffy-looking winter jacket.

The man hesitated and looked around at some of the other drivers before responding. “That truck right there,” the man said pointing to an all black rig at the far end of the lot, “it’ll take you…to safety.”

“No shit?” Luke asked, eager to believe the man. The lemon water hadn’t done much for him, but the news of a ride further from the city warmed his body to the core.

The man nodded. “Climb in the passenger seat, don’t ask any questions. You’ll be free of this in no time.”v

To Luke, it sounded too good to be true. “Why haven’t you left?” he asked the man.

“It’s not my time yet,” the man said, avoiding Luke’s eyes. “’Sides, I’ve got to help folks like you.”

“Well, thanks man,” Luke said, shaking his hand. “I owe you one.”

“It’s nothing, really,” the man responded weakly.

Luke approached the all black semi and climbed into the cab. Only when it was too late did he notice that things weren’t right. A wall made out of thick caging material separated him from the driver and as soon as he closed his door, the locked clicked closed. Metal bars emerged from either side of his seat and wrapped around his body.

“What the fuck?” Luke yelled, grabbing at the restraints. A man, one of the truckers from the cafe, slid behind the wheel and started the engine. He pulled the semi out of the truck stop and made a giant u-turn on the roadway. They were driving back into the fallen city, its streets full of the undead.

“Where the hell are you taking me? I want out! Take me back!” Luke screamed. He kicked his legs against the dashboard hoping to get the driver’s attention, but it didn’t work. His baseball bat was out of reach, rolling around somewhere at his feet.

He knew when they’d crossed the bridge into downtown. The air was filled with moans, the stench of death so thick it found its way into the cab. Out the window he saw the hospital, one of the most overrun areas of the city. The driver pulled the semi to the curb in front of the medical center and, to his horror, the passenger side door swung open.

“No,nonononononon. Oh, fuck, NO!” Luke felt his bladder release. He’d been close to death before, but never this close and never so incapable of escape.

A mechanical whir started up and his seat began to extend sideways out of the cab. The dead reached for him with rotting hands. Luke looked back to his bat. The seat rotated until he was facing the crowd of infected. He closed his eyes and hoped his death would be quick.

The metal restraints opened, dumping him into the center of the mix.

The driver watched for a moment and then brought the seat back in. He picked up his CB radio and spoke into the handset. “Hey dispatch, made that delivery. Over.”