Resurrection of the Living Undead III or Whoopsie
“Cut!”
The lead zombie stood up and glared at the Hit Man and me.
“Cut! Gawddammit! Cut.”
The pack of zombies stopped shuffling. Some sighed. Others rolled their eyes and removed packs of cigarettes that had been sequestered in their clothes. A look of credulousness passed between the hit man and me, our nozzles drooping in our hands as we took in the unexpected event in front of us; zombies snapping out of their undead trance never happened. Once infected they were goners, especially since most of the transformation took place after bodily death - the first death, as we called it in the trade.
“Where the fuck is Roland?” The lead Zombie demanded. “Hey, are those real flame throwers?”
He marched over to us in a semi-drunken goose step and shook the nozzle in my hands. I can’t explain it, but that act made me feel dirty - cheap - violated. I flashed back to an embarrassing moment in college when, after one drink too many, I lost my erection while my girlfriend repositioned herself on our bed. I remember frantically slapping it silly trying to revive it. Bitter disappointment as only a young man can experience it. My girlfriend telling me it happens to every guy once in awhile and me, near tears, explaining that it never happens to me. Thank God I am not 20 anymore.
“They’re real, people,” he said as he spun around to face the other zombies milling about uncomfortably behind him. “They’re fucking real flame throwers. Unfuckingbelievable.”
“Aww fuck,” came a young female voice from the crowd. “I think they singed my eyebrows off. Does anyone have a mirror?”
Lead zombie spun around angrily on his heals to face us again.
“And you singed her eyebrows. I am going to have your union cards for this”
The Hit Man looked at me and mouthed “union cards?” inquisitively. Dispatching the denizens of hell is surreal enough any night, but this was down right mind boggling weird.
The Hit Man finally found his voice.
“What the fuck is going on?”
“I might just ask you that myself. Where the hell is Roland? Has anyone seen our gaaawddamn director?”
“Director? Since when do Zombies have a director?” The Hit Man asked. I agreed. Zombies tended to be unorganized being generally mindless and all.
“Every motion picture has a director? What kind of a stunt man are you?”
“Stunt man?” I asked
It was becoming apparent that our original assessment about a potential Zombie outbreak in New Mexico was correct. We had stumbled into something else. I started to expect that George A. Romero was going to come out from behind the scenes. Instead a short, stocky man dressed in drag - nicely I might add - nervously teetered on heels as he walked up to the lead zombie, whose name we now knew as Chuck DiAngelo.
“There you are Roland,” Chuck said. “It took you long enough.”
“Are you wearing angora?” The Hit Man asked
“It soothes me when I am facing deadlines,” Roland responded.
“Hey you guys I think you made a mistake,” Boneless Frank’s voice sounded in our ears. “These aren’t real zombies.”
“You think?” I responded.
“Yeah…it seems that you walked into a set from Resurrection of the Living Undead III. According to what I have found they are filming in the cemetery tonight.”
“That would have been good information to know before we staked the place out,” I hissed quietly.
“Who the hell are you talking to?” Chuck asked.
“Yeah, isn’t that your job?” The Hit Man asked Boneless. “To know about this kind of…”
Our semi-clandestine conversation with Boneless Frank was interrupted by the sound of police sirens shattering the night. Chuck was going belly to belly with Roland in some absurd parody of an argument between a baseball coach and an umpire. This looked like a good time to slip away unnoticed. Well…as unnoticed as a couple of guys dressed in jumpsuits, long trench coats and packing freshly fired flame throwers can be. The whole getaway would have been easier had my companion not blown our rental car up in his enthusiasm to vanquish the undead.