"How in the…..what in the hell?" Two more tables and five more chairs were added to the barricade. "Do you see what’s going on out there? Do you see it?" Nobody answered. The only sound was heavy breathing. Satisfied by the blockade they turned to face one another. Three Black men were now trapped away from the outside World. Tall men, probably in their fifties or sixties.
"MOTHAFUCKA," loudly shouted one of the men, the tallest. His skin complexion darker than the other two. Bald, he wore a pair of dark sunglasses. Boisterous and animated as he spoke. Hard to tell if he was scared, angry or excited, but he was loud. He paced back and forth. "SHIT DONE GOT TOO REAL. MAN. We’re trapped in fuckin Denny’s. FUCK. Smells like Maple Syrup and a fuckin Breakfast Burrito." Using subtle hand movements he enhanced his talking, making it grander, more emphasized.
"Damn, got syrup on my hands. Yo, I hope this shit is empty. Cause we fuckin blocked our escape exit," said the shortest of the three men.
"Wait right here you two, I’ll go check," said a third man. Slightly pudgy, he came off as stoic and wise. Patches of gray in his black hair and beard complimented this persona. His voice calmer more collected than his companions.
"Nigga, where the fuck else can we go?" shouted the man in dark sunglasses. Not responding the calmer man ventured to the back of the restaurant. Once the calmer man was gone, the other two began blocking windows, leaving enough space to get a glimpse outside. When finished both men took a seat near the window.
"Jesus. How did it get like this?" the shortest man said. His face was rigid, stern and intense as he peered out the window. Eyes low with a hard gaze. He too had a bald head. The bald head paired with a thick black mustache made him resemble a hard nose street detective or a gangster. He had a stocky upper body, the body of man who lifted weights but didn’t have "show" muscles. His tone of voice changed getting a little higher when he said certain words. "This is some shit. Some mothafuckin shit."
"MAN. THEM MOTHAFUCKAS," shouted dark sunglasses. Outside of Denny’s, nothing but pure unadulterated chaos, a perfect portrait of several different Apocalyptic scenarios. Fires raging. Trails of smoke rising to the sky. Abandoned cars. Practically deserted streets. The World covered by a dark grayish brownish filter. The bright yellow and red Denny’s logo stood out so much it was like an abstract painting. Police Car, Fire truck, and Ambulance sirens rang throughout the streets, their lights flashing vividly. People were running around crazed, wounded, bloodied, and scared. Screams of distress went unanswered as people were dying. A few people ran past the Denny’s but didn’t even hesitate to stop. All the two men watching the chaos did was stare in awe as the madness unfolded."SHIT. HOLY FUCKIN SHIT.” Dark sunglasses stood pointing at something outside. He was pulled down by the stern faced man, as if their hiding place would be compromised.
"SHHHH." Squatting down, barely peeking, they looked out into the distance. Probably a mile or two from the Denny’s was a building, a ravaged High Rise. Broken windows, fires raging on different floors, power outages, everything in an utter state of shambles. On the roof a group of seven or eight people, slowly getting closer to the ledge. It’s what dark sunglasses had been pointing at. Something forced the group to back pedal. Not much real estate remained and they were running out of it quickly. Two of the people closest to the edge yelled and waved their arms. Screaming to anyone, everyone, and yet no one. One of them looked back terrified but it was too late. They got pushed over the edge along with two more people. These were the fortunate members of the group. Falling to your death from the top of a twenty story High Rise seemed a sweet release compared to what awaited the rest of the group.
"Jesus, Zombies."
"Zombies. Mothafuckin Zombies." A pack of zombies was biting, eating, and ripping to shreds the rest of the group. Blood, limbs, and chunks of flesh juggled through the air. The zombies made a fast meal of the people. A lone survivor glanced over his shoulders, toward the ledge, formulating a plan. The poor guy didn’t have many choices. Looking at the zombies steadily approaching sped up the planning process. Breaking into a sprint lasting four steps, he dove off the roof. Choosing to die with his human dignity, pure and uninfected was a good idea, except. Two zombies decided to follow, tackling him right when he started to descend. They bite and clawed into their victim as the ménage-a-trois of human devouring fell. Another bloodthirsty zombie chased after taking a plunge over the edge.
"YOU SEE THAT SHIT. Zombies got all them Mothafuckas."
"Yeah. I saw it. Of course I fuckin saw that. FUCK kinda shit is goin on, man. And yo, Samuel are you gonna keep Fucking yelling or what?" Dark sunglasses, slightly rattled took a few seconds to answer. He opened and closed his mouth twice, sounds came out but not words.
"SHIT MAN. Sorry. I’m rattled Nigga SHIT." The calm stoic man had quietly made his way back to the front of Denny’s. Never noticing him, the other two men were startled when they realized he was there. Both men slightly jumped and gasped then tried to play off being frightened by putting on "mean mugs." More frantic and animated dark sunglasses shouted louder and used bigger hand gestures. "YOU MOTHAFUCKA. YOU CAN’T ALERT NO-GAWTDAM-BODY. THIS NIGGA. SNEAKIN AROUND N SHIT. NIGGA YOU SCARED ME."
"Samuel PLEASE."
"Sorry Marsellus. Shit. FUCK," Samuel said. The stern faced man shook his head then turned to the calm stoic man.
"This place empty?"
"Yup." The stern faced man reacted to this answer with a puzzled expression.
"Why would they leave this place?" he questioned.
"Marsellus this is a Denny’s. Nobody wants to be trapped in this Mothafucka," Samuel interjected. "Shoney’s, Zaxbys, Burger King, hell maybe even Taco Bell, but not no Denny’s." No one responded to the outburst.
"Are there any other ways to get in or out from the back? We gotta be prepared."
"Yeah," the calm man responded. "Made sure to block them. The back door in the kitchen. Doors to the men’s and women’s restrooms. Nothing should be able to get in here. If they are, we’ll know." One head nob showed the stern faced man approved, but.
"Should be? You sure none of them MothaFUCKAS are in here, or can get in?" Still shaken, Samuel’s head remained on constant swivel. "Man we can’t have none, not a single one of them in here. Hell no Nigga. They are eatin people. I’ve been aten before. A FUCKIN SHARK AT ME!"
"That was a movie Samuel. How many times have you seen that episode of Dave Chappelle?" his voice stayed stoic even asking such a weird question.
"We are in a Zombie Apocalypse and you’re asking me that kinda question. But since you asked. Twice. But I remember everything from it Morpheus. Top Five Samuel L Jackson impersonations, not done by Samuel L. Jackson."
"That’s not my name."
"You sound upset nigga. You gone hit me? Nigga I ain’t Neo, and I sure as fuck ain’t Tina either." For a moment rage flashed in the calm stoic man’s eyes. Squaring up, his chest expanded and poked out, facing off with Samuel. Before the two men could escalate things further, the stern face man spoke up.
"You niggas need to chill the fuck out. We’ve got major issues going on."
"Ving you’re right. Shouldn’t let him get to me." Silence. Samuel rolled his eyes still upset. Ving and the stoic man, peered out the window. A few hundred feet away a pack of zombies lumbered about aimlessly. Every so often one of them would stop, sniff the air then go back to rambling. Moving so much so close in a group caused zombies to bump into each other. Having brittle, ravaged, torn apart and dead or dying bodies it didn’t take much for a limb to come off when the zombies collided. Two zombies crashed and an arm fell to the ground. Three zombies, including the owner of the lost arm, pounced on it. They picked and ate the dead flesh.
"These some nasty ass sons ah Bitches."
"Something about them is not natural," the calm stoic man pondered
"Uh. You know they’re the Undead, right? Them…."
"What do mean Laurence?" Ving asked cutting Samuel off.
"There’s sort of a pack mentality. Do you notice it’s one or two sniffing around. Also, eating other zombies. Don’t they usually go after fresh brains, blood, meat and or humans?" All three men studied the zombies a little more intently, observing behaviors, movements, tendencies for anything unusual. Nothing more out of the ordinary, for Zombies, happened. Somewhat unexpected three of the zombies broke off from the group. The zombies went together toward another building. A Banana Republic. Didn’t run, but didn’t walk either, more of a fast paced power walk.
"The hell? That normal Laurence?"
"I do not think so. You’d think they’d only be mindlessly searching, hunting."
"Morpheus nigga, you a Zombie Expert now?" Samuel said, but he hadn’t finished. "MOTHAFUCKAS out there eating people. It’s some pretty simple shit. If we mess around we gone get ate too." Laurence shot Samuel a tense look, but kept quiet. Catching the glance, Samuel didn’t back down returning the glare. From "Zombie Watching" it had turned into a very manly staring contest between Laurence and Samuel. Eyes locked in, nostrils flared intensely, brows furrowed, teeth were slightly bared and mugs were meaned. Neither blinked. Ving ended up being the one to break their concentration.
"Why haven’t they come over here? One of em probably saw, heard or smelled us before we came in here." Samuel’s concentration broken he blinked first, mumbling "FUCK SHIT." The question had been directed to Laurence. Thinking about the question, he was stumped, possibly. He watched a particular zombie.
"Maybe the ones sniffing around direct the others toward prey or something." Samuel very audibly whispered "Not so much the zombie expert now, huh?"
"Kinda like pack hunters or scouts," Ving said.
"Possibly. When we ran in here the ‘hunters’ may not have noticed us. Could’ve been distracted by other prey. More people were in this area. Sort of a surprise we haven’t been detected. Especially since Samuel doesn’t seem to be able to control his voice, and it’s volume."
"HA. HA. HA nigga," Samuel responded. He gave Laurence a very stall deadpan face. "You must’ve visited the Oracle today, huh? Did she tell you all this shit about the zombies Morpheus? What lotto numbers should I play tomorrow? Will the Lakers win another championship? Will I ever find true love? Huh nigga?"
"Yo don’t start this again Samuel," Ving said agitated.
"Nigga who is you talking to? You sounding real Holiday Heartish Marsellus. Take ya Women’s Business Power Suit off nigga," Samuel fired back.
"NIGGA what?"
"You heard me nigga." Physically imposing and menacing as Ving appeared, Samuel stood his ground. If he was afraid his bravado, machismo, or something wouldn’t let him show it. "You ain’t gone talk to me any kinda way MothaFUCKA. Do I look like Jody to you nigga?"
"Nigga what?" Ving repeated.
"Do.I.Look.Like.Jody.To.You.Nigga?" Before he got to say anything else or do anything Ving snatched Samuel up by his shirt collar.
"You better chill. You don’t know who you talking to. I will fuck you up and not think twice nigga. Fuck you think this is? Fuck you think you talking to? Don’t FUCK with me NIGGA." While a Zombie Apocalypse raged outside, Ving hindered on the brink of unleashing his own Apocalypse. Laurence remained calm as ever.
"Guys we gotta calm down. You see how bad it is out there," Laurence said. To add more impact to whatever he was about to say, he cleared his throat in a dramatic fashion. "Didn’t take long for it to get this way, and things could still get a whole lot worse. We shouldn’t fight ANYMORE. We GOTTA pull together and figure out how to survive this. First we NEED to see what’s to eat in this Denny’s. Food and water will be essential in our survival." As if he’d dropped a very precious, expensive, and vintage vase, open mouthed and wide eyed Samuel and Ving stared at Laurence. The words had at least been enough to make Ving let go of Samuel’s shirt.
"Quite the speech, a good one Morpheus. Same speech you gave in Zion? I think."
"This Mothafucka," Ving said throwing his arms up in disgust.
"Why is it so hard for you to call us by our names?" Laurence asked. "That’s Ving and I am Laurence, you know us."
"Ving and Laurence. Laurence……….and Ving," Ving said, pointing to himself and Laurence.
"Look man. When you’ve done as much work as me, and been around so many people it’s kinda difficult remembering names. It’s easier to develop mnemonic devices to remember mothfuckas. You know."
"But," Ving started to say confused. Laurence put his hand up stopping him, just shaking his head. Again there was silence. Ving leaned closer to the window, checking on the happenings of the outside world. "HOLY SHIT." Two zombies dashed past a few feet away from the glass. Ving who ducked down, stopped himself from shouting too loud. Laurence dove toward Samuel, covering his mouth before he could yell. Nobody moved. Waiting close to a minute, Ving slowly rose to look out the window. There was a lot a hesitation and trepidation like the zombies would be waiting on the other side of the glass. Cautious, somewhat afraid he didn’t completely stand up. His eyes searched for any type of movement. He sank back down onto the floor exhaling. No sight of the running zombies.
"Jesus," he said. "How the fuck did this happen? Where the fuck did they come from?" Samuel looked to Laurence expecting and waiting for him to say something, but he said nothing. Samuel had an answer he wanted to get out, the eagerness was visible in his eyes.
"Bath Salt," he said in a matter-of-fact tone.
"What?" Ving and Laurence said in unison.
"It’s that Bath Salt shit. Shit got mothafuckas going crazy Ape Nuts crazy." Ving and Laurence exchanged puzzled looks, shrugging as the explanation continued. "Bath Salts recently became the leading cause of turning mothafuckas into Zombies. Some Japanese or European or some mothafuckin Scientist did the study, so it’s official. Only takes one person on Bath Salts to turn an entire town, no an entire fuckin city into zombies."
"But? Samuel?" Ving began saying, he was at a loss.
"Look, man you know how powerful the stuff can be?"
"Have you tried it before?" Laurence asked.
"FUCK NO. But I know something about powerful and dangerous drugs. In one movie I played a crackhead named Gator, who did a dance called the ‘Gator Dance’ for money to buy crack. Bath Salt turns mothafuckas into Gator on steroids multiplied by being a zombie."
"Samuel," Laurence said. His tone similar to a Teacher about to completely debunk a student’s wild theory. "Samuel, Bath Salt does not make people turn into zombies. Not in the way you might be thinking of."
"If a bad batch of Bath Salt got in the water." Samuel mimed an explosion using his hands.
"No. It still doesn’t work that way. Bath Salt is a very very powerful hallucinogen and can cause people to go insane. However Bath Salt is not the cause of zombies. Besides, I think what you’re thinking about……"
"Wait, y’all hear that?" Ving asked. A faint noise caught his attention.
"Hear what?" Laurence asked.
"Yeah ion hear a Gawtdam thang." Ving hushed them. He stood up. Louder, louder the sound got. Whatever it was was getting closer and closer to the Denny’s.
"FUCK," Samuel shouted.
"Shit," Laurence said.
"Fuck," Ving said. First came loud screeching noise, then a crash noise. Last came something that sounded like a small explosion. Frantic screams of curse words out of Samuel were almost louder than the noises. All three men instinctively hit the floor covering their heads. Any minute could be the end for them. Waiting for whatever was coming to just come. They waited. Waited. And waited.
"C’mon with the bullshit," Samuel loudly proclaimed. He hopped up to his feet. Unsure a crisis had been avoided Laurence and Ving stayed down. "Get y’all asses up. Ain’t nothing gone happen. We good niggas." Spoken too soon, something crashed through the window. Knocking down tables and chairs, passing right in front of Samuel. As the mass zoomed by his expression went from that of a confident man, to a man who had pooped himself.
"Shit," Ving shouted as he rolled out the way. Laurence got up, to dive out of the way. The thing crashed to the floor and rolled several times. Ving sprang back up to his feet. "Is it a zombie?"
"How should I know? I’m not getting close to it. It’s moving. This…….wait, where the fuck did you get a gun from? And MOTHAFUCKA YOU GOT A SWORD!" Perplexed Samuel looked from Ving who was pointing a gun, to Laurence who wielded a Samurai like katana. "Why do you have a sword? A Fuckin Ninja Sword."
"Because I am Morpheus."
"I know that nigga."
"No, not in that sense. At the end of filming the movie they gave me this authentic Katana Blade as a gift. I happened to be taking it to get sharpened today." Samuel accepted the story, asked no further questions, and turned to Ving.
"Dawn of the Dead and Pulp Fiction taught me to be ready for any and every dam thing." There was some movement, making them refocus on whatever had crashed into Denny’s. Ving cocked his gun. Laurence tightened his grip on the sword. Samuel cursed the other two under his breath while he raised his fist.
"Ahhh, arhhhhh."
"Oh shit it’s a zombie. Shoot," Samuel shouted.
"Shut up fool, ahhhhh, dang, hurt." Ving kept pointing his gun as he watched a person get to their feet.
"You’re human?" Laurence asked.
"Of course, what else would I be?" said the person. It was a man. Shorter than the three men. African American. He was burly and about as stocky as Ving. Trying to stand up straight he staggered, after such a terrible crash quite the feat to get up.
"A mothafuckin zombie is what you could be. Shoot him Marsellus. Shoot him before we get our asses ate up," Samuel said.
"Shut up, ain’t got time for all that jibber jabber fool. Getting chased. Crashed my chopper. These fools. Imma kill em." Not at all concerned with the gun or sword pointed at him, the man brushed glass off of his clothes. A light bulb went off in his head hearing the man talk. Ving also recognized an identifiable feature. Though not as tight as it used to be, it was unmistakable. The Mohawk of a Legend.
"Mr. T," Ving said.
"Mr. T?" Laurence said. Studying the man, it didn’t take long for context clues to come together. On the other hand Samuel seemed less convinced.
"A Mr. T Zombie, oh ok, shoot him….." Before he finished speaking, Samuel got hit by a vicious hook from Mr. T. For an older, slightly outta shape Mr. T, he moved quickly and put a great deal of power in the punch. Reminiscent of a young Clubber Lang. The punched knocked Samuel off his feet. "WHY THE FUCK YOU DO THAT? MOTHAFUCKA HIT ME," Samuel shouted holding his face.
"Shut up fool. Keep coming wit dat jibber jabber and imma put another one right up your nose." Mr. T brandished a fist like a deadly weapon.
"Man y’all tell Mr. T to be cool man."
"Oh so you can call him by his real name?" Laurence asked.
"Shut up," whimpered Samuel.
"How did you end up here?" Ving blurted out.
"On my way to speak to troubled delinquents got jumped by a gang of fools. Didn’t hesitate to use my fist on any of them. They were crazy."
"Um, Mr. T those weren’t regular people. They were Zombies. Did any of them bite you?" Laurence interjected. Mr. T stared at Laurence with fiery eyes looking into his soul as if he had been insulted.
"Zombies. What kinda talk is that? Nobody bit me cause I knocked their teeth out. Don’t play that mess."
"You realize we’re in the middle of a Zombie Apocalypse?’ Ving asked.
"A Bath Salt Zombie Apocalypse," said Samuel, now sitting Indian style on the floor. The wheels were turning in Mr. T’s head, it could be seen in his eyes and wrinkled brow. Thinking hard, he couldn’t put it together.
"Zombies. Foolishness. Jibber jabber. Zombies don’t appear out of nowhere. It’s a strenuous process to create em. A lot of time, effort, man power, science and magic is needed."
"Another Fuckin Zombie Expert Morpheus."
"What?" Mr. T spat. The sound of Mr. T’s voice directed at him, instantly silenced Samuel.
"You were being chased by a group of Zombies. How didn’t you get bit?" Laurence said, concerned. His eyes studied Mr. T for signs of a wound but couldn’t find any.
"Ain’t nobody gone bite me, when I got these." Mr. T held his fist up, punching at some invisible foe. "Plus there’s these." Reaching into the back of his pants, he pulled out two high caliber pistols.
"GAWTDAM," Samuel screamed. Ving mouthed "Wow" upon seeing the guns.
"Have you shot anybody yet?" Laurence asked.
"Of course. Fools step to me wrong, they getting put down. Swiftly. No hesitation."
"Notice how the people you shot didn’t die?"
"Huh? Of course they died. A shot to your skull from one of these……Put an end to every fool."
"Hope they were actually zombies."
"Jibber Jabberers. Fools. Zombies. Whatever. Had to take care of them." A scream interrupted them. It was bestial and savage scream. "One of them fools chasing me. Made me crash my bike. My fist need to go talk to em." Mr. T re-holstered the guns in his pants and headed toward the window he had crashed through.
"Shit they know we’re in here."
"Because of that MOTHAFUCKA," Samuel exclaimed. He angrily pointed at Mr. T’s back, quickly putting his hand down when Mr. T’s head turned slightly. "FUCK WE GONNA DO? MOTHAFUCKAS ARE COMING." Outside a group of zombies had gathered, twenty or thirty of them. Under the glow of the Denny’s logo the ghastly features of the zombies were illuminated. Horrid faces of the dead given a eerie red and yellow tint. In the group were several of the "hunter" zombies. Having caught the scent of new prey they lead the other zombies forward. This group crept towards, it was a slow methodical pace, inching closer and closer. Ving, Laurence, and Samuel all looked at each other uncertain of what to do. Mr. T a man on a mission stood in front of the window psyching himself up.
"Believe me when I say we have a difficult time ahead of us, but……."
"FUCK ALL THAT ZION SHIT MORPHEUS," Samuel said.
"Yeah man, fuck it," Ving said, surprisingly nodding his head in agreement.
"This ain’t Zion. It’s a Fuckin DENNY’S. Ain’t no Matrix. Ain’t no machines out there. It’s badass, hard to kill, creatures absolutely and positively capable of killing every Motha-fuckin-body in the room. This is some mothafuckin shit. Not the way I planned to spend my Saturday. Was on my way to Whole Foods. But we gotta deal with it. No other way. We gotta head forward. We are three of the baddest Black Mothafuckas around. Shiiiiiiiiiit, if anybody can survive this it’s our black asses. Along with the strong, and crazy Mohawk mothafucka over there we good. Fuck all the bullshit. Let’s fuck some zombies up"
"You tired of these motha……" Ving started to say.
"Don’t ruin it Marsellus."
"We doing this?" Laurence asked. Encouraged and pumped up by the strange yet motivational speech, he just need a bit more of a push.
"You wanna die in a fuckin Denny’s?" Ving asked. The three men exchanged looks. Each of them hyped, shaking their heads, eager to do something.
"FUCK NO!" Samuel cheered.
"HELL FUCKIN NO," Laurence added.
"Let’s go," Ving said. The three men walked up to where Mr. T stood. A pepped up, leaned out, strut in their step. Outside, the horde of Zombies mere feet away from them. Samuel picked up a chair. He held it like a baseball bat, cocked back over his shoulders.
"You really gone use that?" Mr. T asked.
"I will bust a zombies ass with this," Samuel responded.
"Here’s something better." Seeming to materialize out of thin air Mr. T tossed a twelve gauge shotgun to Samuel. Soon as the shotgun touched his fingers, his eyes lit up and widened like a kid opening a glowing treasure box on Christmas.
"MOTHAFUCKA." He cocked the gun.
"Hell you get a shotgun from?" Ving asked Mr. T who didn’t answer.
"Nobody gives a fuck Marsellus. I got me a mothafuckin Zombie blaster right here."
"Time to get some payback on these fools." Mr. T jumped out the window charging the zombies. Laurence, Ving, Samuel exchanged looks one more time. Mr. T let out a war cry. Hearing this they echoed the war cry and charged ahead.
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