(In Part 1, Thomas Jefferson and his friend the medieval knight were entering the student center at the zombie-plagued campus. Let’s join them . . .)

Within and to the right there was a doorway marked CAFETERIA. In my travels prior to my death, I had dined at many foul and dirty inns and taverns, but I had encountered nothing to match the stench of this place. Whether that noisome stink came from the food or from the dirt-and-blood-bespattered people dining at the tables, was not easy to ascertain – everything and everyone smelt vile.

I asked my companion whether he smelt anything funny.

“I like it not,” said the knight, “I am not over-delicate, not given to the effeminate practice of regular bathing, and yet this stench is fouler than anything even I have e’er encountered. Nay, not even in the locker room after a jousting tournament have I smelt a stink like unto this.”

“On the other hand,” I said, “I am hungry, and I have not eaten for 183 years.”

“I, too, would not mind a morsel of supper,” said my friend. “It has been several generations since I have tasted food, and I would fain nourish myself before battling the monsters.”

Cautiously, then, the two of us proceeded into the cafeteria. The lure of our hunger led us directly to a sort of commissary table where a serving-boy was ladling out food to customers in line. Both the serving-boy and the patrons were dirty and blood-spattered. The smell was excruciating. Fortunately, I had developed some tolerance of smells in my career as a gentleman farmer, and the knight literally had medieval standards of hygiene. So I made bold to ask the serving-boy:

“Pardon me, my good sir, what is the special of the day?”

“Brains,” said the serving-boy, pointing to the grayish-pink mass that he was ladling out to the customers.

“And no slight intended,” I pressed on, “but are these brains fresh?”

“Just came in yesterday,” said the lad, giving me bowlfuls of the stuff to myself and my friend.

As if we had not fully realized until this instant how hungry we were after centuries of nothing but spiritual nourishment, the knight and I devoured the meals which had been given to us, without even troubling to first seat ourselves at the tables.

“It is indeed fresh,” I declared enthusiastically between bites. “It tastes quite filling.”

“Verily,” said the knight, who had shared some of his meal with his horse and then dismounted so as to refill his own bowl, “it is indeed nourishing fare. Where didst thou get these?”

“From the Physics Department,” said our server. “It’s a good thing you came when you did – these brains are so popular that we’re almost out. By tomorrow we’d have to reheat some brains from the Law School – and those are stale, out-of-date they’re hard to swallow.”

“I must compliment the physics department,” I said. “Your physicists must be excellent cooks, even if your lawyers are not.”

“The physicists certainly cook well,” said the server. “And they’re much easier to slaughter. They didn’t put up as much of a resistance as the athletic coaches did.”

My knightly companion and myself simultaneously spat out our meals. A wave of nausea overcame me as I realized that I had been dining upon the remains of my fellow men.

“You are zombies!” I exclaimed, as the knight drew his broadsword. Suddenly, he noticed that some of the customers had seized his horse by the reins and was dragging it away.

“Fiends!” cried the knight, “unhand my steed! I shall not permit you to feast upon him!”

“Chill out,” said one of the zombies, “we don’t eat horses – we’re just going to give this one a good home in a high-school cafeteria in New Jersey.”

Before the knight could rescue his mount, the remainder of the zombies in the cafeteria – for they were, indeed, zombies – swarmed in upon us, teeth protruding, fingernails extended, uttering their war-cry of “brains!” Although I blush in modesty to record the fact, some of the monsters urged on their fellows by pointing to me and saying that my brains would make a special delicacy, being so large and juicy.

The knight laid about him with his broadsword, each stroke felling a zombie. I myself joined in the battle. Though I had no weapon, during my time in Limbaugh I had made the acquaintance of a gentleman who had lived in Asia. His name was Bodhidharma, and he had great skills in the arts of unarmed military combat. I had spent several decades learning these arts from Bodhidharma, and performing training exercises – to the extent my disembodied condition at the time permitted. The training I had received stood me in good stead at this perilous juncture. With my feet and hands, I rained blow after blow upon the advancing zombies, scattering them across the floor.

Our initial success against our enemies almost inspired a fatal overconfidence. The zombies who had been felled by my friend’s sword and my blows rose again to their feet and returned to the attack, a development which sufficiently shocked us that we were almost routed. We rallied, however, and felled our adversaries again. This time, we took care to prevent the zombies from recovering; under my direction, the knight went from one zombie to another, beheading them before they could recover their footing.

Without their heads, the zombies were rendered ineffectual, but the loathsome creatures were not dead. The headless trunks writhed around aimlessly, while the heads shouted insults at us.

“There’s lots more of us,” taunted one of the heads, “thousands of us just in this town! They’ll be coming for you and your friend Sir Spam-in-a-Can! Listen – you can hear some of them now!”

Indeed, I could now hear a low murmur, as of a great number of people approaching. Glancing at the entrance by which we had entered the building, I saw a veritable host of the monsters. They were nearly at the building entrance, and it would be but a short shuffle from thence to the cafeteria.

Continue to Part 3, if you have the guts (never mind the brains - better not bring them)

About Maximilian Longley

Tags: creative writing, ends & odd //