A Can Of Pepsi
by Michael A. Kechula
When Roger crossed the 7,000
foot summit of the mountain pass, his car engine
sputtered and stopped running. No matter what he
tried, he couldn’t start his car.
His watch said ten after
midnight. The moon was full. All was deathly
quiet—until he heard a horrible scream.
Frightened, he lowered the hood, jumped into his
car, and pulled a pistol from under the seat.
Moonlight illuminated a man
in the middle of the road. Walking slowly, he
dragged one foot, as he moved toward Roger’s
car.
Shuddering, Roger turned
off the pistol’s safety and wrapped his
finger around the trigger.
The figure stopped twenty
feet away. Then it screamed again.
Roger turned on the
headlights. Chills raced down his back when he
saw a zombie with one arm and the top of its head
missing.
“Get the hell out of
here,” Roger yelled. “I have a gun.
I’ll use it if I have to.”
The zombie kept moving
toward him.
“Stop, or I’ll
shoot!”
When the thing ignored his
warning, Roger leaned out the window and fired
eleven times. Unfazed, it kept moving.
“What the hell do you
want?” Roger hollered, swapping the empty
bullet clip for a fresh one.
“Coca Cola.”
“Phew. For a second, I
thought you wanted to eat my brains.”
“I hate brains. I want
Coca Cola.”
“Would Pepsi do? I
have two cans. You can have both if you leave me
alone. Promise?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll throw them
to you. Can you catch them—considering that
one of your arms is missing?”
“Yeah,” the
zombie said, couching like a catcher on a
baseball team. “Show me how fast you can
throw it. C’mon, burn it in. Give it all you
got.”
Roger had a lousy throwing
arm. But he didn’t want to antagonize the
zombie. He opened the door, leaned out, and threw
a can as hard as he could. Unfortunately, it
sailed over the zombie’s head, hit the road,
and exploded.
The monster sprang to its
rotting feet and growled.
“Wait!” Roger
yelled. I’ll throw this one real slow.”
“No. Hand it to me.”
Roger got out of the car
and waited until the zombie was within spitting
distance, then extended the Pepsi.
The zombie grabbed
Roger’s arm and pulled it out of the socket.
The shock threw Roger to the ground. While fading
in and out of consciousness, he saw the zombie
munching on his bloody arm as if it were corn on
the cob. In minutes, only the bone was left.
When the zombie raised the
bloody arm bone to whack his head, Roger gasped,
“Please don’t…you’ll…fracture…my
skull.”
“What better way to
get at your brains?”
“You…said…you…hate
brains.”
“Did you really expect
a one-armed zombie with the top of its head
missing, on a deserted road in the middle of
nowhere, to tell the truth?”
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