3. Blue Betty

It was a brisk and dewy summer morning alive with birdsong, zombie snarls, and gunfire. The attack was a leisurely one. Only twenty or so of the enemy crawled out of the river and shambled into the killing field across the street. We took our time picking them off. Each household in the neighborhood called their shots over the radios.

“Mine!” my wife shouted from our balcony. “All Ears; Gray House,” she broke into the frequency, “It’s Betty. I call that straggler. Hold fire. Repeat. Hold your fire.”

“Hey, Jack!” I heard Kyle yell at my left. He crossed my driveway chugging an energy drink while a cigarette dangled from his lips. His mullet was wild from sleep. His bathrobe was open, exposing his Superman boxers and the eagle tattoo on his chest. “Is she sure about this one?” he asked as he stepped onto my porch. “It looks like the fucking Hulk. Just needs the purple pants.”

The straggler was indeed huge. It plodded across the killing field — growling, spitting, hurling rocks and bones. Its green skin glistened in the sunlight. It seemed to ponder its dead companions, diverting to observe their bodies and then glancing back toward the river. For a moment I thought it was going to retreat. But had that consideration actually entered its feral brain, it was quickly abandoned. The monster thumped its chest and resumed its cumbersome charge, howling its rage as it passed the piles of charred zombie bones.

Betty strode onto the porch, “What do you think for this one, Kyle?”

“I’ll surprise you,” he smiled and darted back to his house.

Betty tucked her blue hair under a Phillies cap…

… it had gotten so wild.

“I just washed all that,” I pointed to her tank top and cargo shorts. “Try not to get too soiled now.”

Her hazel eyes betrayed her smile. “Not this morning,” Betty shook her head. She drew both .357 magnums from her shoulder holsters, checked their cylinders, and replaced them. She kissed me on the cheek and unsheathed the pair of Bowie knives hanging off her hips. “Love you,” she said and then she walked across the street to edge of the field.

Betty thrust her knives into the air and waved her arms at her approaching prey. “Hey!” she screamed. “Hey, over here! Yeah, that’s it! Yep, right here! Come and get me, you ugly green cunt!”

Kyle’s generator came to life. He pushed the sound board and speakers onto his porch, checked the connections, grabbed the mic, and flipped a switch. His voice — backed by some generic 1980s filler tune — echoed through the neighborhood:

“Ladies, gentlemen, and the undead! Good morning! And what a beautiful morning it is. I’m your host, Kyle Zlogowicz, but while I’m up here spinning and sinning, you can call me DJ Zlog. I’ll be taking requests in just a little while, and we may even break out the karaoke machine. First up, though, we got an oldie but a goodie to play, along with a dazzling and dangerous warrior willing to showcase her slashing, her stabbing, and her deadly dancing. Please welcome once again to the killing field, Blue Betty!”

The stock music faded and the air filled with the hopeful piano introduction of “Don’t Stop Believing.” Betty’s booted foot tapped out the beat. The first verse and instrumental were complete by the time the giant reached her.

A singer in a smoky room
The smell of wine and cheap perfume

Betty engaged. The zombie was faster up close. She ducked its swings and dodged its grabs, removing green flesh from it with every slash, eliciting shrieks from it with every stab. Its blue blood spattered her face and arms.

My son joined me, still in his pajamas, clutching a plush Darth Vader.

“Good morning, Liam. Where are the dogs?” I asked.

“They’re sleeping,” he shrugged. “The new pup wanted to come out and see what all the noise is, but Mina told him it’s all just a — hackneyed? — ordeal and that he should continue his nap. And yes, I fed the rat.”

I thanked him and returned my attention to Betty. The dissection continued. She swung hard at the zombie’s shoulder and its left arm fell to the ground.

“Whoah, Mom!” Liam laughed. “‘Tis but a scratch!” His freckled cheeks glowed red and he wiped tears from his eyes with the Vader doll. “Oh, man,” he sighed. “Oh, man.”

The zombie was soon overwhelmed and fell to its knees. Betty danced to the anthem and made her way behind her foe. She drove one blade through the top of its skull and used it to pry back and lift its chin. She moved her other knife across its throat, slicing until its spine was severed. She pulled the monster’s head from its shoulders in a shower of blue gore.

Don’t stop believin’
Hold on to that feelin’

The neighbors’ cheers and air horns mixed with the music. Betty held up her trophy. She panted and screamed and sobbed and sang along with Journey.

“Why?” Liam asked.

I put my hand on my son’s shoulder, “Because she is the strongest among us.”