Sweat Zombies by Raymund Hensley

vitamin D, and that she was impressed I did
not vomit.
    I had gained her trust.
    That night, I cried myself to sleep.

    Three.

    B arbara said she
had something amazing to show me; but I could tell no one. I assured
her that I could be trusted, and she drove me Makiki.
    We parked in front of a one-level apartment structure.
Kids played jump rope nearby.
    “ This woman’s insane,” Barbara said.
“As a licensed psychologist – which I am not – I
advise you to say nothing to her.”
    We stood outside of a door that was covered with
pictures of women in hospitals, giving birth and screaming. Barbara
knocked on the door and told me again – quite seriously –
that I could tell no one who we were about to meet.
    The door opened, revealing a frail, middle-aged woman in
flower-designed bra and panties. I tried not to look.
    Her face lit up when she saw Barbara and they hugged and
jumped up and down, giggling.
    This woman’s apartment was dim; when I closed the
door, it was practically pitch-black inside.
    She fixed her hair.
    “ You have to excuse my appearance. As you can see,
I’ve been sick.”
    Barbara examined her arms.
    “ Gun wounds, again?”
    “ They had weapons. I forgot that they could go off
even if you don’t know how to use your hands. You should have
seen them. They’re horny. They had red eyes.”
    “ Were they dark red?”
    “ I don’t remember. I’m colorblind.”
    “ How did you protect yourself?”
    “ I killed them in the face.”
    “ You always use violence. If ever we should
tussle, I should have a raw duck dangle around my neck.” She
put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I don’t want to
make your innards weep.”
    “ Don’t worry about me. If I die, to heaven I
shall go for my heavenly deeds.”
    “ Heaven does not transform assholes into angels.”
    “ Even angels have assholes. Now excuse me while I
kiss the sky.”
    She lit candles and I could tell immediately that she
had been drinking much, for there were empty bottles of vodka all
over the floor and in holes in the wall. Some were tied to strings
and dangled from the ceiling. Did this woman have a violent streak? I
grew nervous. Alcoholics can never be trusted. They do sudden things
that boggle the mind and madden the mouth. If ever I was allowed to
speak, I had to be careful of what I said.
    As she guided us into the kitchen, we passed by what I
can only assume to have been a bedroom transformed into a storage
room – full of stained computer boxes and toddler clothes. I
could have sworn I saw a figure inside, standing between two towers
of Macintosh G4 boxes. I wanted to investigate, but I was too afraid
to stop walking.

    Four.

    T here was a special smell to the
apartment, best described as a daunting combination of alcohol and
soy sauce and cat.
    On
the hallway walls were old black and white, blown up pictures of
strange men and women in groups – pictures taken in the woods,
cemeteries, and lakes. All carried guns and whips and wooden stakes –
all gathered in front of the camera, showing off their kill, which
were all impaled horizontally and displayed like boars about to be
roasted. Only these prizes were not about to be eaten (as far as I
could tell) and they were certainly not boars.
    They were human .
    I made no visible reaction in seeing all of this,
although my innards were complaining.
    Before I stepped into the kitchen, I asked if I could
use the restroom. There, I sat on the toilet to stitch together my
thoughts. What was happening? Were these people cannibals? Were they
crazy? Or worse…crazy cannibals?
    Barbara was arguing with the woman – I could hear
them throw things made of glass and other heavy objects.
    Then…
    … silence…
    … followed by weeping apologies.
    They began to laugh and clap their hands. Barbara began
to sing to her.
    “ Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you.
Happy birthday, dear Mommy. Happy birthday to you. Hurray! Yessm!
Blow it out, blow it out! Yessm!”
    It