Zombie Kong by James Roy Daley

bad. The fact that his thinking was more coherent meant he would have the ability to be more devious, more cunning, but it also meant she would have a better chance of rationalizing with him. Maybe she could talk him down, make him understand that she wasn’t the bad guy here. She didn’t do anything wrong… aside from stabbing him in the face, that is. She wondered if it were possible to have him see things her way.
    Slim to none, she thought. My odds are slim to none, and Slim left town.
    Any questions?
    Is that what he said? Any questions? What kind of bug-shit inquiry was that? She wanted to throw something at him and make it count, but the only thing in her hand was Dale’s inhaler and she didn’t want to throw that . Dale needed it. In fact, now that she thought about it, she didn’t have time for this… any of this. Dale was waiting.
    She needed to do something, but what?
    There was a clock on the dresser, ticking away irrelevantly. Maybe she could reach out and grab it before the psycho knocked her block off. It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was the only one she had.
    Stepping towards the dresser she switched the inhaler from her right hand to her left. She swallowed back her fears and leaned in.
    Kirby said, “When I was child––”
    Terror pushed into her, making Candice nervous. She stepped back, afraid to do anything but listen to his voice.
    “––I had a baseball bat,” Kirby continued, his chicken-eyes narrowing. “It wasn’t as nice as this one. It was old and dirty and very well loved. I gave it a name: Smasher. I used Smasher a lot. Mostly, I’d use it to go suckerfishin’ down at Cooper’s creek with a boy named David Camions. David was a mean little bastard who liked fighting kids that were smaller than him… when he got a little older, he was in and out of jail more times than I can recall, which everyone expected. But a few years ago, I ran into David and we got to talking about the good old days, back before jail, those long days when we’d spend the summertime fishin’. He changed his name, David did… he was calling himself Elmer Wright, if I remember correctly. Anyways, David–– Elmer, if you prefer––he’d hold the net and I’d swing the bat. We had it down to a science. Do you know what suckerfish are?”
    Candice shook her head, whispering, “No.”
    “Suckerfish are about a foot long and they have these big Mick Jagger lips. If it weren’t for the lips, they’d kind of look like a trout or a bass, but you can’t eat ’em. Don’t ask me why. Fish are put on this earth for one reason and one reason only… to be eaten. And if you can’t eat ’em, do you know what they’re good for? Nothing. ” Kirby brought the bat up and sat it on his shoulder. His free hand continued opening slowly and snapping shut. “We’d go down to Cooper’s creek with David’s net and my old bat and hunt suckerfish. I’d club ’em and David would scoop ’em up. Then we’d lay ’em on a rock and beat the shit out of ’em. Sometimes, if you hit ’em in the right spot––the sweet spot ––their guts would squeeze out of their mouths like toothpaste from the tube. When we were finished, we’d toss what was left of the bastards back in the creek. It was friggin’ awesome.”
    Thumb between her teeth, Candice started thinking about that window again. Maybe she could jump through it after all. Or maybe she could charge full steam ahead and knock the psycho on his ass before he knew what was happening. Yeah. That was a better plan. Maybe she could do that.
    “Anyways,” Kirby said, still grinning, “I figure this bedroom here makes a pretty good net, and this bat may not be Smasher, but I think it’ll do the job just fine. I’m going to beat the shit out of you, bitch. I’m gonna hit you right in the sweet spot, and when I’m finished I’m gonna throw your remains in the creek.”
    Kirby’s chicken-eyes widened as he tightened his grip and lifted the bat from his