Orthodontics in the Zombie Apocalypse

14. Hello, Greg (1/2)

One of them continues dancing like a drunk girl at a college party--a white drunk girl. That is to say, the dancing is all arms and looks like a gorilla on crack.

I leave her alone for now; might as well let her enjoy the undead experience before beating her tainted brains out. She can continue flipping around her long, golden hair; which retains a surprisingly shiny sheen to it even though half of it has long been torn out, leaving the better portion of her skull red and irritated and covered in black veins.

I hack away at the other zombies until the flimsy handle breaks in two. I wish I had a nice, lead pipe to crack their brittle bones with.

"Here, kid." Some guy walks out of the shadows with a metal baseball bat in one hand and a lead pipe in the other, extended towards me. He also has a very crackly, chainsmoker-esque voice.

Without another glance, I take the pipe and swing the heavy object at the zombies, whose bones shatter on impact. The crumple but keep coming at me until the new guy and I pound them to nothing more than piles of flesh and bone.

I brush a severed finger out of my hair and take a good look at the guy. He has a bit of a squatty build--definitely shorter than me by a good inch--and very dark, bushy eyebrows that run into each other right in the middle of his forehead. It's patchier in the center, but still very obviously a unibrow. He also has wrinkles that make his squinty, black eyes and small mouth droop, perfectly accentuating his spotty tan and garden of small, black moles over one cheek. His nose looks like a mushroom slice shoved into his face; flat and wide.

"I'm Piper," I say, speaking directly to a particularly unseemly mole.

The man extends a greasy hand--probably from his half-bald, oily head, which he scratched right before offering the hand. "Greg."

I focus on the gaping bald spot glaring down from the top of his head, giving him a monk-like look, as I take his hand reproachfully. It feels both callused and slippery at the same time; the wonderful mixture of working hands with sweat and skin oil.

I wipe my hands on my pants when he turns to the damaged mess of would-be zombies. "You've got a lot of rage in ya, kid. Left a mess like a bull in a china shop."

"I'm just glad you had an extra pipe." I stroke the lead pipe with a gently touch, feeling the smooth but grimy surface.

"I was worried you bit off more than you could chew."

"Convenient that you had my favorite choice on-hand right then! Where'd you even get a lead pipe?"

Greg shrugs. "Used to live in Flint. They really cut corners with the pipes."

"Ohhhh, Flint." My eyebrows scrunch together. "Where's Flint?"

"Montana."

I frown. "Isn't it in Michigan?"

"Not the Flint I come from. To make a long story short, my Flint is just a bit smaller, so nobody cared too much that we've been using lead pipes for ages." He pats the pipe in my hand. "This one came right outta my basement."

"And you just carried it around the whole time?"

"Absolutely. A solid weapon is a dime a dozen these days."

My frown deepens. "Then why would you carry around this heavy pipe?"

"Oh! I meant to say they're rare as rocking horse manure."

"I've never heard that expression before."

"Really? I suppose it takes two to tango."

"What are you even talking about? When were you going to tango?"

"Never mind."

"Well, it's nice to meet you, anyhow. If you'll excuse me, I have to catch up to my group. I decided to play hero."

"Mind if I jump on the bandwagon?"

Can I even say no at this point? Would I have to give back the pipe if I do? "Sure you can!" We walk in the direction I saw everyone else head off. "Hey, do you know any orthodontists by chance? Preferably still human and not insane."