The sound of the frying pan connecting solidly with skull and the subsequent thud of a body slumping to the ground caused Juanita to take off her blind fold. Desmond looked at her, put on a weak smile and said in a wavering voice, "Uh, surprise?" followed by a nervous chuckle at the end.
We then all looked up to see an even older old Caucasian lady than the dead old Asian lady standing over the unconscious form of the monk, still holding a frying pan. She looked at some of us with a quizzical expression on her wrinkled face. "What is you?"
I managed a stupid sounding, "Huh?"
She looked directly at me and scrunched up her eyes real squinty like, causing her nostrils to flare and her upper lip to bare her two front teeth. "What is you? You ain't black, but you ain't white! What is you?"
Out of her line of vision, Mbu moved his index finger in a circular motion around his ear in a classic 'She's cuckoo' gesture. Without moving my head, I looked at him, them back to her. Afraid to meet the same fate as our robed compadre, I cautiously replied, "Uh, ma'am, we're Chinese."
"Shinies? You mean you've finally come for me? I've been waiting for you Shiny folk all my life! I've got my bag packed and everything. When you gonna take me to your ship? Oh, but where's my manners? After such a long trip, you've gotta be hungry! Do Shinies like fried chicken?" She started heading toward the kitchen, where the smell of fried chicken overpowered any other smell, hopefully even the smell of fear.
Still not entirely sure what was going on, we all moved toward the kitchen where she had a whole basket full of legs, thighs, breasts and wings.
"What are we gonna do about my daddy?" asked Juanita.
"Oh, him." The old lady grabbed a bucket of water and threw it on the monk, which caused him to sit straight up, sputtering.
After the monk had taken some time to revive and refresh himself in the bathroom, he came to join us in the kitchen. He eyed the tasty spread. "You sure do know your way around a frying pan," he told the old lady.
"Thanks," she beamed. "I used to be a cook in the Navy."
"All this cooking has the added benefit of making enough aroma to overpower any other smells we might be emitting. I trust that enough of you know what I mean." He nodded to me and my two friends and we nodded back.
When the feast had come to an end, the old lady, the young Asian lady and the two children went into the living room while the monk, my friends and I stayed in the kitchen to talk. It was the first real opportunity to talk we'd had since this had all begun.
The monk had some things to tell us. "The old lady's name is Helen Hiawatha. She is a guest of mine at the facility. She has dementia like Mrs. Kim, the old Asian lady. Helen believes that aliens are coming to take her to the planet Mars. She lives in this building because she has violent tendencies. This building is built more securely for that very reason. We should be safe here. We had several guests here, but most of them were paranoid schizophrenics who were killed by the dead things."
Mbu raised his hand as if this was some sort of class room for the demented. "Um, so if Mrs. Kim had dementia too, why was she in the other facility?"
The monk nodded his head. "She is the non-violent type. She was a repeater. About once a week or so, she would hear something new that would catch her ear and she would start to repeat it over and over again. If it happened to be in English, she would just copy the sounds, not knowing what they meant."
"Her son visited her every month. He always brought his wife and son with him. This time, he was in the park hanging out with his mother while his wife busied herself by reading a book to their son."
"When the dead things came, they left the old lady alone, but they bit the man. I managed to get Mrs. Kim, her daughter-in-law and her grandson inside, but the man was left outside to die. The only thing is, he didn't stay dead. When he came to the door later, the boy was with his grandmother in her room, but the young lady let her husband in. He attacked her, but somehow she managed to get the upper hand and she put her stiletto heel through his ear, destroying his brain. Ever since then, all she's done is try to read that book to her son. Probably some form of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder."
"I turned on a radio to see what was going on when I heard the emergency broadcast. It didn't come in too clearly, but Mrs. Kim heard it and kept repeating what she thought they were saying. Speaking of Mrs. Kim, she might have come back by now. You see, the brain goes on living for a few minutes after death. Often, during a beheading, the head sees the body from the new point of view and goes crazy before it dies. The last part of the brain to survive is the primitive cortex close to the brain stem. These dead things have probably been driven insane. On top of that, they are driven by primal instinct with a keener sense of smell, sharper night vision and an insatiable urge to feed."
"Those pestiferous pus bags act like a wolf pack," observed Mbu.
"Why won't the dead just stay dead? It's not fair. I mean, I've got a mid term coming up and I haven't studied at all," complained Desmond.
"You know, I think the dean will understand that we had some extenuating circumstances, Desi," said Mbu with a consoling pat on the shoulder.
"Did you know that tombstones were first placed over graves to prevent the dead from coming out and harming the living? Why doesn't that work any more? It's supposed to work!" continued Desmond.
"Maybe God's not happy with us," said Mbu. Then he turned to the monk, "Or in your case, Buddha."
"No, we can't blame God or Buddha for this. So often, we humanize God, just so that we don't have to spiritualize ourselves," observed the monk.
"Hmm. How did you become so wise?" I asked the monk.
He put his hands up in a surrendering gesture. "Oh, believe me, I'm far from perfect." Cloudiness seemed to cast a shadow over his eyes. He reached into the folds of his robe and his hand came out with a small golden cross and a piece of paper. "I had a lover."
"Juanita's mother," mumbled Mbu.
"Yes. Her name was Yvette. She was a Mexican Catholic and I am a Tibetan monk. By all accounts, it shouldn't have worked out, but the heart sees past religious differences just as it sees past racial differences."
"Well if you loved her so much, what happened?" asked Desmond.
The monk unrolled the piece of paper and palmed the golden cross. He traced his finger across the paper as he read aloud, "We were different she and I. Coming up here reminds me of that. I wore a necklace with beads while she wore one with a cross. We ate a lunch up on a hill top. I've returned to the spot which holds these memories. What no one knows is that she fell that day. All I could grab onto was the pendant on her neck. When she fell the crucifix came off into my hands. And so I have it still along with all my guilt in my pocket. With me so I won't forget the day I watched her fall. That is the cross I bear." By the end of the note, there wasn't a dry eye in the room.
We then all looked up to see an even older old Caucasian lady than the dead old Asian lady standing over the unconscious form of the monk, still holding a frying pan. She looked at some of us with a quizzical expression on her wrinkled face. "What is you?"
I managed a stupid sounding, "Huh?"
She looked directly at me and scrunched up her eyes real squinty like, causing her nostrils to flare and her upper lip to bare her two front teeth. "What is you? You ain't black, but you ain't white! What is you?"
Out of her line of vision, Mbu moved his index finger in a circular motion around his ear in a classic 'She's cuckoo' gesture. Without moving my head, I looked at him, them back to her. Afraid to meet the same fate as our robed compadre, I cautiously replied, "Uh, ma'am, we're Chinese."
"Shinies? You mean you've finally come for me? I've been waiting for you Shiny folk all my life! I've got my bag packed and everything. When you gonna take me to your ship? Oh, but where's my manners? After such a long trip, you've gotta be hungry! Do Shinies like fried chicken?" She started heading toward the kitchen, where the smell of fried chicken overpowered any other smell, hopefully even the smell of fear.
Still not entirely sure what was going on, we all moved toward the kitchen where she had a whole basket full of legs, thighs, breasts and wings.
"What are we gonna do about my daddy?" asked Juanita.
"Oh, him." The old lady grabbed a bucket of water and threw it on the monk, which caused him to sit straight up, sputtering.
After the monk had taken some time to revive and refresh himself in the bathroom, he came to join us in the kitchen. He eyed the tasty spread. "You sure do know your way around a frying pan," he told the old lady.
"Thanks," she beamed. "I used to be a cook in the Navy."
"All this cooking has the added benefit of making enough aroma to overpower any other smells we might be emitting. I trust that enough of you know what I mean." He nodded to me and my two friends and we nodded back.
When the feast had come to an end, the old lady, the young Asian lady and the two children went into the living room while the monk, my friends and I stayed in the kitchen to talk. It was the first real opportunity to talk we'd had since this had all begun.
The monk had some things to tell us. "The old lady's name is Helen Hiawatha. She is a guest of mine at the facility. She has dementia like Mrs. Kim, the old Asian lady. Helen believes that aliens are coming to take her to the planet Mars. She lives in this building because she has violent tendencies. This building is built more securely for that very reason. We should be safe here. We had several guests here, but most of them were paranoid schizophrenics who were killed by the dead things."
Mbu raised his hand as if this was some sort of class room for the demented. "Um, so if Mrs. Kim had dementia too, why was she in the other facility?"
The monk nodded his head. "She is the non-violent type. She was a repeater. About once a week or so, she would hear something new that would catch her ear and she would start to repeat it over and over again. If it happened to be in English, she would just copy the sounds, not knowing what they meant."
"Her son visited her every month. He always brought his wife and son with him. This time, he was in the park hanging out with his mother while his wife busied herself by reading a book to their son."
"When the dead things came, they left the old lady alone, but they bit the man. I managed to get Mrs. Kim, her daughter-in-law and her grandson inside, but the man was left outside to die. The only thing is, he didn't stay dead. When he came to the door later, the boy was with his grandmother in her room, but the young lady let her husband in. He attacked her, but somehow she managed to get the upper hand and she put her stiletto heel through his ear, destroying his brain. Ever since then, all she's done is try to read that book to her son. Probably some form of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder."
"I turned on a radio to see what was going on when I heard the emergency broadcast. It didn't come in too clearly, but Mrs. Kim heard it and kept repeating what she thought they were saying. Speaking of Mrs. Kim, she might have come back by now. You see, the brain goes on living for a few minutes after death. Often, during a beheading, the head sees the body from the new point of view and goes crazy before it dies. The last part of the brain to survive is the primitive cortex close to the brain stem. These dead things have probably been driven insane. On top of that, they are driven by primal instinct with a keener sense of smell, sharper night vision and an insatiable urge to feed."
"Those pestiferous pus bags act like a wolf pack," observed Mbu.
"Why won't the dead just stay dead? It's not fair. I mean, I've got a mid term coming up and I haven't studied at all," complained Desmond.
"You know, I think the dean will understand that we had some extenuating circumstances, Desi," said Mbu with a consoling pat on the shoulder.
"Did you know that tombstones were first placed over graves to prevent the dead from coming out and harming the living? Why doesn't that work any more? It's supposed to work!" continued Desmond.
"Maybe God's not happy with us," said Mbu. Then he turned to the monk, "Or in your case, Buddha."
"No, we can't blame God or Buddha for this. So often, we humanize God, just so that we don't have to spiritualize ourselves," observed the monk.
"Hmm. How did you become so wise?" I asked the monk.
He put his hands up in a surrendering gesture. "Oh, believe me, I'm far from perfect." Cloudiness seemed to cast a shadow over his eyes. He reached into the folds of his robe and his hand came out with a small golden cross and a piece of paper. "I had a lover."
"Juanita's mother," mumbled Mbu.
"Yes. Her name was Yvette. She was a Mexican Catholic and I am a Tibetan monk. By all accounts, it shouldn't have worked out, but the heart sees past religious differences just as it sees past racial differences."
"Well if you loved her so much, what happened?" asked Desmond.
The monk unrolled the piece of paper and palmed the golden cross. He traced his finger across the paper as he read aloud, "We were different she and I. Coming up here reminds me of that. I wore a necklace with beads while she wore one with a cross. We ate a lunch up on a hill top. I've returned to the spot which holds these memories. What no one knows is that she fell that day. All I could grab onto was the pendant on her neck. When she fell the crucifix came off into my hands. And so I have it still along with all my guilt in my pocket. With me so I won't forget the day I watched her fall. That is the cross I bear." By the end of the note, there wasn't a dry eye in the room.
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