Chapter 19

“These?” she asks, holding up – with two hands – an industrial sized can of beef stew.

I shake my head.

“Look for something like potted meat, or meat spread. Look for words like ‘tripe,’ which is the cow’s stomach lining, or ‘offal,’ which is all the internal intestines, in the list of ingredients.”

We have to get Roger some brains, stat, or he’s going to be useless to us.

I know from personal, firsthand experience that, in a pinch – i.e. when the Sentinels are late shipping our latest brain delivery – that any kind of canned, potted, processed “junk meat” would work.

Not for long enough, like weeks, but there’s enough brains in there to get us by for a couple of days; and right now, all Roger needs is a couple of hours.

If we’re lucky.

That’s because, in a sordid little secret humans would get grossed out over but zombies frequently rejoice over, few modern processing plants waste an ounce of a slaughtered animal, meaning your average canned meats, even hot dogs, have plenty of liver, kidneys, spleen and, yes, even brain mixed in.

Not enough to substitute for the real stuff, the fresh stuff, but enough to get a brand new zombie through the first few day or two without wandering around like a complete and utter tool.

“Aha,” says Tara, rising up from a stack of huge cans in the pantry with one marked “potted meat paste product” held triumphantly in both hands.

“Perfect!” I shout, sticking two fingers into the top and peeling back the lid while Tara watches, wide-eyed.

“Groovy,” she says, at least until I use those same two fingers to scoop out a handful and shove it down my gullet, making smacking noises with my greasy, glistening tongue.

Instantly I feel the slight sizzle and charge of brain product found in the soft, pinkish meat spread product thing I’d just consumed.

It’s like when you go to plug in the Christmas tree lights in the dark on December 25th and your finger gets too close to the socket and you feel that not unpleasant surge pass just by your fingertip; yeah, like that, only… now imagine that surge passing through your whole body, stem to stern.

Nice, huh?

Welcome to my Afterlife.

“This’ll do,” I say. “Now, any luck finding that funnel?”

She hands over a white plastic funnel that looks recently cleaned, if you consider “recent” anytime in the last decade.

I shrug – no germs are going to hurt him now – and open up the first walk-in cooler.

As expected, Roger is just coming to.

Lying on the graceless refrigerator floor, one shoe squashing a head of lettuce and his hand resting in a half-frozen pile of last week’s chocolate pudding – please let that be last week’s chocolate pudding – his ironic T-shirt has rather un-ironically slipped up the crest of his belly, exposing an admirable gut that, over the next three weeks will literally fall away as his body converts the fat to hard, gritty, sinewy muscle.

(You’re welcome, Roger!)

He sits up as we approach, squinting into the light that bathes our backs and must make us look downright angelic to him.

That is, until I bend down, push his head back onto the floor, insert the semi-clean funnel into his mouth and, as directed, Tara spoons most of the giant, industrial-size can of potted meat paste product down his gullet.

He resists at first, like most “Fresh Meat,” i.e. brand new zombies, but once his body gets that first faint fizzle of food borne electricity he sits up and chows down.

He knocks the funnel away and soon Tara is spoon-feeding him as Roger licks greedily at the empty spoon.

I shove his hands away and say, “Enough, big boy; we don’t want you on overload!”

Then I take the rest of the industrial size can and scoop out what’s left for a little midweek pick-me-up.

Like Roger, I suck greedily at the spoon then, when the can is practically empty, abandon it for two probing fingers which latch onto each and every morsel of meat byproduct to be found inside.

When I’m done I wipe my fingers on Roger’s socks.

He sits up, burps and slurs, “Quit it.”

“Ah,” I smile. “You can already speak; I knew there was a reason your head was so big!”

He cocks his head and looks around and says, “Why aren’t I cold?”

I smile and say, “Trust me, Roger, you ARE cold; but I stuck you in here to help you get better adjusted. Do you think you’re ready to join us outside the cooler? Because pretty soon I think we’re going to need all the help we can get.”