Lights flashed in and out of time to organ music pumped in through low quality speakers. Games, rides, and food carts filled the basketball courts and softball fields at Dewey’s Memorial Park.

“Look, they have a real elephant!”

“Daddy, can I play the balloon game? Please?”

“Kettle corn. I love kettle corn.”

Excitement filled the air, as families lined up for The Blaster, pulled puffy wads of cotton candy from communal bags, or sprayed the mouths of metallic clowns with water from squirt guns, trying to fill their balloons to bursting before anyone else.

“Hurry, hurry, hurry, for a chance to Whack-A-Zombie,” the carnie huckster called to the passersby. “Line up, for the chance to whack one of these fearsome, hungry, undead creatures.  Will your shot be the killing blow?”

Twenty-five bucks for three whacks. That’s how it started — a carnival game. Who wouldn’t pay for three chances to hit a real live, or rather, undead zombie? It was an instant hit for the Danling Traveling Carnival. From Tallahassee Florida to Portland Maine, paying customers, willing to shell out hard-earned money for a chance to whack a zombie, lined up in droves.

***

“Can I whack the zombie? Johnny’s parents let him,” Greg asked, practically jumping up and down like a first grader. Red, and yellow lights reflected off of his head making a kaleidoscope of his blond hair.

“Sure Son,” Greg’s Dad responded, holding a half-empty plastic cup of beer.

“No way, you are only fourteen. Besides, that game is disgusting,” his Mom said.

“But Dad said I could…”

“Oh let him have fun for a change. You’re always nagging the boy.”

“No, I won’t have it! My son is not going to whack a zombie. For once, I wish you would support me.”

And that was that. With no further discussion necessary, Greg’s Dad finished his beer and Greg moped off to find his friends.

***

“No you may not whack the zombie,” Dillon’s Mom said, tussling his red hair. When Dillon’s Mom said no, there was no point in asking a second time.

“What can I do then?”

“I tell you what, I’ll give you twenty dollars and you can play the shooting game. Use the rest for rides.”

“Really? Thanks Mom!”

Dillon ran off into the lights and commotion. Finding Greg and some other friends, he headed straight to the shooting game.

Thirteen minutes and fifteen dollars later, they walked away with square paper targets in lieu of prizes. Each target had the remnants of a red star with some part of it shot out.

“Look, that’s Johnny,” one of the boys said, pointing to the Whack-A-Zombie line.

Johnny stood in line, holding Julie’s hands.

“He gets to do everything. My mom won’t let me do it,” Dillon said.

“Mine either,” Greg, the shortest of the group, added.

“Hey twerps! Guess mommy won’t let you play the big boy games, huh?” Johnny called out. Seeing Greg look his way, he kissed Julie on the lips.

Dillon grabbed Greg’s shoulder and said, “She’d go out with you if you talked to her face instead of always looking down.”

“Yeah, stop checking out her butt you perv,” one of the boys added and they all laughed.

“Let’s go on the Roundup.”

“Yeah, let’s go!”

***

“Dillon? Are you asleep yet?”

“Not anymore.”

“I’m glad your parents let me stay over tonight. Mine are fighting again.” Greg pulled off a thick, green comforter and sat up. “It’s all they ever do now, since Dad lost his job.”

“It’s okay. I’m sure they’ll be all right,” Dillon said, rolling over to face the other boy. His room had two twin beds, side by side, under the window. Light from the hallway spilled in, revealing various trophies, toys, and clothing in a faint, colorless haze.

“I really wanted to whack one of those zombies.”

“Yeah, me too, but at least we got to play the gun game. That was the first time my parents let me.”

“I know, but, it’s just… The carnival is only here once a year. Maybe they won’t have zombies next year. My dad says they’ll be outlawed soon.”

“Hey, maybe we should sneak into the carnival tonight and try it,” Dillon said, chuckling.

“Maybe we should.”

“Naw, I wasn’t serious.”

“I am. We may never get a chance after tonight.”

“I know, but, it’s all the way across town,” Dillon said, pulling the covers to his chin. “Plus, I’m tired.”

Greg stood up and pulled hard on Dillon’s blanket, revealing a skinny, white chest and gray boxers. “Get up, we should do this. It’ll be fun.”

“It would be fun… Okay, let’s do it!”

The boys stuffed pillows under their blankets, forming roughly human shapes. As a finishing touch, Dillon added a copper-colored stuffed owl to his doppelganger, leaving its head just above the blanket.

With the room safe from prying parents, the boys climbed out the window, onto the porch roof, and jumped down into the front yard. Only Rufus, the neighbor’s bloodhound, noticed them, and he was too lazy to bark.

The boys rode their bikes to the park and ditched them in a clump of trees just outside the basketball court.

When open, the carnival lit up the night with games and rides.  Laughter carried through the air. But now, with all the lights out, it looked broken and destitute. It was as if Greg’s home life had settled over the festive grounds and destroyed any lingering joy.

Dillon surveyed the scene, passing his eyes back and forth several times, and walked along the outskirts of the carnival toward the zombie cage. Snoring came from some of the campers, as did the sounds of drinking and late night cavorting.

“Do you hear that?” Greg asked. “I think they’re doin’ it in there.”

Both boys stopped to listen. Few things took precedence over zombie bashing, and catching people “doin’ it” was most definitely one of them.

“Grab that crate.”

Dillon picked up a rough wooden crate and set it down beneath the window of the silver Airstream camper. Climbing up, he peaked in to see a fat middle-aged man on top of a muscular woman.  Her huge biceps and gigantic legs wrapped around him. They moved and grunted like a couple of animals and sweat glistened off the man’s hairy back.

Whispering to his friend, “gross,” Dillon climbed down.

“Let me see,” Greg said, climbing on the crate. “That is gross. I think I’d rather see the zombies doin’ it.”

“Maybe they are; let’s go see.”

The boys walked away from the terrible window and moved from shadow to shadow toward the zombie cage.

“What if we get caught,” Dillon asked.

“Are you kidding? They’re all sleeping or drunk. We can get in, take a few whacks, then run to our bikes. No one will catch us.”

“Okay, but I’m not so sure about this.”

“Follow me. There’s the bat from the whack-a-zombie booth.”

The boys jogged toward the bat, stopping at each obstacle along the way to hide. They could have been playing hide and seek or executing a black-ops covert operation.

With bat in hand, they headed to the zombie cage. It held four smaller cages, each covered with a tarp.

Gingerly stepping toward the cage, Greg said, “I’ve never seen one of them before. Have you?” His normally dark face shone white in the moonlight.

“No, only fakes on Youtube.”

“The main cage is padlocked, but I think we can break the latch.”

Greg used the handle of the bat to pry a metal tab loose, allowing him to force the latch open enough for them to climb through.

Groaning, like a gagged man, sounded from the zombies as they heard the small commotion. A hand, gray and rotting with loose flesh, reached through the tarp of the nearest cage.

Both boys froze in place, holding their breaths, until the moaning quieted down.

“Do you think anyone heard?” Dillon asked.

“If they did, we’d have been caught by now.” Greg responded like he was talking to a small child. “Help me pull the tarp off.”

The boys pulled the tarp, inch by inch, revealing the zombie. It wore an orange, blood-splattered jumpsuit and its head was bashed and beaten. Some places bulged while others had small craters where a particularly solid hit from a bat had landed. Only three fingers remained on its right hand

The zombie reached toward the boys, groaning louder than before. They jumped back, slamming into the outer cage, just out of reach of the groping arm.

“What do we do now?” Dillon asked, barely above a whisper.

“We hit it,” Greg said, raising the bat.

The first strike ripped cloth, flesh, and rotting muscle from its arm, but the zombie didn’t seem to notice. It just kept reaching and groaning.

Greg swung again, this time hitting the hand, drawing blood, but otherwise doing little damage.

“Let me try,” Dillon said, taking the bat from his friend.

All the force he could muster merely thudded against the putrid upper arm.

“This sucks, we can’t get a good shot at it this way,” Greg said. “We have to let it out, or it’s not going to be any fun.”

“Are you crazy? We can’t let it out.”

“Hey, what’s going on out there?” A voice called from one of the trailers.

“Oh crap, run!” Greg said in a harsh whisper.

Dillon dropped the bat and turned toward the gate before hearing Greg scream. The zombie had caught him by the hair and was pressing its face into the opening between two bars. It’s mouth chomped in mid-air as if it were already feasting.

Picking the bat up, Dillon swung with all his might. The impact made a sickening crack against the zombie’s arm, but it did not let go.

“Get it off me!” Greg said, his voice a childish whimper.

Two more swings broke the zombie’s arm, and with a tearing sound, the third separated its hand. Finally free, Greg followed his friend through the broken gate of the main cage.

“You kids wait right there!” The voice was not far behind, but the boys didn’t stop.

“If I catch you here again, I’m going to beat the shit out of you! I never forget a face! You hear me?”

Reaching their bikes, the boys hopped on and pedaled as fast as their legs would go. They rode a mile before either boy spoke.

“There’s something in my hair,” Greg said, voice shaking.

“What is that?” Dillon asked between ragged breaths. “Pull under the light.”

Still grasping Greg’s hair, a rotting hand leaked blood and pus onto the back of his shirt.

“Get it off!” Greg gagged.

Dillon picked up a stick and gingerly pushed on the hand.  It clenched Greg’s hair, pulling a small clump with it as it fell to the ground.

“Man, let’s get out of here,” Dillon said.

***

Exactly fifty-two weeks passed since that night. Dillon and Greg laughed about it often. At a mature fifteen years of age, they were too sophisticated to be afraid anymore.

The carnival was back and Whack-A-Zombie no longer existed. In its place was The Apocalypse. No more smacking immobile zombies with a cheap bat. Now, you wore a protective suit and fought the zombie horde. For fourty-five bucks, you fought six zombies in a fenced in corral. Knocking an arm off won you a small zombie stuffed animal. Killing one got you the grand prize, a chance to run the zombie gauntlet, and of course, chickening out after you already paid got you humiliated in front of the crowd.

“Remember last year?” Greg asked. He had grown three inches, and was no longer the shortest in his group.

“That was the best. You almost cried when that hand stuck on you.”

“My parents still won’t let me do the zombie game.”

“Mine either,” Dillon said, shaking his head.

“Hey Greg,” Julie called out from the ticket line.

“Oh, hi Julie,” Greg responded, blushing.

John, now the all around king crap at school, put his arm around her slender waist, and making sure everyone could hear, asked, “Why are you talking to these losers?  Come on, I’m doing the zombie game.”

“Let’s go watch, maybe he’ll get eaten,” Dillon said.

***

The line at the Apocalypse stretched beyond the fried dough cart and around the ticket booth. There must have been a hundred people waiting for a chance to bash skulls.  An even larger group crowded the game’s fence, cheering on the contestants.  Shouts of yeah, get em, this is gross, and did you see that head fly, mixed with the carnie music in a macabre song.

“This is so cool,” Dillon said, pressed up against the protective barrier around the game. “I think John’s next.”

John stood first in line. He wore a black protective suit that looked like something a high tech cop would wear in a futuristic movie. It had armor around the chest and a helmet that connected the suit at the neck. Not an inch of skin was exposed. He watched the game while waiting his turn.

The contestant swung his bat in spastic arcs from every possible angle. He scored hits on the zombies, but no kills, and no heavy damage shots. No prize for him.

The announcer called out to the crowd, “Well ladies and gentlemen, next up we have John.”

“All right, pick up your bat.”

John picked up the bat and turned to face the zombies.  He jumped back a bit when one of them reached through the gate.

“John, when you’re ready, hit the lever to let the fearsome zombies in.”

John didn’t move. The announcer gave him a little push.

“Any time you’re ready kid.”

He didn’t move, didn’t move his legs, didn’t move his bat; he just stood there. The crowd called for him to go in, but he didn’t.

Greg looked at Dillon with a grin, “Big bad John’s too scared to go in. What a wuss.”

“What a baby,” Greg called out. “You’re all talk man.”

John’s head slumped down as his shoulders jerked up in short spastic movements.

His crying only emboldened Greg. “Is the baby crying? Do you need your mommy?”

The crowd responded to the taunt with jeering laughter.

“Screw you Greg! If you’re so tough, you come in here.”

“I will. At least I won’t chicken out like you.”

At that, the crowd cheered, raising their arms, spilling beer, soda and popcorn.

The announcer beamed at the commotion and picked up his microphone. “Well folks, it looks like John is going home but now we have….”

Looking at Greg he covered the microphone and asked, “what’s your name kid?”

“It’s Greg.”

“Greg… I remember you. You played last year.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Oh, I never forget a face. You whacked a zombie last year.”

Uncovering his microphone, the announcer called to the crowd, “Ladies and gentlemen, we now have Greg. Will he survive the Apocalypse?”

Loud cheering, hooting, and cat calls covered Greg in ego raising, prudence devouring confidence. He raised his hands, hopped up and down, and the crowd went wild.

Greg suited up, the announcer personally buckling his helmet. As he picked up the bat, Greg noticed for the first time how light it was. It must have been hollowed out.

“Bring on the zombies!” the announcer called, and Greg pulled the lever, opening six cages.

The first zombie, a fleshy man in construction worker’s clothing, ambled toward Greg. The boy stepped up and swung in a sideways ark. The bat landed with a wet thud against the zombie’s head, knocking it to the ground. Two more zombies stumbled from their cages, and for the first time, Greg noticed they were not chained.

“What the…” he said as one of them fell into him. Jumping back, he swung upwards, pushing its hands away. Three more zombies joined the horde, none with chains.

Undeterred, Greg swung like Babe Ruth. The bat in his hands shattered bone, ripped cartilage and tore muscle. One more zombie fell before a gray arm, oozing blood and slime, gripped his shoulder. Greg tried to jump back but hit the fence.

“Why aren’t they chained?”

“They’re supposed to be pulled back!”

“Someone help him!”

He heard shrieking in the crowd, but no one tried to help. Another arm grabbed his waist, and as Greg screamed, mouths bit at the Kevlar fabric covering his body.

“Help! Someone help!” he yelled.

A pile of rotting appendages groped and punched at him, as the zombies tried to pull his protective clothing off. And when the handlers came to pull them off, Greg’s helmet had come loose, exposing the flesh of his neck.

Screaming, Greg ripped the helmet off and threw it into the crowd, knocking the beer out of a large blond man’s hand. Cheers erupted and Greg jumped on the barrier like a professional wrestler, raising his arms in triumph. He had survived the Apocalypse.

***

Later that night, the boys met up with a group of teens behind Hal’s junkyard.

“I can’t believe they’re letting us in here,” Dillon said to Greg as they walked near a small fire the others were sitting around.  Several of them had 12 ounce Budweiser cans in their hands.

“Hey Greg,” one of the boys called out, throwing a can. “Have a beer.”

“Hi Greg,” Julie said. “That was cool what you did at the carnival.”

John was there, sitting under a tree, two empties by his feet.

Except for John, the whole crowd listened to Greg recount his version of The Apocalypse, until, one by one, they walked away.

Stumbling toward Dillon, Greg spoke with a slurred voice. “Hey Dillon, I’m gonna kiss Julie.”

“You and she both seem drunk enough.”

“Drunk? I didn’t even finish the first beer.” He pronounced first beer like firsbir.

“Sure, whatever,” Dillon said, noticing a scratch on the right side of Greg’s neck. It was swollen and pink in the middle, but surrounded by a large patch of gray.

“I’m gonna to kiss her right now.”

Greg stumbled away, almost falling into the fire, and grabbed Julie.  He looked at her head, attention drawn for the first time above her neck, rather than below.