Zombies From Bensonhurst, Ep II.

The actual assignment was to photograph the rotting old ships and barges in Coney Island Creek on behalf of one of my various art-loving benefactors. I was more interested in revisiting our recent zombie citing in the marshlands. The plan was to snap a few shots and then explore the rest of the inlet to find out if there were really undead congregating back there.

*Expense Account Item #1: New front bumper with paint on leased Honda Accord.* We discovered the actual No Trespassing signs after accidentally blasting though one of the flimsy concrete barriers blocking our way to the field.

We hacked through the weeds and came out on a rise overlooking the desolate lagoon. We were surprised to find the tide had gone completely out of the inlet leaving most of the old hulls completely exposed. We were looking at a vast empty basin of thick oily sludge the shape of a giant boot heel in the mud. There were bottles, big tires, engine blocks and other industrial waste embedded in the sludge. It was an archaeologist’s dream and an ecologist’s nightmare. I thought I’d walk around the rocks following the coast to the other side to get closer to the ships I was getting paid the photograph. I left Trace up on the ridge while I went down to the sand. I took a few steps, slipped on something and tumbled down over the rocks to the wet grungy sand below. My clothes had torn and I twisted an ankle on the stones and found myself stuck in the mud. I extracted myself with a sucking sound and rolled on my hands and knees to stand up. I was covered in a thick brown/gray oily sludge that clung to me like undercooked oatmeal. There was sand on my face, in my mouth and in my underwear. I looked up to the rock and found a bright brown pile with my footprint in it.

I heard Trace call from up the ridge, “Is that-“

“Crap!” I yelled. “40,000 acres of deserted wasteland and I have to step in a pile of dog crap!”

*Expense Account Item #2: One gallon industrial cleaner, one wire brush, one pair industrial rubber gloves, one respirator mask.*

“Um, that’s probably not from a dog.”

“Well, what the hell else would it be? Ewwww, you don’t mean…”

“Yep, Zombie doodies.”

“Will you stop with that already, it’s probably just a dog.”

“Or not.”

“Dude, this is no time for jokes. I probably have people crap, human excrement…on my freaking pants and I look like a breaded cutlet!”

“Zombie doodies.” She said.

I dragged Trace, who was in obvious nasal discomfort and limped slowly to the edge of the outlet. I was not at all in a good position to shoot the ships from this vantage point. I needed to get across the inlet where the ships were closer to the shore. I stared out at the wet expanse.
Trace saw the look on my face and beat me to the punch, “You can’t make it.”

“I can walk across.”

“No, you can’t.”

“Totally.”

“Dude, it’s further than it looks. You’ll sink into the mud and the tide, which is coming back in will basically drown you and the Zombies will eat your brain. Let me have the car keys just in case.”

“I can make it. It’s not that far.”

I took ten limping painful steps and promptly got stuck mid calf in the mud. I began flailing and waving my arms around for balance as I was cursing up a storm. Trace tip toed out on the mud flat, surprisingly buoyant, and grabbed my arm. She tried to steady me and pull me out but I fell on her and we struggled to stay upright. There I was grunting with exertion and Trace yelling at me, “Stop, stop! Let go, you’re going to make us both fall!!”

Suddenly, a couple of hipsters with cameras sprang from the weeds behind Trace and unleashed an unearthly howl as they charged us….

“ZOMBIE!!” the first one screamed. “HIGH SPEED BRAIN MUNCHING RABID ZOMBIE JUST LIKE IN THAT BLOG!!” “Look, its attacking that poor girl, GET IT WITH THE SALT SHOT GUN!”

Salt shot gun?

Trace fell away from me just a one of them pulled out a sawed-off and let off a shot, “PWAFF!”. I was felled by a searingly painful burst of salt pellets to the groin and fell over face first into the mud – again. Since when do hipsters love guns?

*Expense Account Item #3: One pair testicles with titanium cup.*

I awoke about an hour later strapped to the trunk lid of the Honda. My head was splitting and my crotch was throbbing but not in a good way.

“Where am I?” I asked.

“You’re about to go through a car wash because you’re not getting in the car like that. Those idiots read your stupid blog and came to see for themselves. They saw you falling over in the mud all tattered and covered in crap they thought you were a zombie attacking me. Just as they were about to ventilate your cranium I got the gun away from them and made them tie you to the car. I told them I was taking the zombie to, “The Institute” for study. They were all too happy to oblige, stupid hipsters. Now shut up and hold your breath, its bath time…”

As the car slowly entered the car wash and the hot sudsy water lapped at my feet, I thought perhaps it best if I gave up on the zombies. Then again, dancing with the undead sure beats working construction with Johnny Style….