Luckily I’d seen that Tarantino film and wasn’t the squeamish type. When the zombie apocalypse hit, I got out the axe, the morphine and the bandages. It meant relying on Brad and counting on his two brain cells to fire at the same time, but there wasn’t anybody else. Luckily, he proved he could follow instructions. For that, I felt I owed him. Plus he was cute and could play ‘Tangled Up in Blue’ well, sounding better than Dylan, though it wasn’t the time or place to be choosy.
By the time I’d recovered enough to hit the road, nobody was in charge. There were just pockets of people holed up, trying to survive. We met Dolly while heading south–zombies don’t cope well with humidity — stumbling across her theme park just outside Gatlinburg. I took in the well-fortified structure while Brad babbled about mammaries. The guards on duty looked wary and hungry.
“Take me to who’s in charge,” I said. Then I showed them my leg. They opened the gate immediately.
I could see it was an ideal shelter, practicing old-school trades. There were blacksmiths, weavers, glassblowers and farmers. We were shown to an office.
“Welcome to the party!” said a twangy voice I’d only ever heard on TV or radio. Dolly stood to greet us from behind a huge desk. She was tiny. Barely 5’2” in platform heels. I wasn’t a fan, but ‘Coat of Many Colours’ had been my momma’s favourite song. In spite of the situation, Dolly’d kept her dress sense, wearing a bikini with a sequinned wrap-around made from Old Glory. Her legendary breasts were barely contained in her tiny top. Both Brad and I gawped, unable to speak.
“Now lemme getta look at you, girl. They say you got something special.”
I whipped off the bottom half of my Velcro trousers. Dolly gave an appreciative whistle. I told her how I got my machine-gun leg and that I’d taught myself to shoot. I cocked my leg and took aim at the far wall to show how I handled my equipment. The only downside I explained, was I couldn’t wear high-heels anymore. Dolly clucked in sympathy. When I showed her the grenade-launcher feature, she clapped her hands in delight, though I was honest with her and told her I didn’t use it much as it gave me terrible chaffing. Her famous giggle tinkled through the room.
“Golly girl, you’re packing — just like me. Better than me. You’re welcome to stay,” she said and gave me a hug. B
rad looked like he might need a bib for all the drool, but managed to gurgle, “What about me?”
Dolly assessed him, wrinkling her nose, then looked at me. I gave a slight shrug. “He has his uses,” I mumbled.
Dolly turned back to Brad. “OK, sugar, you’re young and strong. You can stay too.” Turning back toward me she said, “We’re running low on supplies. Will you help?” Then she showed us her breasts. Her bikini top was actually a tailored-made nursing bra. She pulled down a tab.
“Nothing store-bought’s gonna fit these gals since getting geared-up for zombie fightin.” Her breast was still flesh coloured, but was now a chamber; the nipple the tip of a sawed-off shotgun. “They’re not bazookas, but they do the trick.” She slid a shell into a slot underneath her breast. “I can load one or both. Then I hang onto somethin’, give my sides a squeeze and let rip.” I nodded, sufficiently impressed while Dolly continued, “We were doing alright, but I lost my contacts and broke my glasses bad. Zombies keep getting our menfolk during raids. We could really use a gal like you.” She smiled her winning smile.
How could I refuse?
“There’s just one rule though,” she said. “No hugging on me while I’m loaded, OK?” Then she outlined the plan. “‘Wal-Mart has everything we need, but those zombies lay in wait — they’re not dumb like some.” She looked at Brad. He would join six men to grab water, ammo and medicine. Me and Dolly would provide cover. We took the last of the ammo and headed off.
The raid was considered a success even though we lost one of the men. Dolly said they’d never had a haul this big before. We congratulated ourselves on our victory. I realised it wasn’t just an adrenaline rush I felt as I launched grenades from my leg and watched Dolly fell zombies with her breasts. I had an inkling it was the same for her — she couldn’t take her eyes off me even when she was supposed to be aiming at zombies. Later, Brad swaggered over to us. “Ladies, I think it’s time to reward me for the work I did today.”
Dolly and I looked at each other and laughed.
We fixed Brad — he doesn’t bother us anymore, and still has his uses — we’ve taught him a few new tunes. I’m so glad Momma liked that rainbow-coloured Dolly song. It helped the light bulb click on. We’re happy as two shells in a shotgun. Now maybe one day the zombie apocalypse will end, or maybe it won’t. Either way, we got each other covered.
Sherry Morris is from a small Missouri town, but lived in London for almost 17 years, working as a university administrator and dreaming up schemes to retire early. She recently moved to a farm in the Scottish Highlands to begin a new life with her partner. It suits her with her stories finding homes online (with Molotov Cocktail and Horror Scribes) or in print (with Bath Flash and National Flash Fiction day anthologies).
When not writing, Sherry spends time walking in the stunning Scottish countryside, gardening or talking to horses. She tweets @Uksherka To see more of her writing, visit: uksherka.com or Amazon profiles: https://www.amazon. com/author/uksherka (UK) https://www.amazon.com/Sherry-Morris/e/B072W72LZP/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_2 (US)