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Heist of the Living Dead
     
    Ned,
the demolitions expert of our undead crew, pumped his wrinkled, greyish fists
in excitement. “Aaaaargh,” he said, which in Zombish means “It’s so crazy it just
might work!”
    “Aar
aargh, arga-raar?!” exclaimed Freddy in response. Freddy was always nay-saying.
 
    “But
that’s why it’s perfect, Freddy old boy,” countered Ned, still in Zombish,
“they’ll never expect us to break into something protected by the Pentagon!
It’ll be a heist like no other. Those damned vampires won’t be bragging so hard
about their little blood bank holdups after we’ve knocked off the national brain
tissue depository.”
    I
could always count on Ned to defend my schemes. Still, what with all the bad
press going around about our sub-par intelligence, it was important to put Ned
straight.
    “ Re -pository,”
I corrected. “Not de- pository.” It was kind of a difficult distinction
to make in moans and groans, but you let these things slide, and you deserve
every bit of prejudice the media heaps on the previously perished.
    “What’s
the difference?” asked Ned, who I swear had a bit of gore between his front
teeth.
    “One’s
the place we’re going to break into and steal a fortune in frozen brains. The
other’s a dumbass thing to say. And go brush your teeth. We have planning to
do.”
    “Blara
Graaaargh?” asked Freddy as Ned shambled off.
    “No,
Freddy,” I said. “Your teeth are fine.”
    *****
    We
crouched in the darkness by the gated entrance and watched Sarah sashay herself
up to the lit guard’s booth. She’d worked hard to sexy up the shambling step
that plagues our kind, and I have to say if I was alive, I’d have found it
downright appealing. She wore a mini skirt and some kind of shiny top. Her wig
looked good too. Covered over every bit of her patchy scalp. And the makeup,
well the girl was just a wonder at makeup. Somehow, she’d even managed to fill
in that hole in her cheek, the one you could see her teeth through.  
    Well,
up she walked. The guard leaned out his glass window on cue, and she smiled and
batted her mascara at the poor sap.
    And
then her arm fell off.
    Sarah
looked down at it. The guard looked down at it. The fingers on it twitched.
Sarah jumped into the booth through the window and ate the man’s face.
    “Aaaaarrgh,”
said Freddy.
    “Yeah,
no kiddin’,” groaned Ned.
    I
turned to look at Ned and would you believe it, his freshly stolen black T-shirt
was hanging out of his black skinny jeans, and he already had rips in them both.
We knock off a Gap so we can look professional, and here he is looking like a
bad stereotype! “How does that even happen?” I asked.
    “Aaaarg,
Clarrr,” said Freddy in Ned’s defense.
    “Nobody’s that clumsy,” I told Freddy. “And you,” I said, rounding on Ned. “Have
some self respect. At least keep your shirt tucked in.”
    Back
at the guard’s booth, the chain-link gate was sliding aside and Sarah was
looking down at her arm on the ground. Her face was now a smear of blood and
makeup, but you could still see her perplexia. Should I pick it up and take it
with me? Should I leave it? Hide it in the bushes? What?
    “Leave
it,” I said as Ned, Freddy, and I walked through the gate. “Give ‘em something
to wonder about.”
    “Aaargh,”
Sarah purred seductively.
    “Sure,”
I said. “The best prosthetic money can buy. One for every day of the week.” Sarah’s
smile was grisly, but warm. I could see her planning outfits to match her new
arm already.
    Past
the guard’s booth, the place was dark, with a few floodlights along the roof of
the bunker-like building. A camera was perched beside each one, but I’d already
dealt with that. All it took was a wheelchair, an old army uniform, and an
overly-glossy Repository brochure.
    See,
the whole place was built to study how trauma effects the brain, particularly
the type of trauma one encounters while driving armored trucks over