[ WP ] Dyslexic zombies rise from the dead , searching for `` Brians ''

Dave took a step backward, his shoulders tapping the wall behind him. He pulled the broom he was wielding across his chest like a shield, trying to keep as quiet as possible. He could hear them outside the closet, moaning softly as they mindlessly searched for him, blindly fumbling around his apartment. He never actually thought that the zombie apocalypse would happen, nor that it was even remotely possible. Even if it did, though, he thought he ’ d pretty good at it. He ’ d watched every season of *The Walking Dead*—twice—and had once had to detain a man high on PCP, which he imagined was quite similar to a zombie. He assumed he ’ d probably lead an uprising of some sort, or perhaps start a village of survivors within massive walls. Instead, he ’ d spent the first hour of the apocalypse cowering in his apartment, grabbing a broom—of all things—as his weapon of choice. 
 
 The zombies outside his door were knocking over almost everything in his apartment that wasn ’ t tied down. He hadn ’ t had an opportunity to see how many there were exactly, but he did recognize one of them as his across-the-hall neighbor, Brian. He ’ d let himself in through the unlocked front door while Dave sat on the couch, watching the coverage of the newly-declared apocalypse. He and Brian hadn ’ t spoken much in the years they lived together, although they did occasionally wave when passing. Other than that, it was simply a first name basis: Dave and Brian, neighbors and not friends. He wished he ’ d been a little closer to him, though, on the off chance that some part of his mind remained intact following his death. At least then, perhaps, he might not try to eat Dave ’ s brain. Now, as far as he could tell, Dave was as good as dead. 
 
 Something knocked on the closet door, or rather scratched against it, the sound of fingernails sliding down the beige paint. It stopped at the other side of the bronze handle and began fumbling it. Dave lunged forward and grabbed it, trying to prevent it from twisting. His palms were soaked in sweat, though, failing to do more than slip around as the knob turned. He pulled his hand back and frantically began drying it off on his shirt, returning it just in time to feel it slide out from under his grip and watch helplessly as the door flung open. 
 
 Brian stood on the other side, or at least a creature that was once Brian. His skin was pale and necrotic, even after merely an hour or so since his death. His lower jaw appeared dislocated, a smear of blood cascading down from his chin and onto his ripped shirt. Another zombie stood behind him, in no better condition, whom Dave also recognized. Coincidentally, his name had also been Brian, the superintendent of the apartment complex. They ’ d spoken a few more times than Dave and his neighbor had, but they were far from friends. He was pretty sure he never even learned Dave ’ s name, just “ the guy in 307. ” 
 
 “ Brians, ” the Brian closest to Dave moaned, grabbing at Dave and attempting to pull him in. Dave flung himself back against the rear wall of the closet, fumbling to protect himself with the broom clutched across his chest. They wanted his brains, to rip through his skull and nourish themselves on his consciousness, although they did appear to have a speech impediment of some kind. 
 
 “ Help, ” Dave shrieked, thrusting the broom forward and smacking neighbor-Brian in the chest lightly. He stumbled backward about six inches, then resumed clawing in Dave ’ s direction. 
 
 “ Briiiians, ” moaned the two zombies. Dave pulled the broom back and began swatting at their grabbing hands. He was pretty sure they ’ d just said “ brains, ” although it sounded an awful lot like Brian. He hadn ’ t known either of the men to have any accents or impediments while living, but having a broken jaw probably distorted their speech slightly. 
 
 “ Please help, ” Dave screamed. He was trapped, he knew it. The closet had been a terrible choice in hiding spots. He had no idea why he went with it; there were so many other possibilities, so many other viable spots. The crawl space above the apartment, the fire escape, the front door—he ’ d made a poor decision, he realized that now. 
 
 “ Brians, ” moaned the superintendent from behind Dave ’ s former neighbor. Dave paused, pulling the broom in. He ’ d definitely said “ Brian ” that time. There was no doubt in Dave ’ s mind. 
 
 “ Did you say Brian? ” Dave said, using the broom to block the two Brian ’ s flailing arms. 
 
 “ We want to eat your Brians, ” the two moaned almost in synchronization. They were pretty clearly saying “ Brian, ” like the name. It was quite apparent now. 
 
 “ I don ’ t have any Brians, ” Dave said, pushing them away with the broom. They seemed to understand his earlier question, he hoped they still had enough of their minds to understand what he was saying. 
 
 “ What? ” said the closer zombie. “ You don ’ t have any Brians? ” He stopped grabbing at Dave. 
 
 “ No, ” Dave said, pulling the broom back and crossing it over his chest, staring at the two reanimated corpses. “ You two are the only Brians I know. ” 
 
 “ You ’ re not Brian? ” the superintendent zombie said. Dave glanced at him, his head slightly tilted. 
 
 “ No, I ’ m Dave, ” Dave said, broom still clutched against his chest, head tilted slightly. For a deceased man, he was quite well spoken. The television programs and movies apparently did a very poor job of representing what a real zombie was like. In fact, it seemed the case that they didn ’ t even eat brains—rather, Brians were their target. 
 
 “ Oh, okay, ” the first zombie said. “ Sorry about that. ” The two turned and began limping out of the apartment, neighbor-Brian ’ s clearly broken leg dragging behind him. 
 
 Dave took a step out of the apartment and watched as they strolled out, the two talking quietly to each other. He had no idea what was going on or how he was still alive. He should have been decapitated by now, his brains spilling out on the closet floor as they were being devoured. Yet he was alive, perfectly fine. 
 
 He continued out into his apartment, broom outstretched like a sword, and walked over to the front door. He closed it behind the two zombies and then headed back over to his couch. It was badly damaged, the cushions tossed aside and its cover torn open. He sat down on it and flicked on the television, tuning to the news. 
 
 “ We repeat, ” said a pretty female anchor on the screen, “ it appears the virus is not creating brain-eating zombies, but rather dyslexic “ Brian-eating ” zombies. Unless your name is Brian, you are at no risk. To keep safe, simply do not say your name is Brian—even if it is. I repeat, lie to the zombies and tell them your name is anything other than Brian. Following that, feel free to treat them like you would any other person. They are still high-functioning, but just have a murderous dislike for people named Brian. ” 
 
 Dave clicked off the television and walked over to the window, staring down at the street below. Several clearly undead figures were limping along the sidewalk, with the living walking cautiously behind them. Dave shrugged his shoulders and made his way over to the kitchen, hoping desperately that the two Brains had not destroyed his Lucky Charms. He still hadn ’ t eaten breakfast and he assumed it would probably be a pretty long day. 

