Zombiekins 2(4)
Something stirred in the depths of the pile. Suddenly the toys at the top were pushed aside . . . . And something . . . began to emerge . . . from underneath . . . .
Somewhere, a scream of terror ripped through the night....
(Not in this story, mind you, but somewhere.)
And then, from under the pile of toys, Zombiekins slowly arose. One eye was fixed straight ahead in a cold blank stare, the other lolled sidelong toward the floor. A strange voice rang out in the dark:
“Oooo, I feel huggily-snuggily.”
It was Whimsy, still sitting on his frumpy rump at the tidy tea table.
Zombiekins started to cross the room, walking stiffly and with a limp—one leg swiveling on its teddy-bear joint, the other dragging like a dead limb . . . .
Stump!—scri-i-i-i-i-itch . . . Stump!—scri-i-i-i-i-itch . . . Stump!—scri-i-i-i-i-itch . . .
Slowly and steadily, Zombiekins advanced across the playroom, driven by some dark, unknown purpose.
“A hug a day keeps the frownies away. . . .” Whimsy enthused.
Stump!—scri-i-i-i-i-itch . . .
Stump!—scri-i-i-i-i-itch . . .
Stump!—scri-i-i-i-i-itch . . .
“Hugs are rosy-cozy,” the bear went on in its whimsically winsome way. “Hugs make me feel fuzzy-wuzzy in my —GLAAAWWWRRKKK!!!!”
A moment later, Whimsy lay silenced on his side. Fluffy stuffy guts spilled from a slashy gash in his rum-tum-tummy, oozing onto the floor in a sorrygory mess.
Elsewhere in the playroom, another toy broke into an inappropriately cheery song:
“Floating along on a birthday cake
Upon a raspberry-soda-pop lake . . .
Surrounded by choco-late sundae mountains,
Candy-cane rainbows and butter- scotch fountains . . . ”
It was Benny the Singing Dinosaur. Zombiekins turned and began walking stiffly toward the source of the music.
“We’ll merry-go-round the dreamy day long. . . .” Benny sang.
Stump!—scri-i-i-i-i-itch . . .
“Singing our birthday-cake rowboat songs!”
Stump!—scri-i-i-i-i-itch . . .
“Go for a swim with the iddle-bitty fishes . . .”
Stump!—scri-i-i-i-i-itch . . .
“Tickling our toesies like Mummy’s kisses—”
There was a loud shower of sparks, and a severed dino head rolled away into a corner, where it went on singing like a broken record:
“Swim with the—fishes . . . Swim with the —fishes . . . Swim with the—fishes . . .”
Zombiekins turned toward another corner of the playroom. . . .
“Schlemmo wants up,” whimpered a furry orange toy far too adorable to be called a monster. Its voice was high-pitched and tinny, like some pre-adolescent chipmunk. “Up, up . . . Schlemmo wants up!”
Zombiekins started walking, stiffly and with a limp, one leg dragging like a dead limb . . . .
Stump!—scri-i-i-i-i-itch . . .
“Schlemmo doesn’t want to play right now,” the cute and cuddly monster simpered.
Stump!—scri-i-i-i-i-itch . . .
“Up, up! Schlemmo wants up-up!” the toy too adorable to be called a monster begged in its tinny-tiny voice. But there was nobody to hear.
Stump!—scri-i-i-i-i-itch . . .
“ . . . Schlemmo wants . . . Schlemmo doesn’t—”
6
THE NEXT MORNING, STANLEY WAS YANKED OUT of sleep bright and early by an alarm clock with no snooze button—the cold wet nose of his dog Fetch.
“Nghhhh!” Stanley grumbled, rolling over. “Go away.... Sleeping . . .”
But Fetch just climbed halfway onto Stanley’s bed, barking and licking Stanley’s face.
“Bad dog!” Stanley drowsily protested. “Go!”
Fetch barked again and pointed out into the hall.
“Unghhh,” Stanley groaned, wiping sleep from his eyes and dog slobber from his face. “Not this again.”
Moments later, Fetch was dragging Stanley down the hall to the playroom once more. Stanley wasn’t prepared for the grisly scene of toy-room tragedy he found there.
The floor was strewn with bits of savaged stuffies: Teddy bears with the stuffing ripped out of them . . . Decapitated dinos . . . A dismembered Schlemmo . . .
Stanley just stood in the doorway, speechless. At first he was too stunned to understand what had happened. Then it started to sink in.
“Bad, Fetch!” Stanley scolded.
Boy, that dog had really done it this time. When Stanley’s mom found out about this, she was going to send Fetch to a farm for sure, like she was always threatening.
Stanley gave Fetch a dirty look. But instead of drooping his ears and tucking his tail between his legs in heartfelt canine remorse, the dumb dog just barked again and pointed to Zombiekins sitting unharmed in the middle of the crime scene.