#zombie stan

“You can call me Ztanley if you’d like.”

Stan squints at this weird undead version of himself. His voice is deeper and gravely. There’s a choked quality he recognizes from his own smoke tinted voice. A similarity he shares with Ma. 

“What’re you doing here?”

Ztanley rolls his shoulders and leans back against the grimy wall. “I’m here to help you cross over.”

“What?” Stan shivers, a sudden tickle of ice shooting down his spine. “I’m not – I’m not –”

“You are.” The zombie says, softly but without pity. Factually but sadly. “You are, Stanley.”

At first he wants to rage and scream and fight because he can’t be. He never got to prove Pa wrong. He never got to make any cash to shove in their faces. He never had the chance to apologize. He never got to see Ford again. 

He’ll never get to see Ford again. 

But he knows. On a weird instinctual level, he knows he’s dead. And that makes it worse. Because he doesn’t want to be. 

Tears spill over his eyelids and Stan blubbers, trying to cover his leaking eyes with trembling hands. His wet hiccups and wobbly lips have Ztanley wrapping a loose arm around the kid’s shoulders.

“I know. It sucks.” He pats Stan’s back. “It fucking sucks.”

They stay seated between the trash for a while. Stan’s cries mix between muffled screams of outrage and wails of misery. Throughout it all Ztanley keeps an arm around the boy. A simple connection. Eventually Stan tires himself and slumps against the non-heat of Ztanley.

“What…What do I do now?”

Ztanley trails his hand up Stan’s back to toy with the hair at his nape. Ma used to do this for them when they had nightmares. The familiar comforting touch has Stan relaxing under chilled fingertips. “Oh, there’s plenty of stuff we could do. It’s up to you really. What’s the thing you wanted most in life?”

The question rattles around in Stan’s numb brain. In life. What did he want? He wanted to be with his brother. He wanted to go home. He wanted to make millions. None of those things are possible now. What can he do?

“What is there to want?” The boy grumbles and hides his face in his knees again. “I’m dead. I can’t do anything.”

Ztanley makes a weird hiss click and removes his comforting hand from Stan’s hair. The boy finds himself missing it. “That’s not true. I mean, look at me! I’m barely holding it together and I’ve done tons!”

The zombie makes a good point. There’s stitching over every inch of his skin and he seems to know how to handle a depressed newly dead Stan. He’s probably done this before. For some reason that feels wrong. Something is off. 

“Like what?” Stan snaps, angry at himself for being skeptical and torn between seeking out what little comfort has been freely given to him. “Picking up sad sacks like me for your ghost harem?”

The zombie barks out a laugh that rings around the alleyway. Stan stares at him with a touch of detached awe. Ztanley is unbothered and blunt. There’s no care or worry behind his hazy eyes. Just confidence and a steadiness Stan feels like he’s been chasing his whole life. If this undead Stanley found it, would it be possible for him too?

“You’re thinking too small.” Ztanley says with a playful nudge. He stands and turns so his shadow falls over Stan. His arm flops out, palm up in an obvious gesture. If he had one more finger Stan could almost convince himself it was Ford. 

“C’mon.” The zombie smiles. It sits oddly on his face, stretched too wide. But the earnestness in his body language isn’t lying. Stan hesitates. Something in the back of his mind is nagging at him. But what else is there to do? This undead Stanley knows how to navigate this awful new world and Stan is tired of being alone. 

He grabs Ztanley’s outstretched hand and for the first time sees his own state. His hand is covered in scratches. He’s missing a few fingernails and the dark mark around his wrist has a braided pattern. Stan can’t remember much before waking up in this alleyway. Maybe that’s for the better. 

It’s obvious Ztanley’s seen worse because all he does is tug Stan to his feet, his smile never wavering. Hell half of the zombies fingers are stitched to stay on. Nothing is more grotesque than Ztanley himself. Stan is probably a spec on the gross scale compared to him. 

“Let’s sail the Stan’ O’ War.”

“What?” Stan squeaks as Ztanley starts leading them out of the alley. “I – I can’t!”

Ztanley doesn’t let go of the younger boy’s hand. “Why not? It’ll be fun.”

“It’s – Ford and – I just can’t.” Despite his words, Stan doesn’t try to slow them down or squirm free as the zombie leads them down the beach. 

Ztanley’s smile starts to feel less plastered on. The closer they get to the ocean the more Stan feels himself settling. Accepting. 

“Let’s pretend,” Ztanley recites, words seeming tattooed on his tongue with how practiced they come out. “I’ll play Ford and you play Stan. We’re sailing off to find treasure.” He leaves the pause hanging there. A lone actor in a dimly lit theatre. 

Stan struggles but takes the bait and joins Ztanley on stage. What else is there to do? He doesn’t want to be alone again. So he mumbles to his shoes. “And hot babes.”

“Statistically the amount of ‘hot babes’ we’ll see in the ocean are low.”

The nerd talk seems to lighten the boy’s mood. He glances up at Ztanley, nervous and almost shy. It’s not Ford but he wants to believe. He wants this to be real. “But not zero?”

“Of course not, Stanley. Mermaids and sirens, and not to mention ghost ships!”

“Ghost babes?” Stan giggles and finally keeps pace of his own volition. The two of them go from a brisk pace to practically chasing each other down the beach, laughing and kicking up sand. Stan feels eight years old again. Not once do their hands separate. 

Both move instinctively to where the Stan’O’War lies tucked against a dune. Sand and weeds crunch under their shoes. Ztanley goes right to the back and rests his shoulder against the sturdy wood. 

“Ready?” He asks, eyes alight and excited. Just how Stan pictured Ford would be if they had ever gotten the chance to take the boat to sea. It’s hard to form words with the growing lump in his throat so he nods and takes his place beside his pretend brother.

Together they guide the Stan’O’War into the water. The waves are warm. Salt and seaweed swirl around Stan’s ankles the deeper they go. The sun inches down and casts beautiful red rays across the ocean. It feels like it’s calling to him. It feels like coming home.

Ztanley climbs up onto the boat once they’ve pushed as far as they can. Stan can hardly feel his sopping wet clothes. Everything but the boat and the ocean is fuzzy and distant. What else does he need other than this? This is all he’s ever wanted.

He doesn’t hesitate to take Ztanley’s hand this time. His pretend brother hauls him up onto the deck with a few huffs and puffs. They both sprawl on the deck to catch their breath. There’s a slight breeze cutting through the sail. It flaps lazily and the clouds hardly move at all behind it. 

Stan’s chest aches, flooded with something he can’t name. So he doesn’t bother trying. He just leaps to his feet to enjoy this moment for as long as he can. Him and Ford at sea. An adventure of a lifetime!

Ztanley joins him shortly, resting a hand on his shoulder. Something Ford would do in silent support. A quiet way to say he’s with Stan, that he’s got his back. 

The salt crests against the side of the boat and sprays them both. Stan laughs and jumps up on the rail to watch the waves lap and recede. Ztanley turns away from the sunset to watch the younger boy beam at the water. The clouds are hazy and orange and the slight breeze is perfect. 

“See Stanley. Isn’t this wonderful?”

Stan’s grin is so wide Ztanley feels the stitches in his own cheek protest at the sight. “This is amazing!” He shouts and flings his arms out to howl into the cooling air. Ztanley gives a few energetic hoots of his own and they both dissolve into snorting laughter. 

They sit in the middle of the deck and lean against each other to watch the sun dip into the ocean and paint the sky purple. Ztanley knows his time is running out but he doesn’t think they’ll need much longer.

“Are you happy?” He asks, has to.

Stan hums with half lidded eyes. “I wish…I wish it was me and my Ford. But…yeah. This – This is good. As good as I’ll get.”

“As good as I’ll get.” Ztanley echoes and digs his finger into his own arm. “It’s time to go now, Stanley.”

The boy doesn’t seem surprised. Yet he hesitates, eyes soaking in the beautiful fading world. “Does it hurt?”

“No.” Ztanley lies. “Just keep thinking of this moment. Of what it would be like.”

Stan doesn’t nod but there’s no need for verbal communication anymore. They both know their little performance is over. A facade can only last so long. 

Ztanley turns and takes each of Stan’s arms in his shaking hands. It never gets any easier. Even after all this time. It still hurts. It’s still so unfair. 

But he is what he is. There’s nothing anybody can do. He’s stuck like this and has to make the most of it.

This Stan tastes better than the last one. Ztanley will need to try to play pretend more often. He’s certain the idea of Ford being on this stupid wretched boat is why Stan’s tender flesh parts so deliciously over his teeth. 

Seagulls cry overhead as Ztanley stains the deck of the Stan’O’War with the blood of its captain. Stan never tries fighting him off. Stan never cries out. Stan is stuck dreaming of a better life. 

Just them and the ocean.