He began to shove as much refuse into the zombie’s eager mouth as he could. The zombie, at first, greedily took the offering and then began to fight against the force-fed meal. Paul had already let go and was halfway to getting up. The zombie was still struggling with a Pamper lodged in its throat. Paul’s nightmare nearly came to fruition as he slid on a cliché. No way! A banana peel? Are you kidding me? But banana peels were much more slippery in cartoons. Paul was quickly on terra firma and shuffling for all his life to the doorstep closest to him. Locked door, crazy resident, home full of zombies or just pissed off squirrels, Paul was placing all his marbles into this bag; there were no other options. He could not make it to another house and he’d much rather see the zombie coming than get brought down from behind like a gazelle on the Serengeti.
Paul’s ankle groaned as he climbed the first step. If not for forward momentum, he would have brought his foot down and brought up his left. That was no bargain either as his foot wound broke open from the flexion of the move. Blood was seeping through his boot at an alarming rate. Paul had no time to take notice as he reached the top of the third step and got onto the landing. His zombie friend had finally got its feet under it and was now ready to continue its pursuit.
Paul reached out to grab the storm door, his hands slick with an unidentifiable, or at least, unwilling to identify, substance. His hand slid off as effectively as if the handle had been Vaseline-coated.
***
For the briefest of synapses, he remembered that time in college when Mike and he had gotten a particularly difficult Resident Assistant to quit his job. An RA’s job is sort of like den mother. It is his or her responsibility to make sure that no huge parties are held on the floor; or that any huge violations are being broken, (like having an oven in a dorm room). Sometimes they even act as a pseudo counselor when a freshman runs across the familiar homesick blues. Paul and Mike had the unfortunate luck of the draw, with their RA, he took his responsibilities a little too seriously. Most of the RAs were simply in it so that they could break all of the rules in a single; as opposed to the standard, two-to-a-dorm room. Gert (yes, he was a man) was studying to move on to grad school and could absolutely not stand any noise whatsoever on his floor. He had once written a sophomore up because her alarm clock was excessively loud.
Mike and Paul had been written up no less than five times in their first month on the floor. Six meant an automatic meeting with the dean and potential disciplinary actions, up to and including, expulsion. Mike and Paul had on more than one occasion caught Gert outside their door listening to see if he could get that elusive sixth offense.
“Is he there?” Mike asked Paul as Paul had snuck up to the door and quickly opened it, trying to once again catch him.
“No, but he was here recently. I can almost hear the echo of his goosestep as he went down the hallway.”
“Good one,” Mike had said. “We need to do something about him. We’ve been good for a few days now, but how much longer do you think we can last?”
“Not long, I’m already itching for another fiesta.”
“That’s what I’m saying. We need to get rid of the party Nazi.”
“Wouldn’t it just be easier to wait until next semester and move off this floor?”
“You think we’ll make it that far? And then we have to admit that he wins. And that sure doesn’t sound like the guy that threw perhaps the largest spitball ever conceived at Mrs. Weinstedder back in the sixth grade.”
“You sure do know how to flatter a guy. What’s your plan?”
“You think he’s in his room?”
“The only time he isn’t is either when’s he’s at class or writing a student advisory slip.”
“Alright, we’ve got to be careful. He’s got the other freshmen on this floor so wound tight, they might rat us out if they catch us.”
“You sure about all this, Mike?” Paul asked with some concern.
“I’d rather go out in a blaze of glory than skulking into the night.”
“I agree,” Paul said, feeling himself quite possibly being peer-pressured. There’s something to be said for skulking, Paul thought.
“Alright, I’m going to need your help with this one.”
Paul nodded and noted Mike taking a stack of pennies from their shared coin jar.
“When we get to Hurtie Gert’s door, you need to press on the top corner as hard as you can.”
“Which corner?” Paul asked.
“Valid question, the one above the doorknob.”
“What’s that going to do?”
“It’s going to give me the room I need to shove these pennies in.”
“You know our fingerprints are all over those things.”
“So? No way, do you think he’d get these dusted?”
“Who knows?”
“We don’t have our fingerprints on file, do we?”
“I don’t think so, but I’d rather not take the chance.”
Mike wiped all the coins on his shirt and then put a sock over his hand to grasp the coins.
“That doesn’t look suspicious at all.”
“Come on, let’s get this done.”
Mike kept his sock-clad hand in his pocket to allay any prying questions, should they arise. The twenty-five-foot walk to Gert’s door was uneventful. The only noise was when some unlucky student had dropped his chemistry book on his foot and cried out in alarm and pain. Paul and Mike had frozen, thinking Gert would come busting out of his door to quiet the offending student. He didn’t do that, but he had yelled for the clumsy scholar to shut up.
“He’s a very caring individual,” Mike had said, turning back towards Paul.
The door had groaned slightly as Paul pressed on the top corner.
“Harder,” Mike had intoned, looking at the gap being formed from the pressure.
The gap had finally widened to a liking for Mike as he pulled the pennies from his pocket and placed about seven of them in a stack against the bowed door and the frame.
“Let go,” Mike said.
“There was a brief second where the corner of Mike’s sock got pinched in the door. Paul thought it had been Mike’s finger and was waiting for the resultant scream that would most assuredly get them kicked out of school. Mike quickly pulled the sock out and bolted for their room, Paul hurriedly followed. They had no sooner shut their door when someone down the hallway had opened theirs.
“That was fucking close,” Mike laughed.
“Now what?” Paul asked, not sure what was going to happen. All he could think was that Gert might be mildly surprised with the clatter of change and would be seven cents richer for their effort.
“We wait.”
“This seemed funnier when we were talking about what we were going to do.”
“Wait, buddy, it gets better.”
As it turned out, it wasn’t too long of a wait before Gert decided it was time to go to the cafeteria and get some food. At first, there was nothing and then came the struggles of someone beating on their door. If it had been anybody else besides Gert, they would have received a violation. Nearly every door on the floor opened to see who had the balls to make that much noise.
Gert was beating on his door with closed fists, swearing in his native tongue of German.
“I always wondered how to say that,” said a pretty, little brunette named Debbie, who Paul remembered was taking German as her language of choice. “Interesting.”
“Someone needs to call the Fire Department! I am locked in my room!”
“He can’t get out?” Paul asked, turning back to a laughing Mike.