The Frank and Zombie Show

When I was five the government did something with the state line, and 20 families or so who lived a little outside of town found themselves suddenly to be citizens of Montana. I'm not sure why, something to do with taxes and the electoral college, I guess. The town had a meeting about it, with the New Montanans led by my father. The debate was whether the New Montanans should send their kids to Plaine's Pointe schools or not. George Suskers, who ran for mayor every year and lost, was of the mind that no, their taxes were now going to Montana, not Idaho, so they could ride the bus 30 miles over to Shenigni. But dad spoke eloquently and long. He was an engineer at the Plaine's Pointe radio station, KLKL, 92.3, and he'd grown up there, met his future wife there, gotten married there. And the Good Lord willing, he was going to die there, and be buried next to his Mom and Dad, eventually his wife, in Hope Springs Memorial Gardens.

It finally came to a vote, and despite some pretty heated comments about communism and the break down of order, by Suskers, it was decided that a grandfather clause would be written into the town codes, and we kids could still go to Plaine's Pointe. Which was a good thing, because Billie Riggers was about to turn sixteen, and if Shenigni High got him, there was pretty much no hope for Plaine's Pointe's chances at State. Not that anyone much cared for wrestling, but a town's gotta have its pride.

Then the zombies attacked. It was cold, middle of November, and they came in from the East. There were about 100 of them or so, shuffling along, and they swarmed the Jesseck place and Pa Krimbles' before anyone could do anything about it. By the time they got to our place, there was already about six families hiding in there. I want to tell you that it was a mad house, but it wasn’t; my dad was about as cool as they come, and he made sure everyone stayed calm as he assessed the situation. He'd already called the Idaho National Guard, but they were standing at the border, right on the edge of town, like a bunch of ninnies. So dad and a few other men took up their shotguns, and one by one, put those zombies down.

Years later, on the show, dad always played it off like it was no big thing. He just pointed his shotgun, pulled the trigger, and most of the head disappeared in a cloud of grayish-reddish-green. Plaine's Pointe wanted to honor dad with a statue, or some kind of monument, since he was the only thing that kept those zombies out of the town (no one trusted them Idaho Guards, most of whom weren't a day over 19). Of course George Suskers had something to say about that. So in their way, they honored my dad by promoting him out of the engineer's booth and gave him his own radio show. Just him and the zombie, the one they didn't kill because they were all out of ammo.

They'd shot up all others, and let the kids run out with hatchets and knives to hack at the ones still twitching on the ground or pulling themselves along by one hand. The one who was left didn't really seem to be doing much damage. He was sort of hitting the wall of the south barn, like he wanted to go through it. There were no people in there, just some chickens. Who knows, maybe he was a vegetarian when he was a man. We kids found him, though there wasn't much we could do. One of us would dodge in all brave like, but he'd sort of moan and claw at us and we'd jump back with a scream. Then back he'd go at that barn wall.

So we went and fetched my dad, and he came 'round with his gun. He took aim, but the poor thing was so pathetic, I think my dad got a soft spot for him. But right's right, so he pointed the gun again, and click, there was no ammo left. My dad just laughed. "Guess the Lord's talking to me," he said. So we fetched a rope from the barn, lassoed him, and drug him inside. He sort of beat on the walls for a while, but eventually settled down and just shuffled after the chickens.

They gave my dad that radio show, and mostly folks just called in to talk about the zombie attack. Dad tried to steer the conversations towards scripture, or auto repair, or how to bake pies without burning the edges. But folks just wanted to talk about zombies. One day dad got sort of fed up, and he dragged the zombie in, strapped him to a chair, and put a pair of earphones on him. Anytime anyone wanted to talk about the attack, dad would say "Alright then, talk to the General yourself." That's what we called the zombie: General Custer.

Well, it backfired on my dad, and he'd be the first to admit it. "The Lord gave me a lesson on pride that day," he said, about 30 years later at his retirement party. Folks loved calling up and talking to that zombie. "Hey Frank, got a question for the zombie."

"Well, go ahead and ask him then."

"Alright. General? So why come you zombies decided to attack us in the first place?"

"Ggrrrrrggg. Hrrrrnnnnn grrrrrggg."

"Huh."

"Thanks caller. And now we have Lysette from over in Tulla. Hello Lysette, welcome to KLKL 92.3."

"Thanks Frank. Listen, I was wondering, how do you get blueberry stains outta calico?"

"Now that's a good question. Last summer when my wife and I---"

"Actually, Frank, I was kinda hopin the General might have some thoughts on the subject?"

"Alright then. General?"

"Ggrrrrrggg. Hrrrrnnnnn grrrrrggg. Mmmmnnrrrg, hhrrrnn grrr mnnn sshhhhiii grrrrrgg."

"Uh huh."

"Thanks for callin' in, Lysette."

The show lasted a good 10 years. They moved it around some---just talk, talk and news, news and interviews and some music, then just talk again. But always Frank and the zombie. Eventually dad got older, of course, and something called the demographics changed. After a while, KLKL got bought out by some fella looking to put classical music in the air, though he kept dad on as an engineer and a producer. (He ended up selling it to some corporation less than a year later).

Not to long after that, we sorta lost the zombie. We locked him in the barn one night, like we always do. It was mom's turn---she'd been using him to tramp up some gopher holes over by one of her vanity gardens. It wasn't too tough. You just sortof walk in a big circle around him, him shuffling after you the whole time trying to get you, until you got all the yard tramped down you needed. Mom swears she locked the door that night, but the next day, he was gone.

I didn't cry exactly, but I was kinda sad. And you could tell dad was too. He said he didn't blame mom, but he only ate about one slice of her marionberry pie that night, so you know he wasn't a hundred percent. Some of us kids went out and looked for him the next few days, but mostly we just wandered around, finding sticks to play swords with, talking about the new car George Suskers got. A Honda? Now who's the commie?