Planet Purgatory Read Free

said.
    “You don’t have to worry about that,” explained Derek, and in a display of callousness, he kicked the zombies to the ground, where they remained while the Scavenger took a seat directly opposite me. “I really appreciate you inviting me to share supper with you, Mr. and Mrs. Eno. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a home-cooked meal. Sure smells good, whatever it is.”
    While Derek and my parents chatted, I turned my attention to the zombies on the ground. They were people, or used to be, until the aliens appeared and took away their souls. These ones were in particularly bad shape: living corpses, skin and bone, to the point it was difficult to identify their genders. They were oblivious not only to their surroundings, but to each other, their constant rocking betraying an inner turmoil that made my insides turn.
    “Don’t go anywhere without my girls,” said the Scavenger with a wry grin.
    My dad lit a cigarette, tossing the match on the ground. “They’re women?”
    “Yeah, they’re getting a little long in the tooth. Not sure how much more use I’ll get out of ’em. Which is a real shame. Saved my hide more times than I can remember.”
    I couldn’t stop watching them. I’d seen zombies before, but none this far gone. They looked like mummies. One of them looked at me, or rather through me, before clacking her teeth together fast, like castanets.
    “What’s going on?” I asked. “Why’s it doing that?”
    The Scavenger seemed to enjoy my discomfort. “Just something they do. Wait until they start talking. That gets real spooky.”
    I downed the rest of my chikka and immediately poured myself some more.
    “What is that?” asked the Scavenger, referring to the bottle in my hand.
    “Chikka.”
    “What’s chikka?”
    “You don’t want to know,” said my dad.
    “Is it liquor?”
    “Worse.”
    This only served to pique the Scavenger’s curiosity, and after he produced an old tin cup from one of his many jacket pockets, I reluctantly poured him a dollop.
    “I’m warning you,” said my dad, “it’s not like other drink. I had one sip and I wasn’t right for days.”
    Derek brought the cup to his nose, sniffed it and then gulped it down, only to grab his throat in shock. “Holy sh—”
    His exclamation was cut short by a series of violent coughs, and he stood up, steadying himself against the table as the power of the chikka took hold.
    “How … how … can you drink that?” he asked, hoarsely.
    “You get used to it.”
    “What’s it made from?” he asked, returning to his seat.
    “Beets.”
    The expression on the Scavenger’s face was one of shock. “Beets? You’re telling me that stuff is beet juice?”
    “Well, there’s some other things in there, but yeah, it’s beet juice. More or less.”
    “More or less.” The Scavenger smiled, studying me intently. “So where do you get this ‘chikka’ from?”
    “He makes it,” answered my dad. “He’s got a distillery on the farm. Grows the beets, too.” He sounded almost proud.
    The Scavenger held out his cup for more, and I obliged, still only giving him a dollop.
    “So where did you, uh, where did you figure out how to make it?”
    That was a good question. I’d never thought about it before. I searched back, trying to remember, but in the end all I could do was shake my head. “I don’t know.”
    The Scavenger dipped his index finger into the contents of the cup, sniffing it before putting it in his mouth. It was like a game to him, I could tell by the glimmer in his eye, and the moment he was ready, he took a swig, coughing the majority down his chin while holding onto the table for support.
    “Holy hell,” he gasped. His face was red, and he spent the following moments staring at the table while the chikka infected his bloodstream. “It feels so … warm. Like a pair of socks out of the dryer. And fuzzy, like my mind is wrapped in a … in a … blanket.”
    He looked at me, calculating. “So