Zombie Poo

Why my stomach hurts [Also] Why I haven’t used the outhouse yet

Because there is a zombie in there.

That’s the short of it.

It’s a nice quiet walk out to the closet sized shed behind my cabin. I've been hesitant to use the beautiful Christmas lights strung along the path because they create two problems. A quick aside: don’t get me wrong I love Christmas lights. The large colorful fat bulbs remind me of holidays spent in Cleveland, around grandparent’s trees, eagerly watching the snow fall in front of the large picture windows. The smaller white bulbs create what I consider to be the holy grail of incandescent mood lighting, second only to a candle, and the instigator of dim romantic kissing across the globe.

My outhouse path has both; but even that doesn’t soften the edges of the terrifying experience that awaits me.

The problem that these lights create in my personal piece of Fairbanks wilderness, is that they illuminate only a narrow portion of the woods; a glowing yellow brick road to doom. They create shadows deep into the woods that I can’t see, and I imagine the bears intently watching me walk outside to the pee-tree¹, like a nice warm rotisserie chicken on a spit, all ready for the plucking. The other issue is that it spoils your night vision, their brightness sending your pupils into a state of shock when you arrive at the gaping mouth of the out-house hole. On the plus side the lack of lighting doesn’t allow you to see what waits inside.

This is where the trouble starts. First and foremost, I am working on a shoe modification that doesn’t create such a ruckus when I walk on the fresh powder; my boots crunching on the snow rings like a dinner bell for predators in my ears. Secondly, I can deal with animals sneaking up on me while I visit the pee-tree; I tuck my trusty 18” Columbus Clippers mini wood bat under my arm – this, I endearingly call the “Bad-Bear-Bat”. And as for the outhouse itself its actually designed with strategy in mind, enclosed on three sides with an open door for you to prospect anything that might approach from in front of you during a seated position.

The construction is simple 2x4 wood frame, with light ½ plywood on the sides and a translucent corrugated plastic roof; currently holding no less than 9 inches of snow atop it. The walls inside are covered in photos from occupants past, license plates from states away and a little wood birdhouse shack for keeping TP dry. All-in-all a very quaint structure. The latest revolution in frozen-hole-in-the-ground-for-pooping is Extruded Poly Styrene (EPS or endearingly ”blue-foam”); incredibly this foam, when against chilled cheeks, immediately reflects your body heat back to you giving the impression of a heated seat.

So we’ve got a potentially beautiful path, bear protection, a quaint closet, and heated seat. Whats the problem you ask? The zombie in the hole of course. I don’t want to look into the hole. I know that rationally² all I’ll find is dirt, and some processed food in the form of a poop-sicle (apologies to those of you eating). But what I picture in there is a medium sized zombie pressed against the walls of the hole, flattened to avoid nervously curious eyes. I’m not quite sure how he climbed in through the seat of the outhouse, a mere 12 inches across, but that’s just a talent of this particular zombie. His³ red eyes smolder in the dark and breath comes out as cold as the winter night around him. As he hears his victims snow pants softly drop to the plywood floor and the moonlight illuminating the hole wall across him is eclipsed by his next victims buttocks he leans forward and slowly raises his arms to reach up.

The hands are the most terrifying part. I’ve seen these hands before.

In the basement of 244 w. Como in Columbus Ohio. These hands are responsible for the tremendously fit and shapely thighs that I sport today. These hands are dark and shadowy. The skin on them is simultaneously cracked and scaly. The fingers are long and wiry, crooked and broken from the struggles with previous victims, and terminate in sharpened black nails. They move quickly and dart between open stair treads with a frightening skill and accuracy. But they burn in light, and so getting myself into well-lit areas is what propels me up the stairs and out of their reach. The electrician of this house clearly was not certified to wire zombie ridden households, foolishly placing the light to the stairwell at the bottom of the stairs. This forces one to linger in darkness at their own peril once they break the circuit and plunge the basement into inky black.

Those hands have followed me 3000 miles to the frigid north. They clung to the underside of the plane out of Chicago and transferred with me in Seattle to the final destination of Fairbanks. While I looked for cabins they were there on the under carriage of Larry, patiently waiting to find their next opportunity to catch me unawares.

And now here I stand looking into the darkness. A stalemate reaching a quarter century back to a 3-year-old-superman-cape-wearing Corey, cowboy boots poised over the top lip of the basement stairs, staring into the dark unknown.

There is no clear outcome for now.

Only two pairs of fists in the darkness, one clenched in fright and the other in eager anticipation.

NOTES: 

(1)   Thankfully you don’t pee in the outhouse – this explains my current liquid-only diet and self imposed cut-off time on solid foods.

(2)  Rationality is the key word of this piece, and essentially the missing element

(3)   No self-respecting female zombie would be caught dead (get it? Zombies are dead? Badump-cha!) in an outhouse hole preying on victims