Classic Anarchy: Dancepocalypse

Dancepocalypse

Mark A Davis

011

It was Halloween night, and Grandpa Anarchy was relaxing in his den when the doorbell rang.  He let it ring twice more before remembering that he currently had no sidekick.

"Danged kids," the old hero grumped.  He grabbed a tray of hard candy from the end table and opened the door.  On the porch stood a teenaged boy dressed in a green fairy outfit.

"Trick or Treat?" the boy asked, hopefully.

"Who're you supposed to be, Tinkerbell?" Grandpa asked.

"N-no," the boy replied, "it's Peter Pan."

"Ain't you a bit old to be...." Grandpa began.  There was a bright flash of blue light, and the two were somewhere else.

Grandpa blinked.  They were in the center of a dance floor.  Lights flashed and manic electronic circus music played to a throbbing disco beat.  The floor pulsed with rainbow-colored hues in time to the music.  Overhead a mirrorball spun.  And the dancers...

Grandpa stared.  They were dressed like disco-era rejects, but every last one of them was covered in shaggy brown fur.  They had clawed hands and feet, and animal-like heads, with mouths full of razor-sharp teeth.  It was like they'd been dropped onto the set of a hybrid movie called Saturday Night Werewolf of London Fever.

The boy stared in horror.  "What... what the hell...."  There was terror in his voice.

"Don't panic, kid.  We've been pulled to another world," Grandpa Anarchy said.  "Happens all the time.  See those circles and runes on the dance floor?  I ain't no magician, but I know a magic circle when I see it."  And indeed, the pulsing floor lights formed rainbow-hued concentric circles around where they stood, with unknown script and symbols written at the margins.

"Ladies and gentlefurs!" a voice boomed out.  "The Dance of Summoning is a success!"  Wild cheering and howling erupted throughout the room.  The crowd parted, and a large werewolf came bounding down a wide set of stairs.  He wore a bright white polyester leisure suit and a bright pink silk shirt, open to the waist.  He was grinning ear to ear, displaying quite a lot if pointy white.

"Grandpa Anarchy!" he boomed, sticking out his hand.  "So glad to meet you at last!  I've read much about you!  My name is Doctor Santos, but professionally I am known as the Zombeh Roaster, hero of my world.  Klondike Bar?"  The creature held up a shiny silver package, which Grandpa recognized as a tinfoil-covered ice cream bar.

Grandpa shook.  "No thanks," he said.  "I was enjoying a nice Halloween evening at home, so if we could just move this along...?"

The creature grinned and tossed the snack, wrapping and all, into his mouth.  He chewed happily.

"You're the one who summoned us?" Grandpa asked.

"Yes I did!" said the Zombeh Roaster.  "Come up to my DJ Laboratory, we have much to discuss!  You see, we have a zombie problem, and...."

He paused, staring at the teenager.  "I'm sorry, but I'm not familiar with your new sidekick."

"I... I..." the boy stammered.  "M-may name is Larry, and...."

"Tinkerbell here was just trick-or-treating at my house and got caught up in the spell," said Grandpa.  "He's no hero, just some kid dressed like a pixie girl."

"It's Peter Pan," said the boy.  "L-look, I-I don't know where we are or how I got here...."

"This is a bit of a problem," said the Zombeh Roaster.  "We need three heroes for the Zombie Apocalypse...."

"Zombie Apocalypse?" the boy squeaked.  "Please, just send me home!"

"The Dance of Summoning is a complicated spell," said the Zombeh Roaster.  "We can not perform it again until tomorrow."  He grinned toothily.  "But what I can do is transform your friend here into a hero suitable for fighting zombies."  He turned to Grandpa.  "Does any particular hero come to mind?"

Grandpa shrugged.  "Last time I fought zombies, it was with Nina Ballerina."

"Perfect," said the werewolf.  "Just hold that image of her in your mind.  This will take only a few seconds...."  He began to chant and dance, waving his hands in the air.  Rainbow-colored bands of light swirled around the boy.

"Ballerina?" the boy squeaked.  "I don't...."

There was a flash if rainbow-colored light, and where the boy had stood was now a slender woman dressed in white tights and a pink leotard and tutu.  She blinked.  "Grandpa Anarchy?" she asked.  She glanced about the room.  "Hmm, summoning, I see.  What's the situation?"

"Zombie Apocalypse," said Grandpa.  "Dancing Werewolf world.  That's all I know.  Is this the real Nina Ballerina?"

"Yes," said Nina.

"No," said Zombeh.   "Not really.  She is identical to the real one, but it's a temporary spell.  The boy will awake in the morning, and this will all seem like a dream."

"Got it," said Grandpa.  "Since you're not the real Nina, I'd like to take this opportunity to say that you were wrong that time in Hong Kong.  You were rude and pushy as always and we should have done things my way, and if we had we would have stopped Double Donkey before he assassinated that corporate president.  What do you say to that, huh?"

Nina Ballerina slapped him.  Grandpa winced.  'Yeah, that's how I always figured she'd react," he said.

***

Zombeh lead Nina and Grandpa to a part of the city where a giant paved square had been built around one of the largest trees they'd ever seen.  It pulsed with energy, and they could feel a tingle on their skin and a comforting warmth emanating from it.

"This is Marasala," said the Zombeh Roaster, "one of the the sacred world trees that maintain the field of magic that flows throughout our world.   Our world runs on magic, much as your world runs on gasoline and electricity.  These trees are our lifeline -- if they were destroyed, we would be plunged into an age of darkness.

"Every year at this time, we have an invasion from Satryrix -- the world of the dead.  This we call the Zombie Apocalypse.   All sorts of malevolent creatures dwell in Satryrix that are best left undescribed, but the important thing is that they only have a small window on this one day a year where the weakest of the army of undead can slip through.   Their goal is to destroy these trees and thus throw open the gates between our world and theirs permanently."

"And our goal is to stop them." said Grandpa.

"Indeed."

Nina said, "You defend these trees every year, but you're a few heroes short this year?"

"Exactly," said the creature.  "We will have to defend until dawn.  it is tough work, which is why I summoned the mightiest heroes I could find...."

He set a large duffle bag on the ground.  He opened it and pulled out a boom box the size of a child's electric car.  The creature grinned.  He pressed a button.  Loud, syncopated dance music began to pound.

"And now," said the Zombeh Roaster, "we dance."

Grandpa and Nina watched as the disco werewolf danced.  He was quite good -- enough to perhaps even give Michael Jackson a run for his money.  Nina frowned.  "Not that I object, but why are we dancing, exactly?" she asked.

"Zombies have no rhythm and no soul," the Zombeh Roaster called out.  "Dancing is anathema to them!  Their brain remembers dancing, but they are unable to respond.  It confuses them and makes them hesitant.  It makes them pause.  When they pause, you kill!"

Nina nodded.  She began to spin and pirouette like the ballerina she was -- or rather, the one she had been.  Her back story involved a tragic career as a ballerina, followed by a stunningly successful career as a high-kicking crime fighter.  She was a member of the League of Two-Fisted Justice, after all.

"Dance, Grandpa!" Nina yelled.  "Our lives may depend on it!"

"Now look here, I ain't no dancin' fool..." Grandpa began.

"You are a hero!" the Zombeh Roaster yelled.  "If you do not dance, the zombies will win!  You must dance!"

"Oh, hell," Grandpa muttered.  He began to jerk about.  "Well, I guess it's true that I used to jitterbug in my day.  I was good at the lindy hop, and the Charleston too."  Nina grimaced -- nothing Grandpa Anarchy was doing could be remotely described as dancing.

"You dance worse than a zombie!" the werewolf yelled.  "You must do better than that if you expect to confuse them!"

"I'm doing the best I can!" Grandpa yelled.  "Maybe if you could play some Josephine Baker?  Oh, but that was before your time... and a world away, come to think of it."

Night fell, and the grunting and groaning of the undead could be heard in every direction.  The stench was overpowering.  They shambled out of the darkness towards the tree, first in ones and twos, then in larger groups.  But Zombeh had spoken the truth -- at the edge of the dance circle the creatures paused, within striking distance, as if unsure what to do.  And contrary to Earth legends, these undead were not unstoppable.  You could batter them enough that they would collapse, apparently dead for good.  Nina kicked, Grandpa punched, and Zombeh Roaster blasted with rainbow-hued balls of fire.

"Now I know why you're the Zombeh Roaster," said Grandpa.

"Yes," said Zombeh.  "That's one reason...."

The bodies began to pile up.  Grandpa sniffed.  "They sure go down easy for zombies," he said.  "Not like the unstoppable zombies I used to fight back in the day.  Those were fearsome undead bent on eating your brains.  They didn't go down with a few punches, that's for sure."

"Unstoppable zombies must be difficult to stop," Zombeh said.

"Not really," Grandpa replied.  "You just got to be persistent.  These are much easier."

"It's the harmonics," said Zombeh, "and the pulsing rhythm.  It's like a poison to them.  It weakens them and makes them much easier to defeat.  Without it, we would be overwhelmed.  But, Mr. Anarchy, you must dance better!"

Grandpa Anarchy stumbled about like a broken marionette.  His fists pounded zombie after zombie, but still more came, and they barely paused when confronted with his awkward movements.  "A living soul with less rhythm than a zombie," said the werewolf.  "I would not have believed such a thing possible if I did not witness it with my own eyes."

"Grandpa!  Dance better!" Nina demanded.

"Easy for you to say!" Grandpa snapped.  "Look, I'm a hero, not some fancy schmancy ballroom diva."

"What sort of hero does not know how do dance?" asked the werewolf.

"The usual sort!" Grandpa snapped.  He glanced at his companions.  "Nina is an exception, obviously.  But if you wanted a dancer you should have asked for Fred Astaire, or Gene Kelly."

"Or Michael Jackson," said Nina, "given the circumstances.""

"I am not familiar with these names," said the Zombeh Roaster.  "But if we do not improve our dancing quickly, we shall be overwhelmed."  He considered this for a moment, then shrugged.  "Oh well, there is always the shortcut."  He danced around Grandpa, chanting.

"Don't you dare turn me into another Nina!" Grandpa warned.

"Of course not," replied the werewolf.  He held out a hand.  A rainbow-hue'd ball of light coalesced over his outstretched palm.  "Look into the light, Grandpa Anarchy," he said.  "You are getting sleepy -- no, do not stop dancing!  You are feeling very drowsy.  Now, when I snap my fingers, you will remember how to dance like Michael Jackson, or Gene Kelly, or... that other one...."

"Fred Astaire," said Nina.  "And throw in Mikhail Baryshnikov while you're at it."

"Yes, you will remember how to dance like this Fred Astaire and this Mikhail Baryshnikov."

"I will?" Grandpa asked.  Zombeh snapped his fingers.  Grandpa did a quick spin, then tap danced around the tree.  "Hey, I do!  I do remember how  to dance like Fred Astaire!  How could I have ever forgotten?"

"Strange how that works," said Zombeh with a grin, dancing away.   "Now you're dancing at least 20% cooler!"

"More like 100%," said Nina.

With Grandpa's sudden surge in dancing skill, the tree was well defended.  Grandpa's smooth tap dance and two-step was complimented by Nina's graceful leaps and spins, and Zombeh's sexy flash.  The zombies were held at bay -- they approached the light of the tree and then paused, dazzled and confused by the pounding music and rhythmic dancing.  Magic fire flew from the werewolf's palms, burning them to a crisp.  Nina kicked, breaking necks and crushing chests.  Grandpa resembled a cross between Gene Kelly and Jackie Chan, whirling and punching.  Past midnight they danced, and still the zombie hoard kept coming.

"I may be old, but I still got it!" Grandpa yelled.  "Float like a butterfly and sting like a bee!  Muhammad Ali's got nothing on me!"

"I don't know where a guy your age gets so much energy," Nina said.  They were all sweating profusely now, and breathing heavily, which was not a pleasant thing with the stench of rotting flesh in the air.

"Clean diet, exercise, and healthy living!" Grandpa replied.  "I don't drink or smoke.  My only vice is strawberry pancakes!"  He spun about, then lifted his fedora and spun it in his hands.  He rolled it across his arms and shoulder blades from one hand to the other.  he tossed it in the air like a Frisbee, high-kicked two zombies, spun about striking three more with his fists and feet, then leaped across the square, landing on his knees where he punched another zombie in the groin.  The hat landed neatly on his head.

"I could do this all night!" Grandpa exclaimed.

"That's the idea," Zombeh replied.

"I'm not sure I can keep it up," Nina said hoarsely.

"Suck it up, Cupcake!" Grandpa yelled.  "You're a hero.  You gotta do what you gotta do!  Look on the bright side -- you won't even be sore tomorrow, Nina!  You won't remember this at all!"

"Nina won't remember, true," said Zombeh.  "The boy in the pixy costume will remember everything, however, and will be as sore as Grandpa or I."

"Them's the breaks," said Grandpa, spinning to punch another zombie.  "He's a bona-fide hero for one night.  Few people get that chance.  So it involves wearing a leotard and tutu?  Nothing's perfect."

Nina watched as the old man moonwalked across the square.  He punched two zombies in the face, then grabbed his crotch and did a pelvic thrust.

"Actually," she said.  "I take great comfort in knowing that I won't remember any of this."

***

They danced and fought until they could remember doing nothing else.  They spun about the magic tree, punching and kicking and frying zombies.  Everything became a blur of dance, spin, kick, punch.  When the sun arose and the army of undead vanished , it took several moments before any of them realized it.

"Is it over?  Did we win?" asked Grandpa.  he was hunched over, hands on knees, breathing raggedly.  Sweat rolled off of him.

The Zombeh Roaster ran a clawed hand through his fur.  "Yes, we won the battle," he said.  "One battle only.  The war goes on.  The zombie apocalypse will return next year.  But that is what it means to be a hero:  to never give up the struggle, to be eternally vigilant.  If you were expecting anything else then you never understood what it means to be a hero in the first place."

"Oh, I think we understand," said Nina, gasping.  "Oh, my muscles!  I am going to be so sore!"  She paused, then brightened.  "At least, someone is going to be sore, but apparently not me!"

"So many dead zombies," said the Zombeh Roaster, looking about.  The bodies were piled all around them.  The stench was still overpowering.  "We shall have a great feast today and celebrate our victory!"

Grandpa glanced up, wheezing.  "A celebration?  Really?  What's on the menu?"

The creature grinned, displaying all of his sharp teeth.  "What else?  Roast Zombie!  Even better than Klondike Bars!  And you're welcome to join us!"

Grandpa blanched.  Nina looked sick.  She shimmered and morphed into Larry in the Peter Pan costume, who threw up.  Zombeh said, "I'll take that as a no, then?"

FINI

(Zombeh Roaster based on Zombie Fryer from the City of Heroes Virtue Server.  ^_^ )