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(Previously: Chapter 1: Crime Knows No Color!)
Munich — There was no reason for Johann’s objections. If he wanted to be helpful, he could have suggested where the nearest bathroom was.
I suppose I could go anywhere, but what would I wipe with? Leaves? Have you tried that? Leaves chafe.
The ground I passed over was much more picturesque than what I could see from the car. There were no striking objects that the eye might single out; but in all there was a charm of beauty.
In America, they wouldn’t quarantine an area like this, they’d put up a Denny’s.
I took little heed of time and it was only when the deepening twilight forced itself upon me like an unattractive drunk that I began to think about how I was going to get home.
The brightness of the day had gone. The air was cold, and the drifting of clouds was more marked as snow began to fall. For a while I hesitated, but then I did that Bill Goldberg thing where he smacks himself in the face with his fists and continued on.
Soon I came upon a wide stretch of open country, shut in by hills. Their sides were covered with trees which spread down to the plain, dotting, in clumps, the gentler slopes and hollows which showed here and there. I followed with my eye the winding of the road, and saw that it curved close to one of the densest of these clumps and was lost behind it.
Darker and darker grew the sky, and faster and heavier fell the snow, until the earth before and around me was a glistening white carpet, the further edge of which was lost in misty vagueness.
The air became ice-cold, which is cooler than being cool.
The snow was now falling so thickly and whirling around me in such rapid eddies that I could hardly keep my eyes open. I haven’t seen this much whiteness since I shopped at L.L. Bean.
Every now and then the heavens were torn asunder like ass cheeks by vivid lightning, and in the flashes I could see ahead of me a great mass of trees, chiefly yew and cypress all heavily coated with snow. All of it potential Ents ready to bore me to death with stories about their missing women.
Now and again, through the black mass of drifting cloud, came a straggling ray of moonlight, which lit up the expanse, and showed me that I was at the edge of a dense mass of cypress and yew trees. As the snow began to cease, I walked out from the shelter and began to investigate closely.
I could see, but only barely, what appeared to be a box store, and a sprawling parking lot before it. There might still be a restroom in which, though in ruins, I could find the sweet comfort only a porcelain bowl can bring.
As I skirted the edge of the thicket, I found that a low fence encircled the store and lot with signs in German and English imploring people to stay away.
If I didn’t know any better, I would tell you that the store looked new, despite missing a sign to identify its owner. The empty parking lot? It looked no different than a Walmart parking lot on a Sunday night. And like a Walmart parking lot, there were no cameras, meaning the Germans took the zombie outbreak as seriously as Wal-Mart does their customer’s safety.
Just as I hopped the fence, the drifting clouds obscured the moon, and I passed up the lot in darkness.
The wind must have grown colder, for I felt my balls shiver as I walked; but there was hope of shelter and sweet urinary release, and I groped my way blindly on.
I stopped, for there was a sudden stillness. The storm passed; and, perhaps in sympathy with nature’s silence, my heart seemed to cease to beat. But this was only for a moment; for suddenly the moonlight broke through the clouds, showing me that I was now in a makeshift graveyard behind the store, and that the square object before me was a great massive tomb of concrete, as white as the snow that lay on and around it.
With the moonlight there came a fierce sigh of the storm, which appeared to resume its course with a long, low growl, as of many bears, sober or otherwise. I was awed and shocked, and felt the cold perceptibly grow upon me till it seemed to grip me by the heart like a pimp clutching the throat of a late paying customer.
Then while the flood of moonlight still fell on the concrete store, the storm gave further evidence of renewing, as though it was returning on its track.
Impelled by some sort of fascination, I approached the tomb to see what it was, and why such a thing stood alone in such a place. If the rest of the graveyard looked like it was built by the blind, then why was this particularly resting place as elaborate as a 5th Avenue Apple store? After the outbreak, did the Germans decide since there was a grave here already, just to bury the store workers around it?
This seemed like poor placement, but then, so is a big box store in the middle of a primeval German forest.
On the top, seemingly driven through the solid marble–for the structure was composed of a few vast blocks of stone–was a great iron cross.
I walked around the tomb to its entrance and read the marker over the door. “Countess Mircalla Karnstein Of Gratz In Styria Sought And Found Death 1801.”
It looked like someone had taken to decorating the door with a sharpie. There were crosses, quotations like, “For the dead travel fast”, and my personal favorite, under the Countess’s name someone had scribbled, “Loves cock”.
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