Chad drank the glowing blue beer. His skin turned the color of wet cigarette ash almost immediately.
The heat was an insult. It sat on Brad’s shoulders like a wet, heavy towel. It was the Fourth of July. The sky was bleached white. The asphalt of the strip mall parking lot radiated a physical wave of misery that blurred the air. Brad squinted. His head pounded in rhythm with his heartbeat. He tasted copper and old beer.
Tim drove the Subaru. The car was a rusted box of bad decisions. The air conditioning had died three summers ago. The windows were rolled down. It did not help. Moving air just felt like a hair dryer pointed at their faces.
"Pull over," Chad said from the back seat.
Tim did not look at him in the rearview mirror. Tim was gripping the steering wheel. His knuckles were white. "I am not pulling over. We are going to the lake."
"I am going to throw up," Chad said.
"Throw up out the window," Brad said. He sat in the passenger seat. He had a pair of cracked sunglasses pushed up on his nose. The plastic dug into his temples. He was sweating through his gray t-shirt.
"I need a drink," Chad said.
"We have nothing," Tim said. "You drank the last warm one at four in the morning. You remember that?"
"No."
"Well. You did."
Tim hit the brakes. The Subaru groaned. The brake pads squealed a metallic scream. Brad lurched forward. His seatbelt locked against his collarbone. It scraped the skin.
"What," Brad said.
"Look," Tim said.
He pointed out the windshield. There was a pop-up tent in the corner of the parking lot. It sat between an abandoned video rental store and a dumpster. The tent was black canvas. It absorbed the sunlight. It looked like a hole punched in the world.
"A thrift tent?" Brad asked.
"They might have a cooler," Tim said.
"Why would a pop-up tent have a cooler," Chad asked.
"I don't know," Tim said. "But I am not going to the lake without ice. I will die. My body will shut down."
Tim turned the wheel. The car bumped over a curb. The suspension cracked. They parked ten feet from the black tent.
The heat outside the car was worse. Brad opened his door. The hinge popped. The metal of the door burned his palm. He stood up. The ground felt soft under his sneakers. The tar was melting.
They walked to the tent. There was a table. On the table was a cooler.
It was an Igloo brand. It was vintage. It was neon green with a white lid. It looked solid. But it was vibrating.
Brad stopped walking. He rubbed his eyes. The hangover was making his vision swim. "Is that thing shaking?"
"It is a cooler," Tim said.
They stood in front of the table. There was no one inside the tent. Just shadows. The air inside the tent was cold. It spilled out over the plastic table and hit Brad’s waist. He shivered.
"Hello," Tim said.
Nothing answered.
Tim touched the neon green plastic. He pulled his hand back.
"Cold?" Chad asked.
"Yeah," Tim said. "Really cold. And heavy."
Tim grabbed the plastic handles on the sides. He grunted. He lifted it an inch off the table. A low hum filled the air. It sounded like a refrigerator compressor, but deeper. It vibrated in Brad’s teeth.
"How much," Tim asked the empty tent.
A piece of cardboard sat next to the cooler. It had sharpie writing on it. It said: TAKE IT.
"Free," Chad said. "Nice."
"This is weird," Brad said. He took a step back. The air around the cooler smelled wrong. It did not smell like plastic. It smelled like sulfur. Like a struck match. And underneath that, the sharp, rotting smell of cheap tequila left in the sun.
"I don't care," Tim said. "It is free. Help me carry it."
Brad sighed. He stepped forward. He grabbed the other handle. The plastic was freezing. It hurt his fingers.
"One, two, three," Tim said.
They lifted. The cooler was incredibly heavy. It felt like it was full of rocks. The humming got louder. Brad’s arms strained. His shoulder popped.
"Go," Brad said.
They waddled toward the Subaru. The sun beat down on the back of Brad’s neck. Sweat dripped into his eye. It stung. He blinked rapidly.
"Pop the trunk," Tim yelled at Chad.
Chad shuffled to the back of the car. He hit the button. The trunk lid flew up. The struts hissed.
Brad and Tim heaved the green cooler into the trunk. It hit the carpeted floorboard with a massive thud. The back of the Subaru sagged down two inches.
"Jesus," Brad said. He wiped his hands on his shorts. His palms were numb from the cold plastic.
"Free cooler," Tim said. He slammed the trunk shut.
They got back in the car. Tim put it in gear. They drove out of the parking lot.
The drive to the lake took twenty minutes. The silence in the car was heavy. The only sound was the wind rushing through the windows and the low, constant hum coming from the trunk.
Brad leaned his head against the glass. The vibration of the cooler traveled through the frame of the car. It buzzed against his skull.
"Do you hear that," Brad asked.
"Hear what," Tim said.
"The buzzing."
"It is an old car," Tim said.
"It smells like a frat basement in here," Chad complained.
Brad sniffed. The sulfur smell was stronger. The tequila smell was overpowering. It made his stomach roll. He swallowed hard. The saliva tasted sour.
They arrived at the lake. The parking lot was gravel. It was completely full. Cars were parked on the grass. Cars were parked in the ditches.
Tim drove in circles. He found a spot between a lifted truck and a rusted minivan. He squeezed the Subaru in. The doors barely opened.
"We are here," Tim said.
They got out. The beach was packed. It was a sea of umbrellas, towels, and burnt skin. The noise was a wall of static. Radios played different songs. People yelled. Water splashed.
They walked to the trunk. Tim opened it. The green cooler sat there. The hum was louder now. It sounded like a swarm of bees trapped inside.
"Grab it," Tim said.
Brad grabbed his handle. The plastic was so cold it burned. They lifted it out. They carried it down the gravel path. Small rocks dug through the thin rubber of Brad’s sneakers. His feet hurt.
They found a patch of sand near the water. It was barely big enough for one towel. They dropped the cooler. It hit the sand with a heavy thud.
"I claim the towel," Chad said. He threw a faded blue towel on the sand and collapsed onto it.
Brad stood over the cooler. The green plastic was sweating. Large drops of condensation rolled down the sides. The sand beneath it turned dark and wet.
The smell of brimstone was thick. Brad pinched his nose.
"I am getting a drink," Chad said. He sat up. He reached for the white lid.
"We didn't put anything in there," Brad said. "It is empty."
"Maybe the tent guy left something," Chad said.
He popped the latch.
The latch snapped open. A hiss of pressurized air escaped. A cloud of thick, white frost rolled out over the lip of the cooler. It smelled like a volcano mixed with a margarita.
Chad stared into the frost. The white vapor spilled over his knees. It coated the blue towel in a thin layer of ice.
Brad stepped closer. The cold air hit his shins. It felt amazing in the ninety-degree heat. But the smell was putrid. He gagged.
"What is in it," Tim asked. He was pulling his shirt over his head.
Chad reached his hand into the white smoke. He pulled out a can.
It was a tallboy. The aluminum was completely blank. There was no logo. No text. Just bare, silver metal. It was freezing cold. Drops of water beaded on the surface.
"Beer?" Chad asked.
"Open it," Tim said.
Chad popped the tab.
The sound was sharp. A tiny puff of blue smoke shot out of the opening. Chad tilted the can. He looked inside.
"It is blue," Chad said.
"Like a sports drink?" Brad asked.
"Like anti-freeze," Chad said.
He brought the can to his lips.
"Wait," Brad said. His stomach tightened. The humming from the cooler was vibrating in his kneecaps. "Don't drink that. We don't know what it is."
"I am dying of thirst," Chad said.
He tilted his head back. He chugged.
Brad watched his throat work. Chad swallowed once, twice, three times. He slammed the blank can onto the sand. A drop of neon blue liquid ran down his chin.
"How is it," Tim asked.
Chad did not answer. He stared straight ahead. His eyes were wide.
"Chad," Brad said.
Chad’s skin began to change. The pink flush of his sunburn vanished. A gray hue started at his neck and crawled up his jawline. It looked like wet cigarette ash. The color drained from his lips. They turned a bruised purple.
"Dude," Tim said. He dropped his shirt. "You look sick."
Chad’s breathing changed. It became wet. A rattling sound came from his chest. He blinked. When his eyes opened, the whites were completely bloodshot. The veins looked black.
"Chad," Brad said again. He stepped forward. He reached out to touch Chad’s shoulder.
Chad swatted his hand away. The movement was too fast. It was a blur.
"Don't touch me," Chad growled. His voice sounded like it was coming from the bottom of a metal barrel.
He stood up. His joints popped loudly. He swayed on his feet.
A guy walked past their towel. He was tanned. He wore mirrored sunglasses and red board shorts. He held a football. He was looking at a group of girls down the beach.
He bumped into Chad’s shoulder.
"Watch it, bro," the guy said. He did not stop walking.
Chad turned his head. His neck cracked. He lunged.
It happened in a second. Chad grabbed the guy by the shoulders. He pulled him close. Chad opened his mouth. His jaw unhinged slightly. He bit down on the guy’s face.
Brad froze. His brain stopped processing information.
There was a crunch of cartilage. The guy screamed. It was a high, tearing sound.
Chad pulled his head back. He tore the guy’s nose completely off. Blood sprayed. It hit the white sand. It looked bright red against the gray ash color of Chad’s skin.
Chad chewed. He swallowed. He smiled. His teeth were coated in red.
The guy fell to his knees. He dropped the football. He clutched his face. Blood poured through his fingers. He screamed again.
But the scream changed.
The guy stopped clutching his face. His hands dropped to his sides. The screaming stopped. He looked up. His skin was turning gray. The sunburn faded to ash. The blood on his face stopped flowing. It clotted instantly.
"Bro," the guy said. His voice was deep and metallic.
"Bro," Chad replied.
"Party," the guy said.
"Party," Chad agreed.
They both turned. They looked down the beach. A group of teenagers were playing frisbee.
Chad and the guy sprinted toward them. They moved with terrifying speed.
Brad stood frozen. His mouth was open. The heat beat down on his head.
"Did he just eat that guy's nose," Tim asked. Tim’s voice was completely flat.
"Yes," Brad said.
Screams erupted down the beach. Real screams. Brad turned his head. Chad was tackling a girl in a yellow bikini. He bit into her shoulder. The frat guy was ripping a chunk out of a teenager’s bicep.
"We need to go," Brad said.
He looked down. The green cooler was vibrating violently. The white lid popped open on its own.
More blank silver cans shot out. They landed on the sand. They rolled in all directions.
A woman running away from the chaos tripped over a can. She fell. She looked at the blank silver aluminum. She looked thirsty.
She picked it up. She popped the tab. She drank.
Her skin turned gray. She dropped the can. She stood up. She looked at a man running past her. She tackled him. She bit his ear off.
"It is the beer," Brad said. "The cooler is making the beer."
"Stop it," Tim said.
Tim looked around. He grabbed a plastic kayak paddle that someone had left in the sand. It had a yellow blade.
Tim raised the paddle over his head. He swung it down with all his strength. He aimed for the center of the white lid.
The paddle came down.
It did not hit the plastic.
A loud BING sounded. It was like a tuning fork hitting glass. The paddle stopped an inch above the lid. A ripple of blue light flashed in the air.
The force of the blow rebounded. The paddle violently bounced back up. The yellow blade hit Tim in the forehead.
Tim fell backward into the sand. He grabbed his head. "Ow. What the hell."
"Force field," Brad said. He rubbed his eyes. The hangover was a dull ache behind his retinas.
"Force field?" Tim yelled. "It is a cooler."
"It has a force field," Brad said.
The beach was a war zone. Dozens of gray-skinned people were sprinting across the sand. They were tackling people. Biting them. Tearing flesh.
But they weren't just eating.
A gray-skinned man ripped a chunk of calf muscle off a lifeguard. He chewed it. Then he picked up a red Solo cup from the sand. He chugged the beer inside. He crushed the cup against his forehead. He let out a massive burp.
"Wooooo," the zombie yelled.
"They are partying," Brad realized. "They are zombie party animals."
"Grab my legs," Tim said. He was still on the sand.
"What?"
"Pull me up. We have to get out of here."
Brad reached down. He grabbed Tim’s hands. He hauled him to his feet.
They looked at the cooler. It was still spitting out blank cans. Plop. Plop. Plop.
"We have to take it with us," Brad said.
"Are you crazy," Tim said. "Leave it."
"If we leave it, it will keep making those cans. The whole world will turn into gray frat bros. We have to take it back to the tent."
Tim stared at the cooler. He stared at the carnage on the beach. A zombie doing a keg stand on a bleeding victim.
"Fine," Tim said.
They lunged for the handles. They grabbed the freezing plastic. The force field did not stop their hands on the sides.
They lifted. The cooler was heavier now.
"Run," Brad yelled.
They carried the cooler up the gravel path. The rocks shifted under Brad’s feet. He stumbled. The plastic handle wrenched his wrist. Pain shot up his forearm.
"Keep going," Tim yelled. He was panting. Sweat poured down his face, mixing with the sand sticking to his forehead.
They reached the edge of the parking lot.
A zombie stepped into their path.
It was a girl. She wore a pink swimsuit. She had a tramp stamp of a butterfly on her lower back. Her skin was ash gray. Her eyes were black pits with cracked red veins. In one hand, she held a half-eaten hot dog. Mustard was smeared across her chin.
She looked at Brad. She dropped the hot dog. She opened her mouth. Her jaw snapped.
"Brains," she moaned. The voice was deep, echoing.
"Move," Brad yelled.
He could not drop the cooler. He had no weapon.
The girl lunged.
Brad acted on pure panic. He saw a plastic frisbee lying in the dirt near a trash can. He kicked it. He hooked his toe under the rim and flipped it up into the air.
The frisbee sailed in a wobbly arc. It flew right past the girl’s face.
Her black eyes tracked the movement. Her party instincts took over.
She stopped lunging. She twisted her body. She reached out with lightning speed. Her gray fingers snapped shut around the plastic rim. She caught it perfectly.
She looked at the frisbee. She looked at Brad.
She flicked her wrist. She threw it back.
The frisbee hit Brad square in the chest. It bounced off.
"Nice catch, bro," the zombie girl said. She turned around and walked toward a group of screaming teenagers, looking for a new target.
Brad stared at the plastic disc on the ground.
"Did she just throw it back," Tim asked. His arms were shaking under the weight of the cooler.
"They still want to party," Brad said. His mind raced. The hangover fog broke slightly. "The virus. The curse. Whatever it is. It amplifies their party drive. They want brains, but they also want to hang out."
"Cool," Tim said. "Can we walk now? My fingers are breaking."
They pushed forward. The parking lot was chaos. Cars were crashing into each other. People were screaming, running from the gray-skinned horde. Zombies were tearing doors off hinges to drag people out, then immediately shotgunning beers on the hoods.
The Subaru was parked fifty yards away. Between them and the car was a massive crowd of thirty zombies. They were surrounding a minivan, banging on the windows.
"We can't get through that," Tim said. They dropped the cooler. It hit the dirt.
Brad looked around. He saw a portable volleyball net set up in the grass near the bathrooms. A white leather ball sat in the sand.
"Yes we can," Brad said.
He ran to the grass. He grabbed the volleyball. He ran back to the edge of the zombie crowd.
He held the ball up high. He slapped it with his open palm.
Smack.
The sound echoed over the screams.
Several zombies stopped banging on the minivan. They turned their gray heads. They saw the ball.
Brad tossed it into the air. He spiked it directly into the center of the horde.
The ball hit a zombie in the chest. The zombie stumbled back. He looked at the ball. He looked at the net.
"Game on," the zombie yelled.
The horde turned away from the minivan. They shuffled toward the net. They took up positions. Three in the front. Three in the back.
One zombie picked up the ball. He served it over the net. Another zombie bumped it. Another set it. A tall gray man spiked it.
They started playing a massive, aggressive game of undead volleyball.
"You have got to be kidding me," Tim said.
"Grab the cooler," Brad said.
They picked up the humming plastic box. They walked right past the volleyball game. A stray ball rolled near Brad’s feet. He kicked it back. A zombie gave him a thumbs up.
They reached the Subaru.
"Keys," Brad said.
Tim dropped his side of the cooler. He dug into his pocket. He pulled out the keys. He unlocked the doors.
"Put it in the back seat," Tim said. "The trunk is too close to the gas tank. I don't trust this thing."
They shoved the green cooler into the back seat. It scraped against the faded upholstery. The humming filled the cabin.
Brad jumped into the passenger seat. Tim got behind the wheel. He jammed the key into the ignition. He twisted it.
The engine sputtered. It clicked.
"No," Tim said. "No, no, no."
He twisted it again. The engine whined.
Outside, the volleyball game ended. A zombie hit the ball too hard. It popped on a broken bottle. The zombies looked at the deflated leather. They looked at the Subaru.
They remembered they were hungry.
"Brains," a zombie yelled.
The horde rushed the car.
"Start the car," Brad yelled.
Tim twisted the key. He pumped the gas pedal. The engine roared to life. A cloud of black exhaust blew out the tailpipe.
Tim threw the car into reverse. He slammed the gas. The Subaru shot backward. It hit a zombie. The zombie bounced off the trunk, completely unbothered.
Tim slammed the gearshift into drive. The tires spun in the dirt. Gravel kicked up in a huge arc.
The car lurched forward. They hit the paved road leading out of the park.
Brad looked out the window. The zombies were running after them.
They were fast. Impossibly fast.
A gray-skinned man in a Hawaiian shirt sprinted next to Brad’s window. He was keeping pace with the car at thirty miles an hour. He knocked on the glass.
"Roll it down, bro," the zombie said. "Let's shotgun."
Brad locked the door.
"Faster," Brad said.
Tim pushed the pedal to the floor. The Subaru rattled. The speedometer climbed. Forty. Fifty. Sixty.
The zombies did not fall back. They ran with perfect form. Their legs moved in a blur.
The girl with the tramp stamp was running in front of the car, sprinting backward. She was laughing.
"This breaks all laws of physics," Tim screamed. He gripped the wheel. His knuckles were bone white.
"They are powered by hell," Brad said. "Or bad tequila. Just keep driving."
They hit the main highway. The asphalt was smooth. Tim swerved around a slow-moving sedan. The zombies followed. A wave of thirty rotting party animals sprinting down the shoulder of the highway.
The cooler in the back seat hummed louder. The white lid popped open. Blank silver cans shot out. They bounced around the cabin. One hit Brad in the shoulder. It was freezing cold.
"Don't let them open," Brad yelled. He reached back. He slammed his hand down on the lid.
The cold burned his palm. The force field rippled, but he pushed through it. He leaned his entire body weight over the seat to keep the lid shut.
"Where are we going," Tim yelled over the rushing wind.
"Back to the strip mall," Brad said. "Back to the tent."
The strip mall was empty. The sun was starting to lower, casting long, bruised shadows across the cracked asphalt. The heat had not broken. It felt thicker now.
Tim slammed the brakes. The Subaru skidded to a halt in front of the black tent.
The zombies were right behind them. They swarmed the parking lot. They surrounded the car. They banged on the windows, the roof, the hood. The metal dented. The noise was deafening.
"We have to make a run for it," Brad said. He was still holding the lid of the cooler down. His arms were numb.
"They will eat us," Tim said.
"Grab a can," Brad said.
"What?"
Brad reached into the cooler. He grabbed two blank silver cans. He handed one to Tim.
"Throw them," Brad said. "Distract them."
Brad kicked his door open. A zombie lunged. Brad shoved the freezing can into the zombie’s chest. The zombie grabbed it instinctively. He cracked the tab.
Brad ran.
Tim did the same on the driver's side. He tossed the can over the roof. Three zombies dove for it like a fumble in the Super Bowl.
Brad and Tim grabbed the handles of the cooler. They hauled it out of the back seat.
They sprinted for the black tent. The zombies realized they were losing their prize. They turned. They chased.
Brad and Tim crossed the threshold of the tent.
The air inside was freezing. The noise of the zombies instantly vanished. The sunlight disappeared.
They dropped the cooler onto the plastic folding table. It hit with a heavy thud.
Brad gasped for air. He wiped sweat from his eyes.
Behind the table stood a man.
He looked entirely normal. He wore a red polo shirt. He had a black lanyard around his neck. The name tag said: GARY. He had thin, greasy hair and dark bags under his eyes. He looked incredibly bored.
Gary was holding a silver vape pen. He brought it to his lips. He inhaled. A tiny crackle sounded. He exhaled a massive cloud of thick, pink vapor. It smelled intensely of artificial strawberry.
"Welcome back," Gary said. His voice was flat.
"Take it back," Brad panted. He pointed at the glowing green cooler.
Gary looked at the cooler. He sighed. He leaned his elbows on the table.
"Do you have a receipt?" Gary asked.
Brad stared at him. "A receipt? It was free. The sign said 'Take It'."
Gary shook his head slowly. "Store policy. All returns require a physical receipt. Otherwise, I can only offer store credit."
Tim stepped forward. His face was red. The vein in his forehead was bulging.
"Store credit?" Tim yelled. "That thing turns people into zombies. It is spitting out cursed beer. My roommate ate a guy's face off."
Gary took another drag from his vape. He blew the smoke out of his nose. The strawberry smell mixed with the brimstone. It was nauseating.
"Look, man," Gary said. "I just work here. I don't make the rules. The Dark Lord of the Seventh Circle makes the rules. And rule number four is no receipt, no return. I can give you twenty Hell-bucks. Good for one cursed lava lamp."
"I do not want a lava lamp," Tim screamed. He slammed his fist on the table. The plastic cracked. "I want to speak to your manager."
Gary rolled his eyes. "I am the manager on duty. The actual manager is busy torturing souls in the abyss. He is not available."
"This is unacceptable," Tim said. His voice hit a pitch Brad had never heard before. Pure, concentrated Karen energy radiated from Tim’s posture. He planted his hands on his hips. He leaned over the table. "This is false advertising. You put a sign out that said 'Take It'. There was no transaction. Therefore, no receipt can exist. By the laws of commerce, both mortal and demonic, you must accept this return."
Gary blinked. He looked at Tim. He looked at the cooler. The cooler was humming violently. A sliver of blue light leaked from under the lid.
"It is defective anyway," Tim added. "The force field is glitchy."
Gary sighed deeply. The sound held the weight of a thousand retail shifts.
"Fine," Gary said.
He reached under the table. He pulled out a scanner gun. It looked like a normal barcode scanner, but it was made of jagged black iron.
He pointed it at the cooler. He pulled the trigger.
A red laser shot out. It hit the green plastic.
Bloop.
The scanner made a cheerful retail sound.
The humming stopped.
The glowing stopped.
The freezing air vanished. The cooler instantly looked like a piece of cheap, dirty plastic.
"Return processed," Gary said. He put the scanner away. He hit his vape again. "Have a nice day."
Brad turned around. He looked out the opening of the tent.
The parking lot was still full of people. But they were no longer zombies.
The gray skin was gone. The black eyes were gone. They were just regular, sunburned teenagers.
They were standing around the Subaru. They looked incredibly confused.
A guy in a Hawaiian shirt dropped a blank silver can. It clattered on the asphalt.
"Bro," the guy said. He grabbed his head. "My head is killing me. What did I drink?"
The girl in the pink swimsuit rubbed her jaw. She looked at the half-eaten hot dog on the ground. She looked disgusted.
Brad saw Chad sitting on the curb. Chad was holding his stomach. He looked violently hungover. The frat guy next to him was checking his nose in the reflection of a car window. The nose was perfectly intact.
"My mouth tastes like a battery," Chad groaned.
Brad exhaled. His shoulders dropped. The tension drained out of his muscles. The headache returned instantly.
"It's over," Brad said.
He looked back at the table.
Gary was gone. The table was gone. The cooler was gone.
They were just standing in an empty space between a dumpster and an abandoned video store. The black canvas tent was rapidly dissolving into the hot summer air, turning into black smoke that drifted up into the bleached sky.
Tim walked out into the sunlight. He stretched his arms. His back cracked.
"I need a nap," Tim said.
Brad followed him. He put his hands in his pockets. His right hand brushed against a smooth metal cylinder.
He pulled it out.
It was a silver vape pen. It smelled like artificial strawberry.
“Brad followed him. He put his hands in his pockets. His right hand brushed against a smooth metal cylinder. He pulled it out. It was a silver vape pen. It smelled like artificial strawberry.”
