Age of Zomquarius

A Groovy Zombie Story

Age of Zomquarius

It was a beautiful sunny day in New York City, 1967, the kind of day where the sky was a flawless blue canvas, birds chirped like they were auditioning for a Broadway musical, and the air hummed with the distant honks of yellow cabs and the faint strum of folk guitars from Washington Square Park. The Summer of Love was in full swing, flowers were in hair, peace signs were everywhere, and the world felt like it was on the cusp of something groovy. But in the quiet corner of Woodlawn Cemetery in the Bronx, something far less groovy was stirring.

Arlo Guthrie, no, not *that* Arlo Guthrie, but a distant cousin twice removed or something; this Arlo was a full-blown hippie who'd met his untimely end after one too many "experimental" brownies at a love-in the night before. He'd been buried in a shallow grave because, well, his commune buddies weren't exactly flush with cash for a proper plot. As the sun beamed down like a cosmic spotlight, the earth above his makeshift resting place began to crack and heave. A hand, greenish, slightly mottled like overripe avocado, poked through the soil, fingers wiggling as if testing the vibe.

With a groan that sounded more like a yawn after a long nap, Arlo pulled himself out of the dirt. He sat there for a moment, brushing clods of earth from his bell-bottom jeans and fringed vest. His long, thick dark hair cascaded down his back, still perfect, not a strand out of place, miraculous, really, considering he'd been six feet under for a solid 24 hours. But the rest of him? Not so much. His skin had taken on a sickly emerald hue, patches flaking off like old wallpaper. His eyes were glazed over, milky white like he'd stared too long at a lava lamp. And his mouth... oh, his mouth and jaw were a skeletal nightmare, teeth exposed in a perpetual grin that would make a dentist faint.

Arlo blinked, or tried to; his eyelids felt like sandpaper. "Whoa, man," he muttered to himself, his voice a raspy echo, like Bob Dylan after gargling gravel. He looked down at his hands, flexing them experimentally. "This ain't right. I feel... funky. Like, undead funky." He patted his chest, feeling no heartbeat, no breath. Memories flooded back: the brownie, the spinning colors, the sudden blackout. "Far out. I'm a zombie. A real, live, wait, dead, zombie." But here's the kicker: Arlo could still think. His brain, though probably resembling Swiss cheese by now, was firing on all cylinders. He wasn't some mindless shambler; he was Arlo, the peace-loving flower child, now with a side of rot.

Shaking off the grave dirt like a dog after a bath, Arlo shuffled to his feet. His legs were stiff, joints creaking like an old VW bus, but he managed a wobbly gait out of the cemetery gates. "Gotta get my bearings, man. Maybe grab a bite, er, a drink. Yeah, something chill." The streets of the Bronx greeted him with the usual hustle: kids playing stickball, vendors hawking hot dogs, and the distant rumble of the subway. No one noticed him at first, New Yorkers are pros at ignoring the weird, but as he shuffled southward toward Manhattan, a few glances turned into stares, then whispers.

By the time he hit Midtown, the sun was high, casting long shadows from the skyscrapers. Arlo's stomach, or what was left of it, rumbled. Not for brains, mind you; that trope hadn't hit the movies yet. No, Arlo craved something nostalgic, something from his living days. Spotting a classic diner on the corner of 42nd Street, chrome exterior, neon sign buzzing "Joe's Joint", he pushed open the door with a creak that matched his own.

Inside, the place was packed: truckers in flannel, secretaries in mini-skirts, a couple of beatnik holdovers nursing coffee. The jukebox played "Light My Fire" by The Doors, and the air smelled of grease and pie. Arlo shuffled to the counter, his boots dragging on the linoleum. The waitress, a no-nonsense broad named Betty with a beehive hairdo, froze mid-pour.

"Uh, one milkshake, please," Arlo rasped, trying to smile but only managing to expose more jawbone. "Vanilla. With extra peace and love."

Betty's eyes widened to saucer size. She dropped the coffee pot, shattering it on the floor. "Sweet mother of mercy! It's a... a ghoul!" Screams erupted like a bad acid trip. Patrons bolted from booths, chairs toppling, pies flying. A burly cook emerged from the kitchen wielding a spatula like a sword, but one look at Arlo's glazed eyes and he joined the stampede out the door.

Arlo sighed, picking up a menu and fanning himself. "Man, tough crowd. I just wanted a shake." Outside, sirens wailed, NYPD, always quick on the draw in the Big Apple.

Two cops burst in, guns drawn: Officer O'Malley, a red-faced Irish vet with a mustache like a broom, and his rookie partner, Ramirez, fresh from the academy. "Freeze, you freak!" O'Malley bellowed. "Hands up, or whatever you've got left!"

Arlo raised his hands slowly. "Whoa, officers, easy. I'm just here for the dairy, not the drama."

They didn't laugh. Bullets flew, pop, pop, pop, like firecrackers at a Fourth of July barbecue. Holes peppered Arlo's vest, but he just stood there, unfazed, like a hippie ignoring the draft. "Hey, that tickles," he chuckled, brushing off lead like dandruff.

Panicked, O'Malley lunged forward, but Arlo, in a moment of undead instinct, grabbed his arm and chomped down. Not hard, mind you, just a nibble, like testing a questionable mushroom. O'Malley's skin turned green faster than a traffic light, veins bulging like psychedelic patterns. He convulsed, eyes glazing, and in seconds, he was a mindless zombie: shambling, groaning, with that same skeletal grin.

"Groooargh," Zombie O'Malley moaned, turning on Ramirez and sinking teeth into his shoulder. Ramirez yelped, then greened up, joining the undead club.

Arlo blinked. "Whoa. That's... powerful stuff." He waved a hand experimentally. "Hey, you two, sit!" To his surprise, they plopped down like obedient pups. "Stand!" Up they went. A grin spread across his bony face. "Far out! I've got control. Like, zombie puppets on strings." He pondered for a sec. "Alright, boys, escort me outta here. We're goin' sightseeing."

With his new undead entourage shuffling behind like bodyguards at a mob wedding, Arlo hit the streets. Times Square buzzed around them: billboards for Camel cigarettes, crowds gawking at the latest fashions, a street preacher yelling about the end times. Irony much? Passersby screamed and scattered as the trio shambled on, Arlo waving peace signs. "Chill, people! We're all one, man!"

But peace wasn't in the cards. More sirens, a whole squad this time, lights flashing like a bad strobe light. "Halt!" barked the lead cop, a sergeant with a bullhorn. Guns cocked, a barricade formed.

Arlo sighed. "Again? Can't we just talk this out over some herbal tea?" But the zombies awaited his command. With a theatrical flourish, he pointed. "Get 'em, fellas! But, like, non-violently... wait, scratch that. Zombie-style!"

The undead cops charged, biting and turning the officers one by one. Green skin spread like a viral tie-dye. Bullets bounced harmlessly; screams turned to groans. Soon, Arlo had a small army: ten zombies, all under his thrall, shuffling in formation like a macabre parade.

As they wandered toward Central Park, Arlo's mind raced. He was still thinking, still the hippie at heart. "Man, look at this city, wars in Vietnam, riots in the streets, everyone's fighting. But if everyone was like us... undead, united... no more hate, no more greed. Just eternal groove!" His glazed eyes lit up. "That's it! Peace through zombification. The Age of Zomquarius begins!"

He dispatched his zombies like messengers of love, biting a hot dog vendor (who turned mid-mustard squirt), a Wall Street suit (whose briefcase spilled stocks now worthless in the undead economy), a group of protesters chanting against the war (ironically, they became the ultimate peaceniks). The infection snowballed: a bitten cabbie veered into traffic, chomping passengers; a zombified tourist spread it on the subway, turning rush hour into mosh hour.

By afternoon, chaos reigned. Times Square was a sea of green shufflers, groaning in unison. The Empire State Building's observation deck? Overrun with undead sightseers, arms outstretched not for photos, but brains, wait, no, still no brain-eating; Arlo's strain was classy, preferring eternal chill over cannibalism. But the bites kept coming.

Arlo, perched on a bench in Central Park like a guru, directed the horde. "Spread the love, my children! Turn the pigs, the squares, the flower children, everyone!" His zombies fanned out: one group hit Greenwich Village, turning folk singers mid-strum (their guitars now played with skeletal fingers, sounding eerily like sitars). Another stormed Harlem, where jazz cats became zombie improvisers, moaning solos that rivaled Coltrane.

News spread faster than the virus. Walter Cronkite interrupted programming: "This just in, a plague of the undead in New York! Hippies gone horribly wrong!" But it was too late. Mayor Lindsay called in the National Guard, but bites turned tanks into undead parking lots. Helicopters hovered, but zombie birds, wait, no birds, but you get the idea.

Arlo watched from Sheep Meadow, his perfect hair blowing in the breeze. A young flower girl approached warily. "Are you... the leader?" she asked.

He nodded. "Yeah, sister. Join us. No more pain, no more war. Just peace. Eternal, green peace."

She hesitated, then offered her arm. Chomp. Green. Groove.

By sunset, the city was transformed. Skyscrapers stood silent, streets filled with shuffling hordes in tie-dye and bell-bottoms, peace signs etched in green skin. No more honking, no more fights, just a collective moan, harmonious like a thousand Om's. Arlo stood atop the Statue of Liberty (how he got there? Zombie ferry service), surveying his domain. "Welcome to the Age of Zomquarius," he rasped. "Where everyone's undead, and the love never dies."

In the end, New York became the ultimate hippie haven: a city of zombie flower children, dancing eternally under the moon, their groans a symphony of peace. And Arlo? He finally got that milkshake, from a zombified diner, blended with undead flair. Far out, indeed.