Once upon a time, there was a bear named Zombearo. He was a bit melodramatic, what with the serape and sombrero, but he was good-hearted for a zombie bear. He didn’t eat too many kids, and when he did, he tried not to slurp the brains.

His life had started out tranquilly enough. He was like any other young forest cub, frolicking joyfully among daisies and fruit trees, tormenting hikers and raiding garbage cans. Then one day a Mexican jackrabbit with a gray, rubbery coat shuffled into the hollow. Zombearo (who was just Geoffry back then) poked his head out of the den curiously. This jackrabbit didn’t look nutritious, but he’d consider a nibble if it got close enough. As if the bunny heard the bear’s thoughts, it turned and fixed Geoffry with a piercing, yet dull gaze.

“Braaaaaainssss …” it hissed.

Geoffry considered this. Rabbits had a reputation for stupidity, but this was the first he’d heard of one looking for mental augmentation. He had to admire the bunny’s fortitude; it wasn’t often that you saw them trying to better themselves. Usually they obsessed over procreation and alfalfa, heedless of who could observe their indulgent behavior. “I can’t really help you there,” he said, “but you can check with the old beaver at the fork in the creek. I hear he started a rodent school awhile back. He might let you in if you ask politely.”

The jackrabbit continued to stare, and a line of drool formed under his chin. Geoffry shifted uncomfortably. Clearly, the old beaver would have his work cut out for him. “Well, adios,” he said with what he hoped was a cheery toss of his head. “You .. uh … you have a good time now. I’m off to clean my claws.” He turned and headed back into the den, but as he stuck his head in, he heard the rabbit growl, “NYYAAARGH!” and there was a sharp pain in his backside. The bunny was hanging by his jaws from Geoffry’s butt! The bear used all his might and smacked the rabbit, breaking its neck. But even as he picked the rabbit’s teeth from his hide, long after the sun had set, he felt a chill seep into his bones despite the balmy evening.

For the next seven days, Geoffry shivered and the color drained from his fur. The old jack rabbit’s voice echoed in his head. Curiously, brains did sound kind of tasty. He’d always been indifferent to organ meat, but suddenly brains sounded delectable. Yes, brains! Nutritious brains in a sauce of berries and spearmint! He knew where to gather chokecherries and mint along the creek. He hurried off, salivating profusely. Small animals frequently congregated at the water. Berry-mint brains would soon be his. He paused to drape an ill-gotten serape over his now-gray bulk, and balanced the matching sombrero on his head; when the sun came up, he didn’t want to be tainted with its filthy light. He silently gave thanks to the foolish peasant who had left them behind.

The chortles of Zombearo echoed in the moonlit forest, lending a sinister cast to the night.

***

All seemed normal in the forest for the next few weeks. Bears occasionally indulge in animal flesh, after all, and his excesses went unnoticed. But gradually, a gray army began to appear. Deer with glowing red eyes stalked the woods. Chipmunks perched in trees, fat cheeks stuffed full of brains and drool. Raccoons scampered through the brush, bits of gray matter stuck to their little hands. Even the fish had succumbed to the awesome power of Zombearo - a few salmon had escaped his jaws and went on to be fine cannibals. A few of the raccoons had adopted his serape fashion by stealing bandanas and underwear from country clotheslines. He thought they’d missed the point, really. Why did nocturnal animals need to be protected from the sun? They looked charmingly quaint despite their faulty logic, so he politely said nothing.

But despite his newfound reign over the forest, Zombearo began to feel remorse. How many lives had he wantonly snuffed in his mad lust for honey-walnut cerebral cortices? Wasn’t he taking more than his share? How many brains did he really need each day? Seventeen seemed excessive, particularly when you considered how he munched on squirrel brains throughout the day as though they were grasshoppers. What if he was depleting the forest brain supply? Was he really so selfish?

He resolved to cut back on the amount of brains he ingested. Fortunately for the world, zombie-hood is a delicate balance, and precisely seventeen brains are needed each day to maintain one’s gray pallor and saliva production. When Zombearo began his brain diet, he unwittingly upset the chemical balance in his putrefying body. He experienced what is often called, “Occipital Deprivation Coma.” For three weeks, he slumbered in the oak grove. The forest animals generously heaped brains before him, and the crows tried to force him to chew, but their efforts were in vain. One day, the great hulk known as Zombearo simply exploded.

The funeral was a solemn affair. The cougar buried the remaining bits of the bear’s corpse in the oak grove. The coyotoes gave the eulogy, and a weasel broke down crying, “He was so noble! He never once bit a schoolgirl’s ankle! It was always me, taking more than my share an’ spreading terror! I’m so ashamed! I’ll eat less now!” Within three days, the weasel was in a coma. Thus, the forest was saved from zombies as guilt-stricken animals began dropping dead from brain deprivation. Occasionally, you may still find an old crow feasting on carrion, but if asked about his fiendish behavior, he will flap his wings and caw something obscene, defiantly preserving the memory of Zombearo and his tattered serape.

Tags: bears, horror //