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"Jesus is not a zombie," Simon Peter said, taking care to enunciate each word slowly so the idiots could get with the program. Simon Peter was beyond exasperated. Simon Peter was Jesus's rock, he was Jesus's most prominent disciple, and he was considered the spokesperson of their group. As such you would think they’d bloody listen to him, he thought, rightfully feeling miffed. Next to him, his brother opened his mouth but Simon Peter glared him into silence.
Good, at least he could still manage Andrew.
But Mary must be on her period, fucking hell.
For three days he had mourned his friend and you would think they’d give him time to come to terms with the fact that Jesus was alive again, but no, she had to start this shit.
"Correct me if I'm wrong, Simon Peter," she said, "but aren’t zombies the dead, risen?"
"Yes, sure! If they existed!"
"Oh?" Mary pointed at Jesus who sat quietly on the rock on the opposite side of the small clearing, a ways off because Mary insisted it was the safest for everyone involved. "What’s that?"
Looking at him, Simon Peter bit back a curse. It was a miracle. It was the best thing that could have happened this miserable week and he should be there next to Jesus but Simon Peter’s feet didn’t want to move. He stared at his friend. Did Jesus look pale? No, fuck that, anyone would look pale in these circumstances. "Get him some water, will you?" he asked Mary's best friend, Whatshername. The giggly one. “Toot sweet, girl.”
She giggled on cue and blushed but did his bidding, raising her skirts to trot off down the mountain. All right, maybe she wasn’t so bad.
They stared at Jesus.
Simon Peter. Andrew. Doubting Thomas. Mary. Mary’s friend that looked like a crane. Crane girl was acceptable, he had yet to hear her say a word and that was always a good thing in a girl. No, that sounded awful. It was a good thing in anyone—
Wait.
“Doubting Thomas!” Simon Peter twisted to him. If they didn’t nip this thing in the bud right now all their hard work spreading The Word of God would be undone. Jesus the Saviour would not survive Jesus the Zombie. “Well?! You’ve been too quiet. What have you to say?” was the closest Simon Peter could come to saying help.
“Uhm,” Thomas squinted at Jesus. “He does look pale—“
“Told you!” Mary said a bit too gleefully to Simon Peter’s taste. “Zombie.”
“It’s normal!” Simon Peter snapped. “Let Thomas speak for fuck’s sake.”
“Uhm… and he was dead?”
“Zombie!” Mary repeated. It sounded like hurrah.
“But I doubt he’s a zombie.”
“There you go!” Simon Peter spat. “Thomas doubts!”
“It’s what he does!”
“Doesn’t make it mean any less! And you said he spoke! Zombies don’t speak!”
“Well,” Mary was obviously loathed to let go of her zombie plot, the cunt, “he’s not speaking now, is he?”
True. Jesus hadn’t spoken a word since Simon Peter and the others had come running to see. Which was concerning. But not zombie-concerning. Mary read too much junk, she should stick to writing down the gospels which was her damn job. “He’s parched. If you were any proper girl you’d have given him some water first instead of running off to call us—“
“He told me to call you!”
“Did he say, ‘Mary go tell them before you give me water?’ You have not the brain God gave a gnat. As soon as he’s better I’m getting him to return your demons. Seven, was it?”
“You’re a fucking arse, Simon Peter.”
Andrew coughed, swallowing a laugh. Simon Peter hissed. Where was bloody Whatshername with the water?
“Here I am,” she yodeled behind them, making Simon Peter jump. “And my name is Agatha!” She tripped past their little group with her amphora.
“Don’t let him bite you!” Mary warned, while aside, Simon Peter asked Andrew if he had spoken the bit about bloody Whatshername aloud. It appeared he had. Damn. He was usually more considerate. He had standards to uphold what with being the rock.
They all watched as Whatsh—Agatha—helped Jesus to drink deeply from the amphora. ‘Did he regain some colour?’ Simon Peter wondered, not daring to say it aloud.
“I doubt that’s water she’s giving him,” Thomas said. “That amphora looks familiar.”
Simon Peter squinted at it and had to agree. It looked like it came from Philip’s cellar. Bethsaida’s best.
“Zombie or not,” Mary said snippily, “he’s been dead three days. If anyone deserves a morning drink, it’s him.”
“You said ‘or not’,” Simon Peter said, jumping on her slip.
“I doubt zombies drink wine,” Thomas offered like a proper pal. “They want brains, don’t they?”
“They’ll eat anything,” Mary, their sudden fucking zombie expert said.
Simon Peter lost it. “Jesus is not a fucking zombie!” he yelled. His voice echoed down the mountain and returned to them. ‘Jesus… Jesus… Zombie… zombie… zombiee…"
“Oh, God.” Simon Peter sagged down on a rock and dropped his head in his hands. “Help me.”
And God did. Or, rather, the wine did.
“I’m not a zombie,” Jesus, his voice restored, called across the little clearing. “But it’s a damned good idea. Let’s prank Judas.”
Mary laughed and smacked Thomas’s arm. “And you doubted he’d forgive Judas!”
“It’s what I do,” Thomas defended himself.
“Fuck’s sake,” Simon Peter said but no one was paying attention to him. They were congratulating Jesus on being alive again, slapping his back and sharing the amphora around.
Right. Because Jesus didn’t lie. If he said he wasn’t a zombie then even Thomas believed him.
Muttering under his breath, because why bother saying anything out loud to this lot, Simon Peter rose to join them. Jesus had better go full zombie on Judas for this nonsense.
With Simon Peter’s help it did not take long for the amphora to be drained and they set off to find another—and Judas—stumbling and giggling down the mountain. "You have to at least bite him on the arse," Simon Peter, in a much better mood, declared half way down.
Agatha—and this is why Simon Peter was fast becoming enamoured with her, giggling and all—nodded. “It’s no less than he deserves.”
Thomas tried to say he doubted they needed to go that far but the others laughed him off. That was not nearly far enough!
The End
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