Brains: A Zombie Memoir Page 11

  For brains. Whine it, scream it, say it with need, sarcasm, in a cuddly voice, in the voice of Vincent Price, the voice of Scooby-Doo-any way you slice it, any adverb you attach to it, it remains brains. The object of my desire.

  Ros walked into the garage, singing: “There is no pain, you are a zombie. A distant ship, Smoke eaten by zombies.”

  He was as tuneful as a corpse. I cocked an eyebrow at him.

  “Ready to go, captain,” he croaked. “Nurse and Annie, check. Two little boys, check. Tweedledee and Tweedledum, secure, leashed, docile.”

  Ros’s speech had improved in our time at the Garden of Eden. I still don’t know how he pushed air through his diaphragm, but then again I don’t know how I became a brain-crazed, constipated, self-aware zombie either.

  We’ve all got our mysteries.

  It’s the age-old philosophical question: Why zombies? Or, rather, why not not zombies? Why not nothingness? Why is there something instead of nothing?

  I turned the dial. Squawks and screeches. I tuned in to the government station.

  It was the same old speech we’d heard a million times: Arm your-selves, vigilantes, martial law, shoot ’em in the head and burn ’em. Another endless loop. Hamster wheels in hamster wheels.

  Ros picked up the mic and spoke into it. “Attention,” he said. “I am a zombie. Who can talk. There is a group of us and we are heading for Chicago. Smart zombies, if you hear this, go north. We’ll find you. Over and out.”

  He put down the mic. “Think that got out?” he asked.

  I shrugged.

  “Help some, maybe.”

  According to Kapotas’s AAA maps, Chicago was a little over eighty miles to the east. There were six inches of snow on the ground and more coming down, but we’d make it. We left Paradise at nightfall, determined to gain our rightful place in the world.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  PICTURE AN AERIAL view, white everywhere, as thick as television snow. The moon is distant and cold, and the stars are sharp as daggers. A small posse of ragtag zombies appears on the left of the scene, trudging to the right. They are a smudge of dirt in the pristine white, a speck of dark in the light. Climbers on Everest. Ring around the collar.

  Zoom in: Ros, Annie, Joan, Guts, and I form the nucleus; Kapotas and Eve are attached by ropes, circling us like electrons or tentacles; and Guts is pulling Isaac on a red plastic Wal-Mart sled.

  We are a rainbow of decay: Khmer Rouge red, Baghdad blue, gangrene green, bruised-apple brown.

  We were shuffling down State Highway 72, a two-lane road running parallel with I-90. Motorcycle helmets, shopping carts, and Converse All-Stars. An Amish carriage lay on its side, the door open and its dark interior exposed.

  It was as silent as the beginning of the world.

  And in the beginning was the word and the word was brains.

  Ros began to sing “Silent Night.”

  Annie joined in: “Arrrooomphaugh,” she sang.

  I put my arm around her. “Oooaaampher,” I gurgled.

  Joan, Guts, and Isaac raised their voices too-even Kapotas and Eve. We sang to the darkened sky. A chorus of moans and bleats and bubbling vowels, howling at the moon. A pack of wild dogs answered from across the prairie.

  God was blessing us. God is blessing us every one.

  WE WALKED ALL night, and in the morning we sat on top of a station wagon like turtles lined up on a log, watching the sunrise.

  Zombies have at least one distinct advantage over the living: We’re as sensitive as frogs, awake to subtle chemical changes in the atmosphere. It’s an adaptation that counterbalances our many failures in communication and mobility, and aids immeasurably in the hunt.

  That’s how we knew there was a group of humans at least a mile off. They were hurrying toward us, headed west and away from Chicago. Their aroma preceded them.

  The core group-Ros, Joan, Annie, Guts, and I-lumbered off the car and closed ranks. Eve and Kapotas began to move forward, pulling on the ropes like rabid dogs.

  “Hooray!” Ros said. “Breakfast.”

  I counted with my fingers.

  “How many?” Ros said. “Good question.”

  Annie released the safeties on her weapons, Ros tightened his bulletproof vest, and Joan knelt down to mother Guts, adjusting his helmet and straightening his clothes.

  But there were only five of us-seven if you counted Eve and Kapotas. And I didn’t. They’d be useless in a real battle. Nothing more than cannon fodder.

  Ros raised his fist. “Charge!” he said.

  I grabbed his shoulder. There weren’t enough helmets to go around and Ros’s metal head, while it offered some protection, wasn’t bulletproof. If we charged, we’d lose.

  I looked around for a place to hide, figuring we could lie in wait for the humans, see how many there were, what weapons they carried, and then ambush them…or not.

  There was a structure up the road. I pointed to it and crouched down, twisting my neck to the left and right, pretending to be a hunter in a deer stand.

  “Got it,” Ros said. “Recon.”

  We scuffled toward the structure. Eve’s mouth twitched in an approximation of a smile; she understood we were heading for meat. I gave Guts a push on his bony back. He handed Isaac’s rope to me and zoomed ahead.

  It was a homemade fruit stand, pieced together with cheap two-by-fours. Nails hadn’t been hammered in straight and stuck out at odd angles. The lumber was rotting, the wood flaking and peeling in spots, and there were empty fruit crates scattered around. A hand-lettered sign out front read FRIED PIES.

  By the time the rest of us reached it, Guts was already inside, rooting around in the trash. He found a Matchbox car-a fire engine covered with dirt-and vroomed it on the snow. Ros creaked down and sat cross-legged next to the imp, playing make-believe with him.

  “Next is hide-and-seek,” Ros said. “Understand?”

  Guts rolled his truck up and down Ros’s arm and nodded.

  I parked Isaac behind the fruit stand and herded the rest there as well, then trundled around to the front to check out the view. It was important that no one be visible from the road.

  No such luck. Eve and Kapotas would not stay put. Their arms extended beyond the boundaries of our fort, reaching out for the humans like fans seeking autographs from the biggest pop star in the world.

  The feeling in my shoulder intensified. Our quarry was getting close. “Ooormph,” I cried, and somehow Joan understood. She pulled on the ropes and the dumb duo fell backward behind the stand. I walked as quickly as I could to safety. Eve and Kapotas would have to be restrained as the humans walked by. I hoped we could restrain ourselves.

  I re-created the battleground by scratching our position in the snow with a stick. I depicted us hiding behind the fruit stand and the humans moving toward it. I drew lines between us and them like a coach diagramming football plays.

  I looked to Ros for a recommendation. Even though I was the leader, Ros was a soldier, experienced in warfare. His input was indispensable. I pressed the stick into his hand.

  “Annie here,” he said, indicating that she should position her gun on top of the counter. “Wait until they pass us by. Then shoot. Back-door attack.”

  It was a good plan. We wouldn’t get them all, but we didn’t need them all. Just one or two would do. I gave my helmet to Annie-with her head above the counter, she would be the most vulnerable.

  “Everyone shh,” Ros said. “Here they come.”

  The humans entered our field of vision. There were seven of them, walking in loose formation and at a pace I envied. Only one of them appeared to be armed, a bulky man in an orange hunting cap. A girl about Guts’s age pulled an infant on a sled.

  Eve started moaning. I made a zip-your-lip motion with my hand and Joan covered Eve’s mouth with a handkerchief. I was holding tight to Kapotas; Ros cuddled Guts in his lap.

  The little band of humans passed our hideout, the gunman so close I could hear him muttering under his breat
h. Every dead cell in my body was screaming to be fed, but I didn’t move. None of us did.

  “Quiet out here,” one of the people said.

  “We haven’t seen any zombies for miles,” a woman said. “Maybe they’re mostly in the cities?”

  “Haven’t seen any people either,” said the man I took to be their leader. Like me, he had tortoiseshell glasses. Unlike me, he was bundled up in a parka and ski mask, protecting his fragile skin from the cold. That’s another advantage we zombies have: We’re impervious, some might say oblivious.

  Then I was looking at his back, and that could have been the end of it. We could have let them pass unharmed. They’d never know we were there, never know how close they’d come to death.

  If only they didn’t taste so good.

  Ros nudged Annie with his elbow. She stood up, took aim, and blasted the gun-toting traveler in his shoulder blade. The gun flew out of his hand and slid across the icy snow.

  The group turned to face us. They went on the defense, vigilant and tense, raising their shovels and baseball bats. Pitiful weapons. The young girl pulled the sled closer and picked up the baby.

  “Don’t shoot!” the leader said. “Can’t you see we’re human?”

  Annie shot him in the stomach. He bent over and collapsed, his blood turning the snow into the most delicious of sno-cones.

  Guts scurried out from behind our shelter, retrieved the gun, and pounced on the slain gunman; the rest of us stood up and began our laborious attack. The humans gasped collectively.

  They were our parallel-universe doppelgangers, right down to the teenager and baby. It was like looking in a funhouse mirror, our bizarro-world selves. We stared at each other for a moment, taking the coincidence in.

  “You have brains,” Ros said.

  Well put, I thought. I couldn’t have said it better myself.

  “Run!” the fallen leader yelled, his hand clutching his abdomen.

  The spell was broken. They took off, except the brave one who stayed behind to help the leader, offering her body as support so they could hobble to their deaths together.

  “I’m as good as dead,” the man said to her. “Save yourself.”

  She stood up, unsure, watching Joan, Ros, and me walking toward her.

  “Annie,” Ros said, pointing to the woman. “Shoot her.”

  But Annie was behind us. She couldn’t get off a decent shot. We were in the way.

  Meanwhile Eve and Kapotas reached the gunman and commenced feeding. Their crunching and moaning was loud and rude. The woman turned her head at the sound, her mouth opened in a silent scream.

  “Go!” the leader yelled.

  She turned and ran, zigzagging to make herself a moving target. Annie shot and missed by an inch; snow flew upward where the bullet buried itself.

  We reached the leader and snapped our jaws at him. To his credit, he put up a fight, smashing snow in my face and kicking Joan in the groin. Too bad for him, his attempts were futile, like a bunny trying to escape the mouth of a cat.

  Ros unbuttoned the man’s parka and lifted up his sweater and thermal shirt, peeling the layers like an onion. He took a bite of his stomach and made a face.

  “Tastes like lead,” he said.

  I shrugged. That’s what happens when you shoot your prey. I bit into the man’s shoulder. It was delectable, not a trace of bullet residue. His blood bloomed like roses on the snow.

  WE MARCHED FOR a thousand more years. For a long stretch, Illinois was desolate. The trees were weighted down with ice, limbs luminous in the low winter sun. Once the snow stopped, it was dry and crisp, frost crunching underfoot and ice chunks falling from power lines. The highway was slippery and we fell often, sometimes dragging Kapotas and Eve when they couldn’t-or wouldn’t-pick themselves back up.

  I envied Isaac-he had always been a zombie; he had no memories to haunt him on this endless trek. No human memories, that is.

  As for me, I had a million.

  Like the moment I fell for Lucy. She was a student in my semiotics class and I’d hardly noticed her until she was tardy one day, slipping in during my lecture on Umberto Eco’s seminal text Travels in Hyper-reality. We were dissecting the essay on Disneyland.

  It was my first semester in the Midwest. I was not yet acclimated to the culture and so was surprised to see Lucy wearing Winnie the Pooh pajama bottoms, a sweatshirt emblazoned with the university logo, and dirty suede moccasins. Her hair was long then and pulled into a sloppy ponytail.

  “Are you in the habit of wearing your sleepwear to class, Miss?” I asked.

  “ Ludlow,” she said. “And it’s Ms.”

  She found a seat, took out her notebook, which was metallic silver, and her pen, which was metallic pink with a fluffy pink glittery ball on the end. She looked at me attentively, that ridiculous pen poised above the paper.

  Lucy had all the hallmarks of the anorexic-immense and sunken eyes, cheekbones like jagged edges, baggy clothes, and skeletal hands. I adored anorexics. With their low self-esteem, desire to please, and rigorous self-discipline, what’s not to like?

  “Well, Ms. Ludlow?” I said.

  “Excuse me?” She blinked.

  “I asked if you were in the habit of wearing your pajamas to class.”

  The tips of her ears turned red.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  “Let’s pause for a moment,” I said to the class. “Take a brief detour with me while we ponder the semiotic message Ms. Ludlow is sending by wearing her jammies to school. Please, if you don’t mind, Ms. Ludlow, could you stand up in front of the class?”

  Lucy stood and the dear girl vamped it up. Turning in a circle, her hands on her boyish hips, pointing her toe, she looked like a Sears catalogue model. We all had a laugh and then I led a discussion on the cultural myths and ideologies implicit in wardrobe choices, the ever-changing rules governing fashion and decorum. My students taught me that in the Midwest it’s acceptable to wear pajama bottoms to class or the supermarket, even the coffee shop. Philistines, I thought. Can’t tell mole from gravy.

  The next class period Lucy wore a skirt and blouse, and on our wedding night, she emerged from the bathroom wearing those same Winnie the Pooh bottoms. I pulled them down, turned her over, and gave her a good spanking.

  I’ll be the first to admit it: I was an asshole.

  It took zombiedom to give me a soul, death to make me “human.”

  Scouting ahead of us, Guts found a corpse at a Kum and Go. Male. From the waist down, he was unharmed and clothed in Levi’s and Nikes. He had no torso or head, just a spinal cord sticking straight out of his pelvis, picked clean of every speck of flesh, like a lollipop stick. By his side was a pistol. He must’ve shot himself and then been eaten by vultures or crows, not zombies. Otherwise his legs would be marching in blind circles.

  We fell to our knees and gobbled his groin, thighs, ankles, feet, all of it, the meat tough and old but at least not poisoned with the virus.

  Eve was stooped over the body. Her hair had grown, as everyone knows it continues to do after death, and it hung in her eyes. She shoved the guy’s bladder in her piehole, rubbing blood over her face like a porn star. She was nothing like my skinny Lucy. Not even close.

  AS WE NEARED Chicago, we began to see more zombies. Wandering the shoulder and weaving down the yellow line. Icicles hanging from their noses, their open wounds like Coke slushies, their eyes as filmy as dirty snow. Isaac moaned for fresh meat. My professor pockets were empty.

  “Must be cold,” Ros kept repeating. “But can’t feel it. Hungry, hungry, hunger, hunger, hunger. I’m so well hunger. Ha. Brains. Oh. Where’s Sergeant Collins?” He trailed off, mumbling, then began the litany again.

  The moon went from full to crescent, slivered like a thumbnail.

  We hadn’t seen a rabbit or squirrel in days. All creatures great and small, eaten by or hiding from my kinsmen. Only the birds remained, flying out of reach.

  With zombies at the top of the
food chain, the ecosystem was out of whack. If current trends continued, we’d eat ourselves into extinction.

  By the time we reached Cook County, the road was thick with zombies. Like Times Square on New Year’s Eve, it was hard to shuffle through them all. So many were naked or wearing only soiled boxer briefs or thongs or their clothes were shredded like shipwreck survivors on a deserted island, their bodies gray and covered with cuts and bruises. Breasts sagged to hipbones. Cocks and balls hung limp as if stricken with some incurable venereal disease. Joan’s eyes darted from patient to patient, her doctor’s bag clutched in her hand; with her perky cap, she looked like an alert blue jay.

  And our hunger. And our moans. We were deafening. Distracting. It took all of my will to keep our little group focused and together, to fight the urge to join the pack and wander without purpose, lose identity, become just another ant.

  I understand why humans join cults. Free will is overrated.

  There’s freedom in surrender. Ask any POW. Ask any kidnapped kid with Stockholm syndrome. The questions are over: What do you want to do tonight, dear? What do you want for dinner? Should we have kids? Rural, urban, suburb, or exurb? Paper or plastic? Coke or Pepsi?

  There are no more questions because there’s only one answer left:

  Brains. Do I repeat myself? Very well then-I repeat myself. Brains, brains, brains, brains, brains, brains, brains, brains, brains, brains, brains, brains, brains, brains, brains, brains, brains, brains, brains, brains, brains, brains, brains, brains, brains, brains, brains, brains.

  Did I mention brains?

  Damn, was I hungry.

  We had to get off that state highway to hell. Saint Joan was dragging Eve through the snow and Eve was turning into a Popsicle. Eventually the rope tethering them together would cut Joan’s arms off and then who’d sew us back together?

  I steered us off the road and toward a strip mall with a Dollar Tree, a Rent-A-Center, a Payless, and an empty parking lot covered with virgin snow.