Brains: A Zombie Memoir Read online

  I watched Guts closely but discerned no negative effects from eating someone his own size, a child he might identify with. Joan and Eve displayed a lack of sympathy as well. Each bit, slurped, and bit again with relish.

  There was no reason to feel guilty, I rationalized. Jesus served his own flesh and called it communion. What is the transubstantiation if not cannibalism? The raising of Lazarus and Jesus’s own resurrection: ancient zombie activity.

  And the guy who started it all, YHWH, god of the Old Testament, He lived to smite the enemies of Israel, demanded the sacrifice of lambs and rams, and turned Lot’s wife into a pillar of salt just for fun. Righteous, vengeful, and jealous as all hell, He asked fathers to murder their sons and ate firstborns for dinner. Just as we did.

  I caught a glimpse of our gang in the round security mirror as we sat on the bloody floor, hunched over body parts. A swatch of stone-washed denim clung to the human girl’s thigh. A rack with Bubble Yum, Cheetos, and other brightly packaged junk food loomed over us. Eve’s stomach was huge.

  Clearly, the Lord was on our side; we were made in His image.

  I made sure there were leftovers, putting a few toes, ligaments, a stomach lining, and an ear in Ziploc bags before hitting the road.

  Isaac, I decided, patting Eve’s belly and feeling all biblical. Boy or girl, the baby would be called Isaac.

  AFTER WALKING NORTH for days, we came upon a sculpture garden of chain-saw art created by a human-turned-zombie named George Kapotas. Chicago was less than a hundred miles to the east.

  Kapotas had been a religious man, and the bulk of his own private Eden depicted the life of Jesus: the virgin birth in the manger attended by wise men and camels; Jesus, suddenly an adult, preaching the word and petting a lamb; the Last Supper as imagined by da Vinci; and the pièce de résistance, the crucifixion, with all three crosses and the wound in His side.

  Jesus Christ Superzombie, the whole Passion Play, chainsawed out of trees.

  In addition to his devotional work, Kapotas carved bears, raccoons, and American Indians with his chain saw. Woodland creatures were scattered among the religious tableaux, making for a peculiar vision of the Holy Land. There’s Jesus healing the lepers and behind him, climbing a tree, is a koala bear. And Jesus chilling with John the Baptist, both of them leaning against totem poles.

  When we stumbled in, George Kapotas’s chain saw lay impotent at his side, and his head was inside the torso of a small child, sucking the last specks of meat from its rib cage.

  I pulled an ear out of my professor pocket and bit into the cartilage, studying the grunting, moaning folk artist. We would hide out in the Garden of Eden until Isaac was born. I signaled as much to my comrades and they made themselves at home.

  BESIDES BEING A chain-saw sculptor and religious nut, Kapotas had been a ham radio operator. Guts and I found a modest setup in the garage while exploring and securing our fortress.

  First signal I picked up, we heard this: “Moooaaaan. Ohhhhnhnn.” Silence. Then, “Mooohhanaa.”

  Radio Free Zombie.

  Guts turned the dial and picked up some joker out in Lawrence, Kansas, calling himself DJ Smoke-a-J and spinning Roky Erikson’s “I Walked with a Zombie” as well as songs by Rob Zombie-solo and with White Zombie-the Cramps, the Misfits, Ghostface Killah, and My Chemical Romance. Even that old standby “The Monster Mash.”

  In life, I would’ve written an article about the fool and his broadcast. Postapocalyptic stoned DJ waxes postmodern with songs that spit cynically in the face of his life-or-death situation. The title would be: “The Living Death of Irony: How Pop Culture Illuminates and Comments on the Current Zombie Crisis.”

  If only DJ Smoke-a-J weren’t so goddamn pathetic. He introduced the oldies classic “She’s Not There” by the Zombies with this: “I feel bad and I’ll never forgive myself, never fuckin’ ever, not in a million years, but I hid in the closet and listened to zombies eat my baby girl. She was only two years old. Meagan. And…and…God, I can hardly believe I’m saying this, but one of the zombies doing the eating was her mother. I tell myself I had no choice in the matter. It was the baby or me. And I chose me. Sweet Jesus, I chose me.”

  DJ Smoke sobbed for a bit and Guts grinned in a way that was evil, if an adorable zombie urchin can be evil. Finally Smoke took a big breath and continued, “So…I guess Meagan’s not there either. And neither is her mother. I mean, they are in that they exist, sorta, but they’re not really there. Like their minds aren’t there. Just like the girl in the song.”

  Cue music. It was enough to make a flesh-eating zombie weep.

  Guts started to break-dance and wiggle when the chorus rang out: Let me tell you ’bout the way she looks. The way she acts and the color of her hair. He was bouncing around the garage, kicking his legs high in the air, throwing his hands up like he just didn’t care. He snapped his fingers-and a chunk of his thumb flew off. I picked it up and handed it to him, signaling that he should go visit Saint Joan by making pointy breasts with my hands and simulating sewing the top part of the thumb back on. He gave me the thumbs-up-his poor digit only half there, the tissue moldy green and coagulated with black blood-and skipped out.

  I was glad to give Joan something to do. And glad to be alone.

  Finding Stein suddenly seemed impossible, a needle in a haystack, a wild goose chase. I needed information, Stein’s exact location; I needed Google and MapQuest. I needed a reliable search engine and the glut of the Internet.

  I wanted my MTV. I wanted CNN and Larry King Live. And there was only the radio; Kapotas didn’t even have dial-up-no desktop in sight. When I turned on his television, there was nothing. Not a test pattern or the bleat of the Emergency Broadcast System.

  I still didn’t know who was winning the war, but with mass communication down, I suspected it was a draw. And as anarchic as World War III.

  There had to be other zombies like us, small groups of them scattered across the country, challenging the hegemony of the humans. Drawing their own escape plans and fighting for their existence with intelligence and forethought.

  The big question was: Where were they?

  I turned the dial: “The rapture is here, brothers and sisters! Hallelujah! Those who have sinned against God-the homosexuals, the abortionists, the atheists and rapists-they are the living dead. They walk among you, eating your children. God is punishing us for our wickedness. These creatures are demons and sinners, and they want to drag you down to the fires of hell with them. They want you to decay and rot and cannibalize your own family. But Jesus will protect you, hallelujah. Those who accept Him into their heart, those who truly believe in Him, will be spared. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil for the Lord is with me.”

  I turned the dial again. Static.

  WE STARTED AN exercise routine at the Garden of Eden. Mind, body, and spirit.

  Because when I returned from the garage, I found Eve and Kapotas doing the zombie dance around the crucifixion scene. Walking in no particular direction, drooling, moaning, eyes and minds empty as seashells, heads banging against the chain saw-carved crosses.

  Tabula rasa. Tabbouleh for brains.

  I signaled to them, waving my arms and jumping up and down, but it was as if I didn’t exist. I was not only zombie but ghost as well. The Invisible Man.

  “Eeeeoooaaah,” I said, which meant: “Hellooo. Anyone home? Earth to zombies!”

  No reaction. Kapotas rubbed his head against the robber’s cross, while Eve fell to the ground, her hands holding her stomach, which had grown so large and roiling it looked like her skin might rip apart.

  Kapotas was a hairy zombie. He was covered with the stuff: black, oily, on his arms, legs, back, and belly, like a bloody teddy bear. And he was stocky, with stubby arms and legs and a barrel chest. He looked like the type of guy who’s comfortable using a chain saw-for creation or destruction. Kapotas’s primary bite site was on his neck, which was so thick it was barely there. Joan had sewn
the wound up with sky-blue embroidery thread; it looked like a spider’s web. I stuck my finger in its center, grabbed Eve by her stumpy wrist, and led them to the courtyard, where Joan and Guts were looking up at the clouds.

  The problem with zombies is they’re incapable of entertaining themselves. Leave them alone for a few hours and they become despondent and depressed, staring at the wall, dreaming of brains and guts and brains and guts and brains and brains and…

  I lined them all up in a row and led them in a series of calisthenics. Hands over heads, reach for the sky! Hands on the ground, touch your toes! Nothing too strenuous; I didn’t want any body parts to fall off. They all did as I asked them to, even though Joan was so stiff with the rigor she could barely bend at the waist and Kapotas and Eve needed to be bribed with brain-treats to keep from wandering off. Those two weren’t any smarter than dogs, but, like dogs, they could be trained.

  Besides, the best soldiers are the dumb obedient ones. And that’s what I wanted. An army. A Zombie Army to limp our way to victory.

  It was a long shot, but long shots don’t stop heroes. Think Sitting Bull standing up to Custer; the Allies invading the beaches of Normandy; think Luke Skywalker destroying the Death Star and David slaying Goliath.

  This was my plan: gather a militia and storm Chicago. We had the element of surprise on our side. That’s why we succeeded with Ros and Guil; they never expected an organized attack from corpses. Once inside their perimeter, we’d grab hostages and take over a tank, using force, the only language the military understands. After we had their attention, we’d request an audience with Doctor Stein. Violence would give way to diplomacy when Stein perused my document, an elegantly worded and passionate plea to his sense of equality and justice. With my background and knowledge, I would write an argument as persuasive and historic as “Letter from a Birmingham Jail” or the Declaration of the Rights of Man.

  First the power of the sword, then the pen. I’d be hailed as a savior. A leader. Thomas Jefferson. A king.

  I put the chain saw in Kapotas’s hands, hoping to jar his memory. A weapon like that could be an asset in the revolution, especially wielded by a resolute cadaver. I pulled the ripcord and it sprang to life, roaring Texas Chain Saw Massacre-style.

  Kapotas dropped it and sliced off his own foot at the ankle.

  “Noooaaaahmmmm!” he said, reaching out to his appendage, which hopped away on its own volition, going who knows where.

  Zombie Army’s first foot soldier.

  Doomed. I put my head in my hands. We were doomed.

  I WAS WITH Eve in the Garden of Eden, my hand on her thigh. The serpent hovered above our heads. Chain-Saw Eve clutched the apple in her hand, already won over to the dark side. My Eve nibbled on an olive-green toe.

  Her eyes were getting worse. Filmy and yellow, like faded gauze curtains, they were as dead as Kapotas’s Eve-and she was carved from wood. We were down to the last of our provisions: digits, skin, fat, blood. Everyone was desperate for viscera. If I didn’t secure brains soon, my army would go AWOL looking for some.

  Earlier that day, the president had been on the radio. I was shocked that we still had a president. And it was still the same guy.

  “My fellow Americans,” he said, “we are in a crisis of biblical proportions. Basic services are down and many citizens don’t have electricity or running water. There are no police forces or hospitals to, uhhhh, provide protection and administer aid. As a matter of fact, we’re unsure how many of you are receiving this broadcast. Or how many are left alive.

  “Although I have declared martial law to restore order, for the most part you are on your own. We are in the process of rebuilding infrastructures and getting food and water to those who need it. But the problem is finding you without attracting attention from the enemy. And that’s a hard job. We work very hard at it.

  “The enemy is crawling all over our great nation, from Portland, Maine, to Portland, Oregon. Our intelligence suggests it’s Armageddon, as foretold by the Book of Revelation. In other words, Judgment Day.

  “We are sure, positive, there is no doubt, that one of the prophecies has come true: The dead walk among us. And they’re zombies.

  “These are extraordinary times requiring extraordinary measures. I understand vigilante groups have been formed. I support this. I also support citizens, uhhhh, gathering supplies from stores and supermarkets, as long as it’s done in an orderly fashion. I urge you to bond together and help your neighbor. Reach out to one another. And above all else, pray together.

  “Not since 9/11 have the American people stood stronger or firmer. I am proud of your conduct and courage. God bless you all.

  “Our military commanders have given me some practical advice to pass on to you: Never forget the enemy. If you see one, don’t approach it or talk to it. Even if it’s your father. Because it’s not your father. Not anymore. Shoot it in the head or burn it. It’s essential to destroy its brain.

  “Let me repeat: If you don’t have a weapon, do not approach the enemy. Walk away as fast as you can. You may even want to run. Find a structure, make sure it’s not infested with the evil ones, then secure it and protect yourself. You have the full support of your president to do whatever it takes to survive. Any means necessary.

  “Rest assured that your government is working toward a swift resolution to this crisis. The full power of our military has been deployed. Congress has declared war and given me the authority to use extreme force-and that includes nuclear force.

  “Stay safe, stay together, and stay alive. God bless America.”

  “The Star-Spangled Banner” came on. The president had mentioned nuclear war, another kind of apocalypse.

  Contacting Stein became more important than ever. With compelling rhetoric and a receptive audience, I could speak for my people, represent our point of view. Maybe even end the war.

  First things first: I had an army to feed.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  MY FATHER NEVER took me hunting. Dad and I read and discussed books together. We visited museums and cafés. He taught me how to swirl brandy and smoke a pipe. All the splendors of old Europe.

  “The forest is a primeval place,” he said, “where ticks suck your blood, brambles scratch your legs, and rednecks lie in wait for people like you and me.”

  “Like you and me?” I asked.

  “Jews,” he said. “Intellectuals. And the blacks too. The rednecks are not fond of them either.”

  As a child, I thought rednecks were creatures with bright red necks, like the tropical birds I saw at the Central Park Zoo. It was years before I realized they were just people, not monsters with bulbous necks hiding behind trees in woods.

  Now I’m the monster, lying in wait for a fat red neck. Tables turned.

  Guts and I trudged along the highway on our hunt. I put my hand on his helmet. He looked up at me and when I gazed at his undead visage, a surge of emotion swelled in my chest: his sunken and watery eyes, the blackened strip of his tongue, the chicken pox scabs pulsing greenly. I felt paternal and tender toward the tyke, maudlin even, and I understood the love my father held for me: unconditional and pure, selfless, and without a trace of irony.

  It made me wish Lucy and I had created a child.

  There was a rustling in the overgrown wildflowers in the median. We heard moans and chattering, giggles and nonsense. Two heads emerged from the tall grass.

  Zombies Ros and Guil.

  “Brains,” Ros said.

  That voice! Musical, yes, and a miracle too, for it was a zombie talking. Talking! It was deep and guttural, Barry White singing in a tar pit, the devil speaking through Linda Blair in The Exorcist.

  “Br…buh, buh, bray. Mmmmmm,” said Guil, and he sounded as primal as the rest of us.

  The soldiers looked worse for the wear, but whose looks improve after death? Ros’s cranium was exposed, but besides that he was in one piece. Guil was in much worse shape; his head fell to the right, resting on his shoulder like a br
oken jack-in-the-box. The neck veins and muscles hung out like stuffing.

  Clearly, they needed Joan-and Zombie Army needed them.

  Ros pointed at me.

  “You!” he wheezed.

  Gadzooks! Not only did he talk but he had a memory to boot. Triple hallelujah!

  “Bwaaaaahmmmnoh!” I shouted, and rushed to Ros. Arm extended, I stuck my finger in the top of his head, tickling the edges of the bite.

  His eyes rolled back. He looked like Ray Liotta in Hannibal, the scene where Anthony Hopkins eats Liotta’s brains while Liotta is still alive. It’s both a lobotomy and a feast.

  “Gooood,” Ros said. “Hmmmmm.”

  With my other hand I touched Guil’s neck, where he’d been bit less than a month ago. The three of us stood there for a few minutes, locked in the zombie embrace, a mangled ménage a trois. Guts skipped around our legs like an oversized puppy.

  A crow cawed high above us. Ros put his hand on my shoulder.

  I pulled away and pointed at Ros and Guil, then at myself and Guts. I scissored my fingers, the sign for walking.

  “Yaaa,” said Ros, nodding his head.

  Martin Luther King he wasn’t. But at least he could articulate actual words. Coached by me, Cyrano de Bergerac-style, that might be enough. With practice, he’d improve.

  I had a dream…or I would if zombies slept.

  WITH THE ADDITION of Ros and Guil, we became a true hunting party-three men and a boy. And there was no better place to stalk humans than in their natural habitat.

  The question was: Wal-Mart or the mall?

  That’s the brilliance of Dawn of the Dead, the second movie in Romero’s trilogy. Set in a shopping center, the film exposes the rib cage of capitalism. Humans are safe within the confines of their shiny prison. They try on furs and fine jewels; they run through the stores, “shopping” with abandon. But it only lasts so long. Because the accumulation of material goods is a panacea, a substitute-it can never fill the void at our spiritual center. It can never acquire the depth of real meaning. It keeps us tethered to the material world, with zombies clawing at the double doors, greedy for more.