Best New Zombie Tales (Vol. 2)

by Youers, Rio

  It started when Mr. Vandenhoff’s TV switched on.

  To begin with, Michelle thought the sound was coming from next door, but soon realized that it was much closer—that it was, in fact, coming from Mr. Vandenhoff’s living room. An English accent, clearly a reporter, talking about relief work in Afghanistan. The BBC World News. Michelle knew this because it was Mr. Vandenhoff’s favorite channel. He watched it all the time.

  He turned on the TV, she thought, and her heart made a fat, slow movement in her chest. She recalled his dead hand clasping the remote, his thumb hovering over the power button. It can’t be. There’s no…

  Deep breaths.

  Michelle stood up and approached the sliding doors—got a blast of the smell again and staggered backward. She counted to three, took a deep breath, and stepped into the house.

  The TV played to a dead man…except that the dead man had moved ever so slightly since the last time she had seen him; his thumb had dropped an inch or so, and was pressed firmly on the remote’s power button.

  “Freaky,” Michelle said. She had heard that dead people could twitch or move suddenly, even belch. Something to do with a build-up of decomposition gases, or a chemical reaction in the nerves. But even so, turning on the TV was all-out freaky. She inched into the living room, her legs unsteady. The screen flashed images from all over the world: Iraq, Sierra Leone, El Salvador, Burma: a collage of disaster. Mr. Vandenhoff had traveled to all these places. He had formed charities and provided compassion, education, and comfort. Now they danced in his lifeless eyes, a swirl of color, like oil on water.

  She flicked off the TV.

  Silence. Almost…

  Flies buzzed and flicked across Mr. Vandenhoff’s body. She was no doctor, but he had obviously been dead for some time. The flies were something of a giveaway. The stench, too. There were also signs of putrefaction; his skin was greenish-gray, and his face bloated. There was darker coloring in his lower forearms and jowls—the blood no longer circulating, settling in the cold tissue like rain on a windowsill. As she watched, a fly landed on his swollen face and crawled across his eyeball.

  Michelle swallowed hard. Her throat clicked and rasped, still clenched against the smell. It was time to call the doctor. His number was in the address book, next to the telephone in the hallway. She turned and started to walk away, but stopped cold when the TV flicked on again.

  That didn’t just happen.

  She pivoted on one heel. Her heart was a raging, crashing ocean. The BBC World News played on the screen, and Mr. Vandenhoff’s neck creaked stiffly as he turned to look at her.

  “Begraaf me niet,” he said, speaking in his native Dutch. Thick yellow pus dribbled over his lower lip. “Ik bien niet dood.”

  The fly still crawled across his eyeball.

  * * *

  Michelle had first met Mr. Vandenhoff four years ago. She was eighteen at the time, working part time at coffee shop in her tiny hometown. He would come in at the same time every morning, with the Wall Street Journal under his arm, and order the same thing: a large black coffee and a blueberry muffin. She’d sometimes see him shuffling down the sidewalk, and would have his order prepared by the time he stepped through the door. He paid with the exact change, and always gave her a one-dollar tip.

  Not surprising, then, that she got to know him a little better. When it was quiet, she would often sit with him and talk. Growing up in small town America (Deer’s Brook, OR., population: 785. Welcome to Our Slice of the Pie), she hadn’t met many worldly people (or any, come to that), so Mr. Vandenhoff was instantly engaging. Although, to begin with, she wasn’t sure that she believed his marvelous stories—how he had dined with presidents and princesses, pulled children from earthquake rubble in Armenia, and provided aid to victims of genocide in Rwanda. They were just too…well, too big for her small town computer to process. He changed her mind when he brought in a selection of photographs—so many places, so many faces—clearly showing that he had seen, and touched, the world. He offered Michelle an exciting new perspective, and made her want to be a better person.

  He was sweet and gentle…and very old. When he didn’t come into the coffee shop one morning, Michelle was sure that he had passed away, and her heart ached for him. But there he was the next morning, and she delightedly handed him his black coffee and blueberry muffin. He explained that he hadn’t been in the previous day because he had been feeling under the weather, and some days it hurt to walk. Michelle asked if he had anybody to look after him…a nurse or family member, someone who could run to the grocery store for him, or just drop in a couple of times a week to see if he needed anything.

  “No, my dear,” he said, his Dutch accent thick and quite charming. “My family is in Holland. I should be there, too, but I don’t travel well these days.”

  “Then I’m going to help you,” Michelle said. “After all the help you’ve given people, it’s the least I can do.”

  Michelle eventually took a full time job in Tillamook, but even with precious little free time she still visited Mr. Vandenhoff twice a week. His health deteriorated, to the point where leaving the house was difficult. Michelle arranged for his groceries to be delivered, but she would bring him his medication, newspapers, and books from the library. She often helped around the house—little jobs that proved too much for Mr. Vandenhoff, like changing a light bulb or taking out the garbage. He told her, often, that she was a blessing, and rewarded her with incredible stories. She would sit beside him, hold his hand, and listen as he shared his experiences, or showed her photographs, mementos, and hand-written letters from children whom he had taught to read and write, or whose lives he had saved. So many amazing tales. An entire world of wonders.

  Mr. Vandenhoff never failed to surprise her.

  “Ik bien niet dood.”

  It seemed he had saved the biggest surprise for last.

  * * *

  He pushed himself out of his armchair, still clasping the remote control. More pus dribbled from his mouth—from his nostrils, too. It ran down his bloated throat in grim yellow lines and stained the front of his shirt.

  “Begraaf me…niet.”

  “Oh dear Jesus,” Michelle gasped, backing away. She stepped into the kitchen, bumped into one of the counters, and uttered a shrill cry. Something wobbled, fell to the ground, and shattered: an empty vase—void of flowers, of life, just like Mr. Vandenhoff’s body.

  Not true, Michelle thought. He’s alive…must be alive.

  But every modicum of good sense in her brain screamed otherwise. The smell—oh sweet mother of God, the smell—and the putrefaction, the pockets of bluish skin where the blood had settled and pooled, the bloating and blistering, the decay streaming from his nose and mouth, and of course, the flies. So many flies, breeding and hatching on his defenseless body. One of them had crawled across his eyeball—across his eyeball!

  Not alive. No way.

  He looked at her. A peculiar expression tweaked his mouth. It may have been a smile, but his lips were so dark and swollen it was impossible to tell.

  “Niet dood.” he mumbled, and started to walk toward her. She could tell that he was trying to walk properly, but there were serious communication maladies between his brain and motor neurons, and everything was off-track. He’d shuffle forward, and then sideways, and then his arms would move but his legs would not.

  This isn’t happening, Michelle thought.

  “Michelle…” Mr. Vandenhoff groaned, discharge bubbling over his lips. “Begraaf me niet.” He looked appealingly at her, held out his hand (still holding the remote control; the TV flipped through channels as his thumb twitched along the buttons), and managed another forward step.

  Michelle screamed. It came suddenly: a burning rush of fear, stupefaction, and emotion. Her throat ran raw as her lungs trembled and emptied, and she was left breathless, the room whirling, her heart booming in her temples like a thousand tribes.

  The high-pitched sound startled Mr. Vandenhoff. His eyes widene
d. He jigged and shuddered for a moment, like a machine with thick belts and cogs grinding to a halt, and then fell forward. He hit the living room floor hard. Michelle heard something inside him split and leak.

  She looked at him for a long time.

  Nothing. Not a twitch. Not a flicker.

  She continued to look at him, breathing in stale gasps, her heart fully revved.

  Nothing.

  “Jesus Christ.”

  Michelle dashed from the house, taking the quickest route, through the sliding doors and into the back garden. She dropped to her knees and cried.

  * * *

  She wasn’t going back in the house. No way. Not in a million years. Her cell phone was in her car, and she would call Mr. Vandenhoff’s doctor from there. Easy enough getting the number; there were only two doctors in Deer’s Brook. They worked at the same practice and were known by everyone in town. She left the garden through the back gate, got into her car (locked the doors, too), and called her mother.

  “Mom, could you get me Dr. Nestor’s number?”

  “Is everything okay, sweetheart?”

  She looked at her reflection in the rearview mirror. Her skin was cloud-pale, and her eyes swollen with tears. She looked terrible.

  “I’m fine,” she lied. “Mr. Vandenhoff is…” She paused. “Dead?” She didn’t mean to raise the intonation, but that was how the final word slipped from her mouth. She repeated it, more firmly this time: “Mr. Vandenhoff is dead.”

  I think.

  “Oh…oh, sweetheart.” Her mother seemed genuinely upset for her. “Did you find him?”

  “Yes,” Michelle said. She remembered the liquid decay pouring out of his nose and mouth as he stood up, and the fat black fly crawling across his eyeball. “It was…horrible. I had to get out of the house. I’m calling from my car, which is why I need Dr. Nestor’s number.”

  “Yes, of course.” She could tell that her mother was flapping and flustering at the other end of the line, probably going through drawers, looking for the address book. Michelle closed her eyes; she should have called directory assistance, but she wanted to hear a familiar voice. A comforting voice.

  “Hurry, Mom…I just want to get this over and done with.”

  “I know, hun.”

  Mr. Vandenhoff lurched across her mind. She opened her eyes and he disappeared.

  “Do you want me to come out there?” her mother asked.

  She managed a weak smile. The thought of a Mom-Hug made her eyes sparkle with fresh tears. “No, it’s fine. I’ll make the call and be home soon. Just save a hug for me.”

  Her mother found Dr. Nestor’s number. Michelle wrote it on the back of an envelope, and then punched it into her cell phone. She gave the secretary the details, and then waited. She turned on the radio, normally tuned to KIX96 (Tillamook’s Hot New Country), but she flipped to a heavy rock station so that the music would bombard all her thoughts. It worked. The speakers rumbled and she thought of nothing. The sun slipped to the west with familiar grace, casting shades of wild pink and orange into the sky.

  Dr. Nestor arrived some forty minutes after she had made the call. He was a small man with a round face and reassuring eyes, and she experienced a fleeting urge to share with him how Mr. Vandenhoff had moved—not just moved, but got up, walked and talked. She didn’t, though. She couldn’t; Dr. Nestor would take one look at Mr. Vandenhoff’s corpse and know that he had been dead for some time. Complicating the issue with an unlikely account of posthumous animation could lead to heavy medication, or perhaps an extended visit to Oregon State Hospital in Salem, which didn’t sound too bad…until you consider that it used to be called the Oregon State Insane Asylum.

  No thank you.

  She waited outside while he went into the house and did his thing, thinking that it wouldn’t take long. That Mr. Vandenhoff was dead she had no doubt, but she needed to hear Dr. Nestor say it. Without this confirmation, Michelle didn’t think she would ever sleep again.

  But he was dead before, she thought. As dead as dandruff, yet he still stood up and did the funky chicken.

  “Maybe he wasn’t quite dead,” she said, but her words were as fragile as parchment. “Either that, or his brain discharged a bolt of electric energy—just enough to make him jump to his feet.”

  Not possible.

  “Then I’m losing my mind.”

  More likely.

  The front door opened. Dr. Nestor stepped onto the porch. He scratched his head thoughtfully, and walked toward her. She was somewhat troubled by the frown on his face.

  “He’s dead, right?” she said.

  He nodded. “Oh, yes. I’d say he’s been dead for about three days.”

  “Poor, Mr. Vandenhoff,” she said, and while she felt sad for him (he was such a sweet old man, after all), she had more troubling emotions to deal with. Again she felt impelled to tell Dr. Nestor what she had seen, but was dissuaded by the thought of that big white hospital in Salem. It was where they had filmed One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Michelle had seen that movie. She liked it, but wasn’t thrilled at the idea of being a cast member.

  Dr. Nestor scratched his head again, still frowning. “You told my secretary that you found him, is that right?”

  “Yes,” Michelle replied. “About an hour ago.”

  “And no one else has been here?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Okay. Thank you, Michelle. You can go home now.”

  She nodded, feeling scared and confused. Maybe she would visit her own doctor tomorrow and get a dose of something—anything—strong. She turned and started to walk toward her car.

  “Just one more thing,” Dr. Nestor said, Columbo-style.

  She looked at him. He was slightly hunched, one hand on his forehead. He even looked like Columbo.

  “Why did you move the body?” he asked.

  Michelle swallowed hard and said truthfully, “I didn’t.”

  “Well, someone did.” Dr. Nestor smiled. His eyes had lost that reassuring quality. “The livor mortis—the settling of blood in the skin—would suggest Mr. Vandenhoff died in a sitting-down position.”

  “I don’t know,” Michelle said, and tears rolled from her eyes. She wanted to tell him, but couldn’t—just couldn’t. “He was…face down on the living room floor when I found him.”

  “The living room?” Dr. Nestor said. “That’s peculiar.”

  “Why?”

  He smiled again. “Because he’s in the hallway now.”

  * * *

  There had been many stories over the four years that she had known him—impassioned efforts of relief and succor, of tragedy and hope. Too many to remember, although, in homage, Michelle brought to mind as many as she could in the weeks following his passing, lighting anew the myriad candles he had placed during the years of his life. And in so doing, Michelle recalled a story that went some way toward accounting for (although not explaining) the phenomenon she had witnessed.

  We were in Benin, West Africa. This was 1983, at a time when Benin had one of the highest infant mortality rates in the world. We were there to help. There was only so much we could do, but a hand to hold will always be better than no hand at all.

  The efforts of Mr. Vandenhoff’s charity did not go unnoticed, or unappreciated. He was summoned to a Fon village on the border with Togo, where he met with a Vodun elder, a lady who went by name of Queen Mother, and who bestowed upon him fetishes of gratitude: talismans that were sure to bring long life and good health.

  She told me that my work was too important to ever let go, that I was replenishing the world, and that I should continue to do it for as long as Mawu gave light. And then she called in her Boton—a kind of Vodun shaman—who prepared the most revolting concoction: a simmering, steaming liquid into which he had poured—Queen Mother told me—Mawu’s eternal glow.

  Mr. Vandenhoff told Michelle that he really didn’t want to drink the liquid, but to refuse would have been an incredible insult, not only to Qu
een Mother and the Boton, but to all Fon people and their God. And so he drank, but not all of it; he left some in the bowl, and let even more dribble down his chin and throat. Then he thanked Queen Mother, gathered his fetishes, and left the hut hurriedly.

  I dashed through the village, found some secluded spot behind a tree, and vomited spectacularly. Even so, the Boton’s terrible drink had worked into my bloodstream, and I was sick for several days.

  Michelle had smiled and squeezed his hand. Now that you’ve drunk the moon’s glow, she said, does this mean that you’re going to live forever?

  Well I didn’t drink all of it, Mr. Vandenhoff replied, and his blue eyes kindled with affection. So perhaps I’m only half-eternal.

  * * *

  She didn’t go to the funeral. It broke her heart, but she was too disturbed by the possibility of Mr. Vandenhoff banging on the coffin lid as they lowered him into the ground. She sent a wealth of flowers in her absence, so many in fact, that Mr. Vandenhoff’s daughter, who had traveled from Holland, had to arrange for a second vehicle to transport them all to his grave.

  Michelle heard no more from Dr. Nestor in regard to the mysterious moving of Mr. Vandenhoff’s body. She wasn’t sure what to expect—a full police enquiry, perhaps. But nothing was said; events in a small town are often swept under the rug, although rarely forgotten. She was grateful for the opportunity to put it all behind her.

  If only it were so simple.