Zombie Invasion

by R. G. Richards

  The spirit guide told the old man this was their meal for the night. With hand movements, he separated from his grandson so they could shoot at the animal from different angles. Pipi motioned for him to aim his bow as he taught him long ago. Pride filled him as his young grandson took to hunting as he knew he would. The boy was a natural. Both aimed and on Pipi’s signal, they launched their arrows. Each arrow found its target and the long-eared rabbit fell over.

  “Got him!” Mike gave a fist pump in victory.

  “Whoo Eee!” Pipi shouted to the young hunter. The devil can’t teach him that.

  They came out of hiding to claim their prize. The grandfather congratulated his grandson and together they walked back to their camp. Mike watched and listened intently as Pipi showed him how to properly gut and clean the animal.

  “Where are you going to throw the guts, Grandfather?”

  “The entrails are important, my son. They teach us where this brave soul has lived and what he ate. We will use them as we reach out into the underworld to gain favor and bring your animal guide into focus for you.”

  “Grandfather? Come on, the underworld?”

  The boy was ignorant of his history. Pipi thought to shake the ignorance out of him. He calmed himself again. It’s not his fault. A demon raised the boy in ignorance, out of spite. He centered himself so his words came out soft. He couldn’t talk about the devil and upset his son.

  “This is not the world of the white man, no, this is our world. We come from there and we live there. When we die, we pass through there to be judged and receive our rewards.”

  “Okay, if you say so.”

  The boy’s sarcasm was not appreciated. I have a lot to teach him, thought Pipi. First things first, he spread out the entrails on the ground in front of their fire. Mike watched as his grandfather said a few words in a strange language and piece by piece, the old man placed the entrails on the burning wood.

  The singed color was unusual. Mike’s face grew into shock. Pipi knew the boy was having trouble figuring out why the entrails changed color as they shriveled and burned. He and his grandson witnessed one piece of entrails burn and a white smoke rose from it. Another produced a red smoke and another, a green. In all, five different smokes rose from the animal’s guts as they shifted in color.

  “Wow!”

  Pipi hid his face from the boy. He didn’t want the boy to see his smile. With a lowered head, the old man spoke more of his Creek dialect. They sat on the log and watched the smoke rise. Pipi took the cap off a canteen. He hesitated. He said a prayer and drank. He smiled at his grandson and passed him the canteen.

  “Whoo!” said Mike. “Man, what is that?”

  “Juju drink. Take more. Drink it deeply, my son.”

  Mike did as told. He ignored the stench and downed the brew. He took three gulps before he stopped. The boy shook his head violently. His head swayed.

  “Look into the flames, my son. There you will find your spirit guide in the form of an animal. Follow the flames high into the sky and let them reveal their secrets to you.”

  Mike looked in the fire with a glazed expression. After a while, he tilted his head and followed the various colors into the night sky.

  “There,” Mike pointed, “there, I see something. I think it is a—”

  “No! Michael, you must not say it! Never tell anyone your spirit guide. It is forbidden and your guide will leave you.”

  “Okay, Grandfather. Is it really just for me?”

  “Yes.”

  “No, I mean the animal. Are they just for me, all of them? I mean, if I see one of these animals, how will I know it is for me and not for someone else? Seriously, Grandfather, with all the people in the world, they can’t be just for me.”

  “What you see is your guide. When it chooses, it will make itself known to you and give you instructions. Until then, it is another animal.”

  “If you say so, Grandfather.”

  The boy continued looking up, following the smoke. Sorrow shone on his face. Pipi knew the look. He had told him long ago never to keep secrets from him and yet here he was asking him to keep a secret.

  Pipi thought of his own animal and how he and his father came to this same area to find his spirit guide. Every time he saw a rabbit, he assumed it was his guide talking to him. Once, he debated whether the rabbit he saw taking a dump on a log meant anything. Was the rabbit telling him something? It took time for him and he knew it would take time for his grandson.

  Later that night, Pipi doused the fire with water and they got into sleeping bags. In the darkness he told his grandson a story he hadn’t heard before. The boy fell asleep next to him. Pipi remained awake a few moments thinking. Tomorrow he would take his grandson to the tribal chief and through a series of tests his grandson would find his spirit name. Before drifting off to sleep, Pipi thought of his best friend and his granddaughter. Perhaps he could arrange a marriage between the children. Yes. That would bring the young warrior back into the fold. He needed a Seminole woman to ground him. Yes! My son will live the Seminole life and fulfill his destiny. Pipi closed his eyes, contented.

  Chapter Six: Mike

  They made their way to the other side of the woods. They walked for hours to make it there. Pipi stopped many times, telling stories of mistreated Indians removed from their homeland. Mike read stories in his schoolbooks and wondered if his grandfather referred to something called the Trail of Tears. He wanted to ask, but had more pressing problems. Mike’s feet were killing him. If the long march was anything like this, he wanted no part of it.

  For the last mile, they stopped to change into traditional Seminole dress. Mike hated that more than the endless sad stories and marching. His aching feet felt the hard Earth through the moccasins. Every pebble felt like a knife plunged into his spine. Surprisingly, he was happy his grandfather talked, it provided a much-needed distraction. It helped greatly.

  Along the way, Pipi pointed out and named different trees. He went on to name bushes, grass, and others. Each had three Indian names. Mike listened to keep his thoughts off his painful feet. Ahead, he saw the camp and gained confidence seeing his journey’s end. He sped to his grandfather, determined to walk the last few feet at his side. With his first kill, he was a man and wanted them all to know. His chest puffed out as he approached a group of men surrounding a campfire. They were all dark skinned like his grandfather.

  Three men rose to greet them. All dressed in similar outfits. They wore Native American moccasins on their feet with light-brown shirt and pants. The first to greet them stood six feet tall. The man’s wardrobe was similar to the others, only the color wasn’t the same. The man wore a distinctive shirt with reds, blues, and whites. Mike looked at the huge hand the man extended. It was a mesh of calluses and cuts. To shake that hand might be a messy proposition; he had a cut around his pinky that bled.

  “Shadow,” said the big man.

  “Dancing Bear,” said Pipi, shaking the man’s hand.

  Mike put his head down like his mother taught him. She said dignified people didn’t laugh at the unfortunate names mothers gave their young.

  “Who is this?” asked Dancing Bear.

  “This is my grandson. Are the spirits talking tonight?”

  “Yes,” said Dancing Bear. “Sit with us.”

  Pipi motioned for Mike to sit next to him with the others. They shook hands and all gazed into the flames in silence. Mike found it strange, but did as the others. He had no idea what he was looking for and felt strange at the nonsense of these old men. He was glad to rest his feet and hoped they gazed long enough to bring massive release to his joints.

  Mike stole a drink from his canteen while the others chanted around the campfire.

  Before long, Dancing Bear stopped. He took a swig from a canteen and passed it to Pipi. Mike sat next to his grandfather and smelled the concoction. Oh no, it was the stuff he forced down last night. Not again!

  “The rest is for you, my son. Drink it all,” said P
ipi.

  Mike put the canteen to his lips and forced down half.

  “Drink it all.”

  It took great effort to comply. Juju drink, yeah right, more than likely, that is the hard stuff. Mike could be wrong and allowed for it. Being a curious youngster, more than once he found his father’s secret stash and with a friend, he smoked marijuana and swallowed whiskey. This home-brewed version was strong. Mike braced and with a long gulp, he swallowed the rest and passed the empty canteen to Pipi.

  After the men chanted more, dizziness set in.

  Mike didn’t like the way he felt. His head hurt. His vision blurred and for a time he swore he saw Dancing Bear throwing a white powder at him and the fire. Through a haze he saw blue flames dance above red ones. He saw a squirrel dancing on top of the highest flame. Mike had followed his grandfather’s orders and not revealed that his so-called animal spirit was a pudgy little squirrel.

  How could he be sure of that? How could he be sure of anything he saw? Mike saw drunks passed out on the beach and sleeping on the streets of Miami. He laughed at the funny things they said and saw. Was he one now? If they saw nothing then how could he? Mike came to the conclusion they were illusions. Illusions from the powder thrown into the flames.

  “Shadow,” said Dancing Bear. “Bring him forward.”

  Bring me? I can walk. Mike tried to stand, but found his legs locked. Pipi and the man called Racing Wind helped him stand before Dancing Bear.

  Racing Wind and Rising Tide painted his face with black-and-white pinstripes. Mike thought it strange and tried resisting. For some reason, he couldn’t move. Fearing bewitchment by their chants, he desperately tried moving to no avail. Instead of feeling panic, he felt heavy, as if he could fall asleep for a week. Was something wrong? When the men finished, Dancing Bear sprinkled water over his head.

  “Look into the flames and learn your spirit name,” said Dancing Bear.

  The men chanted and moved around the flames in a circle. Mike thought it funny, like in the old Westerns he would sneak and watch before his mother came and changed the channel. He hadn’t seen one since he was six, but he remembered them and best he could tell they saw them as well.

  Mike looked into the flames. His haze weakened, still he didn’t believe. What name would this old man give him? He went over their names: Dancing Bear, Racing Wind, Rising Tide. God, please don’t let them give me one of their crazy Indian names. Please, please, please, please, please!

  “I see it!” Dancing Bear scared him by stopping in front of him.

  Mike craned his head to look pass him into the flames, searching desperately.

  “You shall be called . . .” Dancing Bear danced to the far side of the campfire and then stopped to stare at the little boy.

  Please, please, please, please, please!

  Dancing Bear stretched arms to Heaven.

  “Baton of Justice!

  “What?” he thought it strange. “What did he say, Grandfather?”

  “Baton of Justice, my son. That shall be your name.”

  “All that? How can I be called all that?” he whispered. “That’s crazy. Batton, what the hell is a batton?”

  “Baton, my son, not Batton. You shall be called Baton, it is a hammer. A hammer is an important tool, one that you cannot build without. It means your destiny is to nail down that which might fly away and be lost forever.”

  “Truly?”

  “Yes, my son. Fate wrote your destiny long ago. We will count on you to do good things for your people.”

  Mike smiled, though he knew his grandfather was pulling his leg. How can a kid do all that?

  Chapter Seven: Arrival

  From the emptiness of space came a soft hum. The hum grew steadily louder. After hovering for several hours, waiting for the cover of night to begin its descent, a giant cylindrical object pierced the Earth’s atmosphere and sped toward the Appalachian Mountains in the eastern portion of the United States.

  The object traveled along the mountain range, zigzagging as if searching for something. From north to south the object went, finally, stopping in North Carolina. It chose a location near Burnsville in Yancey County. It was a mountain, Mount Mitchell, located in the Pisgah National Forest.

  The cylindrical object was a spaceship. It dove down along the base of the mountain and hovered a minute. A beam shot out of the top of the ship, a scanning beam. As the ship rose, a blue beam traveled the mountainside. The ship stopped halfway. The blue beam faded and instantly a red beam appeared.

  Under the cover of night, the beam increased its intensity. Chunks of rock flew from the area the beam struck. The penetrating laser beam pulsed like a jackhammer. More chunks of rock rose with a steady stream of smoke. Seconds later, the ship flew into the hole it created. A yellow beam shot from the rear of the craft, ceiling it inside the mountain.

  When the dust and debris finally settled, no trace of the ship existed. Only a small hole shone in the side of the mountain. The ship sat in a cavern with a small hole at the entrance it created. From the ground, the hole was invisible.

  The next morning began as usual. Not only were the people of the United States not aware of the significant episode that had taken place last night, but neither were the people of the world. No alarms sounded. No national defense warnings or intrusions of airspace occurred. Nothing out of the ordinary gave away the landing of a spaceship within the borders of the United States of America.

  Those who had chosen this particular day to go camping and hiking in Mount Mitchell State Park had a small clue, that is, if they bothered to pay attention to the trivial. In a small stream that flowed at the base of Mount Mitchell, unusual rocks of various sizes and characteristics lay about. One knowledgeable about rock formations could attest to the mountainous nature of the rocks. A hiker, on the other hand, might look up and believe the rocks came from a rockslide. Maybe they would take a souvenir or two. They would think nothing more of the episode.

  That night, a smaller craft flew through the narrow opening. It went down the mountain and moved off to the right, over the land. Before long, it stopped and hovered. Beneath it, a green tent shimmered. The soft sounds of snoring came from within the structure. A light shone from the craft and centered over the tent. The light pulsed. Moments later it ceased. A second light with a greenish glow appeared on the center of the tent.

  The front of the tent held a long zipper from its top to the ground. The zipper shook and then began moving down the front of the tent. Out crawled a man with a tattoo of barbed wire on his right upper arm. A woman followed. Both were in underwear. They stood. Both held a blank look on their faces as if in a trance. They walked forward away from the tent to a clearing. The light traveled with them and stopped when they stopped. The light pulsed. Moments later they rose into an opening in the bottom of the craft.

  The craft sped back to its mothership in the side of the mountain.

  Chapter Eight: Connors

  Months Later, The White House

  President James Wendell Connors sat in his comfortable, black, executive chair behind his desk in the Oval Office. He wore a black pinstripe suit and adjusted his gold-trimmed reading glasses before taking another sip of a new tea he discovered on one of his foreign trips. His Presidential speech needed fine-tuning. It had to be just right before he gave it to the World Trade Union. Mexico had agreed to give up its peso in favor of the American dollar. With Canada suspending its Canadian dollar in favor of an overall American dollar set by the United States, his speech had to strike the right tone. If all went well, the dollar would become the only legal tender for North America. Nothing was more important than approving this deal and setting his legacy in stone as a premier President. Never again would there be such a president as transformational as he.

  The phone rang and broke his concentration.

  “President Connors.”

  “Pres-i-dent-Con-nors,” said a slow robotic voice.

  “Yes? Who is this?”

  Presi
dent Connors checked the caller id, it read unknown number.

  “My-nam-e-is-Nor-man,” the robotic voice spoke slow and melodic. “I-am-con-tact-ing you-to-a-rrange-a-mee-ting-be-tween-our-peo-ples-”

  Without listening further, he slammed the phone back on the receiver, annoyed. He ran through the names on the caller id screen in an attempt to find the person crazy enough to get past security and bother him. “Miriam! Miriam!” He shouted into the next room. “Get in here.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. President,” said Miriam.

  “Miriam, did you hear my phone ring?”

  “Your private phone, sir?”

  “Yes, damn it! My private phone.”

  “N-N-No, sir.”

  “Well, I must be hearing things because clearly it rang and I answered it. It sounded like one of those goddamn pushy robocalls. How in the hell did they get my number?”

  Miriam stood, dumbfounded. Her eyes moved rapidly as she searched for an explanation. Finally, she looked at him. “I don’t know, sir. Shall I have the call traced?”

  “I think that would be wise.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Miriam hurried out of the room. She returned to her desk to make the appropriate phone calls.

  Thirty minutes later the phone on the president’s desk rang again. The president kept rewriting his speech. The phone rang again. This time he absentmindedly picked it up.

  “President Connors.”

  The robotic voice spoke. “Pre-si-dent Connors, this-is Norman. I-re-present the peo-ple of Isdale. Being the-”

  Connors face distorted. Though the voice came in faster and clearer, it frustrated him. His fist closed tightly and his heart rate increased. Enough blood filled his face to pop a blood vessel.