by Isaac Marion
I look out of the opposite windows, at the dark side of the sunset. ‘Because of us.’
‘No, not because of you. I mean, yeah, because of you, but not just you. Do you really not remember what it was like before? All the political and social breakdowns? The global flooding? The wars and riots and constant bombings? The world was pretty far gone before you guys even showed up. You were just the final judgement.’
‘But we’re… what’s killing you. Now.’
She nods. ‘Sure, zombies are the most obvious threat. The fact that almost everyone who dies comes back and kills two more people… yeah, that’s some grim math. But the root problem has to be bigger than that, or maybe smaller, more subtle, and killing a million zombies isn’t going to fix it, because there’s always going to be more.’
Two Dead appear from around a corner and lunge at Julie. I crack their heads together and drop them, wondering if I might have studied martial arts in my old life. I seem to be a lot stronger than my lean frame suggests.
‘My dad doesn’t care about any of that,’ Julie continues as we walk down the loading tunnel and enter the plane. ‘He was an army general back when the government was still going on, so that’s how he thinks. Locate the threat, kill the threat, wait for orders from the big-picture people. But since the big picture is gone and the people who drew it are all dead, what are we supposed to do now? No one knows, so we do nothing. Just salvage supplies, kill zombies, and expand our walls further out into the city. Basically, Dad’s idea of saving humanity is building a really big concrete box, putting everybody in it, and standing at the door with guns until we get old and die.’ She flops across a seat and takes a deep breath, lets it out again. She sounds so tired. ‘I mean, obviously, staying alive is pretty fucking important,’ she says. ‘But there’s got to be something beyond that, right?’
My mind drifts through the last few days, and I find myself thinking about my kids. The image of them in that hallway, making a toy out of a stapler, playing together and laughing. Laughing. Have I seen other Dead children laugh? I can’t remember. But thinking about them, that look in their eyes as they hugged my legs, I feel strange emotions welling up in me. What is that look? Where does it come from? In that lovely film projected on their faces, what beautiful score is playing? What language is the dialogue? Can it be translated?
The jet cabin is silent for several minutes. Lying on her back, Julie cranes her head and looks out of the window upside down. ‘You live in an airplane, R,’ she says. ‘That’s pretty neat. I miss seeing airplanes in the sky. Have I told you about how I miss airplanes?’
I go to the record player. The Sinatra record is still going, skipping on a blank inner groove, so I nudge the needle to ‘Come Fly With Me’.
Julie smiles. ‘Smooth.’
I lie out on the floor and fold my hands over my chest, gazing up at the ceiling, haphazardly mouthing the song’s words.
‘Have I also told you,’ Julie says, twisting her head to look at me, ‘that in a weird way it’s actually been kinda nice, being here? I mean aside from almost getting eaten like four times. It’s been years since I’ve had this much time to just breathe and think and look out of windows. And you have a pretty decent record collection.’
She reaches down and sticks a daisy into my folded hands, then giggles. It takes me a moment to realise I look like the corpse in an old-fashioned funeral. I jolt upright as if struck by lightning, and Julie bursts out laughing. I can’t help a little smile.
‘And you know the craziest part, R?’ she says. ‘Sometimes I barely believe you’re a zombie. Sometimes I think you’re just wearing stage make-up, because when you smile… it’s pretty hard to believe.’
I lie down again and fold my hands behind my head. Embarrassed, I keep my face mirthless until Julie falls asleep. Then I slowly let it creep back, smiling at the ceiling as the stars flicker to life outside.
Early the following afternoon, her soft snoring tapers off. Still lying on the floor, I wait for the sounds of her waking up. The shifting of weight, the tight inhale of breath, the small whimper.
‘R,’ she says groggily.
‘Yeah.’
‘They’re right, you know.’
‘Who?’
‘Those skeletons. I saw the pictures they showed you. They’re right about what’ll probably happen.’
I say nothing.
‘One of our people got away. When your group attacked us, my friend Nora hid under a desk. She saw you… capture me. It might take Security some time to track which hive you took me to, but they’ll figure it out soon, and my dad will come here. He’ll kill you.’
‘Already… dead,’ I reply.
‘No you’re not,’ she says, and sits up in her chair. ‘You’re obviously not.’
I think about what she’s saying for a moment. ‘You want… to go back?’
‘No,’ she says, and then seems startled. ‘I mean, yeah, of course, but…’ She lets out a flustered groan. ‘It doesn’t matter either way, I have to. They’re going to come here and wipe you out. All of you.’
I fall silent again.
‘I don’t want to be responsible for that, okay?’ She seems to be pondering something as she talks. Her voice is tight, conflicted. ‘I’ve always been taught that zombies are just walking corpses to be disposed of, but… look at you. You’re more than that, right? So what if there are others like you?’
My face is stiff.
Julie sighs. ‘R… maybe you’re sappy enough to find martyrdom romantic, but what about the rest of these people? Your kids? What about them?’
She is nudging my mind down streets it’s rarely travelled. For however many months or years I’ve been here, I’ve never thought of these other creatures walking around me as people. Human, yes, but not people. We eat and sleep and shuffle through the fog, walking a marathon with no finish line, no medals, no cheering. None of the airport’s citizens seemed much perturbed when I killed four of us today. We view ourselves the same way we view the Living: as meat. Nameless, faceless, disposable. But Julie’s right. I have thoughts. I have some kind of a soul, shrivelled and impotent as it may be. So maybe the others do, too. Maybe there’s something there worth salvaging.
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘You have… to leave.’
She nods silently.
‘But I’m… going with you.’
She laughs. ‘To the Stadium? Tell me that was a lame joke.’
I shake my head.
‘Well, let’s think about that a moment, shall we? You? Are a zombie. As well-preserved and kinda charming as you may be, you are a zombie, and guess what everyone in the Stadium over the age of ten is training seven days a week to do?’
I say nothing.
‘Exactly. To kill zombies. So, if I can make this any clearer — you can’t come with me. Because they will kill you.’
I clench my jaw. ‘So?’
She tilts her head, and her sarcasm dissolves. Her voice becomes tentative. ‘What do you mean “so”? Do you want to be dead? Really dead?’
My reflex is to shrug. The shrug has been my default response for so long. But as I lie there on the floor with her worried eyes looking down at me, I remember the feeling that jolted through me the moment I woke up yesterday, that feeling of No! and Yes! That feeling of anti-shrug.
‘No,’ I say to the ceiling. ‘I don’t want to die.’
As I say it, I realise I’ve just broken my syllable record.
Julie nods. ‘Well, good.’
I take a deep breath and stand up. ‘Need… to think,’ I tell her, avoiding eye contact. ‘Back… soon. Lock… door.’
I leave the plane, and her eyes follow me out.
People are staring at me. I was always a bit of an outsider here in the airport, but now my mystique has thickened like port wine. When I enter a room, everyone stops moving and watches me. But the looks on their faces aren’t entirely grim. There are notes of fascination buried in their reproach.
I find M
studying his reflection in a lobby window, sticking his fingers in his mouth and prodding. I think he’s trying to put his face back together.
‘Hi,’ I say, standing a safe distance away.
He glares at me for a moment, then looks back at the window. He gives his upper jaw a firm push, and his cheek-bone pops back into place with a loud snap. He turns to me and smiles. ‘How’s… look?’
I wiggle my hand non-committally. Half of his face looks relatively normal, the other half is still a bit concave.
He sighs and looks back at the window. ‘Bad… news… for the ladies.’
I smile. As deeply different as we are, I have to give M some credit. He is the only zombie I’ve met who’s managed to maintain a dangling scrap of humour. Also worthy of note… four syllables without pause. He has just matched my former record.
‘Sorry,’ I say to him. ‘About… that.’
He doesn’t respond.
‘Talk to you… a minute?’
He hesitates, then shrugs again. He follows me to the nearest set of chairs. We sit down in a dark, defunct Starbucks. Two cups of mouldy espresso sit in front of us, abandoned long ago by two friends, two business partners, two people who just met in the terminal and bonded over a shared interest in brains.
‘Really… sorry,’ I say. ‘Irrit… able. Lately.’
M narrows his brow. ‘What… going on… with you?’
‘Don’t… know.’
‘Brought back… Living girl?’
‘Yes.’
‘You… crazy?’
‘Maybe.’
‘What’s… feel like?’
‘What?’
‘Living… sex.’
I give him a warning look.
‘She’s… hot. I would—’
‘Shut up.’
He chuckles. ‘Fucking… with you.’
‘It’s not… that. Not… like that.’
‘Then… what?’
I hesitate, not sure how to answer. ‘More.’
His face gets eerily serious. ‘What? Love?’
I think about this, and I find no response beyond a simple shrug. So I shrug, trying not to smile.
M throws back his head and does his best impression of laughter. He thumps me on the shoulder. ‘My… boy! Lover… boy!’
‘Leaving… with her,’ I tell him.
‘Where?’
‘Taking… her home.’
‘Stadium?’
I nod. ‘Keep her… safe.’
M considers this, watching me with concern clouding his bruised face.
‘I… know,’ I sigh.
M folds his arms over his chest. ‘What… going on… with you?’ he asks me again.
And again, I have no answer but a shrug.
‘You… okay?’
‘Changing.’
He nods uncertainly, and I squirm under his probing eyes. I’m not used to having deep conversations with M. Or with any of the Dead, for that matter. I rotate the coffee cup in my fingers, intently studying its fuzzy green contents.
‘When… figure out…’ M finally says, in a tone more earnest than I’ve ever heard from him, ‘tell me. Tell… us.’
I wait for him to crack wise, turn it into a joke, but he doesn’t. He is actually sincere.
‘I will,’ I say. I slap him on the shoulder and stand up. As I walk away, he gives me that same strange look I’m finding on the faces of all the Dead. That mixture of confusion, fear and faint anticipation.
The scene as Julie and I make our way out of the airport resembles either a wedding procession or a buffet line. The Dead are lined up in the halls to watch us pass. Every last one of them is here. They look restless, agitated, and would clearly love to devour Julie, but they don’t move or make a sound. Over Julie’s heated protests I asked M to escort us out. He follows a few paces behind, huge and vigilant, scanning the crowd like a Secret Service agent.
The unnatural silence of a room full of people who don’t breathe is surreal. I swear I can hear Julie’s heart pounding. She is trying to walk steady and look cool, but her darting eyes betray her.
‘Are you sure about this?’ she whispers.
‘Yes.’
‘There’s like… hundreds of them.’
‘Keep you safe.’
‘Right, right, safe, how could I forget.’ Her voice grows very small. ‘Seriously, R… I mean, I’ve seen you kick ass, but you know if someone decides to ring the dinner bell right now I’m going to be sushi.’
‘They… won’t,’ I tell her with a surprising degree of confidence. ‘We’re… new thing. Haven’t… seen before. Look at them.’
She looks closer at the surrounding faces, and I hope she can see what I’ve been seeing. The strange array of their reactions to us, to the anomaly we represent. I know they will let us through, but Julie seems unconvinced. A tight wheeze creeps into her breathing. She fumbles in her messenger bag and pulls out an inhaler, takes a hit from it and holds it in, eyes still darting.
‘You’ll… be okay,’ M says in his low rumble.
She expels the breath and whips her head around to glare at him. ‘Who the fuck asked you, you fucking blood sausage? I should have hedge-trimmed you in half yesterday.’
M chuckles and raises his eyebrows at me. ‘Got… a live one… “R”.’
We continue unmolested all the way to the Departures gate. As we step out into the daylight, I feel a nervous buzz in my stomach. At first I think it’s just the ever-present terror of the open sky, now looming over us in bruised shades of grey and purple, boiling with high-altitude thunderheads. But it’s not the sky. It’s the sound. That low, warbling tone, like baritone madmen humming nursery rhymes. I don’t know if I’ve just gotten more attuned to it or if it’s actually louder, but I hear it even before the Boneys make their appearance.
‘Shit, oh shit,’ Julie whispers to herself.
They march around both corners of the loading zone and form a line in front of us. There are more of them than I’ve ever seen in one place. I had no idea there even were this many, at least not in our airport.
‘Problem,’ M says. ‘They look… pissed.’
He’s right. There is something different in their demeanour. Their body language seems stiffer, if that’s possible. Yesterday they were a jury stepping in to review our case. Today they are judges, announcing the sentence. Or perhaps executioners, executing it.
‘Leaving!’ I shout at them. ‘Taking her back! So they won’t… come here!’
The skeletons don’t move or respond. Their bones harmonise in some sour alien key.
‘What… do you want?’ I demand.
The entire front row raises its arms in unison and points at Julie. It strikes me how wrong this is, how fundamentally different these creatures are from the rest of us. The Dead are adrift on a foggy sea of ennui. They don’t do things in unison.
‘Taking her back!’ I shout louder, faltering in my attempt at reasonable discourse. ‘If… kill her… they’ll come here. Kill… us!’
There is no hesitation, no time for them to consider anything I’ve said; their response is predetermined and immediate. In unison, like demon monks chanting Hell’s vespers, they emit that noise from their chest cavities. That proud crow of unyielding conviction, and although it’s wordless, I understand exactly what it’s saying:
No need to speak.
No need to listen.
Everything is already known.
She will not leave.
We will kill her.
That is how things are done.
Always has been.
Always will be.
I look at Julie. She is trembling. I grip her hand and look at M. He nods.
With the pulse-warmth of Julie’s hand flooding through my icy fingers, I run.
We bolt left, trying to dodge around the edge of the Boneys’ platoon. As they clatter forward to block my path, M surges out in front of me and rams his bulk into the nearest row, knocking them into a pile of h
ooked limbs and interlocked ribcages. A fierce blast of their invisible horn stabs the air.
‘What are you doing?’ Julie gasps as I drag her behind me. I am actually running faster than her.
‘Keep you sa—’
‘Don’t you even think about saying “keep you safe”!’ she shrieks. ‘This is about as far from safe as I’ve ever—’
She screams as a skinless hand pinches down on her shoulder and digs in. The creature’s jaw opens to sink its filed fangs into her neck, but I grab it by the spine and wrench it off her. I fling it to the concrete as hard as I can, but there is no impact and no shattering of bones. The thing almost seems to float in defiance of gravity, its ribcage barely touching the ground before springing upright again, lurching towards my face like some hideous, unkillable insect.
‘M!’ I croak as it grapples for my throat. ‘Help!’
M is busy trying to peel skeletons off his arms, legs and back, but he seems to be standing his ground thanks to his superior mass. As I struggle to keep the skeleton’s fingers out of my eyes, M lumbers towards me, pulls the thing off me, and flings it into three others about to jump on him from behind.
‘Go!’ he yells and shoves me forward, then turns to face our pursuers. I grab Julie’s hand and dash towards our target. Finally, she sees it. The Mercedes. ‘Oh!’ she pants. ‘Okay!’
We jump in the car and I bring the engine to life. ‘Oh Mercey…’ Julie says, stroking the dashboard like a beloved pet. ‘So happy to see you right now.’ I put the car in gear and release the clutch, gunning us forward. Somehow, it seems easy now.
M has given up trying to fight and is now just running for his life with a mob of skeletons trailing behind him. Hundreds of zombies stand outside the Departures entry area, watching everything in silence. What are they thinking? Are they thinking? Is there any chance they’re forming a reaction to this event unfolding in front of them? This sudden explosion of anarchy in the state-approved programme of their lives?
M cuts across the street, directly across our exit route, and I floor the accelerator. M crosses in front of us, then the Boneys cross in front of us, then four thousand pounds of German engineering smashes into their brittle, ossified bodies. They shatter. Bits of anatomy fly everywhere. Two thigh bones, three hands and half a cranium land inside the car, where they vibrate and twitch on the seats, releasing dry gasps and insectile buzzes. Julie hurls them out of the car and frantically wipes her hands on her sweatshirt, shuddering in revulsion and whimpering, ‘Oh my God oh my God.’