Zombie Soccer Dad slowed to a stop in the road in front of the restaurant. I kept running. He had started with a considerable lead, more than a quarter mile. And he had frantic zombie hunger speed while I had basic exhaustion, garden variety zombie dread, and a mild case of heartburn.
I knew I would catch him eventually, but his stopping sure helped. The quarry must have disappeared from Zombie Dad’s vision.
I picked up the pace. He heard my heavy breathing, turned, and started running again. This time at me.
Instinct told me to turn and run.
Um. Wait. I have a bat. New plan. Go at him fast and aim for the neck. Or maybe the knees. I turned on as much of a sprint as I had in me, heading straight for this sombrero’d fiend.
I had forgotten about Jiu Jitsu.
Funny thing about Jiu Jitsu. It is something anyone can learn in a few months. But the real Jiu Jitsu diehards go beyond learning and memorization. Hours and hours of repetitive practice and sparring reprograms their brains. They can do the moves in their sleep. They create mental and physical reaction pathways. They can do Jiu Jitsu without thinking about Jiu Jitsu. That’s the whole idea. Move faster and surer than thought. Boxers and other martial artists. Same thing. Dancers. Acrobats. For anyone sufficiently practiced and expert enough, even the most apparently sophisticated physical moves and reactions become automatic.
The Jiu Jitsu portion of Zombie Soccer Dad’s brain had not yet become synaptic jelly. It held the moves. The Jiu Jitsu defenses.
As we drew closer, he slowed to a stop. I kept coming, swinging the bat for his neck. Next thing I knew, I no longer had the bat and my ass was on the pavement, my headlamp shining up into the hungry mouth of a knockoff Brad Pitt, Sombrero wearing, Jiu Jitsu Zombie Soccer Dad.
Olympia looking down at me.
Olympia not looking so very lovely.
Olympia zombie?
I am on my back looking up at her. She is coming down for a snack. I must still be coming to because I don’t have my hands up to stop her yet.
“Olympia. What are you doing?”
And that thin world of memory freezes there. What had Leo gotten himself into? Why am I remembering this but not him? This must be a dream or a psychological break, but it feels like a memory. It moves and freezes again. It is remixed memory.
And now I slip into Leo’s mind, his memories, opening a nesting doll of thoughts and images. Falling into a galaxy of nesting dolls all opening more nesting dolls opening still more nesting dolls.
This is not your standard issue psychedelic kaleidoscopic experience. This is a quantum-level egoless self-encountering galactic cocktail shaker.
Leo’s brain floods and pulses in a way Sid Singleton never knows. So many conflicting thoughts, memories, feelings, ideas, and desires.
Whoa. Look over there. So, many tacos.
Nice house, Leo. Great coffee maker. Nice car.
More than a few women. A whole new set of mostly failed relationship nesting dolls. Who’s that woman? She’s not happy with him. Neither is she. What an ass.
But wait, look there. He and Olympia are engaged. He puts a ring with a large piece of deluxe light-flashing carbon on her finger. Either Leo makes some bank or he put himself in some serious debt for that diamond. So many memories. He and Olympia work and live and commute and everything together.
Every moment with Olympia falls upon him. He would give everything up for her. Maybe already has. Yes, his life is hers.
Leo’s universe cracks. Splits. Splinters and falls away.
I am Singleton looking out of Leo’s eyes again. On the floor. Covered in blood.
Looking up, I can no longer see Olympia’s face, her hair fell over it as she came down toward my open neck. To my right, I see the fire ax in some other victim’s hand. Not merely out of reach, but impossible to grab, to hold, to use.
It all begins moving again. Screw impossibility. I don’t want to die. I roll towards the ax, knocking Olympia Zombie off her feet as I move. I get the ax but cannot stand up because of all the bodies. I keep slipping and falling. And the blood on the tile lab floor. She is crawling to me. I look at her.
The memory freezes again.
Not that her face is so different now. I have seen her want things before. I have seen her hungry. Angry. Happy. Wanting. Wanting me, even. The horror is not what she has become, but what she remains in spite of it. She is still the woman I loved. I recognize the way her dark eyes long for me. The virus cannot erase the way a person is their body, and a body is the person. It kills the grace that makes us more than bodies. It devours the grace that makes us human.
My memory moves again.
I have the ax but not my footing.
I have her eyes but not her love.
I recover my feet but not the best part of her gaze. Looking down at her crawling at me, at Leo. How? But no, I am not there. I wish Leo was down there until he could not get up. And then, I am no longer Leo up here with this ax. I am no one.
She watches me and tries to stand but slips on the blood and gore of our co-workers. All these bloody, not so innocent co-conspirators in this grand experiment for better living.
I am no one. I am the ax. The virus cannot infect me, but it has killed me. And I am nothing more than the arms swinging the ax.
And one last panel freeze, looking down at Olympia and all the purpose in her being driven to get me, the last edible living thing in her world. No particular desire for Leo. Leo is gone, after all, though how could she ever know it. She has lost all grace. All love. All Olympia. She is the virus succeeding in its imperative. Infect. Feed. Infect. Feed.
Too quickly or not quickly enough the memory moves. I swing the ax. First knocking her down with a blow to the back. Removing the ax and swinging down again into the back of the skull. Split and stuck. Wrenching it free. Swinging again and again and again.
And I want it to end along with my memory of the sound of the screaming. My own screaming. The same sound I am hearing now under El Sombrerón de Zombie Padre de Futbol. But the screaming seems like it will go on forever.
Boom. A blast from much too close.
The twisted ill-timed flashback ends, and so does my screaming.
A shotgun blast from the side of the road distracted Zombie Soccer Dad. I rolled away and tried to get to my feet.
Another blast. This one hit him. The blast threw him back but didn’t knock him down. He dropped the bat.
A click. “Fuck.”
Then yelling and running with the gun, the Dishwasher (Aha, this is Bloody Sneaker, I thought) came at him full speed and took him out. He bashed Zombie Soccer Dad’s skull in with the butt of the shotgun, yelling and screaming the whole time.
I waited for him to tire out and catch his breath before I said, “Thanks.”
He spun around to hit me with that bloody shotgun butt.
“Whoa. Not zombie.”
He lowered the gun. “Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“It’s been a long night.” He had his hand up, blocking the light of the headlamp, visibly shaking from the physical exertion and fear. Gulping at the air, he asked, “Is that the weird dude?”
“Yeah, it’s me, I guess.” I turned off the headlamp. “Soda?”
“Huh?”
“Soda. To drink?” I opened my backpack and took out a root beer for myself.
“Uh, sure.”
“What’s your name?”
“Ray. Ray Mendoza.”
Covered in blood, he still wore his rubber gloves and vinyl apron. He removed one of the gloves to shake hands.
“This okay?” I held up a lemon lime thing from the bag.
“Yeah, thanks.”
He cradled the gun and glove as he popped the can open and drank. It sprayed us both. “Sorry.”
I popped mine open slowly. Then I walked over and picked up the bat.
“We should get him out of the middle of the road, so no one runs him over.”
“No one’s around.”
“Yeah, precautions, you know.”
It was difficult to tell for sure with all the splatters, but Ray looked to be bleeding from his left shoulder.
“Hold this for me.” I handed him my bat and soda.
Grabbing the body by those What-A-Good-Dad-He-Is soccer shoes, I dragged Zombie Soccer Dad off the road. Laid out near the front door of the restaurant, I tried making him look like the man he had been, feet together, draping his one good arm over his chest. It twitched, but only slightly. The dishwasher brought over the bloody sombrero and covered the man’s face. From dad to zombie to dad again.
“So, is this the end times or something?” I think Ray meant this as a joke, but I couldn’t hear it that way that night.
“No, just a virus. A disease.”
“Do you have it?”
“Apparently, I can’t get it.”
“That can happen.”
“Yeah.”
“How do you know?”
“This isn’t my first…” I waved my hand around to indicate the general disaster area.
“What? Wait. This is a thing.”
“A thing that doesn’t usually happen out in public. Only at labs and experimental facilities.”
“How many more sick people are there?”
“How many were in the reception at the campground?”
“I only saw the old lady and old man.”
“Then that’s it, by my count.”
“Shit. That’s a relief.”
“Yeah, yeah it is.”
We hung out in front of the restaurant. Neither of us wanted to deal with the scene inside yet, so we sat on the curb of the short sidewalk running along the front windows. “I was scared to come back here and didn’t know where to go. Town is safe, right?”
“I think so.” I didn’t know which town he was talking about. “I think it started over at the campground. Since we’re not hearing sirens and helicopters, I’m figuring we kept it contained.”
He leaned the gun and bat against the side of what had probably been the waitress’ worse-for-wear but impossible-to-kill economy car. Ray removed his hair net and other glove. Then the apron. He wore a T-shirt that read, “Spit into the wind and hope for the best.”
“You make that?”
“Me. No way, man. This is from a show in LA.”
“Cool. What band?”
“Not a band. An artist.”
“Oh. Gotcha.”
“Wow, it wasn’t much of a scratch, but damn it itches.”
“Swollen?” I asked but did not look. I didn’t need to.
“Yeah. A little.”
“So, you’re into art.” I didn’t want to think about this kid dying. He sure didn’t need to. Death comes whether we think about it not. And zombies, too.
“Yeah, I just finished art school. I’m up here earning money with my uncle. Trying something different.”
“Well, this is different.”
“Fuck. No joke.”
I thought about giving him a shot of Ziggy’s magical do-nothing serum, but…it seemed too late. “Seriously, though, seems like a nice place when it’s not full of zombies,” I told him.
“Is that what this is? Zombies?”
“It’s what I call them. They’re infected with something, but they’re also dead. Shoe fits, you know.”
“Sure, I guess so. Wow. Fucking zombies.” He drained the lemon-lime soda. “You have any more of these?”
“One more.” I passed the backpack to him.
“Sorry.”
“It’s from the campground. A little harmless sugar water looting.”
Ray pulled the last soda from my backpack, opened it, and chugged at least half of it. He looked sweaty and tired.
“When did you get that scratch?”
“Seems like a long time ago. I was hiding out over there trying to figure out what to do. Sorry, I don’t know exactly.”
“Hard to keep track of time in these situations.”
“Did that family make it? I mean, the mom and kids.”
“They got out of the restaurant OK…” I did not want to tell this dying young art student who saved my life the truth at that moment. Not ever.
“Yeah I saw ‘em drive away. Could they infect other people somewhere? Should we try calling someone?”
“They went back to the campground. I…I found them at their spot.”
“So, they didn’t get away?”
I shook my head.
“Damn.” Maybe his adrenaline high died, or maybe the infection had taken the upper hand, or maybe the news of the family made both happen, but Ray lost the last of his buoyancy in this world. He finished his soda and sagged up onto his feet. He climbed onto the hood of the car and lounged back so his legs stretched across the hood and his back and head rested on the windshield. A minute later, he sounded startled when he asked, “What should we do now?”
“I have to get some signal, and then I can call it in, and people will come who know how to clean this shit up.” I remember wondering, Do I plan on lying this kid to death?
“Like, like, the uh…the CDC?”
“Yeah, kind of…” I stood up to look at him on the hood, his face hidden from the moonlight by the shadow of the restaurant. I spoke louder than before, “Who scratched you, Ray?”
“You mean what. What scratched me.”
“Okay, what?”
“Does it matter?”
“Well, maybe it was a bush and you’re just severely allergic to poison oak.”
“It wasn’t a bush.”
“A chipmunk?”
“Ha. Like that guy at the restaurant.”
“An old person?”
“Nope. I slipped by them.”
“Ya got me, Ray.”
“Una rata blanca.”
“A white what?”
“A little white rat.”
“Ah. A rat.”
He sat up. He thought the next thing he had to say mattered, that it would be important to me. Or should be. His sweaty face reflected what tired grey green moonlight caught it. He spoke quickly as if he might stray out of his coverage range at any moment. “Yeah, it fell or jumped on me from one of the trees. It looked sick. Beat up. I shook it off me. And then I stepped on it. It didn’t put up much of a fight. I saw what those chipmunks did, but it wasn’t like that. It wasn’t like that at all. It was tired. And wore out. Sick.”
“Yeah. It had been infected longer.”
Ray looked at me. “I knew that rat. It was Kevin’s.”
And I knew for certain that a zombie rat had infected Ray. He would never wash another dish, spit into the wind again, or kill another zombie.
I could have killed him and saved a lot of trouble and time, right?
But I wouldn’t. I couldn’t.
Ray and I had won a battle together. An obscure, insignificant, meaningless battle. He defeated El Sombrerón, but he would die.
Because of Ray, I would live.
The least I could do was sit with Ray while the infection took him and try acting like a person worth giving up his life for.
“You knew Kevin?”
“Everyone knew Kevin. Always ate at the Coyote. Sat at the bar. I remember one time, he tried to set up a trivia night. A weird guy. But a nice guy.”
“Yeah, sounds like Kevin.”
“You knew him, too?”
“That’s why…”
“Shit.” The sound of Ray’s head falling back onto the windshield was the sound of it all falling into place for him. “You know, I wondered about him. He seemed awful smart for a guy with nothing to do but hang out at a campground.”
“Awful smart.” Not smart enough. Fucking Kevin. This kid will stop spitting into the wind because of Kevin. “How’d you know he had rats?”
No answer.
“Hey Ray. Ray!”
“Yeah.” Groggy, but not dead yet.
“How’d you know Kevin had rats?”
“It came up.” He did not want to tell me.
“He’s dead, so it’s not a secret. Not with me, anyway.”
“Well, it’s not his secret I’m worried about.”
“Who’s?”
“This is a fucked-up place, yo.”
“Everyone in that restaurant tonight except you and me is dead. So, there’s not much fucked-up left around here.”
“And I’m dying too, huh.”
I didn’t answer.
“Right?”
“Ray—”
“Come on, dude…now I know I’m dying.”
“Looks that way.”
“Will I get up like the others? Start biting and shit?”
“Shit, kid.” I threw my soda can at the restaurant door. It clanged against the glass and rattled around the cement sidewalk until it rolled to stop.
Ray answered low and slow, “Fuuuuuuuuck.”
I could not let him sit with the horrible reality of his zombie death all night until the end. He knew something more about Kevin and his rats. Something that might be important and might distract him from his present situation. Maybe. “What was the secret?” I asked.
“Pete and Jason came over here and saw it all.”
“Jason?”
“The cop. The bartender and the cop that always hung at the bar.”
“Great. Kevin had them over for show and tell.”
“Not exactly. Kevin pissed them off. Kind of.”
His breathing fell into the shallows. I looked into the darkness that hid his face from me. “You with me, Ray?”
“Yeah.” He swallowed. “Kevin. He said whatever, you know? Whatever came into his head.”
“Kind of a bad habit of his.”
“And he mentioned that he thought they were a couple.” Ray tried to laugh. “I think they were the last ones on earth to realize it. Or admit it.”
“So?”
“So, this is a fucked-up place, dude. You can’t say that about other people. Not here. They say it. You don’t. LA or wherever you’re from, maybe, but not here…”
“Kevin spat in the wind. Upwind.”
“Ha. Yeah.”
“Anyway, it wasn’t that big a deal, except they came over to talk to him, I guess. And they saw his whole set up.”
“Did they mess with it?”
Cinco De Zombie Page 16