Dead Country

by Bonnie Dee

“It was one of my favorite movies and I read everything I could get my hands on about dinosaurs and paleontology. Name me any dinosaur and I could tell you what period it was from, the landscape it lived in and what it ate. The idea of mass extinction freaked me out though. I used to dwell on the idea of meteors or volcanoes causing solar winter. I was kind of morbid, fascinated by earthquakes, tidal waves and tornados.”

  “And now you’re living through a disaster. Maybe you were mentally preparing for it even then.”

  “I don’t think you can ever be prepared for something like this. You just survive it. Some better than others. It all depends on whether you’re willing to shift paradigms.”

  “Huh?” My fingers were going a little numb as I plucked and stuffed the ears into the bag bumping against my hip.

  “A paradigm is a concept or pattern. When presented with a new reality, some people are better at rolling with the punches and changing as needed. Others keep waiting for things to return to the pattern they recognize and are comfortable with. They’re stuck.”

  “Like your pal Fes and that council lady, both thinking the government’s going to ride into town and fix things. Seems like your whole town is waiting for someone to come rescue them.” I shifted the strap which was starting to dig into my shoulder from the weight of the corn.

  “While you and your group are moving toward something. Maybe it’ll be better or maybe not, but you’re accepting the change and being proactive.” We stopped picking and stood looking at each other through bands of tawny leaves.

  “I’ve always lived more in my head than in the world,” Brian said. “ Dealing hands-on with zombies forced me to be more…present than I’m used to, but that doesn’t mean I’ve accepted the new paradigm. I guess I’m still waiting along with the others, stuck in place.”

  “Huh,” I repeated. “You think a lot. It’s sexy.”

  Light sparkled in his brown eyes before he looked away and resumed picking. “Ninety-eight bottles of beer on the wall, ninety-eight bottles of beer. Take one down, pass it around, ninety-seven bottles of beer on the wall,” he sang.

  I smiled and joined him on the next verse. Soon other voices chimed in from across the field. I trudged toward the wagon to empty my first sack of corn, grunting as I lifted the heavy load and dumped it. But the group singing made my heart lift. This shared moment felt strangely significant as we worked together under a sky full of gathering clouds. Here we were, leftover remnants of humanity still singing, laughing, eating, drinking, fucking, loving and just keeping on. It was really pretty moving.

  But by the time a few tired voices reached twenty-three bottles of beer on the wall, with my back aching and my hands sore from stripping corn, the happy feeling was long gone. I was exhausted, ready for a break and it wasn’t near lunch time yet.

  An hour later, I stopped picking, let my bag drop to the ground and braced my hands on my hips to crack my back. Then I sat between the rows on the dirt. Let everyone leave me behind. Let them think I was a lazy slacker. I didn’t care. I rubbed my sore neck and gazed at the sky which had gone from partly sunny to lead gray over the course of the morning.

  Another breeze rattled the corn and I shivered from chill and from the eerie emptiness of the sound. I didn’t like this wide open country, silent except for the constantly blowing wind. The sky stretched from one horizon to the other with no buildings or trees to interrupt it. I’d been a city girl all my life and I missed traffic noise. There was only one motor running nearby, Farmer Wilkins’s harvester droning along some distance away. I concentrated on that sound for a while and my eyes drifted almost closed.

  “Shit.” I jerked from my doze and climbed stiffly to my feet. It was one thing to slack off for a few minutes, another to curl up and snag z’s while everyone else worked. I listened for other voices or people moving through the corn, but heard only the wind and the harvester. I might have been dropped all alone on an alien planet. The stalks were too tall for me to see over and a sense of claustrophobia set in despite the sky overhead.

  I snapped one ear of corn after another and thrust them into the bag, stripping the stalks as fast as I could so I could catch up with the others. Suddenly an explosion of sound and movement burst in front of me and my heart slammed into my mouth like a freight elevator rushing to the top of a building. Cawing and flapping wings signaled a few crows roused from their corn feast. But my blood was racing and my heart hammering in my chest.

  I stopped picking and walked fast up the row, searching for Brian. There was nothing but whistling wind, the jungle of stalks and me. I imagined I was the last living person on Earth and that I’d be alone forever. Panic galloped through me with every beat of my heart and I reached beneath my coat for my handgun. The Wilkins family hadn’t sighted zombies in weeks, but a few people had been posted to watch the perimeter of the field and all of us were armed. A bullet from a handgun wouldn’t be enough to sever a zombie’s spinal cord but it would slow one down, giving me time to escape. Some of the others in our group carried big knives or hatchets, but I couldn’t imagine slicing through someone’s neck—even a dead person’s.

  The heft of the pistol’s grip felt good in my hand, safe, but I was still anxious as I trotted down the row, searching for a glimpse of anyone. “Hey, where is everybody?”

  Just then, from the direction of the farmhouse a clanging bell announced the lunch break. At the same moment I saw a flash of movement up ahead. Brian’s brown jacket. Relief poured through me. I’d worked myself to the edge of a panic attack for no reason. Of course other people were right nearby and they’d all be coming this way for the noon break. My stomach rumbled in anticipation of food.

  I crossed into the next row and headed toward the brown jacket. “Hey, Brian. Am I glad to see you. I was freaking out a little.”

  I pushed through the leaves and stepped into the next row. Then I stopped dead, my throat tightening and choking off my laughter. Not Brian’s jacket. My mind repeated the phrase over and over as I stared at the decomposing face of the man only a few yards away from me. The ripe odor of road kill wafted toward me.

  “Fuck!” I raised my weapon and fired. At nearly point blank range you’d think it would be impossible to miss a target, but I managed to. The zombie trotted toward me like a hunting dog following the scent of a rabbit but not in a hurry to catch it yet.

  I fired again and again, peppering the monster with bullets, the sound deafening me. The impact of the shots knocked the corpse this way and that, but it kept coming toward me, gathering speed.

  “Zombie!” I screamed to warn the others then turned and ran, my feet pounding over the uneven ground, leaves slashing my face as I raced toward the edge of the field.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Five

  The staccato of gunfire followed by Ashleigh yelling, tore me from a repetitive-motion stupor into heart-jolting consciousness. I let the heavy sack of corn drop to the ground and drew my knife from its sheath then ran through the corn toward the sound of Ashleigh’s scream.

  I followed the stench of rotting meat and the thud of footsteps to the row down which a zombie was running. Coming up from behind, I glimpsed Ashleigh over his shoulder, farther down the path. The creature was gaining ground and would be on her in a few more seconds.

  I ran faster, aware of screaming, shouting and gunfire coming from other spots around the field, but mostly concentrating on the figure ahead of me. The zombie’s coat collar protected its neck. I’d have to pull it down to reach the base of the skull. Since severing the spine was the only way to stop the current animating the corpse, I’d gotten pretty efficient at locating the medulla and ending the connection. I’d never been particularly coordinated or athletic, but I’d soon learned how to fight and to drive a knife into a moving target. When it’s a matter of kill or be killed, the body adapts quickly.

  Now I was close enough to tackle the zombie to the ground and deliver the lethal blow. As I gathered my strength to leap, something barreled i
nto me from the side and knocked me off my feet. I hit the dirt hard, pinned under a writhing body with teeth snapping inches from my face. I pulled my right from beneath me and grabbed the thing’s throat. My fingers sank into soft flesh, cool and pliant. Little details caught my attention like debris in a flood. The zombie was female, maybe in her twenties, and was no one I recognized. The lack of decay suggested she was newly turned, but she was emaciated. If it was possible for one zombie to be more ravenous than another, I’d guess she was starving as she fought with all her strength to take a bite out of my face.

  I didn’t know if the undead had extraordinary strength or if it was the sheer relentlessness of their will that made them appear so powerful. But the girl trying to eat me was pounds lighter than me and my will to live was stronger than hers to feed. I threw her off and twisted to the side then grabbed for the knife I’d dropped when she tackled me. I held the point upright so when she threw herself at me again, she impaled her throat on the blade. I gave it a savage twist, severing her spine and she convulsed into stillness on top of me.

  Blood bathed my hands and face. I blinked to clear my eyes, pushed the corpse off me and loosened the knife embedded in its flesh. Whenever I got doused, I wondered if infection had entered my bloodstream through some scratch. No one really knew how the process worked. Usually a bitten person fell sick, died and reanimated, but it might be possible to live a normal life and have the mutated blood reveal only after death.

  I wrenched my knife free and climbed to my feet. Glimpsing Ashleigh’s pursuer through the corn, I ran toward him, dried leaves lashing my face. The zombie disappeared, crossing into another row. Ashleigh must be zigzagging in an attempt to shake her pursuer. I plunged to the left, breaking through the stalks and spotted the zombie just as it leaped onto Ashleigh like a leopard taking down an antelope. She beat at the thing’s head with her empty pistol as the zombie lunged for her throat.

  Rage unleashed a surge of adrenaline that hurtled my body across the ground. I was nearly flying by the time I landed on my opponent’s back, grabbed hold of its jacket and hauled it off of Ashleigh.

  The zombie pulled free from my grip and twisted to face me. Zombies don’t appear to see well with their milky-white eyes, but their hearing and sense of smell are keen. A heart pumping blood is all they need to guide them to their quarry. The creature charged at me, weaponless except for its hands and teeth. I slashed at its face with my knife and it didn’t recoil when my blade sliced through its rotting cheek.

  I swiveled to the side as the zombie lurched past me, then I darted in, grasped its coat collar and struck at the exposed throat. My first cut wasn’t deep enough to sever the spine. The zombie grabbed my arm, gripping with the strength of a pit bull. I winced as my bones ground together. My fingers went numb and I dropped the knife. Shit. This is it. I’d let my opponent gain the upper hand and now I was going to be devoured. I drew a deep breath, maybe my last breath, and all I could smell was death.

  Suddenly the grip on my arm released.

  “Die, you motherfucker!” Ashleigh screeched as she sawed through the back of the zombie’s neck with my knife. She pulled out her blade and struck again. She was crazed, stabbing the knife into the zombie over and over. I stayed back, afraid she might slash me if I got too close, and watched as she straddled the zombie’s bucking body until it collapsed in a headless heap.

  Ashleigh sat on top of the corpse, panting, tears rolling down her cheeks. I couldn’t wait for her to recover. The number one fact of a zombie attack is they never stop coming. There’s no time to take stock or plan your next move. You have to react on instinct and keep moving.

  I grabbed Ashleigh’s arm and hauled her to her feet, taking my knife back from her bloody hand. The path between the rows of corn was too narrow to run side by side so I pulled her behind me as I ran. From all around came the sounds of bodies breaking through stalks and people yelling and screaming.

  We ran toward the farmyard where the truck waited or we could barricade ourselves inside a building. When we reached the clearing, carnage confronted us. On the porch of the house, several zombies were tearing Mrs. Wilkins apart and chewing on her limbs. Others grabbed people as they came out of the field, plucking them like a bountiful harvest. Several of our people hacked at the undead with knives or axes. A few had made it to their motorcycles and were riding away. The pickup was surrounded by a milling group of a dozen undead. We couldn’t make it through that many.

  I pulled Ashleigh back into the cover of the corn. How had things spun out of control so fast? What had happened to the guards? There’d been no warning. And where had this sudden surge of zombies come from? We were miles from anyplace. For one panicked moment, I had no idea what to do. Then the drone of the combine in the next field sparked an idea that broke me from my frozen trance.

  Holding Ashleigh’s hand, I ran toward the sound. Soon I could see the cab of the big green machine above the cornstalks moving steadily along. Wilkins must be completely oblivious to what was happening around him, isolated in the soundproofed cab. But as we drew closer I saw that although the combine was still moving, the cab was empty and its door hung open. The blood-smeared windshield and ladder to the cab drew a picture of what had happened to the farmer. Picturing zombies pulling Wilkins from inside didn’t make me trust in the safety of the cab, but the option of running around the field being chased by zombies wasn’t any better.

  The area around the machine was zombie-free, but it would be tricky getting on while it was moving. I gave Ashleigh a little push toward the harvester. “Jump on.”

  She didn’t hesitate but ran toward the moving machine. She jogged alongside, gauged the speed then leaped onto the side and clambered up the ladder rungs like a gymnast. I shouldn’t have been surprised. She was probably a lot more physically fit than me what with the pole dancing.

  I trotted beside the combine, which was rolling at a steady clip. Drawing a deep breath, I grabbed for a ladder rung. The metal was slippery with blood and I nearly lost my grip. I grabbed another rung and hung on for a moment before climbing, more slowly than Ashleigh, up to the cab.

  There was barely room for two inside. I sat in the operator’s seat and studied the controls. Ashleigh was squished in beside me on the chair, hip to hip, panting for breath. She leaned forward and wiped the blood from the windshield with her sleeve, succeeding mostly in smearing it.

  From this height we could see some of the scene playing out in the field—the running people, both living and dead, and the fallen ones, some of which struggled to rise again. I grabbed hold of the wheel and steered the harvester toward the Wilkins’ house.

  “What are you gonna do?” Ashleigh braced a hand against the side of the cab as we jolted over the bumpy furrows. I was too busy trying to figure out how to engage the cutter bar to answer. Finally, I located the right control and the combine began to devour the stalks before us. In the side mirror, I glimpsed the chewed-up detritus spew out from beneath the machine and through the rear window, shelled grain landing in the tank.

  I focused on a zombie walking between the rows of corn. I was sure the figure was a monster and not a living human because it didn’t seem particularly concerned that one of its arms dangled by a tendon. The creature looked at the machine with a vacant stare and didn’t move out of the way. Maybe it smelled the fresh blood on the machine and took it to be a possible source of food. I didn’t know if a combine could chop up a human body without it jamming the blades, but I was willing to give it a try.

  One second the shambling thing was in front of us, as horrifying as a child’s nightmare, the next it was knocked down by the points and the harvester rolled over it. I prayed the cutter bar had severed the zombie’s neck as we rolled over it. Checking the mirror, I saw the mangled creature writhing on the ground in our wake. A few seconds later, scarlet gore rained from the chute along with the golden corn.

  Ashleigh crowed in victory and pumped her fist.

  One down. More than
a dozen to go. I drove toward the edge of the field while setting the cutter bar higher—to neck height. Several of undead might prove too much for the harvester and jam the works, but it was vital we clear the creatures out of our way and get to the pickup.

  A movement caught the corner of my eye—a man in a rust-red jacket running toward us. As he got closer, I saw that the jacket was blood-soaked not red, and the man was Fes. He dodged through the spray of chaff from beneath the harvester and jumped onto the ladder. A zombie followed close behind. It grabbed at his leg. Fes kicked out, shaking his leg free, and the zombie fell. I lost sight of the creature but when I glanced into the side mirror, the thing was struggling to stand on broken legs. I hadn’t felt so much as a bump as the six-foot tall tires rolled over it.

  Ashleigh opened the cab door and Fes climbed inside. There wasn’t room for all of us so he perched in the open doorway.

  I yelled above the engine noise, “I’m going for the pickup. You got the keys?”

  He nodded. “Left ‘em in the truck.”

  As the combine rolled out of the cornfield and into the Wilkins’ yard, I pushed the throttle forward. We rolled across the tall brown grass toward the mob of zombies. My plan was to get as close to the pickup as I could without running into it. Adrenalin seared my veins as the points knocked down another zombie, leaving behind a body with a neatly severed head.