“How dare you!” Hazelwood cried, her throat hoarsening. “This isn’t our world any more! It’s theirs! We let our guard down, and they tear our throats out! Society must be prepared, prepared in every way, for war! It is the only way!”
Land shrunk back at the force of her argument. “Do you remember,” he said, his voice cracking, “when they used to say that watching violent movies was desensitizing, and that was a bad thing?”
For a long time there was silence, and then Hazelwood said, “You’ve been wondering why there’s so much special treatment for this one kid? What makes him so important?”
Land nodded.
“That was my idea. When I heard about Paul from your school’s liaison office, I thought about the way I was before the zombies: a quiet, rural life. No TV. I’d never even witnessed violence. Then I watched a zombie tear my father’s head off while he was working the fields. You know what I did? I didn’t run, I didn’t scream––I just shut off. The shock almost killed me. But that made me who I am.”
Hazelwood was trembling slightly. She clenched her fists where she stood to steady herself. “Maybe you’re a zombie-lover too, but you earned that right by fighting for your country up in Alaska. Mr. and Mrs. March never served, but their son will have to. Maybe it was noble once to be a conscientious objector, but now it’s lunacy. The more they shelter Paul, the more they try to protect him, the more harm they do.
“I know you have stories like mine. We all do. We are the traumatized generation. A bit older and maybe we could have been better prepared for what was happening. A bit younger and we’d never have known a world without the zombies. If we are to spare the new generation what we went through, they must grow up impervious to trauma. Understand me. I value innocence. That’s what Paul is. But in this world of ours, innocence kills.” There were tears in her eyes. “It seems wrong, I know. Sometimes I spend whole nights crying into my pillow. But it’s the only way. Let them cheer when zombies die. Better they cheer than scream.”
Land turned away from Hazelwood and gazed at the skyscrapers of downtown Calgary, built so many decades ago, standing there like silent memorials to a dead world. “I wasn’t made for these times,” he said.
“None of us were,” she answered.
Land wiped his eyes and turned back to face her. “They’ve probably brought out Zombie Bob by now. We should get back to Paul.”
“Yes,” Hazelwood agreed. “He needs our support.”
Inside, the Saddledome pulsed with rock music. Land recognized the Doors’ “Peace Frog,” which, thanks to the tastes of a certain general, became something of a military anthem. To its steady beat Zombie Bob, dressed in full western garb with a white Stetson, wove his way between ten or so zombies, a roaring chainsaw in his hand.
It was part of Zombie Bob’s appeal that it seemed like he could die at any moment.
Colonel Simonds was still on the platform, now protected by a half-dozen guards with submachine guns, offering commentary as Bob played the clown, always making it look like the zombies were just about to get him, before getting them instead.
“Careful Bob, there’s another deadhead behind you,” said Simonds. Bob did a cartoon-like double-take and slid the saw around to his back. Then he slid backwards on the dirt, driving the saw through the hapless zombie’s midsection. Bob did a pirouette, slicing the zombie mostly in two before slamming his weapon right through its neck. A thick plume of blood shot out.
Land winced at the display. No one he had known in Alaska would attempt anything remotely like Zombie Bob’s antics. He and Hazelwood slid back into their seats on either side of Paul, and Land asked the boy, “How are you doing?”
Paul March sat there in wide-eyed, stunned silence. “I uh…” was the best answer he could manage.
“Remember,” Hazelwood whispered, “there’s glass between you and the zombies. They can’t get you.”
Zombie Bob’s opponents seemed selected for maximum diversity: an old granny, a slender college girl, a middle-aged Chinese man, and so on. All that was missing was a child zombie. The media always shied clear of those.
“Wow, look at that, kids,” Simonds said. “Remember, you can see Zombie Bob’s adventures every Wednesday at 3 p.m. on CBC.”
“Peace Frog” ended and the music switched gears to a whimsical country waltz. Bob took a while to forget the zombies and offer a few dance steps, tipping the white hat now splattered with blood. Bob pulled away from zombies for a moment to wave to the crowd, eliciting laughter as the zombies lurched up on him from behind. Then he sprang into motion, running circles around the zombies, causing them to bump into each other, trip over each other, fall down. The crowd roared with laughter.
Paul made fists of his hands, squeezing until his knuckles were white. He was trembling hard, unstoppably. Land put a hand on his shoulder, trying to steady him, and he felt the reverberations through to his bones.
In this confusion Bob rushed forward with his chainsaw swinging at chest level. He caught two zombies right next to each other and forced the saw through bone and flesh, slicing both of them. Their legs collapsed, useless, but their upper torsos were not dead and pulled across the dirt with their strong arms. Bob moved away, ignoring them for the time.
“Two at once, Bob!” Simonds declared. “You’ve outclassed yourself this time. I don’t see how you can top that.”
The crowd went mad, screaming, whistling, stomping their feet, and the sounds echoed through the Saddledome’s steel rafters. For a moment Land felt like he was a kid again, listening to a crowd cheering for a wrestling match, or a fight in a hockey game. Paul started making noises like little yelps. Land and Hazelwood looked at each other.
“Are you all right, Paul?” Land asked, looking into the boy’s eyes. They were beginning to look glossy. Paul grasped hard onto his forearm and squeezed. Land cried out.
Zombie Bob slipped among his remaining foes, so that they lurched at him from every side. Most weeks on his show, he performed some variant of this, positioning himself directly in the densest collection of zombies and fighting his way out. It was a crowd-pleaser with any weapon, and the chainsaw was best of all. He swung it at the zombie in front of him, smoothly slitting it through the middle. On the Jumbotron they could see smoke billowing out of the chainsaw. As he retrieved, it seemed to sputter and die.
The camera caught the expression on Bob’s face. It was real panic. This was not that unusual; the TV cameras often found Zombie Bob running for his life.
“Uh-oh,” said Colonel Simonds. “Looks like ol’ Bob’s got himself in trouble again.”
Somebody cut out the music just in time for everyone to hear Bob release a stream of profanity. He threw the dead chainsaw in the face of the closest zombie and dove past it, his Stetson tumbling off his bald head in the process. He kicked up dust as he raced away from the remaining zombies, but had the misfortune of tripped over something, landing face-first in the dirt. Before he could run, a strong zombie hand clamped down on one of his legs. He looked back to see a half-zombie, one of those he’d sliced in two earlier, its entrails dragging through the dirt behind it. It squeezed tighter on his leg, shattering bone and pulling away a handful of flesh. Bob’s scream hit the steel roof and resonated through the Saddledome’s every corner.
“Fuck!” shouted Simonds into his microphone. There was no doubt now––this was not part of the show.
The smell of fresh blood spurred the other zombies on to greater speed. Zombie Bob tried to pull himself to his feet, but they were on him in no time, ripping, tearing at his clothes and his flesh. The entire Saddledome could hear his screams. Piece by piece they devoured him, stuffing human meat by the handful into their mouths. So here it was at last, the death of Robert Smith Harding. Everyone knew he’d die violently, himself most of all. But nobody expected that it would be witnessed by ten thousand schoolchildren.
This would be remembered as the great trauma of a generation. They weren’t screaming in excitement now.
They were screaming in terror.
Land felt Paul’s hand go limp on his arm.
“Fire! Fire! Fire! Fire!” Colonel Simonds shouted the command like a mantra, and his bodyguards loosed a hail of bullets into the mass of zombies. Many of the bullets struck their targets, but those that didn’t impacted the bulletproof glass, ricocheting through the arena and off into the crowd. One of these stray bullets caught Simonds in the chest and he collapsed on stage, barely noticed amid all the pandemonium.
Children and adults alike crawled over each other, fueled by the most primal surge of adrenalin, frantically seeking to escape the danger. Bodies swamped the exits and fell from balconies. Land grabbed Paul, ready to carry him out of the Saddledome, but found him limp and cold. He reached for Paul’s jugular but felt no pulse.
He has a weak heart, Mrs. March had told him. She must have meant it. This shock must been too much for poor sensitive Paul, and his little heart gave out. Hazelwood looked at him open-jawed, and amid all this chaos noise and chaos everything suddenly seemed so still and calm.
Then Paul’s eyes jumped open.
Thank God I was wrong, Land thought first, but then he saw his eyes. He could never explain this to anyone who hadn’t seen it for themselves, but the eyes of the dead were different. Simonds was right; they lacked spark, life. This was true even of the freshest zombies.
Paul sank his teeth into Sgt. Hazelwood’s forearm, biting down hard. Her legs kicked involuntarily, knocking against the seat in front of her. Her mouth opened to scream, but no noise came out as her eyes glossed over and she sank back into her chair, growing increasingly inert as Paul gnawed through to raw bone. Land grabbed Paul by the hair and yanked back, but even a child zombie possessed inhuman strength, and Paul wouldn’t release his grasp on his prize.
The Marches, Land thought. They live outside of the city. The inoculation drives must have missed them somehow.
Damned zombie-lovers––they didn’t even inoculate their own kid against becoming one of them! How irresponsible can they be?
Land slid his hand down Hazelwood’s thigh to her holster. He pulled out her service pistol, drove it into Paul’s chin, and squeezed the trigger.
The Cyclist
SIMON WOOD
Before you condemn me, know this: I’m a product of society. You made the monster you see before you, the monster who will ultimately take your life. Just remember, you brought this upon yourself. You are responsible. I’m not. And what has changed me from someone like you into someone like me? If I had to put a label on it, I would have to say your selfishness. People like you stopped me from doing what I love: cycling.
Ignoring health and environmental benefits, cycling is one of the last bastions of modern life where the individual defines the limits. I could ride as fast as I liked. I could ride where I liked. It was freedom. But it’s freedom I don’t possess anymore. I’m cursed; damned by all motorists to trawl the streets searching for vengeance. But, don’t worry; I only kill those who deserve it. And you deserve it.
You ran the light. You didn’t think about me. The shriek of tires matched the panic in your eyes when you realized it was all too late and you wouldn’t stop in time. I bet you shit bricks when you hit me and thought you’d killed me.
I wonder, did you see me smile? No? Pity. You should. It’s a sight to behold. Scar tissue isn’t as resilient as skin and splits easily. My face bleeds when I smile too hard. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to see me smile?
Don’t turn your head away. Look at me. You should see this, the damage you’ve done, your contribution to my tapestry of wounds. Yes, the scars are nasty and the malformations are disfiguring. When you’ve shattered every bone in your body and have had every square inch of flesh flayed from you, from repeated collisions––like I have––what do you expect? I’m a patchwork of past agonies.
But don’t worry; it doesn’t hurt. It used to, but I’m incapable of hurt now. I’m calcified bone and scar tissue. My bones can’t break and my nerve endings can’t bond to my scars. I’m indestructible, like a superhero.
Two months after the doctors had set my last bone and grafted my last scrap of virgin flesh, a UPS truck struck me. I should have been killed, but I didn’t have a scratch. I realized I had a gift and shouldn’t waste it. That’s when I knew what I was meant to do.
Lying there, watching the driver panic, euphoria and hatred mixed in my veins creating a volatile cocktail. I got up and snapped that UPS driver’s neck. I can’t remember ever being happier. I was striking back for the cyclist, giving back what we’d been taking all these years.
I don’t kill drivers indiscriminately. I’m not a psychopath. I kill those who would have killed me. The universe has to remain in balance. Someone has to pay the ferryman, right? If it’s not me, then it has to be you.
Actually, I’m performing a public service, ridding the world of the irresponsible, the reckless, the drunk and the fun seekers who hurt cyclists for kicks. You wouldn’t believe the number of people who’ve run me down because they think it’s funny. People have thrown bottles at me, squeezed me into walls and flung doors open as they’ve passed me. But the fun ends when I tear the smile from their faces.
Yes, I know, you didn’t mean it, but what has that got to do with anything? Just because you got lucky hitting someone like me today doesn’t mean that it couldn’t have been someone less resilient. You’ve done what you’ve done and you have to pay.
You have no idea how much I despise you drivers, and how much pleasure I get from watching you squirm. I’m so driven by hate that my bile is corrosive. My spit cuts through blacktop like it’s wet Kleenex, so you can imagine what it can do to flesh. Shall I spit on you to demonstrate?
I wish you wouldn’t plead. Look, being a parent is no qualification for having your death sentence commuted. I was a parent once. You wouldn’t think it to look at me, I know. My wife and child left me when I refused to give up my bike. They were seeing a transformation from husband and father to… this. I couldn’t give up cycling, you see. I’d done nothing wrong. Outlaws surrounded me and I was the last innocent man… and innocent men don’t surrender. I learned that from western movies.
No, I won’t look into my heart. I already saw it when an eighteen-wheeler ripped my chest open. My heart did nothing but twitch and squirt my blood out of holes that shouldn’t have been there. Give me one good reason why I should let you live. Think long and hard now. Impress me and I might just reconsider, but if you don’t, well, you know what will happen.
Hmm, an interesting point. No, I don’t have anyone to tell my story. Everyone who knows me is dead, like me. Do you think you can make me a legend?
Are you just saying that so I’ll let you go?
No? Good. But I can’t let you off that easy. A spook story never convinced anyone by itself. People like to have something tangible to believe in. They’ll believe you if I leave my mark. You can tell my story, but you’ll never drive again. I’ll let you go, but I’m taking your eyes.
You had to know there would be a price. Now don’t wriggle. You’re not going anywhere. If you thought my spit could burn, you’ll be amazed by the heat of my uric acid.
Ah, your screams flatter me.
Don’t worry; the pain won’t last. When it’s over, tell everyone I’m riding the roads. They won’t know which cyclist is me and they shouldn’t try to guess. They should just know to beware the Cyclist. I’m here and I’m waiting for them to break the rules.
Family First
JG FAHERTY
Intense pain filled the man’s head. He couldn’t think clearly. He tried to focus but a burning hunger filled him, obliterating all other thoughts.
Where am I? Woods, trees. Daylight. This is all wrong. I was in my car. Driving… those people, on the road…
Teeth, biting… blood.
The rest disappeared into a hazy, black cloud. When it cleared, new thoughts came to him.
Wait… my name is John. I have a family. A wi
fe. Sheila. She’s blonde. The children…
The ground slanted in front of him, causing him to lose his balance.
Must climb, go home. Find my family. One hand on the ground, then the other. Move my feet.
I can do this.
He reached the top of the hill. A car sat there, the door open, the windows broken.
My car? Was there an accident?
Why didn’t anyone find me?
Walk, must walk. Someone will see me. Find me.
He took one step and then another. It was hard to move his feet, as if they didn’t want to obey.
So hungry. It hurts, hurts inside. Need a hospital.
Need food.
The sound of an approaching truck broke the stillness. The tractor-trailer came to a stop in a squeal of airbrakes.
He tried to speak to the man climbing out of the cab.
“I… I… help…”
The sudden smell of food overwhelmed him, pushed away all other thoughts.
Food. Must eat. Must…
Oh, God, no! I…
Must eat.
~
“Mom, why can’t we leave? Everyone else is gone.” Bobby Grainger set down his binoculars and turned his piercing blue eyes, so much like his father’s, towards his mother.
“You know why, sweetie. It’s too dangerous. Those things are out there. There’s no place for us to go.” Sheila ran a hand through her hair, smoothing it back from her face. Her hand came away greasy. It’d been four days since the dead rose up. Since then, the closest she’d come to bathing had been washing her hands and face in the kitchen sink.
Best New Zombie Tales Trilogy (Volume 1, 2 & 3) Page 75