by Thom Adorney
“Mrs. Bell,” she asserted, “I don’t think you grasp the gravity of the situation I’m in. I will be seen as a teacher of loose morals and poor control over my classroom by allowing this discussion to fester among my students. I’ll be deemed too great a risk for the school district to keep around. They’ll drop me at the end of my contract and I’ll have to look for work elsewhere, and I just signed a mortgage agreement to buy a house here. And when prospective employers call Mr. Mortly to check my references, they’ll learn about my little zombie issue, if they don’t already know it from watching Good Morning America, and that’ll be the end of it. I won’t even be able to return to doing daycare out of my home like I was before, or get my realtors license, which was supposed to be my summer job, because nobody will want to buy a house with the ZOMBIE LADY!”
“I understand, Mrs. Peevey,” Ruth answered solemnly. “I’m sorry that this may have created some problems for you. What I can offer is for us to come to school first thing in the morning to speak with Principal Mortly, and hope that our discussion shifts the attention from you to us, where it rightfully belongs.”
We heard a tap on the back door and saw Seth motioning for us to come outside.
“I’ve got to go, Mrs. Peevey,” said Ruth. “We’ll see you in the morning.”
Ruth and I hurried out to the back porch, and looked to the southwest corner of the yard.
Two of them came, not entirely together. They shuffled, one a few steps ahead of the other, but you got the sense that they weren’t really aware of one another, merely there by coincidence. Like the zombies on the previous night, they headed toward the northeast corner of the yard. The first one, a tall, thin man zombie, tripped over the strings Ruth had just re-stretched earlier in the day. The second one, a short formerly large woman zombie, walked past him, apparently unaware of the man, who had picked himself up and was continuing on. Though we stood in plain view beneath the porch light, neither seemed to notice us as they traipsed across the yard.
“Where do you think they come from?” wondered Ruth quietly.
“Dunno. Castle Rock, maybe,” I replied.
“Larkspur?” suggested Seth.
“Too far and a highway to cross,” rebutted Ruth.
“Deer and coyotes do it,” replied Seth.
“Deer and coyotes are quick and the slow ones are hit by cars,” I reminded him. “Zombies wouldn’t have a chance.”
“Why now?” asked Ruth.
“Severe electrical activity,” stated Seth. “That’s what got them started in the movie.”
“It’s been a dry fall,” Ruth countered.
“Where do you think they’re headed?” Seth wondered. We looked to the northeast corner of the yard. Beyond that, across the road was a field of alfalfa, then the pine trees of the Black Forest. I just shook my head.
The zombies turned slightly and headed up our gravel driveway on the east side of our house when suddenly their faces started glowing an eerie red. They stopped. We heard the crunching gravel of footsteps. A bobbing light illuminated the zombies’ ragged clothes and sullen faces. The footsteps stopped, and there was a metallic click I recognized as the cock of a pistol.
Instinctively, we raced off the porch to the corner of the house and into the flashlight’s beam.
“Stop!” I yelled, waving my hands in the air. A shot fired and I looked at the zombies, expecting to see a corpse recoil from the impact of the bullet, but neither did.
We heard another click.
Seth raced up the driveway. Ruth and I stood there, waving our hands yelling “Stop!” Another shot rang out. I swung my head, again fearing the worst. Again, nothing happened.
“Mr. Yarson, stop!” I heard Seth yell.
Dwight Yarson. The school custodian. I always had the impression that there was a lot of boy still in Dwight. At school, he’d entertain the children with his stories of tracking bears, mountain lions, and even skunks in the surrounding area as part of his volunteer work with the Department of Wildlife. Around the men, he’d puff out his chest and talk about the latest update on the police scanner, which he kept on in his truck. His father had been a well-regarded taxidermist, and Dwight had tried that as well, except that with each mount he had difficulty getting the eyes just right so that the stuffed deer and lynx on his walls, and even the porcupine on his living room coffee table, had a wandering eye. A few years back, when Seth and I came back from a hunting trip with a four-point buck, Dwight came over to us at the Loaf ’N Jug in town.
“Wow! A four-pointer! That’s pretty good shooting. That’ll make a fine mount. I can give you a fair price on that, if you’d like.”
I stared into the restful face of the buck and imagined him up over my fireplace with one lazy eye staring out into the dining room.
“Why, thank you, Dwight. That’s swell of you to offer. Ruth’s brother, Simon, up in Weld County, has a taxidermy shop and I promised him the work.”
“Well, you let me know if I can be of any assistance, in case he gets too backed up. My dad was a taxidermist, you know. Been a family business for generations.”
I wondered to myself as we drove off, if his father lamented the end of the line, knowing all too well his son’s disposition for lazy-eyed mounts.
And here he was in my driveway, a red flashing light on the roof of his truck, trying to kill something that was already dead and standing as still as a tree ten paces in front of him. When I got to the top of the driveway, there he stood, flashlight held in his armpit, both hands shaking, trying to pull back the hammer for a third time. It was no wonder his shot had gone wide. Then again, Dwight was renowned as a notoriously bad shot, having accidentally fired a tranquilizer into the buttocks of his D.O.W. superior, which was the last time he went on stray bear detail.
“Stand back!” he stammered. “They eat brains!”
“Hold it there, Dwight!” I urged.
“I’ve seen it in the movies. The only way to kill ’em is a shot to the head. Or a blow with a blunt, heavy object. Ya got a baseball bat?”
“Dwight Yarson, you put that gun down right now!” There’s something about Ruth’s no-nonsense voice that will cause any person to halt in his or her tracks. Dwight’s hands stilled, and the gun lowered slowly to his side. His eyes flickered back and forth between the zombies staring blankly at him from the bottom of the driveway and Ruth’s furrowed stare on his right.
“Now,” Ruth continued, “you holster that weapon and leave it there.” Dwight did as she commanded. “And for Pete’s sake, please turn off that hideous flashing light.” Dwight backed up to his truck, his eyes always on the zombies, reached inside and switched off the light.
Then, in a softer voice, “It’s okay, Dwight. Now, if you wouldn’t mind, turn off your flashlight.” The beam went out. Ruth took him by the arm and walked him to the side of the house, shadowed from the porch light’s glow. Seth and I joined them. I laid a calming hand on his shoulder. As if on cue, the zombies resumed shuffling up the driveway. Dwight stood there, mouth slightly agape. It took a while for them to pass us, and for the first time we caught a drift of their scent on the dying wind. I realized just how fortuitous the wind had been on the previous nights. The pungent stench of rotting flesh was steeped in the earthy fragrance one associates with rich, well-composted soil. My eyes squinted, and it was all I could do to hold my breath. As the short female passed by, I thought I spied an earthworm wriggling in her dirt-filled ear.
Dwight’s quick breaths rattled out a rhythm as the zombies disappeared over the road into the darkness. He turned slowly to look at me, his expression riddled with question.
“There’s a mystery afoot here,” I said. “God only knows what’s going on.”
“Isn’t that the truth,” added Ruth.
“How long has this been goin’ on?” he asked.
“From what I can figure, a couple of weeks now, but we’ve only seen them for the past three nights.”
“But don’t they eat people
, ya know, like in the movies?” he asked.
“Don’t know,” I replied, peering off into the darkness. “No one here yet.”
“They’re not like in the movies,” explained Seth. “I mean, they look the same, but…worse. And they smell. That’s something movies haven’t gotten around to including, thankfully. And in the movies, they always attack people, without provocation. Just killing and eating their victims.”
“I don’t detect a hint of malice in these creatures,” added Ruth.
Something seemed to dawn in Dwight’s mind. “But isn’t that how it always starts?” Fear reasserted itself in his eyes. “They haven’t eaten anybody yet. Doesn’t mean they won’t.” His hand dropped to the handle of his revolver. “An’ what if it’s you, or Ruth…or…or Seth…or the little ones. We won’t be standing here like there was some sort of Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade passing by. This is why we have the Second Amendment!”
“Dwight,” cautioned Ruth, “I hardly think that the Founding Fathers thought we need the right to bear arms to protect us from zombies, for goodness sake.”
“It’s good we have ’em, just the same. We’re being invaded, goshdarnit! I shouldn’t have let you talk me out of takin’ ’em out. I had ’em right there in my sights. God only knows who they’re eating now?”
Ruth and I exchanged looks of dismay that Dwight didn’t realize both of his shots would’ve had a low probability of hitting the side of a barn. Dwight lifted his cap and scratched his head furiously as he looked into the dark empty trail of the zombies across the road.
“Jessup Canaday lives over that way,” he said with new urgency. “Have you seen him or Sandra lately? Maybe the zombies are having a barbecue over there and that’s why they’re flocking in that direction.”
“They don’t cook their food,” interjected Seth.
“Seth—” I corrected him with a stern look. “I saw Jessup at Beasley’s fruit stand yesterday, and he looked fine.”
“Well, I better go warn him,” Dwight said, making for his truck. The engine roared out of its slumber, and the red flashing lights went on again. The wheels spun in reverse, then sprayed gravel as he sped off.
“Should we give Mr. Canaday a call to warn him?” asked Seth.
“About the zombies or Mr. Yarson?” I responded. “No, Mr. Canaday can handle the zombies and Dwight Yarson. Let’s get to bed. We’ve got a big day ahead of us tomorrow.”
Even as the words came out of my mouth, I had a hunch that I had greatly underestimated what was in store for us. Ruth and Seth went off to bed and I settled down in our den to make preparations for the next day.
* * *
By the time sunlight creased the horizon, I counted three news trucks outside of our house. The Fox Network had their truck there first, of course. Dwight had undoubtedly called Sam Reynolds, the county Sheriff, who put out an APB, which was picked up by the news stations.
“You won’t be making it over to see the principal this morning,” Ruth said as she peeked out of the curtains. Without saying another word, we set out on our usual morning routine. By the time the kids came down for breakfast, I had coffee brewed and pancakes on the table. Because the kids’ bedrooms and our kitchen faced south, they came down to breakfast unaware of the news trucks.
“Kids, there’s going to be some activity around here today,” I began. “Some news trucks are parked out front—”
“News trucks? With TV cameras?” broke in Michael, eyes wide with anticipation. “We’re gonna be on TV! Cool! Wait’ll the kids at school hear about this!”
“Michael,” corrected Ruth, “You’ve interrupted your father.”
“Oh, sorry, Dad. Only this is wicked!” Seth elbowed him with a stern look and a shush.
“Like I was saying, the news trucks and reporters are out there and I’m sure they’d like to interview each of us.” I paused and looked Michael in the eye. “But I’m the only one who’ll be talking to them.” His face sank.
“But Dad—”
“Michael, you haven’t even seen them,” Seth snapped.
“Celia and I both saw them last night, out of Mom and Dad’s bedroom window, when Mr. Yarson was shooting at them. Man, is he a lousy shot!” I noticed Cecelia was staring into her pancakes, avoiding my eyes.
“The only one,” I reasserted, looking each of them in the eyes. “Your mother and I discussed this last night. When they approach you, and they will if they can, you’re to walk straight ahead with your mother and get on the bus. She’ll meet you after school as well.”
Michael sunk his head into his propped up hand and stabbed at his pancakes. Cecelia looked a bit confused by it all.
“I’m sorry I drew a picture of the zombies, Mom. I guess I let the secret out.” I’ve always marveled at that child’s wisdom for one so young.
“Oh, it’s alright, honey” assured Ruth, rubbing Cecelia’s back. “It was bound to come out sooner or later.”
“Seth, if you don’t have a test today, I’ll be needing your help around here,” I stated.
“What?!” Michael blurt out. My raised eyebrow set him straight.
“Yeah, that’s fine, Dad,” Seth replied. This was a tack we’d only taken a few times in the past, like when a heavy wind had uprooted one of our big cottonwoods and driven it into the roof of our barn. Great shade trees, cottonwoods, but darn near useless in heavy weather. I asked this of Seth a fraction of the time my father had asked it of me when I was in school. On a family farm, a father walks this fine line cautiously, knowing that his children’s education comes first, yet facing urgent situations when extra hands are needed. And Seth understood his role to do his best at school in order to be prepared for times like this.
Breakfast finished and cleared up, Ruth helped the kids on with their coats and backpacks, then waited with them in the foyer.
“Seth, grab the video camera, a ball cap, and your sunglasses, and follow me out front. We’ll run interference for your mother.” Seth ran to his room and came back ready to go.
“Got fresh batteries and a tape in that thing?” I asked. Seth nodded excitedly. “Good. You follow my lead and videotape everything that goes on outside. But do it from the side, out of sight of their video cameras.”
We went to the front door, turned and looked at Ruth, Michael and Cecelia.
“This is so unfair,” grumbled Michael. But he knew not to argue any more. Seth gave Michael a smirky smile.
“Have fun at sch-o-o-o-l,” Seth gloated.
“When we finish here,” I informed Seth, “you’ll be mucking out the barn.” This straightened out his smile and drew a stuck-out tongue from his younger brother.
I walked out the door, followed by Seth, and over to the corner of the yard by the driveway. They were on us like dogs in a kennel at feeding time. Lights switched on, mike booms swung into place, and reporters ditched their coffee cups and jostled for position. Questions tumbled out like wagging tongues. I held up my hand, nodded at Seth, and waited for them to listen. Seth stepped to the side to take us all in and turned on the camcorder. Funny, somehow they didn’t take to being videotaped themselves.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I will answer all of your questions on one condition. My young ones need to get to school and go about their day as usual. If you question, approach, or even videotape them, you will hear no more from me. Is that clear?”
The reporters exchanged I-won’t-do-it-if-you-won’t-do-it looks amongst themselves. No doubt they had heard of Cecelia’s zombie drawing and were anxious to interview her. The air of temptation was thick.
“Do we have a deal?” I asked. Each nodded, casting sideways glances at the others. “Fine. Now, if each of you, as representatives of your news station, will sign this affidavit prepared by our lawyer, guaranteeing the privacy of our children, and that no images of them appear on your broadcast, those of your affiliates, websites, and print outlets, we can begin.” I passed out the affidavit and watched their faces cloud with confusion. With furrow
ed brows and furtive looks, the reporters skimmed the document, glancing quickly at each other to ensure they weren’t the only ones signing away their rights. I could see the gears churning in their heads, wondering if this piece of paper was legally binding and calculating their dodge for getting around it. My hope was that they would stall long enough to give us some breathing room over what was to be a stressful next 24 hours. One by one, the pens dashed across the bottom of each page and the papers were handed back to me.
“Very well, then. Who’s first?”
As if on cue, the school bus came rambling up the road and stopped at our mailbox. The front door opened and Ruth and the kids made a beeline for the bus. Instinctively, the cameraman from Fox spun around to get them on tape. His female reporter rounded on him.
“You moron!”
He swung the camera back, looking a bit sheepish. I stared at him calmly, the way you do when your kid has done or said something stupid, as if to say, “Don’t even try to explain your way out of this.” The school bus pulled out and Ruth went back inside.
The other reporters looked at the Fox crew with a mixture of panic and frustration. The Fox reporter’s eyes darted around, hoping for a reprieve.
“If you’ll excuse us,” I said with the faintest of smiles.
“You mean—”
“I’ll resume when your truck has pulled out,” I stated.
Jaws clenched and eyes flared as the other crews stared her down.
Seeing she had no way out, save one, she turned on her cameraman and hit him with her microphone, then shoved him toward the truck.
“You idiot! You just cost me the lead in the 5:00 news!” The cameraman tried to shield himself from her blows as best he could. I pitied the poor fellow. He was acting on instinct, which in his business served him well most of the time. But like they say, “Hell hath no fury…”
When they had pulled out, her ranting still audible through the rolled-up cab windows, I turned to the other reporters. Each bore an unmistakable sliver of a grin. The man from Channel 4 went first.
“Mr. Bell, is it true that you’ve seen zombies walking across your property at night?”