Making the Best of the Zombie Apocalypse

by Alisha Adkins

  Gabe began by telling us about his first experience with zombies. He had been an off-shore man. His job required that he spend a month working on the oil rig at a time, then he had a month off before his next shift.

  “Imagine,” he said, “how we men felt when we came off of that rig.”

  When they approached the shore, they had found some rather unpleasant looking well-wishers waiting for them to arrive. Sure, the men had wondered why they had lost radio contact a few weeks prior, but they hadn’t naturally just jumped to the conclusion that the world had been overrun by zombies just because they were out of contact...

  Gabe told us how he and some of his fellow crew survived that initial encounter with the dead, and then he got to his real story. He had been married to a woman named Myra, whom he clearly loved more than anything else in the world.

  That’s when Gabe really opened up. He told us more about Myra than any of us would ever care to know, including how they met, things they enjoyed doing together before the outbreak, and even tiny little details about her appearance and personality that he found endearing. It was heartbreaking to watch him recount his story. We all nodded at appropriate times and tried to look supportive while we shifted uncomfortably in our chairs and waited for him to reach his conclusion.

  But he kept on sharing. We all knew he needed to and indulged him accordingly, but he sure did share a lot. God help us, he shared all over the place, and I think that level of brutally raw emotion was almost more than any of us could bear. It was like the flood gate had been opened, and now he couldn’t stop talking. The words just came pouring out of him in a stream of consciousness flood. It was all we could do to stand back so as not to be knocked over by the torrent and drown in them.

  Myra was bitten by a zombie, and the bite had gotten hopelessly infected. Gabe’s recounting of Myra’s last days was particularly upsetting.

  “She couldn’t speak during the last days. I’m not sure she even understood what was happening at the end. But I’ll never forget her big eyes looking up at me as I leveled the gun to her head. It tore my heart apart to pull the trigger, but it was important to me to release her before she became reanimated by the hunger. I still ask myself all the time if I took her too soon. I could have given her a few more hours—maybe even another full day. I’ll never shake the feeling that I betrayed her.” His voice was choking with emotion.

  “Myra declined in front of my eyes, and all I could do was helplessly watch. She depended upon me, but I couldn’t protect her, couldn’t keep her safe or make her well. And, in the end, I was the one who killed her. I have to live with that, but it was my duty—my responsibility to release her. I’m afraid that she didn’t understand that. That will always haunt me. She looked up into my eyes with trust, and I took her last bit of life. But I know that is just my burden... the price to be paid for the love I had.”

  Maggie clucked sympathetically, beginning to rise from her seat to go to Gabe and comfort him. But he raised his hand, gesturing for Maggie to stay where she was.

  “I’m okay,” Gabe said, smiling despite the tears in his eyes.

  “I was lucky for the time we had together. She was the love of my life. She’s gone, and she can never be replaced. I’m still here, so I have to keep going. The rest of my life is simply anti-climactic. It’s an epilogue.”

  “Oh, no!” exclaimed Maggie. “That’s simply not the case...” she insisted, stirring agitatedly in her chair.

  “It’s okay, Maggie. For me, Myra was just the best thing ever. I’m not saying I can’t go on without her. What other choice do I have? The world just no longer contains the best thing ever. I’ll still live; the world will always just be a little less bright.”

  “I’m not even saying that I won’t ever love again.” Gabe assured her. “I might. I’m not opposed to it. It just won’t be what I had with Myra. It’s rare for two beings to connect so perfectly the way we did. For me, she was the one, pure and simple. I miss the fuck out of her, but I always will. There’s no fixing that hole in my heart. Now she’s gone, and I just have to go on. That’s all. Most days, I still miss her so much I can hardly stand it. But that doesn’t make her any less dead. So I just have to keep going.”

  Gabe had cremated Myra—the ultimate selfless act in this fucked up post-apocalyptic world of ours—to honor the memory of a person so much that you deny yourself and all others the sustenance of the deceased’s flesh even though it is viable for consumption.

  Listening to Gabe, Ron silently nodded, patting Tex’s head. He told me later that he had been trying not to think about how fragile his own relationship was. He knew that he was disproportionately lucky among the group. Unlike Gabe, his primary relationship was intact, nor was it hopelessly twisted, like Nathan’s. But dogs don’t live forever. What would he do when Tex was gone? The dog was already about eight. Even under ideal circumstances, which these certainly were not, how much more time would Tex have? Four or five more years? Would it still be worth the amount of effort required to survive in this world once Tex was no longer around to share it with him?

  I caught Gabe by the arm and privately offered my condolences after he was finished his public emotional purging. Although he was a walking portrait of loss, I guess at least nobody could ever say that Gabe was not in touch with his feelings.

  What he said to me caught me off-guard.

  “Oh, thanks, but it’s okay. Really, it is. I’m just grateful that I didn’t take my time with Myra for granted. I knew it was perfect while we were together and cherished every moment we had. I’m glad I didn’t squander our time together.”

  “But you’re absolutely tortured. How can you live in constant pain?” I asked him.

  “What is the alternative? To make myself forget? Then it would be like I never had the best experiences of my life. Should I choose to paint my entire life grey in order to avoid the black parts?”

  Gabe’s words gave me a moment’s pause. His approach to life was the polar opposite of my own. What had surprised me about his words was that they actually made sense. Of course, it was more clear cut if one had something bright, shining, and beautiful to remember. I didn’t think that I did, but I’d shut so much out by now that, at this point, I couldn’t even be sure.

  After my encounter outside of the dentist’s office, my face had healed, but it had taken longer than I would have liked. One of the scratches the teenage zombie had inflicted upon me had gotten infected. It got red, puffy, and wept for a week before I was able to get it under control. Fortunately, I had a good stash of bandages, ointments, and antibiotics. There are perks to working for the black market.

  Unfortunately, although healed, a red mark was still clearly visible across my right cheek, and it started quite a bit of curious chatter in the group.

  When I explained that I had suffered a minor laceration at the hand of a zombie (literally), Ron looked at me, aghast.

  “You should always tie a rag or bandana around your face to prevent the possibility of infection even from droplets or spatters.”

  “You’re perceiving it wrong.” Dave cut in. “It’s not a matter of exposure causing infection. We’re all already infected. It’s a matter of needing to avoid exposure because the bacteria zombies carry is so virulent. A scratch from a zombie can potentially kill you because of the bacteria. Tempest, you were lucky to recover.”

  “I had supplies.” I said, shrugging it off.

  “But it doesn’t matter what kills a person. Bacteria, starvation, cancer... regardless, everyone is a zombie after death.”

  Although I wasn’t thrilled about my splotchy complexion becoming the focal point of the group’s banter, this line of conversation did eventually lead Dave to disseminate some interesting general zombie information.

  “We’re all infected.” Dave continued. “That’s why we’ll come back when we die.”

  “When the dead bite the living, it’s just a virulent bacterial infection that causes the bitten person to die. Then t
heir own infection, or, if you really want to be accurate, mutation, which is already present in their DNA, reanimates them. A zombie’s bite is like that of a monitor lizard. The chunk they take out of you might not kill you, but the bacteria from their mouths is likely to do so in short order. The bite kills, but it doesn’t cause reanimation.”

  “But why?” Ron asked. “Why would nobody have this infection and then, suddenly, one day everyone becomes infected? Some alien asteroid? Or a biological weapon? I’ve heard a million theories since this shit began, but nobody seems to actually know.”

  “It had something to do with beef.” Dave said.

  We all looked at Dave, with varying degrees of puzzlement visible on our faces, and waited for him to say more.

  “You can only feed cows other cows for so long.” Dave said by way of explanation. “All the cutting corners on animal feed and genetic engineering of crops to maximize profits had an unexpected effect. They fed the cows waste, byproducts, genetically modified grain and meal...

  You eat enough genetically modified food, it’s going to modify your genetics.”

  “But vegetarians...” Maggie began.

  “Vegetarians and those who strictly ate organic foods weren’t immune to the infection. Vegetarians typically made the decision to not eat meat in adulthood. They had already consumed heaps of genetically altered plants and animals by then. I mean, hell, it was in the goddamned milk.”

  Dave had been compiling research since the outbreak began, and now he was able to lay it all out for the layperson, or laypeople in this case—us.

  “Scientists kept waiting to see the effects of genetic engineering, but they were looking in the wrong place. They were watching for effects on living human beings, but the mutation it had caused remained dormant during the human life phase. The effect only presented in the post-life phase—the result being that the dead wouldn’t stay dead.”

  “Remember mad cow disease? Beef moguls fed cows the left over bits of other cows, and it altered the animals’ protein sequences. People should have seen that something was up then. We fucked up the food supply and poisoned ourselves.”

  If what Dave said was true, I wondered what the ramifications would be of our post-apocalyptic diet. Cannibalism had quickly become the norm after the outbreak. The living not only ate each other; they ate zombies if they were still fresh enough to consume. What further genetic damage might we be doing? But maybe that was a moot point; humanity seemed to already be tapering off to its doomed conclusion. Another plague of any sort seemed as though it would just be overkill.

  Ron asked, “But why did all the dead start getting up and walking at the same time then? That doesn’t make sense... People would have had to be infected for years before the apocalypse occurred.”

  “Popular theory is that the mutation existed but lay dormant and unnoticed until some precipitating global event triggered activation of the gene. A chemical spill was initially blamed as the cause of dead reanimation, but we now know that it could only have been a catalyst. High levels of some fucked up toxic chemical were carried on the air currents around the world, like radiation from Chernobyl. Though it’s difficult to verify anything scientifically anymore, it is strongly speculated that the spill provided the catalytic agent, awakening the gene. If it hadn’t been that spill though, something else would have triggered it eventually. It was just waiting for a reason to wake up.”

  After years of having to accept this horrible reality without knowing why, somehow the availability of a plausible explanation didn’t make me feel much better. Still, maybe that there is an ascertainable reason is the first step toward the possibility of there ever being a solution. I’m not optimistic, but maybe.

  If his information is accurate, Dave also provided the group with some useful practical knowledge about zombie behavior. He seems to have access to information about research that is being conducted underground, which makes him a very interesting person to know.

  Dave told us that zombies primarily hunt by sense of smell.

  “A zombie’s senses are severely dulled. It doesn’t feel pain. Its body only seems to register pressure. And zombies are almost completely blind. Eyes are soft and delicate; they begin to decompose at the moment of death.” Dave moved his hand over his eye patch as he spoke, drawing his index finger unconsciously over the grain of the fabric.

  “A zombie is lucky if it can discern even vague shapes. Although the eardrums seem to take a long time to cease functioning altogether, hearing also degenerates quickly after death. Although zombies continue to discern loud noises and certain frequency pitches almost indefinitely, their auditory discrimination becomes extremely poor almost immediately.”

  I couldn’t help wondering if there were scientists in a lab somewhere playing sounds to zombies and recording the results. I didn’t interrupt to ask Dave though. It seemed like it might come off as rude.

  “The olfactory senses seem to be the most resilient post-mortem. Zombies continue to exhibit signs of experiencing smells months, and even years, after death. It is speculated that taste functions similarly.”

  “Are you saying that if I were cornered by zombies, I could avert being eaten if I were walking around with a slab of rotten meat in my pants?” Ron asked, smirking.

  “I don’t know. Do you want to test that?” Dave asked

  “Nah, I’ll pass, thanks.”

  “One other thing, though—in addition to smell and taste, zombies seem to have one other adequate capability. A zombie’s ability to discern heat and cold may be its most enduring sense. Zombies will only eat meat that is raw and warm.”

  “That is true!” Nathan piped up suddenly, and then abruptly went quiet again. Nobody asked him how he knew.

  Chapter 6

  Mother’s Milk

  THAT GIRL WAS AT OUR survivors’ meeting again. I know I shouldn’t say “girl” but instead “woman,” but Tempest is quite a bit younger than I am. She is probably still in her late twenties. Not that age differences matter so much anymore. At least, I don’t think they do. Hell, I don’t know. I live with my dead mother. What do I know about current dating norms?

  But still, it seems as though if two people are both alive, that alone gives them something in common these days. An eighty year old and a twenty year old could conceivably make good companions. Sexual attraction is a secondary consideration. Not that I would want sex to be peripheral for us if Tempest and I were to get together. Far from it. Damn it, I’m digressing.

  After I almost put my foot in my mouth during our whole group conversation, members splintered off to chat with one another for a little while longer before we officially adjourned.

  Tempest was talking to Dave, but I managed to catch her for a couple of minutes before our meeting ended. And, when she stood up and began to put on her jacket (black leather, of course), the sleeve of her shirt rode up and I was able to get a better look at her tattoo. It is a jet black raven perched on barbed wire. I don’t know what that means, if anything, but it’s kind of sexy. Not that I would ever want any tattoo myself. And I certainly wouldn’t want my daughter to get one. God, I hope my daughter is still alive.

  Anyway, the maddening thing about Tempest is that the internal standards that I apply everywhere else are meaningless when it comes to her. She exists outside of the rules. She could have tattoos and piercings, smoke and drink, be an assassin for hire... I’d still accept her and would want to ask her out for coffee.

  “I’m glad to see you came back.” I said to her.

  “Yeah, not sure why, but it stayed on my mind. I’m still not sure if a survivors’ support group is even a good idea, but it was too different from my daily routine for me to skip.”

  She tossed her long blonde hair over her shoulder as she spoke. It was very distracting. I nodded in agreement.

  “So, the next meeting is a big shin-dig, huh?” she said, referring to the last order of business we had discussed as a group today.

  “Yeah, apparent
ly so. I’m going to bring vegetables from my garden.”

  “Mmmm, fresh vegetables. Very nice.” she said, rewarding me with a smile. I think I melted a little.

  Then Dave flung the doors open, and it was time to go. We always left as a group; lingering by oneself was dangerous.

  It’s possible that I am imagining it, but I feel as though Tempest and I have definite chemistry. She is damnably cool and aloof, and I feel as awkward as a school kid, but I still think it’s there. Maybe it’s just because it has been so long, but when I’m around her, I feel more like a virgin than a divorced man in his forties with a long history of sexual experiences.

  After today, I have to admit to myself that there is a seed of loneliness that has been growing within me for some time now. I have rather successfully deluded myself that Mother’s companionship was enough; certainly, it has at least kept me busy. But I’m no longer able to just refuse to see that a yearning exists within me. Not that there is anything I can do about it right now. There are no singles bars or online dating sites to which I can run. I can only bide my time for a month, and hope that next month’s meeting may allow me to come a little closer to knowing Tempest. If she is even there.

  I can’t say that I was terribly happy to return home.

  Mother’s “condition” is worsening. Technically, of course, it’s the same. Dead is dead, after all. There’s no cure for that and no worse she can get. Still, her condition, as in the changes her physical state is undergoing, is definitely worse for me as an observer. I’d say “caregiver,” but as much as I may try to be that, I’m completely impotent when it comes to providing care. Anyway, the simplest way I can explain the current problem is that Mother has sprung a leak. Well, more accurately, she has begun to spring multiple leaks, actually, and it’s incredibly foul.

  From multiple wet, open sores on her body, my mother is leaking noxious, milky, sometimes clumpy, liquid. I don’t know what to do about this development, and her leaking wounds smell so horrible that I start to gag whenever I try to even get close enough to examine them.