None of them helped me discover how Joanna had come back, just that it wasn’t outside the realms of possibility that she could have done so. And the woman downstairs was proof enough, if any were ever needed, that it certainly was possible.
I switched the computer off and then went downstairs to join my family.
The knock at the door made me jump. I stared across at Tim as he sat reading to his mum. She paid no attention as she staggered around the room. Despite having had her in the house for a couple of days, I still hadn’t gotten used to having my wife back.
The knock came again, more insistent, joined by the ringing of the doorbell. I jumped up and walked to see who was there. “Keep quiet,” I said as I shut the living room door behind me.
I opened the front door and my jaw dropped when I saw the acne-scarred police officer standing there.
“Mr. White?”
I nodded dumbly, my pulse racing.
“I’m afraid I have some disturbing news for you. There’s no easy way to say this, but your wife’s grave has been desecrated and her body removed.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Desecrated?”
“Don’t worry, sir, we’re going to do our best to find her body.”
I glanced along the hallway before turning back. “Who would do something like that?”
The police officer shrugged and stared at his feet. “I don’t know sir. I really don’t.”
The next few days were spent in a kind of haze as I learned to accept that Joanna was back in our lives. We didn’t tell anybody. She was our secret. When I went to work and Tim went to school, we locked her in the cupboard under the stairs.
Tim seemed to believe that everything was back to normal, and that we should just carry on as though nothing had happened. He even expected me to accept her back into my bed, but certainly for now, that wasn’t going to happen and I wrapped her in a sleeping bag at night, pulling the toggle on it tight enough to cocoon her inside. Not that she slept and I could hear her bumping around, shuffling like a giant caterpillar. Even though she was my wife, I still didn’t know exactly how I felt about having a dead woman in the house, never mind in my bed. Necrophilia wasn’t something I wanted any part of. Not that Joanna would be in the least bit able to reciprocate. She ambled around the house like a robot, bumping into walls and falling over things as though she couldn’t see too well. Perhaps that’s why she walked along with her arms raised most of the time, sort of like feelers.
She certainly didn’t cost much to look after. She didn’t eat and she didn’t go to the toilet and once you got used to her being around you could almost believe she wasn’t dead. I even started talking to her and although she didn’t reply, I found her presence comforting.
I will admit that for the first few days I was nervous, as zombies had a reputation for biting people and making them one of the undead, but Joanna didn’t seem to have any interest in biting, so I eventually accepted that she wasn’t going to eat us.
Tim doted on her. He took over all the chores involved with looking after his mum. Bathing, dressing, and generally taking care of her as though she was an invalid. I gradually accepted the situation.
My main fear—aside from being eaten—had been that Joanna would slowly rot away and we’d lose her all over again, but after a few days she stopped decomposing and reached a point of stasis.
Now I was no artist, but with the use of liberal amounts of makeup my wife could be made to look almost normal (this was the only thing Tim didn’t do for her as he accepted Joanna for what she looked like, but he was happy for me to apply foundation, blusher, and rouge as I saw fit). When all of her hair dropped out I bought her a wig and glued it in place. And even though she stopped smelling of decay, I sprayed Jo with her favorite perfume so I could smell her as she shuffled around the room, the scent conjuring a host of memories.
To all intents and purposes we were one big happy family.
Now I was still wondering how Joanna had come back to life, never mind how she’d escaped her coffin under the ground, and I did consider that perhaps she had been the result of some form of experiment. But if that was the case, how had she escaped?
On a regular basis, I sat her down and, for want of a better word, interrogated her with a barrage of questions about what had happened, but she never replied and her dead eyes grew more and more blank, the blue eyeballs now covered by a white film. All she wanted to do was wander around in an aimless daze.
But our secret couldn’t last forever and the next thing we knew, a neighbor spotted Joanna through the window. When he recovered from his faint he called the police. At that point he may as well have called the army, navy, and the air force because everyone and his mother descended on our detached house. Reporters set up camp outside and then scientists came. As I’d feared, they wanted to experiment on her to see how she had risen from the dead, even offering vast sums of money, but I declined. Although dead, she was still my wife. In sickness and in health and all that (I didn’t like to think about the ’til death do us part as that had already happened.)
Next came the zealots. The religious nutters who claimed that like Jesus, Joanna had risen from the grave, so she must be the new messiah. Well she didn’t die for anyone’s sins. She died in an accident when hit by a car, but they didn’t want to hear the truth. All they wanted was to see their messiah. To be touched by her as she obviously had special powers and could cure all their ailments.
As a result of all this attention we became prisoners in our own house.
I peered through a gap in the curtain. It was like a riot out there. People kept knocking at the door and I’d already taken the batteries out of the doorbell and unplugged the telephone.
Someone banged on the window, and I recoiled and backed away.
“What are we going to do?” Tim asked.
I collapsed onto the settee and cupped my face in my hands.
Tim sat next to me. “We can’t stay in here forever. We’ve already run out of food.”
Across the room, Joanna bumped into the wall. I stared at her.
Despite what Tim thought, the person opposite wasn’t his mother anymore. It was just an animated shell. We were holding on to a memory of who she once was. But I knew what I had to do. Tim would probably hate me for doing it, but I had no other choice.
“Tim, I want you to go upstairs and pack.”
My son looked at me and frowned. “Pack for what?”
“We’re leaving.”
Tim hesitated as though he sensed something in my words, but after a moment he turned and ran up the stairs. A moment later I heard drawers opening and cupboard doors banging.
With no time to lose I stood and ran into the kitchen and picked up a large kitchen knife with a serrated edge. Then I returned to the living room. I turned Joanna to face me and briefly kissed her on the lips. Words were not necessary, but I had to be strong, both physically and mentally.
I placed the serrated edge against her throat and a tear rolled down my cheek. Hopefully the other information I’d learned about zombies and decapitation were true.
If so, Joanna would live forever, at least in our memories.
There Is No “E” in Zombi Which Means There Can Be No You or We
Roxane Gay
[A Primer]
[Things Americans do not know about zombis:]
They are not dead. They are near death. There’s a difference.
They are not imaginary.
They do not eat human flesh.
They cannot eat salt.
They do not walk around with their arms and legs locked stiffly.
They can be saved.
[How you pronounce zombi:]
Zaahhhhnnnnnn-Beee. You have to feel it in the roof your mouth, let it vibrate. Say it fast.
The “m” is silent. Sort of.
[How to make a zombi:]
You need a good reason, a very good reason.
You need a pufferfish, and a small sample of blood and hair
from your chosen candidate.
Instructions: Kill the pufferfish. Don’t be squeamish. Extract the poison. Just find a way. Allow it to dry. Grind it with the blood and hair to create your coup de poudre. A good chemist can help. Blow the powder into the candidate’s face. Wait.
[A Love Story]
Micheline Bérnard always loved Lionel Desormeaux. Their parents were friends though that bonhomie had not quite carried on to the children. Micheline and Lionel went to primary and secondary school together, had known each other all their lives—when Lionel looked upon Micheline he was always overcome with the vague feeling he had seen her somewhere before while she was overcome with the precise knowledge that he was the man of her dreams. In truth, everyone loved Lionel Desormeaux. He was tall and brown with high cheekbones and full lips. His body was perfectly muscled and after a long day of swimming in the ocean, he would emerge from the salty water, glistening. Micheline would sit in a cabana, invisible. She would lick her lips and she would stare. She would think, “Look at me, Lionel,” but he never did. When Lionel walked, there was an air about him. He moved slowly but with deliberate steps and sometimes, when he walked, people swore they could hear the bass of a deep drum. His mother, who loved her only boy more than any other, always told him, “Lionel, you are the son of L’Ouverture.” He believed her. He believed everything his mother ever told him. Lionel always told his friends, “My father freed our people. I am his greatest son.”
In Port-au-Prince, there were too many women. Micheline knew competition for Lionel’s attention was fierce. She was attractive, petite. She wore her thick hair in a sensible bun. On weekends, she would let that hair down and when she walked by, men would shout, “Quelle belle paire de jambes,” what beautiful legs, and Micheline would savor the thrilling taste of their attention. Most Friday nights, Micheline and her friends would gather at Oasis, a popular nightclub on the edge of the Bel Air slum. She drank fruity drinks and smoked French cigarettes and wore skirts revealing just the right amount of leg. Lionel was always surrounded by a mob of adoring women. He let them buy him rum and Cokes and always sat at the center of the room wearing his pressed linen slacks and dark T-shirts that showed off his perfect, chiseled arms. At the end of the night, he would select one woman to take home, bed her thoroughly, and wish her well the following morning. The stone path to his front door was lined with the tears and soiled panties of the women Lionel had sexed then scorned.
On her birthday, Micheline decided she would be the woman Lionel took home. She wore a bright sundress, strapless. She dabbed perfume everywhere she wanted to feel Lionel’s lips. She wore high heels so high her brother had to help her into the nightclub. When Lionel arrived to hold court, Micheline made sure she was closest. She smiled widely and angled her shoulders just so and leaned in so he could see everything he wanted to see within her ample cleavage. At the end of the night, Lionel nodded in her direction. He said, “Tonight you will know the affections of L’Ouverture’s greatest son.”
In Lionel’s bed, Micheline fell deeper in love than she thought possible. Lionel knelt between her thighs, gently massaging her knees. He smiled luminously, casting a bright shaft of light across her body. Micheline reached for Lionel, her hands thrumming as she felt his skin. When he was inside her, she thought her heart might stop it seized so painfully. He whispered in her ear, his breath so hot it blistered her. He said, “Everything on this island is mine. You are mine.” Micheline moaned. She said, “I am your victory.” He said, “Yes, tonight you are.” As he fucked her, Micheline heard the bass of a deep drum.
The following morning, Lionel walked Micheline home. He kissed her chastely on the cheek. As he pulled away, Micheline grabbed his hand in hers, pressing a knuckle with her thumb. She said, “I will come to you tonight.” Lionel placed one finger over her lips and shook his head.
Micheline was unable to rise from her bed for a long while. She could only remember Lionel’s touch, his words, how the inside of her body had molded itself to him. Her parents sent for a doctor, then a priest, and finally a mambo which they were hesitant to do because they were a good, Catholic family but the sight of their youngest daughter lying in bed, perfectly still, not speaking, not eating, was too much to bear. The mambo sat on the edge of the bed and clucked. She held Micheline’s limp wrist. She said, “Love,” and Micheline nodded. The mambo shooed the girl’s parents out of the room and they left, overjoyed that the child had finally moved. The mambo leaned down, got so close, Micheline could feel the old woman’s dry lips against her ear.
When the mambo left, Micheline bathed, dabbed herself everywhere she wanted to feel Lionel’s lips. She went to Oasis and found Lionel at the center of the room holding a pale, young thing in his lap. Micheline pushed the girl out of Lionel’s lap and took her place. She said, “Just one more night,” and Lionel remembered her dark moans and the strength of her thighs and how she looked at him like the conquering hero he knew himself to be.
They made love that night, and Micheline was possessed. She dug her fingernails in his back until he bled. She locked her ankles in the small of Lionel’s back, and sank her teeth into his strong shoulder. There were no sweet words between them. Micheline walked herself home before he woke. She went to the kitchen and filled a mortar and pestle with blood from beneath her fingernails and between her teeth. She added a few strands of Lionel’s hair and a powder the mambo had given her. She ground these things together and put the coup de poudre as it was called into a silk sachet. She ran back to Lionel’s, where he was still sleeping, opened her sachet, paused. She traced the edge of his face, kissed his forehead, then blew her precious powder into his face. Lionel coughed in his sleep, then stilled. Micheline undressed and stretched herself along his body, sliding her arm beneath his. As his body grew cooler, she kissed the back of his neck.
They slept entwined for three days. Lionel’s skin grew clammy and gray. His eyes hollowed. He began to smell like soil and salt wind. When Micheline woke, she whispered, “Turn and look at me.” Lionel slowly turned and stared at Micheline, his eyes wide open, unblinking. She gasped at his appearance, how his body had changed. She said, “Touch me,” and Lionel reached for her with a heavy hand, pawing at her until she said, “Touch me gently.” She said, “Sit up.” Lionel slowly sat up, listing from side to side until Micheline steadied him. She kissed Lionel’s thinned lips, his fingertips. His cold body filled her with a sadness she could hardly bear. She said, “Smile,” and his lips stretched tightly into something that resembled what she knew of a smile. Micheline thought about the second silk sachet, the one hidden beneath her pillow between the pages of her Bible, the sachet with a powder containing the power to make Lionel the man he once was—tall, vibrant, the greatest son of L’Ouverture, a man who filled the air with the bass of a deep drum when he walked. She made herself forget about that power; instead, she would always remember that man. She pressed her hand against the sharpness of Lionel’s cheekbone. She said, “Love me.”
What Once We Feared A Forest of Hands and Feet Story
Carrie Ryan
The first time I saw the apartment building I thought it looked like a bunker; it never occurred to me that we’d end up using it as one. Nicky’s the one who actually lived there—or at least she and her dad moved in there when her mom kicked them out. She was the one who suggested we take shelter there. It’s not like we had a lot of other options and it seemed like a good idea at the time.
But isn’t that always the case? The ideas that seem so good in the moment turn out to be the worst when everything is said and done?
The Overlook—that’s the name of the apartment building—was a massive chunk of a structure that sat just outside the interstate loop circling Uptown. (How pretentious does a city have to be to call it “Uptown” rather than “Downtown?”) It was made of concrete and half dug into a hill so that three sides had a long, thick foundation and the fourth faced the road.
Most importantly, though, it was the closest place
we could think to run when the outbreak began raging through the city. We’d been on a senior class field trip to Discovery Place when it happened. I’d just stepped outside with Nicky and I was thinking about how hard I’d worked to make sure I ended up partnered with her for this project and then BAM!
Nicky didn’t know what made the sound and at first, neither did I. I couldn’t place it—it was loud but not a gunshot, solid but not familiar. I was still trying to figure it out when I saw the body lying broken on the ground. Nicky hadn’t seen it yet and I tried to keep her turned away. Then there was another BAM! and she started screaming.
The man landed not five feet away, one leg completely shattered underneath him from the fall. Another hit right after that, and I swear to God it seemed like it was raining bodies.
(Later, Felipe would start singing “It’s Raining Men” whenever Nicky brought this up. It took her a while, but eventually she started laughing at the joke—what else could you do?).
Nicky had already jumped back under the Discovery Place awning, but like a moron I just stood there. “Jonah!” she screamed at me. “What are you doing?”
I was never able to explain it to her in a way she understood, but I couldn’t stop staring at that first body. Later I’d realize that bits of his shattered leg had sprayed across my pants. But in that moment I just kept thinking that there are two hundred six bones in the adult human body and I wondered how many of them were broken in the fall and from which story of the skyscraper he’d plummeted.
There was something impossibly beautiful about the moment. All at once I grasped that the man had lived his life and in an instant it was gone—and I’d been there to see it happen. How many people get the experience of watching the moment someone dies? The switch from “something is there” to “something is not?”
I guess now that’s kind of a moot question; at the time, though, I remember being awed.
It was looking up that shocked me out of my reverie. There were more of them coming, tumbling through the air like acrobats. I stumbled back and Nicky grabbed my arm and pulled me to safety. No lie—two seconds later a body hit right where I’d been standing.
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