The Zombies of Lake Woebegotten

by Harrison Geillor

  “Yep, I heard something was going around,” Dolph said. “That’s winter for you. Cold and wet makes you sick.”

  The driver paused again. “Well, I don’t know. Some folks say it’s viruses and bacteria and such that make you sick, not getting cold.” He put his hands up by his temples and waggled his gloved forefingers like antenna. “You know. Little bugs.”

  “So that’s about all the boxes then.”

  The driver looked into the empty back of the truck for a long time, as if maybe a box had eluded him, then nodded. “Yep.”

  “Looks good to me,” Dolph said, handing back the clipboard with the signed delivery sheet. “Drive safe now. Stay warm.”

  “You bet,” the driver said.

  Dolph looked at the boxes piled there on the dock, thought about the time it would take to get them loaded on the dolly and the pallet jack and take them into the storeroom at the back of the grocery, looked at his watch, and raced for the front of the store. A quick glance up and down the aisles showed no customers—typical in this weather—and Clem, the high-school dropout stockboy/cashier/all-around-dogsbody with the lazy eye, was arranging cans of beans on the shelf according to some arcane system of his own devising, possibly relating to label color.

  “You might wanna go over to the bank for some quarters,” Dolph said. “No big rush. I think you might be running low.” He hoped so. He’d taken just about all the change out of the register and hidden it in his office that morning.

  “Oh, I guess so.” Clem nodded slowly. “You okay here by yourself?”

  “I can manage. Why don’t you take a break and get a little lunch over at the Cafe while you’re out? Take your time, have a cup of coffee, maybe bring me back a ham and cheese if you think about it, no big deal though.”

  “Sure thing.” Clem went about the painstaking business of finding his coat and scarf and gloves—one glove was over in the freezer section for some reason—and then paused at the door with a little wave before walking out.

  Dolph loitered by the front door, and a moment later, Eileen Munson came in carrying a purse as big as a mail bag, looking shapeless in her oversized brown coat, though he knew the shape underneath pretty well by this time.

  “Some guys wouldn’t keep a gal waiting like that,” she said, and Dolph grunted, shut the door, turned the lock, and hung up the little sign that said “Back in fifteen minutes.” Eileen was already gone, vanished into his office, and Dolph went in after her, excitement rising as it always did on Eileen’s shopping day. A lot of the town’s women drove half an hour to the super Wal-Mart over in Dodgewood to do their shopping lately, but Eileen was his most reliable customer.

  When Dolph stepped into his cluttered office, Eileen was leaning on the edge of his desk, her clothes in a neat pile on top of the battered filing cabinet, dressed only in some of the most complicated underwear Dolph had ever seen—there were stockings and garters and a sort of bustier thing that didn’t quite cover her bosoms and a little lace choker thing around her neck and black high-heeled shoes with little feathery puffs on top and lacy ribboned skimpy underwear that didn’t leave much to the imagination, which was okay though, because Dolph had never had much of an imagination anyway.

  “You like it?” Eileen said, with that little half-smile she always had when she was showing off something new. “Got it off the internet.”

  “It’s a heckuva deal if you ask me,” Dolph said, sweeping the files off his couch while simultaneously dropping his pants.

  “You old sweet talker,” she said, and he pulled her over to him.

  Fifteen minutes wasn’t ever long enough, but then again, it did get the job done.

  After they were finished and dressed again and sitting on the couch instead of doing other things, Dolph poured her a cup of coffee from the thermos on his desk and had one for himself, and looked at her silently for a while. Eileen was just a hair past forty, both the kids she’d had recently off to college, husband obsessed with restoring the vintage Mustang in his garage (though you’d think he’d get sick of cars, what with running a dealership all day), and she’d been visiting Dolph for the past six months or so, every week, usually wearing something new. She might not be one of those magazine fashion models or Girls Gone Wild like you saw on the late night TV, but she had a sweet pretty face and nice full hips and a good set of curves on her. He said, “How your husband can spend all his time tinkering in the garage when he’s got you in the house, I don’t know.”

  She sipped her coffee demurely, which always impressed him, since she wasn’t so demure, other times. “He hasn’t touched me in months, and when he does, he doesn’t like the lights on. He’s ashamed of his belly, I think, like I expect him to look the same as he did when he was playing high school football, like time doesn’t march on over all of us.” She shrugged. “This is more fun. Like playing dress up. Sure gives me something to look forward to every week, better than the Lutheran Women’s Circle. But how do you feel about it? You know—adultery?”

  “Technically speaking I don’t believe it’s adultery for me. I’m not married, after all. I’m committing some other kind of sin, no doubt, but not that one.”

  Eileen shook her head. “I like to know what I’m up to. I looked it up. Minnesota law says, ‘when a married woman has sexual intercourse with a man other than her husband, whether married or not, both are guilty of adultery.’ Both. That’s you too. Burns me up that it doesn’t say anything about a husband doing it though. So as long at Brent sleeps with some unmarried girl, that’s okay?” She paused. “Not that I think he would. He’s only got eyes for that Mustang he’s been rebuilding.”

  Dolph shifted a little on the couch. He was an adulterer? He’d always figured, since he wasn’t actually breaking any vows, he was in the clear, and the bulk of the burden of sin was sitting squarely on Eileen. “You should probably do your shopping,” he said. “Clem’ll be back soon, don’t want him to suspect anything.”

  Eileen rolled her eyes. “That boy’s dim, just like his whole family. We could do the naked watusi in the produce section and he wouldn’t figure anything out. But I do need to pick up a few things.” She leaned over, pecked his cheek, and gave his crotch a friendly squeeze, making him jump. He waited a few moments for things in his loin area to subside before rising himself, and found her filling a basket from his tiny fancy-food half-shelf, with the stuffed grape leaves and truffle-infused olive oil and Belgian chocolates and other such things that he’d finally started carrying at the insistence of some of the summer people. Eileen was the only local who ever bought them, and she didn’t buy them, exactly, since their arrangement had evolved to the point where she got to walk out the door with two big free grocery sacks full of whatever she could carry after one of their rendezvous (which he pronounced “randy-voos” for the comical value), something that struck Dolph as a little too close to paying for a lady’s affection, though Eileen saw it differently: “Most guys would buy a gal dinner first. You just buy dinner after. It’s like you get to eat your dessert first. Isn’t that every little boy’s dream?”

  Dolph went to the door to take down the “Back in fifteen minutes sign,” and that’s when he saw the dog trying to eat Clem.

  Clem didn’t look that worried yet—the dog was trying to bite his ankle, and Clem was shaking his leg like he was trying to fling a glob of manure off his heel, trying not to spill the paper cups or diner to-go sack he held in his hand, the result looking like a peculiar sort of spastic modern dance, or else a dance not modern at all, but old: like a dance by St. Vitus, maybe, or else the tarantella. It wasn’t a very big dog, looked like old man Levitt’s miniature pinscher, though something had gone funny with its back legs, and they were all twisted up.

  “That poor dog,” Eileen said, standing with him by the doorway. “What’s wrong with it?”

  Dolph shrugged, pushed open the door, cleared his throat, and said, “Need a hand there?”

  “No, I wouldn’t put you to any trouble.” C
lem was dragging his leg now, with the dog’s jaws fastened firmly around his pants and, judging by the pained expression on Clem’s face, maybe some of the meat underneath.

  “No trouble. I could at least take that bag from you.”

  “That’s okay, I’ve got it.”

  “I’m happy to,” Dolph said. “I’m already outside.” He didn’t want to stay out here much longer without his coat, either, but Clem was a good Lake Woebegotten Lutheran boy, which meant he’d refuse any offer to help at least twice, maybe three times, though since he had a dog biting him, Dolph was hoping he’d settle for the bare minimum of two.

  “I suppose if you’ve got a hand free,” Clem said, and Dolph strode over and took the lunch bag and the beverages from him, and then they both stood looking down at the dog, which looked like its back half had been run over by a car, which might explain why it was so cantankerous, but didn’t explain why it wasn’t in a ditch licking its wounds and gradually freezing to death. Its jaws were working methodically, though it was trying to chew through a layer of denim and a chunk of boot leather and probably thick socks under that. Dolph didn’t speculate on the possibility of long underwear. That was Clem’s business.

  “Guess I should just reach down and pull it off me.” Clem didn’t sound excited about the prospect. He bent, grasped the dog’s upper and lower jaws, and grunted. “He’s on there good.” With much prying he got the jaws open and flung the min-pin, whose name was Alta for some reason, toward a convenient snowbank. Alta landed on his ruined back legs, but didn’t howl or growl or make a sound, just came crawling forward again, relentless, jaws working, eyes oddly fogged-over.

  “Reckon it’s rabid?” Clem asked.

  “I don’t know. Usually you see some frothing and such with rabies.” Dolph shook his head.

  “Fella at the diner was talking about zombies,” Clem said. “Could be a zombie dog.”

  Dolph didn’t say anything for a long moment. Zombies. He was willing to bet Clem still believed in the tooth fairy, but zombies were a stretch even for him. “It could be rabies I guess,” Dolph said. “If it weighed more than eight or nine pounds it’d be scary. We should call old man Levitt, let him know.”

  “You should just put it out of its misery.” Eileen joined them on the sidewalk, and with her cheeks rosy from the cold, Dolph thought she looked as pretty as Helen of Troy, and judging from the bulging grocery sacks in her arms, she was fresh from looting Sparta.

  “Hate to put down another man’s dog. But maybe…” Dolph went inside for a moment and came back with a red plastic grocery basket and a 16-pound frozen turkey. He plopped the basket upside-down over Alta and then put the turkey on top. The basket thumped and rattled a bit, but didn’t shift too much under the dog’s attempts to escape. “There. All secure. Go on in and call Mr. Levitt, Clem.”

  Clem nodded and limped toward the door. Probably oughta get that ankle of his checked out, at least splash some alcohol on it. Dolph would have to remind him. It was entirely possible that Clem might be careless and get an infection and lose his foot from something as simple as a dog bite. His daddy had lost three toes and an ear the time he fell asleep on the porch when he was supposed to be repairing a loose board and got frostbite instead, and Clem wasn’t anywhere near as bright as his father.

  “I’ll see you next time.” Eileen took a step toward him, and for a moment Dolph had a little thrill that she might touch him in public, something he was pretty sure she’d never even done with her husband, but she just said, “Thanks for the groceries,” in his ear and then sauntered off to her brown station wagon with the fake wood paneling on the sides.

  “Life could be worse,” Dolph said, and the dog under the basket under the turkey thumped loudly, as if it wanted to agree, or maybe disagree. It was hard to tell with dogs, especially rabid half-run-over zombie dogs.

  5. Undeathbed

  Pastor Inkfist and Father Edsel trudged from the ice-crusted dirt driveway to the sagging front porch of the Mormont farm. The steps were slippery and the boards creaked ominously as Edsel rapped smartly on the front door. After a moment the inner door opened and the doctor appeared, mustache droopy, face long and tired.

  “Doctor Holliday,” Edsel said, and Daniel nodded. You never, ever called Doctor Henry Holliday “Doc Holliday,” no matter how tempted you might be—the doctor hated the coincidence of sharing a name with a famous gunfighting gambling tubercular dentist, and had said on more than one occasion that he’d almost gone into the civil service instead of medical school just to avoid the jokes. Now he combated any such attempt at levity by being utterly humorless and dour at all times, which meant maybe civil service would have been a good fit for him, after all.

  “Come on in,” the doctor said. “She doesn’t have much longer.” They trooped into the dim foyer and started stripping off their layers of coats and stomping the snow off their boots.

  “She still unconscious?” Father Edsel asked. “Deathbed confessions are always the juiciest.”

  Daniel grimaced, but Doctor Holliday just shrugged. “We’ve been keeping her pretty full of painkillers. I sent the nurse home. Won’t be much longer now. Cancer’s just about eaten her up.”

  “Any of the family here?”

  “Daughter was supposed to fly in from Orlando, but she called and said her flight was canceled, some kind of trouble at the airport, all the planes were grounded, I didn’t catch all the details. Bad connection. She didn’t sound too broken up about it though.”

  “Let’s give the old girl her send-off, then.” Edsel carried a little black bag into the bedroom/sickroom, and Daniel followed, curious despite himself. He’d never seen Catholic last rites performed—Lutherans sometimes anointed the sick, but they didn’t go around calling it a sacrament or anything.

  The widow Mormont was thin as a bundle of sticks, barely taking up any space at all in the narrow hospital bed. Medical devices beeped and booped and flickered mysteriously, and a big crucifix with an intricately carved bleeding Jesus hung on the wall. Daniel, who found even the simple cross of his faith a little creepy when he really thought about it, could never get over the grotesquerie of some Catholic crucifixes. Jesus had suffered, and that was certainly to be remembered, but did you really need a fella with blood all over his feet and side and forehead and wrists looking down at you while you slept?

  The three of them stood around the bed, looking at the widow’s lined face in its slack repose. “If you can, you should give your last confession,” Father Edsel said, laying his hand on her shoulder.

  Her eyes fluttered open. “Father,” she croaked, then flicked her eyes at Daniel. “And the Pastor, too. You must think I’m some kind of world-class sinner, for both of you to come here.”

  “Nice to see you again, Maggie,” Edsel said, glancing at the doctor. “I didn’t expect we’d have a chance to chat.”

  “What, old Doctor Holliday told you I wasn’t going to wake up again?” Her voice was gaining strength now. “I was just pretending to be asleep while he was here. He’s depressing. Got the bedside manner of an undertaker. No, I’m awake, and I’ll give my confession, though don’t expect anything too exciting.” She cackled. “I confessed all that stuff a long time ago. Doctor, thanks for keeping the morphine flowing. I can see why my cousin Harold got so addicted to the stuff—he stole his mama’s goat and my tricycle to sell for drugs when I was a girl. Good thing I never discovered this stuff when I was a younger woman, or I might have a lot more to confess. Now shoo.” She flapped her hands weakly. “This last part’s between me and my God and my God’s man on the scene here.”

  Daniel nodded and went with the doctor into the kitchen, where they drank old coffee and made awkward small talk. They were both in the business of salvation, but the divide between spiritual and secular salvation respectively was a tricky one to bridge. They settled on talking about memorial services they’d attended and jello salads and hotdishes they’d eaten in the homes of grieving relatives. After a while F
ather Edsel came in and said, “She’s gone.”

  He didn’t add anything about her rising from the dead and trying to take a big bite out of his face, so Daniel figured the reports of zombies were exaggerated.

  The doctor nodded, put down his coffee cup, and took a pen from his breast pocket. “Let me just take a look so I can fill in the death certificate, then we’ll call the funeral home.”

  “I remember in the old days,” Daniel said, “If someone died in winter like this, they’d keep the body at the funeral home until spring, when the ground at the cemetery was soft enough to dig into again. It was a mess. Somebody would die and you couldn’t have the funeral until four or five months later, made the whole grieving process get dragged out. I know it was hard on a lot of the little cemeteries when they passed that law about allowing winter burials, they had to buy that expensive equipment so they could dig in the frozen dirt like that, but I think it’s better this way.”

  “Cremation’s the way to go,” Father Edsel said. “No muss, no fuss, no headstone, nice little urn, maybe one of those metal plates like you see on a trophy with the name and dates, no need to get in the car and take a trip out to the cemetery, you can just lean on the mantelpiece and have a chat with the dearly departed.”

  “I thought you folks frowned on cremation.” Lutherans weren’t so hot on the idea themselves, mostly. Heck, most of the Lutherans in Lake Woebegotten wouldn’t even turn on the furnace in their houses until the temperature got down into the teens—any warmer and you could just put on another sweater or bring out another quilt, couldn’t you? Cremation seemed like an overindulgent use of good heat.

  Edsel shrugged. “We like to have the body present for the funeral mass, but after that, we don’t fuss if they want to take ‘ashes to ashes’ literally. It’s not like it used to—”

  The doctor screamed from the other room, and Edsel ran toward the deathbed. Daniel followed and almost crashed into Edsel, who in the doorway saying, “God, dear God.” He took a hesitant step into the room, and Daniel saw past him.